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hopeamarsu · 4 years ago

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Of potions and myths - Chapter 3

William “Ironhead” Miller x f!reader

Word count 3,1k

Warnings: There is a visit to the police station and the officer isn’t the most accommodation but no words are changed. Other than that, I think none

A/N: I realize not a lot happens here, but I’m working my way to reveal more of this world, their connection and adding a dash of magical au in here somewhere.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Will insists on driving you to the precinct first, to file the complaint about the man from the previous night before heading out to meet his pack. You almost want to protest, the need and itch to solve the riddle of the connection and the pull between you much larger, but one look into his eyes tells you he will not budge. So with a sigh and a kiss, you untangle yourself from his embrace and slip into your bedroom to dress for the day.

When you come back to the kitchen, Will has already cleaned up your cups and your coffee maker and he takes your hand as you walk outside. The air is warmer now, the morning chill defeated as you step to the curb and back into his truck. The brush against your seatbelt seems almost unconscious as the blond man starts the truck and navigates into the morning traffic.

The drive is accompanied by shy glances and soft smiles and you speak of unimportant things, getting to know one another. Favorite bands, random titbits about food and restaurants you’ve recently tried, stuff that on the surface level seems shallow but reveal a lot of each of you as you trade questions and stories. As he pulls up behind the police station, Will almost takes your hand into his, remembering the tendrils at the last moment. It might not be best to flaunt them around until you get a better understanding, he thinks, so he guides you inside with his hand hovering beside your elbow.

You don’t notice it, but as soon as you step in, the man scans the exits and weak spots within the lobby and moves his body to best cover you as you walk to the counter. As you tell the officer manning the desk you want to report a crime, he cages you between him and the counter, one hand on your back and the other leaning over the wooden desk. Will might look relaxed and his posture easy, but he is anything but. The thrum in his chest has changed its tone and he can feel the wolf pace around as it tracks for any potential threats.

The report is thankfully done quickly, smoothed over by Will’s convenient flip of his wallet and credentials when the officer looks up and down at you with disinterest as you explain your issue. You wrinkle your nose in annoyance when he does it, but let it pass as it gets the officer moving, pulling up documents for you to fill. Your information is jotted down, the account of the date and parties involved and you give a description of the potion (corroborated by Will) and as soon as your signature dries on the paper, the Captain whisks you outside.

“That was fast,” He comments as he guides you back to his truck, his hand radiating heat over your body. There is a non-committal hum from your pursed lips. You do not elaborate it further, but he catches the tone of it anyway. “Sweetheart, what is it?” Will grips your hand, forcing you to stop before you can step inside the car. He gently turns you around so you are face to face again.

His blue eyes are darker again, though not in arousal. There’s worry, apprehension and something else swimming in the depths and your heart squeezes a little as you catalogue them. Hesitantly Will lets go of your arm and the spot feels cold immediately. From the corner of your eye, you see the tendrils disappear from where he touched you. “Did I do something wrong there?”

You are quick to shake your head. “No, no! Absolutely not. It’s just… You know I was hesitant to do this in the first place and it’s because I knew this was going to happen. They would not believe me until you showed your credentials from Delta and it annoys me. Not you, the idea that just because I’m a mundane, I’m not to be believed. Like I don’t know a potion when I smell one. Just because I don’t have a neat little ID card that states I’m born into it, but have had to work my way through research to understand the intricacies. Might as well call me hysterical, you know?”

Will tugs you in immediately, strong arms wrapping around to envelop you in a hug. Hands run up and down your body as he curses under his breath. He should’ve known not to hijack the situation, he should’ve let you handle this particular battle but he didn’t. The need to make it all go away fast got away from him. Something fierce bleeds through from his mind to yours and you gasp involuntary as it shatters your shields. The power of it knocks the wind out of you and your knees buckle.

“Shit!” The curse is louder this time and Will reaches out behind you to open the door to the truck and he helps you sit down. “What happened, sweetheart?” His hands run across your face, your temple and your shoulders, worry etched into his features. But it's a different type of worry now, not like before when he was worried about what had happened in the precinct. This worry comes from somewhere deeper inside him, something more primal, and it rattles you as it bounces against your feeble shields, breaking them down further.

“I’m okay, I’m… alright. I promise,” you whisper, your voice hoarse as you gasp for air. “I can just, I can just feel your emotions. And they are loud and powerful.” Will curses again and all of the emotions vanish in a flash as his own shields slam shut. You take a shuddering breath, lifting your eyes to look at him. His eyes flash between beautiful blue and intense red as he tries to get himself under control.

“We need to go and see the elders now. If you can feel my emotions and they affect you like this, it’s not…” Will struggles for words, trying to piece it all together as he helps you get more settled on the seat. A water bottle is pushed into your hands and he urges you to sip from it. “This connection we feel, it’s growing and changing, becoming more powerful.” He finally finishes, scratching the back of his neck.

You nod weakly but remain silent, trying to gather your bearings as you grip the bottle tight. He holds your gaze, finding something that eases his worries, and Will jumps behind the wheel. He easily navigates out of the inner city, his hand brushing periodically at yours on the seat between you as he zig-zags the streets until the truck is on the freeway and he can grasp it in his palm.

You have a million questions running in your mind, trying to make some sort of mental list to ask the elders while building up the shields once more. You feel nervous, untethered and all over the place, wishing you had a better grip at your emotions. The analytical side of your brain is excited for the oncoming flood of information but the rest of you is scared you’ll be turned away once you reach his pack.

As you feel your shields slowly settle and become a little stable again, you send out a small prayer to whomever is listening that even if you are turned away, Will’s pack won’t turn on him. It’s been less than 24 hours of knowing him but you don’t want to see him hurt, ever. The gnarly feeling twists your gut and you think for a second to ask him to stop and leave you by the side of the road. The second the thought hits, another follows that tells you that he would never agree to it. It calms you a little and you twist on your seat to fully look at him.

He truly looks gorgeous, you muse. His large frame looks at home behind the wheel, the grey Henley accentuating his muscles tantalizingly. As your eyes drift lower, you take in the comfortable-looking jeans hiding powerful thighs and the black watch on his hand before you focus on his tattoos, wanting to trace them closely and learn all their secrets. All of his secrets really and make them yours too. It’s a sobering thought that you will guard whatever secret he lets you in on with your life if needed.

“We’re almost there. Just a few minutes more.” Will turns to look at you, eyes flashing red again and this time you latch onto it. You remember it happening previously at the precinct and yesterday at the pub. “Will, your eyes…”

“My inner wolf, he knows we’re close to the pack and wants out.” He offers while turning the truck from asphalt to gravel as he guides it towards a parking place, filled with trucks and bikes and cars of all sizes. He kills the engine and takes both of your hands to his. “I promise I’ll explain them in better detail later, but I need to warn…”

Will doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence before the front door of his truck is wretched open and something large crowds it.

“William Arthur Miller! Where the fuck have you been? You better explain yourself!” A male voice booms and you can only watch as the man is dragged out of the seat by his shirt and a smaller, leaner version of him embraces him tightly. Two other men appear in front of the truck as well, moving closer to the couple and soon you watch all four men embracing together.

Carefully you step out of the truck too, leaning against it as you witness the men that are oblivious to the world for that moment. It’s endearing, the love that they have for one another, so clear in the gentle touches and noses burrowing into each other's skin to confirm that they are really all here.

It takes some time for the group hug to disperse, allowing you to study the minute movements and shifts and build up your own strength for what’s to come. But once they do separate, suddenly three pairs of eyes look at you curiously. You see two sets flash yellow and one bright electric blue as the men study you, but the colors are quickly hidden when they realize you are not a wolf yourself.

“Will, who is this?” The same voice speaks up again, the man looking at you with doubt in his eyes. The electric blue flashes in and out of his eyes and you wonder what it means and curse yourself for focusing more on other things than wolves. You can feel tension rise in the air as the men close ranks, form a sort of a wall in front of you and the truck, blocking all exits.

“Sweetheart, I would like you to meet my brothers. Ben,” Will feels the tension too and shifts to stand next to you and points at the man who has spoken. Ben’s eyebrows rise at the term of endearment but he only tips his head in acknowledgement as the man beside him nudges his ribs. “Frankie,” He nods towards the man next to Ben who is wearing a baseball cap and a grey T-shirt. Next to him, a shorter man with inquisitive eyes and salt-and-pepper curly hair steps forward and holds out his hand.

“Santiago, but you may call me Pope. And you are?” You grasp his hand, the firm and dry handshake, something you expect from a man who holds himself like a soldier. You introduce yourself, nodding to Ben and Frankie before dropping Pope’s hand. Will’s large hand comes to rest at the curve of your hip.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call or text last night, but something came up.” Will looks down at you, softness creeping up his features as he speaks. You answer him with a tiny smile and he squeezes your hip.

Ben is about to open his mouth, maybe to throw a joke or a barb but a quick grip of his wrist from Frankie stops him. He flashes his eyes at the younger man who snaps his mouth shut immediately. Santiago takes one look at the closeness between your and Will’s bodies and he nods, his eyes flashing yellow as he narrows them before adopting a neutral look quickly.

“Understandable. Maybe we could take this into a more calm place and we can talk?” It’s phrased as a question but you feel like it's more a command as the others all nod quickly and begin walking along the path leading away from the parking lot. Will guides you in front of him, taking up position right behind you and not letting his hand fall.

Up the path, you see several houses, most of them built so that the backyard leads into the forest surrounding you. After a few minutes of walking, you stop and turn to face one of the houses. It’s beautiful, full of warm wood tones and a beautiful garden. “Santi’s wife works as our healer, hence the full yard. There’s more in the back,” Will whispers in your ear, chuckling low at your interested look. “I’ll introduce you later, I think you and Yovanna would get along well.”

The inside of the house smells of herbs, cooking and love and it feels so homey that it makes your chest ache. You wish to soak all the scents and feelings deep into your bones, bask in the glow and allow it to centre you. This feels like everything you’ve ever wanted and you never want to leave the foyer, but that is not in the cards just yet. With a small tug Will guides you to the living room, gesturing you to sit down on the loveseat. Ben takes up the armchair and Frankie plops down on the couch, followed by Pope.

The energy in the room changes once more, becoming more charged as the men study you again. You brace yourself, upping your shields and unconsciously lean towards Will as you wait for someone to talk.

To your surprise, it’s Will. He speaks calmly, explaining what transpired in the pub and you see the men sit up straighter as they realize what could’ve happened had their brother not interfered. He then tells his brothers about the pull he felt as he took you home and how he was unable to leave the street, his need of protecting you outweighing everything. You watch Pope’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Will describes the warmth and the hunger he felt, still feels, as you are close.

Frankie rises up from his seat and mumbles something about making a call and you know that the elders will come here, soon. Your hands find Wills and you squeeze it between yours, drawing strength from your connection. As your skin touches his, the tendrils appear, dancing on your skins though they are more muted now and Ben gasps.

“Holy shit! What the fuck is that?!”

“That’s what we need to find out, Benny. All we know so far is that we are drawn to one another like magnets, these appear when we touch and as of this morning we can feel each other's emotions. They don’t affect me as much yet, but there is definitely potential for it to incapacitate.”

Pope remains silent, his eyes flitting between yours, your intertwined hands and Will. “What are you?” He questions finally, just as Frankie returns to the living room. Before you can answer, the man slaps Pope’s head. “You can’t go around just asking that, cabrón, you know that.”

“Well, this isn’t anything I’ve ever seen before. Either you are something very powerful and do this on purpose, or something nefarious is at play here,” Pope offers. Dark eyes study you, the tension in the room growing as seconds tick by. Your eyes move from his to Ben’s and to Frankie before you turn your head to look at Will. He gives you the tiniest of nods and you roll your shoulders before looking at Pope again.

“I was raised as a mundane, but I’ve been studying potions and spells for a long time. I work as a researcher at the museum's antique artefacts and extracts department. I know the basics but I promise you, any power that I possess is tiny compared to practising witches.”

You speak calmly, wanting to diffuse any malice before it takes root. You glance at Will again, your eyes betraying you as they are filled with worry and fear. He smiles reassuringly and cups the back of your neck, kissing you fast, unafraid.

It’s a possessive move as he devours your mouth, not caring an inch that his brothers are in the same room as you are. He pulls you in closer so that you are leaning towards his chest, hands on his pectorals and neck as he continues kissing you. You know the tendrils make another appearance as someone, maybe Frankie, gasps softly but you are lost to the kiss and in Will.

A cough finally separates you from one another but his large hand on your cheek doesn’t allow you to move far. “It’s going to be alright, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs to your lips before straightening himself to look at the other occupants of the room. There’s steel in his eyes, challenging any of his brothers to start anything, but none of them do. You watch intently as the men eye one another, the bond they share crackling in the room. Benny is the first to rip his gaze off, followed shortly by Frankie and Pope.

“Ironhead, we always have your back, you know that.” Frankie finally speaks in a calm tone as he takes the lead and diffuses the situation. “But .. You glow when you kiss. Literally glow in gold and silver. How is this happening?” He glances at Ben and Pope, both nodding in surprised agreement.

A knock on the door shuts up any explanation you want to give and all four men rise to their feet quickly. Following their example, you lift yourself up too and Will tucks you under his arm.

You can feel his emotions rush in his veins, mixing with yours but you are prepared this time and as they brush you, you embrace them and do not fight. You can feel your shields opening up minutely, the calming effect spreading through both of you as the connection sings in approval. You turn to face the door as Pope opens it.

The elders are here.

Of potions and myths taglist: @mylifeisactuallyamess @luxmundee @innerpaperexpertcloud

Everything taglist (I fully understand if you want to skip this one, please let me know and I’ll remove you!) @clydesducktape @wayward-rose @themuseic @miraclesabound @clydesfavoritegirl @a-true-janian-reply @10blurredsmoke10 @caillea @mariesackler

#william miller #will miller #will ironhead miller #will miller x f!reader #cw: mythical creatures #cw: werewolves #will miller fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #charlie hunnam fanfiction #my writing

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heliads · 4 years ago

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Changing Perspectives

At first, Steve Rogers thinks that the new S.H.I.E.L.D. agent darkening the hallways of Avengers Tower is nothing more than a thorn in his side. Then again, there might be more to her than what meets the eye.

masterlist

Steve hurries through the halls of Avengers Towers, ducking and dodging around startled agents if he decides they’re not moving quickly enough. Steve has a debriefing in a few minutes; he had started out with good intentions and a promise to himself to be on time for once but he got sidetracked somewhere just before leaving his front door and his head start has quickly evaporated. So much for trying to be punctual.

Steve skids around one final corner, slowing his pace to pretend he hadn’t been rushing and heads purposefully into the debriefing room. He slides into a seat in the back, next to Natasha. “You might want to be careful, Rogers,” She says, turning to face him with a grin that borders on gleeful, “I don’t think it would do good things for your All American Boy reputation if you were caught arriving less than five minutes before a debriefing.”

Steve rolls his eyes, pulling out the case file on whatever mission he’s about to hear about from where it’s been wedged underneath his arm. Truth be told, he was supposed to have read it in advance, but he didn’t bother to make the time to do so, preferring to keep it propped insistently against the corner of his desk as if its proximity to him would encourage Steve to read it in any way.

Steve has just started to flip through the case file in the hopes of finding a quick summary when the lights dim and the speakers arrive. There are two or three of them, each dressed in the familiar dark and practical clothing designating them as S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, primarily researchers.

Steve finishes his quick scan of the case file while the researchers drone on, but even after his reading is completed he can’t quite bring himself to pay attention. Maybe it’s the dark of the room, or the monotonous voices of the agents, but Steve’s focus drifts away from the debriefing on hand and out the window next to him. The view of the New York skyline is breathtaking, as always. Sometimes it’s strange to be able to see the city like this, new technology practically bursting out of every street corner. Steve may have spent a lot of time in the twenty-first century by now, but some nagging part of him still doesn’t think it’s right to see such a modern city as commonplace.

Steve is rudely awakened from his thoughts by the sound of his name coming from the lips of one of the agents. Steve jolts back to reality, turning to face the agents as if he’d been paying attention all along. “..and that’s what we had planned so far. Are we in agreement, Rogers?” Steve glances from the projected display overhead to Natasha’s position in her case file, which is conveniently flopped open to the proper section.

“Well, I don’t see any problems there. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new policies, especially, the Paper Cards Protocol, should cover the previous breaches in security. I think the question is more how quickly you’ll be able to implement them.” Steve leans back in his chair, feeling satisfied with his answer. It’s pretty easy to fake attention- just yammer on about security and throw in a couple of keywords that he had just seen in the case files. Normally, this is enough to deter any of the S.H.I.E.L.D. researchers, as they always seem too overwhelmed by the idea of contradicting a national hero to question him any further.

The agent in front of him, however, does not appear to be cut from the same cloth. She folds her arms across her chest. “Excellent answer, Rogers. Just curious- is there anything more specific you’d like to say, or are you happy to stick with the same general statement you just read out of Agent Romanoff’s booklet?”

Steve stares at her for a moment, surprised and the agent continues on without giving him a chance to speak. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. Not to keep bashing on Rogers, but most everyone here is content with ignoring protocols and policies brought up by lesser agents in favor of sticking to what they’ve always done. Why do we need new security, and why new protocols? It’s because no one’s actually paying attention to what we already have and it makes us have to think four steps ahead instead of the regular two.”

Steve frowns up at the agent as she continues talking, unable to feel the sting of her criticism through his confusion. Steve realizes that he actually doesn’t recognize this particular agent- never seen her before, not even in passing through the halls. Yet according to the neat rows of colored insignias designating her position in the S.H.I.E.L.D. ranks, she’s actually a pretty important agent. Maybe only a few ranks below Natasha.

The agent notices his gaze. “Yes, I’m new to this area. Just returned from an international mission. Name’s Y/N L/N, but you would have known that had you been paying more attention to the debriefing at hand instead of whatever might be going on out there.” She says, waving a hand in the general direction of the window. In front of him, Natasha smirks. “Already cutting to the bone on your first day back, L/N?” Y/N’s previously cool demeanor cracks as she flashes Natasha a grin. “Maybe so.”

The two agents (and friends, apparently) share a laugh before Y/N continues on with her debriefing. Steve is left to stew in his corner of the room, biting his cheek and wishing that of all the days to not pay attention, he hadn’t chosen this one. Steve’s usually the one to be in control of the room like this, usually the one to center the conversation and prove to everyone why he’s got the reputation everyone’s so familiar with. Y/N remains aloof and in control, completely and utterly aware of the effect she’s having on him and obviously proud of it.

Steve decides that he loathes her.

Tony’s throwing some sort of party again. Honestly, Steve cannot figure out what delights the man so with wasting large sums of his money just to impress the general public, who would have followed Tony anywhere if he so much as looked at him. Yet here Steve is, uniform disregarded for some nice clothes he had to dig out of the corner of his closet designated ‘Not bloodstained, could be worn to media events.’

As he arrives at the Avengers Tower, which has been newly redecorated to reflect the festive mood, Steve begins to remember why Tony’s having this particular gala. Some new invention launched into the public, some big deal that’ll have his face splashed across the front pages for weeks. As Steve straightens his shirt collar and heads inside, he’s enveloped by the roar of noise typical of Tony’s parties.

A few hours in, the bottles are already popped and Steve wants nothing more than to leave. If you’re like him and can’t get drunk, it gets pretty hard to pass the time. Just as he’s heading to the door, though, Nat notices his escape attempt and blocks his path. She laughs at his disappointed look as she pulls him back into the fray.

“You can’t leave, not yet. Tony’s about to set off some fireworks, and if I have to stick through his entire thing, so do you.” Steve groans, but allows Natasha to walk with him to the doors leading outside. It’s a brisk night, with a cool wind cutting the heat of the tower. There’s the sound of a countdown rolling across the dark of the night, and then the answering boom and flash of the fireworks.

Steve has to admit that they’re impressive. If there’s one thing Tony can do well, it’s another display of opulence. Steve still isn’t used to the bright colors and shapes that are typical of modern fireworks, and he finds himself standing there in awe for longer than he expected.

Then, his attention is caught by a brief flash of movement in the middle of the cheering partygoers. Everyone here is happy, celebrating, having fun, but this one figure looks panicked, and is slipping as fast as they can towards the doors to get away. Steve blinks his eyes a few times to clear them, staring at the person rushing inside. With a slight twist to his stomach, Steve realizes it’s Y/N, and she looks more upset than he’s ever seen before. It’s strange to see her usually indifferent face twisted with something that looks almost like terror.

Steve is leaving the party before he realizes, desperate to get to her. What if something is terribly wrong? He has a feeling that it’s not HYDRA or some other enemy attack, because Natasha and Tony don’t seem worried, but Y/N, Y/N is not doing very well at all.

Steve is just rounding a corner when he sees her. She’s flung herself down on the ground in a dead end of a hallway, hands clamped down over her ears and back hunched as if to protect herself. Steve hesitates where he is, just out of her sight, when he sees the tears starting to wash down her cheeks. As Steve stands there, he realizes that she’s saying something over and over again. There’s a pang in Steve’s chest as he realizes she’s repeating the same simple sentence again and again, as if by hearing it one more time she’ll snap out of whatever haze she’s trapped in.

You’re not in Kolograd anymore. You’re not in Kolograd anymore. You’re not in Kolograd anymore.

Steve recognizes the name of that city- it’s some distant town in Russia, the place where she recently completed a mission. It was supposed to be some tiny corner of the country, but it instead housed dozens of HYDRA facilities. Steve had heard rumors that the mission hadn’t exactly gone to plan, but Y/N had seemed fine and so everyone had just forgotten it. Looking at Y/N now, though, Steve realizes none of that was true. He doesn’t know what happened in Kolograd, but it was enough to scar Y/N even now, to the point where she would have to put up a front everyday and pretend she was fine.

Steve decides that he may have misjudged her.

The night is late, the curtains drawn. Most of the Avengers have finally dragged themselves away to bed, leaving behind rumpled couch cushions where they had previously sat, where the room had filled with the last dregs of conversation finally run out. Some government official had sent over a few bottles of wine and other spirits, clearly in the hopes that a few expensive gifts would spare them from checking into his history with shady business dealings. There would be no such luck for him.

However, these now empty bottles meant that the night was not as quiet as it usually was. Steve, wanting to clear his head of the drunken haze that permeated everything in the room except for himself, slipped out of the room and opened the doors to a balcony. He steps out and leans against the railing, savoring the rush of focus that the cool air brings. He barely notices the door open again behind him, and then another figure comes to stand next to him.

Steve smiles when he realizes it’s Y/N. She, of course, is just another regular agent who lacks Steve’s cursed ability to not get drunk, and Steve notes the scent of alcohol on her tongue and the slight sway in her steps that usually isn’t found among her normal balance and care.

Y/N breathes in the cool night air, letting her shoulders sink, then turns to face Steve. “I feel like I should be envious of you and your super-fast metabolism, but to be honest it’s kind of nice to not have any worries right now.” Steve chuckles quietly at that. “I do miss it, to be honest. Every now and then, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be able to let go of everything.”

Y/N considers this for a while, her eyes still on Steve. In this moment, he realizes that the balcony is small, and the two of them are barely a few inches apart. She’s right there, just in reach, and he supposes he isn’t exactly surprised when she leans forward and kisses him.

Her lips are warm and soft against the biting chill of the wind, and Steve’s a little disappointed when she breaks away. Steve doesn’t say anything, and maybe that’s why Y/N gets this panicked look in her eyes like she’s terrified she’s ruined everything. She forces a light giggle. “It looks like I’ve had too much to drink. I think I’m going to head in.”

Steve realizes how this looks and wraps his arm around her waist to stop her from turning away. “It’s not a mistake, and you don’t have to pretend that you’re that drunk just to get away from it.” Y/N frowns at that, pausing where she stands. “What?” Steve glances down at her. “You’re afraid to really say how you feel, so you’re blaming it on the closest thing in sight. You don’t have to hide anymore, Y/N.”

She stares at him for a second, then her confused frown turns into a laugh. “You know, I thought I was supposed to be the deciphering agent who could see through anyone, but you’ve read me far too well.” Steve smiles back at her. “Maybe I’m making it up because I want an excuse.” Y/N cocks an eyebrow at him. “An excuse for what?” “This.” Steve leans forward and kisses her again. This time, she doesn’t lean away. This time, Steve’s fairly sure he’s found the one girl he can finally rely on, to have his back and to keep him around forever.

Steve decides that he loves her.

#steve rogers #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagines #steve rogers oneshot #avengers #avengers imagine #avengers x reader #avengers imagines #captain america #captain america imagine #captain america x reader #captain america imagines

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something-fanfiction-ie · 5 years ago

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Rough Drafts

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Explicit descriptions of a murder scene, argument, angst, and cursing.

A/N: Okay, so I know I said I was gonna publish this yesterday but I got Cassandra Clare’s newest book and I couldn’t put it down. I seriously love that lady. Omg. Anyways, it’s here now! And it’s angsty! And there’s gonna be a fourth part soon I promise! For real. Don’t forget to reblog, comment, send me an ask or a message and overall just adore me so that I may continue to feel good about myself. As always thank you for supporting me and I hope you enjoy!!!

[ Part One | Part Two ]

___

An incredulous laugh bursts from your lips, your nails cutting crescent moons into the palms of your hands as you try and convince yourself that this isn’t actually happening.

“Do you have alibis for your whereabouts on Monday, June eighth, Saturday, June thirteenth, and Thursday, June eighteenth?” Spencer can see your leg bouncing rapidly under the table, your eyes flying over the pictures and the expression of Emily Prentiss. You seem genuine, but he can’t trust himself to get an accurate read of you anymore.

“I, uhm, I- I wouldn’t know off the top of my head. I keep a planner, I’ll forget things otherwise.” The burst of iron in your mouth is not something you’re unused to, having chewed your cheek so badly that the skin there has broken under your teeth.

“We’ll need to see that.” Emily isn’t sure whether or not she believes that you’re guilty, watching the way you seem to unravel before her. When you look at the crime scene photos, it isn't with any pleasure, but with disgust. Your nose wrinkles a little at the bridge and you keep looking away as the blood from your face starts to drain.

Either you’re a really good actress or you aren’t the unsub.

Emily says as much as she flips through the small teal planner that you’d willingly given them. Due dates for chapters, publishing events, book signings and days for book tours fill most of the pages in your most neat handwriting. Dates you plan to go visit your mother, grocery shop, doctor’s appointments, even plans to go somewhere and write.

Everything is explicitly stated, that way you’re never unsure of what you meant to tell yourself. That is, until around three weeks ago when a handful of days are notated with an ‘S,’ followed by a random doodle. Sometimes it’s a tiny heart drawn absentmindedly while you discuss the plans over the phone, other times it’s a cartoon bunny or a top hat.

Garcia is the first to take notice of it, her fingers faltering in their constant thrum against the keyboard in front of her. She glances out of the side of her glasses, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

“Looks like lonely girl found herself a boo.”

“That makes sense,” JJ says from the chair she’s pulled into Penelope’s office from the bullpen. A pen is stretched between her hands, her posture relaxed into the curve of the stiff, government-issued rolly chair.

All the girls have gathered into the tech analyst’s room while the men take turns interrogating you. Well, all except Spencer. He just stands behind that window watching your every move with eyes like a hawk. “What doesn’t make sense is why she keeps it secret even in her personal planner.”

“Maybe she has a stalker? That could be who is doing all this?”

“Then she wouldn’t keep careful notation of everything else going on in her life. A stalker would follow her every move, not just her romantic interests. Even if he is in love with her.”

“A partner, maybe? Like the days they planned the murders or days they were acted out?”

“None of the days line up with the crimes, save for this one,” Emily leans the book toward the two women with her finger just underneath June fifth, the day Alison Crane was abducted from outside her campus dorm room. It’s the third ‘S’ scribbled into the corner of a day in the entire book.

“And there is nothing else written in relation to this ‘S’ character?” JJ shakes her head, looking for any clues that could be nestled among the loops and curls of your writing. Reid would be better at this, he was the graphology expert among them. So why wasn’t he back here helping?

“Then I guess we better try and get her to talk about it. Meanwhile Garcia, we’ll get Rossi and Reid to head over to her apartment and you can hack into her computer?” Penelope spins the chair, a flash of bright colors and blond hair. She clicks her tongue in response, throwing up a fingers gun and winking.

“Whatever you need me to do, I’m on it like sexy on Derek Morgan stepping out of the shower in a towel.”

After some arguing, and maybe just a little bit of pleading, they manage to convince Reid to join Rossi on a trip to your apartment. He can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable, standing in your living room. Not because he’d been here before, but because he’d never been here before.

The empty mugs that litter every surface, smelling of old coffee and your favorite coffee creamer (he only knows it’s your favorite because you explicitly ask for that creamer at every coffee shop the two of you have ever gone to), is unfamiliar to him. He’s invited you to his apartment at least three times. How come he had never been to yours?

Small pages and notebooks of scribbled ideas and dialogues cover just as many areas as the coffee cups do, your handwriting messy and cramped in every note. It’s almost like you couldn’t get the idea out of your head fast enough.

The bed in your room is meticulously made without a wrinkle in sight, but that could be because of the obvious bed you’ve made yourself along the salmon pink couch that stretches out in front of your TV. A multicolored crochet blanket is thrown haphazardly over the back, a pillow still slightly squished against the arm.

