#((I say this as someone who has tickets AND has to beg off a conference in the Middle East a day early to get back for it AND is missing

[waugh-bao]

Rolling Stones Setlist (May 2024, New Orleans)

[alreadyblondenow]

And life will always be la vie en rose

Mark Lee x reader // FLUFF, SMUT, SMUT

Themes: long distance relationship, established relationship, very domestic

Word count: 4k

Summary: The city of love with the person you love. Mark surprises you in Paris but the vacation was not going as expected.

Warnings: phone sex, unprotected sex, swearing, mentions of alcohol, drunk mark lee hehe

A/N: Inspired by Emily in Paris and Mark’s TVN short drama. requested by @mellowvoidexpertfriend​​ sorry it took me awhile :( and I hope this makes you happy. Thank you for requesting it! I wanted to give it a sad ending but figured you might hate me if I do that.

Its been almost seven months since you moved to Paris for work and leave the life you’ve always been used to. Your family, friends, your boyfriend Mark, all of them knew that moving to the city of love for your career is a big step.

Although some of them did not agree with your decision that you’re choosing your career, at least you have your boyfriend’s support no matter what. Mark has been with you since you were just starting at your job, he’s always supportive and caring even though he has his own career to take care of. Long distance is hard, but there’s nothing Mark wouldn’t do for you.

“Good morning, Paris” he greets you with a bright smile, the perfect afternoon light hits his face perfectly. You miss seeing that glow in person.

“Good afternoon, Seoul “ you answered with a raspy tone. Still sleepy but happy to see Mark, even if it’s from your phone screen.

“Tired? I miss you” he says, smiling sweetly through the screen. He was still in bed, comfortably laid with his thick blue sheets and striped fluffy pillows.

“Yes. I have a lot of stuff to do in the office today. But I still got time, no need to rush this call” you stretched in bed.

“Want to have phone sex?” He was hesitating to ask you but Mark was really horny in the middle of a hot afternoon. Good thing mornings make you horny like crazy too, so you said ‘yes’ and the next thing you know is you’re both naked in bed, phone on the bedside table with a perfect view of your naked body.

“Run a finger up and down your slit” he commands. You can hear soft grunts from Mark already, pumping his semi-hard cock on the screen. “Yes baby, you look hot” he moans and you smile at his compliment.

“Oh I miss touching your boobs, the next time I see you I’ll grip those so hard- ah” he was having a hard time talking because watching you touch yourself was always too good and too much for him. “So good baby, pinch your nipples for me” he added. You moan and with your free hand, you lick your fingers and rubbed it on your nipples and made sure to let him hear your soft moans.

“Fuck- that was hot” he was going a little too fast pumping his cock, the sound of it was turning you on, and how Mark bites his lips and rolls his head back, watch you with half-lidded eyes. You just smiled, knowing that he’s your man and only you can see him like this. “What’s that smile for? I love it when you smile like that” you giggle at what he said.

“Baby, I’m near” it was a high-pitched moan and you curl yourself a little, trying to stop yourself from cumming so fast.

“Okay-fuck, spread your legs- yeah just like that” you followed what he said and you see his lower abdomen go up and down a little too fast, obvious that he’s stopping himself from cumming before you do. “Remember how I fucked you during your last night here- Ahhh. You were begging me to stop but I couldn’t cause your pussy is so good”

“Fuck Mark” you were still moaning deliciously, trying not to close your legs for Mark. His eyes were fixed to your body, your lips that he misses so much, how you work wonders with your own fingers.

“Oh! I will, Y/n. I will- fuck—you”

You came first then Mark, you watch his thick cum land on his stomach. Watching him look so weak and sweaty but still handsome. He caught you looking at him while you were cleaning your fingers, he winked at you and smiled which made you shy for no reason.

“I love you. Can I talk to you for a couple more minutes?” he requests, holding his phone near his face after he cleaned his cum.

“I love you too. Of course. We can still talk while I’m in the shower” he nod his head in disbelief. And smiled oh so sweetly to you before he tells you about his morning and how he had a dream of you. He was promoted last month, so there’s not much work for him these days because he’s basically a boss now. To be honest you feel bad for not being with him to celebrate for his promotion, talking to him for as long as he likes is the least you can do for him. Sometimes you’re talking to him while you walk to your office, or having lunch alone, virtual dates, or letting him pick what lipstick suits you on a certain outfit.

For almost a year, it was the little things that make you both even more in love with each other and no one is complaining.

“Hey Y/n, the boss wants to see you with your presentation now” your assistant knocked on your door, holding it for you as you gather your laptop and pretend that you’re not nervous.

“What if she hates my ideas?” you asked your assistant, walking together slowly to the conference room.

“The dragon lady will love it, don’t overthink it” she pats your back good luck and opened the door for you.

During your presentation, your boss had this I’m-bored-can-we-go-home-now face and it was bothering you while you were talking in front. Nonetheless, you delivered every single detail perfectly and smoothly that the other members of the board were impressed, and you hope the dragon lady is too.

“Good. Make it happen. Are we done here? Give her the company credit card and I want updates every week. Dismissed”

That’s your cue to breathe. Finally, you can relax. You were smiling from ear to ear for a minute then you remember all the work that you have to finish. Making this project happen-making this fundraiser happen, will seriously impress your boss and the other members of the board. You can’t afford to fuck up.  

Overworking doesn’t bother you at all, you don’t care if you’re the last one in the office and the first one to come the next day. You love your job and you value it. But to be honest, overworking is your coping mechanism. To stop thinking about home and Mark, just continue until you make it.

You got home and talked to Mark about the great news, of course, he’s very proud of you. Then you talked about the list of things that you have to work on for the project, and you wish you didn’t. Mark loves you, and that’s clear but he hates it when you overwork.

“Can’t you, make someone else do it?” easy for him to say because he’s a boss now.

“No, baby I can’t. This is my one way ticket to be the boss. If I make this happen, then okay, I’ll order everyone I see. But for now... sorry babe, it’s work for me” you said while unzipping your dress and moving around your room to change into some comfortable clothes. “Are you mad?” you asked, hoping he’s not.

“I can’t be mad at you, for loving what you do. I’m worried, that’s all”

After that call, Mark was dealing with some of his work as well and thinking about how he can rescue you from overworking. Well, he only had one effective solution. And that is to visit you in Paris and be with you so he can take care of you for a short time. He wasn’t going to visit until Christmas, but he couldn’t wait much longer.

He gave himself a week to think this all out and plan his surprise to you. He booked a flight, took two weeks off from work, and packed his bags.

You, on the other hand, is busy overworking tonight at the office. You feel heavy and exhausted, hungry but you just want to sleep when you finally get home, and Mark hasn’t messaged you like he normally does in almost two days. You feel awful, but Paris at night can quickly take away all youe exhaustion. Everywhere you look is beautiful.

As you force yourself not to feel tired on your way home, you saw a familiar figure who just got out of the taxi with a bunch of luggage. Am I dreaming? You slightly slap your face and walk slowly behind the man and wait for him to turn around.

When he did, you almost burst into tears.

It’s been seven months since you last saw Mark in the flesh.

“Hi, you look exactly like my girlfriend” he smiled and scrunched his nose, pull you into a hug, and kissed you in front of your apartment building. Paris is starting to feel like the city of love, finally.

You helped him with his bags up to your apartment, feeling so excited and happy that the tiredness that you’re feeling earlier was long gone. As soon as you reached your door and opened it, Mark put down the bags and crashed into your lips. Kissing you in the dark with only the light from your window.

“Oh, I’m never going to leave your side,” he said while hungrily kissing you. Removing your clothes one by one, making a trail of clothes until you reach your room, and pushed you on your bed. It’s been seven months since you last had sex with him and you’re sure that Mark will make you feel good tonight, as always. He may look innocent and cute always, but Mark knows how to fuck.

“We just have to be quiet tonight Mark- French neighbors. Don’t want to piss them with my moans” you warn him before his cold hand lands on your boobs, touch them softly and squeeze them tightly as he promised.

“Okay, let’s just keep our moans between us two” he kisses your lips as his way of saying, he’s going to start now. Kissing you down to your body until he reaches your pussy, to show that you're eager, you spread your legs widely for him and begged quietly. He used his pinky finger and slides it up and down your slit slowly. So slowly that it makes your legs shiver and your hips jolt, giving you goosebumps and making you sensitive already. He smiled at your reaction, happy that he has that effect on you.

“Wet” he murmurs and proceeds to kiss your pussy, like it was your lips. Feeling his hot tongue on your cunt, using it to fuck you. He spits on your cunt and let you feel it roll down your slit. It makes you sensitive and moans his name. He goes back in and licks you good, his hands run softly on your stomach, making you feel calm and confused. When he felt that you’re already on the edge, he watches you moan quietly, pinched your nipples, and did not released it until you’re shivering and shaking your legs uncontrollably.

You catch your breath until you see Mark above you, kissing your cheeks and reaching for your hands to intertwine it with his. “I just miss you, is it too much?” you shook your head with a smile and kissed your boyfriend back.

“My turn to give back,” you said weakly, but you’re already pushing him on the mattress. On your way to straddle the man you love and ride him good. You kissed him softly, grinding on his cock and spreading your juices on it. Brushing his nipples softly, which made him stop kissing you to let out a curse and tell you to don’t stop. It was too much for him but he likes it, overstimulating himself was his favorite and he drags you into that pleasure of his.

As you put his cock inside you, he grab holds on your wrist that he allows you to rest on his strong chest as you fuck him. Seeing you on top of him after for so long was toe-curling for him. The thought of it makes him blush, but also his view of your boobs in front of his face makes him smile too. He licks it once, “Oh- Baby, do that again?” you ask of him, he knew you would like it.

Your boobs are perfectly being sucked by Mark while you bounce up and down on him, rolling your hips at a steady pace. He lets go of your right nipple with a wet sound, feeling both of your nipples really swollen and sensitive. “Can’t hold on much longer baby, let me take over?” he was already on edge, you are too, but you let him take control and let him fuck you senseless that you were covering your mouth to stop yourself from moaning to loud.

“Bite me,” he said and you didn’t think twice, you bit his shoulder as you ride your high. He was cumming so hard too and his whimpers were muffled by the pillow behind you. You feel like he's going to crush your hand by gripping it so tightly and he feels like his shoulder is about to bleed.

It was a romantic night in the city of love. Both exhausted from sex but you two never kept quiet and talked to each other all through the night, watching the Eiffel Tower from your window, bodies covered with your thin sheets. You snuggle to Mark sniffing his armpit and making him giggle like a teenager, he tickles your legs and making you jolt and kick him a little too hard which made you both laugh so hard. You were away from each other for a long time, but your love stays the same and neither one of you is planning to ruin it.

The next day, Mark woke up with the smell of freshly cooked omelet and the zest of freshly squeezed orange juice. He looked at your clock on the bedside table, and it was almost lunchtime. He was quick to put on his glasses and find you, still naked because of last night’s intimacy but he doesn’t care. He feels home because you’re the first person he sees. Mark wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I was wondering where did my shirt go,” he says with a raspy voice. It’s obvious that he’s still sleepy but he wants to spend as much time with you.

“Still sleepy?” you turn around after turning the stove off, “And still naked with only your glasses, huh? You look like a nerdy porn star” you tease him, slap his ass, and made him wear at least his sweatpants and come eat breakfast with you.

“You don’t have work today?” he asks, chewing his omelet and drinking his juice.

“I have but, I call in sick for three days. Wouldn’t want to waste time” you said, smiling and winked at him. “You know, I know why you’re here. And I want you to know it’s working” he chuckled and scratched his head, busted he thought. “But I can only leave work for three days, after that I promise you I will do my best to still be with you, and not waste your time here-“ you were talking too fast, rambling that he didn’t have any choice but to stop you from talking.  

“Understood, baby chill. I’m not here to sabotage your career, I’m here to take care of you”

In those three days, you and Mark enjoy Paris like a married couple enjoying their honeymoon. You’ve never enjoyed Paris like this, all thanks to Mark, the city became even more special and magical for you. You brought him to different French restaurants and made him eat a lot of good food and a lot of Watermelons, of course. You toured the city hand in hand, going to art galleries and taking countless pictures. The winery tour and your dinner date made Mark really drunk and it made him ten times even more funny. It was a struggle to bring him back to your apartment in his drunken state, but you love him too much that you even enjoyed his drunken company.

“I’m gonna ask you to marry me okay? Are you ready?” you help him step by step as you go up to your apartment, laughing so loud and disturbing your french neighbors, he was going on and on talking about marriage. “It’s true, check my pocket get the ring”

There's a huge part of you that secretly hopes that he’s telling the truth. Even if he’s proposing in his drunken state and couldn’t pop a knee, it’s okay. The staircase is still romantic for you and drunk or not, you love Mark with all your heart and soul. If Mark was telling the truth… you will say ‘yes’ and accept it will all your heart.

With all your bravery, you checked the pocket of his jacket and looked for a ring or a box. Honestly, you don’t know what you’re searching for. But there’s no ring. It made you disappointed but just laughed it all out and soothe his back because he’s about to throw up.

You reached your apartment, just in time for Mark to puke and curse every alcohol in the world. “Sorry if I’m a burden” he murmurs, resting his forehead on your toilet bowl while reaching for the flush.

“You’re never a burden. Feeling okay? Come on I’ll help you clean up” you kissed him on the forehead and left to get some clean clothes for him.

You spent the night taking care of Mark, enjoying how he hugs you so tight like he’s a child while he whines about how his head hurts. The night mostly consists of him whispering his apologies and never-ending I love you’s, while you still think about what he said earlier. Even if it didn’t happen tonight, the fact that he brought it up, finally, means that he was thinking of doing it someday. And that thought alone made you throw away your disappointment and hug him even more tightly.

Days go by and you juggle work and spending time with Mark and enjoy Paris. You feel bad letting him visit some great places alone or stay inside your apartment until you come home from work and go out finally. It was heartbreaking in many ways, but you didn’t have a choice.

On Mark’s first weekend in Paris, the first thing you did is wake him so early with loving kisses and go to the market with him. There, you and mark bought food for dinner tonight and promised you will cook for him. He was so in love with the city but had a hard time talking to French people.

“Wow, your French has improved” he praises you, “I read somewhere on the internet that the best way to learn the French language is in bed. Is there something I need to know, huh Baby?” he kissed your forehead to let you know that he’s only joking and completely well aware that cheating on him is beyond impossible.

“Fuck me in Korean then so I can learn it too” it made you both laugh, finding each other completely hilarious.

“Okay, I’ll fuck the Korean words out of you tonight”

The dinner you made was delicious, and it made Mark sad for a second because he realized he has to wait for a few months more to taste your cooking again. To light up the mood, you didn’t let him have a single alcohol tonight and made fun of his alcohol tolerance. And soon, after cleaning up from dinner, you two made love again.

He was balls inside you while you were making the pretties moans only for him to hear, he suddenly moaned Korean words which made you lost it and laughed so loud, your voices could be heard from your open window.

“Were you about to cum? I’m sorry, I just want to make you happy” he said, still inside you but not moving anymore.

“On edge, yeah. But I am, happy Mark. You came to Paris for me, even though I work my ass off while you’re still here. Oh, baby, I feel sorry.” You whine and nuzzle to the side of his sweaty face.

“Will you be happier if I ask you to marry me? Hmm?”

You were like a statue when you heard him talk about it again, and this time he’s sober. He kissed you back to reality, smiling nervously on top of you while waiting for your answer. “Hey” he kissed you again, giggling awkwardly.

“Of-of course I’ll be happy- are you proposing now?” you were stuttering and your hands were shaking as you reach for his face to cup it and kiss him. Tears in your eyes, pure happiness.

“While I'm still inside of you? No- I already have the ring, but with all that’s going on with your work right now. I just had to be sure, you want this. The last thing I want is to ruin our relationship and I’m sorry I had to say this to you while I’m still inside of you-“

You stopped him from rambling and talking too much, “Save it for breakfast. Now, continue fucking me in Korean” you both giggled again in no time. The night went on but it became, even more, sweeter for the both of you, more fucking in Korean happened and both of you slept like angels.

The morning after, you two made breakfast while trying so hard to keep your hands from each other. Obviously, the sweetness from last night hasn’t died yet. Marriage is not always a bed of roses, you’re aware of that, but you pray and pray that you and Mark stay the same like this for many years more.

“So that night at the stairs?” you asked him, taking a sip of from your coffee, eyes never leaving each other.

“I was serious but too drunk. I was going to talk about it with you that night, but…” you understand. Still, it made you happy. The morning was filled with laughter and kisses with Mark, talking more about marriage and the possibilities of having kids, shower sex, and him helping you prepare for work.

When you were just about to leave, “Oh! I almost forgot, fuck, Uhm- I need you to be my date tomorrow night. It’s the event that I’ve been working on, here” you hand him your credit card, “Sorry I can’t go with you. Buy yourself a nice suit okay? I’ll see you at dinner, I’ll be a little late, but I’ll make it to dinner” and again, you feel bad about treating him this way.

Mark is amazing in many ways, he bought a nice suit for your event tomorrow night and looked for a quiet french restaurant where he can propose to you properly. It was not hard, but talking to French people was not easy either. All he had in mind was, you deserved a romantic proposal.

Your most awaited day finally comes and everything is running smoothly. You haven’t seen Mark, because the dragon lady wanted you to get ready with her at the hotel where she was staying. “Have you seen Mark?” you asked your assistant, “I left him at the gallery. I told him you’ll meet him shortly”

After a few minutes of saying 'hi' 'hello' to the guests, you forgot that you were looking for your boyfriend and felt bad for doing that.

“Hey beautiful” he whispered behind you, and you almost spilled your champagne. You turned around and see the most handsome man on Earth, wearing a black and white suit with a slightly crooked bow tie. Your mind swims to the question, ‘will he be this handsome on your wedding day?’

“Wow- I’m speechless” is all you can say while admiring him like he's one of the paintings hanged on the wall.  

“You look expensively beautiful” he greets you with a kiss and you fixed his bow tie, asking for a kiss again that he happily gave. You showed him around and introduced him to your friends, exchanged laughs for a minute then you're around working again, leaving him alone. He watches you do your job, even if he’s left alone most of the time. Nonetheless, the event was a success and you’re soon to be promoted, the dragon lady told you herself.

“Baby, I’m sorry”

“What for? You were great the whole night” he helps you unzip your beautiful Valentino dress.

“How many times did we talk tonight, I feel bad” you whine and helped him with his tie while you’re all exposed, wearing only your black lingerie. He played with the strap of your bra and proceeds to palm your ass. You did the same because he has a much nicer ass, he chuckled and kissed you to bed. Just like that, Mark turned everything around.

It’s his last day in Paris today, he leaves tomorrow morning. And you hate it. The bed feels, even more, warmer with him in it, you’re not ready to let go yet. “Don’t worry. We have forever to make the bed warm. Right?” he tries to cheer you up. “Don’t forget the dinner tonight okay?” he added.

Your day went on with Mark and you two spend more time together talking about life and everything under the sun, laughing while eating watermelons, until you had to leave again for the company dinner. It was supposed to be a night filled with Mark and Mark only but your boss decided to throw a dinner celebration for a successful event the other night, and you can’t miss it because she told you, ‘Show up tonight. Don’t piss me’. with a sly smirk that you oh so hate.  

It was heartbreaking. You don’t know if the dragon lady knew that Mark was going to propose tonight or it’s just your life, ruining your perfect relationship with Mark. The dinner ended almost before midnight and you ran to the restaurant Mark told you not caring anymore if these Manolo pumps cost a fortune.

There, you saw Mark playing the piano while the restaurant staff was already cleaning up, fixing tables and chairs. It's been a while since the last time you saw him play an instrument, he knew you love it when he sings for you. You looked around the place and figured how he found a place like this in a country he's not familiar with. He was trying so hard during his whole stay, and you just watched and you let the people from work drain you until there’s nothing left for Mark.

He was still playing the piano sadly when you embraced him from behind, greeting him with a kiss. Feeling sorry for ruining the night he has planned for the two of you. He stopped and faked a smile, it was obvious and it pains you to see him like this. The space was quiet, and you notice that the staff were nice enough to give you two some privacy. He continued playing the piano and started singing the song his father used when he proposed to his mother.

You feel unworthy of his love.

Mark kissed you before he stands up, but all you wanted to do is say sorry over and over again. But you didn’t want to ruin the mood. You watch him bend on one knee, smiling shyly but you can say that he knows what he's doing. “Even if I already know the answer, and even if you become the busiest woman in Paris, marry me? Make me the happiest man alive?”

You were in tears, but you don’t know if it's made of happiness or sadness. There was a moment of silence that made him nervous and thought that maybe you changed your mind. It was making him nervous.

“Yes yes, of course”

Mark sighed in relief and let out a nervous laugh. He puts the ring on your finger and dried your tears before he kisses you. You see his sharp cheekbones appear from too much smiling and told you that his cheeks hurt.

That very moment made you realize that your job here in Paris and your boss, doesn’t deserve you. You can be amazing somewhere else, somewhere closer to Mark. In that way, you can be busy, yes, but you can come home to him every day and fuck in Korean the whole night.

[abused-sides]

- A and B sit next to each other on public transport. B keeps fidgeting and whimpering, and A realizes that their clothes smell like blood

A being Logan or Janus, B being Virgil. maybe a asks virge what’s wrong and he says that he got sexually assaulted and when he tried to call for help, the people who were sexually assaulting him beat him up. virge was trying to get away from them, he didn’t know where the bus was going and he lost all of his belongings that were in a bag (the sexual assaulters took it and it had like his wallet, sketchbook, medicine, etc.) a offered to take virge home and help and you can decide what happens from there.

totally okay if you don’t want to do this, just an idea >//<

    The train was cold and dark. The rain hammered against the windows, creating a thick mist that made its way into the cabin from an open window to the booth at Logan’s right. It was 2am. The only sounds came from the boy seated in the both facing Logan, hunched in on himself and sniffling. Logan had tried to talk to him earlier, but the boy shrugged him off. 

    Something copper filled Logan’s nose. He’d been trying to find the smell for ages, but couldn’t. Then, the boy shifted, asked the stewardess for water in a gravelly voice, and the smell grew stronger. 

    “You’re bleeding!” Logan gasped. 

    The boy yanked his hoodie back down over his thighs, covering the dark stain in his jeans.

    The stewardess offered medical support, but the boy begged her to leave it alone. She very reluctantly left. 

    “Please, can I get a look at you?” Logan asked. “How much longer of a ride do you have?” 

    “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I just… snuck on. Didn’t plan it.” 

    Bruises decorated the right side of his face, bringing a trail from the huge blotch at his chin to the little pebbles along his brow bone. Fresh blood trailed from his nose. 

    Logan fumbled for a moment before pulling out a handkerchief. He tentatively reached forward. The boy didn’t move. He dabbed at the blood, then gently wiped it away. The boy winced. 

    “I’m Logan,” he said softly. “I’m coming back home from a business conference. What were you doing out?” 

    “Virgil,” he mumbled. “I was… trying to get to a friend.” 

    “Where are they?” 

    “New Evers.” 

    Logan bit his lip. New Evers was four hours in the opposite direction. 

    “How about I put you up for the night and help you figure that out tomorrow?” 

    Virgil looked up at him with watery eyes. He shoved Logan off, who fell into his booth with a grunt, and wrapped his hoodie tight around himself. “No, I’m good.” 

    “You’re not good,” he said flatly. “In fact, I’m worried if you don’t get medical attention—” 

    “I don’t need medical attention!” 

    Logan fell silent. Virgil flinched. 

    “They can’t… help me. They can’t fix what happened.” 

    Logan glanced around. The train car was still asleep, the stewardess long gone. “I’m going to have to insist you let me have a look at you. At least give you some money for a new train ticket.” 

    “How far am I?” He asked softly. 

    “Far. Four hours and counting.” 

    A few tears dripped down Virgil’s cheeks. “Okay.” 

    “What happened?” Logan mumbled as he gently wiped the blood from Virgil’s face. 

    Virgil recounted the story, how he’d been kicked out of his house and decided to travel to the train station since he knew his friend— Remus —would take him in. The streets were empty. His attackers first took his bag, then they took him. Three of them held him down while the other did what they wanted, then they rotated, and Virgil couldn’t recount how long it went on for. When he tried screaming for help, the one holding his head bashed his face into the pavement. He eventually went unconscious, and when he woke up, the group and his bag were gone. 

    “You can stay with me for as long as you need.” Logan’s hands trembled, rage curling deep in his stomach. “I’ll pay for everything, and I’ll help you contact Remus.” 

    “Okay,” Virgil said reluctantly. “Sure.” 

    Virgil’s legs trembled horribly when they stood to get off the train. Logan offered an arm, and Virgil let it wrap around himself gratefully. 

    “Sorry for shoving you,” he mumbled. 

    “It’s okay.” 

    They ducked their way through the rain, Logan half-carrying Virgil, until they made it to Logan’s flat. He flicked on the lights in the foyer. Everything was clean, everything intentionally placed, not a photo off centre. 

    “Here’s the bathroom. There’s some pain cream in there, I want you to use it, okay?” Logan lingered after Virgil shut the door. “I’m going to go set up your space. Do you want to sleep in my room or the living room?” 

    “Your room.” 

    “Okay. You’re safe here, Virgil.” 

    “...okay.” 

    Logan brought down spare pillows and blankets to set up on the floor for himself. He dug out the dusty guide to the television and set that on the bedside table, and made sure everything was as neat as possible. The shower started. Logan relaxed. 

    He pulled out his phone and texted, 

     Logan: Hypothetical question. You meet someone who’s just been assaulted, raped, and mugged. They refuse medical attention. What do you do? 

        The response was almost immediate. Logan sat on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. 

     Janus: Interesting. How bad are the injuries? 

    Logan: They won’t let you see the extent of them. 

    Janus: I would insist. If they still don’t let you— are they pale? Shaky? Sweating? Showing signs of blood loss? Are any bones broken— swelling or bruising? 

    Logan: They’re shaking, maybe a little pale, but that’s all. 

    Janus: I’d let them work through it at their own pace. 

    Janus: Is everything okay, L? 

    Logan: I have a guest. 

    Janus: Should I call someone? 

    Logan: No. 

    Janus: Keep me updated. 

     Logan set his phone aside as the shower shut off. He stood in the doorway and Virgil’s gray eyes darted around everywhere before they settled on him. Logan stepped into the room and Virgil followed a moment later. 

    His pale skin was covered in one of Logan’s blue towels. Bruises littered his shoulders, purple and black. There was a gash on his right leg that looked like it could use stitches but would survive with just a wrapping. 

    “Sit down,” he asked, “let me get my first aid kit?” 

    Virgil hesitated then sat at the edge of the bed. Logan found him some shorts to put under the towel. 

    He quickly got to work cleaning, disinfecting, and wrapping the legs, then checking for all the signs Janus has taught him a million times over. There didn’t seem to be any significant injuries, other than the leg. 

    “There’s some gravel in your cheek. Here.” 

    He bruised Virgil’s bangs back with a feather touch and rested one hand on his forehead. Virgil stiffened to a brick as Logan plucked the crumbles from Virgil’s rough skin. He slowly relaxed, only tensing again for just a second every once in a while. 

    “Do you want a sleep shirt?” 

    He nodded. 

    After he was dressed, purple hair shiny from the shower, Logan nodded to the T.V. “I figured you’d want something to fall asleep to. Please, pick anything.” 

    He got into his covers on the floor and Virgil frowned. 

    “You’re not taking the bed?” 

    Logan shook his head. “Please. After what you’ve been through— don’t even. You can take the bed.” 

    Virgil hesitated. “Alright. Uh, thank you.” 

    He kept his eye on Logan as the television played. It took him hours of watching to feel comfortable, confident that Logan really would leave him alone. 

    Logan woke around 5am to an empty bed and a lump at his feet. He rubbed his eyes as his heart fluttered. He took the blanket from around his own shoulders and settled it over Virgil’s sleeping frame, and settled the pillow under his head. Then he laid down next to him, only shivering a little, and fell back asleep.

xxx

does anyone want a part 2?

[13uswntimagines]

My Person, My Love, My Mate (Alpha!Alyssa Naeher x Omega!Reader)

Request 1: Alpha!Alyssa x Omega!Reader: Where Alyssa gets possessive and jealous when fans start shipping her omega with another alpha on the team. Bc of this, R and the other alpha spend more time together for publicity stuff, which then leads to the other alpha’s scent on her. Alyssa has to contain herself while in the spotlight, but in private, she lashes out at R bc of her own insecurity and jealousy. This ends with R reassuring her and having Alyssa mark her up before she has to be around them again

Request 2: Alpha!Alyssa x omega!reader.Where the reader has always been paired with another alpha on the team which A hates. But then the reader goes into heat

Authors Note: Hey dudes, It felt more natural for me to combine these than to try and do them separately. I hope you enjoy! Hit me up with questions or if your just wanna say Hi!

The media sucked and having a beta coaching staff sucked even more. At least that’s what Alyssa had taken from this entire experience. You and Kelley were best friends. That wasn’t the part that bothered her. No, it was the fact that spending lots of time with Kelley also meant that you spent a lot of time with her alphas by default. 

She knew that Carlie and Hope only had eyes for Kelley, but that didn’t lessen the sting of the fans continuously shipping you with Hope. It didn’t help that Jill had been determined to use your friendship with the alpha to sell tickets. At least Vlatko had agreed to back off a bit, but that didn’t stop the tendrils of jealousy from winding their way around her heart at the photo some fans had taken. Photos of you sitting very close to the other Alpha goalkeeper, and one photo of your hands in her lap. 

The fans were going insane, saying that this was proof that you were mated to Hope. Alyssa’s alpha really didn’t like that. She knew you loved her, and that you were her mate, but it was really hard to smother the instincts that demanded she show you who you belonged to. You were extraordinarily independent and much like the rest of the omegas on the team didn’t take well to alphas trying to throw their weight around. 

The opening of the hotel room door broke the alpha out of her thought, her eyes immediately being drawn to you as you entered the room. You glanced up from your texting, a vibrant smile breaking across your face the second you saw your alpha. “Hey Babe,” Your eyes shined.

“Hey,” Alyssa sent you a half-smile in return, a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. 

You took a step towards your mate and leaning in to peck her lips, only for her to turn her head so you got her cheek instead. You frowned, tilting your head to the side much like a puppy. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,“ Alyssa denied with a pout, crossing her arms and refusing to look at you. You could feel her agitation leaking through your bond. 

“Yeah and I’m a Goalkeeper.” You snorted, trying to alleviate the tension. Your alpha snapped her eyes to your own, a wave of dominant pheromones leaking into the air. You closed the remaining distance between you and your alpha, weaseling your way under her strong arms and burrowing into her neck, trying to comfort her. 

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, making your voice small and running your nose under her scent gland, trying to appease her alpha. She was the only one you would willingly submit too, and it took you a very long time to realize that doing so didn’t make you weak. 

“How was dinner?” Alyssa huffed, pulling her chin just out of your reach. You sat up to look her in the eyes, her arm wrapped around your waist to prevent you from falling. She might be upset with you but she would never want you to fall and get hurt. 

“Fine, Kelley spilled mustard all over Hope’s lap” You laughed lightly, and a dark look crossed your alpha’s face at the mention of the other keeper. A look that made your inner omega cower just a little. Alyssa would never hurt you, she was your mate and she loved you, but you still felt the demand for your submissions stronger. 

“Is that why you patting her with a napkin is all over social media?” She asked lowly, her lips forming a thin like. 

“Is that what this is about? I already told you, nothing is going on between me and her. She’s got Carlie and Kelley” You rolled your eyes at the woman good-naturedly, dismissing the claim and hoping that this would be the end of it. All you wanted right now was to cuddle up with your mate under some blankets. You craved her calm energy after spending so much time with the team's chaos. 

“You were all over her,” Your alpha growled back dangerously. Tension radiated through your bond and a wave of very unhappy scents washed over you. You frowned, moving from her lap to the end of the bed. Though your inner omega protested at the action, you thought you needed a bit of space for this conversation. 

“No. I was sitting next to her and she had stuff all over her. All I did was give her a napkin,” You replied slowly, all amusement being replaced with agitation. You gave no reason for Alyssa to be jealous. Did she not trust you? Was that why she was flipping out so much? 

“You touched her,” Alysha glared back, her teeth gritting as she fought to control her inner alpha. She was always 2nd to Hope, but she wouldn’t lose you too. Rationally she knew that you loved her, but it was so hard to be rational when the fans were always shoving your friendship in her face. It was hard to remember that you wore her mark when you were always so close to Hope. 

“I’m not having this conversation again Lyss. She’s my friend, nothing more,” You started firmly, fighting the urge to submit to the dominant pheromones coming from your mate. You also fought your inner omegas desire to cuddle up to the woman, to appease your alpha, and beg for forgiveness. You shook your head, trying to stop the war going on between you as a person and your inner omega. 

“She doesn’t get to touch what’s mine,” Alyssa roared, standing to her full height and towering over you.

That irked you. In this context her claim didn’t fill you with warmth, instead, it made you feel like a chew toy being fought over.

“I’m an omega, not an object,” You released a growl of your own, standing toe to toe with your alpha. (Had you not been so pissed off, you would have through the height difference was funny as you only came up to her chin. You had to tilt your head to stare her in the eyes). “And you’re being irrationally jealous,” You jabbed your pointer finger in her chest angrily. 

Just because Alyssa was your mate, and you loved her didn’t mean that she had the right to be overbearing. You were an adult, and your status as an omega didn’t make you incompetent. No one got to try and use your bearing against you to make you bend to their will. How fucking dare she. 

“You’re not going to hang out with her anymore,” Alyssa ground out, grabbing your wrist. You smelled like the other keeper, and her alpha wasn’t having it. She brought your wrist to her nose, rubbing the appendage and leaving her very strong scent behind. You stared at the woman in disbelief. 

“I think I need some air,” You said shortly, stopping your arm away from your alpha and stalking towards the door. She was your mate, not your mother. She didn’t get to tell you what to do. You were partners. 

The rage humming down your bond shocked Alyssa, breaking her out of her jealous tirade. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, her eyes widening as she realized exactly what she had done. 

You were mistrustful of alphas, to begin with, disdainful of their propensity to be protective and possessive. You hated that your omega craved those things, and fought valiantly for your independence. Alyssa respected that, well she had until about 5 minutes ago. 

 She watched in horror as your hand twisted the doorknob, unsure of how this had spiraled into you leaving. How this had turned into her pushing you away and breaking all the promises she had made to you. 

“Where are you going?” She asked hoarsely, barely able to get the words out as the tears started. 

“Out, until you realize we’re not in the 1950s and that I’m your equal,” You spat back, ripping the door open, moving to step into the hallway. You weren’t sure where you were going to end up, but anywhere was better than right here. 

“Y/n wait,” Alyssa tried desperately stepping towards you. 

“Just-, just don’t,” You husked out, your saddened voice pinning her to the spot. You furiously tried to wipe the tears from your eyes, and she wanted nothing more than to wrap you up in her arms and tell you how sorry she was, but she didn’t. You shook your head, slamming the door behind you. 

You loved Alyssa but you wouldn’t tolerate unabashed jealousy. You were a person, not an object. You would talk it out with her later when cooler heads could prevail. But for right now you needed space to calm down and think over the conversation you had just had. 

*****

Alyssa was getting anxious. After your fight, you hadn’t returned to the room, you had avoided her for the entire free day the team had, and now the entire team was gathered in the conference room and you were again missing. She could feel your misery through your bond, and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to relax until she saw you. You were her omega to protect and it was her job to fix this mess. 

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Kelley’s voice brought her out of her spiraling as the little omega shoved her lightly, her two alphas trailing behind her.

She glanced at the omega, her inner animal perking up at the scent of her mate. So that’s where you had run off too, she should have known. Kelley was your best friend, more like your sister, it was the most logical place for you to go. (She didn’t like that you were around the alpha of her ire, but she was glad that you had gone to someone who could take care of you). 

She gulped, pushing her pride aside at the tone the omega took with her, privately glad that your best friend was such a good protector.

“Look, I know I messed up, and I’m ready to apologize and talk it out with Y/n,” She said quietly. 

“Yeah, well too bad, your fucking fight sent her into heat. She’s a mess and she wouldn’t let us call you to come to help her,” Kelley growled back, she probably would have launched herself at the alpha bad Carlie not been wrapped around her waist. It had hurt all of them to watch you be so strung out while they couldn’t do anything to help you. It was pretty common for massive events (happy or unhappy) to send omegas into heat. It was a good way for them to obtain the comfort they needed or celebrate something amazing. Your fight had been intense, so Alyssa shouldn’t have been surprised that it sent you into heat, but she could hope. 

“Where is she?” The alpha growled, her instincts taking over the moment she heard you were in heat. Heats could be super painful, especially for a mates omega. Kelley softened at the desperation rolling off of the alpha. She knew that the two of you loved each other, but she wouldn’t stand for you being disrespected. 

“Currently in our room,” Hope answered, immediately passing over the room key. Lowering her eyes just slightly. She felt bad that this mess was partially her fault, and she would do whatever she could to help you. You were practically Kelley’s family, and by default hers too. If it meant conceding to Alyssa as a peace offering, then that’s exactly what she would do. 

Alyssa nodded her thanks, blown away by the slight show of submission. A show that conveyed that the other alpha knew that you were hers. She took the key and immediately made to go find you. To hopefully fix this mess and comfort you all in on go. 

“She wouldn’t let Hope or Carlie near her even though their scents would probably help. She just kept saying that you would reject her,” Kelley called after her, and the Alpha froze by the door. Omegas craved physical affection in heat, and even an alpha that wasn’t one's mate could ease some of the more intense symptoms. She would never reject you. She may get jealous and frustrated, but she would never ever willingly give you up. You were wrong, independent, gorgeous, and the love of her life. 

“I fucked up, I know. Now please let me go and try to fix it,” Alyssa whispered, her voice broken. 

“Don’t hurt her,” Kelley growled back. 

“I won’t, and thank you for taking care of her,” Alyssa nodded, looking over the flying squirrel's shoulder at Carlie and Hope. 

“Anytime hotshot, I know you would do the same for Kell, now go help baby bear,” Hope smiled lightly, shoring her out of the conference room. You needed Alyssa more than the team did right now, the sooner she got there the better. 

****

You were curled up tight in bed, sweat pouring down your forehead, and shiver wracking down your spine. Every piece of you craved your alpha, but you knew she wouldn’t come. Rationally you knew that Alyssa still loved you and that the fight didn’t change that, but with the heat running through your veins, rational thought was incredibly difficult. Impossible really. 