On the coffee table is a half opened laptop, a notebook with red and black ink scribbled in the lines, and a still full cup of coffee. Rossi makes quick work of calling Garcia and helping her get patched into your computer. It’s strange, watching her move the mouse on your screen from miles away.

Reid never stops moving, walking the length of your studio apartment with his eyes peeled for any kind of information he could find. It’s obvious that you spend most of your time in the main room, which houses the kitchen, a small dining area, and the living room. A door leading into your room branches off to a small bathroom which is just as disorganized as everything else in your house.

Hair products, skin washes, and all kinds of makeup are scattered across the sink and back of your toilet. It’s funny because every time he’s ever met up with you, you’re bare faced and your hair is still drying from the shower you took before leaving your house. The tube of lipstick he picks up makes him think he doesn’t really know you at all.

On the nightstand in your room is a bottle of water with the label ripped off and the two Rossi books you’d bought that fateful day in the bookstore. The label from the water bottle is stuck between the middle pages of one of the books. The passages in question don’t lend anything to connecting you as a homicidal maniac, let alone a serial killer.

Back in the living room, Garcia is snooping through every aspect of your computer.

“I don’t know whether or not the be freaked out by her web history. There’s a lot of murder-y questions here. ‘Signs of a post mortem amputation,’ ‘How much blood can you lose and still live?,’ ‘Most brutal ways to be killed.’ It’s creepy.” Rossi is flicking through the notebook from the table, his eyes squinted as he tried to make sense of the abbreviations and scribblings of another writer.

“She writes crime novels so it isn’t entirely strange for her to be looking at those types of things.” Thankfully, the defense of your web search history comes from the older man who looks up as Garcia delves deeper and deeper. Spencer had thought it first, but hadn’t said anything to avoid suspicion. He’s smart enough to know that the truth has to come out eventually, but he wants to be sure of your innocence (or guilt, he reminds himself a bit glumly) before he reveals your link to him.

“I’m not seeing anything she could be using to contact a partner unless her partner is one of the publishing people she’s constantly messaging via email.” At this Spencer stops, leaning against the back of the couch with his weight resting on the heels of his hands. The stance appears relaxed. He is anything but.

“Why do we assume she has a partner?” Reid asks, impatiently pushing a stray curl away from his face. Rossi glances at him curiously, otherwise undistracted from the shake the movement gives the couch.

“Oh, Prentiss, JJ, and I were looking through her little teal book earlier and the only thing not explicitly stated was just the letter ‘S.’ It’s why they came back to interrogate and they sent you guys to her house. I thought they told you.”

Spencer wants to beat his head against the wall.

“That isn’t a lead, Garcia. You have to tell them that ‘S’ isn’t her partner.” The mouse on the computer screen falters, several saved documents for different rough drafts of books or drabbles are pulled up the way you might have papers scattered about in front of you.

“What is it? Do you know who ‘S’ is?” Rossi is turned sideways on the couch, looking over the back and up at the distressed man in front of him. It doesn’t take him long to connect the dots when they make eye contact. Penelope impatiently whines over the phone.

“I’m ‘S,’ I’ve been seeing her for the last three weeks. I’m sure if you tell me the dates then every single one of them will be days that we’ve had plans together.”

“I’m sorry, what?!” Before anyone has the chance to say anything else, the door to Garcia’s office opens and a second voice filters through Rossi’s phone speaker. It’s JJ.

“Let Reid and Rossi know there’s just been another murder.”

This time it’s a fifteen year old girl. Her hair is black and wet, her lips are as blue as the sky, and she’s naked. Water droplets from her skin have soaked into the sheet of paper that was layed over her chest. The bathtub she’s in is completely empty, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that she was drowned there. The bruises on her shoulders from the force the unsub used to pin her down are dark against the contrast of her already pale skin.

...The man leaned over the tub, his eyes squinted in thought and his lips skewed a little to the side. Ryder stayed focused on the crime scene, for the most part. But even detectives of her caliber, and higher, could easily get lost in the eyes that look up at her from beneath long golden-brown lashes.

“Detective?” She blinks the distraction away, looking back at the girl, her black hair wet and spiraling like the snakes on Medusa’s head against the ivory siding of the drained tub. Ryder can’t help but wish the girl had been lucky enough to turn her killer to stone. Maybe it would have saved her.

“Agent.” She crosses her arms, looking anywhere but at the man across from her, pretending to look for any useful clues. Ryder had gotten to the crime scene fourty-five minutes before the pair of FBI Agents had walked in. The man, who had introduced himself as Supervisory Special Agent Matthew Gray, had decided to join her in the second floor bathroom. His partner, a woman named Katherine Swift, had taken to looking for clues through the rest of the house.

Agent Gray is beautiful. It’s the only adjective that seems to stick to him with certainty, every other aspect of his personality just as elusive as the exact color of those eyes. Even as short as his hair is, the golden brown tendrils are unkempt and curl every which way. Ryder has to force her hand to stay at her side and not reach up to smooth an alfalfa that does nothing for the serious expression on his face.

She keeps imagining what it would feel like if he reached out to kiss her, curling his fingers into her hair and bringing her unworthy lips up to meet his. He’s tall so she would probably have to stretch a little, but she wouldn’t mind. Not when his hands are tangled in her hair and he’s giving her the kiss she’s been silently begging for since the moment he flashed that crooked grin at her.

The imagination is so vivid that she jumps when her own partner, Detective Russo, comes around the corner of the hallway and straight into the bathroom...

The paper crinkles in the evidence bag as Morgan places it on the table, trying to ignore the daggers being glared into him on the other side of the mirror.

Nobody on the team had been very happy with Spencer when they heard the news about your relationship, Hotch had nearly snatched him by the scruff of his neck when he made to go into the interrogation room. But after several minutes of thoroughly explaining himself, Hotch had sent Morgan in. To say Spencer was infuriated was an understatement.

“Do you know what this is, (Y/N)?” You look down at it, twisting the evidence bag so that you could read the Times New Roman font you always wrote in when writing in Microsoft Word. The words cover the front and back of the copy paper, but you don’t have to read it through all the way before you know what it is.

“It’s a page from my newest book.” The bag scratches against the tabletop as you push it away from you, crossing your arms over your chest. Your face is stoplight red with embarrassment at the thought of Spencer reading this page, mostly because you had pulled so heavily from your own thoughts when first meeting Spencer to write Ryder and Gray’s first meeting. You created Matthew Gray to write about Spencer Reid in a way that felt less ‘high school diary entry.’

“More specifically, it’s from the book you just started working on about a month ago. The one that only you and your agent have access to.” Finally, Morgan sits. Before, he’d just been pacing around you the way a lioness might stalk around her prey before she launches an attack. It made you uneasy, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

“Do you know where we found it, (Y/N)?” His muscles bulge against his shirtsleeves when he leans them up on the table. Derek Morgan is a very attractive man, you’ll give him that, but if making you uneasy and putting you in the room with a attractive man to fluster you was their strategy then they should have sent in Spencer.

“My computer.”

“We found it on the body of a dead girl.” Another picture joins the ones already shuffled around the table. You can barely look at it, nausea and tears building in your throat at the sight of another person dying the same way you’d written in a story. When you don’t respond, Morgan continues.

“‘She was found at the bottom of an empty bathtub, a pale leg hooked over the edge of the porcelain siding, and her arms pinned to her sides in death. Bruises discolored the skin at her shoulders, and Ryder knew at first glance that her cause of death would be asphyxiation by drowning.’” He drops the paper back to the table, having picked it up to read the passage from the end of the page.

“That’s wrong,” You say, leaning back over the table to look at the paper again. Derek looks down, like the words might have changed in the moment he looked away, but the text stays exactly the same as before.

“That’s exactly what is written here.” You shake your head, pulling the bag back to you and wrinkling your forehead in thought.

“I don’t doubt that is what you read, Agent Morgan,” Your eyes fly over the page, reading the end of the excerpt with overwhelming relief. The bag sticks a little to the pad of your index finger as you tap over the paragraph in question. “But I rewrote this scene only two nights ago. It’s on my computer, I’m sure your tech analyst can confirm my claim. This girl, Bella, she doesn’t die from drowning anymore. Her hands are tied above her head to the faucet and she’s strangled. I couldn’t decide if I wanted it to be by her sister or her girlfriend.”

JJ rushes back to Penelope’s office, on a mission to confirm your statement just as you had suggested. Meanwhile, Morgan’s mind is rushing to figure out the mess he is currently sat in. You lean back in your chair now, unsure if the dizziness you feel is from lack of food or the sudden realization that they couldn’t pin this to you anymore.

“I’m not your bad guy. If I was doing this to prove to my mother that my writing is good, that I chose the right career, as your profile says, I wouldn’t change the scene in my book and not change the murder.” In Morgan’s earpiece, Hotch tells him that you were telling the truth about editing the scene two nights ago.

“Unless you planned it to throw us off track. We know about your relationship with Spencer, you’ve probably found out all kinds of things to do to keep us from catching you.”

You clench your teeth, straightening into your chair and pinning Derek down with a look you’d learned from your mother. It makes him think of his mom, your eyes narrowed and your gaze so cold that it could cause frostbite. He watches curiosily as you tilt your chin up a little, trying to hide the pricks behind your eyes and the wobble of your lip. Derek notices them, the entire team notices. They’re trained to notice.

“I want a lawyer.” You say simply, you voice is sharp and quiet but it does the job of slicing through the tension already building in the room.

“Come on, you don’t need a lawyer.”

“That’s where you’re wrong again, Agent Morgan. I do need a lawyer. Because even though I have full-heartedly trusted the justice system since I was in diapers, and even though I came to these offices willing to help your team in any way that I could, you are still trying to use me as a scapegoat instead of actually doing your fucking job and finding the bastard who is killing people in my name.

“A study from criminal law bulletin says that 10,000 people are wrongfully convicted of serious crimes every year. One in every twenty-five people sentenced to death are innocent, Agent Morgan. Just since 1973, more than 160 people were exonerated from the death penalty. That’s not even counting the people who were killed. But you sure as hell aren’t about to make me apart of that statistic because you want to waste your time trying to piece an investigation around me. That’s not how you’re supposed to do your job. So until you can remember how to do it correctly, I do need a lawyer. Thank you.”

By the time you finish you’ve leaned over the table, your index finger jammed into the wood to make your point. It feels like your chest is on fire as you slam back into your seat and cross your arms, determined to keep your silence for the rest of the time you were forced to sit here.

Everyone on the opposite side of the mirror is stunned into silence, their eyes focused on you even as Derek gathers all the things from the desk and walks out looking a little flustered himself. If Spencer was totally honest, your outburst was actually kind of hot. He has to remind himself that you may have killed eight people in cold blood.

Your lawyer makes it to the BAU in record time, his red hair expertly gelled back from his face. His icy blue eyes only cracking when he sees you sitting by yourself in the interrogation room. Spencer can tell by the way that he lowers himself on the balls of his feet to talk to you, reaching out to touch the hand that sits on your thigh, that he knows you personally. He likes you, actually. Spencer tried to tell himself that it doesn’t make him glad when you pull your hand out of his and awkwardly pat his arm.

He’s been lying to himself a lot today.

Hotch is the one to go back in the room, he was the best at dealing with lawyers. Unfortunately his best wasn’t enough to keep you in custody and soon your lawyer, who Spencer learned was named Jeremy, was walking you out of the room for the first time in six hours.

Your back cracks when you stand, your shoulders rolling back to try and ease some of the stress you’d been holding there since this morning. The sound of the door swinging open for you is almost heavenly, the feel of the air outside of the room is damn near enough to make you cry.

When you look to the side, ready to leave out the second door that leads into the hallway and away from this mess, you meet eyes with the only profiler of the BAU that you hadn’t seen that day. Spencer looks back at you with an expression that you find hard to put into words.

He almost looks sorry, the regret evident in the slight widening of his eyes, but at the same time his chin is tilted up like he is facing an enemy he has vowed to take down no matter the cost. His shoulders are squared, but his arms are uncrossed and his palms are open.

And even though you knew you wouldn’t be there without him knowing, the reassurance that Spencer knew and even suspected you is like a blow to the chest and stomach. It robs you of air, causing you to stumble.

Jeremy reaches to steady you. You shake him off, pulling your eyes from the young doctor and focusing all of your attention on the door knob.

“I’m fine, Jeremy.” Your tone of voice is more harsh than you intended but you’re still struggling to collect oxygen, even when you slide into your car by yourself, it feels like you can’t get enough air. The walk from the BAU offices to the parking lot had passed in a blur. Jeremy’s talk about staying at home and keeping your head low had gone by even faster, and now that you have time to truly be by yourself, everything hits like a ton of bricks thrown at you from a speeding train.

In the midst of your panic attack, gasping for air into the palms of your shaking hands, questioning everything about yourself and your career, you don’t register the shuffle of movement in your backseat. You’re so deep in your mind that you almost don’t notice the cool press of a gun barrel against the back of your neck until a familiar voice lifts your head from your hands.

“Drive.”

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid angst #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #dr spence reid #spence reid #criminal mind imagine #criminal minds

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heyiwrotesomethings · 5 years ago

Text

Drawn to You

Nejire Hado x Fem Reader A/N: Hello again! I’ve had this done in August so it’s kind of old. I guess one possible warning for this oneshot is mention/ flashback of a bad relationship where the ex was dismissive and cruel with their words. It’s in italics if you want to skip that part. Other than that, I hope you enjoy, Nejire is such a sweetheart!

Quirk: Art-senal (like arsenal but art lol) draws something and makes it come right out of whatever surface that was drawn on! The drawback (hehe) is that carpal tunnel and general nerve pain and numbness of the hands will occur, causing your hands to become immobile after a certain point. ***

When rumors of a transfer student started floating through the class of 3-A, Nejire could not have been more excited. Mirio happily chatted with her, sharing guesses about what their new classmate would be like while Tamaki listened quietly. When their teacher appeared, everyone shot back into their desks and waited for them to introduce the prophesied new student. “Good morning class,” their Sensei greeted warmly. “You are all looking rather excited this morning, so I see that word has moved down the grape vine about the new student joining us,” they directed their attention to the door. “You may come in now.” The rumbling sound of hushed conversation began as the student entered the classroom and Nejire was at the edge of her seat with a billion questions already burning at the tip of her tongue as her eyes took in the new girl as she stood beside the teacher in front of the class. “Introduce yourself to your classmates, please,” the teacher asked, after a few moments of silence. “I’m (Y/n), it’s nice to meet all of you,” (Y/n) answered softly. So softly, Nejire almost didn’t hear her, and she was in the second row closest to the front. “Uh, some people like to say a little about themselves too. Have anything you want to share for the class to get to know you better?” The teacher asked. After a moment's pause, Nejire heard a very quiet “no” fall from (Y/n)’s lips as the girl kept her gaze trained to the floor. “A kindred spirit,” Tamaki mumbled from Nejire’s side.

“Ah, well then, feel free to take that open space in the back and welcome to class 3-A,” the teacher smiled sheepishly. (Y/n) brushed passed Nejire on her way to the back of the class and Nejire smiled sweetly and offered an excited wave. (Y/n) gave a smile in return, though it looked more like a grimace as she made it to the window seat in the back of the room about three more rows directly behind Nejire. As class began, Nejire wished she had a quirk that would give her eyes on the back of her head so she could stare back at (Y/n) and try to learn more about her. Like with any other student she came in close proximity to, she wanted to know everything. Her quirk, her favorite color, where she transferred from, what her family was like, what she likes to eat... really just anything and everything. When the bell finally rang after their fourth class, Nejire practically leapt from her seat and walked over to (Y/n)’s desk. “Hi there! I’m Nejire, nice to meet you,” Nejire greeted the girl as (Y/n) hastily closed her notebook. “Hi,” (Y/n) replied, quietly. “Where did you come from? What’s your quirk? Why did you come to UA? What’s-“ “Whoa there, Nejire!” Mirio laughed. “I think you came on a bit too strong there.” “What do you mean?” Nejire asked, giving him a puzzled look before turning back to the now empty desk. She turned back to the door just in time to see a flash of (h/c) hair disappear around the corner. “Wow, that was fast! Maybe some kind of speed quirk? I need to follow her and ask!” “I think she needs some space Nejire. She’s probably overwhelmed being in a new school with new people and being far away from home... I can only imagine how terrible that would be,” Tamaki shuddered. “Sounds like she could use a few friendly faces to make the transition easier,” Mirio grinned. “She probably went to the cafeteria to get lunch. Let’s see if we can get her to sit with us.” “Great idea, Mirio!” Nejire clapped. “Let’s get going, no time to waste!” The Big Three scanned the cafeteria, but (Y/n) was nowhere to be found. Nejire tried to quell her disappointment as she, Mirio, and Tamaki started eating. She soon regained her usual cheer, offering some food for Tamaki to try with his quirk as Mirio marveled at the possible applications a ramen noodle arm. When they returned to the classroom, (Y/n) was already back in her seat, looking out the window with a dazed look on her face. “Hey, (Y/n)!” Nejire greeted, startling the girl by kneeling in front of her with her arms folded over (Y/n)’s desk. “We were looking for you at lunch. You should totally sit with us tomorrow, it’ll be a lot of fun!” “Um, I don’t know,” (Y/n) mumbled, shifting her eyes nervously. “Hado, get in your seat please, class is starting,” “You got it, Sensei!” Nejire beamed. “Next period is quirk training and we’re sparring today. You should partner up with me,” she quietly told (Y/n) before making her way back to her desk. Nejire couldn’t help but glance back every now and then, flashing the new girl a dazzling smile every time their eyes met. When they made eye contact, (Y/n) would quickly jerk her head down toward her desk and nervously scratch her pencil into her notebook. Nejire wished she could see what she was doing, the movements didn’t seem to match routine note taking and it was fueling her curiosity even further. She just couldn’t wait until quirk training! “Hado! Face forward, please. You are being very distracting,” Sensei chided. “Sorry!” Nejire laughed sheepishly along with most of the class as she faced forward in her chair. She briefly wondered if (Y/n) had laughed too and thought about what it would sound like. Her own smile grew at the thought and she added it to her growing mental list of inquisitions. When class was over, she was held back by her Sensei for a minute for a light scolding. “Just because you are one of the top three students, doesn’t mean that you should be slacking off or distracting others, Hado. Please try to focus during your lessons.” “Sorry, Sensei! I’ll work harder,” Nejire smiled. “I better get to quirk training now or someone will snatch up my partner, bye!” Before her Sensei could object, Nejire darted out of the room and headed towards the locker rooms. She quickly navigated the space and weaved through the other girls changing their clothes to where (Y/n) was changing in the furthest corner. “There you are!” She cheered, causing (Y/n) to jump and quickly finish pulling her workout uniform top over her head. “I’m so excited to see your quirk! This is going to be so much fun!” Nejire continued to speak as she began changing into her own workout sweats. When she finished pulling her shirt over her head, (Y/n) was no longer in front of her. She swiveled her head and watched her scurry toward the exit. “Wait for me, (Y/n)!” Nejire called, adjusting her sweatpants as she skipped over to the fleeing girl. “You sure move fast. Is it part of your quirk?” She asked, poking (Y/n) in the back. “No, it’s not,” (Y/n) mumbled as they walked into the gym, thumbing over the pages of her notebook anxiously. “Hm? Why did you bring a notebook? Taking notes? How will you find time to do that while sparring? Are you sure you don’t have a speed quirk?” She asked tugging at (Y/n)’s sleeve. “I... the notebook is for my quirk-“ (Y/n) answered before Nejire invaded her personal space further, getting very close to her face. “Really? What do you use it for? Tell me!” Nejire demanded, bouncing on her heels and nearly knocking heads with (Y/n)’s. “I draw things,” the girl squeaked, taking several steps back from Nejire to no avail as the girl simply closed the distance without a second thought, her eyes blazing with an inquisitive fire that longed to be fed more fuel. “You draw and then what happens?” Nejire continued, matching each step (Y/n) took back with one of her own going forward until (Y/n) hit a wall on the other side of the training grounds and was quite effectively pinned. “I, um, swipe at the drawing and, uh, it’s like a replica of whatever I drew,”(Y/n) replied, her eyes shifting to look anywhere but the eyes of Nejire boring into her face, absorbing every word that left her lips. “Sounds neat! Will you show me? Like, before we spar? I want to see!” (Y/n)’s voice seemed to give out from all the attention Nejire was giving her so she simply nodded. Her hands shook as she flipped to a clean page and penciled in a quick sketch of an oak tree with a practiced hand. Nejire watched with rapt attention as (Y/n)’s fingers ran over the drawing and swiped outward, launching the sketch off of the page. Nejire grinned, watching the tree take shape and tower over them. It almost looked real, but there was a sculpted look to it that made it look like something right out of a fantasy novel. She looked back to (Y/n) and tugged on her sleeve. “That’s beautiful, (Y/n)! What a fun quirk! My quirk is Wave Motion, it looks like this,” Nejire released a spiral wave of energy from her hand and they watched it flow forward until it eventually died out. “Pretty cool, right? My waves may be slow, but they’re super strong,” Nejire explained. “Girls, please, I don’t mind a little constructive discussion, but do some actual sparring as well,” “We’ll get started now, sorry!” Nejire waved off the disgruntled teacher before turning back to (Y/n) with renewed vigor. “Okay (Y/n), time to show me what you’ve got!” (Y/n)’s hands shook a bit as she brought her battered notebook to her chest. A nervous sweat gathered at her brow as she watched Nejire drop into a fighting stance. Luckily, her previous training didn’t fail her and she quickly dodged Nejire’s kick in her direction. (Y/n) drew a brick wall to hide herself momentarily from Nejire’s sight. It was quickly destroyed however, by Nejire’s spiraling energy quirk. (Y/n) tumbled out of the way, quickly sketching a barrage of sparrows, the lack of detail causing them to look more like flying scribbles as they broke apart upon impact with Nejire’s swinging arms. It was enough of a distraction to allow (Y/n) to take cover behind the tree she had made only minutes before and she quickly got to work on a clone to further distract Nejire. (Y/n) could already feel her fingers begin to numb from so many consecutive drawings so she needed a bit of time to recoup. She sent out her self-portrait and watched as the mindless double ran awkwardly away. The “people” were always weird, sure they looked human enough, but the mannerisms were always off and any attempt at speech sounded like a garbled mess of nonsense. They were best suited as decoys more than anything. The clone did its job, Nejire ran after it, aiming a few wave blasts at it as she trailed behind and quickly started gaining ground. (Y/n) took the time she bought herself to stretch her wrists and fingers, trying to combat the numbness and aching settling in her hands. She was so preoccupied that she failed to notice the figure hovering over her with the help of swirls of energy gathered at their feet. “Boo!” “Ah!” (Y/n) was tackled to the ground by Nejire. Her notebook was knocked from her hands as Nejire’s hands forced her arms up over her head and Nejire laughed victoriously. “I got you! Nice try with that clone deception but it got kind of droopy and fell apart quickly. You need to be pretty quick and stealthy to use your quirk, huh? Can you make drawings in advance or do they need to be fresh? I think if you had things queued up it would be very useful!” Nejire spoke excitedly, her body still straddled over (Y/n)’s as she chattered away. “Can you get off, please?” (Y/n) mumbled, trying to create some semblance of space between herself and Nejire. “Oh right, I should do that shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t want Sensei to think we’re slacking off,” Nejire smiled. She stood and pulled (Y/n) up with her before kneeling momentarily to retrieve (Y/n)’s notebook from the ground. (Y/n) almost had a heart attack when Nejire began casually flipping through the pages. “Please don’t look in there,” (Y/n) quickly asked, pulling the pages out of Nejire’s hands so fast the other girl almost didn’t register it leaving her grasp. “Hm? Come on (Y/n), let me see!” Nejire giggled, playfully pawing at (Y/n)’s hands that tightly gripped her notebook. By the grace of All Might, the bell rang and (Y/n) ran to the locker room, but with Nejire hot on her heels. “Hey, wait up, (Y/n)! Tell me more about the intricacies of your quirk!” (Y/n) ignored her and made her way into the locker room, changing quickly back into her uniform as Nejire babbled beside her completely unaware of the affect she was having on the transfer student. “Hey, hey, (Y/n)? Are you doing anything after school? I have today off from my work study and we could totally hang out and I’ll show you around!” Nejire asked, casually threading her arm through one of (Y/n)’s as they exited the locker room dressed in their uniforms. “Mirio won’t be able to come, but I bet I could convince Tamaki to come along. What do you think, (Y/n)?” (Y/n) shuddered and tried to discreetly pull herself out of Nejire’s grip but the girl with the powder blue hair persisted with her hold. (Y/n)’s gaze shifted uncomfortably between Nejire and the ground beneath their feet as they made their way back to their classroom. “I don’t know, I was going to continue to unpack and settle into my room,” she finally answered after a bit of deliberation. “Oh! Well, I could help with that,” Nejire said, unperturbed. “Tamaki would probably prefer staying in the dorms anyway. Besides, it’ll be easier to talk without any added distractions,” “You really don’t need to help me,” (Y/n) added. “I usually work better by myself.” “It would be no trouble at all! We could order some take out too. I know a great place that does delivery,” (Y/n) felt her eye twitch. She had only been at UA a day. What had she even done to garner such attention? The only reason she transferred was to get some space after breaking up with her ex and with this girl, space seemed like the last thing she was going to get. It also didn’t help that (Y/n) found the girl to be extremely attractive and left her absolutely tongue tied. (Y/n) was honestly surprised Nejire hadn’t given up on her yet, she hadn’t exactly been friendly or sociable. “So?” (Y/n) was jolted from her thoughts as Nejire gently nudged her elbow into (Y/n)’s side. “What do you think?” Ah, what the hell? “Alright,” (Y/n) sighed, flinching when Nejire cheered and hugged her tightly. “We are going to have so much fun! I can’t wait!” Nejire hummed, pulling (Y/n) back into the classroom. “Yeah, can’t wait...” *** (Y/n) couldn’t escape Nejire even if she tried, and she did try. At the end of the day, Nejire practically flew to her side with her bag packed and ready to head to the dorms. “Lead the way, (Y/n). Ready for the most awesome sleepover ever?” Nejire grinned. “Sleepover?” (Y/n) questioned. “Oh! Good luck with Nighteye’s patrol tonight, Mirio!” Nejire waved, seemingly too distracted to answer to (Y/n)’s confusion. “Say hi to Fat Gum for me, Tamaki!” “I wasn’t even supposed to be in today,” Tamaki sighed. “Something serious must have come up, nothing good can come from this.” “Don’t worry, Tamaki! You’ll do great like always!” Mirio smiled, patting his friend warmly on the back, making a small smile form on Tamaki’s lips. “See ya tomorrow Nejire, (Y/n), have fun tonight!” “Will do!” Nejire cheered, flashing a thumbs up before dragging (Y/n) out of the school and veered off into the direction of the third year dorms. “Oh yeah, I was going to let you lead, wasn’t I?” Nejire giggled. “You did say that. You also said something about a sleepover?” (Y/n) reminded, hoping to gain some clarity into the situation. “Mhmm, it just makes sense. The boys are at their work studies so it’s a great time for a girl’s night,” “But, don’t you think we need to know each other a bit better before having a sleepover?” “But that’s what the sleepover is for, (Y/n), to get to know you better! Now come on, we’re wasting daylight!” “But it’s a school night,” (Y/n) whined, grasping at yet another excuse to give her a moment of peace. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay up too late. A good night’s sleep is important after all,” (Y/n) rolled her eyes and rubbed one of her temples, watching Nejire skip ahead to open the main door and usher her inside. She hadn’t transferred here to make friends, she transferred to be alone, to be left in peace in a place where no one knew her. To try to get over her breakup and move on with her life and with it all still fresh in her mind, she really didn’t want to be with this intrusive, albeit sweet, girl. “(Y/n)! Our rooms are in the same hallway,“ Nejire clapped. “How convenient!” She smiled, tapping a door a few meters away on the other side of the hall from where (Y/n) was standing. “I suppose it is,” (Y/n) grimaced, unlocking her own door and flicking on the light. “Oooo,” Nejire rested her chin on (Y/n)’s shoulder, causing the girl to freeze up a bit. “A bit cluttered, isn’t it? You didn’t have much time to get settled in after all. Good thing I’m here to help!” “Mhmm,” (Y/n) hummed distractedly, moving over to the closet to finish hanging up her clothes that she had left on the bed earlier that morning. She quickly fell into a rhythm, listening to each clack of the hangers as they hit the metal bar. “So, where should this go?” Nejire asked, suddenly appearing beside (Y/n) with a folded wooden structure in her hands. “Oh, be careful with that, it belonged to my grandmother. Just put it in the corner closest to the window please,” “What is it?” “An easel. You know, for holding up canvases for painting and such,” (Y/n) replied, gesturing with one hand as her mind tried to put her thoughts in a coherent sentence. “Neat! I couldn’t tell with it all folded up like this,” Nejire said, placing the wooden structure in the corner. “How about these plastic bins, wow! Is this all paint!?” (Y/n) turned and scratched sheepishly at the nape of her neck. “Yeah, I kind of have a bad habit of buying art supplies when...” I’m sad “When I don’t necessarily need them,” she finished after a brief pause. “Do you paint a lot? Did you bring any of your paintings here? Can you show me?” Nejire bounced, scanning around the pile of belongings hopefully. “I brought a couple small ones to hang, they’re in that blue portfolio case,” (Y/n) informed. Nejire scooped up the case and carefully slid out the first thin canvas. The painting was a lovely fall scene where the trees were alight with fiery orange and red leaves with dashes of yellow. The earth below the trees was a rich brown dashed with occasional bursts of color from fallen leaves. Winding through the wood was a babbling stream, water was twisting and weaving with the rocks that were caked in wet leaves and highlighted where the sun peeked through the trees, the beautiful blue water contrasted the scenery in a way that Nejire found absolutely enchanting. “This is amazing, (Y/n)!” Nejire praised, causing (Y/n) to turn and continue to fidget with the clothes she was hanging. “Can your quirk work on these?” She asked as she pulled the other canvases out of the portfolio and appraised every detail. “Mmm, possibly. I can use any medium with my quirk, but I’ve not quite gotten the hang of putting such detailed works into reality. They usually melt away and leave a big mess,” “Do you think I could watch you paint sometime?” (Y/n) was rather surprised that Nejire had asked. “You would really be interested in that? It’s kind of a long process... I’ve been told it’s actually pretty boring,” “Hm? No way, I’d totally be down to watch! I know I may seem a bit antsy, but I know how to entertain myself,” Nejire said, setting up some command strips to hang the art from. “Who told you that painting was boring anyway?” (Y/n) fumbled with her bed sheets as an image of her ex flashed in her mind. She remembered the way their nose would crinkle at the smell of fresh paint. She used to think it was cute, but the memory now left bitter taste in her mouth.

~~~ ‘Just because you have an artsy quirk, it doesn’t mean you need to waste your life on this junk. Come on, let’s actually do something worth our time,’ they smiled as if they hadn’t just said something hurtful. ‘Oh, well, we’ve been going out a lot lately. I actually haven’t been able to paint or draw outside of training for a couple of weeks so I was hoping maybe we could have a night in and we could make dinner or order in, talk, have a show on while I paint-‘ (Y/n) was cut off by a groan as their then partner flopped onto the couch. ‘You know, when I first asked you out I thought I’d find more,’ ‘...What do you mean?’ ‘You’re just so plain, if I had known before that what I see is what I’d get, I probably wouldn’t have bothered,’ (Y/n) felt like hot needles were crawling inside her throat and she gripped her paintbrush tightly. ‘But we’re stuck with each other now, can’t help looking back on the past I suppose,’ they sighed. ‘Guess I’ll text the gang to tell them you flaked again,’ ‘Don’t bother,’ They looked up from their phone, slight surprise morphed into a cocky smugness that made (Y/n)’s head pulse. ‘Ah, I knew you’d come around, babe-“ ‘Tell them I flaked yourself, because I’m not going and I don’t want you here anymore,’ ‘What are you saying?’ They scoffed, rising from the couch. ‘Just a minute ago you were begging for me to stay, now you want me to leave?’ They laughed humorlessly. ‘Is this because I jabbed at you for being boring and predictable? Nice one, you got me. Now put on some shoes, we’ll be late,’ ‘It’s not a joke, take your stuff and leave. I’m done. I’m not going to stand here and let you belittle me anymore!’ (Y/n) proclaimed. ‘You wish you could find something more in me, well, I wish I knew what I was getting into upfront with you so I would have never agreed to go out with you!’ She snapped. ‘Don’t say anything you can’t take back, you’re being crazy-‘ ‘Go!’ (Y/n) threw the brush in her hand, green paint streaked down the ex’s shocked face before the brush slid to the floor. ‘Fine! Have fun being alone the rest of your life, I was the only shot you had and you just blew it!’ They screeched, before turning and stomping out of the room. A few moments later, (Y/n) heard the front door slam shut and she felt like all her energy had been drained from her as she threw herself on the couch. When her guardian got home later that day she asked them where that transfer scholarship for UA was and filled it out with no preamble. Managing to send it out mere hours before the deadline. ~~~ “(Y/n)?” (Y/n) gasped at the sudden pressure of Nejire’s hand on her back. “Yes? Sorry, I was somewhere else I guess,” “No problem, what were you thinking about?” She asked curiously. “Nothing really,” (Y/n) shook her head, “Want to help me set up the tv?” “Are you kidding? Did you forget that I’m here to help you? Of course I’ll help!” *** At some point Nejire found the time to order the take out and the two ate while making a few finishing touches to the room. Light music weaves through the space, often broken by Nejire making comments or asking questions and (Y/n) found herself not minding at all, answering all of the inquiries honestly. Once everything was in place, Nejire darted out of the room to change clothes for the night while (Y/n) tried to find something to watch on tv. “I’m baaaaaack!” Nejire sang, jumping into the bed and causing a ripple effect that nearly caused (Y/n) to slip off of her perch on the edge of the bed. “Ooo! How it’s Made is on, can we watch How it’s Made?” “Sure,” (Y/n) affirmed, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. They settled in under the covers and Nejire talked over the show, adding her own commentary and questions she longed to be answered about the intricacies of making ketchup. (Y/n) found herself not minding, however. In fact, she found it rather entertaining, endearing even. She never expected to share her space with a virtual stranger, much less her bed. (Y/n) had to commend Nejire for her persistence as she wondered to herself just how long Nejire would stick around. Just as her eyes drifted shut, they opened in a flash as her cellphone began to ring on the bedside table. “Who’s calling you? Family? Friend?” Nejire asked through a yawn, apparently she was only moments from sleep as well. The way she was curled up in her own hair at (Y/n)’s side practically in a cocoon of her own design was incredibly cute. “Sorry, I’ll take care of it,” (Y/n) sighed and reached for the phone. All sense of tiredness left as soon as she registered who was calling her and in a panic she declined the call and tossed her phone back on the bedside table. “Why didn’t you answer it? Who was it, wrong number?” Nejire asked, shifting closer. “Wrong number,” (Y/n) answered quickly before laying back down. It could have almost been left at that, except the phone started ringing again. “They don’t seem to think so,” Nejire observed. (Y/n) turned on her side and reached for the phone and once more declined the call, only to immediately receive a third call. This time, Nejire reached over (Y/n) and took the phone herself. “Hello, may I ask who is calling?” Nejire yawned again, resting her head on (Y/n)’s shoulder. (Y/n) laid there absolutely dumbstruck, listening to Nejire’s side of the conversation she was having with (Y/n)’s ex. “Who am I? I’m Hado. It’s rather late, (Y/n) and I are trying to sleep. You want to talk to (Y/n)? Well, she doesn’t seem to want to talk to you. Do you know why that may be?” “I don’t know, I’ve only known (Y/n) for a day, but I’m sure she has perfectly acceptable reasons for not wanting to speak with you,” “No need to be so rude. If this is how you conduct yourself it’s no wonder (Y/n) broke up with you,” “Hey, do us a favor and don’t call back, okay?” Nejire replied sweetly to whatever retort the ex fired at her before hanging up and putting the phone back down. Then she snuggled back into (Y/n) and sighed pleasantly, seemingly content even after the phone call. “G’ night, (Y/n),” Nejire mumbled, her voice muffled from where her face was buried into (Y/n)’s shoulder. “That’s all you have to say? Good night?” (Y/n) found that hard to believe. “I’m sorry that you had a partner like that. I’ll treat you the way you deserve to be treated, much better,” came the sleepy reply. “What are you even saying?” (Y/n) pushed, her neck and cheeks growing warmer with each passing moment. The only reply she received was the sound of faint snoring. *** Over the next few months, Nejire and (Y/n) seemed to be attached at the hip. Quite literally in some cases as Nejire loved to cling to (Y/n)’s arms or hang off her back. (Y/n) got acquainted with Tamaki and Mirio and quickly stepped in a rhythm with The Big Three that made it look like they had all been friends for years. Before long, (Y/n) was feeling much better in her new environment and Nejire was beyond pleased to see (Y/n) smile and laugh so freely. “Hey, hey, (Y/n), I’m going to be patrolling with Ryuko but do you want to hang out when I get back?” Nejire asked after class one day. “Sure, come by whenever,” (Y/n) smiled. She found it rather exhilarating how effortless her relationship friendship! with Nejire seemed to be. Of course communication was key, once (Y/n) came out of her shell, Nejire’s endless chatter became a lot less one sided. They learned a lot about each other’s likes, dislikes, and general attitudes and behaviors and sometimes even seemed to know what the other was thinking without speaking. A talent that that kind of freaked Tamaki out. “Great! See you later then, bye!” Nejire swooped in for a quick hug before gliding off to catch a transit Ryuko’s agency. “Bye!” (Y/n) waved back before heading towards the dorms. Despite how well they were communicating, they never did discuss that phone call awhile back which (Y/n) thought was odd. However, she certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. She’d be happy never to talk about her ex ever again and since they hadn’t tried calling back since that night, (Y/n) felt lighter than she felt in a long time. She smiled to herself before heading towards the dorms, deciding to paint while she waited for Nejire to return. *** It was getting late, though (Y/n) wasn’t too worried. Being a hero in training is often unpredictable and being worked overtime, even for work study, was not an unusual occurrence. It just gave (Y/n) more time to finish up her latest painting, a close up look into a lively tide pool. She was making this particular scene to commemorate the day she had gone out to the ocean with Nejire, Tamaki, and Mirio a week prior and she was planning on giving the finished product to Nejire as thanks for, well, everything. (Y/n) continued to hum along to the light music as she continued to stroke more detail into the piece before her, striving to make it one of her best works yet. Her fingers faltered before she reached the canvas again, a loud thump sounded from the other side of the door, followed by a heavy sliding noise. (Y/n) paused her humming and set her brush and paint down carefully before cautiously approaching the door. Her eyebrows scrunched in confusion as she looked out of the peep hole to find no one standing there. She was about to head back to her canvas when she heard a weak knock coming from a lower position on the door. With a bit of apprehension, (Y/n) unlocked the door and opened it, causing Nejire to fall half into the room as her balance was disrupted. Nejire groaned but smiled all the same, looking dead tired in her scuffed up hero outfit. “Hey (Y/n), work sure was crazy today,” Nejire coughed, looking up at (Y/n) from her spot in the ground. “Nejire!” (Y/n) gasped. “You look hurt. Did Ryuko really let you come back to the dorms like this? Come on, let’s get you to Recovery Girl at least!” (Y/n) said with mild panic before beginning to tug the other girl into a sitting position. “No need to worry, (Y/n). I’m just tired from over exhausting my quirk. I’ll be back one hundred percent after some rest,” Nejire assured, however, the wince she made when (Y/n) helped tug her up did not go unnoticed. “Come on then, I’ll do what I can,” (Y/n) guided Nejire over to her bed and helped her sit. “What injuries do you have?” “Injuries? What injuries?” Nejire laughed, running her fingers nervously through her hair. “Nejire,” (Y/n) warned causing the other girl to pout before peeling off the top half of her hero costume so it fell around her hips, displaying the bruises that were littered across her arms. “Nejire!” (Y/n) exclaimed loudly. “Those look awful, you should really have gone to Recovery Girl or had Ryuko take you somewhere,” “But I was excited to see you,” Nejire whined. “I-“ (Y/n) took a moment to clear her throat and tried to fight back the warmth that flooded through her chest at her friend’s admission. “I’m not going anywhere, you can take your time to take care of yourself first in the future. I don’t like seeing you hurt and what if you had passed out somewhere trying to get back?” “I’m sorry, (Y/n),” Nejire frowned. “You don’t need to apologize, I was just worried, okay? Now, let me whip something up quick for those bruises,” (Y/n) grabbed a sketchbook off of her nightstand and flipped to a blank page as she took a seat next to Nejire. She was so focused on accurately drawing the medicine that she barely registered Nejire leaning into her side to watch her with sleepy eyes. When (Y/n) was happy with the details she swiped over the page and gabbed the newly formed jar of salve before it hit the ground. “You’re quirk is so useful, (Y/n),” Nejire complimented, pushing herself in a straighter position to accept the medicinal salve that was being held out to her. “Ah, thanks,” (Y/n) shrugged, suddenly hyper aware of how close she and Nejire were. “Anyway, rub that into your arms and it should help you from being too sore tomorrow. Then I’ll help you get in your room,” “Aww, but I want to stay with you,” Nejire yawned, rubbing the slave into her arms. “Ooo, chilly,” “Nejire-“ “Please, (Y/n)?” Nejire pleaded. “I require hugs to heal. Also, could you look at my back? I think it might be bruised too,” “First, you do not need hugs to heal and second, yes, I’ll give it a look,” (Y/n) stared in disbelief as Nejire turned, revealing a large bruise right below her sports bra. “Nejire, that’s a huge bruise! What even happened during patrol?” “Just a ragtag group of common villains, really. Nothing much apart but very distracting to fight them all at once,” “Still, this is a deep bruise, I wouldn’t be surprised if you fractured a rib. We are going to Recovery Girl tomorrow,” (Y/n) said, leaving no room for argument as she gently rubbed the salve over Nejire’s back. “Aww, you care about me,” Nejire giggled, craning her head back to rest it against (Y/n)’s chest. “Yes, I do,” (Y/n) replied, turning her face away to hide her probably beyond obvious heart eyes. “I care about you too,” Nejire replied, candidly. She turned over to hug (Y/n) tightly around the shoulders, her eyes catching the swirling blue, white, and green on the easel in the corner. “(Y/n)! Are you painting tide pools? So cool!” She got up and stumbled over to the painting. “Careful, Nejire! You really should be resting,” (Y/n) scolded, following close behind. “It’s beautiful, (Y/n).” Nejire praised. “I’m glad you think so. I was planning on giving it to you when I was finished,” (Y/n) smiled shyly. “Aw, really? (Y/n), you’re too sweet! Whoa, little woozy still,” Nejire stumbled backwards, but (Y/n) managed to still her. “Come on, you need to lay down,” (Y/n) said, half dragging Nejire back to the bed. “Woooo, the room is spinning!” Nejire laughed, flopping onto the bed and taking (Y/n) down with her. “Nejire!” (Y/n) admonished, face blazing as Nejire continued to giggle and hold her close. After a bit of struggling, (Y/n) finally gave in with a huff and allowed Nejire to snuggle to her heart’s content. Music was still played in the background and Nejire’s breathing had slowed to a point that (Y/n) believed her to be sleeping. (Y/n) sighed under Nerije’s weight, absently running her fingers through Nejire’s hair before remembering she had just been painting. “Shoot!” She hissed, raising her hand to her face. A bead of sweat glossed over her cheek as she observed the partially dried colors that were smeared over her fingers. “Hmm why did you stop? That felt nice,” Nejire softly complained. “Um, sorry! My hands are full of paint,” (Y/n) sheepishly replied. “Mm yeah, you also have some on your face,” Nejire informed nonchalantly. “Wha-“ (Y/n) raised her arm and rubbed at her cheek, finding a bit of blue and white paint on her wrist that hadn’t been there prior. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” “It's cute,” came the simple reply. “Even so,” (Y/n) cleared her throat, “You should have said something! I got paint in your hair and who knows where else,” “That’s okay, we can clean up in the morning.” Nejire adjusted herself a bit to swipe her fingers over the last of the wet paint smear on (Y/n)’s cheek and transferred it to her own. “Look, now we match!” She cheered before snuggling back into (Y/n)’s arms. (Y/n) smiled, her fingers once more taking roost in Nejire’s hair. She never knew she could be so lucky as to have such a wonderful person in her life. “I really like you a lot,” (Y/n) sighed, the words falling from her lips full of love without her permission and immediately making her tense. “I mean-“ “You do? I’m soooo glad you said something! I was actually really nervous to tell you that I really like you too!” Nejire admitted. “I just think about you a lot, you know? I feel like I can’t ever get enough of you, but it hasn’t been very long since your break up so I didn’t want to push you,” “You can’t get enough of me? You don’t find me... dull?” (Y/n) asked timidly. “Never,” Nejire replied with uncharacteristic seriousness. “You are as vibrant as the colors you paint with, (Y/n). Don’t let anyone try to tell you differently,” “Thank you, Nejire,” (Y/n) simpered, a prickly heat crawled up her neck as she prepared herself for what she would say next. “So, would you want to go to the museum with me this weekend? There’s going to be a special exhibit-“ A soft snore broke (Y/n)’s flow and she realized that Nejire had finally fallen asleep. “I’ll ask you about it tomorrow,” (Y/n) smiled and reached for the throw blanket to cover them both, sinking further into the bed and with the comfortable weight over her, her eyes drifted shut and she soon joined Nejire in blissful sleep.

#bnha oneshots #mha oneshots #Nejire Hado #Nejire Hadou #Nejire Hado x reader #Nejire Hadou x reader

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indiavolowetrust · 5 years ago

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Ok ok let's take a break from from (rightfully) bitching about how the game could have been ~spicyer~ and imagine this: police officer!satan x thief! Reader who's in a tight leather Catwoman/black cat suit 👀👀👀👀

Thanks for sending in an ask / request! And yeah, let’s take a break hehe. This is a little out of my comfort zone, but I took it as the following: MC is a thief who has been caught by their childhood friend, who has instead turned to a life of law and justice. Tones of noir. Think of MC as a jewel thief, Satan as a gumshoe detective, and the entire exchange in the black and white tones of older movies.

I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

“They say you’re a demon, you know. All that anger in one neat little package.” The interior of the constable’s automobile is dark, even with the aid of the vehicle’s external lights, but you know better than anyone that Satan can see the smile beneath your mask. The tightening of his knuckles on the steering wheel is all you need as confirmation. “Just like your name, right? Always wonder why Mama called you that.”

His eyes flicker briefly to yours in the mirror, his gaze just as piercing as ever. “You’re not charming your way out of this one.”

“We’ll see.”

It will be approximately twenty minutes to the station, of course. Five minutes from the museum, ten minutes to pass the main street, and another five minutes to pull into the parking spot. Maybe another minute or so for him to wrangle you out of the car and into the station, depending on how much resistance you give him. Given that you’ve opted to go on a heist without a partner -- a foolish decision on your part, you realize now -- you’ll have to find a way to distract him for an extra five minutes. Should be enough for that light-fingered crow to figure out where you are, anyway.

And so you wait.

“That new uniform looks absolutely wonderful on you,” you croon, adding only the slightest lilt to the end of the phrase. You stretch out in the backseat of the automobile, and your feet meet the window. The cuffs don’t get in the way of that, at least. “Did you get a promotion?”

“No.”

“Just a change of wardrobe, then?”

“You know damn well I haven’t been promoted in a decade,” Satan nearly snarls, his verdant gaze flashing with irritation. “If you could just shut up, this would go a lot a smoother. A lot better for you, at least.”

You hum. “But where’s the fun in that? I thought you liked playing games. All that back there was pretty much just hide-and-seek.”

“We have to find criminals like you so we can bring about the peace.” His knuckles tighten once more on the steering wheel, and automobile swerves just slightly in turn. Your goading is working, evidently. “Hardly a game of hide-and-seek, if you ask me.”

“Huh. I thought you liked that game the best,” you remark. You play idly with the cuffs of your costume -- no, suit, considering its current usage -- and cast a sidelong glance towards the blond-haired detective. You catch his eye. Good.

“I didn’t.”

“Then what was all that crying when you were a kid?” you ask, teasing him further. “You used to be so much cuter back then with that little cat toy of yours. I almost miss you hanging onto my sleeve.”

His cheeks color slightly under the light of a passing street lamp. “I didn’t cry that much.”

“So all that crying was just a reason to hang onto me, then.”

“Sure.”