You shifted in bed, burying your face in Kelley’s pillow, and praying that it would bring you some comfort from the aches that were wracking your lower back, and the cramps rolling through your stomach. If you thought about Alyssa hard enough, you could almost smell her comforting pheromones. Almost feel her warm form molded to your own, giving you the knot you so desperately craved. 

You were so out of it that you didn’t notice the door open, on the hesitant form sitting on the edge of the bed, until she reached out and placed a comforting hand on your forehead, brushing the sweaty strands of hair back. 

“Lyss?,” You husked out, cracking your eyes open, and blinking sleepily at your very nervous alpha. Your scent called to her so desperately, like the smell of a funnel cake at a fair. 

“Hey baby doll,” She smiled softly at you. You grabbed the hand running through your hair, pulling her wrist to your nose and taking in her comforting scent. She sent out another wave of soothing pheromones in an attempt to sate you for a few moments. 

“M’ sorry,” You mumbled into her skin, unwilling to remove the appendage from your nose. 

“You have nothing to apologize for little one, I was being an ignorant alpha because I was jealous. I won’t disrespect you like that again,” She murmured back, pulling you up into her lap. You nuzzled into the skin of her neck, just under her scent gland, showing your acceptance of her apology. 

“Don wan Hope, only wan you,” You huffed, your hands reaching under her shirt to rub her abs. You needed her to understand that. There would be time later to have a real talk, but having her so close was throwing your control out the window. 

“I know babe, and I’ll control myself in the future,” She hummed, rubbing your back. 

“Love you,” You said as you kissed her chin, the ache in your lower belly getting impossibly stronger. You needed her, and you needed her now. 

“Love you too, now let me take care of you,” She smiled, pecking your forehead, and rolling you over. There would be time later for her to apologize when you were both thinking with the right head. When your symptoms were eased, but for now she would show you how much she loved you. How much she cherished you. She would show you that yes, you were a person and not an object, but you were her person. Her mate. 

Later the team would make fun of you for how many marks Alyssa left behind, but that was a problem for future you. For now, Alyssa would take care of you, and make you feel like the most loved human in the world. 

[mimik-u]

Flower Child (Chapter 14): Night

AO3 Link

6:10PM:

For the last fifteen years, Jay Zircon had been Diamond Electric’s top lawyer alongside her sister and fellow counsel, Gilda. Whatever lawsuits the company faced—and it had faced more than its fair share—the pair headed the legal team which incisively ensured victory for their illustrious CEO, Yellow Diamond. 

Where Gilda was aggressive and willing to snipe beneath the belt, a style that suited their similarly minded boss, Jay was more circumspect in her methodology, able to work through all the variables of a given case to create a slower but undeniably thorough position. When the two of them worked together, they made a dichotomous but somehow remarkably fluid team.

They didn’t lose very often.

They couldn’t afford to lose given the status, prestige, and formidable demand of their employer, who also didn’t lose.

Very often.

(Yellow Diamond had lost her only child four years ago, and it was clear to everyone, to all who knew her, that she hadn’t been the same since.)

The Zircons worked together often in the sense that they were continually forced into close proximity to each other by the nature of their jobs and painful holidays with their aging mother… but as far as working together in a more metaphorical sense went, aliens would invade Earth first before the siblings would ever find common ground for longer than a day.

And somehow, aliens were less of a far-stretch.

“I’m looking at all the facts now, and I truly think, if I-I’m allowed to be frank, Mrs. Diamond, that it is in our best interest to settle for this particular case.” Jay’s voice trembled as she carefully addressed the figure at the head of the conference table.

Arranged in a black three piece suit, Yellow Diamond was simply—there was no other word for it—striking, a slightly slouched but otherwise imperial statue cut from marble in her hardback chair. There was always an air about her, an impression, that she was an impenetrable fortress, her tall walls fortified with sharp weaponry and stone.

Her architecture was magnificent, but in its harshness and angularity, all lines and geometrical edges, it always emphasized an implicit message: She was a woman who it would be unwise to cross.

She stared between the sisters impassively, finger interlocked below her sharp chin as she listened, though Jay couldn’t help but notice that the CEO’s attention was divided between them and her phone, which sat dormant on the table, a silent specter.

“That’s your go-to solution, isn’t it?” Gilda scoffed, her arrogance impressively balanced in the haughty tilt of her nose. “Settle. What is this? A petty traffic ticket? We shouldn’t be settling anything! We could have them on the ropes if we just—”

“Gilda!” She interrupted incredulously, splaying her hands forcibly on the table. “Loosen your cravat so you can see the big picture for heaven’s sake! The factory‘s waste has been unlawfully leaking on a protected reservation for twelve years. We can contest that until we’re blue in the face, but no judge on this green earth is going to rule in our favor.”

Her sister opened that insufferable mouth of hers, likely to argue some asinine point that Jay would spend the next thirty minutes trying to meticulously deconstruct, but the familiar tango was harshly interrupted by the ringing of a phone that was neither of theirs.

“Quiet!” Yellow Diamond hissed, fluidly pulling the device up to her ear, and there was a viciousness in her ordinarily well-regimented face that neither lawyer felt particularly equipped to contest.

So they blanched into obedient silence on either side of the tense CEO.

Gilda uncomfortably picked at her portfolio.

“Blue? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

On the other end of the line, the woman who Jay knew to be Yellow Diamond’s wife, seemed to reply. 

Fifteen years was a long time to have known the Diamonds, and during that span—all those days, weeks, and months—Jay understood both very little about them and an incredible lot. 

Fifteen years ago, Pink Diamond had been a precocious ten-year old who had accompanied her mother to work from time to time. She used to play on the elevator, zipping from the lobby to the fortieth floor constantly, as though it was some exciting game called Annoy the Poor Elevator Attendant. Jay had been awkward and clumsy then, a young lawyer still trying to find her footing as the newest addition to one of the most elite legal teams in the entire city, and one of her most vivid memories from that time was the youngest Diamond accidentally bumping into her on said elevator, causing her to spill her scalding coffee all over her favorite portfolio.

The child had apologized profusely and even proffered her own jacket as a napkin because she was sweet like that—if a little impish. Freckles crossed the bridge of her nose like trailing dandelion dust; there was a gap in her mouth where she’d just lost a tooth.

For a couple of years there, Jay became familiarized with the heiress’s occasional presence in the building. She was the shock of pink hair bobbing impatiently in the elevator, and she was the flash of red converses heeling off down the hallway and around the corner. She was the lone bubbly voice in a sea of sober business droning. She was ten, and then she was thirteen, and then she was sixteen, obnoxiously jingling the keys to her new convertible around everywhere, as though just begging someone to ask about them.

She was the rare smile on Yellow Diamond’s unbending mouth—crooked there, stiff.

Almost reluctant.

But undoubtedly there.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

The hallways of Diamond Electric felt a little less… vibrant without the spontaneity of those red converses and the climbing octaves of that high, lilting laugh.

Mischievous.

To the last.

As for Blue Diamond, Jay could only claim to have seen her maybe a handful of times in the course of her employ at DE, though only one occasion was stark in the lawyer’s well-ordered recollections.

At the trial where Pink Diamond’s killers were sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole, the Zircons’ euphoria at having argued their cased well was immediately tempered as the entire courtroom watched a tragedy unfold before their eyes. There was no applause as Yellow Diamond stood and held her wife in her arms.

There was only silence.

And baited breath.

And a mutual, unspoken, dirty relief that they were not the Diamonds and only passive voyeurs to what was assuredly unspeakable misery.

That night, Jay and Gilda were quite polite to each other as they taxied away from the courthouse.

A mutual, unspoken, dirty truce.

“No, no, I’m, of course I’m not busy,” Yellow said, standing up with an abruptness that startled the Zircons. She was already halfway to the door before at least one of them recovered their wits.

“But, Mrs. Diamond!” Gilda interjected. “The lawsuit. We—”

“We’re done for the night,” Yellow called over her shoulder, a brusqueness in her voice that left no room for argument. “We can reconvene in the morning.” “But—”

The door slammed on Gilda’s final protestation.

A framed picture of the Empire City skyline comically fell from its place on the wall at the force of the exit, landing facedown on the floor with a pathetic ker-clunk.

Jay glanced down at the neatly compiled packet below her—the efforts of at least two weeks worth of joint research.

They had barely made it past page four; there were fifty-two pages total.

“Her head’s just not in the game anymore,” Gilda sniffed, scooping up her own papers with a roughness that wasn’t entirely impersonal. “Hasn’t been in years now.”

“Gilda,” Jay chided sharply, her voice low, but even she knew that whispering was an exercise in futility.

Their boss was long gone.

“Oh, don’t give me that holier than thou nonsense, sister mine. You know it. Everyone in this office—nay!—this building knows it.” She shoved her portfolio back into her briefcase and closed it, harshly palming the brass clasps. “Our stalwart leader has been compromised.”

“She’s still grieving obviously. She’s taking care of her wife…”

Gilda only shook her head, standing up from her own chair. Her impeccable coif—tall and vaguely impossible looking—gleamed beneath the warm overheads. 

“And I’m sympathetic towards her,” she said. “I am. But you cannot run a multibillion dollar business on sentiment.”

It was an effective closing statement to which Jay Zircon had no reasonable rebuttal. 

Her sister swept out of the conference room with a last harrumph of contempt, while she alone remained, the last diner at that long, empty table. She shuffled a few of her papers absentmindedly and glanced out of the yellow-tinted windows as the sky slowly turned over to night, charcoaling.

Sentiment.

This company had no use for it.

6:44PM:

The conversation had lasted maybe ten minutes, two of which were lost to clumsy silence as Yellow Diamond navigated from the conference room to her office around the corner, closing the door behind her with a resolute click.

They spent three minutes more on useless pleasantries because that was just what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

The barely breathed, Hello.

The awkwardly returned, Hi.

The shuffling of their reluctant breaths, all static and white noise over the line, before Yellow ripped the bandage off with all the indelicacy she centered her brutal facade around, exposing the wound raw.

Did you mean it? Are you sure you’re… okay ?

Because the bleak truth was that she wasn’t sure she believed Blue when she said that she was fine. Four years of perpetual mourning had taught her entirely too much about silent, grief stricken nights and very little about belief, hope, and all of those other empty platitudes. Blue Diamond could say that she was fine and leave a suicide note in the wastebasket three hours later. Blue Diamond could promise that she was okay, only to dissolve on a balcony full of sun because she was light five minutes ago… and now—and forevermore—she was not. She could build a cathedral out of reassurances and condemn it to the ground with just the thought, the remembrance, and the overwhelming absence of Pink Diamond, who haunted them both perpetually and always. 

They’d been in the ruins for four years now, and the bottom line was that Yellow Diamond didn’t trust mere words.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t trust Bl—

Pleasantries and silence—that was what a phone call between two spouses who didn’t really talk anymore entailed.

There was breathing, and there was the swelling darkness just outside the gold colored windows of Diamond Electric.

In and out and in and out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

And there was a long pause as Blue Diamond collected her thoughts in that quietly precise way of hers; she was always so meticulous in how she used her words, as though they were instruments to be handled with delicate care.

Yes? She replied gently, her voice lilting upwards as though she was asking a question. And no… perhaps both at the same time if those emotions can coexist without contradiction… Yellow, I—

What? Because Yellow had abruptly cut in, unable to stand the tension.

So impatient to the last.

Unfailingly.

The coldness of the office pressed upon her like a vice, its hard edges sinking in her skin. She dug her fingers into the smooth surface of her desk as though to ground herself, but there was nothing to hold on to but the grains. It was always like this when she talked to Blue; the expansive scope of her world narrowed down to her and her alone. Gravity meant nothing; time meant nothing; everything in the world meant nothing.

Except.

And always.

Blue.

I’m sorry, she simply said. 

It was only two words; they landed in the pit of Yellow’s stomach like a blow.

I’ve hurt you—immeasurably—in all these collected years, and I’m sorry for that, Yellow, she continued, her voice soft, for all the immeasurable, collected hurts. I am.

Two weeks ago, Blue Diamond had been lying catatonic in her bed, decomposing.

And now, she was apologizing for four years worth of hurt.

It was inconceivable.

Impossible.

It felt wrong.

Surreal.

Why? Yellow’s voice was strangled in her throat, dry and parched. Why now?

Why not a year ago when Yellow knelt by her bedside and pleaded with her—begged her—to stay goddammit? Why not all those hundreds upon hundred of nights that she had slept in the study on a damn leather couch, keeping one eye on the half-opened door in her study, even in the throes of sleep? Why today, of all days, when the consummate businesswoman was in the middle of yet another crucial meeting she would easily abandon all for the sake of one person?

Why?

The question scratched her chest; it punctured her beating lungs.

Why now?

And why… why was Yellow never enough?

(She had wanted to be enough.)

I visited a boy who is fighting for his life today, came the quiet reply. And it reminded me, quickly, of how fragile this all really is.

She had paused then.

The unspoken name nestled between them; the memory of their daughter wreathed her neck.

Pink used to love coming up to this very office just because she liked spinning around in her mother’s chair. Her shoes would briefly flash against the floor just so she could gain momentum, and then she would spin, spin, spin, her head tilted back in the beginnings of a long laugh.

Yellow glanced at it then, the worn leather shining dully in the light glancing in from the windows. 

It was completely and utterly empty.

I have to go, Blue. Sorry. I stepped out of a meeting.

She had dismissed the meeting.

Oh, I—

We can talk when I get home tonight.

And then she had clicked the phone off unceremoniously and shoved it across the desk as though it offended.

Ten minutes.

For the last twenty, Yellow Diamond had been sitting in the darkness of her office in that damn leather chair, nursing a glass of scotch between her trembling hands. She downed one smooth shot and then another; she drank and she drank until the expensive decanter was all gone, and the after notes of vanilla and barley and peat smoke burned her aching mouth. She drank and she drank, rummaging through her liqueur cabinet with a kind of desperation that made her feel less like a human and more like a rabid dog, hunting for just a drop of water.

Anything to take off the edge.

She drank until all the memories went away, until four years worth of them were walled off by the dulling buzz of Lagavulin.

And when a single tear crept down the hardened architecture of her face, collecting pitifully on the point of her sharp shin, she was so damn drunk, that she didn’t even know what she was crying about anymore.

Why?

Why now?

And why was she not enough?

She had wanted to be enough.

The beginnings of stars rose from the fire of the sky, and Yellow Diamond watched them as they crashed and burned.

7:01PM:

See, the trouble started when the vending machine near their hotel room stopped working. 

Nose wrinkling, stomach rumbling for the want of a snack that would tide her over until Greg got back with pizza, Amethyst tried shaking it, kicking it, and even pleading with the stupid thing all for the sake of a Twinkie she knew probably wouldn’t even taste that good.

But to no avail.

The Twinkie gods hated her apparently.

And so, with a sigh that sounded a hell of a lot more like a groan, she punched the refund button and got her dollar twenty five back in quarters before deciding to try the vending machine in the hospital lobby, moving along the smooth, carpeted floor with new purpose. The rubber sole of her left boot flapped noisily as she walked, having come loose a few weeks ago; she’d been meaning to get it repaired, but between work and Steven, time had been less of a quantity that she possessed, so much as it was something that she chased after.

Every second was a gift, and every minute was a fucking lottery.

There was an elevator ride down and accompanying elevator music, jingling and jangling rhythmically to the beat of her antsy nerves. And there was a text from Vidalia asking how Steven was doing, which she didn’t know how to answer, so she just didn’t reply. (V would get it better than most. Her hubs was a quiet man, so she knew the language of silence entirely too well, whereas Amethyst was still getting the hang of it. Silence was a stalker she had spent half of her life trying to avoid.)

And finally, there was the elevator prying itself open into an atrium that was darkening with the gathering night. Only a few visitors remained, scattered in various hardback chairs and wearing the same tired, careworn faces.

Amethyst didn’t doubt that she looked the same to them.

Because these were faces, sure enough, of loving someone and being afraid to lose them. There was a depletion to the act, a necessary consumption, that united them together beneath the flat roof of the Empire City Regional Medical Center.

They were exhausted—all of them.

So damn weary.

Amethyst had already slumped halfway to the vending machine when she saw her.

One of those same tired, careworn faces.

But a very particular tired, careworn face at the same time.

Blue Diamond, looking incredibly uncomfortable in the chair upon which she sat, her metal cane gleaming by her side.

Amethyst flicked her phone upwards so that the home screen briefly flashed on—it was 7:07. Hella late, and yet, the old lady was still here, looking for all the world like someone had killed her cat or something equally as egregious. Her plump lips were all twisted in a quiet, gnawing sort of frown as she played a little with her long hands on her lap.

Her eyes stared at the ground, but Amethyst could tell—the woman wasn’t really seeing it.

And there was something so singularly sad about this image.

Vulnerable.

That made Amethyst push her Twinkie quest to the back of her mind. 

Shoving her curled fists into the pockets of her joggers, Amethyst took one step and then another across the tiled floor until she was standing right in front of the puzzle of Blue Diamond, the multibillionaire who had worn a bathrobe to a cemetery.

And she knew it was insensitive of her to think that way. Regardless of the woman’s faults, numerous though Amethyst assumed they were, she hadn’t asked for her griefs to be handed to her on a silver platter. 

She hadn’t asked to be undone.

To be fair, though, no one ever did.

That was just the dice of life, rolled across a slanting table.

Snake eyes.

Sorry.

Better luck next time.

“Anyone sittin’ here?” She asked gruffly, jerking her thumb towards the empty chair on Blue Diamond’s left.

Startled from her solemn reverie, Blue looked up then, mouth parting slightly in a soft ‘o’ of surprise as recognition pinched her silvery brow. She shifted in her seat, hunched shoulders straightening with an understated kind of elegance that Amethyst had come to closely associate with Pearl. 

This wasn’t an especially welcome analogy, though. After all, while she’d gotten used to Pearl’s various quirks by now, for a long time there—years even—she’d always felt… condescended by her in a way.

Patronized.

Small.

That feeling took a long ass while to go away with a person whom she considered to be one of her closest friends; how much longer would the sensation last with a total effing stranger, especially the very one she was, like, supposed to hate just on mere principle?

Amethyst ran a habitual hand through her hair in the awkwardness of it all and shifted her weight from one shoe to the other, rocking back and forth. The sole of the left one went flap, flap, flap.

“You’re… one of Steven’s guardians, yes?”

“Yup, one of many.” And then, because she knew that probably didn’t clarify matters, brusquely added, “Amethyst. I was the one who brought him to your suite the other day. Can I sit?”

She once again gestured pointedly to the chair, raising a lavender brow in such a way that more or less communicated, Jeez, woman, get it together.

“Oh, yes! My apologies,” came the appropriately abashed reply. “Please. Be my guest.”

And so, with a little more force than was necessary, Amethyst threw herself into the empty seat, ass already chafing against its hard bottom, the tips of her boots just barely scraping the clinically white floor. 

She could feel Blue Diamond’s tallness next to her more than she dared to look at it for herself; her presence was overwhelming as it was without having to look at her dead on—the shadows turning circles beneath her huge eyes, the parentheses around her quivering mouth, and that air of misery that the twenty-nine year old knew well enough without needing to observe it in a perfect stranger. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she could see that the woman had gone back to staring at her wrinkled hands, templing them delicately on the blue fabric of her lap.

“My valet is coming to pick me up,” she offered without prompting, “but I believe traffic is delaying her.”

“S’always cray cray around this time of night,” Amethyst returned knowledgeably. She couldn’t claim to like Empire City, but after a few months of driving up here so often, she supposed she at least couldn’t refute that she knew it. “Lotsa idiots out n about.”