You smirk at him, your expression just visible under the partial disguise. “I thought cops weren’t supposed to lie,” you tease. You glance just outside the window, taking in the image of the main street. Ten minutes left. “Thought all of you were supposed to be high and mighty. By the books, you know.”

Satan says nothing at that -- either a sign of his growing irritation or his sudden surge to remain silent and not stoop to your low blows. Given his inherently wrathful nature -- he was always a snotty little brat -- you can hardly imagine it to be the latter. You feel the automobile make one of its final turns down the main street, its engine beginning to slow. If you can’t manage to incite his wrath, to throw him off his game, you’ll be stuck with a level-headed Satan. Namely, the more dangerous, efficient version of your childhood friend. The light of a street lamp flickers across the windows of the vehicle, and you begin to feel a surge of panic. The lock you’ve been picking with a hairpin won’t give itself away quickly enough.

Five minutes. You’ll need to think of something.

You pull slightly at the cat-shaped mask of your ensemble, tracing a tongue against the curve of your lower lip. You had made sure to paint it red just for this night. Satan stiffens slightly in the mirror, his gaze once more flickering away from you, and you see his jaw grit just slightly. Then there is the set posture of his shoulders, the white knuckles, the flush that has come to make itself known over his visage -- and a sense of victory begins to well up within you.

Satan is weak to you. Always has been, even when you two were kids.

The vehicle is parked a short distance to the station. He only traces the rather revealing contours of your cat-like suit for only a moment, his professionalism falling to pieces -- and then he forces his gaze to lock with yours, intent on not letting you have your way. Of course, that won’t be the case.

Never will be.

You walk in a deliberately slow manner, forcing Satan to slow his pace with yours. Blink slowly beneath your mask, your features only just barely shrouded by the disguise.

“You could’ve gone into the force like me,” he says, breaking the silence. His gaze tears away from you for just a moment, his thoughts preoccupied with what appears to be regret. You're close. “You could’ve broken the pattern instead of -- instead of doing this,” he continues. “I still don’t understand why --”

His visage has turned itself fully away from you. Now’s your chance.

You trip the detective in one swift movement, forcing him to stagger away from you, and use the free moment away from his hands to finally release yourself from the confines of the cuffs. They clatter uselessly to the ground. The detective lets out a soft groan as his back slams into the brick wall of a nearby building, his features contorting in pain. His body momentarily stunned in the aftermath. The light of a passing car begins to make its way towards the both of you -- presumably also towards the station -- and you immediately drag Satan into a nearby alley.

Still, it’s not enough. A quick glance tells you that Mammon -- that damned greedy crow -- has yet to find your location, much less arrive. You force a knee between the detective’s legs and a hand over his mouth, muffling his yells of protest.

‘Hush!“ you hiss at the equally irritated detective, furrowing your brows. “I’m going to get caught!”

Satan only struggles from beneath your vice-like grip, grousing a number of complaints from beneath your fingers. Struggling with enough force to nearly knock you away from him, the jerky movements necessitating that you adjust this way and that. The cat-like bodysuit that you’ve chosen to wear for the heist -- yet another foolish touch of theatrics on your part -- allows you a limited amount of movement, further hindering your attempts to keep the detective under your control. Unlike the adorable, sniffling child he used to be, the full grown man that he is now is much more difficult to control.

And so you decide to let go.

Satan’s face is completely flushed, his pale skin now beet-red beside his blond hair. “You -- you’ve already been caught, so just --”

God, he’s loud.

You seal your mouth over his in the span of a moment, effectively silencing whatever noise he would have made to draw attention to your location. Taking away his breath. His eyes are still open wide by the time you close yours, the surprise evident on his features. It means little to you. You force your tongue past the barrier of his lips, exploring the inside of his mouth as you do so, and tangle your fingers in the blond locks. A measure of necessity, given his previous attempts to struggle away from your grip.

You do not know how long the kiss lasts, nor do you care. You only need to stall for time. Satan all but melts under your false affection, sighing into your mouth. You angle your mouth beneath his to deepen the kiss, further occupying his attention.

And then there is the revving of an engine some distance away from your position in the alleyway. Mammon.

Time to go, you think.

You push yourself away from Satan just in time to see the lights of Mammon’s car begin to make itself up the alleyway. Shove the hapless detective’s body even further into the brick. Again there is that gasp of pain, prompting his realization -- but by the time he gathers his wits, it is far too late. You only grin at him from the inside of Mammon’s vehicle before slamming the door shut, catching the pathetic surprise in his eyes. It is nothing short of satisfying: Satan is weak, as always. For as much literature he consumes, he’s just as easy to deceive as he was as a child.

There is only the vaguest hint of unfamiliarity in his eyes as you and Mammon drive away from the police station. It flashes across the verdant puppies for only a half-second, dissipating quickly into the hue -- but it is enough to draw your attention. Not quite vexation, not quite rage. Not quite irritation, not quite annoyance. Not quite any of those things that made Satan the wrathful little beast he is as a detective.

If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he looked disappointed.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me!#obey me satan #obey me asks #obey me ask #asks #ask #ugh this is terrible #i literally just chugged this one out

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cpd5021 · 5 years ago

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The Thing That Works...

Hailey and Jay take on a case that affects them both, bringing up things from their past. This will be a two-shot (probably). Let me know what you think!

Jay sighed down at his phone when, for the second time, his call to Hailey went unanswered. It wasn’t like her to not pick up, especially a call from him, but then again it was supposed to be their day off. The team had spent the last two weeks working a grueling case so Voight had shown them mercy and given the two detectives the day off. It all sounded good in theory until Kevin and Vanessa had caught a case, resulting in the whole unit being called in. Vanessa had called him, apologizing when his gruffly voice told her she had woke him, and gave him a quick rundown of the case. She mentioned texting Hailey, but that she hadn’t gotten a reply yet and Jay told her not to worry, that he would get a hold of her. That was twenty minutes ago and now Jay sat in his truck, parked outside of her condo, staring at a blank screen. Maybe she was still asleep. He sighed again and shut his truck off, jumping out and making his way to her door. A mix of confusion and entertainment crossed his face when, as he approached her front door, he could hear music blaring inside. He chuckled to himself, not really pegging Hailey as a 90′s classic kind of gal. Jay knocked and when he realized she’d never hear him over the music, he hesitantly rang the doorbell. He listened as the music was turned down and could see movement behind the frosted window of her door. Suddenly, she was in front of him. A range of emotions flashed across her face, going from surprise, to a huge smile, and then what looked like mild embarrassment. Jay inhaled sharply as he took in the sight of his partner before him. Before he could stop himself, his eyes traveled down her body, which was glistening with sweat. He hadn’t really seen her in anything other than her usual jeans and a T-shirt or sweater, unless you count that one time she was quarantined in a hospital gown. But her currant attire had her body on full display. His eyes quickly roamed from her chest, covered in nothing but a tight black sports bra, down her sculpted abs and to her toned legs showing out of her small athletic shorts. His eyes met hers finally, his eyebrows raised in appreciation, his lower lip clenched between his teeth. He swallowed hard as he felt his face burn bright red, realizing that not only had he just totally checked his partner out but that he had done so in such an obvious way that there was no way he could back track it. He gave her a sheepish grin as he took in her face, a pink blush spreading across her cheeks that he hoped was from whatever she had been doing and not his blatant staring.

“Did we catch a case?” Hailey asked finally, clearing her throat to get his attention.

“Huh? Uh, yea...unfortunately.” He tried to play it cool but his voice came out huskier than he intended.

“Okay...” She trailed off slowly. “I’ll be ready in just a minute, I just need to grab a quick shower after working out.” She hesitated in the doorway for a moment before stepping aside and motioning for him to come in. Jay ducked his head down sheepishly as he entered her home, suddenly the air around him felt thick and he was struggling to focus with the new tension between them. “You can hang on the couch..or in the kitchen...I’ll be right back.” Hailey stammered the words out before turning to dart up the stairs. He risked a glance at her retreating figure and the sight of her toned behind did nothing to help his case. With another sigh, he rubbed his face and walked towards her kitchen. He sat down on her bar stool, taking in the space around him. He had been here many times before, but this was the first time he really took it in, trying to distract himself from the other thoughts floating around his head. The room was neat and tidy, save for a few empty beer bottles perched by her sink. The decor was light and simple, a contrast to her as a person, anything but simple. He jumped slightly when he heard her jogging back down the stairs and joining him in the kitchen. Now she stood before him, wearing her usual jeans and a cream colored sweater, her wet hair draping around her face and he found himself swallowing hard again. If she noticed his look this time, she chose to ignore it, instead walked around him to head towards her coffee maker on the counter.

“Want a cup?” She asked, back turned to him as she pulled a travel mug out of the cupboard. He found himself lost for words as the smell of her shampoo assaulted his nose when she had walked by. He always knew she smelled good, but that was the first time he had caught a whiff fresh out of the shower. He shook his head briefly as his mind started to wander again. Blinking a few times he realized she had turned to face him, waiting for an answer.

“Hmm, uh...yea...sure...please.” He stammered out his words, giving her a sheepish grin. Get a grip Halstead, he thought to himself.

Somehow, he managed to make it through the last few minutes and they were finally in his truck. He filled her in on the little he knew of their case as they drove to the precinct and found himself happy for the distraction. He couldn’t get the smell of her shampoo out of his mind, so it was either new or he just hadn’t been paying attention previously. Either way, it was his new favorite scent. They joined the others in the bullpen, Hailey giving Vanessa a quick smile as they were the last ones to arrive, Jay watched as the two exchanged an odd look, almost like a silent conversation between the two women, but his attention was quickly pulled away by Kevin starting to go over the case.

“Alright so, V and I were called in by patrol this morning. They were sent to a house for possible shots fired. When they made entry, they found mom and two kids shot dead. There’s a third kid, the youngest, who is in surgery at Med right now but it doesn’t look good. The husband/father is in the wind.” Kevin finished, pointing to a photo on the board showing a man in his thirties, dark hair cut close to his scalp and a scar on his left cheek.

“With all due respect, this sounds like a case for Homicide. Why’d we take it?” Hailey asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Because,” Voights gravelly voice came from his spot in his office doorway. “They were shot with a military grade assault rifle and the husband was dishonorably discharged six months ago.”

“Neighbors told patrol the couple was always fighting and he has PTSD from his time in.” Adam piped up from his desk where he was going through the traffic cameras from that area. Jay clenched his jaw then, fighting back his own military memories and his struggle with PTSD. He noticed Voight eyeing him from across the room, but diverted his eyes to find Hailey’s. Not surprisingly, she took was assessing the shift in his mood, knowing almost the full extent of what he had gone through.

“So right now, husband is our number one suspect. And we have no idea where he is.” Kim said, filling the sudden awkward silence.

“We’ll head to Med, see if we can get an update on the boy. Keep us posted.” Hailey stood from her desk and headed down the stairs, Jay close behind. Once settled in his truck, she turned to face him, her eyes trying to meet his while he actively tried to ignore her.

“Jay? You good?” Hailey pushed and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get away from this.

“Yea, I’m okay Hailey.” Jay started the truck and sped them out of the lot.

“You’re lying.” It wasn’t a question, but a firm statement.

“No, I....look a few years ago this case would have really got to me. And it definitely crossed my mind up there. But I’m good, promise.” Jay turned to give her a reassuring smile and he could tell it calmed her nerves. He wasn’t lying either and was finding himself all the more grateful that she had pushed him into therapy all those years ago.

At the hospital, they met with Will, who also eyed Jay at the mention of the ex-military husband. He told them the boy was out of surgery but that he was still in critical condition and it wasn’t looking promising. It would be a few hours before they would be able to talk to him, if he even woke up. Next, they decided to head back to the house and see if they could dig up anything that had been missed earlier. As they entered the home, patrol still perched outside, they slowly walked around the living room. Hailey picked up a picture frame, showcasing the supposedly happy family. Mom, dad, two sons and a daughter. Hailey couldn’t help but see her own family in the picture and wondered what was really going on behind their closed doors.

“Hey check this out.” Jay’s voice drew her back to the present, she set the frame down before making her way over to him. He pointed at the wall which appeared to have been recently patched, one spots paint not matching the surrounding area. “What do you think happened here?”

“Someone punched a wall.” Hailey shrugged, trying to shake off childhood memories.

“Yea?” Jay asked, puzzled by her confident answer.

“Perfect circle, this was a fist meeting drywall.” Hailey’s eyes were dark and he could tell she was somewhere far away. He debated questioning her on it, but decided it would be better to let it go for now. They searched the rest of the house but it came up clean, nothing indicating what might have caused the husband to attack or leave the family as a target for an outside attack. They walked back to the truck, feet dragging slightly at their empty-handedness from the house, when Jay’s phone rang.

“Hey Will, what’s up?” He shot Hailey a look and picked up his pace towards the truck. She got the hint and jogged right behind him. “Okay, we’ll be right there.” Jay hung up the phone as he climbed into the drivers seat.

Once at Med, the duo quickly made their way to the nurses station, meeting Will for another update. He informed them that the boy, Jackson, was awake but still pretty out of it. He warned them not to push the boy and that they needed to be quick, they both gave Will an understanding nod before heading towards the room. Hailey swallowed hard at the sight of the small body laying in the hospital bed, tubes coming from every direction and beeping machines all around. Her eyes met his and she could see the terror within. Hailey walked over to the bedside, pulling up the chair and giving the boy a warm smile. Jay leaned back against the counter and let her take point.

“Hey Jackson, my name is Hailey and this in my partner Jay.” She nodded in Jay’s direction and he gave the boy a small smile. “Do you mind if we ask you some questions?”

“Who are you?” His impossibly small voice asked, glancing between the two.

“We’re police officers and we just want to talk to you about what happened.” Hailey was trying to tread carefully and not upset the boy. She knew from his file that he was only seven so she wanted to keep this conversation as light as possible.

“Mommy’s dead.” His stated, brow furrowing. His blunt statement threw Hailey for a loop and she fought to quickly recover.

“Yes.” She nodded, somewhat unsure of whether that was a question or not.

“And my brother and sister.” The boy’s face remained eerily calm while he talked.

“Yes.” Hailey nodded again, wanting to see where he would go with this.

“Daddy’s gone. He was angry.” Jackson met her eyes then and in them she saw herself, as a child, uttering the same words. Daddy’s angry. She felt her eyes burn and blinked quickly to fight back the tears threatening to form. Jay picked up on her shift in mood but remained behind her, letting this play out.

“Why was he angry?” Hailey asked softly, hating how thick her voice sounded right now.

“He’s always angry.” Jackson shrugged, sending another wave of emotion through Hailey.

“Do you know what happened to your mommy and your brother and sister?” Hailey pressed gently.

“Daddy was angry.” His eyes gazed into the distance and Hailey could tell he was shutting down, still she tried to gather some more information.

“Did your daddy hurt them, today?” Her words were a whisper.

“Yes.” Jackson still looked away from her, his face emotionless.

“How?” She wanted to ask for details, to ask if he had shot them, but she knew she couldn’t lead his answers and needed to get him to say it on his own.

“With his gun. And then he left. He was angry.” The boy shrugged again, as if this conversation was the simplest thing in the world and she wasn’t setting here discussing a triple homicide with a seven year old. She swallowed hard again, throat tight with emotion. She had gotten what she needed from him and now they knew the father was their main suspect, which they had figured all along.

“Okay Jackson, we’re going to let you get some sleep now. I’ll come back to visit you if you want.” Hailey stood then, glancing at Jay before giving the boy a warm smile. She turned and they started to make their way out of the room when his small voice sounded out once again.

“Are you going to kill my daddy?” His question froze both of them in their tracks, neither sure how to answer him. Before either could verbalize a response, Jackson continued. “Because you can, he’s a bad man.” Hailey choked back tears and forced a smile on her face before turning to look at him. She wanted to say something to him, to say she knew how he felt, to explain that she had wished someone would hurt her father too and take away her pain. But this wasn’t the time or place for that, so instead she gave him a nod and left the room, Jay hot on her heals. Hailey didn’t stop her brisk walk until they were back at the truck. They climbed in, Jay’s eyes never leaving her face and he assessed where she was at mentally right now. He knew bits and pieces of her past and realized that this case would certainly be bringing some of those memories back to the forefront for her. He was trying to decide how to proceed when she beat him to it.

“I’m fine Jay.” Her words were cool, lacking emotion. He could tell she didn’t want to go there right now and he respected that, hoping they could talk it out later.

“Okay, we’ll head back and see what everyone else has.” He started the truck up and they headed towards the 21st.

Back at the precinct, the mood was somber while everyone sat around feeling somewhat defeated at their lack of leads on this case. Jay had gone over what Jackson had confessed, Adam had given some information on where the father might be hiding, but so far all the options had turned up dry. Kevin and Vanessa were still scouring over traffic camera’s when suddenly she stood from her desk, sending her chair flying backwards.

“I got him!” She exclaimed, pointing excitedly towards her screen. They gathered around her quickly, Voight radioed for patrol to follow him and they scrambled to get geared up and into their vehicles. Luckily, their suspect had decided to spot for something to eat and was still parked outside the small diner just outside the city when they arrived. The team had convened a few blocks away so they could set up the plan, Voight barking out orders and everyone hurrying to get in place. They would wait for him to come out of the diner, not wanting to start something inside with potential victims. Vanessa was sent to walk down the street, acting the part of a regular pedestrian so she could get a peak inside. She radioed that he was about to leave and continued walking around the corner so he wouldn’t be suspicious of her. They watched as he walked out, quickly closing their ranks to surround him, but his military training kicked in and he saw them coming. The man spun around quickly, taking in their approach from all angles as each member marched closer, guns drawn. Jay took the lead, hoping he’d be able to connect with him due to their similar history.

“Hey man, put your hands up. We’re not here to hurt you. We just want to help.” Jay’s voice was loud but had a calm tone to it as he stepped forward.

“That’s what they all say!” The man bellowed, his head twisting frantically as they continued to close in.

“You’re ex-military right? Me too.” Jay stretched both his arms up, gun still in hand but now pointing skyward. “We can talk this through, I can help you.”

“Help me?” The man laughed frantically. “You don’t know what I’ve done.” His voice broke then, his first real show of emotion.

“Yes, I do.” Jay remained calm and collected despite the heated situation.

“They’re gone! All of them! Because of me!” He yelled out, face reddened and eyes watering.

“Not all of them. Jackson is alive, he’s at Med. I can take you there.” The lie fell from Jay’s lips effortlessly. He had no intention of taking this man anywhere near his son but if it would help diffuse the situation he would use it. At Jay’s words though, the man spun to face him, suddenly drawing his own gun and aiming it towards Jay.

“Don’t lie to me!” He bellowed, taking a step towards Jay. Jay knew what he should do, the man could shoot him at any second and he needed to take him out. But he hesitated, thinking of his own PTSD and the time he had pointed a gun at Hailey, not recognizing her in the heat of the moment. He didn’t want to take him out like this, the guy definitely deserved to pay for what he had done but Jay had a hard time pulling the trigger on a fellow military Vet.

“I’m not.” Jay stated, voice still calm. He could feel his team around him, all ready to take the shot and end this scenario. He was hoping it wouldn’t come to that, but he didn’t get the choice to continue talking him down as the man lurched forward towards Jay and in an instant, Jay leveled his gun and took the shot. He watched as the man dropped instantly and blood began to pool underneath him. Adam and Kevin ran over, kicking the gun out of his hand. He watched Kevin kneel down to check for a pulse but he didn’t need the confirmation. A shot to the center of his chest was fatal, almost instantly. Jay holstered his weapon and turned back to face Hailey, standing wide eyed and seemingly frozen in place behind him. He wasn’t sure what she was thinking or if she was even there with him right now, her face impossible to read. While the rest of his team got to work securing the scene, Jay made his way over to her.

“Hailey?” His voice soft, not wanting to spook her.

“He could have shot you.” Her voice trembled slightly and she blinked, bringing herself back into the moment.

“But he didn’t.” Jay stepped closer, placing his hands on her shoulders. This wasn’t what they did, physical contact. It was somehting new. But in this moment he felt it’s what was needed, what she needed, to feel him and know that he was unharmed. They stood like that for a moment, her eyes searching his face, before they both seemed to realize their close proximity. Jay lifted his hands at the same time she took a step back, both giving the other a sheepish grin.

“We should....go help them.” Hailey nodded towards their unit.

“Yea...” He agreed, rubbing his neck awkwardly.

They eventually cleared the scene, Jay spent over an hour talking to the IA officer who had come to investigate the shooting, but finally they were back at the precinct. Hailey was in front of her locker when Jay entered the locker room, she gave him a quick smile before finishing up what she was doing.

“So much for a day off.” She joked lightheartedly but Jay knew better. He knew that this case had affected them both, in different ways, thanks to their respective past lives. He knew this would be a case where they ended up doing ‘their thing’ and he found himself thankful he had her to talk it through with.

“So, my place or yours?” He asked, sitting to untie his work boots. She turned to give him a quizzical look. “Our thing that works, I definitely need it tonight and I’m pretty confident you do too.”

“Oh yeah?” She challenged his last statement with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah Hailey, I know enough now to know this got to you, at least a little bit.” She dipped her head then, unable to put up an argument because she knew he was right.

“I’ll get the beer if you’ll get the pizza?” She asked, biting her lower lip playfully and scrunching her forehead up in excitement over the thought of her favorite pizza place.

“Make it beer and tequila and we have a deal. I’ll even throw in some bread sticks.” He gave her a cheesy grin then, knowing she would be even more excited now.

“Jay Halstead, you spoil me.” She smiled at him genuinely and then shut her locker door. She gave him another look, he still sat perched on the bench working on a knot in his laces. “Chop chop! I’m hungry!” She teased before walking out of the locker room. Despite his hellish day, Jay couldn’t help the smile plastered to his face as he walked out of the precinct, calling in their pizza order.

#chicago pd #chicago pd fanfiction #halstead and upton #jay halstead #hailey upton #halstead #jay x hailey

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willmusweddings · 4 years ago

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Effective Advice About The Craft Of Taking Photographs!

Are you learning to embrace the art of photography? If you have browsed any photography sites, you probably know that there is a lot to learn. Photography has a personal element to it, so it may be unclear what you need to emphasize in your photography education to get the photos that you want. The tips in this article can shed some light on photography.

Be selective when taking your photos. Find exactly what you want in that photo, and remove anything else from the shot. If you're trying to take a picture of a flower, you don't want a bunch of other flowers or trees in the shot. Get as close and focused on the subject as possible to get the best possible photo.

Learn how to play with the shutter speed. You can choose to snap a quick picture or choose a slower exposure to capture a flow or movement in its entirety. You will need to experiment with this and find what kind of speed matches certain situations. This is a matter of personal style rather than a general guideline to follow.

If you want to take high-quality portraits, do not rely on your camera's built-in flash. Instead, you want to look at investing in a softbox to use for external lighting. If you can't afford this, look into purchasing an external flash unit with a diffuser for your camera.

San Diego Wedding Photographer tip is always to trust your instincts. If you suddenly have the urge to get a shot at something, go for it! Don't let doubt get in your way. You might look back at your work and decide that the spontaneous shot you took represents you.

When photographing your subject, try to get as close as you can. There isn't anything worse than a photo where you cannot see any of the details of your subject. So, to avoid a subject with a lack of details, make sure everything is visible.

Do not forget to take pictures of yourself. You can still compose the background and choose how you want to use light and colors. Give instructions to a friend and look at the preview before you go pause. These pictures will be nice memories when you look back at them.

When working around moving a lot or are totally in action, you need to focus on capturing the moments by keeping your trigger down. These kinds of moments can not be recreated, and there are no do-overs. Keep your eye on the areas at all times and keep shooting.

A great photography tip is to stop using flash. A lot of people use flash whenever they take pictures because they don't know any better. Flash flattens everything out, creating an undesirable and artificial photograph. Instead, try to stick to more natural lighting when shooting your subjects.

Get closer when you are taking photos, especially when you are taking a series of shots, from which you will choose the best, get in there. The better your scene fills the frame, the better the overall picture will be. Take several shots, so you can get the nicest shot possible.

A great San Diego Wedding Photographer tip is to try out different lenses. A cool lens you can try is the fisheye lens. With the fisheye lens, you end up with a lot of neat distortion around the center of the image. It can make your photographs much more interesting.

Don't just rely on straight-on flash from your camera for your shots. That only guarantees a burst of frontal lighting. Get a little more creative and try to create soft lighting conditions. How do you do that with flash, you ask? You can do that by bouncing your flash off of a wall or ceiling.

When trying your knack at photography, you have many different techniques to help improve your shots. Photographers have so many techniques at their disposal that they need to personalize their style to excel at their craft. The advice above was meant to give you a few techniques and tips to help you develop a few building blocks in your quest to take better photos.

#san diego weddings #SAN DIEGO planer #SAN DIEGO WEDDINGS photographic

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fourteenaway · 4 years ago

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Little Lion Man | The Story of Cary / Part III

tw: rape, infidelity, pregnancy, stepcest

Exactly at seven-thirty that night, the door chimes sounded, punched by an impatient finger, forcing Caren to hurry lest the man waken Cary who hadn't liked being put to bed at such an early hour.

If she had taken pains to look her best, so had Harry. He strode in as if he already owned the place and her. He left behind a drift of shaving lotion with a piney forest scent, and every hair on his head was carefully in place, making her wonder if he had a thinning spot. She figured she’d find out for herself sooner or later.

She took his coat and hung it in the hall closet, then sashayed over to the bar where she busied herself as he sat down before the log fire she had burning nothing had been overlooked; She even had soft music playing.

By this time Caren knew enough about men and the ways of pleasing them best. There wasn't a man alive who wasn't charmed by a lovely woman bustling about, eager to wait on him, pamper and wine and dine him, if you asked her.

“Name your weakness, Harry."

"Scotch."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat."

He watched her every movement, which was deliberately graceful and deft. Then, turning her back she mixed a fruity drink for myself, lacing it lightly with vodka. And with her two little stemmed goblets on a silver tray, Caren seductively ambled his way, leaning to give him an enticing view of her braless bosom. She sat across from him and swung one leg over the other to allow the long slit of her rose-colored dress to open and expose one leg from silver sandal midway to the hip. He couldn't take his eyes off it.

"Sorry about the glasses,” Caren said smoothly, well pleased with his expression, "I don't have room in this cottage to unpack everything I own. Most of my crystal is in storage and I have here only wine glasses and water goblets."

"Scotch is scotch no matter how it's served. And what in the world is that thing you're sipping?" By this time he'd shifted his gaze to the low V of her gown.

"Well, you take orange juice freshly squeezed, a dab of lemon juice a dash of vodka, bit of coconut oil, and drop in a cherry to dive after. I call it A Maiden's Delight."

After a few minutes of conversation, they drifted to the dining table, not so far from the fireplace, to eat by candlelight. Every so often he'd drop his fork, or spoon, or she would, and both of them would go for it, then laugh to see who was fastest. Caren was, every time. He was much too distracted to spot a missing fork or spoon when a neckline opened up so obligingly.

"This is delicious chicken," he said after demolishing five hours of hard labor in about ten minutes. "Usually I don't like chicken-where'd you learn to prepare this dish?"

Caren told him the truth, “A Russian dancer taught me, she was on tour over here, and we liked each other. She and her husband stayed with Leeland and me, and we'd cook together whenever we weren't dancing or shopping or touring. It took four chickens to feed four people. Now you know the nasty truth about dancers; when it comes to eating we are not in the least dainty. That is, after a performance. Before we go on we have to eat very lightly."

He smiled and leaned across the small drop-leaf table. Candlelight was in his eyes, sparkling them devilishly.

"Caren, tell me honestly why you came to live in this hick town and why you've got your heart set on me for a lover."

"You flatter yourself," Caren said in her most aloof manner, thinking she was very successful in appearing cool on the outside while inside she was a web of conflicting emotions. It was almost as if she had stage fright and was in the wings waiting to go on. And this was the most important performance of her life. Then almost magically she felt she was on stage. She didn't have to think of how to act or what to say to charm him and make him forever hers. The script had been written a long time ago when she was hidden and first found out her mother had married him.

"You're not being honest with yourself," Harry said softly, "You know better than anyone where that missing piece is, or I wouldn't be here."

His voice was so low and seductive as he stood and took her into his arms to dance.

Caren put her head on his shoulder as they went on dancing, "You're wrong, Harry, I don't know why you're here. I don't know how to fill my days. When I'm teaching class and when I'm with my son, then I'm alive-but when he's in bed and I'm alone, I don't know what to do with myself. I know Cary needs a father, and when I think of his father I realize I've always managed to do the wrong thing. I've read my reviews that rave about the potential I had... but in my personal life I've made only mistakes, so what I accomplished professionally doesn't matter at all."

Caren stopped moving her feet and sniffled, then tried to hide her face, but he tilted it upward, then dried my tears and held his handkerchief so she could blow her nose. Then came the silence. The long, long silence. Their eyes met and clung and her heart started a faster thumping.

"Your problems are all so simple, Caren," he began, "all you need is someone like me, who needs someone like you. If Cary needs a father, then I need a son. See how simply all complicated matters are solved?"

Too simply, she thought, when he had a wife and she was discerning and cynical enough to know he couldn't possibly care for her enough.

“You have a wife you love," Caren said bitterly.

Caren shoved him away. She didn't want to get him too easily, but only after long and difficult struggles against her mother, and she wasn't here to know.

"Men are liars too," he said flatly, with some of the zest gone from his eyes. "I have a wife and occasionally we sleep together, but the fire has gone out. I don't know her. I don't think anyone knows her. She's a bundle of secrets, wound up tight, and she won't let me inside. It's gone on so long I don't care to be let in now. She can keep her secrets and her tears, and eat her way out of her anxieties and whatever it is that makes her wake up in the night and go and look in that damned blue album! Now she's overweight and she's written she's just had plastic surgery, a face lift, and I won't know her when she comes back. As if I ever really knew her!"

Caren panicked inside, he had to care! How could she break up a marriage that was already coming apart? She needed to feel she'd accomplished this against overwhelming odds!

“Go home!" Caren said, pushing at him. "Get out of my house! I don't know you well enough to even listen to your problems, and I don't believe you. I don't trust you!"