“Reckless, are they not?”

“The absolute wooooorst.”

And both of their mouths briefly quirked at exactly the same time before silence fell between them again, clumsy and awkward, like an entity still growing into its feet.

They were talking about traffic.

Neither of them really wanted to talk about traffic.

Amethyst broke the stillness first, studiously continuing to not look at her companion. Instead, she drew her leg upwards into her chair, so she could pick at her boot some more.

Flap, flap, flap.

“So you saw him, huh?”

It wasn’t necessary to evoke his name; after all, she was pretty sure that the image of him laying in that hospital bed, all swarming with tubes, haunted the both of them even now, invading the sanctity of their minds and eyes.

Flap, flap, flap.

She was going to tear her shoe to shreds if she kept it up.

(She kept it up.)

“I saw him, yes,” Blue agreed quietly, her fingers stilling in their cathedral position. One thumb was balanced carefully atop of the other, bricks without mortar, construction without foundation. “I... wasn't ready… he was so small... and I almost looked away... I'm ashamed to even admit it."

The confession was broken into tiny fragments, each splinter slow and painful in the rolling of her accent.

Amethyst couldn’t help herself then—restraint had never been the name by which she was known. 

She was blunt.

She parried back, “You still could, y’know. You don’t have to be here for this.”

You don’t have to put yourself through this if you can help it.

(We can’t help it.)

“Not your circus, not your monkeys, and all that jazz.”

And maybe that was the crux of it, the beating heart behind the entanglement of her reluctance when it came to the wealthy woman sitting next to her. The Crystal Gem couldn’t understand why someone, anyone, would willingly partake in this exhibition when they had every blessed out in the world. Blue Diamond didn’t have to care for Steven. She didn’t have to be here. She could go back to the fiftieth floor of her penthouse suite and wall herself away from one care of this world more. Just from her looks alone, Amethyst could tell that she couldn’t afford another loss, and yet, she could absolutely afford to get away from the possibility of another loss if she just, well, left.

If she hurried.

Before the boy who was kind enough to extend flowers to random ladies in the cemetery could worm his way into a heart that had already had its reckoning.

But—and Amethyst was just now realizing this with the force of a collision—maybe that was the crux of it, too.

That simple goodness of a proffered hand had been enough.

It had changed a life.

Maybe, quite possibly, it had saved one.

“I… just got off the phone with my wife,” Blue Diamond whispered, “and she asked a singular question to which I couldn’t provide the answer. Why? Such a simple beast, and yet a devastatingly complex one.”

Why Rose all those many years ago?

Why Steven now? Why couldn’t they find him a damn kidney?

Why couldn’t life give them one damn break?

Why?

The familiarity of the question rose like a lump in Amethyst’s throat.

“I’ve looked away from her—from everything, really—for so many years, even before my daughter…” The woman trailed away, her voice hitching. It took her a few seconds to regroup. She placed a steadying hand on her chest. “… and now, for reasons I cannot necessarily explain myself… I don’t want to anymore. Maybe, Yellow, it is because a child in a cemetery told me that it was quite possible to still feel the pain of my loss and still live? Maybe, Yellow, it is because I sat upon a balcony with him and envied the hunger he had for life, and wondered, for the first time in years, if it was still possible to obtain a modicum of it for myself? Maybe, Yellow, I saw him in a hospital bed today—sick—and it reminded me of a truth that I’d long forgotten.”

Amethyst chanced a peek at Blue Diamond then, stole it ashamedly, as though she was a child reaching a hand into the cookie jar.

The dim incandescence of the overheads crowned her silvery head in soft, white light as she glanced upwards, her half-moon gaze angled to a spot that the Crystal Gem couldn’t quite see.

She almost looked beautiful—a portrait in melancholy, all feathery brushstrokes.

Steven would have thought so anyway.

Hell, he was the type of person who would have even said it.

“And what that’d be?” She asked.

What was the answer to that devastatingly simple, that horribly complex question, Why?

If there was even an answer at all.

What truth had a woman as seemingly erudite as Blue Diamond so guiltily forgotten?

Blue looked down then, a strand of wavy hair falling between her eyes. It curled a little at the end.

“Why?” She murmured, her strained voice barely above a whisper. Amethyst had to lean in just to catch what she said next. “Because I love you, Yellow—so much. That is why.”

The rawness of the proclamation, the sincerity of it, seared the both of them, landing cleanly between them like the precise swing of an axe. It was always such a vulnerable gamble to admit to love, and perhaps it was even revolutionary to proffer it as the solution to why.

Why am I trying?

Why am I still here?

Why can’t I look away, Steven?

Because I love you—so much. That is it.

That is all.

And that is why.

It was a simple phrase, and it was a profound one. It was scarcely said; in Blue Diamond’s case, it was forgotten.

“You should tell that to her,” Amethyst suddenly said, and just for a moment there, it didn’t matter that the person in question was the dread Yellow Diamond, her mortal enemy or whatever.

Just for a moment, Yellow Diamond was merely a person who was loved by another.

“Exactly like that,” she pressed before glancing away, her bangs falling across her eyes. She played with her busted shoe again as heat clambered up her face—flap, flap, flap. It was surreal to be sitting here, giving advice to a woman so different from her and so alien. It was only chance that they were both sitting here—here, of all places—beneath the roof of this hospital.

Tired and careworn.

Alike but not especially.

Perfect strangers.

Connected simply by a flower and a boy.

Now it was Blue Diamond’s turn to stare; her tall, sickle-shaped eyes were drawn to the noise of flap, flap, flap, which made Amethyst self-conscious about the fact that the woman was likely wearing a designer dress.

Damn these rich people.

“I fear it may be too late. I’ve done my damage.”

“Maybe,” Amethyst shrugged. It was all she could do. “But ya won’t know until you’ve tried.”

They were both silent again. Outside the glass windows, the world had taken on the dull purple of night, pulling it over its shoulders like a cozy, star-spangled nightgown.

“Thank you… Amethyst.” 

Blue Diamond offered her a parenthetical smile of an olive branch of a truce; it was a reluctant little gesture, still stiff and foreign on the mouth of someone who looked like she hadn’t smiled in years.

“Nah, don’t mention it, dude," she shrugged.

It was not forgiveness, nor was it absolution.

But it was a tiny concession.

It was a tired half-smile pulling at her lips.

“I needed the reminder, too.”

7:39PM:

Traffic in Empire City was always a risky gamble of a business, especially at night when the only rule of the six lane seemed to be, “Everything goes, and good luck with the going, buddy, old pal, my friend.”

Having spent years driving up here with Rose for various doctor appointments and then relearning the routine all over again with Steven these past few months, Greg liked to fancy that he could navigate the beast as well as any boardie from a small beach town could ever claim to. But even still, all the ample driving experience in the world was no match for what a car wreck could do to the flow of vehicles streaming down the neon lit highway. 

Somewhere a little up above his van, there was a cacophony of sirens—red and blue and shrill and insistent. In the passenger seat, the pizzas he’d picked up nearly an hour ago were cooling, the rich, greasy smell of them sidling up to his shoulder temptingly. He thought about taking a bite because it was late and he was hungry, but ultimately decided against it.

Amethyst would never let him hear the end of it.

So he thought about the accident up ahead and hoped that no one had been seriously injured. (He had his doubts, though. There were so many sirens, wailing.) His van slowly crept forward as the cars ahead were painstakingly navigated around the ruins. People honked up and down the endless line because patience wasn’t Empire City’s strong suit; the big city, the golden apple, didn’t wait for anyone, least of all everyone, and sometimes, it felt like everyone in the world lived here, a population made of skyscrapers and cars and brilliant lights.

But thinking about the wreck didn’t entertain him for very long—his apologies to those affected—so he thought about the soulful tunes crooning through his staticky radio. Some R&B band from the eighties whose name just barely escaped him. They sung about love and loss and red Corvettes that shined beneath the hot, sticky sun. Greg’s thumbs slapped the wheel rhythmically to the melody, picking out the notes with an easiness that might have made old Marty proud on a good day.

But then the music suddenly shuddered off, the jockey apologizing for the inconvenience. 

They’d try to get the station back up shortly.

The silence was unbearable.

So he popped in the closest CD, thinking it was his relaxing music compilation.

But nope.

It was death metal, the sudden explosion of the heavy bass and snare drums nearly sending his car veering into the next lane over as his hands jerked on the wheel.

“Wrong one!” He panted, chest heaving with feral panic. “Stop! Eject!”

And with a slap harder than intended, he punched the panel of buttons at random, the noise screeching to a stop, the CD comically popping out like toast from a toaster.

Ding.

And silence filled all the empty spaces once again.

In the silence, Greg had no choice but to think of Steven.

He took great gulps of air, his shoulders still shaking from the reverberations of the abruptly snuffed music, and could find no more distractions.

This was the end of the road on an endless road of snailing cars.

His hands clenched painfully around the wheel, the images revving across his mind’s eye—unbidden, quick, ugly, and unwanted.

His son.

His only son.

Laying in that hospital bed.

Dying.

Was this all life had to offer? He wondered to himself, and in the place of noise, there was emotion; there was sadness and horror and anger roaring up the column of his throat.

Rising.

Leaking.

Dripping.

Down his ruddy cheeks and into his beard.

Down his throat.

Draining.

Loving people who were gonna always leave him in the end? Finding home only for it to immediately forsake him? Maybe old Andy had had it right, always up there in that great, blue oasis of sky—never touching the ground long enough for people to find him and love him and hurt him.

Maybe there was something to the idea of giving up.

But no. “Stop that,” Greg scolded himself harshly. “Stop.”

He’d spent his entire teen years running away from his folks and all their shiny expectations, so he was done running away. He had told himself that the moment he kicked Marty outta his van and turned it back around to Beach City and its sprawling sands—to the little oceanside town and the big woman with pink hair.

Right then and there, he’d been ready to accept the consequences of his actions.

The starchild had grown into a man.

And that meant staying the course, no looking back or skywards, no regrets or what-could-have-beens.

For Steven Universe, he would stay until the end… no matter what that end happened to be.

That was responsibility.

And that, above all, was love.

Love was solidity, and it was thereness, and it was warmth.

It was patience, and it was risk that never quite guaranteed reward.

Love was staying.

Even when things got tough, and maybe especially when they did.

(Stay, he'd pleaded with Rose when Dr. Howard turned the ventilator off. He had held her hand. He didn't want her to be alone.)

(Please, he begged as the lines that measured the beating of her heart began to falter and fade away.)

His bushy brow furrowed in quiet sympathy as he finally maneuvered around the scene of the accident, going slowly as a traffic officer signaled him on with a hand and a whistle. He saw the carnage out of the corner of his eye, all twisted metal and climbing smoke. What looked like a Nissan had plowed right into the back of a fancy lookin’ black town car, not unlike the one which had brought Blue Diamond to the hospital earlier…

His heart lurched.

But then he thought about it.

He considered.

Nah.

Couldn’t be her.

From what he understood, her high rise was somewhere past the hospital.

8:54PM:

“Pearl, go home before I tell Gunga on you,” Kiki teased, but all the same, there was concern in her voice, a hint of seriousness that didn’t quite mark her playful threat as simply playful. It flashed in the depths of her warm, brown eyes. And it brushed against Pearl’s shoulder with a gentleness she had come to expect from the younger Pizza sister.

The two of them were both working behind the bar of Fish Stew Cuisine tonight, the restaurant Kiki’s father and grandmother owned. It used to be just a casual place for locals—then called Fish Stew Pizza—but with time, effort, and a considerable amount of increased tourism when vacationers realized that there was a lovely beach here to visit and trash, it had expanded into one of Beach City’s finest restaurants.

It was a slow night, though, rain coming down in heavy sheets outside the tall, glass windows.

At this late hour, only a few diners remained, casually enjoying their dinners to the rhythmic tattoo of the storm—mostly regulars, people who understood that through rain, hail, sleet, or snow, Fish Stew would always be here for patient guests, arms open wide and plates steaming with good food. The amber light strewn from the dusky lamps made the place feel warm, as though it was full of quiet fire, flickering in so many overhanging hearths.

Pearl swiped persistently at a stain on the glass she was cleaning.

She’d been working on it for five minutes now in the absence of a new customer to tend to.

“I can’t just leave,” she returned exasperatedly, still scrubbing away at the mark. She was starting to think that it was yet another lost cause.

(She seemed to have a penchant for those lately.)

“I promised to work until closing.”

And I have to.

There are bills to pay and possible surgeries to fund.

But she didn’t say this part aloud; she didn’t want to put that weight on a seventeen-year old who meant well.

“Girl, closing isn’t ’til eleven, and you’ve been here since two,” Jenny Pizza laughed, glancing up from her phone long enough to do so. She was Kiki’s older sister and a bit of a rebel to the boot. Though she was technically on the clock, too, she had been sitting on the other side of the bar for the past half hour now, sending something she called “snaps” to her friends. These “snaps” often involved her making funny faces at her camera, ninety percent of these compelling her to poke her lips out. “Go home, and get some shut eye. Seriously.”

“Seriously,” Kiki parroted, snatching the glass from out of Pearl’s hands when she wasn’t looking.

With a certain primness, she chunked it into the nearest recycling bin as the bell on the door pealed, signaling an incoming customer.

“Kiki!”

“The new ones are coming in next week anyway,” the girl only replied with a shrug of mischievous shoulder. “Now, Pearl, go the eff home. We got this. Right, Jenny?”

“Mhm.” Jenny made a vague noise of agreement without looking up again. “Yeah, you’ve got this, Kiki. Get it.”

“Well,” Kiki only rolled her eyes, “I’ve got this anyway.”

Two massive arms, both scarred and tattooed, slammed down on the countertop then, and Pearl’s mouth immediately twitched into a smile to see that it was none other than Bismuth, a local construction worker for the city and a fellow Crystal Gem. Her spectacularly colorful dreads were thrown upwards into a haphazard ponytail, and her mouth was wide with one of those trademark Bismuth smiles, all lopsided, shining with white teeth.

“Pearl,” she scolded in that wry way of hers, “are you givin’ these pretty ladies trouble again?”

“Yesssssss,” Kiki replied, already starting on the woman’s usual order. (Jerk chicken and eggs.) “Homegirl won’t go home even though she’s been here all day. Just look at her.” The teenager gestured vaguely at Pearl’s body. “She looks dead on her feet.”

“You’re being incredibly rude tonight, you know,” Pearl huffed, unable to resist the urge to glance down. There was an unidentifiable stain on the collar of her shirt. 

She hated unidentifiable stains on the collars of her shirts.

“It’s for your own good,” she replied sagely, turning away as her saucepan began to sizzle on the stove. With Jenny also occupied, Pearl was left to the mercy of Bismuth, who’d always had a way of seeing through her, down to her deepest core. 

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend. With a self-assuredness that Pearl had always lacked and a gentleness that she had always loved, her old companion reached across the bar and placed a calloused palm atop of the pale ridges of Pearl’s knuckles, covering them completely.

“C’mere, sugar,” she said softly, “and tell me all about it.”

“It’s late,” Pearl whispered automatically, glancing away. She always had some excuse or another. “And you’ve been working. You must be tired.”

“Hell,” Bismuth snorted as Kiki pushed a soda towards her, “if I’m tired, then you must be exhausted. The kid’s right. You look it.”

“The kid’s always right,” Kiki chimed in knowingly before moving away again.

And so, as the breath of rain continued to hiss on the roof, Pearl drew up a stool and sat across the bar from Bismuth, her hand warm beneath the other’s surprisingly gentle touch.

And they talked.

Softly.

Pearl told her everything. 

She told her about the cemetery and Steven and the tiny hibiscus flower that passed from his hand to that of Blue Diamond’s, watching as Bismuth’s expressive face twisted in the same sort of horror and disgust that she herself had been grappling with ever since the bathrobed woman had somehow made her way into the entanglement of their lives. And Pearl told her about the last trip to Empire City, how Steven had almost needed a blood transfusion, and how that almost had become their reality when he’d collapsed in the beach house, hitting those wooden slats with a thunk that still echoed in the hollows of her head. 

“I yelled at Amethyst,” she whispered, horrified, trying to withdraw her hand from beneath Bismuth’s.

Bismuth’s grip only tightened.

“I said some horrible things.”

“We all say horrible things,” the woman only replied, looking down, ever so subtly glancing away. Fifteen years ago, she and Rose had had a falling out over how to protest Diamond Electric. They hadn’t made up before she died. “The fixin’ part is what matters.”

And so Pearl, swallowing hard in acceptance of this lived-through truth, went on and on until her voice was scratchy from the strain of it. She told Bismuth about how small Steven was in the hospital bed and how sickly. She told her, fingernails digging into the grains of the bar, about how Priyanka Maheswaran, who always had a solution, didn’t really have an answer. She told her about the IVs and the wires and the blood transfusions and the possibility of a feeding tube.

And she told her, without saying a word, that she was scared.

Admissions did not come easily to the woman, but they were written across the physiognomy of her entire body anyway.

The desperation leaked from her pale eyes.

And all the sleepless nights lined her pointed face.

And there was a stiffness in the way she held herself, so harshly, with studied discipline.

But by definition, discipline was necessarily repression, and repress, repress, repress was the motto and model by which Pearl lived her life. It was the lone vanguard which kept her from shattering to pieces on the floor—just another mess for Kiki to sweep up with the rest of the clutter.

It was her last defense against total dissolution.

When she had nothing, at least she could put a smile on her face and pretend otherwise.

“So it’s been a long week,” she smiled wearily at the end of this.

She smiled because the alternative was to fall apart.

"To say the least.”

But, again, that was the thing about Bismuth.

Nothing escaped those dark eyes of hers, not a tool, not a loose screw, not the quiet, aching sadnesses of a friend. 

With that familiar self-assuredness, her old companion rose from her seat and walked around to the other side of the bar.

“Bismuth, wait, I—”

And then, without hesitating, she crushed Pearl into her strong arms.

The engineer smelled faintly of oil and flavored tobacco.

Peppermint.

Crisp and sharp.

“To say the least,” she only agreed as Pearl’s lower lip began to tremble.

Her arms were limp, useless, by her sides, hanging over the edges of the stool.

“I’m fine,” she tried. The word fell flat on her tongue. “Really.”

“I don't doubt that you are. I never would. But you don’t have to be, hon,” Bismuth replied softly, her breath kindling warm against her ear. “You work so hard… and you care so much… that it ain’t a crime to need some tender love n care, too. It ain't weakness to be kind to yourself, Pearl."

Pearl was frozen, statuesque, even as the world somehow continued to spin around her. Diners chatted, rain fell, and the eggs sizzled in their frying pan. Everything and everyone else had their place in this world.

She wasn’t sure where that left her and all the griefs she so tightly wrapped herself around—scars and still-bleeding wounds.

“How can I break,” she asked, her voice tight, “knowing he’s lying in that hospital bed? What right do I have to fall to pieces when what he’s fighting is a hundred times worse?”

Somehow, Bismuth had an answer to this, too; she seemed to always have an answer.

She rubbed gentle circles into Pearl’s back.

She didn't let go.

“Pain isn’t a competition, Pearl,” she admonished. “When you’re hurting, you’re hurting.”

There was a matter-of-factness to this statement, a sense of finality, and perhaps that was what did it in the end; the raw truth of it confronted her, and it scalded her, and it forced her to confess.

Pearl shattered, and Bismuth was there to scoop up all the pretty, broken pieces.

“It hurts all over,” she admitted as the tears wrenched themselves loose from her eyes.

“I know, sugar."

Outside the restaurant, the rain continued to beat its relentless dirge into the Boardwalk, the sky falling in shards and unholy music, all needle sharp notes.

If the crescendo screamed, it absolutely roared.

10:03PM:

Outside the window of Room 11037, night wrapped its velvety arms around a sky shivering with stars, and Garnet, attentive of every wire and tube, wrapped her warm arms around Steven as they laid in his hospital bed together, watching a late night re-run of Crying Breakfast Friends. This was the episode where Pear betrayed the stoic Spoon’s trust, and all the assorted breakfast people cried about it for a good seven minutes of the show’s eleven minute runtime.

For some odd reason, the animation on Spoon’s tears was exceptionally well done, the liquid fluidly running down the curvature of their face as they wailed incoherently.

“Wahhhhhhhhhh.”

(Not for the first time, Garnet absently wondered who had been paid to write this.)

Beneath her, Steven sniffed noisily, bringing up the less-encumbered of his hands to swipe tentatively at his nose; it was an awkward movement with the oxygen cannulas in the way.

“You’ve seen this one before,” Garnet teased softly, her voice landing somewhere in his dark hair. “Twice that I know of. It can’t be that sad anymore.”

She waited for a laugh and a witty retort—for a remarkably insightful analysis into why it was okay to cry over crying breakfast utensils—but one wasn’t forthcoming, even though the child’s shoulders were conspicuously shaking.

She looked down at him then, catching a sliver of his face in the light wash of the television; tears streamed silently from his eyes and down the sunken hollows of his face, down into the collar of his gown, down past the spiral of wires.

“Steven.” Garnet propped herself up with an abruptness that was almost violent, though when she cupped his face between her long fingers, her touch was exceedingly gentle. “What’s wrong?”

But Steven shook his head, burying it into the front of her sweatshirt as a low whine escaped past his anemic lips.

His chubby fingers twisted into the fabric next to her stomach.

“Steven!” Panic slipped up the rungs of her voice. 

She looked around wildly her for the call button on the railing, but they were surrounded by so many tubes and blankets.

And it was dark.

And Steven was crying.

“Garnet,” he finally moaned, “my back hurts.”

It was a common symptom with his disease. Because the kidneys were located right below the ribcage, his upper back often spasmed when they were being particularly bothersome.

At home, they would give him medicine and press a heating pad to his spine, hoping against both hell and hope that the warmth would sooth the worst of the pain.

Here in the hospital, they could give him morphine.

They could even sedate him.

Make the pain go away for a few hours if that was mercy.

(Once, after a particularly bad attack that’d almost brought them to the hospital, Steven had described the pain like being stung by a jellyfish over and over again, as though its tentacles were wrapped around his torso, wringing him out all over.)

“I have to get a nurse,” she said automatically, her throat dry. He clung to her so tightly that she didn’t dare move an inch. On the TV, Spoon was still crying, their keening overwrought next to Steven, who cried so quietly these days that it was almost like he hated for anyone to hear.

“They’ll drug me?” He asked astutely, the sound muffled in her shirt.

“Yes.”

“It’d make me sleep.”

“Maybe... yes.” Garnet couldn’t see where he was going with this until his fingers tightened just a fraction more where they gripped her. 

Her lips parted.

And there was silence.

And there was crying.

And there was understanding most of all. It scorched Garnet and simply ruined her.

“You don’t want to go to sleep.” 

It was a statement, hoarsely dragged from her mouth.

She received a minimal head shake as her answer.

“You’re scared.”

And somehow, she knew the veracity of her words before he nodded his assent into her chest.

Steven was scared to fall asleep—afraid, maybe even terrified, that he wouldn’t wake up. The horror of it, the awfulness and the unfairness, and the cruelty of it rose up in Garnet’s chest like a tsunami, a fire, a hurricane, a storm.

Yet, she remained immobile.

She didn’t move.

What could she even say to that?

What was she supposed to say?

Words were insufficient.

(She couldn’t even reassure herself.)

The small TV screen suddenly faded to black as Crying Breakfast Friends ended, and the credits rolled, the show’s elegiac theme song playing softly in the background, all piano notes and somber violin strings.

It was a little easier, at least, when she couldn’t see his face.

“I’m scared, too,” she admitted.

It was only three words, but they exacted her, and they excavated her; heat clambered up her cheeks, settling somewhere behind her burning eyes.

Steven’s shoulders briefly stilled, though all the machines keeping him alive continued to whir on.

“Y-you are?”

“All the time.” Scared to touch him, scared to even look at him. Scared that one day, she would wake up and he would be gone, a shell finally reclaimed by its shore. Scared to leave this hospital room lest she miss a single moment, and scared to stay if that meant watching him go. Scared that they wouldn’t find him a kidney in time, and scared that if they did, they couldn’t afford it.

Garnet was a wreck, barely holding together.

She was Garnet.

She had to hold together anyway.

“And sometimes, Steven,” she whispered, hugging him to her chest as much as the tubing would allow, “that is what love is—being scared and moving forward anyway.”

Into the darkness, hand in hand.

Without the promise of safe return.

Her mothers had done it.

Rose Quartz had done it.

And the footprints they had left behind were big to fill, but Garnet didn’t have to fill them; she just had to follow their lead.

Steven was quiet for a couple more heartbeats still before he slowly withdrew his head from her chest to look up at her; he didn’t quite let go of her shirt; he took ragged, rasping breaths, his shoulders heaving to the rhythmic whirring of his heart monitor.

“You can call the nurse now.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

It was all she could manage.

“And, Garnet?”

“Yes, Steven?”

“I love you.”

10:45PM:

Cooling down after a long day of work was always struggle for Priyanka, whose mind was such that it was perpetually working ahead to the next day of work—all the patients she had to do rounds upon, all the charts she had to fill out, and all the procedures she had to meticulously prep for, spending as much time in the hospital’s library as she did the operating room. 

If the table of her head wasn’t perpetually well-set, her thoughts surgically arranged on a porcelain plate, scalpels placed in descending order by size on the adjacent napkin, then the doctor felt unmoored from the trait which made her feel fundamentally herself.

Her precision—unerring, diligent, and unpretentious.

She checked and double-checked and was a better nephrologist for it. By the nature of the temperamental organ she was dealing with, her patient mortality rate was high, but no one, by the nature of her methodology, could say that it was because of human error.

She checked and double-checked, trying to quantify every conceivable possibility before they could make themselves known in the real world, and when she neglected to deconstruct a hypothetical, which was a rarity in and of itself, she would chastise herself for it both before and better than anyone else ever could.

Priyanka Maheswaran was a study in precision, never shirking away from the reward that often laid at the end of hard labor.

But what no one had ever told her was that a side effect of being precise was being so damn tired.

All the time.

She struggled to cool down, and she was exhausted. She desperately wanted to sleep, but her mind whirred and whirled and calculated and thought. The dichotomous interplay of these qualities led to her sipping hot tea in bed with a pinched expression on her face as her husband stretched out next to her, reading his tattered copy of Crime and Punishment and sometimes laughing aloud when a line struck him as funny.

“Ha,” he snorted after awhile of this before replacing his bookmark (an old grocery store receipt) in his new spot and closing the heavy tome. “I love Dostoevsky.”

Lips pressed to the rim of her nearly empty mug, Priyanka arched a sharp brow at him, smiling wryly.

Her husband was a dork.

“Should I be jealous, dear?”

“Naturally,” Doug returned, reaching over to place the book on his nightstand before turning back towards her. “Dostoevsky has it all. A great grasp on existentialism and a beard for days. He could tone it down on the heavy moralism, though.”

“That’s what you said about Tolstoy,” she reminded him with a tilt of her head. “Good beard, too much sermonizing.”

“It’s a running theme,” her husband admitted sadly, and then, catching each other’s eye, the two Maheswarans suddenly laughed, the sounds loud in the otherwise quiet room.

It was moments like these, after nearly seventeen years together, that kept them going strong. They loved each other, and they liked each other, and they especially liked to make each other laugh.

Even if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

And maybe especially if it was about something as specific as Russian literature titans.

“We’re going to wake our daughter up,” Priyanka finally said, setting her mug down on her own nightstand. In the lamplight, the dark ceramic gleamed. Her phone, sitting next to it, showed that she had a new message from one of the surgical interns she was training. 

She’d open it in a minute.

Knowing the group of fools she’d gotten this year, whoever it was had probably stabbed themselves with a syringe.

(Again.)

“It’s never too early for Connie to have an opinion on old Russian men,” Doug chuckled, but he, too, was settling down as the heaviness of night began to sweep across them both.

He sighed fondly and took her hand then, intertwining their fingers on top of the blankets.

Priyanka wasn’t much of a touchy-feely person, but her husband absolutely was, and she knew, from all the coagulated years of having been married to him, that this simple gesture was about being close to her, about reacquainting himself to her presence.

So she didn’t let go.

Instead, she squeezed once, resting her head against the backboard of their bed and closing her eyes for the first time in what felt like days. The darkness was nice and inviting, blanketing her head like a cozy throw.

It was just all the thoughts, buzzing like bees at the velvety, black edges, that made it so unbearable.

Patients, charts, and procedures.

And Steven Universe most of all.

She worried for him constantly now that he was in the hospital; she carried his sunken face with her everywhere that she went; he made her half-sick.

He forced her to become undone.

Caring.

It did something to her.

“You look tired, honey,” Doug said softly. “Shall we put a nightcap on the evening?”

Priyanka opened her eyes again and nodded ever so briskly. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear and let out a small, exacting sigh.

“I think that’d be in order,” she agreed, and it was a sign of her exhaustion that she acquiesced so easily. Usually, he had to plead with her to close down shop for the night.

These weren’t usual times.

Without letting go of her hand, her husband twisted away and turned the latch of his lamp with a click, thrusting half of the room into darkness. 

And she was about to do the same when the rectangular light of her phone caught her attention again.

Instead of just one message from her intern—a perky blonde named Dr. Stephens—now she had eight of them in total and a missed call. 

The doctor always put her phone on silent when she drank her nightly tea so she didn’t have to be a doctor for fifteen minutes.

She could simply be Priyanka.

Her stomach clenched.

An influx of messages was never a good thing; her mind raced ahead of her; it anticipated the worst.

“Hon?” 

Doug’s questioning concern pressed against her side, and Priyanka found herself clenching his hand all the tighter as she used her free one to pick up the phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe and clicking the message app with a suddenness that was brutal.

Monday, 10:57PM:

Dr. Stephens: DR. MAHESWARAN!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: UNOS JUST CALLED.

Dr. Stephens: WE HAVE A KIDNEY FOR STEVEN UNIVERSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dr. Stephens: Car crash on the lower East Side. The donor is brain dead, but all their other organs are viable.

Dr. Stephens: And they’re a match for Steven.

Dr. Stephens: Seriously. I’ve checked and double-checked. 

Dr. Stephens: This is our person.

Dr. Stephens: The surgeon at Empire Gen’s gonna perform the harvest procedure tomorrow morning at 10AM, and I told them you’d be there. 

In the half-darkness of her room, Priyanka held that phone aloft like it was priceless gold and let out a breath she had been holding for a very long time. Her shoulders heaved with the sensation of it, the feeling, the emotion.

Of goddamn relief.

Warm, sweeping, glorious relief.

A kidney.

Steven Universe was getting a kidney.

[withthehomiies]

( laura harrier, cis female, she/her, bisexual ) check it out, i totally just saw LOLA HEPBURN! some people say they remind them of LOLA (CONFESSIONS OF A TEENAGE DRAMA QUEEN), but that’s just hearsay. it could be because they are AMBITIOUS but can also be a bit DISHONEST on a bad day. either way i heard the TWENTY-FIVE year old is working at CRAVE ME COFFEE / as AN ASPIRING ACTRESS. if only they could stop playing SOMEONE IN THE CROWD (LA LA LAND) on repeat so they could actually focus, then their neighbors in HOLLYWOOD might get some sleep. all i know is that they remind of of OVERSIZED SUNGLASSES, TICKET STUBS SCATTERED ALL OVER A MESSY BEDROOM, ONE-OF-A-KIND HANDMADE JEWELRY and can be seen as THE DRAMA QUEEN.

         ❝ i don’t even know who this mary is. ❞

name: mary elizabeth lola cep hepburn. age: 25. date of birth: tba. hometown: new york city, new york. current location: hollywood, california. occupation: barista / aspiring actress.

pinterest: xx. playlist: coming soon !

→ 𝕙𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪.

☆ born mary elizabeth cep, lola always knew she was destined for great things. she grew up in new york city, the center of the universe. while some people could consider nyc a dangerous place to raise their kids, lola thrived. she lived with her finger on the cultural pulse of the universe. they lived in an old building on the upper west side. lola, karen ( her mom ), and calum ( her dad ).

☆ karen kapok and calum cep loved each other, truly, but they were largely incompatible. they got a divorce when lola was just a baby, so as to spare her the trauma of watching her parents split up. calum moved into an apartment in the east village. he illustrates children’s books and lives with his dog, negus.

☆ a few years later, when lola was 7, karen ( a potter ), met elk, a lawyer for greenpeace. they got married shortly after, and had twins — pam and paula. they were one big happy family for a short while. that is until elk went to a conference in england and never came back. he met a woman called margot and moved to california with her.

☆ lola always felt like an outsider in her family — according to her, they were all too ordinary. lola was an artist. her family was ordinary in comparison to her. she was independent, high spirited, outgoing. she knew from a young age that one day she would be a famous actress, and every moment of her life was a performance.

☆ tragedy struck just a few weeks before lola’s 16th birthday — karen decided they were moving to deadwood dellwood, new jersey. the twins were now 8, and karen wanted them to grow up in a normal town, not new york city ( which felt like a movie set, according to her ). lola begged her to let her stay in new york — she could live with her father. karen wouldn’t budge.

☆ lola hated the suburbs. she felt her soul begin to wither away the moment they crossed state lines. everyone was boring, there was grass everywhere, it felt dead. the silver lining was that it gave lola a chance to start fresh — she could be whoever she wanted to be. back in new york, the people she grew up with refused to call her lola — to them, she was still mary. here, she could be lola. in all her glory.

☆ she quickly struck up a friendship with ella gerard — a girl who dressed like a politician’s wife and always colored inside the lines, but who was incredibly kind and shared lola’s love for the band sidarthur. but just as she made a friend, lola made an enemy — carla santini. carla believed herself to be the center of the universe and couldn’t stand someone like lola, whose eccentricities frequently made her the center of attention.

☆ lots of things happened the year lola moved to deadwood dellwood. she went up against carla for the role of eliza doolittle in the school play ( lola got the part ). sidarthur split up and announced one final show in new york city. after a week of mourning, lola and ella managed to convince their parents to let them attend. they didn’t — lola left the money for the tickets on the train they took from new jersey.

☆ they did, however, find their way to stu wolff’s ( sidarthur’s lead singer, and, according to lola, the greatest poet since shakespeare ) manhattan loft, where the afterparty was taking place. they failed at sneaking in, but ran into stu. long story short, they partied at his place and now stu and lola’s dad are friends.

☆ after starring in eliza rocks ( the school’s modern — and musical — adaptation of pygmalion ), lola started dating sam creek. he was a sweet guy who’d been into lola from the moment she arrived. before then, lola had been convinced she would one day marry stu. things didn’t last very long, however. she broke up with him after their high school graduation, believing that her one true love would be waiting for her in los angeles — her new, real life was about to begin. she even changed her last name — cep wasn’t really a name you could picture on a marquee.

☆ she packed up her bags and moved out west — a surprising move for someone who loved new york city so much, but lola realized she wanted to be in films. she could go back to the theatre later. she studied acting at calarts, where she could really hone her craft.

☆ she graduated a few years ago, and has been working as a barista since then as a way to pay her bills while she waits for her career to take off. her father sends her a check once a month ( la real estate is expensive ), but she won’t let herself become dependent on him. when she’s not working, she’s going to auditions. anywhere her agent sends her. she’s booked a few things here and there, but she’s still waiting for that one, big role that will change her life forever.

→ 𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪 , 𝕖𝕥𝕔.

zodiac sign: pisces ☼ / leo ☾ / gemini ↗. personality type: enfp — the campaigner. enneagram: type 4 — the individualist. temperament: choleric. moral alignment: chaotic neutral. element: water.

☆ she decided to change her name from mary to lola after watching damn yankees on tv.

☆ when she was 15, she got a nose piercing behind her mom’s back. that same year, she went through a joan of arc phase and chopped off her hair.

☆ she’s a vegan, and very eco-conscious. she rides her bike everywhere.

☆ she has a habit of lying to make herself seem more interesting. she doesn’t lie about the fundamentals, just the details. but she really lies about those to embellish her stories. sometimes, she can’t keep track of her lies and forgets what she’s told people. this often comes back to bite her.

☆ her resumé is extremely padded. most gigs listed on it are made up.

☆ she loves attention. she’ll do anything for attention. she’s not afraid of making a scene.

☆ she’s a talented actress, but gets frustrated very easily when things don’t go her way.

[jjkfire]

jungkook x reader // athlete!jungkook, marchingband!oc // 6.8k words 

don’t read further if you hate unfinished fics.

Band is lame

Is what everyone had told you in high school but here you are, front row and centre at your university’s football game and for free at that too. Who’s the loser now? You laugh to yourself, looking towards the crowd, sure that at least one or two of your high school mates were somewhere in there too, probably a little upset that they had to pay for an extremely overpriced ticket to get seats to the game.

Of course, being in the band comes with its downsides because you have to be up at 5am for practice on game day, and you would have to stay way past the final whistle too. The band are the first ones to walk on the field and the last ones to leave the field but honestly, it’s worth it because nothing beats marching out of the tunnel on a game day, the roaring cheers from the fans near deafening for when the band takes the field, it means that it’s go time, that game day has officially begun. The cherry on top though, is that you get to be as close as anyone possibly could get to the football team, standing next to them, playing the school’s fight song at the end of the game as the players stay back to thank the fans for coming.

It’s bit of a change for you, getting a reaction that’s somewhere between awe & jealousy instead of disinterest whenever the fact that you’re in the school’s marching band comes up. Along with that reaction though, comes a question that nobody fails to ask and that would be:

What’s Jungkook like in person?

Ah, Jungkook. It’s no doubt that the freshman Jeon Jungkook had taken the university and even nation by storm. He’s the newly inducted running back for your university’s football team and boy does he live up to his position’s name. In all the games he has played, he’s managed to gain an unfathomable amount of yardage, sometimes taking the ball all the way to the end zone himself. His ability to break tackles, to burst down the field with an insane amount of speed made him an undeniable asset to the team. He’s the best freshman player in the conference, voted rightfully so 5 times in a row now so you don’t blame anyone for asking you about him because heck, even you were curious about him.  

Well, anyway, the answer to the ever-popular question would be that you had absolutely no idea because you’ve seen him in person, yeah, mere inches away from you but it wasn’t like you had time to stop to talk to him, to ask him what his favourite colour was or anything of the sort. But for conversation sake, your answer would always be the same and you’d smile before you shrug, saying:

He’s pretty cool, I guess.

Because, that he is… and nobody knows it but you’re just as star struck as everyone whenever you see him, even if you do see him just about every other week. You let people think he knows you, a harmless little white lie for a few brownie points, but the fact of the matter is, he doesn’t know your name and probably never will because there are more than 100 students on the band and you were merely just one out of the thousands of faces he’d see every home game… right?

Wrong.

So very wrong.