He laughed, mocking her, aroused by her puny efforts to push him away. His libido was fired and it flamed in his eyes as he grabbed her upper arms and drew her hard against him.

“Now you come off it! Look at the way you're dressed. You had me come here for a reason. So here I am, ready to be seduced. You seduced me the first time I saw you, and for the life of me it seems I've known you much longer than I actually have. Nobody plays games with me, then calls it a draw. You win or I win, but if we go to bed together we might wake up in the morning and find out we've both won."

Red lights flashed, Stop! Resist! Fight! Caren did none of those things. Caren beat on his chest with ineffectual small fists as he laughed and picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.

With one hand he gripped both of her legs to keep them from kicking, and with the other he turned out the lamps. In the dark, with her still beating on his back, he carried her into her bedroom and threw her down on the comforter. She scrambled to get up, but he came at her fast!

There wasn't a chance to use the knee she had ready. He sensed her dancer's ability could defeat him so he lunged, caught her about the waist so they both tumbled to the floor! Caren opened her mouth to scream, but he clamped his hand upon her open lips, then pinioned her arms with his iron strength and sat on the legs that tried to kick herself free.

“Caren, my lovely seductress, you went to such a lot of trouble. You seduced me long ago, ballerina. Until the week before Christmas you are mine, and then my wife will be home-and I won't need you."

His hand eased away from her lips and she thought she would scream, but instead she bit out, “At least I didn't have to buy you with my father's millions!"

That did it. He crushed his lips brutally hard down on hers before she realized what was happening. This wasn't the way she wanted it! Caren wanted to tempt him, set him on fire, make him chase her, and give in only after a long and arduous pursuit that her mother could watch and suffer through, knowing she could do nothing or she'd talk. And yet he was taking her heartlessly, more ruthless than Leeland at his worst!

Savagely he bore down on her. He squirmed and writhed to grind in, even as his hands ripped and tore off her clinging rose dress. All she had on then was pantyhose, and soon he had those pulled down so her silver slippers came off and stayed inside of them.

With his lips still crushed brutally hard on hers, he carried her resisting hand to his zipper and squeezed until her knuckles cracked. It was either tug it down or have her fingers broken! How he managed to wiggle out of his clothes, even as he held her naked beneath him, she’d never know.

When he was naked, but for his socks, she kept on wiggling, writhing, squirming, butting and trying to scratch or bite while he kissed, fondled and explored. Caren had her chance to scream several times—but she too was breathing fast and hard, and jerking upward to force him off. But he took this as a welcoming arch of invitation. He entered, and had his too quick satisfaction, then pulled out before she had any.

"Get out of here." Caren screamed. “I'm calling the police! I'll have you thrown in jail, charged with assault and rape!"

He laughed scornfully, chucked her under the chin playfully, then stood up to pull on his clothes.

“Oh," he said, mocking her with an imitation of her own voice, “I am so frightened.” Then his voice was deeply earnest.“You aren't happy, are you? It didn't work out the way you planned it, but don't you worry, tomorrow night I'll be back, and maybe then you can please me enough, so I'll feel like taking the time to please you."

"I've got a gun!" She declared thought she didn't, “And if you dare set foot in this house again you're a dead man! Not that you are a man. You are more brute than human!"

“My wife often says the same thing," he said casually, zipping up his trousers shamelessly, without the decency to even turn his back. “But she likes it just the same, just as you did. Beef Wellington, you can have that tomorrow night, plus a tossed salad and a chocolate mousse for dessert. If you make me fat, we can burn off the calories in the most pleasant way possible,and I don't mean jogging."

He grinned, saluted her, put one foot behind the other to turn in a smartly, military fashion, then paused at the doorway as Caren sat up and clutched the remnants of her gown to her breasts.

“Same time tomorrow night, and I'll stay the night-that is, if you treat me right."

He left, and slammed the front door behind him.

Caren began to cry, not from pity for herself. It was frustration so huge she could have torn him limb from limb!

She’d lace the beef wellington with arsenic.

A small timid sound came from outside her door then.

“Mommy... I'm scared. Are you cryin', Mommy?" Came Cary’s soft voice.

Hastily she pulled on a robe and called him in, then held him close in her arms. “Darling, darling, Mommy is all right. You had a bad dream. Mommy isn't crying... see?"

Cary peered into her face worriedly, he heard too much, not that he understood it all. Cowering in his bed scared, before he finally got up and got to his mother’s door.

Caren brushed away the tears, for she'd get even.

Three dozen red roses arrived while Cary and she were eating breakfast, he long-stemmed variety from the florist.

A small white card read: I'm sending you a big bouquet of roses, One for every night you'll have my heart.

No name. And what the devil was she supposed to do with three dozen roses in a matchbox house? She couldn't send them to a children's ward; the hospital was miles and miles away.

Cary decided what to do with them, "Oh, Mommy, how pretty! Uncle William's roses!"

For Cary she kept the roses instead of throwing them out, and in many vases she scattered them throughout the house.

He was delighted, and when she took him with her to dancing school he told all the students, roses were all over his home-even in the bathroom.

After lunch Caren drove Cary to the nursery school he so loved. It was a Montessori school that was inspiring him to want to learn by appealing to his senses.

Already he could print his name, and he was only three! He was like Daniel, Caren told herself, brilliant, handsome, talented, oh, her Cary had everything—but a father.

From his bright blue eyes shone the quick intelligence of someone who would have a lifetime curiosity about everything.

“Cary, I love you."

"I know that, Mommy. I love you too," he said before he waved good-bye as she drove off.

Caren was there to meet him when he came from his school, his small face flushed and troubled.

"Mommy," he said as soon as he was beside her in the car, "Victor Harding, he said his mommy slapped him when he touched her there."

And he shyly pointed at her breast, “You don't slap me when I touch you there,” Cary whispered.

"But you don't touch me there, not since you were a little baby and Mommy nursed you for a short while."

"Did you slap me then?" He asked, looking so worried.

"No, of course not. Babies are meant to suckle their mother's breasts, and I would never slap you for touching there, so if you want to try me, go ahead and touch,” Caren said.

Cary lifted his small hand and reached out tentatively while he watched his mother’s face to see if she'd be shocked.

Oh, how fast the young learned all the taboos, Caren thought.

And when he'd touched and God's lightning hadn't struck him down, he smiled, very relieved.

"Oh, it's just a soft place," he laughed at the pleasant discovery he made before he threw his arms his mothers neck, “I love you, Mommy. Cause you love me even when I'm bad."

"I'll always love you, Cary. And if you're bad sometimes, I'll try and understand."

Yes, she was not going to be like her mother. She was going to be the perfect mother, and someday he'd have a father too.

How was it that little children, such young ones, would already be talking of sin and being slapped for only touching?

Caren stopped to buy stamps before she reached home, and left Cary dozing on the front seat.

Harry was in the post office, which was no larger than her living room, buying stamps too.

Charmingly he smiled at her, as if nothing untoward had happened between them the night before.

He even had the nerve to follow her to her car so he could ask how she liked the roses.

"Not your kind of roses," she snapped, then got primly into her car and slammed the door in his face. She left him staring after her without a smile-in fact, he looked rather miserable.

At five-thirty a special-delivery man brought a small package to her front door. It was certified so she had to sign for it. Inside a larger box was another box, and inside of that was a velvet jewelry case which she quickly opened while Cary watched, all eyes. On black velvet lay a single rose composed of many diamonds. Also a card with a note that read, ‘Perhaps this kind of rose is more to your liking.’ She put the thing away as a trifle bought with her mother’s money, so it wasn't really from him, no more than the real roses.

He had the nerve to come that night at seven-thirty just as he'd said he would. Nevertheless, she readily let him in, then led him silently to the dining table with no to do about cocktails or other niceties. The table was set even more elaborately than the night before. She'd hauled out some boxes and done some unpacking, and on the table were her best lace mats and covered silver serving dishes.

Neither of them had as yet spoken. All his forgive-me roses she'd gathered together and they were in the box near his plate. On his empty plate was the jeweler's velvet container with the diamond rose brooch inside. She sat to watch his expression as he put the jewelry box aside casually, and just as casually moved the flower box out of his way.

He reached for the domed silver lid, ostensibly hiding the Beef Wellington underneath. His gaze lowered to stare at the huge platter that held one hot dog and a small dab of cold canned beans.

The disbelief in his eyes, his utter offended shock gave her so much satisfaction she almost liked him.

"You are now gazing upon Cary's favorite menu," she said, gloating. “It is exactly what he and I ate tonight for dinner, and since it was good enough for us, I thought it was good enough for you, so I saved some. Since I've already eaten, all of that is yours alone, and you may help yourself."

Scowling, he flashed her a burning, hard look, then savagely bit down into the hot dog which she’d sure had grown cold as the beans. But he gobbled down everything and drank his glass of milk, and for dessert she handed him a box of animal crackers.

First he stared at the box in another expression of dumbfounded amazement, then ripped it open, seized up a lion and snapped off the head in one bite.

"I take it you are one of those despicable liberated women who refuses to do anything to please a man!"

"Wrong. I am liberated only with some men. Others I can worship, adore and wait on happily.”

"You made me do what I did!” he objected strongly. “Do you think I planned it that way? I wanted us to find our relationship on an equal basis. Why did you wear that kind of dress?"

"It's the kind all chauvinist men prefer!"

"I am not a chauvinist, and I hate that kind of dress!"

"You like what I've got on better?” Caren sat up straighter to give him a better view of the old nappy sweater she had on. With it she wore faded blue jeans, with dirty sneakers on her feet, and her hair was skinned back and fastened in a granny's knot. Deliberately she'd pulled long strands free so they hung loose about her face, slovenly fringes to make her look more appealing. And no makeup prettied her face.

He was dressed to kill.

"At least you look honest and ready to let me do the pursuing. If there is one thing I despise, it's women who come on strong, like you did last night. I expected better from you than that kind of sleazy dress that showed everything to take the thrill from discovering for myself.”

He knitted his brows and mumbled, “From a damned harlot's red dress to blue jeans. In the course of one day, she changes into a teenybopper."

"It was rose-colored, not red! And besides, Harry, strong men like you always adore weak and passive stupid women, because basically you're meek yourself and afraid of an aggressive woman!"

"I am not weak or meek or anything but a man who likes to feel a man, not to be used for your own purposes. And as for passive women I despise them as much as I do aggressive ones. I just don't like the feeling of being the victim of a huntress leading me into a trap. What the hell are you trying to do to me? Why dislike me so much? I sent you rose and diamonds, and you can't even comb your hair and take the shine from your nose."

"You are looking at the natural me, and now that you've seen, you can leave."

Caren got up and walked to the front door and swung it open. “We are wrong for each other. Go back to your wife. She can have you, for I don't want you."

He came quickly, as if to obey, then seized her in his arms and kicked the door closed. “I love you, God knows why I do, but it seems I've always loved you."

Caren stared up in his face, disbelieving him, even as he took the pins from her hair and let it spill down. Out of long habit she tossed it about so it fluffed out and arranged itself, and smiling a little he tilted her face to his.

“May I kiss your natural lips? They are very beautiful lips."

Without waiting for permission he brushed his lips gently over hers.

Why didn't all men know that was the right way to start? She wondered. What woman wanted to be eaten alive, choked by a thrusting tongue? Not her, she wanted to be played like a violin, strummed pianissimo, in largo timing, fingered into legato, and let it grow into crescendo.

Deliciously she wanted to head toward the ecstatic heights that could only happen for her when the right words were spoken and the right kind of kisses, given before his hands came into play.

If he'd done for her only a little last night, this night he used all the skills he had. This time he took her to the stars where they both exploded, still holding tight to each other, and doomed to do it again, and then again.

He was hairy all over. Leeland had been hairless but for one thatch that grew in a thin line up to his navel.

She turned off her mind, and gave in to her senses and to this man who was now treating her like a lover.

But he didn't love her, she knew that. Harry was using her as a substitute for his wife, and when she came back she'd never see him again. She knew it, but still she took and she gave until they fell asleep in each other's arms.

When she slept, she dreamed. Leeland was in the silver music box her father had given her when she was six. Round and round he spun, his face ever turning toward her, accusing her with his jet eyes, and then he grew a mustache and was William, who only looked sad.

She ran fast to set him free from death in a music box when it turned into a coffin-and then it was Daniel inside, his eyes closed, his hands folded one over the other on his chest. Dead, dead.

‘DANIEL’, she shouted.

She awoke to find Harry gone and her pillow wet with tears.

Why did her mother start this, perhaps had she not, maybe she would have found Daniel right away, and before anyone else. She would have fallen in love with him with no revenge to carry out or repayments to deliver. But then she wouldn’t have Cary. But perhaps she still would have found Leeland and maybe he would have been what she wanted had she not had so many other priorities and he would have been good to her too.

Holding tight to her son's small hand she led him out into the cold morning air on her way to work.

Faint and far away she heard someone calling her name, and with it came the scent of an ocean breeze.

‘Why don't you come, Daniel, and save me from myself? Why only call in your thoughts?’ She thought.

Part one was done. Part two would begin when her mother knew she had Harry's child.

Harry and her didn't have to sneak around furtively to meet.

The houses where he lived were far apart and no one could see them when he came to her through the back door that opened out into a yard with a fence. In back of that was a country lane, shrubbed, and made private by many trees. Sometimes they met in a distant town and their lovemaking in a motel room was wild, sweet, tender, erotic and altogether satisfying, and yet she froze when he told her at lunch, “She called this morning, Caren. She'll be home before Christmas."

"That's nice," Caren said and went right on eating her salad and anticipating the Beef Wellington that would show up soon.

He frowned and his fork loaded with salad hesitated on the way to his mouth. “It means we won't be able to see as much of each other. Aren't you sorry?"

"We'll find ways."

"If you aren't the damndest woman!"

"Don't get so worked up over nothing. All women are monsters to men, and maybe to ourselves. We are our own worst enemies. You don't have to divorce her and give up your chance to inherit her fortune. Though she could outlive you and have the chance to buy another younger husband."

"Sometimes you are just as bitchy as she is! She did not buy me! I loved her! She loved me! I was crazy about her, as crazy for her as I am for you now. But she changed. When I met her she was sweet, charming, everything I wanted in a woman and wife, but she changed."

He stabbed the salad fork toward his mouth and chewed viciously, “She's always been a mystery-like you."

“Harry, my love," she said, “very soon all mystery walls will crumble."

He went on, as if she hadn't interrupted, “That father of hers, he too was a mystery; you'd look at him and see a fine old gentleman, but underneath was a heart of steel. I thought I was his only attorney, but he had six others, each of us assigned to different tasks. Mine was to make out his wills. He changed them dozens of times, putting this family member in, and writing another out, and adding codicils like a mad man, though he was sane enough right up until the very end. The last codicil was the worst."

Of course, no children for him, ever, she knew.

"Then you really were a practicing lawyer?" Caren asked.

He smiled bitterly, then answered, “Of course I was. And now I am again. A man needs something meaningful to do. How many times can anyone tour Europe before boredom sets in? You see the same old faces, doing the same old things, laughing at the same jokes. The Beautiful People what a laugh! Too much money buys everything but health, so they have no dreams left to purchase, and no aspirations, so in the end they are only bored."

"Why don't you divorce her and do something meaningful with your life?"

"She loves me.” That's the way he said it. Short. Sweet. He stayed because she loved him, forcing Caren to say, "You told me when we first met that you loved her, and then you say you don't which is it?"

He thought about it for a long time.

"Honestly, ballerina, I'm ambivalent and resentful. I love her, I hate her. I thought she was what you seem to be now. So please, smother that bitchy side that reminds me of her and don't try and do to me what she did. You are putting a wall between us because you know something I don't. I don't fall in love easily, and I wish I didn't love you."

He seemed suddenly a small boy, wistful, as if his pet dog might betray him and life would never be good again.

Caren was touched and dared to say, “Harry, I swear there will come a day when you know all my secrets and all of hers, but until that time comes say you love me, even if you don't mean it, for I can't enjoy being with you if I don't feel you love me just a little."

"A little? It seems I've loved you all my life. Even when I kissed you the first time it seemed I'd kissed you before, why is that?"

“Karma," she replied and smiled at his baffled expression.

Harry spent more time at her small home than at his huge one. He piled her with as many gifts, as he did Cary.

He ate his breakfast, lunch and dinner with them on the days he didn't spend in his office, which she privately believed was more a facade for appearing useful than a functioning law office.

Her dancing school suffered from his attention, but it didn't matter. She was now a kept woman. Paid to be his mistress.

And Cary was delighted with the little leather boots Harry gave him.

“Are you my daddy?" asked Cary, who would be four in February, "No. but I sure wish I was and I could be,” Harry answered.

It was only second before Cary was out in the yard, tromping around and staring down at his feet that fascinated him now that they wore cowboy boots.

Caren and Harry lay entwined after their lovemaking, listening to the wind blending with Cary's shrill laughter, racing after the poodle, Rainbow, that Harry had given him.

A few snow flurries were beginning to fall. She knew she had to get up soon so Cary wouldn't run in and catch them, just to tell them it was snowing.

He couldn't remember other snows, and barely would the ground be sugar-coated than he'd want to make a snowman. Sighing first, she kissed Harry, then reluctantly pulled from his embrace. She turned her back to pull on bikini panties as he propped up on an elbow and watched.

"You've got a lovely behind," he said. She said thanks, "What about my front?" He said it wasn't bad and she threw a shoe at him.

"Caren, why don't you say you love me?"

Caren whirled about, startled. "Have you ever said it to me and meant it?" She asked as she snapped on a bra.

"How do you know I don't mean it?" he asked with anger.

"Let me tell you how I know. When you love, you want that person with you all of the time. When you avoid the subject of divorce, that alone is an indication of how much you care for me and just where I belong in your life."

“Caren, you've been hurt, haven't you? I don't want to hurt you more. You play games with me. I've always known that. What does it matter if it is only sex and not love? And tell me how to know where one ends and the other begins?"

His teasing words were a knife in her heart, for somehow, without meaning to let it happen, she'd fallen madly, idiotically in love with him.

According to Harry's enthusiastic report, his long gone wife came home from her rejuvenation trip looking smashingly young and beautiful.

“She's lost twenty pounds. I swear, that face lift has done wonders! She looks sensational, and damn it, so unbelievably like you!"

It was easy to see how impressed he was with his new, younger-looking wife, and if he was only trying to take the wind from her too confident sails, Caren didn't let it show.

Then he was telling her she was just as necessary to him as before in a tone that said she was not.

“Caren, while she was in Texas she changed. She's like she used to be, the sweet, loving woman I married."

Men! How gullible they were! Of course her mother was sweeter and nicer to him now that she knew he had a mistress who was very accessible, and that the other woman was her own daughter. She'd have to know, for it was whispered all about how much Harry’s mistress looked like a younger version of his wife.

"So, why are you here with me when your wife is back and so like me? Why don't you put your clothes on and say goodbye and never come back? Say it was sweet while it lasted, but it's all over now, and I'll say thank you for a wonderful time before I kiss you farewell."

"Well," he drawled, pulling her hard against his naked body, “I didn't say she was that sensational looking. And then again, there is something special about you. I can't name it. I can't understand it. But I don't know if I can live without you now."

He said it seriously, truth in his dark eyes.

So she'd won.

Quite by accident her mother and her met in the post office one day. She saw her and shivered. Her lovely head lifted higher as she turned it slightly away, pretending she didn't know her.

She would deny her as she'd denied Cassidy, even though it was so obvious that they were mother and daughter and not strangers.

But Caren wasn't Cassidy. So she treated her as she treated her, indifferently, as if she were nobody special and never would be again.

Yet, as she waited impatiently for her roll of stamps, she saw her mother dart her eyes to follow the restless prowl of her young son who had to stare at everything and everyone.

He was a handsome, graceful, and charming boy who drew the eyes of everyone, who had to stop and admire him and pat his head.

Cary moved with innate style, unstudied and relaxed, at ease wherever he was, because he thought the whole world was his, and he was loved by everyone.

He turned to catch her mother's long stare and he smiled.

"Hello," he greeted. “You're pretty-like my mommy,” he told her.

Oh, the things children say! What innocent knowledge they had to see so readily what others instinctively refused to acknowledge.

He stepped closer to reach out and tentatively touch her fur coat. “My mommy's got a fur coat. My mommy is a dancer. Do you dance?"

She sighed, and Caren held her breath and thought, ‘See, Momma, there is the grandson your arms will never hold. You'll never hear him say your name. Never!’

"No," she whispered, “I'm not a dancer,” and tears filmed her eyes.

"My mommy can teach you how,” Cary smiled.

"I'm too old to learn," she whispered, backing off.

"No, you're not," said Cary, reaching for her hand as if he'd show her the way, but she pulled back and glanced at Caren reddened, then fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief.

Cary frowned slightly and went on unperturbed, “Do you have a little boy I can play with?" He questioned concerned to see her tears, as if having a son would make up for not knowing how to dance.

"No," she said in a quivering weak whisper, “I don't have any children.”

That's when Caren moved in to say in a cold, harsh voice, "Some women don't deserve to have children."

She paid for her roll of stamps and dropped them in her purse, “Some women like you, Mrs. Walters, would rather have money than the bother of children who might get in the way of good times. Time itself will sooner or later let you know if you made the right decision."

She turned her back and shivered again as if all her furs couldn't keep her warm enough. Then she strode from the post office and headed toward a chauffeur-driven, black limousine.

Like a queen she rode off, head held high, leaving Cary to ask, “Mommy, why don't you like that pretty lady? I like her a lot. She's like you, only not so pretty."

Caren didn't comment, though it was on the tip of her tongue to say something so ugly he would never forget it.

In the twilight of that evening Caren sat near the windows, staring toward her mothers house and wondering what Harry and her mother were doing. Her hands were on her abdomen which was still flat, but soon it would be swelling with the child that might be started.

One missed period didn't prove anything except she wanted Harry's baby, and little things made her feel sure there was a baby.

She let depression come and take her though. He wouldn't leave her and her money to marry her and she'd have another fatherless child.

What a fool to start all of this, but she'd always been a fool.

And then she saw a man slipping through the woods, coming to her, and she laughed, made confident again.

He loved her! He did and as soon as she knew for certain, she would tell him he was to be a father.

“Caren, you told me there was no need for precautions!"

"There was no need. I want your baby.”

"You want my baby? What the hell do you think I can do, marry you?"

"No. I did my own assuming. I presumed you'd have your fun with me and when it was over you'd go back to your wife and find yourself another playmate. And I'd have just what I set out to get, your baby. Now I can leave. So kiss me off, Harry, as just another of your little extramarital dalliances."

He looked furious. They were in my living room, while a fierce blizzard raged outside. Snow heaped in mounds window-high, and she was before the fireplace, knitting a baby bunting before she began a bootie. She was getting ready to slip a stitch then knit two together when Harry seized her knitting from my hands and hurled it away.

“It's unraveling!” Caren cried in dismay.

"What the hell are you trying to do to me, Caren? You know I can't marry you! I never lied and said I would. You're playing a game with me."

He choked and covered his face with his hands, then took them down and pleaded, "I love you. God help me but I do. I want you near me always, and I want my child too. What kind of game are you playing now?"

“Just a woman's game. The only game she can play and be sure of winning."

“Look," he said, trying to regain his control of the situation, “explain what you mean, don't double talk. Nothing has to change because my wife is back. You'll always have a place in my life/"

"In your life? Don't you mean more correctly, on the fringes of your life?"

For the first time she heard humility in his voice, "Caren, be reasonable. I love you, and I love my wife too. Sometimes I can't separate you from her. She came back different, as I told you, and now she is like she was when we first met. Maybe a more youthful figure and face has given her back some confidence she lost, and because of it she can be sweeter. Whatever the cause. I'm grateful. Even when I disliked her, I loved her. When she was hateful, I'd try and strike back by going to other women, but still I loved her. The one big issue we fight over is her unwillingness to have a child, even an adopted one. Of course she's too old to have one now. Please, Caren, stay! Don't leave! Don't take my child away so I will never know what happens to him, or to her...or to you."

Caren laid it out flat, “All right, I will stay on one condition. If you divorce her and marry me, only then will you have the child you always wanted. Otherwise, I'm taking myself, and that means your child too, far away. Maybe I'll write to let you know if you have a son or a daughter, and maybe I won't. Either way, once I leave, you are out of my life for good.”

Before the fireplace he stood with his arm up on the mantel, then he rested his forehead on that and stared down at the fire. His free hand was behind his back and clenched into a fist. His confused thoughts were so deep they reached out and touched Caren with pity. He turned then to face her, staring deep into her eyes.

“My God," he said, shocked by his discovery. "You planned this all along, didn't you? You came here to accomplish what you have, but why? Why should you choose me to hurt? What have I ever done to you, Caren, but love you? True, it started with sex, and sex only was what I wanted it to stay. But it has grown into something much more than that. I like being with you, just sitting and talking, or walking in the woods. I feel comfortable with you. I like the way you wait on me, and touch my cheek when you pass, and rumple my hair and kiss my neck, and the sweet, shy way you wake up and smile when you see me beside you. I like the clever games you play, keeping me always guessing, and always amused. I feel I have ten women in one, so now I feel I can't live without you. But I can't abandon my wife and marry you. She needs me!"

"You should have been an actor, Harry. Your words move me to tears."

"Damn you for taking this so lightly!” He bellowed. "You've got me on a rack and you're twisting the screws! Don't make me hate you and ruin the best months of my life!

With that he stormed out of her home, and she was left alone, ruefully regretting that she always talked too much, for she would stay as long as he needed her.

#i hope harry walters sr burns in a fire....oh wait...HHAHAHHAHAH #you should have been an actor harry - son is an actor #cary: musing #harry: musing #caren: musing #cary: story

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whispersafterdusk · 4 years ago

Text

Lost in Time - ch 14

It'd been four days since their tussle with the spy; they hadn't heard or seen any hint of them, and so far the only injury that had turned up at Xu's clinic had been a woman who had fallen on a bit of wood. Asher had gone into town long enough to get his broken tooth pulled (front right tooth on the top...he looked like a doofus when he smiled now) and had immediately returned to camp to hunker down and wait out the spy's next visit while the Civil Corps members had gone on a manhunt across the marsh and into the neighboring desert area.

So far, nothing.

They'd briefly discussed the suits again; Eli couldn't make up her mind on whether this Access suit thing was an original (less worrying) or if Duvos had figured out how to piece one together (really worrying). Asher shared her worries -- the thought of Duvos mass producing those things for their soldiers, even if they weren't working like they did in Eli's time, would still pose a huge problem if the continent ever went to war again. ((Continued below cut))

He did know she'd given up on the trail cameras for now but she was still working on something out in the tent; it used a lot of the same pieces that she'd set aside for the cameras but also several new, different ones that she'd sent Petra and Selene after. The centerpiece of these new additions was a detached screen that she'd marked out dimensions on - she was either cutting it down to size and needed the middle-most section or she was dividing it into a rectangle and eight smaller squares that were all roughly the same size. She hadn't done anything with the screen yet aside from measuring and marking out those squares but there were small piles of nigh identical looking chips, boards, and wires that were already assembled and sitting in a neat little line on the rubberized canvas under her cot that he assumed had to be put together first before the screens could be attached to them.

It had been a fascinating sight to watch her work with such tiny components; he hadn't had a chance yet to ask her what those things were (interrupting her while she was working on them seemed like a poor idea since it looked so...fragile, in a way) but he was looking forward to seeing the finished product, learning what the gadgets were for, and why she needed so many of them. It also piqued his curiosity about Old World tech in general; so much of it seemed purposely designed to work with pretty much anything else. Maybe Old World technology didn't so much depend on the parts as it did the programs to run it...which in turn made him wonder, assuming they ever got to a point where they knew how to read and create new programs, if all the old relics could be made to work again like they did back then rather than being pieced together with spotty knowledge and prayers.

Behind him Adam, Arlo, and Eli were all asleep inside the tent with the front flaps pulled closed to block out as much of the unusually plentiful sunlight as possible - there wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was considerably warmer today than it had been lately; he appreciated the warmth and imagined his sleeping companions probably did as well but found himself going back and forth on whether he was truly grateful for the "sunny" part of this sunny day. On the one hand, that suit made the spy near-invisible but not intangible so they should still cast a shadow so if the spy was dumb enough to try sneaking in close in broad daylight Asher was hopeful he would spot that before they got close enough to be a danger. On the other hand he doubted they would actually be that stupid. The constant prickle at the back of his neck - the feeling of being watched - wasn't a sensation Asher enjoyed, and it also wasn't something he was used to experiencing for such a prolonged period of time; he had no proof though that he WAS being watched, and that was probably bothering him more than the prickling was.

The grumpy sigh he huffed out whistled a bit as it exited through the gap his missing tooth had left behind; that annoyed him to no end too. Asher didn't consider himself an overly vain person but damn it he'd liked how he looked; it had taken a couple years to be at peace with the sunken in scar across his nose but at least that made him look...adventurous. Dashing. Daring. A missing tooth made him look like a drunkard, and it would be a long trip to Seesai to get a replacement that wouldn't prematurely discolor. Adam was right in that he could easily get a tooth closer to home but, again, discoloration was a problem -- whatever that woman in Seesai did to keep the false teeth from coloring was a closely guarded secret...no one knew what she did or what recipe she used, not even her family if they were to be believed.

He supposed it was a question of if he wanted to look stupid with his tooth gap or look stupid with a yellowed tooth in a few years. Neither thought was especially attractive and brought with it a sort of helpless frustration that, coupled with the prickling feeling of having eyes on him, made him want to get up and move around to burn off the pent up energy and emotion.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rustling grass; before he could truly react to the sound Eli came into view and he relaxed slightly.

"You're up - uh, early. Or however you want to consider it."

She shrugged as she sat down on one of the rocks ringing the firepit. "Eh, it happens. Sometimes you just don't sleep."

"Any new ideas?"

For a time she didn't respond; silently Asher surveyed their surroundings - everything still seemed to be as it ought to be. He still felt twitchy though...he was ready for action, or for anything that wasn't sitting here keeping watch. Maybe with Eli awake he could exercise or something.

"Not really," Eli finally responded. "I can think of twelve different ways to disable that suit but they all require tech that doesn't exist anymore. And it's not something I could put together from stuff that's left here."

Asher nodded, then glanced back toward the tent; when she'd come out she'd left the tent flaps open and he could barely detect movement inside -- Arlo shouldn't be up for awhile yet but it was looking like Adam was waking up. "So what's all that stuff you've been working on then?"

"Hi-Defs."

"I've no idea what those are."

"They're wrist-mounted computers. A lot of their functionality isn't going to work right in this day and age but back in mine they were onboard guidance systems with maps of all the regions, could make and receive calls, they kept track of addresses and your appointments and bank accounts and whatever else you wanted to track, they could project 3D images, take pictures... They could do a lot of things depending on the model you had."

He blinked at her; only half of that had sunk in as he'd gotten a bit hung up on the concept of a wrist-mounted computer. "Really? Why those then? If they're not going to work right, I mean. What will they even be able to do?"

"I want them mostly for communication and maps of this region. I'd need signal transmitters in some strategic areas but once I get it all tethered to the facility they should work. It's going to take a lot of footwork to get maps updated since it'll have to be manual scanning rather than satellite surveillance...or, hmm. Maybe some satellites survived." She paused for a moment, then shook her head. "Nah, shouldn't rely on that. Arlo mentioned there's a space station segment out in the wastes but even if there's enough left there to scavenge I doubt I could get a link going with anything that might be left up there, and even if I managed it I still wouldn't have a way to issue orders or anything like that." There was another pause and a sigh, and a wistful glance toward the sky before she returned her attention to him. "Mine will be the sort of central control for them all outside of whatever computer station I decide to run them off of. My aim is to give them to anyone involved with the security of this facility."

"Huh." Him with a high tech device...not something he'd considered before. The idea was...kind of exciting, to be honest. "So maps and talking to one another. Is that all we can hope for?"

"Communication and map display is, bare minimum, what I'm aiming for, with maybe a basic calendar and clock function. I'll have a look at what I can immediately do once I've server-flashed Pauline and get at least one transmitter up for testing."

"...and you've lost me. What's a server-flash?"

She laughed quietly. "-right. It's hard to determine what terms survived the years and what didn't - with Petra and Merlin it's at least a 50% shot that I don't have to define something for them. So! Server-flashing. I take the main operational files for an AI and do a sort of...quick copy of their foundation. Pauline's an AI but not a living AI so I don't need to worry about her personality or anything, just the uh...the semi-intelligent framework she runs on."

"Yeah, going to need that taken down a few degrees still. Pauline seems just as smart as Stewart but she doesn't have personality?"

"Nope. She's just a regular assistant AI -- a sort of input-output response machine with just enough programmed intelligence to appear sentient but she can't learn or grow as a...uh...well, not as a "person" exactly but she -- she won't ever change. She just is what she is. AIs like her you could make infinite copies of and they'll never, ever stop being identical copies unless something on the outside alters them. Stewart on the other hand, if I were to make a copy of him, that copy would develop its own personality if given enough time to learn and live and the same would happen with a regular living AI."

That...sort of made sense. At least, it was simple enough that he could grasp it without her needing to explain it more in-depth. "And you're going to use her to run the Hi-Defs."

"After some minor reprogramming yes."

He nodded slowly; having a little, easily accessed map right on his wrist would be neat, even if it was just of Portia. And if it worked well here maybe it could be expanded out into the other cities and nations too...and, oh man, would that make mapping the Peripheries way easier too if all they had to do was walk through it with the Hi-Def recording or whatever it did to create the maps -- suddenly he could think of all sorts of possibilities and perks to having one of the things. "What would be the range on these things? How would they figure out and store maps?"

"Range depends on what kind of signal strength I can get. Hi-Defs have their own localized signals so they'll all be able to 'talk' to one another within a certain range, and also interface with the signals coming from the transmitters at a much wider range. I'm pretty sure I'd only need sixteen or so at some key points to cover all of Portia and a bit of the outlying areas. As for updating or creating maps it'll have to be manual scanning -- someone is going to have to start from an already mapped point and then let the Hi-Def scan the territory as you travel through it. It'll take awhile but the program that runs a Hi-Def is robust enough to piece it all together without too much extra work needed. And they have their own onboard storage to hold it all."

"Neat...and amazing." As a more comfortable silence fell Asher tossed a few thick branches onto the fire and nudged them into place with a blackened, straight branch he'd purposely kept as a sort of log poker. If Adam was stirring too then he should probably get the fire's heat evened out so he could start cooking. "Did you end up camping a lot as a ranger?"

"Yeah. I went camping for fun too."

He carefully poked at the fire for a moment. "...do you miss doing that?"

There was a long pause before she answered. "I miss a lot of things."

Asher winced a bit. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked that."

She shook her head and flashed him a strained smile. "Nah, don't be afraid to ask things. The funny thing with pain is the more you experience it, the easier it is to tolerate."

"I don't think it works that way with this kind of...you know."

With a shrug she turned to pick up the cooking kit (which was in a large leather satchel that had seen better days) that was off to the side of the firepit. "Works well enough for now. I don't want you guys walking on eggshells around me, and I can't hide from it forever. Hell, I can't hide from it even if I wanted to."

Asher was quiet as she handed the satchel over; he pulled the kettle out and stood to go fill it from the water barrel they'd installed just inside the tent flaps, then came back and sat it among the coals to start boiling. A feeling of guilt had settled like a rock in his stomach -- that had been such a stupid thing to ask her. "If you ever want to...talk, or something. I'll listen."

The smile she gave him this time was less strained. "I know. It's appreciated."

As he bent to re-arrange a few half-burned logs she got up and walked out of his immediate line of sight; behind him somewhere he heard Adam's low voice and then the man's plodding footsteps as he came over and took Eli's place on the rock. Asher just managed to catch the sight of Eli disappearing into the tent as he glanced back but she quickly came back into view a moment later.

"I'll be back in a bit - I need to grab a few things from town." She had her pack slung over a shoulder but it hung limp and empty. "Don't bother cooking for me."

"All right. If you're sure," Asher replied.

"I am." With that she began to jog toward the path that, eventually, led back into Portia.

Asher watched her go and then sighed heavily, looking over to Adam. "You ever feel like a massive idiot sometimes?"

"Sure," Adam grunted. "Then I remember I'm not you and feel better."

Asher rolled his eyes and resisted the urge to whack the man with the fire poker stick; when he didn't rise to the man's banter Adam gave him a strange look.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing. I think. How do you want your eggs this time?"

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

Dr. Xu had acquired a wooden chair with a really comfortable cushion and a small wooden table for Harrison to work at; it sat in the corner near the front doors so it would be out of the way of everything else in the clinic but its position did mean that usually, when someone walked inside, Harrison was the first thing they saw. Already several tourists looking for headache or muscle ache cures had approached him at the table to ask after the medications, even when Dr. Xu was clearly within view at his desk further in the room.

He kept telling himself to find humor in the situation but it was starting to get a little annoying - especially after someone actually moved a stack of books out of the way to "speak to him" with Xu staring on in surprised confusion.

It was enough to have him dreading the sound of the doors opening, and so today when they slid open he actually flinched and carefully peered over the top of the book he had propped up in front of him.

To his surprise it was that girl from days ago - the one who had fallen on the driftwood and gotten it through her arm. She looked bright eyed and chipper, with no other obvious injuries, and he inwardly groaned as she looked around, spotted him, and came right over.

"Hey there!"

"Hello. How's the arm healing up?"

She smiled and slipped her coat off, then pulled her sleeve up to show the bandage there. "It's all fine and dandy - itchy, but doesn't seem infected or anything."

"Well, that's good." He went silent as she pulled her sleeve back down and got her coat back on, then cleared his throat awkwardly. "So...what did you need then?"

"Ah, hello there -- how is the arm?"

Harrison sat up a bit straighter as Xu came over; the girl gave the doctor a smile.

"It's all good. A bit itchy but seems to be healing."

Xu nodded. "Excellent to hear. Now, what brings you back to the clinic?"

The girl's smile faltered a bit and Harrison swore he saw a tinge of pink appear in her cheeks. "Ah...well, uh, I came to um. Talk to him, actually-"

She pointed shyly to Harrison, and he blinked at her in confusion. Talk to him? Why?

Xu seemed just as confused as he was. "Oh?"

"Yeah...um, private matter."

"Huh?" Harrison blurted out.

She turned her attention back to him and rubbed at her injured arm awkwardly. "Um. If you have the time, anyway."

"S-sure, I guess."

He stood up and came out from behind the table; the girl took a few timid steps toward the door and when he followed along she headed outside into a much brighter day than Harrison had been expecting.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes and looked over to her. "What did you need to talk to me about? Did I do something wrong with your injury?"

She shook her head, hard; it was hard enough to dislodge a few wisps of hair from the messy bun on top of her head. "No no nonono, nothing like that. I was just um, wondering if you'd...like to go get coffee or lunch sometime?"

With that the woman stood there, lightly scraping the toe of her shoe into the mud; Harrison felt like someone had abruptly switched off all the lights inside his brain. She wanted to go get coffee, with HIM?

"Uh..."

"It's ok if you don't want to," she went on in a rush. "I don't mind. You're probably busy. I shouldn't have asked."

"N-no, no, it's-" Harrison interrupted. "Ah - no one has ever asked that before. I think my brain shut off." He offered her a weak, slightly sheepish smile, and to his surprise she returned it. "But...why me?"

"I...dunno. You're from Lucien, like me. I don't meet a lot of Lucien natives when I travel around. And, you're. Um. You know...cute, so I thought, why not?"

Now it felt like his ears were on fire. "A-ah," was all he could say.

An awkward silence fell and it went on entirely too long for Harrison's liking; he was hoping she would say something...he wasn't sure WHAT, but he wanted to hear SOMETHING, anything, that would take the burden of this conversation off him until his brain caught up.

"So..."

"Ah, uh, yeah, um, sure," he said finally. "I-I mean, if you're sure."

The girl's face brightened and she bounced on the balls of her feet for a moment. "Hee! Yay! Ok, so when are you next free?"

"Later this evening?" he offered.

She nodded. "All right then - later this evening. Down at that restaurant in the square? The knight one?"

Harrison nodded, feeling lightheaded; he completely missed what she said as she waved and then headed off down the hill. Too late he returned the wave, and then leaned against the clinic doors behind him.

"What...just happened..." he muttered, rubbing at his forehead.

He, Harrison, had a date tonight.

...wait, did she ever even give her name?

"Oh boy..."

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

"Haven't seen you in a bit," Django said as Eli walked through the door.

With all the afterimages swimming around (it was REALLY bright outside today) Eli could barely see him, and somewhat stumbled her way toward the counter. "Been helping the Pigs out at the facility."

"Ah, that'd be it."

She managed to find a stool and sat down. "I had to come back for some supplies and I'd like to take some treats out to the them as a surprise."

Django nodded. "I see, hmm. I just pulled an apple pie out of the oven, and I've got some Black Forest cake made just this morning. Won't take long to whip anything else up either," he said as he flipped open a menu to the dessert section and slid it over to her.

"Thanks." She picked it up and held it in front of her; with the afterimages it'd probably be another minute or two before she could clearly read it. "Do you know if they've established any favorites?"

"I know Arlo doesn't really like sweets in general. I haven't talked to Asher or Adam enough to know about those two."

Eli frowned; good thing she'd asked. "All right, no sweets for Arlo then. I know he likes spicy things at least. How about...an order of vanilla pudding, some of that apple pie, and that spicy spaghetti stuff?"

"Sounds good."

As Django headed off toward the kitchen Eli folded the menu properly and returned it to the pile, then leaned forward to brace her elbows on the counter and put her forehead in her hands.

Every idea she'd had so far to disable that suit all required things that weren't around anymore; the easiest would be a localized EMP to overload the projector circuits and force it into a reboot cycle where it wouldn't be able to disguise its user until it fully restarted itself. A sliver shot would do similar in that it would disrupt the projectors by confusing its sensors with a quick burst of hard light mirror shards. Or she could use a taser overload, or a bolt drainer, or a sys-dis (a system disabler - it would scramble all the circuit signals), or even a battery overcharger. So many things she COULD do, if she was in her own time period...

But she wasn't, and simple ideas like trying to use water or some sort of paint or even dirt to try and short out or otherwise mark their target probably wouldn't work -- Access Suits had built in miniature shield generators evenly interspersed among the projector sensors that pulled double duty at repelling water as well as dirt, dust, or mud-like materials. She couldn't safely rely on the hope that those generators were as damaged as the faulty projectors; if they were working correctly they might get two seconds, tops, of visual assistance if they were to try and douse the spy in something...two seconds could seem like forever in a fight but since there was no telling what else that spy might be armed with by now Eli was not about to risk anyone around her with so many unknown variables (it was as much for the spy's safety as well as their own that they be able to clearly see what they were doing the next time they clashed - she'd hated firing blindly at the spy and it'd be a really simple matter for someone to accidentally kill someone else).

"Something the matter?"

Eli jumped at the sound of Django's voice just over her shoulder. "You walk really quietly when you want to."

Django chuckled as he moved back behind the counter; he had a few containers in hand that he neatly lined up on the counter in front of her. "Old habits I guess, haha. It'll be a few minutes on the spaghetti."

She slid her pack off her back and pulled a cloth bag out of one of the front pockets, then sat it on the counter; before she could say anything Django picked it up and began to slide the containers inside.

"It was an honest question though - something on your mind?"

Eli paused, then huffed out a sigh. "Just trying to figure out how to hunt down a ghost, is all."

Django's eyebrows raised a bit. "Wasn't aware we had a ghost problem outside of our haunted cave."

"Not a literal ghost," she replied, laughing quietly. "More like someone pretending to be one."

"I see. Not exactly your run of the mill problem to have."

With another sigh Eli rested her forehead on her hands again. "I'm not exactly a run of the mill person."

Django nodded slowly, rubbing at his chin. "...you know, how about we have a quick dart game while we wait on your spaghetti?"

There was something...odd, about his tone. Eli eyed him but couldn't detect anything other than his usual smiling demeanor -- he sounded off but looked fine.

"...all right," she answered, standing up and aside as he shuffled out from behind the counter and led the way toward the back game room.

There were a few others in the restaurant; Eli found herself waving at folks as she went and narrowly dodging Toby who was waving a report card at her (she made a mental note that there were only two more months for Toby to prove he'd kept his grades up enough for training) and then she was in the game room with Django already retrieving the darts from a drawer in the prize counter.

He didn't say anything at first as he handed her the three green darts while he kept the red ones. "So. Looking for a person pretending to be a ghost, you said?" Django lined up a dart and then tossed it a breath later; it landed right on the border between a bullseye and the next ring out.

Eli huffed then laughed quietly. "I feel like I'm about to lose. Terribly."

Django tossed another one and it landed squarely inside the bullseye. "I've had a lot of practice. Where's this ghost person lurking? Out at the facility?"

"...yeah," she answered after a pause. "We have an uninvited visitor out there."

The third dart he threw, to Eli's surprise, flew well off to the left and embedded itself into the thick safety backboard that the dartboard was mounted on. "When did this ghost show up?"

"Recently."

She watched silently as he went over and slowly took the darts down; when he was out of the way she took her first throw and it barely stayed within the board, embedding itself into a bottom right section that wasn't worth any points at all.

"Humor me. Was it someone you think is on the smaller, lighter side?"

"I...guess. Couldn't really get a good look at them, obviously." Rather than taking her second throw she turned around to face him; he'd moved over to lean against the prize counter's front, arms crossed over his chest and a somewhat brooding look on his face -- seeing something other than his usual cheerful expression immediately made her forget all about the dart game. "All right, spill: what are you getting at?"

Django inhaled and exhaled slowly. "Did Arlo tell you about that Rogue Knight we had, not too long ago?"

"Yeah, I've heard about it. He said you were the one who was able to drive them off too. You think this knight guy came back?"

He shook his head. "No, I don't think your visitor is the same Rogue Knight I fought that day. But you mentioning a ghost brought back some memories, from when I was younger. Of a different, more dangerous knight, in her own way."

Eli walked over and dropped her remaining darts onto the counter. "Are knights just a common thing now?"

"Not anymore. In the older days - meaning, the older days of our current era, between the Calamity and when humanity was finally recovering - folks took up the title of knight as they fought to protect their homes and people from both man and monster alike. Humanity didn't have much left back then...just a lot of old stories and memories of how things once were, but the legends that were even older than the Old World still managed to survive. Such stories helped keep the survivors alive, and while it's a tradition that's been mostly overwritten by the Civil Corps and other law enforcement nowadays, there's still a fair few of us who stick to those old stories and the honor that comes with claiming the title of knight."

Eli watched him as he spoke; the brooding look had given away to something more resembling a thoughtfulness - a softer, more introspective look, and as he talked his chin was slowly dipping down so his gaze ended up on the floor just in front of his feet.

"So..." she said quietly into the pause that followed. "Why did me mentioning a ghost make you think of another knight?"

Django finally lifted his gaze and flashed her a grim smile. "I drove that Rogue Knight off with the belief that he wouldn't dare step foot here again. I still believe that, in fact. But I've been on my guard for any hints of other troublesome knights that might show up to try and finish the job he left undone. It just so happens that I know of a woman who called herself the Ghost Knight -- I knew her when I was a younger man. We even fought together a few times to clear out monster nests or drive off bandits."

Eli's eyes widened. "You're kidding."

"I wish I were. You mentioning you were looking for someone pretending to be a ghost brought her to mind."

"Who is she? What's she look like? Why would she be here?"

"I don't know. I never learned her real name, and she never learned mine. I never even saw her face - only the strange suit of armor she wore. As for why she's here-"

"Is she a mercenary for hire?" Eli interrupted. "What - how did - how do knights function?" At his mildly surprised look she slumped her shoulders a bit. "Sorry - didn't mean to interrupt you."

Django chuckled and pushed off from the counter, moving to line up to throw his darts again. "Not a problem. I can only guess at why she'd be here -- same reason the Rogue Knight was, I wager. I wouldn't call her a mercenary...that's not what we did. But, it's been over a decade since I last spoke with her, and people can change."

Eli shifted and leaned against the counter almost in the same spot he'd just vacated, putting him and the dartboard at her back as she stared a hole into the wood in front of her; if this person was this Ghost Knight that Django had known years ago then that meant it was a good chance that this spy's having an Access Suit was just...a one-off. One person who got their hands on something that actually still worked. That was one fear off the list, at least.

"Django... How did this woman fight? What did she do as the Ghost Knight?"

"Scouting," came his answer, quicker than she'd expected. There was the sound of the dart thunking into the board before he continued. "No one was better at it than her. And in a battle she was the best flanking attacker you could hope to have on your side."

"Flanking... Does that mean she didn't take people on in a direct manner?"

"She avoided that as much as possible but she was still capable of defending herself if she had to." Another thunk of a dart. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure."

She turned around from the counter in time to see Django turning as well, flicking his wrist and sending the dart at the board without looking or aiming; the dart stuck into the bullseye.

"If you find this person, and manage to capture them, I would like to speak to her."

"I... I mean, I'M willing to let that happen, but I'm not a Civil Corps person. That's not likely up to me."

Django nodded, slipping his hands into the pockets of his colorful coat. "If you can make that happen, I'd be indebted to you... Excuse me, I should go check the spaghetti. It ought to be done by now."

"Yeah, sure thing. I'll head back up to the counter."

He disappeared through a small door into the kitchen and, as she said, Eli walked out of the game room and back to the counter where the rest of her order was sitting packed neatly into the cloth sack.

She looked over a shoulder at the restaurant's patrons; there were considerably more people here now than had been when she'd first walked in, and Django had purposely wanted to talk to her about it away from others. She really, really wanted to ask him more about how this Ghost Knight woman fought, or where she'd come from, or--

'I'll come back when it's not busy, or maybe I can catch him at home.'

That he'd admitted he'd been on the lookout for any other trouble-making knights worried her...maybe she should also split her history lesson time between Isaac and Django.

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

"Bye, see you tomorrow!"

Django gave Sonia a small wave and a smile as she headed out the front door; there were a few spots left to sweep and then he could put out the lights and head home himself.

Normally he enjoyed the absolute silence of the restaurant late at night - it gave him time to daydream, or plan for the next day's operations. Tonight though... He couldn't help but think of that Ghost Knight. Everything he could recall about her had come flooding back in a rush when Eli had mentioned someone pretending to be a ghost; any other time he would have dismissed it as silly old memories but now...

He bent and swept up dirt into the dustpan, and then moved to carry it over to the waste bin.

Ever since he'd driven that rogue knight off he'd been constantly vigilant for any hint, no matter how small, that someone else had arrived to plunge Portia into chaos. He imagined most people would think he was being paranoid without reason and so had kept such worries to himself...maybe he shouldn't have done that. Portia's residents had been panicked at first and demanding more protections from the Civil Corps folks after the knight incident but, as time wore on, they'd fallen back into their lives without fear of outside threats; would anything be different now if Django had shared his worries with Gale?

"Too late for that," he muttered to himself.

He swept up the last little dust pile and dumped it into the bin, then went to put the dustpan and broom away.

Once everything but a single lamp was powered down he dipped behind the front counter; for the most part he stored napkins, silverware, and small dessert plates behind here but after that Rogue Knight had left he'd started stashing a small box out of sight behind the formal cloth napkins that were only used during holidays.

The box was about the length of his hand from fingertips to the heel of his palm, and was just barely shy of being perfectly square. Django popped the latch open and lifted the lid to reveal a delicate-looking pair of gloves made of silvery wires, each with a single wire that was much longer than the others that ended in a tiny plug; they were very hard to see among the loose cloth that padded the inside of the box, and he knew from experience that even when worn they were difficult to spot.

As he looked the gloves over he had his usual mixed feelings about them; hidden beneath his shirt and jacket were a pair of matching armbands hugging his biceps that had very small charge generators on it -- wearing the gloves with the lead wire plugged in allowed him to charge up and release a controlled shock that went off with a bang, a bright flash of light, and repelled anything he hit along with delivering a strong sting to his target.

Much like the memories of the Ghost Knight now all his memories of having found these relics came rushing back; he'd once been a young, stupid man, with lofty ideals about what it meant to be a knight without truly understanding anything about knighthood. He'd thought that finding these gloves had been the ultimate stroke of luck -- something to make him an unstoppable force of good in the world. He'd been hilariously proven wrong, over and over, until he began to treat them as tools to compliment his own skill, rather than relying entirely on them.

When he finally understood what the gloves true purpose ought to be he began to win more often and eventually they had earned him the title of Storm Knight; when he'd realized that his dependence on them had basically shaped his reputation he had almost thrown them away. The fear that someone else would make the same mistakes he did (or worse - that someone would use them to harm others) had made him keep them, and steadily he relied on them less and less over the years until he'd mothballed them five years before he retired. The Rogue Knight had been threat enough that Django had felt the need to take the gloves out of storage and thankfully with them - and with his reputation - that had been enough to scare the knight off.

The problem with this Ghost Knight was Django knew reputation alone wouldn't drive her away. She had fallen into the same pitfalls he had: thinking that Old World technology made her invincible, or at the very least better than everyone else. Rather than learning and improving she had stagnated...and he'd watched it happen.

"You could have been one of the best..." he sighed, closing the box and tucking it under an arm.

She really could have been...maybe he should have fought her harder on her reliance on that suit. Maybe she would have listened if he'd fully explained his own mistakes with the gloves. Maybe he could have trained with her to show her there was a more honorable way of living. But then again, maybe there wasn't some magical combination of words that would have swayed her to his side and stopped her from getting mad and literally stabbing him in the back.

As he headed to the front door he reached his free hand around to rub at a spot on his lower back. That old scar ached and itched when it was cold or wet outside but it was an old wound he'd learned to ignore; tonight it was a dull throbbing pain - probably exacerbated by the sweeping, or so he told himself before pausing to really examine that thought.

There used to be an old wives tale about how an injury caused by a mortal enemy would burn and ache when that enemy was nearby. The Ghost Knight had been his companion once...he didn't think for a moment that they could be friends again but he could spare a bit of hope that the old tale was true and that he would know exactly when he was needed if it was truly her in the region.

#Lost in Time #lit #Lost in Time - ch 14 #Dr. Xu #Django #My Time at Portia

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unholyhelbig · 6 years ago

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Prompt: Chloe is a tattoo artist and Beca is the new owner of the flower shop next door. After an unexpected friendship between the two and both being interested for something more, Chloe couldn’t help but notice the purple hyancith tattoo Beca has. Not knowing the language of flowers, Chloe decides to ask Beca.

[A/N: Right, so maybe I’m totally thinking about making this into a real multi-chapter thing. I’ve just made a vow with myself that I’ll finish Camp Beaverbrook first. So… let me know what you think because I’m beyond in love with this prompt]

The flowers were dead. That’s the first thing that caught Beca Mitchell’s eyes; their stems were a sickly grey. The green color had drained completely and left a white carcass behind in its wakes. Petals littered the counter. They were once red like freshly drawn blood, a stark white that rattled into a pink-tipped form. Ghosts with no soul left to harvest.

She reached forward and palmed a petal. They sounded like deadened leaves under booted feet. The pad of her finger running evenly over it before it disintegrated into fine dust in her hand. She frowned at it.

Beca had a habit of looking for the flowers in any setting. They livened up the room or muted it depending on their own life span. Great designers would say that fresh set pieces could establish an atmosphere. Great florists would counter that it established good business.

She could feel the instant coolness of the room prickle goosebumps against her skin, even past the knitted grey sweater that hugged her frame expertly. She had been in interrogation rooms this cold before, but never a simple tattoo shop. The sound of needles buzzing against once clear skin echoed in her ears. Maybe this was a bad idea.

The room was painted a deep burgundy, a white crown molding so expertly untouched. There were paintings on the wall: close up black and white images of big cats in the wild and blank blades of grass. There was a wall of long stretched drawings in front of her. Too many for her to count. Generic images of dragons breathing fire and grim reapers wielding scythes.

Beca couldn’t’ help but admire the line work that went into them, the attention to detail and the way each picture had been meticulously drawn before being resized for human attention. She let her lips part and a lone breath tumble from them.

“Can I help you?”

She drew in a sharp breath at the edged voice. She had been so focused on the sheeted artwork that she hadn’t noticed the presence of another. A woman; stunning in a grunge type of way. A tight black t-shirt hugged her frame, showing off the expertly crafted tattoos that coated every inch of toned and exposed skin. Her blonde hair was tied back, a few strands falling into glowing green eyes. The open sign flicked a flash of red and blue periodically against her bored expression.

“If you want a tattoo you need to book an appointment with our receptionist. We don’t do walk-ins.”

“No,” Beca spoke evenly, the woman raising her eyebrow as she set her hand on the counter and tightened her stance, letting her fingers dance on the countertop. “I mean, I don’t want a tattoo. I just moved into the space next door and I think this is yours.”

She thrust out an envelope that was clearly marked The Crimson Door. It certainly wasn’t for her modest flower shop. She had mulled over the name a few times in her mind. The door to this place wasn’t even slathered in red, it was merely a foggy glass embossed in gold lettering. She decided not to bring it up.

“Oh, thank you.” The stranger took the envelope, softening in her abrasive stance. “We’ve talked to the post office so many times. They never seem to get it right.”

The woman let out a deep sigh and dropped the letter somewhere behind the desk that Beca didn’t’ stretch to see. She seemed to relax a bit, clearly having surprise visits from drunken patrons looking to get cheap ink more than once.

“That place used to be a Chinese restaurant, you know.” She continued, walking behind the counter as she leaned over the computer. Beca couldn’t see anything more than white reflected off forest irises. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that they left. Though, it’s unfortunate that we have to go across town for eggrolls now.”

“Yeah, it is.” Beca let a small scoff escape her lips. She wasn’t really sure what to say. It had been a hassle gutting the place. She remembered removing the grease trap from the back door, the way it stuck and clouded her lungs until she eventually hurled in the bushes that were adorned with beautiful yellow roses. “We’re quieter, I’m sure.”

“Smell better too.” She responded, straightening up as she clicked out of her program. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood. Just let us know if the music is too loud and try not to put your trash out before five on Thursdays.”

“Thank you, will do.”

Beca followed the girl’s movements for a moment more, she had clicked a black pen and was digging it into a yellow pad of post-it notes. Maybe it was Beca’s own name. A sly way to recall her if she had in fact, strayed to 4:59 on a Thursday evening. She took a few steps back before turning completely and walking into the chilling night air.

Their shops were the only two still casting pale rectangles against the sidewalk. Fairy lights were strung against trees for the impending winter, wreaths soon to follow in the coming months. Beca shoved her hands in her pockets and breathed out in a moment of peace for a moment.

Her place wasn’t so bad. They had gutted the Chinese décor and turned it into a simple shop with shelves built into white walls. They were lined with the freshest flowers daily- a back office gave her a break from the bustle of catering and funeral orders. It boasted a large window like a toy shop in the ’60s; embossed with gold lettering similar to the tattoo shop.

She was quick to flip the open sign to closed before the bell stopped chiming. It had been a quiet night. A Friday where people attended movies at the local theatre or the football game that took half of Hollyfield’s student population into its grasp.

“Was it scary in there? Oh my god, did you see that one woman covered in tattoos? I heard places like that are very cold. Did you need a coat?”

“Emily,” Beca breathed out evenly, shaking her head. Her assistant, her co-worker at that, was very excitable. She asked too many questions and had those beaming brown eyes that were impossible to say no to. Even now, when she glanced up from the book on the counter and hair fell lazily into her pouting stare. Her sleeves were pulled over her wrists and a pencil was tucked behind her ear. “Too many questions. I just brought over some mail.”

Of course, that didn’t’ exactly answer the question that Emily held at the tip of her tongue. Beca lifting an eyebrow as she pushed herself away from the door and walked over to the counter. She had had this place for a week and still never stood on the opposite side of the aptly painted counter.

“I did meet an interesting woman though. She was blonde. A lot of tattoos, obviously.”

“Yeah?” Emily’s cheeks heated up, her eyebrows rising. “What uh… what’d she say?”

The girl had run into some masked stranger when they were remolding. Emily was coated in white paint and was carrying a big gulp from the gas station down the street. She had recounted to Beca how she was leaning against the back of the brick and taking long drags of a cigarette. Emily stumbled over her words a bit before sighing and sulking back inside.

“Trash goes out on Thursday.”

Emily’s shoulders dropped as she let her head fall into her textbook. She dramatically stretched her arm out and groaned. “That’s all you found out about the love of my life? Beca, you were on an extraction mission.”