Game 6 of the season is one that’s highly anticipated, a match against the defending champions of the national playoffs. You can feel the excitement in the air as you march out onto the field, the stadium packed to the brim, the fullest you’ve ever seen it, the cheers the loudest you’ve ever heard.

It’s a tight game and along with the crowd, you’re biting your nails as the score is at a tie. With only a few minutes to go and the ball in the opponent’s possession, everyone’s holding their breath, hoping to take it to overtime or to turn things around somehow.

Perhaps you wished hard enough because there’s a slip up and a player in your university’s defensive line is able to steal the ball, running towards the opposite side of the field but he only gets so far before he’s taken down. The team switches out for the offensive team, Jungkook stepping up to the plate, and you can feel the stadium as a collective begin to silently hope that he’d be able to bring the ball close to the end of the field but that would be an enormous feat, way too much to ask of the young boy, isn’t it?

There’s the sound of a whistle before a few vague words are being shouted out on the field and you watch as the players scuffle amongst each other, the ball miraculously finding its way into Jungkook’s hands amidst the commotion. Everyone squints, trying to make out what’s happening on the field and then they see it, a player breaking out from the makeshift initial line of players, hurtling down towards the end. The team jumps into action, taking down any opponents attempting to stop him and even with that, there’s still 2, 3 players who go after him, trying to bring him down with a tackle but he remains standing, breaking all their attempts with ease.

It’s Jungkook with the carry. Can he take it the distance???

With only one player chasing after him, the stadium rises to their feet watching nervously as his opponent catches up, closing in on him.

A loose grab on the ankle, a light stumble but it’s not enough to stop him because he powers on, running clear into the end zone painted in bright yellow.

He can!!! It’s touchdown for the Hawks! Jeon Jungkook proving time and time again just why he’s freshman of the week, every week.

The band breaks out into the school’s fight song, the cheers from the crowd ringing around the stadium as the team celebrates at the end zone. With a final kick, the ball goes between the posts and the whistle sounds, the team running out onto the field to celebrate another victory. The elation in the air is unbeatable and much of what happens next is a blur but all you know is that this is why you love game day so much.

Somehow at the end of the game, you end up on top of one of your band mate’s shoulder, playing song after song that’s part of the band’s repertoire, the football players joining in on the fun as they dance alongside the band while the crowd enjoys it all from the bleachers. The fans in the stands sing along to the familiar sound of the trumpets, flutes and trombones. This is definitely one for the books is what you find yourself thinking because this right here, was why you loved being in the band.

Game no.6 of the season would be a game that many would speak about for the rest of the season. The fierce competition, the tension in the air as overtime loomed above the players’ head and all the unusual touchdowns, those are only a few of the many reasons that made this match sensational. It’s an unforgettable day for everyone in the stadium but it couldn’t be any truer for both you and Jungkook, except for all the wrong reasons.

Disaster.

That’s the only way you can describe it and if you could relive this day, you’d make sure to stay as far away as possible from Jungkook because this is it… the end of your college career when it hasn’t even begun.

You’re not sure how it happened because one second you’re belting out the notes on your trumpet as you stay seated on your friend’s shoulder and the next second, you’re falling off, your elbow hitting Jungkook in the temple, hard. You can hear the screams of horror as you see the prized boy crumpling to the ground with you, him making a feeble attempt to catch you even in his daze.

Everyone rushes to push you off of him and when you finally realize what has happened, you panic, hoping he’s okay because fuck, he’s the goddamn golden boy of the school. Your head is throbbing with pain, radiating from the spot where your skull had hit the ground but you manage to get up anyway. Much to your horror, Jungkook is in a daze, his eyes struggling to open and you’re fighting your way amongst the crowd that has gathered around him just to beg him to wake up, to stand up.

“Oh god, Jungkook, I’m so sorry,” You cry, caressing the spot you had hit him. “Are you okay? You have to be okay.”

He blinks up at you for a moment before his eyes flutter shut and before you can apologize again, you’re being pulled away to make way for the medics. You retreat into the distance, feeling horrible as the people around you shoot you dirty looks, shaking their heads at you. Guilt washes over you like a tsunami as you watch Jungkook being lifted up onto a stretcher, disappearing down the tunnel.

“Way to go, Y/N,” The boy laughs. “I know you said you wanted to make a splash your freshman year but I don’t think this was the best way to do it.”

“Oh fuck off,” You groan.

“Now, now, is that how you should be talking to someone elder to you?”

“I’m so screwed, Tae,” You mumble, eyes downcast, the beginnings of a tear forming at the corner of your eyes.

“Crap, don’t— Look I was just teasing. It’s going to be fine,” He smiles before hugging you and you sigh, shutting your eyes as you return the gesture. “Come on, let’s go get your head checked out.”

Kim Taehyung. He’s insufferable, loud, annoying and a plethora of all things that makes you feel like punching him in the gut half of the time but he’s also your childhood friend so even if you wanted to get rid of him, you can’t… he knows far too many embarrassing facts about you for you to let him roam freely, out of your sight. You had grown up alongside him and Jimin in a small town an hour or two from campus and boy was it an experience. The three of you grew up on the same street, riding bikes around the neighbourhood, wreaking havoc at the local playground and trekking through the small forest to the lake hidden up in the hills. When Jimin received his athletic scholarship for basketball at the university and Taehyung earned his spot as a Kinesiology major, it was only right for you to work towards applying to the same school and that you did… as a kinesiology major too. Why do you have to copy everything I do? Taehyung whined but you all knew that he was more than happy to have you in his department because that meant he could continue his lifelong mission of making your life miserable.

Working for the school’s athletics department meant that Taehyung was part of the team that worked with athletes for injuries and pre-treatment. Like you, he had to be at every home game, except instead of playing the trumpet, he was in charge of attending to on-field injuries, like the one you have, the bruise on your head now almost the size of his palm.

You’re sat on the bed on the other side of the room, watching as the medics fuss over the now knocked out Jungkook and you can’t help but feel like evaporating into thin air as his concerned coach and teammates whisper and stare at you. Taehyung implores you to ignore them as he does a preliminary check-up and he let’s you know you’re in the clear, no damage done, he confirms, aside from the huge bump protruding from your scalp. You quickly try to rush out of the infirmary when he’s finally done but he doesn’t let you, insisting you stay for just a bit, for medical reasons he murmurs but really, he knows if he lets you go alone, there’s no telling what the angry mob waiting outside would do to you.

In the time that you lay in the bed opposite Jungkook, he’s been wheeled in and out of the room twice already, thankfully, completely awake though still looking rather dazed. A numerous amount of people have come knocking on the door just to see how he was doing but they’re all turned away in order for the boy to get some rest. You’re glad that though many have thrown some mean glares at you through the curtain that Taehyung had drawn, nobody has made their way over to give you a piece of their mind yet.

It’s when everyone leaves and only the three of you remain in the room is when you see Jungkook try to peer through the slit in the curtain and you pray he can’t see you.

“Is, uhh… anyone there?”

You freeze up in horror and glance over at Taehyung in fear. He tells you not to worry before stepping out behind the curtains.

“Hey buddy, how’s your head feeling?”

“Tae,” He smiles. “Hurts like a bitch but it’s all good.”

“That’s good to hear,” Tae laughs.

“How’s the uhh girl that fell over with me?” He murmurs, vaguely remembering that he’d only been able to break a part of your fall before everything went black.

“You mean the girl your fan club outside wants to lynch?” Tae questions in return and Jungkook laughs, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t really her fault though,” He sighs. “I tried to catch her too but I just… she’s okay, right?”

“Yeah Y/N— I mean… the girl, the girl… she’s fine,” Taehyung corrects as he smiles, hoping that Jungkook hadn’t caught your name and Taehyung knows you’re probably going to slam his head into a wall later for letting it slip.

There’s a rustling from the other side of the room, the pitter patter of your feet and Taehyung realizes too belatedly that it was you making a run for it.

“Y/N, wait!— Fuck,” Taehyung huffs just as the door slams. “I’ll be right back,” He offers a curt smile to a confused Jungkook before grabbing your shoes and chasing after you.

“Y/N,” He screams into the hallway, running after you. “Stop! I have your shoes!”

You halt, letting Taehyung catch up, only to tug violently at his ear when he stands in front of you.

“You piece of— Why did you tell him my name?” You groan while Taehyung drops your shoes, howling in pain as you continue to hold onto his earlobe. “Do you know what you just did? You just sent me straight to death row. All his friends and fans are going to come after me now. That’s it. Goodbye my social career.”

“To be fair, you didn’t really have one to begin with,” Taehyung laughs to himself before yelping as you tug at his ear again.

“Look, Jungkook isn’t going to do that,” He sighs, pinching you in the arm to force you to release his earlobe. “He’s not like that.”

“I just ruined his career,” You grumble. “There’s no telling what he will or won’t do.”

“He just has a mild concussion alright? Take it down a notch, won’t you? Drama queen,” He scoffs.

“It’s not just that… I mean, you heard what the staff said,” You murmur. “Talking about pursuing legal action against me…”

“None of that’s going to happen, okay?” Taehyung sighs. “It was just an accident. I know it, Jungkook knows it. I doubt he wants to press charges or whatever.”

You shuffle in your spot guiltily, still wishing you could just turn back time and prevent this nightmare from happening.

“Just put on your shoes, go home, take a long shower and ice that head, alright?”

You nod, slipping your feet into your shoes.

“And take the other exit… you know… just in case.”

You let out a quiet yes before giving him a small hug, a form of thanks for all that he’s done today and his words of comfort. Text me! He shouts as you walk away. The boy worries too much, you shake your head.

“So, Y/N? That’s her name?” Jungkook questions when Taehyung finally returns.

“Yeah,” Taehyung nods, as a few more workers shuffle in, getting ready to wheel Jungkook over to the main hospital building.

“Where are we going?”

“To the main wing,” Taehyung answers, catching a glimpse of fear on Jungkook’s face. “Don’t worry. They just want to keep an eye on you for tonight just in case… also, I want to go home and I can’t do that if you’re still in here,” He laughs.

“Wait, why didn’t Y/N have to stay? I think she hit her head pretty hard too.”

“Because she didn’t black out for a good 3 minutes.”

“That’s how long I was out?”

“Yup,” He exhales. “You had all of us worrying. Especially, Y/N… She’s still beating herself up over it.”

“Please tell her I’m doing fine,” He laughs. “Is… is that why she ran out?”

“Mmhmm, she wants my head on the chopping board for giving out her name. Thinks you’re going to come after her for, in her words, ‘ruining your career’,” Taehyung rolls his eyes and Jungkook chortles, shaking his head.

“Tell her it’s going to take a lot more than that to stop me from playing football.”

Y/N, Jungkook sighs. His little accident definitely isn’t the way he had imagined first meeting you but it’s good to finally be able to put a name to a face. You have a nickname amongst the football players, the trumpet girl, is what they call you because they’re not too creative you see. There were dozens of trumpet players on the band, many of them female but you are the trumpet girl because one of the players had spotted you before, his arm slung around your shoulder at the end of the game singing along to the alma mater song. He didn’t think too much of it but then he kept seeing you again and again… it was like you were everywhere. It’s that trumpet girl again! He had exclaimed to the team when he spotted you at the sports dining facility and so the name just stuck.

You truly were everywhere that they went and was it coincidence? The team thinks not because no matter the day, when they gather on the field at 7 am, they’d find you sitting at the patio that looked out over the practice field, occasionally looking up from your laptop to watch the boys play. They have a theory that you’re never really studying, that there’s a certain player on the team you’re in love with and that’s why you’re always there. There’s a bet going around on who could score you first. So far, all of them are doing poorly, considering they don’t even know your name… Well, except Jungkook of course after today’s encounter.

But, back to the topic at hand. If seeing you at every practice wasn’t enough, then they’d see you at every home game too, playing the trumpet loud and proud. They have a theory you’re only in band just to get close to the players… isn’t that why anyone was in band at all?

And if somehow, someone had managed to miss seeing you at all the practices and home games, they’d see you roaming around the physio centre where the players often visited for scheduled physiotherapy sessions, though Jungkook has noticed, you always seem to duck into the area reserved for the basketball team.

“Is Y/N a kinese major too?” Jungkook questions, peering up at Taehyung.

“She is,” He nods. “Sucker followed in my footsteps, always trying to copy me,” He shakes his head.

Jungkook had meant to ask what that meant but when he arrives at his assigned room, there’s so much commotion that he doesn’t even notice that Taehyung had long left. He lets out a deep sigh as he’s finally left alone for the evening, running his hand along the bandage wrapped across his head. He wonders if your head hurts just as bad as his did. He wonders if you’re alright.

You approach the band director early in the week, requesting for a switch out from the band that played for the football team, requesting instead to be put on the team that played for the hockey or basketball team. The director looks at you in shock, not understanding your wish to be pulled off the most coveted team but he lets you switch anyway, placing you into the basketball team band, a fact Jimin would probably be very happy to hear.

Though Jungkook has come out to say that the whole event was a misfortunate accident, you can’t help but feel it was entirely your fault. For the first time in the season, he is forced to miss the upcoming game under the advice of the team’s doctor and you don’t have to scroll through the announcement post to know that the entire student body hates you right now. For some reason, Jungkook and everyone involved decides to keep your name out of the incident report, the only knowledge made privy to the public is that someone from the band had been involved in the accident with their golden boy.

The band comes under heavy scrutiny, many asking for your identity to be released but the band community as a whole, stays silent… though that doesn’t mean they don’t hate you.

Quietly, you agree to all your seniors’ demands, that included running errands, cleaning their instruments for them and just about anything to make them hate you any less. You’re tired, upset and still feeling guilty but you carry on with your days, clocking into the physio centre when you’re finally done with all the band errands and all of your classes.

You power walk down the hallways, trying your best to avoid any of the football players or staff, before sliding into the room you’d usually find Taehyung in.

“Y/N, you’re looking chipper,” He comments, taking in your disheveled appearance and you only hold up a single finger as a warning.

“Let’s not go there,” You sigh, before you lift a small gift bag towards him. “Listen, can you pass this to Jungkook for me?”

“And here I thought you had brought me a gift for taking care of you that day.”

“I already bought you dinner yesterday to say thank you,” You grumble.

“Yeah, but I didn’t get a nice handwritten note,” He frowns, flipping it open to read it and you snatch it from him, placing it back into the bag. “Anyway, I’m heading over for his session now. You can give it to him yourself.”

You look at Taehyung incredulously, as if what he had just suggested was simply crazy, and to you it was.

“Just hand it to him for me, please,” You whine, passing the gift bag to him. “I have work to do too. See, Jimin’s already on my ass for being late,” You grumble shoving your phone in Tae’s face before you jog off towards the room Jimin was waiting in.

“Think fast!” Taehyung shouts as he barges into the room filled with football players, most laying atop table beds. Jungkook quickly sits up, catching the bag when it’s just inches away from his face.

“More gifts for the injured boy?” One of his teammates scoff as Jungkook looks through the bag, pulling out the letter. “Wow and fanmail! Cute. Did she attach a picture and leave a number? If yes, hand it over. You never call them up anyway.”

Jungkook unfolds the letter, ignoring his teammate, the smallest smile gracing his lips as he begins reading it.

Dear Jungkook,

I’m so so so sorry. I never meant to injure you, or hurt you and contrary to the comments going around, I didn’t do this to get your attention or any of the sort. I hope you’re feeling better despite the huge bruise on your head that was caused by me (sorry). I’m also really sorry that you have to miss the upcoming game. It’s my fault that you’re going to lose your freshman of the week streak but I mean, not to worry, everyone knows you would’ve been freshman of the week again if you were to play.

I know sorry can’t fix what I did but… sorry… again. Also, thank you for leaving my name out of the report. I totally appreciate it and I hope you and the team are resting well, knowing that I will no longer be on the field for any of the games for the remainder of the season. I hope Tae and the rest of the physio team treats you well and that you’ll be back on the field soon.

p.s: Tae tells me peanut butter cups are your favourite… so I bought you some… If you’re wondering, the answer is yes, I’m trying to buy your forgiveness with food. Please rest well and eat all of them (and forgive me).

Go Hawks!

(Also, one last time: I’m sorry!)

“What does she mean by she will no longer be on the field for any of the games for the season?” Jungkook questions as Taehyung begins to write down notes on behalf of the physiotherapist in the room.

“She withdrew from the football band team.”

“Who?” The player on the table bed behind Jungkook turns to ask.

“Our number one fan, the trumpet girl.”

“No! Why?” Asks the player sitting on the bench on Jungkook’s right.

“She thought it was for the best,” Taehyung shrugs. “She’s on the band for the basketball team now.”

“The ultimate betrayal,” The player gasps jokingly, referring to the friendly rivalry between the school’s football and basketball team. Both always in competition in who can bring more glory to the university’s name.

“Go get her back. We might lose without her.”

It’s some silly tradition the football team has but every year, they pick a freshman on the band to be their good luck charm and since they saw you everywhere anyway, they picked you. Their reasoning for that was that they knew you weren’t going to leave, that you’d be at every home game come rain or shine. So far, they seemed to be doing just fine, winning 3 out of 3 of their home games. Now whether that had to do with you or the mere fact that they had a solid team this year, nobody knows but, they didn’t want to have to find out either. They don’t want the next home game to come around and play knowing that their good luck charm wasn’t there, playing the trumpet from the stands.

“Huh?” Taehyung questions, unsure with what you had to do with them winning or losing the game but nobody answers him. “Why would you lose without her?”

Again, he’s met with silence and Taehyung simply brushes it off, chalking it up to weird football antics that he’s unaware about. Maybe they could hear the difference in the band if one trumpet player was missing and that affected their performance? Who knows?

“If you don’t want to do it, I’ll do it,” A player offers, a smirk on his lips.

“Yeah, no. I’ll do it, thank you very much.”

What the heck. No way would Jungkook turn down the first legit reason for him to go up and talk to you. I mean it’s not like he was dying to get to know you or anything… okay, maybe a little. Perhaps he wanted to win the stupid bet going on within the team too. Maybe he wanted to be the reason you watched them every practice. Maybe he wanted to be your favourite player like you were his favourite person in the band though he’ll admit he doesn’t know the slightest thing about band.

He remembers the first time he met you, it was a few weeks before school had officially started. The only people on campus at the time were athletes and band members, all called to campus early for training and in the band’s case, for tryouts as well. What you were doing that day in the athletic dining facility, he still hasn’t figured out till today but there you were standing in front of him taking the last available chocolate chip cookie and he lets out a low groan. It had been an exceptionally tough day for him, not performing as well in the benchmark tests as he had hoped. So there he was, standing in the dining facility drenched in sweat after having to run out in the hot sun for hours only to find that the only thing that could possibly make him feel better was in the hands of a complete stranger standing in front of him. With a huff, He moves forward to the cashier with his tray, hoping that his lunch could at least dull the disappointment he felt in himself. That’ll be $6, the cashier smiles and Jungkook reaches for his wallet only to find his student card missing and he groans, almost wanting to just scream at this point.

“Hey just put it on my card,” You call from behind him.

“What? No it’s fine…”

“Too late,” You smile as the cashier swipes the card you hand to her.

“T-thanks,” He looks to the cashier’s screen to find the name Park Jimin printed. “Jimin?”

Huh that didn’t seem right. Why would you have the same name as the school’s star basketball player.

“Yeah, you should be thanking Jimin,” You laugh. “Oh and have this… You seem like you need it more than I do,” You smile placing the cookie on his tray.

Before he can stop you, you’re scurrying off somewhere and his teammates are dragging him off somewhere else.

“You didn’t get a cookie? I thought you said that’s all you wanted,” Jungkook hears someone say.

“Ehh, didn’t feel like it anymore.”

He almost feels bad for letting you give him the cookie but as he takes a bite, he doesn’t really feel any of that regret anymore. Perhaps it was a mere gesture of kindness to you, paying for his meal and giving him that cookie but to him, it made his day, maybe even week and he remembers leaving the dining facility, phone in hand, scouring through the women’s basketball team to see if you were in there but to no avail. He didn’t see you for weeks, the picture of you smiling as you handed him the cookie was seared to the back of his mind, as if taunting him for not stopping to ask you what your name was so he could repay you. But then his teammate pointed you out, trumpet girl, that’s what they called you. Then he saw you everywhere which he wasn’t really sure was better because he always seemed to forget how to speak whenever he saw you on the field at the end of every home game.

Jungkook peers up every minute or so towards the patio during practice, hoping to catch a glimpse of you but for the first time ever, you’re nowhere to be found. He runs straight up there after practice ends to search for you but there’s no sign of you, not even crumbs of the pretzel pieces you always seem to munch on when you were watching the team play.

Luckily, the upcoming match is an away game, so they won’t be needing your luck but that doesn’t mean the team is any less anxious about the home game next week, one where at the moment, you’re not going to be attending. Jungkook tries to reassure the team that he indeed is actively looking for you but for the girl that used to be everywhere, this week you surely have made yourself scarce.

Taehyung refuses to tell Jungkook where he can find you, won’t even give him your number because you had warned Taehyung that if he gave anything away you’d make sure he’ll come home to a broken computer system. Your threats were usually empty but when it came to his computer, he wasn’t about to take any risks.

Since Jungkook won’t be playing the game on the weekend, he dedicates the rest of his week to trying to look for you. At this point he’s scoured every inch of the music building, the kinesiology building and the physio building. He even made the trip out to the band practice field at goddamn 6am to see you but apparently you weren’t at practice, instead off elsewhere running some errands.

“Do you know where I can find her? I just need to talk to her.” He mumbles. “It’s nothing bad I promise.”

The seniors in the band shuffle their feet around, not sure how to say yeah Y/N? She’s in the basement of the music building, cleaning up all of our gear as punishment for elbowing you in the head, for tainting the name of the band so, they simply shrug their shoulders. Jungkook finds the whole ordeal weird and unnerving because everyone was staring at him peculiarly, as if to say why are you actively trying to look for the person who assaulted you?

“You’re sure you don’t know where I can find her?” He asks again just to make sure and they simply shrug their shoulders, unwilling to tell him. Maybe it’s because they’re jealous he was looking for you. That the first time the star player graces their practice with his presence, he’s looking for the one band member that the band collectively hates at the very moment.

Time is still ticking and Jungkook has spent the good remainder of his week looking for you. He sighs, looking at his calendar only to find the words basketball neatly printed above the words football on the box reserved for the coming Saturday. Ah, that’s right. The first few games of the basketball season are to be played for the following weekends and to his knowledge… that’s just where you’re going to be, playing your trumpet for the men be considered to be his rivals on campus. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little hurt.

Jungkook manages to score last minute tickets to the game, attending it with a few others from his dorm. In some ways, he’s glad he’s got the weekend off, that he’s able to do what most other normal students would be doing with their Saturday. It’s a little odd to be participating in the cheering and chanting himself when most of the time he hears it from the field.

The squeaks on the wooden floorboards and the sound of the horn each time someone scores fills everyone with excitement. You could just smell the school spirit in the arena and of course it isn’t as grand as the football stadium but the excitement is all the same. Jimin takes the time to wave at you during the breaks and you shoo him away, not wishing to draw any attention to yourself, especially not when your band mates already dislike you… you didn’t want to give them anymore reason to hate you considering that you heard Jungkook had come looking for you just the other day and for some reason that had upset quite a few members of the band. You focus on doing your job and that was to play the trumpet (and silently cheer Jimin on). Though you feel even if you had been cheering for Jimin out loud, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He had fans aplenty and it’s no surprise because he’s been scoring three pointers all night, putting the team way in the lead.

The basketball game moves much faster than a football one and before you know it, it’s the end of the game and you’re playing the school song as one last hurrah before everyone leaves the arena. Perhaps it’s better after all being on the basketball band team… it left you with a lot more time on your hands anyway.

“How’d I play?” Jimin questions with a smile, slinging his hand across your shoulder as you grab your case, putting away your trumpet.

You shrug his hand off, glancing over at the remaining band members who were glaring at you.

“What? Why are you all looking at her like that?” Jimin growls out, making all of them look away, busying themselves with their equipment.

“Jimin,” You scold, quickly tugging him towards the exit. “You’re going to make things worse for me.”

“I just don’t understand why they all have their panties in a bunch over some stupid accident. Some of these band kids take all of this way too seriously,” He sighs, before he turns around to look back at them. “You think you’re all being slick with all that whispering but I can hear you!” Jimin shouts in the direction of the few remaining band members that were discussing you over hushed voices and you groan out aloud, wishing you could just swing your trumpet case at Jimin’s head.

“Jimin, seriously leave it,” You grumble. “You’re only going to make them hate me even more.”

“Are they actually still giving you shit about that stupid accident? Jungkook already—”

“Hey, uhh… Y/N?”

You jump in your spot when you feel someone tap you on the shoulder, whipping around to find Jungkook himself standing before you. You let out a worried whine, knowing for sure that rumours will be flying around come next band practice.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Jimin smiles. “Go on and tell her band mates that they’re being assholes for bullying Y/N over the incident between you and her last week.”

“They’re bullying you?”

“No, they’re not. Jimin is just—”

“They are! They’re working you like a dog and you’re just taking all of it for no reason,” He grumbles.

“It’s not—”

“Hey assholes look!” He shouts at them. “Jungkook has no problem with Y/N so stop being such fuc—” You slap your hand over Jimin’s mouth, muffling the rest of his sentence.

“Okay we’re leaving now before you completely destroy band life for me.” You exhale, pulling Jimin away as he continues to shout profanities once you pull your hand away from his mouth.

“Wait, Y/N!” Jungkook exclaims, chasing after the both of you. Jimin scurries into the locker room, leaving you alone and lost, completely defenseless. Son of a b—

Jungkook stops right in front of you, panting slightly and you really wish you were anywhere but here at the moment.

“Look, Jungkook” You begin. “I’m sorry for elbowing you in the head. I really am and I don’t know what everyone’s been telling you but really I’m trying my best to just lay low and if you could just pretend that I don’t exist, I would really —”

“I’m here to say thank you for the letter and the peanut butter cups,” He interrupts with a smile.

“Right… uhh that’s um no big deal. I mean I did knock you out so…”

“About that… How’s your head doing? Okay? I tried to break your fall but I don’t think I was much help,” He laughs.

“My head’s okay,” You smile. “The swelling has finally subsided but uh how’s your head? I’m sorry you know about—”

“I know,” He laughs. “You mentioned it about a 100 times in your letter. Really… it’s fine and you shouldn’t be apologizing anyway. It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” You frown.

“It isn’t. You were falling and I just jumped behind to try and catch you but it didn’t go down too well… obviously,” He laughs.

“I heard you quit the football band team.”

“Yeah…”

“Why?” He questions and your face scrunched up in confusion.

“Because you know I hit you in the head? And everyone hates me for it?”

“But it was just an accident.”

“Well, maybe… but you know you’re Jeon Jungkook, right?”

“And?” He asks, unsure what that was supposed to mean. “Anyway, just come back. I’d hate for you to have to leave over something so stupid.”

“It’s already done,” You shrug.

“Well reapply!”

“It doesn’t work like that,” You laugh.

“Look, you have to come back.”

“I can’t… and I don’t understand why this is so important to you,” You laugh.

“The band sounds horrible without you, that’s why. I heard them when I jogged by the band practice field. Out of tune,” He frowns, shaking his head.

“I doubt that’s true,” You snort.

“It is! You have to come to the game next week and hear it for yourself.”

“As much as I’d love to… I uhh have other band duties that I— Jimin!” You shout, as you see him duck out of the locker room. “All the best at the home game next week!” You smile before running after Jimin.

“Y/N— Wait!”

But you’ve already disappeared down one of the numerous hallways.

(this is a part of my unfinished fics collection! click here for more)

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 3

Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, eventually Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents:  Angst, paranoia, mental challenges, hatred, revenge-wishing, denial, swearing (?). And ofc a tiny bit of spoilers for Captain America: Winter Soldier. A/N: Queued this. If you like, please reblog or comment or anything really. If you want a tag, just send me an ask and I’ll gladly add you.

3 - Fox Hunt

…   Rumlow’s PoV   …

Don’t wannit. Don’t want morphine. Vaguely aware of familiar voices, Brock tries to tell them, but they are too busy moving the world around him to listen to the slurry mumblings he manages to produce. He knows they gave him more of the damn painkillers straight into the vein through a drip as soon as they arrived. They didn’t even ask him which they should know is the wrong way to go about things because he is the team leader, the one who has to stay clear minded and make decision. But things are happening around Brock without him having a say in it. He knows he’s in good hands, Hydra cares for its own people. Own people…ownpeople…people own…people. The thought is plucked out and warped by the strong painkillers without losing the sense of urgency. People. Person. He knows he was talking to someone earlier. When? Time’s fuzzy and noncooperative. Shouldn’t’ve said…anything.

A male voice, strong and authoritative in its familiarity, reaches him through the haze of the drugs. Too much…don’t wannit. “Who knows?”

Brock must have spoken out loud. Fuck. “Grl-giiiirl…” a pleasant heat on one side of the face distracts him.

“Focus, agent!”

Focus…foscu…foxes…sneaky foxes. “Girlfwiend…go’ meh to…to…’ee knowth.”

“Your girlfriend knows you allegiance?”

Even the world has stopped as a shadow looms over the injured agent. Keep moving. Get up. Adrenalin begins to course through his veins, clearing his head a tiny bit although it’s an uphill battle against the potency of the chemicals they’ve introduced to his bloodstream.

“Yeth,” the growl is unmistakable, “bith ith done for…loothe end.”

 …   Reader’s PoV   …

Personally, you think you’ve been pretty damn smart about the way of running because not only had you discarded any electronics right away, you also only used cash to buy the bus ticket to Cincinatti, but got off in Columbus only to hitchhike back to Pittsburg (long live the group of university girls who took pity on you) where you found a new bus to New York.

Sure, the stunt took about nine extra hours, but hopefully it’ll throw any followers off your trail.

Maybe I’m being paranoid. Resting your head against the window by your seat, you can see the skyline of New York against the morning light. So what if you know that Brock’s Hydra…according to the news there are no secrets about that organisation anymore. They won’t come for me…I’m just being silly. But a throbbing headache begs to differ. It feels like someone’s digging your brain out through the skull with a teaspoon as the only tool - and that’s without considering any of the skull-splitting pain flashes. Just the thought of those episodes has you looking around nervously. I’m going insane.

Paranoia and some sort of hallucinations, yeah, things aren’t looking great even if you bought that explanation yourself. You don’t. I saw them fall from the sky. The memory and the meaning it now has keeps you from sleeping, real and imagined carnage blending seamlessly in your mind. I saw before it happened. With what Brock had said at the hospital and who he works for. If ever he or they find out that there’s the slightest chance that you saw the failed “project” before it happened? You’d be hunted down and either used as a tool with no regards for human rights. Or they’ll kill me.

…

From the bus stop, it’s the longest 15 minutes walking in your entire life.

When you finally walk up to the enormous glass doors, the knees are about to give out from under you and your palms are sweaty. Somehow, a larger group (maybe employees) is entering the lobby and you manage to join the chattering people rather inconspicuously according to yourself, but the sensation of victory is short lived, though. A long desk is off on one side perfectly across from the elevators, with security stationed at each their own passage. Not that it would help you if they weren’t there, as all doors in sight are equipped with card readers. Keep going or tell someone? Both options are bound to have drawbacks.

“Can I help you?”

The speaker’s right behind you, making you twitch out of surprise. At least he sounds tired rather than condescending, so you turn with a tiny smile on your lips, hoping to look friendly rather than threatening. Short curls are receding above the temples of a round man who looks like he smiles a lot. Just not now where suspicion gleams in the small eyes instead.

“I uhmm…I need to speak with –“

“No, that’s not how it works.” The interruption hardly comes as a shock, but it’s still disheartening. “There are no walk-ins, all visits have to be booked in advance.” He’s already ushering you towards the doors you came in through.

Gotta say something. You dig your heels in. “Sir, I understand the formalities, but this is urgent.”

“Should’ve called ahead, then.” Clearly, it’s bothering the man that you aren’t cooperating.

All too aware of the scene you’re causing, the part of your mind that is in control keeps an eye on the remaining security personnel. None have moved yet, probably just waiting for a sign which will signal the end of you attempt to talk to Tony Stark.

“Please, sir, I beg of you,” your voice is lowered, “this is important…it’s about what happened in…in…” you reduce the sound to a dramatic whisper, “in Washington.”

…   Rumlow’s PoV   …

Hydra has a lot of facilities off the books and Brock knows that he’s at one of them. Judging by the lack of windows, this one’s most likely underground even if the room he’s in still is equipped like a state-of-the-art hospital. They’ve taken the morphine away when they reached the place, not bothering to question his wish, and in return Brock’s gotten a functioning mind. Sure, there’s pain now, but he’s had worse…although that might have something to do with damaged nerves, according to a doctor. Pain won’t stop me. And he has a lot to catch up on including a girlfriend who might know too much.

How?

[Y/N] shouldn’t have known where he was. The hospital never called her. The woman just showed up all on her own, asking for him and even describing the injuries.

How?

“Lucky guesses” doesn’t explain it so there’s got to be another explanation, and Brock’s narrowing the options rapidly as he takes everything into consideration. Lack of surprise at major catastrophes (horror, alright, but not actual shock) is one of the big clues.

How?

Some sort of sixth sense or worse. Like one of those mutant freaks or genetic experiments running around pretending to be more than anyone else. Rogers is only the tip of the iceberg and the Soldat is nothing but a mimic of that. Even Romanoff. Then there are freaks like Banner and on and on the list goes so perhaps it isn’t too far fetched that [Y/N] should be some sort of monster too. Freaks can be useful. But where is this specimen now?

…   Reader’s PoV   …

The world longest elevator ride has brought you to a part of the tower that looks suspiciously like a holding cell. Except stylish. Sitting at a concrete table in the middle of a tastefully naked room, you’re staring at the round face of the security guy (Hogan) while he studies all sort of information on a tablet, sometimes conferring with a bodyless voice referred to as Jarvis. Whoever Jarvis is, he seems to know all there is about you with the exception of the migraine inducing visions.

“Please, if you could just get mister Sta–“

“Not unless you talk to me first.” The man barely glances up at you, already used to this exchange by now.

Perhaps I should just give in and tell him all? It’s tempting and you’d like to trust anyone working for Iron Man himself, but trust is hard to come by after the events of the last few days. Compromise. You’re just about to say something when a beeping precedes the door opening to let in none other than the famous Pepper Potts. Thin and impeccably dressed, she looks like she owns the place even with the lunch tray in her hands.

“Happy, why don’t you take a break, mm?” The gentle voice isn’t actually giving him a suggestion and Hogan swallows any protests he might have had and leaves you alone with the woman. “Miss [Y/L/N], I thought it was time you got some food.”

The tray is pushed towards you, showing off the delicious looking pasta-dish and making your stomach growl as a reminder that you’ve not eaten for almost 24 hours. Getting here had been more important. Pulling the food a bit closer, it’s all you can do to restrain yourself from gobbling down the food within seconds as if you’ve been starving for weeks. Fuck it’s good.

“Thank you.” You even remember to swallow before talking.

Her smile makes the freckles on her cheeks dance prettily. “Why do you need to speak with Tony so badly?”

“I don’t,” the answer obviously surprises the whatever she is to Stark, “I need to talk with Romanova but don’t know how to get a hold of her…then I remembered what happened here in New York and I thought…well…I gotta try, right?”

Now that you’ve told that much, the pasta doesn’t taste right anymore because your stomach tightens with worry. It’s a madman’s plan! No way will Romanova or even Stark see little, unimportant you. This is as far as you’ll ever get and soon, you’ll be back out on the street with no place to hide from Brock. Rumlow. And when he and the hydra-goons find you. Paranoia. You’ve got to believe they won’t come looking. You still can’t convince yourself, of course.

“Miss [Y/L/N]…[Y/N],” Potts  implores gently, “why do you need to talk to any of them at all?”

Where do I start? Rubbing your skull, you feel the stress starting to take its toll on you. “Washington…it’s not over…”

Did they turn the lights up?

The LED’s are glaring overhead and you have to squint in the harsh light even when looking down onto the plate where the white porcelain reflects each diode, only blocked by the Penne al’Arrabiata which is making me sweat thanks to the spices. It’s when the world starts spinning you realize what’s about to happen just a second before pain slashes through your head.