“No, I was on a drop off mission.”

She corrected, palming a bit of fabric on Emily’s arm before she lifted it briefly to stare at the text she was attempting to read. Psychology. It was too much for Beca, the actual schooling of it all. She commended Emily for wanting to further her education after high school- she was stronger than most.

Beca considered herself as doing well. She had run a flower van for two years before actually settling down in a space. It was a lot easier to push out orders for sweet sixteen’s when she was working out of a store and not the back of a truck with Emily strewn over the front seat. She spoke evenly, words muffled by her sweater.

“What was that, Em?”

“You’ve got to call back Lewis.” She picked up her head “He wants to cut some type of deal, you know.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. He left his number.”

Emily thrust out a sticky note that was her blue handwriting, so neat even though it was rushed. It had a ten-digit number written like she hadn’t known the area code from when she visited in the summers. She moved her pad against the sticky adhesive. “You know, the stranger next door uses the same type of post it’s?”

“She does?” Emily shot up, eyes widening “They’re yellow?”

“Yeah, Em. They’re yellow.”

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe Beale #Bechloe #Aubrey Posen #Emily Junk #Junksen #fanfiction #request #Pitch Perfect

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diinofayce · 6 years ago

Text

Shadows on the Horizon - 13

Pairing: Winter Soldier! Bucky Barnes x OFC! Layne Hardin | Word Count: 3.1k | Warnings: Language, gunfire, fighting, blood | A/N: This is a sequel to my story Like a Whisper in the Night | Shadows on the Horizon Masterlist

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Michael seethed as Layne lifted her mirrored aviators off the bridge of her nose to nestle into the chocolate curls at the top of her head.

Frowning at her eldest brother, but ignoring him, she flipped open her identification card and SHIELD badge open for the officers that had stepped forward to meet them.

“I’m Agent Hardin, this is Agent Sweet,” Layne addressed them, Susanna flipping open her own ID in response. Layne reached out and shook both their hands.

“I’m Sergeant Roscoe and this is my partner Officer Johnson.” Sergeant Roscoe was a middle-aged Hispanic man who stood about 5’10”, his black hair was combed neatly in place with gel and his face was clean shaved.

Officer Johnson looked to be fresh out of the academy, his blond hair the same golden as Steve’s and he was very evidently trying to grow some facial hair to make his boyish features seem more manly. He was a bit taller than Michael, but the Michaels’s temper tantrum obviously had the young officer on edge. He looked at both Layne and Susanna with wide eyes full of awe as he took in their combat suits and the weapons holstered on their hips.

“Ms. Prue mentioned you lot would be coming, I’m afraid to say I didn’t believe her,” Sergeant Roscoe chuckled, his thumbs looped casually in his gun belt.

“Normally we would just send some SHIELD agents out for something this minor, but it’s a family matter you see,” Layne explained ruefully.

Cheryl had finally stepped forward and suddenly wrapped her arms around Layne’s shoulders, pulling the girl into her and drowning Layne in the sharp, musky smell of Lancome Tresor. “Thank you for finding Maddie,” Cheryl sobbed into Layne’s hair, the woman being at least five inches taller than Layne.

“Of course, Cheryl,” Layne shushed, rubbing her hands soothingly up and down her sister-in-law’s back.

“Found Maddie? Excuse me? You took her from the camp?” Michael interjected, reaching out to grab his ex-wife but stepping back when Sergeant Roscoe straightened himself up to his full height. The officer was a few inches shorter than Michael, but even in his anger her brother wasn’t dumb enough to act out in front of a law official.

Cheryl unwound herself from Layne and glared at her ex-husband. Her chestnut hair was streaked with strands of silver and powdery gray, and the wrinkles around her eyes just made her look so much more tired.

“We filed her as missing, Michael, and you had her taken away. I haven’t stopped looking for her and you knew where she was this whole time!” Cheryl screamed. “I want him arrested!”

Layne let the officers handle the divorcees, she took a step back and activated her enhancer so she could scan the people around her. Both Lucas and Rosaline lit up with vibrant yellow auras just like Madeline had said. She raised an eyebrow noting that Officer Johnson also had a yellow aura, while everything else was normal. Blinking twice she let her vision shift back and smiled at the children waving them over.

“Hey, guys, I’m your Aunt Layne. I’m your dad’s little sister,” Layne introduced herself, not quite sure how to speak to children.

“Yeah, we know. Madeline said you’re an Avenger?” Lucas asked, eye balling her like he didn’t believe his older sister.

“Sure am.” Layne smiled.

“You’re dating the Winter Soldier, right?” Lucas continued.

Layne hesitated slightly, not sure what Michael may or may not have said around the children. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

Lucas’ face lit up and he locked his phone, shoving it in the pocket of his pants. “That’s so cool! His metal arm is so neat! I bet he could crush my school bus with it!” Lucas raved.

Layne smiled and pointed back at the SUV where she could see Bucky through the windshield watching them warily. “Yeah, he’s in the car waiting. Why don’t you guys go pack everything you need from your rooms upstairs. Anything really important that you cant live without and like a weeks worth of clothes, okay? And then you can meet Sergeant Barnes.”

“Are we not going to live with Dad anymore?” Rosaline asked around the brown pigtail she had been nervously chewing on.

Layne shook her head slowly. “No, your Dad did something really naughty and he has to go with the police.”

“Are we going to go back to Mom’s?” Rosaline’s eyes shifted to an amber glow when she looked quizzically up at her aunt. Layne tried to keep her expression neutral as she wondered what exactly Rosaline was seeing or doing.

“We’re probably going to go see Maddie in New York. That’s where she is, right?” Lucas answered his sister and then looked up at his aunt.

Layne blinked down at what was almost a carbon copy of their brother Jordan when he was Lucas’ age and nodded. “Yeah, we’re gonna go with your mom to New York to see Maddie.” Layne didn’t think this was the time or place to tell the kids about the school. She figured Cheryl should be the one to do that. “Can you be quick? Like ten minutes, quick?”

Both children nodded and took off to the house. “Agent Sweet,” Layne called out and jilted her chin towards the house. Susanna nodded and followed after the children.

“What’s happening? Where are the children going? I do not want that woman in my house!” Michael bellowed and started towards the house.

Layne rushed forward and grabbed her brother at the elbow, halting his forward movement. He reeled around and raised the back of his hand to strike her but Layne caught his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, jerking upwards painfully.

“You know, don’t quote me, but I think hitting me is a federal offense.” Layne growled. Her gaze shot over to the SUV where Bucky had already flung open the driver said and was one foot out of the vehicle. When he saw that Layne had it under control he relaxed, but kept the door open and one leg out on the asphalt.

“Now, look, you’re stressing my boyfriend out,” Layne growled and tossed her brother away from her.

Michael stumbled and caught himself. Viciously raking his fingers through his curls his eyes darted around anxiously.

“You can’t take the children. I wont let you use them as weapons. They need to have their powers stripped so they can be normal functioning members of society,” Michael argued. Behind him, Officer Johnson bristled anxiously and Sergeant Roscoe shot him a look.

Every muscle in Layne’s body stiffened as she rounded on her brother. Michael may have at least a solid foot on her but he has zero physical ability, so when Layne grabbed the front of his shirt and wrenched him down to eye level, any fight he wanted to put up was futile.

“Do you know what being stripped of your powers entails, Michael?” Layne hissed through clenched teeth, tears stinging at the back of her eyes as she thought back to the lifeless bodies of girls that still haunted her dreams. Dead or not, the image would plague her for the rest of her life. “You die, Michael. They aren’t a fun added bonus to our lives, it’s punched into our DNA. There is no motherfucking ‘camp’.” Layne dropped her brother to raise her fingers with air quotes.

Fishing her phone out of her pants pocket she pulled up the medical file that one of Dr. Cho’s protegees sent over to her of Madeline. Layne pulled up the photo attachment of Madeline with dead, vacant eyes; her hair shaved from her head with cuts scattering her scalp that were obviously from a clipper biting into her skin. The dark bruises under her eyes and the fact that it looked like she hadn’t been fed in weeks. She shoved the phone in her brother’s face.

“This is what they did to your daughter. This is how we found her. Dirty and hungry and abused. And do you know what they were doing, Michael, they were using her to fight us. We aren’t looking to weaponize children, they are!”

The color was drained from Michael’s face and with sudden jerky movements he stumbled away from Layne and emptied his stomach in the hedges. Layne took the moment to look up at Michael’s perfect little house in the suburbs of Minneapolis. It was soft butter yellow with white shutters and a little front porch, it all looked immaculate and well kept with it’s perfectly cut lawn and trimmed hedges. Their mother had instilled in them everything for appearances and that was all this house shouted at her. Layne looked across the street at the housewives poking their heads out at the commotion and the kids who had just gotten home from school peeking out their bedroom windows. A perfect little suburbia, they had no idea what was truly happening around them outside of their couple of blocks.

The com in Layne’s ear crackled with what she understood was Danny materializing somewhere out of sight. “There’s a nondescript black van at the end of the block. Two men in the front, three in the back. They’re watching the house.”

“Agent Sweet, you have two minutes, get the kids to hurry. Dust off those mommy skills,” Layne commanded and turned to look at Bucky. He gave her a look like he was waiting for orders and she held her hand out to signal him to just wait. She could almost hear his growl of discontent from where she was standing, but she simply turned and grabbed the back of her brother’s collar heaving him up.

“Did you call them for the children?” Layne demanded just as the kids ran out of the house.

Layne’s head whipped up at the sounds of screeching tires and automatic gunfire.

“SUSANNA!” Layne called, spinning around to mark where everyone was.

Susanna brought the children into her chest and crouched down, covering them as the two police officers pulled their weapons and opened fire on the van that rolled up. Bucky was out of the SUV in a flash, his Sig Sauer aimed and ready, with two pulls of the trigger the men in the front seats were dead causing the van to careen to the side and hop onto the lawn across the street. Bucky rushed forward and managed to get in front of the van and slam his metal fist into the fender halting the van’s movement.

Sergeant Roscoe was yelling into the walkie on his shoulder for backup while pressing his hand hard against a gun shot wound on Officer Johnson’s shoulder. Layne took a second to survey, noting the women locking up their houses and screaming for their children, Susanna lifting both children into her arms to drag them to the SUV, Michael kneeling over Cheryl who was laying on her back on the grass mostly hidden from Layne’s field of vision.

Blinking she shifted vision and counted the three men in the back of the van who were readying to storm out. “Specter! Barnes!” Layne barked and jabbed her finger at the back doors. Layne ran into the street and positioned herself in front of the doors about a hundred feet back. “Sweet, drive the van, get the kids out. We’ll meet up with you.”

Bucky placed his hand on the handle when Susanna successfully peeled out of the fight zone and Layne nodded at him, Bucky threw the door open and Layne raised her hands, her vision swimming with the rage she was feeling. She noted the shadows shift as Danny slipped in behind the three men and Layne made a grabbing motion with her hands, the armed man on the far right freezing in his spot and then falling limply to the ground as Layne ripped his soul from his body and tore it in two. Before she could move on Danny had taken over the body of the man that was the farthest back and used him to shoot the last man. When Danny was safely out of the man’s body, Layne gave him the same treatment as she had the first guy.

She spun around, her rage still consuming her as her eyes flicked over the houses and around the street, trying to find anything else suspicious. When she felt Bucky’s metal hand grab her shoulder she almost reacted defensively before recognizing the hard, cold grip.

“There’s no way they only sent five operatives,” Layne said, looking up at Bucky who was frowning slightly at her.

His ice blue eyes scanned her face, waiting for her own eyes to shift back to their warm, cheerful, caramel color but the golden flames didn’t look like they were going to be quenched any time soon. He squinted his eyes as he looked down the road the van came from and shrugged.

“If they were only planning on taking two kids and Michael was handing them over willingly, I don’t think they would have bothered to send more,” Bucky murmured softly looking back down at Layne. His heart felt heavy in his chest, he remembered when Layne would get physically ill over the mere thought of having to hurt someone. Bucky had promised himself after Layne got kidnapped that he would do all the killing for her, he would never put her in a position where death would sit heavily on her shoulders. But in those months that they had separated and she had done missions by herself or with Sue she had toughened up, her heart hardening to the idea of taking the enemy out no matter the cost. While he respected the hell out of her and didn’t love her any less, he couldn’t help but miss the soft, clumsy civilian she used to be.

“Stop looking at me with whatever you’re feeling right now, Barnes,” Layne said gruffly, raising an eyebrow at him. “There’s no time.”

Bucky hesitated, trying to sort through and compartmentalize his emotions, god he used to be so much better at this. “Yeah, sorry. Later though?”

Layne’s expression softened and she smiled. “Of course later. There’s always later.” She patted his hand that was still on her shoulder and then slid out of his grasp.

Danny hopped out of the back of the van and walked up to stand next to Bucky, he was punching in a SHIELD emergency clean up request into the smart watch that Stark provided for all of them while trying to keep the three automatic rifles that he had pilfered from the back of the van strapped over his shoulder. Bucky looked the shorter up and down, black hoodie zipped all the way up under his chin and the hood pulled low over the top of his face to cover his brown curls. It was the full gas mask, though, that really put an itch in the back of Bucky’s neck. He reached out to take the guns from Danny to lighten his load and the man nodded at him gratefully.

“I kind of hate that thing,” Bucky murmured motioning to Danny’s mask.

“Really?” Danny asked, sounding surprised despite the voice modifier that was installed. “You’re the one that gave it to me.”

A flash of crawling through the mud and trenches of Western Europe flashed through his mind. The gas masks were necessary as smoke grenades and gas bombs littered the battle field. He could almost smell the stale, recycled breath and the filtered smoke and the iron of the blood soaking into the dirt. Bucky blinked as he tried to force himself back into the present. Danny had moved on away from him and was now hovering around the police officers. His ears rung for a moment before popping back into focus and his gaze whipped around to where Layne was hunched over Cheryl on the ground. The older woman was screaming in agony while Michael yelled at Layne in a panic, his hands stained red.

The sound of sirens in the distance caused Bucky’s hackles to raise momentarily before he remembered that he was no longer being hunted by basically the entire world. Rushing to Layne’s side he noted how Michael took a step back away from him but focused his attention to the blood seeping out between Layne’s fingers from where she was pressing them against Cheryl’s chest.

“The kids, where are the kids?” Cheryl asked, her eyes unfocused past all of them.

“They’re with our agent, they’re safe,” Layne reassured and looked up at her boyfriend. “I need you to get SHIELD backup and clean up on the radio and then contact Agent Sweet.”

Bucky nodded in affirmation, responding with a ‘yes ma’am’ before stepping back and getting on the phone with the correct people. His eyes trailed after the ambulances and fire truck that pulled up, his eyes immediately looking for and locking in on any sort of proper identification as he spoke quietly into his phone. The EMTs approached Layne and took over for Cheryl’s care, loading her up on a gurney and getting her quickly into the back of the ambulance and off the scene. Danny had left the officer’s sides, choosing instead to shrink back into the shadows between the houses and watch away from his eldest brother, Bucky was sure if he didn’t have enhanced vision he wouldn’t even be able to see the man but as it was Bucky could just barely make out a shift in the shadows.

Layne approached the down Hydra agents and Bucky shifted his position so he could still see her as she climbed into the back of the van. She carefully nudged each agent with her foot before reaching down and securing the weapons by their bodies. Bucky confirmed with Susanna to have her swing back around and pick them up now that the coast was clear just as one of the Hydra agents from the front of the van stirred.

He took Layne by surprise, getting an arm around her waist and pulling her close to him like a shield. Bucky was dropping his phone and pulling out his gun without a second thought. He could have swore he landed a shot in each of the agents up front, but the man holding Layne looked to be spattered in only his partner’s blood. Impossible, he never missed. Bucky locked eyes with Layne just before pulling the trigger.

#winter soldier x ofc #winter soldier x layne hardin #bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes x layne hardin #winter soldier #bucky barn #winter soldier fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #avengers #avengers fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction

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mondregen · 6 years ago

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“Have you used a portal before?” Minchan asks the question like he doesn’t care much about the answer. The click of his heels on the pavement is distracting, a staccato in bright pink. He’s a lot to handle in the group chat, but even more of a handful in real life. Glittery eyeshadow and perfectly manicured nails, he’s a living doll, making mock kissy faces at every person walking by who dares to stare. A force of nature if Lysander ever saw one. “Hello? Are you listening?”

Minchan snapping his fingers in his face brings Lysander back to reality. “Um, what? Sorry, I wasn’t… “ With a huff and a quick wave of his hand, Minchan dismisses his reply. “It doesn’t matter, does it. I’m not walking all the way to Rei’s stupid forest. I’m not going to let my baby witch do it, either.” As always when Minchan uses this nickname of his, Lysander’s heart skips a beat. It’s one thing to read it, yet another entirely to hear it. And maybe it’s imagination, but something fond colors it, something soft. Lysander fights a smile, biting his lower lip hard. It’s somehow endearing, that particular brand of a handful Minchan is. He drags him into some alley, its dead end around a brickwalled corner. From his jacket’s pocket he pulls a piece of white chalk, and promptly begins to draw a circle lined and filled with odd symbols on the wall closest to him. Lysander watches in awe and confusion both. “Oh,” Minchan says, shooting him a grin over his shoulder. “It’s for the portal. You see, for some magic, we need preparation. Magic circles, sometimes little sacrifices, that sort of thing. It’s too advanced for you right now.” Instead of dampening his mood, this revelation makes Lysander’s stomach flip in joy. “I’ll… learn this, too?” “Of course!” Minchan finishes his work off and takes a step back, pocketing the chalk again. “You’ll learn this, and how to make potions, and, if Hiroki doesn’t tell me not to, I might just teach you some conjuring, too. Just… don’t go trying to summon some demon, yes? That never goes well.” Once again, Lysander only half listens, too entranced by the casualness of Minchan going about his business. He squares his shoulders and places an outstretched hand into the very center of the circle. As soon as his fingers touch the chalk, it springs to life, glowing a gentle white. Minchan pulls his hand back slowly. The circle lifts off the wall, sticking to his skin like a spiderweb. It hangs in the air, still connected to Minchan’s hand. Lysander’s jaw falls open. Of course, Minchan notices. “Neat, isn’t it? Wait until you see Qiaomeng doing it. He doesn’t even need a surface, just draws the thing in the air right away. Talented bastard.” He falls silent, eyes closed. The glow of the circle brightens. Around it, the air flimmers like it does in the hot summer sun. Lysander inhales, catching the slightest whiff of ozone. Minchan balls his hand into a loose fist, only his forefinger sticking out. He drags the pad of it down the length of the circle, and, little by little, it breaks open in the wake of his touch. When Minchan reaches the end, the chalk peels back in its entirety, revealing a swirl of muted purples and greens dispersed in a sea of endless black. It takes over the circle, stretching to about Minchan’s height. It stops as soon as it touches the ground. Lysander’s heart flutters in his chest. His arms break out in goose-flesh. “Wow,” is all he manages to press out. Minchan hums. “This is a portal. It’s like… a door, except it leads into someone’s home if that someone allows it. Rei isn’t a fan of it, but he lets us use one, anyhow.” “Why doesn’t he like it?” “A talented witch could trace this magic back to him. I’ll have Parfait erase as much of it after we’re done as she can, but there’ll always be some leftover in places spells were used. Rei’s mostly worried someone might have the idea to murder him in his sleep, really.” Lowering his voice, Minchan adds, “He’s got a bit of a reputation. The plants he grows are highly sought after, some impossible to get around these parts unless you want to pay a hefty sum. He has all reason to be cautious.” Lysander makes a little noise of understanding. All he knows about Rei is that he lives in a forest -- magical and weird, as Qiaomeng had put it -- and that he’s powerful, too. He should have asked more questions. “Anyway.” Minchan grasps him gently by the shoulders and steers him towards the portal. “It’s best if you close your eyes and keep your limbs pressed to your body until you’re back on solid ground. Got it? I’ll be right behind you.” Before Lysander gets another word in, Minchan pushes him. Everything goes dark. His stomach swoops again, but not at all in joy this time. He finds himself hovering in nothingness before he’s swept away. Like a tornado toying with a skinny branch, he’s scooped up and tossed about, a deafening roar in his ears. Static sticks to his skin, crawling across it in a numbing tingle. Lysander opens his mouth to scream, but no sound makes it out. A flash of green breaks through the dark. Lysander slams face first into a tree, its leaves shivering with the impact. “Oh. Oh, no,” a voice close to him says. Someone places a hand on his shoulder in cadence to a wave of nausea flooding through him. Lysander retches, hunching over. The hand moves to pat his back, all gentle. “There, there. Travelling with portals is never fun, I’m afraid. He should have told you.” He chances a look to his right, to where the voice is coming from, and is met with bare feet on mossy forest floor. Pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, he straightens slowly. Miles and miles of forest stretch out around him, trees and bushes and a little creek gently running its course. Birdsong fills the space, lined with the rustle of leaves overhead. Rei lives in a forest. This forest. “Is everything alright again?” the voice asks, and the hand disappears. Lysander nods absently. “Sorry, I… oh.” A young man steps into his view -- the one those bare feet belong to -- and gives him an encouraging, but small smile. He’s taller than Lysander is, his hair a warm shade of blond reminiscent of honey. Something about him is… off. His skin is too perfect, his movements just shy of oily. There’s a startling darkness to his eyes. Not human, his instincts scream at him, though he passes as one well enough. The portal buzzes. Minchan emerges with grace, touching his feet to the ground as though he were a cat leaping off the sofa. He beams at the both of them, the definition of cheeky. “I see you’ve already met our hermit.” The not-quite-human huffs, crossing his arms. A few heads of flowers peek through his hair, all varying shades of red. “Why did you let him go through it like this? It’s dangerous.” “Oh, relax. Don’t talk to me about dangerous. You grow flesh-eating plants.” “ -- that never harm anyone unless I tell them to --” “Right. That makes it better.” The puzzle pieces click belatedly. “Oh!” Lysander says, clutching at his chest. “You’re Rei!” Rei turns toward him, wearing the same smile as before. “And you’re Lysander. I’ll get you something for the queasiness. Portals get to everyone the first time, especially if you’re not fully prepared.” He shoots Minchan a weighty look at his last few words. Minchan retaliates by sticking out his tongue. Rei ignores him. “Come, I’ll show you inside.” “Inside”, as it turns out, is a little hut hidden behind layers of what Minchan calls “glamour”. After a simple wave of Rei’s hand, it appears out of thin air, flimmering at the edges like Minchan’s circle had done. It sits in the middle of a fenced in, lush garden, a plethora of brightly colored flowers and plants. Some, Lysander recognizes, but others he’s never seen in his life. A walkway of grey stones leads to the entrance door, heavy looking and wooden. The door swings open on its own, or so it appears. Rei bends down to pick something up, cupping it ever so gently in his palms. It’s a tiny, albino hedgehog. “Thank you, Lilac.” Rei presses a kiss to the hedgehog’s forehead. The hedgehog makes a noise that sounds suspiciously flustered. “This is my familiar,” Rei follows it up with, showing Lilac to Lysander. “Say hello. Try to be friends. I’d hate for you two to not get along.” Lysander wrings his hands, staring at Lilac. Lilac doesn’t move, either, staring right back. “Um. H-hello. It’s nice to meet you.” Lilac raises his little snout into the air, and Rei frowns down at him. “What did I just say? Play nice.” Still, Lilac doesn’t look very impressed. He turns around in Rei’s palms before he vanishes in a shimmery flash of light. Rei shakes his head. “Don’t mind him. He needs a bit to warm up to someone.” Minchan mutters something about it being Rei’s own fault for never socializing. He goes ignored again. The inside of Rei’s hut is surprisingly normal. All his furniture is wooden or partly wooden, from the round table in the kitchen to the sofa lined with the plushest cushions and pillows to the TV stand. Herbs and flowers hang from every wall, both dried and fresh. The most outlandish item is the big cauldron in the middle of the kitchen, a fire lit underneath it. Whatever’s inside it bubbles gently, filling the air with a sweet, herby scent. Of all the cliched witch-things Lysander expected to see, this is the most accurate to his imaginations. Upon closer inspection, however, he finds that the TV and the kitchen itself are both highly modern. Rei even owns a gaming console. How and where is he getting his electricity from? Something tells him the answer will either be magic, or so mundane that he would have never considered it. A question for another day. Rei gathers them together in the middle of the living room and has them sit on the floor after pushing the coffee table aside. He hands Lysander a small pill and a glass of water instead of the potion he’d expected, and Lysander gulps both down. Apparently, even witches have a need for regular medicine. Perhaps solving everything with magic is against the rules. If there are any rules. He has so much to learn. “Did you bring the salves?” Rei asks, seated cross-legged next to Lysander. A few days earlier, Rei instructed him to prepare a couple of standard salves to put on wounds, ones that his job as a nurse has long familiarized him with. He’d told him to make them with the intent to heal, to concentrate on and visualize the process of a wound closing. So Lysander had done exactly that. And though he’d found himself tempted to test them, himself, he thought it more prudent to wait until both Minchan and Rei could ascertain their capabilities. If they had any special ones, anyhow. Lysander gives a quick nod, taking the two small, rotund plastic containers out of his sling bag. They used to be filled with store-bought skin care, serving this purpose just fine. Rei takes them with a grateful nod. One he hands Minchan, the other he keeps, unscrewing the lid. He tilts it gently in his palm so the light catches in the creaminess of the salve, making it glisten. He brings it up to his face to smell it, humming as he does. Whether or not it’s a satisfied noise, Lysander can’t tell. “They smell nice,” Minchan comments, tilting his container every which way like Rei had done. “Why’d you make him make these?” Rei smiles, that same, small smile, but there’s an edge to it. Smug. “Because I asked him what he’s interested in. Have you done the same?” Minchan sputters. “I -- you know, it’s not like we can just jump into what he likes. He needs basics. That’s what I’m concerned about.” This playful back and forth is just as endearing as Minchan’s whirlwind persona. Lysander can’t stop himself from giggling, which earns him a wider smile from Rei and a noise from Minchan like he’s terribly martyred. But he’s smiling, too, unable to hide it even behind that huffy facade. “Well,” Rei says after a moment of comfortable silence, “I suppose we’ll need to test these.” He gets up and walks over to the kitchen to rummage in a drawer. What he pulls out glints silvery in his palm, and only when he sits back down, it becomes clear what it is. A knife. Vines snake around its handle, deep green in color. The blade itself is simple and two-edged, a small symbol etched into the very tip of it. Rei reaches out, takes one of Minchan’s hands and quickly drags the knife from one side of his palm to the other. Minchan yelps. “What the fuck?! Have you lost your --” Minchan struggles, but Rei tightens his grasp on his hand, keeping him in place. Blood wells up from the cut, beading along the surface. “As I said, we need to test his salves,” Rei says, his voice unaffected. He turns his attention towards Lysander, who has since frozen in his spot. His heart hammers in his chest, a new wave of sickness sloshing in his stomach. As used as he is to seeing blood, a warning would have been nice. Minchan struggles again, but it’s still in vain. He goes slack a moment after, averting his eyes. “I’m going to be sick.” Rei hums vaguely, still looking at Lysander. “Which one of them would you use for a cut like this?” “Um.” Lysander slowly inches forward to take a closer look at the cut. It’s not deep, something that would heal just fine on its own once its dressed. He picks up one of his salves, offering it to Rei. “This one.” “Well, go on then. Put it on.” Lysander blinks at him. None of this is what he’d expected of this get-together, but he doesn’t have the luxury to complain. Hesitating, he asks Rei for something to clean the blood up with, and Rei disappears again only to return with a damp washcloth. Lysander wipes the cut down, careful not to hurt Minchan too much, before he dips a finger into the salve, coating the pad of it with the thinnest layer. “This… might sting a little,” he warns as he gently rubs the salve along the cut. Even before he manages to reach the end of it, the cut begins to close. He and Minchan both gape at it, at the way the skin knits together on its own right in front of their eyes. Lysander finishes his job to watch the rest of it close, too, leaving Minchan’s palm pristine as if nothing ever happened. No scab, no scar. Nothing. “Holy shit,” Minchan whispers in awe, inspecting his hand up close. Next to him, Rei chuckles. “I knew it would work the moment you handed it to me. You must have felt that, too, Minchan.” Minchan, rubbing his thumb along the spot where the cut used to be, nods dumbly. “I… felt something, sure. But I’m not good at healing magic. I couldn’t tell it was going to be like this.” Rei wipes his knife down with the damp washcloth. It’s all a little much to take in -- Rei being so casual, Minchan so shocked, this place and Lysander’s salve actually working. His head spins with this slew of information. Judging by the softness of Rei’s face, he’s noticed. He puts a hand on Lysander’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You have a talent. Very potent magic. You’ll make a great healer one day, baby witch.” For the umpteenth time, Lysander’s heart skips a beat.

#❝ a movie called life // lysander stories.#❝ a movie called life // minchan stories.#❝ a movie called life // rei stories.#❝ a movie called life // lilac stories.

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killingkueen · 7 years ago

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something old, something new

A RCIJ fic for @thatravenclawbitch

Prompt: lovers who can’t move on

Summary: she returned as a favor to Jefferson, that was all. she hadn’t meant to open old wounds

Rating: idk. M-ish? There’s much talk of detailed sexy times, but not much happening otherwise.

It started with milk.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Jefferson.”

“Don’t want—” he sputtered. “Belle, you go out for a quick grocery run and you return hours later, sans any actual groceries, might I add—”

Her purse thumped loudly as she dropped it to the table, knocking the mail to the floor. She opted to ignore it.

“Leave it alone.” She had barely managed to come away with her dignity, and he was concerned about groceries.

“—with more spots on your neck than a leopard, hair a mess—”

While she kept herself from tugging on her collar, Belle couldn’t help but run another hand through said hair, conscious of the fact that it was very much no longer in the neat style it was when she had left. Her wrists hurt too, from where they’d been squeezed, and she was pretty sure there was a mark on her back from how hard she’d hit the edge of the sink.

“Jeff, please.”

Milk, of all fucking things.

“Darling, you have been ravaged and I want the details. Did it happen in the parking lot? Did some Fabio sweep you off your feet so suddenly you just had to have him in your car? Or—” he lowered his voice, eyes gleaming. “Was shopping all a ruse and you snuck out to meet with a Tindr date?”

Belle rolled her eyes so hard she almost felt them rattle (though she could admit that she had missed his dramatic tendencies). “Are you so shocked?”

“Hardly. I’m jealous. You’re here to help me get laid.”

Her lip twitched, then bloomed into a full smile despite herself. “As if you need my help.”

“I do just exude sex appeal, don’t I?” He shot her his best smoulder, pouting his lips, his hands up to frame him face.

“And have a jawline that could cut glass.” Belle leaned back against the counter, relieved he was letting her change the subject. “Chicks dig that, you know.”

“I admit I was hoping for the more masculine crowd, but I’ll be sure to show off my good side all the same.”

He wandered over to the (empty) fridge, pulling down the take-out menus that were pinned to it. “Speaking of, the beautiful bride-to-be wants me there extra early for the rehearsal. You okay coming with me? She could use the manpower.”

Belle absently ran her fingers over her neck, ignoring the pleasant soreness. “That’s fine, I guess. Is there a lot left to do, then?”

“I’m the maid of honor, Blue Belle. My sacred duties are never complete.” He flashed another smile at her before shuffling the menus about in his hands. “But, her future father-in-law is apparently a bit much, so I think she just wants someone on her side to run interference in case he gets nosy.”

“What, too overbearing? Judgmental?”

“More ‘surly asshole.’” He eyed the marks along her neck, only getting deeper in color. “Actually, you might want to do something about those. Then again, if you wear that nice green dress, you know, the one with the low scoop neck? He might be so scandalized he’ll forget about Emma completely.”

“I'm not some sacrificial lamb,” Belle laughed, tugging again at her collar.

“Anything for the cause, darling. Now then,” he held the menus out like a spread deck of cards. “Do you want Chinese, Korean, or pizza?”

Shifting on her feet, she looked at the options without much enthusiasm. It was after all the same spread they had been enjoying all week, since Belle arrived; lunch, dinner, and leftovers for breakfast if they could stomach it.

“And to think I promised you an actual home-cooked meal tonight.”

“You’re the one who decided getting your rocks off was more important than groceries. Be grateful I’m letting you choose at all.”

She pursed her lips. She did feel a little bad about that, actually.

She had been in the dairy isle. Her phone in one hand, typing out a message to August about her latest article, the other hand pulling out a half gallon of milk. She had glanced down to check the expiration date, had looked to her phone when it tried to autocorrect ‘blunder,’ the door to the fridge closed with a cool gush of air, and when she looked up, there, behind her, reflected in the glass—

“If you feel that strongly about it, how about you decide then?”

“Belle?”

She turned away, resisting the urge to sweep her purse to the floor (it’d be a mess to clean up, and not the satisfying kind). She reached for the cupboard nearest her, hoping for a glass. No luck; only plates awaited her.

“Try the one to the left,” Jeff said, realizing her intention.

She heard the faint swish of paper as he fiddled with the menus.

“I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it,” he said as she filled a glass from the faucet. “But bottling things up has never worked for you.”

Belle took a sip of water. She would kill for a window she could look through, right now. A spice rack, even. Anything but the sad, peeling yellow wallpaper of Jefferson’s apartment.

“I looked up, and there he was,” she said finally. “He…had cut his hair.”

“You knew him, then?”

“I did, yeah.” Her gaze shift from the sad wallpaper to the sink; clean, shining. A true contradiction to Jefferson’s sporadic, messy nature. “From before.”

He hummed behind her. She could practically feel his frown.

“He kept it long, you know? Used to, rather. I could see his ears. Never seen them before.” They were pointed, slightly curved inward, like a pixie’s, but that wasn’t what had stood out to her, when his face had appeared over her shoulder. His eyes had been dark; two storm clouds ready to split, or swallow her whole. The sharp angles of his face were nearly jagged in the glass, especially without the soft frame of his hair. His face was pale, his lips pinched at the corners. She wanted to run her fingers along the line of his brow, but he looked too sharp to touch, like if she tried, she’d bleed.

“And that got you hot and bothered?”

Belle rolled her eyes at the wall, not giving that the benefit of a response. “I dropped the milk.”

“The milk?”

“He was just suddenly there, and he surprised me, and I dropped the milk, okay?” She turned to face Jefferson, who had his hands up in a placating gesture. She sighed. Lowered her voice. “At least it was only a half gallon.”

“And?”

“The jug broke, and it was all over the aisle, and I had milk running down my leg, and he was just...looking at me.” His suit was unfamiliar, his shirt a light purple she hadn’t seen him wear before. He was altogether brand new and just the same as he’d been the last day she saw him; he even still had a pocket square. A fucking pocket square, placed expertly in his meticulous three piece suit, that he was wearing in early summer, in Boston.

Of course she’d embarrass herself. Of course not a drop of milk landed on him; it wouldn't dare.

“I left the basket right there in the aisle. Ran to the bathroom.” She needed to be somewhere else, where he wasn’t looking at her. Where he wouldn’t open his mouth and—

“The bathroom?”

“He, uhm, followed, which I wasn’t expecting. There was a knock, and there he was, again, with my purse and cell phone, and…”

“How courteous.”

“I pulled him in, locked the door, and before I knew it, my back was against the sink, my skirt was hiked up to my waist, and my panties were...” she shrugged. “Elsewhere.”

Jefferson gave her a searching look, from the top of her head to the love bites on her neck, to the pale expanse of her legs. She shifted uncomfortably; Jeff was perceptive at the worst of times.

“He kept them, didn’t he? Your panties.”

“He did, the bastard. I liked that pair.”

Jefferson snorted. “I didn’t know you had it in you.” He dropped the menus on the counter, his movement careless. “You got off, at least?” he asked.

Belle huffed, annoyed at his casual tone.

“Look, Belle, if you’re going to fuck your ex-boyfriend in a grocery store bathroom, you might as well get off.”

“Yes, God. He got me off.”

Admitting that much was a mistake. His eyebrow waggled. “Oh, he did, did he?”

“That’s all you’re getting out of me, you pervert. I’ve said quite enough already.” Belle took another sip of water. She paused, eyes narrowing. “I never said he was my ex.”

“Didn’t you?”Jeff knelt down to pick up the mail she had spilled, setting it back on the table without looking at it. “You can pick the take-out, but I’ll choose what we watch, yeah?”

That meant she was at the mercy of VH1. She looked to the menus abandoned on the counter, sore and empty, and wondered how much more of America’s Next Top Model she could take.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt Jeff’s arms go around her shoulders, crushing her to him, her arms pressed to his chest, water spilling between them. He ignored how it soaked into his shirt.

“Boston is a big place, honey bird,” he said. “You’re not here much longer—chances are you won’t see him again.”

She sighed, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and wild flowers (he smelled nothing like cedar. Nothing like woodsmoke and whiskey).

“Yeah,” she said, her voice tight and small. “You’re probably right.”

Belle cursed under her breath as she turned into the parking lot of Behind the Glass Sports Bar and Grill, the venue of the wedding. She pulled into the first empty space she could find, between a blue minivan and a yellow bug. After a quick scan, she found Jefferson’s car near the back of the lot, and gave a sigh of relief. She might be late, but at least she was in the right place.

Stupid dreams, keeping her awake last night. Stupid Jefferson, letting her sleep in and not waking her on time. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

At least her dress made it look like she put effort into her appearance, and that she had the foresight last night to rub vinegar against the bites on her neck. They had faded to a light enough blemish that she was able to conceal them with her make up before she had made a mad dash from the apartment.

Belle looked at her face critically in the visor mirror. Digging through her purse, she pulled out her soft pink lipstick, putting on a quick coat before stepping out of her car. There. She was as ready as she’d ever be. She didn’t have mascara, and only her concealer, but a good shade of lipstick worked wonders in a pinch.

When she stepped through the door to the bar, she was met with a large room; sports decal and neon signs lining the walls, large TVs set up high so a screen or three could be viewed from any vantage point. Despite it being nearly noon, the place was empty. Well. Nearly.

“Belle!” Jeff said extravagantly. “Welcome to our base camp!” He was beside her almost instantly, as if he were waiting by the door like a puppy. “So glad to see you made it.”

His hands gripped her shoulders, and he peered into her face critically, his eyes making a path down to her neck.

“Feeling better?”

“I got a lot of sleep. I needed it, apparently.”

Jefferson nodded, his arm sliding around her waist as he turned, his hand pressing lightly at the small of her back so he could lead her into the building.

“It’s important to feel refreshed. This is your vacation, mind, no matter how you might be put to work. Now,” he said, pushing open a door that was next to what Belle presumed to be the kitchen. “How about I introduce you officially to the bride and groom.”

The room Belle had been led to was private, a place set aside for large parties away from the other guests. Most of the tables were pushed against the far wall, the chairs stacked next to them. At the only table in the center was a blonde woman, arms crossed and leaning back in her seat. She had turned to watch them when they entered. The man to her right was still bent over whatever it was they had spread out before them on the table.

“You must be Belle,” the woman said, standing.

“And you’re Emma.” Belle smiled warmly, holding out her hand. “Jefferson has told me so much about you.”

Emma grunted. “I can only imagine. I assure you he’s told me far too much about you.”

The words were standoffish, but the tone was warm, even despite the not quite smile on her face. Belle couldn’t help a laugh. “Yes, he does have far more enthusiasm then sense, doesn’t he?” she said, voice bright.

“You guys are both so mean to me. It’s a wonder I put up with it at all.” Jeff said.

By now the groom had stood also.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Belle. It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

The groom was tall, with slightly curly hair and a good amount of stubble. His eyes crinkled, friendly and open when he smiled at her, his hand large and warm as they shook.

“I’m Neal. And please don’t worry about it. I understand how Jefferson can keep you up at night.”

He grunted as Emma jammed her elbow into his side.

“Don’t be gross,” she said.

“Not what I meant,” he laughed, dodging another jab. He kissed her cheek, before he slid back out of her reach.

“No, I know what you mean. He doesn’t turn off,” Belle said with a pointed look in his direction.

“I let you sleep in, didn’t I?”

“I was told I’d be put to work,” Belle said, watching as Neal sat back down. “I’m good at organizing, if you need it.” She looked back at the tables and chairs that were pushed against the wall. “How many are you expecting?”

“There’s you and me,” Jefferson said. “We make up the wedding party on Emma’s side. The best man is Neal’s best friend from college.”

“Mulan’s great,” Neal said, “Real life of the party.”

Emma snorted. “Her girlfriend somehow convinced us to let her be the flower girl and ring-bearer.”

“Apparently it was her dream as a kid to be a flower girl, but she grew up with a distinct lack of weddings, so she never got the chance.” Neal said. “So out of the goodness of our hearts, we’re letting her live her dream.”

“And to top it off,” Jefferson said, “Philip will be officiating.”

“And Phillip is…?” Belle asked.

“Their boyfriend,” Emma said, voice flat.

She looked to the blonde, wondering if it was a joke. From the look on her face, it was not. Belle nodded. “This wedding is going to be amazing.”

“They’ll be here tomorrow, for the actual ceremony,” Neal said.

It was a little odd that three key players in the wedding wouldn’t be attending the researshal, but Belle didn’t comment. She was getting the feeling they were going for a small affair; as long as everyone knew their lines, she was sure it would be fine. “How many other guests?” she asked, thinking of how to set up the tables and chairs.

“My father will also be here,” Neal said. “He’s the reason we don’t just go the courthouse, honestly.” Neal scratched the back of his head, frowning. “Lot less trouble if we do it that way, but he was insistent.”

Belle turned back to the couple when no one continued.

“Wait, so, your father, your party of three, me and Jeff,” Belle listed. “That’s all? For this entire place?”

“We wouldn’t let him pay for the honeymoon, so he’s paying for the party,” Emma said. She crossed her arms, leaning back against the table. “He demanded a venue, so I gave him one. Sue me.”

“If it seems like this has all been put together very quickly and last minute, it’s because it was,” Neal said, smiling.

“Hardly something to be proud of,” a new voice interjected. A very familiar voice, that was accompanied with the very familiar tap of a gold-handled cane. “If you’d both just give me a little more time, I could get a wonderful ceremony set up for you.”

Once, when Belle was a kid, her babysitter had taken her to a park. Near the edge had been a tire swing, four holes drilled into the flat side of the rubber and hoisted up with glinting metal chains, hung about three feet from the ground. She had begged and pleaded to be allowed a turn, and her babysitter had finally given in.

An older boy had offered to swing it for her. When the kid pulled on one of the chains she spun around and around, the world becoming blurry and fluid.

“Again! Again!” she yelled when she slowed.

The boy pulled harder. Belle, somehow, let go.

She never forgot the feeling of being suddenly airborne, of landing hard on her back, the wind whooshing from her chest.

Hearing the tap of a cane, the soft brogue of his voice, she felt just as small and vulnerable as she had been as a child, stunned and wheezing, staring up into the sky not knowing what had happened.

Jefferson raised his eyebrow at what had to be the shock on her face. He stepped closer, arm once again winding around her waist.

Belle tried to breathe, to calm her fluttering heartbeat.

“Hey, Pops,” Neal said, standing again. He crossed the room and clasped his father on the shoulder. “Wed don’t want a grand affair. What we have now is more than perfect,” he said with the air of someone who’s repeated the line many times before. “We were just about to make a game plan for the day. Have you met Emma’s friends yet?”

His brown eyes (soft when looking at his son, sweet like molasses) flickered to Jefferson and Belle, who stood like pillars. She watched his eyes harden, the sweetness evaporating right before her eyes.

He looked to her, then to Jeff, beside her.

With a final press of his hand on her back, Jeff stepped forward, bowing grandly. “Jefferson Louis Masters, at your service. And my lovely date, Miss Belle Marie French.”

She fought the urge to curtesy. “My middle name isn’t Marie, you loon.”

“No?” Jeff straightened. “It should be.” He turned back to his audience, lip twitching when he was met with a steely glare.

“Miss French, how lovely to see you again.” The words sounded as if they were forced past his tongue, grimacing as if each were a tooth pulled.

“Mr. Gold,” she said quietly. “It’s been too long.”

“Has it?” His hand gripped the handle of his cane, his knuckles turning white.

His hand had been at her throat, yesterday; not squeezing, not applying any pressure, just holding. His other, on her hip, pressing her into the sink as he moved inside her.

She had traced the bruise he left last night, had remembered the delightful feel of it forming against the material of her skirt.

“I didn’t know you had a son,” Belle said. Her hand, unseen by the others in the room, clenched into the material of Jefferson’s waistcoat at his back.

Gold’s tongue flickered, wetting his lips. “And why would you?”

He hadn’t said anything, when his body was pressed to hers. She’d heard only his stuttered breath on her face, on her neck, his tongue tracing her collarbone. He gasped when he came inside her, the sound pulled from him.

Jefferson squeezed her shoulder. She tore her face away from Gold in time to see Jeff look away from her. She watched as his eyes narrowed, sizing Gold up. “You have very cute ears,” he said before Belle could think of anything to say.

Gold pursed his lips, unamused.

Belle wanted to sink into the floor. “Jeff,” she groaned. Far too perceptive.

“Right,” Neal said loudly. She had almost forgotten there were other people in the room. “Game plan. Flowers and cake.” Neal looked from Belle to his dad, then to Emma. She shrugged, as clueless as he was.

“We thought everyone would like to get on with their Saturdays, so we decided to divide and conquer,” Neal continued. “Emma can pick out her bouquet and some arrangements for the room, and me and Papa will pick out a cake. Belle, I thought maybe you could come with me and my old m—”

“My expertise is in flowers, actually. Jeff, you can vouch for that,” she said, quickly. “How about I go with Emma, instead? Besides, it’ll be fun, just us girls.”

“What—” Jeff said. “Wait a—”

“I know how much you love sweets,” she said, voice too loud, too cheerful. She was careful to keep her eyes on Jefferson, which was hard to do considering the betrayal that was present in his face.

Emma and Neal shared a look.

“Sounds good to me,” Emma said, pulling on a red leather jacket. “We’ll see you gents later, yeah?”

“Belle,” Jeff said, but she was already headed out the door.

“Save your receipts, Miss Swan,” she heard, but she did not look back.

The door closed behind her as she stepped back into the empty bar. It looked large and open with the sunlight streaming through the windows, when it was empty of patrons. It was friendly, though, and very warm. It wasn’t hard to imagine it full of people, there to watch the big game and drink with friends.

“You wanna drive?” Emma asked from behind her, drawing Belle away from the room.

“Ah, yes, that would be fine. You can tell me where we’re going.”

They stepped out into the sunshine together, Belle unlocking her car.

“You tell me. You’re the flower expert.”

“Oh,” Belle laughed, the sound a little forced. She quickly picked up her loose books and magazines from the passenger side and placed them in the seat behind her. “That was—I meant—”

Belle took a deep breath. She clutched the steering wheel like a lifeline. “I was referring to my father, mostly. He owned a flower shop, and I spent some time there when I was a kid. A lot of time, actually. So.”

Emma grunted. She shifted in her seat so she could reach her phone in her back pocket. “So you don’t know any good places around here.”

“Exactly. You navigate.” Belle started her car, looking behind her to pull out. “Look up the best five flower shops; we can look around, see what’s available. Since you need everything by tomorrow, we might have to go to several places.” Belle could faintly remember the days of going to work with her father. They got a lot of walk-ins, but most wedding bouquets were special orders, and she wasn’t sure what would be available so last minute.

“We’re not doing anything fancy,” Emma said, rolling her eyes, and typing something into her phone. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Right. Emma had probably been strong-armed into having a bouquet in the first place—though the thought of anyone trying to force Emma to do anything was laughable. Belle wondered if she had bothered to get a wedding dress.

Belle drove straight for another block before Emma said, “Hey, there’s a place close. Take a left up here.”

She flipped her blinker down, pulling into the turning lane.

“So,” Emma extended the word on her exhale. “You know Gold, huh?”

We were...ah…” Belle counted cars as they passed, waiting for a break so she could go. “Briefly acquainted, yes.”

Emma nodded slowly, her face carefully neutral.

“How long is ‘briefly’?”

“About 15 months,” Belle said after a long pause. She swallowed, throat tight.

“You owe him money or something? Take a right after the next light.”

Belle gave Emma a startled look.

She shrugged. “I keep telling Neal that Gold is a borderline loan shark. It’s going to come back to bite him one of these days.”

“N-no. I don’t owe him money.”

Emma hummed. “Grab the next parking space you find. We can walk from here.”

It was another block before Belle was able to pull to the side of the street and park. They both got out of the car, Belle locking it behind them. She grabbed for her wallet so she could pay for the meter, but Emma was faster, already feeding coins into its hungry mouth.

Emma turned to her, sighed. She put her hands into her jacket pockets. “I don’t know what all Jeff has told you about the wedding, but if you don’t want to be here, you can absolutely bail.”

There was a small part of Belle (and she wouldn’t admit to herself just how large it really was) that wanted to take Emma up on her offer. She could climb back into her car and leave, just as she had before.

She was still that little girl, hanging onto the chain links of a tire swing, watching the world blur past her, pretending she wasn’t a part of it.

Belle had hit the ground once, and she’d gotten back up. Surely she could do it now.

“I get it,” Emma said. “Gold can be a bit much.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Emma. But, look on the bright side,” she said, trying to sound more cheerful than she felt. “You have the perfect distraction. Gold will spend all his time this weekend hating me that he’ll forget about you completely.”

Emma snorted. “He’ll remember me soon enough.” Her eyes searched Belle’s face, but looking for what, Belle couldn’t say.

She shrugged, eyes sliding away. “Come on then.”

“It was excruciating.”

“It can’t have been that bad,” Belle lied, pretending to peruse Jeff’s bookshelves.

Jefferson glared at her. She could feel the sting of it at the back of her head. “Belle.” He waited until she turned to look at him. “I just spent three hours with a man who was radiating pure fury and hatred, the pure definition and embodiment of a lover scorned.”

“Jeff—”

“Of a lover scorned, Belle.” He snapped. “He thinks you’re my girlfriend.”

That made her pause. It wasn’t an unnatural conclusion to come to, really. Not with how affectionate her and Jefferson were, and wasn’t that Jeff’s own fault? He had introduced her as his date.

“If that bothers you—”

“It’s not that it bothers me. You’re a catch, Belle, but that’s not the problem.”

“I don’t—”

“Three hours, Belle. Three hours with a man who thinks he had sex with my girlfriend in a supermarket bathroom, and that I don’t know about it.” He flung himself on the couch, massaging his temples.

“Yeah, that would be awkward.”

“Awkward,” he scoffed. “I went along with it, by the way, if I haven’t made that clear.”

Belle sat down next to him. He put his head on her shoulder.

“It seemed the reasonable thing to do, since. You know,” he sighed.

Since I’m too ashamed to be in the same room as him? Since I’m too much of a coward to face him?

“Thanks for taking that bullet, I guess.”

Jeff groaned. “The thing is, Belle, the thing is—” He waved his hand in the air. “He looked for you. When we got back, cakes in hand—he insisted on three, for some reason, so chances are we’ll be stuck with leftovers—he looked for you. He thought he was being subtle, and I don’t know what he thought he was going to say. When he saw Emma was the only one at the bar, he just. Deflated. Didn’t look surprised, just disappointed. Bid us good day, and left, shoulders hunched like he was going out into a storm.”

Belle didn’t say anything. She didn’t trust her voice.

“Maybe I’m just projecting,” he said into the silence of the apartment. “I half expected you to be gone myself, when I returned ho—”

“Want to get irresponsibly drunk tonight?” Belle asked, before he could finish.

Jefferson sat up, his face so close to hers she could see the darker shade of blue around his irises. His gaze was intense, piercing.

Belle looked away. She had been examined enough for one day.

“Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

Belle was on her third glass of wine, leftover Chinese food left abandoned on the floor beside them. They had ended up on the floor, rather than on the couch or in the kitchen, but Belle couldn’t bring herself to care just then.

“The sex was always good, Jeff. right from the beginning, that man could do stuff to me that I didn’t even think was possible. No, I mean it,” she said when he snorted into his own wine glass; only his second, and he wa nursing it. “He knew exactly how to play me.”

She leaned back, her head resting on the couch cushion. “I trusted him completely. I’ve never been more content with a partner. I mean it. I trusted him so much, if—if he had so much as hinted that he wanted anal, I would have said ‘absolutely, let’s do this. I’ll grab the lube and condoms’.”

Jeff laughed outright at that. The sound gave her a warm feeling in her stomach that the wine couldn’t reach. “Have you ever tried anal?” he asked.

“Once. It was easily the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been in my life. But he’d have made it good for me. It was always good, with him. Gold took such good care of me.”

He was shaking with suppressed laughter. She wasn’t sure what was so funny, but she didn’t mind.

“Best sex I ever had was with older men, too, now that I think about it,” he admitted. “Mostly.”

“Yeah. Mostly.” Belle took another sip of wine. “What?” she asked, seeing that Jeff was looking at her, his eyes half-lidded with a mischievous glint.

“Was it always good with Gold? Even the first time?”

“Yeah, of course,” she said quickly. Too quickly, she could see.

“Tell me,” he said.

Belle never needed much convincing when she drank wine.

“It took a month into having sex before I gave him a blow job,” she admitted. “He never asked me to. I almost thought maybe he just didn’t like them. Whenever I tried to—” she waved her hand at her lap— “go down, he’d pull me back up and I’d get distracted, you know? And, like, I never really cared that much. God knows blowjobs are overrated.”

Jeff snorted. “Says you.”

She elbowed him. “I asked him about it once. He was sitting at his work bench, explaining to me how this antique—fuck, was it a hearing aid?—in front of him worked, and I had a sudden thought of how nice it would be, if my head were in between his thighs.”

“God, you focus on the weirdest things. His ears. A hearing aid. Oh my god, that’s it, isn’t it? You have a secret—”

She elbowed him again, harder this time, wine sloshing dangerously in her glass. If Jeff wasn’t careful she was going to stain his carpet. “He spent plenty of time between mine, you know, and I just—I just wanted to reciprocate for once.”

“How much convincing did it take?”

“Well, I said, ‘Gold, I want to suck you off. Now. Can I?’ And he just looked at me, surprised. That was it, really. He offered to move to the cot, to make it more comfortable for me, but I wanted him on that bench. So I crawled under the table, and, uhm, took him out.”

Jeff watched her as she talked, a filthy smirk on his face. “I bet he loved that, hm? Was he just like velvet on your tongue, hmmm?”

She snorted, her wine going up her nose when she tried to take another drink. “God—Jefferson!”

“I don’t know why you’d be so scandalized by that. It’s not like you don’t know I’ve given blow jobs before.”

She was laughing, her hands nearly shaking too hard to keep her glass steady. “Why am I even telling you this?”

“No, no please continue. I want to hear what happened.”

She licked at her hand where her wine splashed, the salt of her skin mixing with the sweet twinge of black cherry.

“I forgot where I was.”

“You were giving that man the best head of his life.” He frowned. “No, wait. You’re telling a story about bad sex. Belle,” he gasped, as if realizing her deepest secret. “Are you bad at blowjobs?”

She wondered if throwing something at him would be more effective. “That’s not—God, let me finish.” She leaned against the couch, remembering that day. The feel of his on her tongue, indeed like velvet: soft and hard all at once. His hands clawed into the table because he was worried about pulling too hard on her hair.

She remembered especially looking up into his face, his eyes wild and pupils blown wide, staring at her with such a look of what could only be called rapture. He watched her every movement so carefully, as if it was the last time she was ever going to touch him like that. It felt good, to be the one to make him look like that.

She had just wanted him to feel good. Wanted. Loved.

“When he, uh, was close, I pulled off and asked if he wanted to come in my mouth.” She paused, frowning down at her glass.

“Did he give you the wrong answer?”

Belle snickered. “Nope.” Before Jeff could ask what she meant, she said, “He shot off, right then and there.”

“He came on your face,” Jefferson gasped.

“He did!” she squealed, laughing. “It was partly my fault. The way I was holding him. If I had aimed for, God I don’t know, his stomach it wouldn’t have been so bad, but nope.”

Jefferson was wheezing, laughing with such glee she almost couldn’t make out his next sentence. “I can just imagine the look on your face.”

“He was the one horrified. He was sure I was about to storm out and not come back. He couldn’t enjoy the orgasm he was so worried.”

“Like you’d leave with come on your face,” he snickered.

“Right.” Belle leaned back against the couch again. She stared up at the ceiling as their laughter died down.

“Belle,” Jeff said into the quiet. The refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. “What happened?”

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was Jeff’s voice. Maybe it was two years of silence, too heavy to carry any further.

“I just had to leave.”

“But why?” he insisted, sitting up. “You disappeared for months, with absolutely no word to anyone, and then when you finally get back in contact, you’re on the west coast? I thought maybe you had gone home to Australia, or fuck, been murdered or kidnapped into some cult, but no, you’re in fucking Oregon like some fucking hipster—” he cut himself off. When he spoke next, his voice was back to a low, even timber. “You were just gone, Belle.”

Her mouth was too dry to speak. She swirled what was left of the wine in her glass, watching the legs as they trailed down the sides like tears.

“Please. What happened?”

What did we do to drive you away?

“I don’t know,” she lied.

Jeff leaned down, sprawling on the floor. His arms knocked into the take-out containers, but he didn’t seem to care. Belle wasn’t sure where he had put his wine.

“Look, I can’t make you talk to me. I’m glad you’re here, Belle, but I don’t like the feeling of not knowing if you’re going to answer my phone calls, or if you’re still going to be here when I come home.”

Belle closed her eyes. It’s not that she didn’t want to talk, exactly; it was just that she wasn’t sure where to start. How did she open up those old wounds and face the disappointment she had caused?

“Disappointment?” Jeff asked, looking at her. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “That’s what you’re afraid of?”

When she left, she didn’t have to think about how much she had hurt him, them, everyone, or how much she had lost when she ran away when she did. So, yeah. Disappointment.

“I’m disappointed, Belle. You broke my heart, too, you know.” He leaned over, kissed her forehead. “But people get over disappointment.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her in. “You need to talk to us, Belle.”

“I just left,” she said quietly. “I just left him. I…” she sighed, wishing she hadn’t poured that third glass. “He didn’t even tell me he had a son.”

“Is that why, then? Because he wasn’t opening up?”

“No,” she admitted. “We talked a lot, about other things. About…” She waved a hand. “Other things. I kept telling myself, though, that it was only sex. That is was convenient and neither one of us felt any more.” She bit her lip. “I left, Jeff, and he never called. I guess I just convinced myself he had to think the same.”

“I see.” He sat up on his elbows. “You know something? Once you get past the asshole outer layer, the guy’s hilarious. I want him to be my new best friend.”

That surprised a laugh out of her.

“I’m serious. That man knows how to roast someone and I need him on my side. If you can’t fix this and heal for yourself, do it for me, Belle. If you don’t want this man in your life, I will happily take your place.”

“From what you’ve said about today, he’d more likely to push you into traffic.”

“I would take that chance. We’d be happy together.”

She rolled over so her head was on his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him. “You’d make anyone happy.”

He kissed her temple. “If you won’t talk to me, Belle, at least talk to him. He’s been waiting for you a lot longer than I have.”

She tugged at his vest, straightening it. “Why can’t we just run away together.” She breathed in his cologne. He smelled nothing like Gold, but it was still comforting.

“Because we both deserve better.”

“What if he doesn’t want me anymore?”

His arms wound around her shoulders, squeezing once, then letting go. “Talk to him, Belle.”

“Yeah,” she said, closing her eyes. “You’re right.”

Short and simple, Emma had said.

Belle stood in the middle of the party room at Behind the Glass Bar and Grill, a table at her back decorated with a pristine tablecloth, three simple single sheet cakes (one chocolate, one vanilla, one pumpkin spice with cream cheese frosting), and a vase full of bright wildflowers.

She watched as Emma swept into the room, all eyes on her, on her slim white dress that hugged her hips, on her bouquet of vibrant sunflowers, hibiscus and orchids. Jefferson was beaming, hands clasped in front of him, standing as still as Belle had ever seen him. Across from him was Neal, unshaven but otherwise looking crisp in his tux. Beside him was Mulan and Aurora, holding hands as they all watched Emma come down their makeshift aisle.

Even Gold was smiling, happy to share the day with his son. She watched his smile deepen when Neal held his hand out to Emma.

Phillip nodded to both of them. “Welcome to the ceremony,” he said to the small group gathered. “Everyone knows why we’re here, and I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we all couldn’t be more thrilled to witness this blessed union.”

Belle couldn’t help the smirk when she saw Emma roll her eyes.

Emma and Neal said their vows. Aurora gave them their rings; they kissed. As everyone clapped, Belle looked over at Gold. She was surprised to see that he was already watching her.

He didn’t look away.

The soft light fell against the stone walls of the bar. Belle had been right; the bar was friendly and welcoming when it was filled with people. They had all moved out onto the main floor, everyone uncaring about their fancy attire.

Sunday wasn’t a huge pull for people, but there was enough noise and camaraderie, especially when patrons discovered Gold was picking up their checks in celebration of Emma’s and Neal’s nuptials. They were even offered a piece of cake, for as long as it lasted.

Belle sipped her water, watching Gold as he fiddled with his ring at his end of the bar. He was stiff, nursing a glass of whiskey, but had a handshake and a ready smile for anyone who came up to thank him for the free food and drinks.

She slowly made her way towards him, moving down a chair every so often. They both pretended that he wasn’t watching her get closer and closer.

Finally, all too soon, she was sitting next to him, staring into her drink. He watched the hockey game that was playing on the TV overhead, but she would bet the running tab he had that he wasn’t absorbing a bit of it.

“Did Emma choose this place just to annoy you?” she asked.

He looked at her in surprise, but Belle just shrugged. “You can’t tell me you’re comfortable.”

“This is where they met,” he said, after a moment. “They really didn’t care where it happened. I more or less called her bluff, I think.”

“Oh.”

They watched as a player took a shot. He missed.

“Jefferson and I aren’t together,” Belle said. “Never have been. We’re just friends.”

She felt him turn his gaze to her, but she kept her eyes on the screen. “We didn’t mean to mislead you. I’m sorry that happened.”

He looked down into his whiskey glass. “I see.”

She wondered if he missed his long hair; there wasn’t anything for him to hide behind anymore.

“I’m sorry I left,” she blurted.

His eyes flickered to hers, and she saw his lip twitch. He was desperately trying to keep his poker face.

“Are you?”

“My father died.” She gripped her water glass, the cold condensation wetting her skin. “There was a car accident, and he was just gone once day, and. It was too small, suddenly. Boston, my apartment. I felt claustrophobic and small, and I just...needed to leave, and…”

“So you did,” he finished quietly.

“So I did.” She swallowed back the tears threatening. “My lease was up, the semester had just ended at the college, so the library had cut my hours. The only thing really keeping me here was you. I kept telling myself that it was only sex, that it didn’t matter if I left. And then you didn’t even call, and I managed to convince myself that’s what you thought too. That I was right.”

“I’m sorry about your father.”

“Yeah,” she sucked in a breath. She let go of her glass, wiping her wet hand on her dress. “I…yeah. That’s no excuse though. I’m sorry I did that.”

He looked at her, eyes golden brown in the light of the bar. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and not let go this time.

“How long are you in town?”

“I don’t know.”

He grimaced. Gold opened his mouth to say something when he was interrupted by loud cheers from the other end of the bar. Neal had just dipped Emma, kissing her soundly as their audience clapped.

Belle felt her color rise. This was an inappropriate time to try to have this conversation. “I should let you enjoy the rest of the wedding,” she said. “It was a beautiful ceremony.”

Just as Belle was slipping away, his hand caught her wrist, pulling her back.

“Come to my shop tomorrow,” he said. “We can… we’ll talk there.”

Belle kissed him, just on the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she promised.

The shop hadn’t changed. There was the sign that hung above the door, large and old. Almost outdated, if it didn’t compliment the rustic brick building, and every other building on the block.

Belle stood on the sidewalk, counting the items she recognized in the display cases (she kept telling him to rotate stock out, but he never did. Maybe they could do it together. It was a good thought, she decided).

It was early, but the sun was bright. She tugged awkwardly on her sundress, wondering if he’d be in, or if she’d have to come back. She didn’t want to put this off longer than she already had, nor give him the impression she had disappeared again.

If this was going to work, she couldn’t shut him out. They’d move forward, together.

She took a deep breath. Belle pushed the door open, relieved that it was unlocked. With the bell twinkling above her, she stepped inside.

#rumbelle fic #rumbelle christmas in july #yikes

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