[seanhowe]

Against Woodstock

“Rock Imperialists” by Mark Kramer, Liberation News Service, 1969 NEW YORK (LNS) The list of stars who will show up at the Woodstock Rock Festival this August is mighty impressive—as fine as any ever. There's everyone: Joan Baez, the Who, Joe Cocker, Janis Joplin, the Jefferson Airplane, Ravi Shankar, Blood Sweat and Tears, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Richie Havens, Canned Heat, Arlo Guthrie,, Tim Hardin, Johnny Winter, the Band, Iron Butterfly, The Grateful Dead and the Incredible String Band, for example. The arrangements to help you spend three days in the wilds sound as impressive as the list of stars—free campgrounds, ample water and outhouses; free rice kitchen for the poor and hungry; catering by Nathan's of Coney Island craft booths which might just be bivouac head shoppes, and which might be craft booths. So the rock imperialists deliver the goods. When you want a banana, United Fruit sells a good banana. And when you want a rock festival, Woodstock Music and Art Fair, Inc., sells a good rock festival—at $7 a day. The Guatemalans who grew the bananas get to eat an occasional bruised model. And the street people, the denizens of the lower east side, of the Haight, let them eat free rice and maybe they'll hear the sounds wafting out past the gates. But they made the culture which the rich fops imitate. Walk down St. Marks Place in the East Village and dig the crowd on either side of the velvet rope which separates those with the bread ($10 a couple) to get into the Electric Circus from those who beg spare change to buy a knish. On the rich side, the same outfits as on the poor side, except ironed and cut from finer cloth—bell bottoms, groovy vests, mucho hair, svelte girls in granny glasses. On the poor side, it's hip...on the rich side, it's a shuck, it's an imitation of Hip. It's fancy boutique clothes cut to look like the old surplus clothes which the street people once wore out of poverty, thereby creating a style. For some, the dress constitutes a case of 'going native' for a night on the Bowery. For others it's simply high fashion. The impulse for kids to dress 'well' is plugged in nasty trend-setting magazines like "Seventeen" and supported by the huge cloth and garment companies, the cosmetics companies and the hygiene-freak companies. The sales job for fashion is easier than others—for the styles come complete with a built-in image. Marlboro has to spend millions to rope together its cancer-sticks and he-manhood. But the Fashion-Makers have it easy this year, because the clothes styles which they plug were once part of a genuine revolutionary and romantic lifestyle. So America's teenagers are exploited by big companies that hold 'lifestyle' out as bait. "BUY THIS AND YOU WILL BE..." You will be what? Hip? You'll own another piece of snappy clothing, you'll be able to crowd the poor girl down the block still further, you'll earn your ticket to daydream about running toward him through tall fields of hay, arms stretched toward the sun—the kind of daydream they push in ads for cunt deodorant. And the kind of daydream they push on album covers. “But (you say) album covers are great. I trip, and look at album covers, and…etc." But it ain't that way. Rock may have come from the Street people, along with styles that grew out of buying surplus clothing, and daydreams that grew out of mystic studies and sunshine state habits. And the communication between the performing artists and you may still bear the same free-you-up message. But in between you and the performer, there's billions of dollars that you're paying and (for the most part) he's not getting. Who is getting it? The huge companies that own the record empires. Here's the puzzle: the same companies that own the recording contracts and record studies which make 'liberated' music, also own government contracts and subsidiary companies which make electronic bombing equipment, spying equipment, death equipment which is used in Vietnam and in our other colonies. The companies don't care how they make money, as long as they make the money. If they can make it from anti-war youth culture by coming on hip, they'll do it. And if they can make it from killing Vietnamese and killing off thousands of years of Vietnamese culture with expensive weapons systems for the government, they'll do that too. For example, CBS owns Columbia records, Masterworks, Blue Horizon, Odyssey, Harmony, Date, Okeh and several other record companies. They have invested heavily in defense contracts as well, working especially in the areas of laser beams, radar, spy photography, underwater detection—the sorts of technological work which keeps up the arms race and makes fat profits. It's the same story with most of the other major record companies. Like true imperialists, they'll go wherever the market is, talk whatever language (be it Vietnamese or hip-ese) needs talking, sell whatever people will pay for, as long as they make a profit. Does this mean you shouldn't buy records? No, of course not. If you wanted to live in this country without supporting the death machine, you couldn't eat or turn on an electric light. What it means is that you should understand a few facts of life. When you sit down with a sandwich (made of food processed by big business) and when you take a bite of the sandwich and start listening to music of YOUR culture, peddled for the profit of THEIR culture, then dig it! That's the corner they've got you backed into. Supporting the very things you hate the most in order to get the few things you want. There's a revolutionary movement growing in this country to fight just that form of oppression. What has this got to do with Woodstock? You might go there and have a fine time, but just remember that someone is making a million on your fun, and it isn't the performers, many of whom come for little or nothing. We interviewed the promoters setting up the Woodstock Festival, at a press conference arranged by the mid-town publicity company they hired. The conference itself was a slick operation. It passed itself off as a consultation between "leaders of the rock community" and the underground press on how to have peaceful good times for everyone. They didn't need to consult with anyone. Way back in April they had hired a federal law enforcement official, Wes Pomeroy, whom they described to me as "a very progressive kind of cat." A very progressive kind of cat who had worked with Johnson on the Safe Streets' Act, and with Republican bigwigs in planning security for their '64 convention at the Cow Palace. That's who the investors ("leaders of the rock community”) consulted with when they wanted security for their investment, not the underground press people. Even though the press conference handout reads, "We have called a special meeting of the underground press and rock community leaders to discuss ways of developing safe and harmonious pop music festivals.” Mike Lang and Artie Kornfield and two other partners put up half-a-million bucks. They're expecting big returns from ticket sales, a cut of concession sales, and also from selling TV and movie rights. Artie used to head Columbia Records. He told me, “I’d dig my daughter to be able to eat too." What about the street people? Mike says "We're not turning our backs on these people—we've got to feed them.” And let them in? “Don't you feel you're exploiting hip culture for your own gain?” Artie said, "Much of us have the same goal, We want to be able to cut out—not take shit—and go live in the country," Except that for most, it is a dream, not a goal, as long as Artie collects from every freak who wants to hear his music. And except that now that so many people want to cut out, they might find it easier to get together and put a stop to the conditions they want to escape. What about the riot that happened at the LA rock festival, Artie? "We are them—when they attack us, they are attacking themselves. If you talk about an army, it's got a lot of different wings. We're just another wing.” Maybe Artie and Mike are fooling themselves and maybe not. But they have extracted from the movement those things which can make them some money—talent, excitement, revolutionary energy, identity with hip looks and talk. But they have missed the heart of the movement. The revolutionary energy of rock and of the movement is a response to oppression—it grew out of the blues, out of the poor white country music, out of the emancipated poverty of the street people and their drug scene, out of the anger about national leaders representing corporate interests, while killing people, anger about how students get lied to and treated in public schools. The movement is made by and sung by people who oppose exploitation, whether by war elsewhere, or by high prices, racism and low wages at home. The movement is not represented in any way by rich investors getting richer by the profits of rock festivals—even if the investors do look hip and talk hip and know hip people. By the way, if you do go to the. Woodstock festival (actually, the grounds are located in Wallkill, N.Y.), Wes Pomeroy has a staff of 400 security people working for him, in and out of costume. When he was asked about kids smoking dope there, he said, "We'll do nothing to protect them. There will be narcs there, same as everywhere—they're going to have to pay $7, too." photograph by Henry Diltz

[heartslogos]

EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT TO THE BATMAN [42]

“Listen,” Tim says as he navigates his way through the Purchasing staff, “If Mr. Wayne wants two billion in aerospace parts and equipment, that’s fine. He can want it all he wants. He can want it all day and night into next year. But if that two billion isn’t out of his personal pocketbook and is going through W.E. then I can’t do anything about it.”

“Well. It is his money.”

“It’s W.E.’s money,” Tim corrects, looking around nervously. It’s never a good idea to talk about expenditure on the Purchasing floor. Any of the Purchasing floors, but especially not this one.

Not the main Purchasing floor. The other ones he goes to just to watch them squirm, it makes him feel alive.

But on this one?

This is where all the experts are gathered. The ones who can handle the hottest of messes with only minor anxiety and consternation.

This is where the boss of the entire Purchasing department is.

“Listen, there isn’t a single penny that passes through W.E. without being overseen by Li,” Tim explains. “Every single paperclip, every single coffee stirrer, every bolt, nut, screw, sticky note, and button on people’s uniforms comes from Li. Normally she and I have a pretty sound relationship and she lets me get Mr. Wayne what he wants. But that’s because we have a quarterly expense discussion that gives me room to work with. There is no room to work with in two billion in aerospace tech. If Mr. Wayne wants his you are going to have to explain it because I can’t.”

“She lets you?” Dick’s eyebrows raise up, incredulous. “People can stop you from doing things?”

Tim valiantly refrains from pointing out that the Waynes stop him from doing things all the damn time.

“Li is…You’ll see when you meet her.”

Li is maybe a year or two older than Tim and came to W.E. the exact same way he did, except later in her life. She graduated college and joined W.E. as a temp, floated around two departments before winding up in Purchasing to fill a gap made by several employees going on maternity and paternity leave at once. And she never left.

She would’ve made it to head of Purchasing on her own, regardless of any interference, but when Tim noticed her work he fast tracked her with as much influence he could exert and now she’s in charge of every single thing that any employee so much as thinks about. It’s an understated position with a lot of power.

Li doesn’t have an office, but she has a very large table at the back of the open floor. There’s a little ticket machine a few feet in front of it, as they approach Tim sees someone grab a ticket and go back to their desk, like a meat counter.

Normally Tim would also grab a ticket; he respects Li and her system, as well as the stress of what she’s trying to coordinate on a minute by minute basis to do any less. But this is an unusual situation that’s best nipped in the bud immediately.

So Tim leads Dick straight past the ticket counter to Li’s desk.

Li, herself, is a mystery among mysteries. Unlike most employees there’s absolutely nothing personal on her desk or anything resembling a work station. In fact her station is clean to the point of brutalism. She has one black pen holder, standard issue, with one red, one black, and one blue pen as well as a single pencil. She has her keyboard and mouse and two monitors. There are reams upon reams of paper neatly stored in plain folders neatly lined up.

The most personal thing about Li’s work station is Li, herself.

There are three things Tim, and the rest of the company, knows about Li.

She’s a college graduate.

She’s married — this is known because her wife is on her insurance and is listed as her beneficiary for her life insurance policy.

And that’s it, actually. Tim thought there was a third one and there wasn’t.

No, wait. She uses fountain pens.

On the wall behind the desk are ten screens lined up in two rows of five, each displaying numbers and letters and words that mean close to nothing to Tim but are, undoubtedly, incredibly important to the continued welfare of W.E.

This department handles every single other department’s requests. Office supplies, janitorial supplies, furniture, the purchase of medical supplies for their medical department and hospitals, fuel, machine parts, raw materials, computers, everything. You have to respect the person in charge of keeping all of that in balance and making sure that W.E. still turns a profit while keeping out of hot water with state, national, and international laws.

Li is softly talking to one of her employees, looking over a packet of paperwork, before signing off on it and handing it back.

The employee gives Tim and Dick a look of utter bafflement as they head back to their desk.

Tim approaches the desk.

Li raises one finger at him, leans forward and types something into her computer. One of the screens blinks, showing the chat log the company uses. The name of the chat is PURCHASING QUEUE and it shows that Li has updated the chat with the number 47 and the time stamp of 09:48.

“Li.”

“Drake.” Li’s sharp eyes flick behind Tim for a moment. “Grayson.”

“I’m sorry to cut in,” Tim says, “It’s urgent. You know I wouldn’t otherwise.”

He’d made sure to send her a message earlier. He couldn’t get a call in so hopefully she saw it.

Li’s stare is a thousand miles away from now and unimpressed. She turns to look at something over her shoulder, then checks something on one of her computer screens and calmly hits some numbers on her phone, picking it up on her headset and says, “Stop buy on all ventilation equipment on region six. Yes. Any open as of this morning are approved, but any placed beyond opening today are to be cancelled. I want a total count in two hours. Yes. Goodbye.”

She straightens up and looks Tim dead in the eye.

“Two billion.”

“In aerospace tech.”

She turns around to the stack of shelves carrying dozens upon dozens of plastic binders and pulls one out. It’s the only one he recognizes.

“Yes, I know — “

“If you know why are you asking me to acquire two billion in aerospace equipment and technologies using W.E. funds?” Li returns.

“I’ll leave it to Mr. Grayson to explain.” Tim turns to Dick and motions him forward.

Dick looks like he’s ready to wind up with the Grayson-Wayne charm. Unfortunate. Li doesn’t do well with charm. And more than that? She absolutely loathes it when someone tells her she has to buy something. You’d think that would be counter productive as the person in control of all W.E. purchases. But it’s saved them millions in excess expenditure and audit fines. That kind of attention to detail is rare.

It’s also why Tim made sure she got put in this position. If Tim’s going to deal with the Wayne family on a daily basis he needs to make sure that there’s at least someone in the company capable of running this show without being run roughshod by the Waynes when Tim isn’t able to corral them.

Li crosses her arms, attention focused on Dick and Tim has no doubt that she’s already got the numbers ready to go in her head.

“I have a conference call in ten minutes and two more people with urgent questions to deal with before then. I’m giving you six,” Li says. “And you can start by telling me what happened to the first six billion in aerospace tech I purchased two weeks ago.”

Tim does his best not to let his smirk come through at Dick’s look of utter and complete dismay. Consequences are terrible, aren’t they? Tim bets that Dick never thought there was someone actually watching the money fly out the window. Tim bets that none of them thought anyone was keeping such close tabs on it.

Dick looks at Tim.

Tim busies himself by looking at the screens behind Li and trying to parse out what any of it means.

“Well,” Dick coughs and rallies himself quite impressively. “We used them. And through a lot of trial and error and experiments we learned a lot of things that we can use as a base for where we’re headed. So while we got a lot done, Li, we still have a lot further to go and — “

“Refurbish the old parts,” Li says immediately. “And check for excess waste. Six billion spent on experiments and not a single part of that can be reused or applied elsewhere? Unlikely. What are the total tallies? What’s the break down per category? How much of this is being outsourced and how much of it can we provide intracompany?”

Li scowls, “Where’s the project proposal?”

“Ah. It’s more of a, as the raven flies kind of thing, we’re figuring out what we need by trial and error. So it’s not exactly a perfectly itemized list as of this — “

“Then as of this time the request for additional parts is denied.”

Li turns away from Dick, “Teresa, you’re number forty seven?”

Tim takes Dick by the elbow and steers him off to the side.

“If it’s any consolation you did a lot better than I thought you would. She actually let you dig your own grave.”

“Is she like that all the time?”

“You should see her with Mr. Wayne,” Tim says. “Honestly, if she ever decided to go for my job I’d let her. You’d be begging for me to be back in hours.”

[carmenlire]

Higher than the Big Trees Ch. 34

read chapter one

read on ao3

Like Father, Like Son: The Apple Didn’t Fall Far from the Scheming Tree

Byline: Victor Aldertree

Magnus Bane, son of notorious Asmodeus Bane, who is currently serving thirty seven years in state prison for defrauding his clients and shareholders of over one billion dollars in assets, has been spotted out on the town with music’s darling, Alec Lightwood.

Is it love, though, or has Magnus just found a different way to make his fortune?

Dear reader, we at Idris News love good gossip and when a source close to Bane came forward to tell us about the hottest tip in town, we couldn’t resist.

It appears that Magnus Bane, professor at Columbia University, has been hiding an unsavory past.

An insider reveals all. To protect her privacy, she asked that we not reveal her name.

Let’s start the story with one Magnus Bane. Born and raised in Manhattan-- on the upper West Side-- Magnus is the son to notorious swindler Asmodeus Bane.

Bane, who is infamous for his unbelievably successful ponzi scheme that stretched over twenty years.

Asmodeus Bane was a wall street broker from 1980 to his long tumble from his gold-plated pedestal in 2004. Considered far and wide to be a charismatic man, Bane Sr. was a shark on Wall Street, known for having a bloodhound’s nose, always sniffing out the Next Big Thing.

Most accredited his success to sheer luck and hard work.

No one knew that he was swindling coworkers and clients alike out of savings accounts, retirement plans, and talking up potential investments that would become a long string of proverbial gold mines in the Old West.

No one knows for certain just how much money Asmodeus Bane absconded with when all is said and done. Working for twenty years afforded him connections and a sharpened sense of when the chips were about to fall. There were dozens of accomplices and just as many scapegoats as Bane kept his nose clean even as those closest to him were caught and indicted.

Bernie Madoff who? Some estimates have Bane’s scheming amounting to over one billion dollars, most of which has never been recovered.

In 2000, the FDIC launched an investigation with the White Collar division of the FBI. After four years, they accumulated enough evidence to formally arrest Asmodeus Bane of over one hundred counts of fraud and embezzlement. After his lengthy trial-- which was a media circus in and of itself-- Bane was sentenced to 53 years in New York’s State Penitentiary.

Due to good behaviour, that sentence has been reduced to thirty seven years with the possibility of parole after ten more years.

Which brings us to his son, Magnus.

Magnus Bane, now an esteemed faculty member of Columbia University, wasn’t always so sparkling clean.

No, our source reveals that Bane Jr. has quite the sordid juvenile record.

Literally.

Magnus Bane was arrested half a dozen times for petty crime between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, when his record was officially sealed. Our intrepid reporters were able to find the dirty details, though.

After Asmodeus’s incarceration, Bane became part of the foster system where he bounced from home to home in the city. His mother died just a few years after giving birth and growing up, Magnus looked up to Asmodeus as only a son can look up to his father.

By all reports, Magnus was a model student-- at least on paper. That didn’t stop him from regularly skipping class or getting up to no good.

Looking at Bane’s record reveals charges for petty larceny, vandalism, and underage possession. And that’s the mere tip of the iceberg.

Things certainly don’t look good for Magnus, do they?

Still, something changed and Magnus took his SATS, graduated summa cum laude and headed for greener pastures-- Yale as a matter of fact, where he completed his undergraduate degree in three years before moving on to his doctoral thesis, spending part of that time in London.

Magnus Bane will be thirty in just a few months and things have never looked better for him-- he’s the Chair of the History Department at an Ivy League Institution, he’s been published dozens of times and is regularly invited to speak at conferences, both domestic and abroad.

We’ve even heard that he’s been busy working on a new book with an anticipated Summer 2019 release.

But that’s not all. Magnus Bane has been spotted out on the town with Alec Lightwood, the hottest musician in the world right now who just wrapped up a sold out world tour in May.

By most estimates, Lightwood is worth an astonishing 300 million dollars.

That begs the question to any reporter worth their salt: What does Bane see in Alec?

It’s easy to see what could have captured Lightwood’s attention. Magnus is handsome (have you seen his Insta???), successful, and we’re sure charming as hell.

We bet he gets it from his father.

But does Magnus see Alec’s million watt smile and rugged good looks or does he see dollar signs flashing?

Does he see a man who would do anything for his fans or his next meal ticket?

Alec is talented-- he can sing, act, and is well-known for his philanthropic endeavors. Idris News has long since waited with bated breath for the biggest name in the music scene to find his perfect match.

We just didn’t want to see it happen like this.

Our inside source claims that things went cold between them when she refused to keep paying for Bane’s tuition in London. Apparently, the professor was in dire straights and like a good girlfriend, our source had wanted to help-- until it became too much.

As you can see from our photos, it looks like Magnus and Alec have been getting cozy for quite a while. Those pictures at the zoo are #couplegoals and don’t get us started on the two of them enjoying a romantic walk throughout the city.

Is Magnus in love? Are we witnessing a real life fairy tale or has Bane just duped Lightwood into becoming his naive sugar daddy in a move that would make his father proud?

It seems like a dream come true for an earnest professor to meet a polished celebrity. We just wonder if fate had a helping hand and if Alec isn’t being played for a fool.

Shame on you Magnus for breaking our golden boy’s heart. We’ve seen Alec through many a scandal dating back to his pre-album days and we’ve got to say that we aren’t impressed.

Or maybe we are. It certainly takes a certain je ne sais quois to pull off such a trick. Time will tell what’s truth or lie with Alec and Magnus and who wouldn’t miss a seat to potentially one of the biggest scandals this year.

Whatever the case, the staff at Idris can’t wait to see what happens next.

Magnus looks up from the glossy magazine at the knock on his door. He sends Ragnor a wan smile.

“I take it you’ve seen the news.”

Ragnor looks at the magazine like others would a vulture. “If you’re asking if I’ve read that piece of trash then, unfortunately, the answer is yes.” He’s quiet a moment, studying Magnus before asking in a gentle voice, “How are you doing?”

Magnus laughs and it’s a bitter, angry noise. “How do you think I’m doing. I woke up next to Alec feeling great enough to take on the world. I didn’t think I’d actually have to, though,” he says, shaking his head.

Ragnor’s gaze sharpens at the mention of Alec. “And have you talked to lover boy since the story broke?”

Shaking his head, Magnus sits back in his chair. He looks through his office window and everything seems the same. There are students milling about like zombies so early on a Monday morning and there’s the kid that’s always flying a kite in a dinosaur onesie.

On any other morning, it’d be more of the same.

Too bad that Magnus’s world has imploded.

“I left his place less than two hours ago,” Magnus says, gaze unseeing. “I only found out when I came to campus. I was passing the Student Center when their magazine stand caught my eye. I certainly didn’t expect to see myself on a cover.”

He chuckles humorlessly. “I haven’t been in a magazine since I was fifteen.”

“Is your career at risk?”

Magnus shoots him a look. “I have tenure so they can’t fire me, if that’s what you’re asking. Forget that I haven’t even done anything. No, I think I’d go so far as to say that I’ve just become the most sought after guest at conferences for the next little while. What is it they say? All publicity is good publicity?”

Ragnor is quiet and the silence starts grating on his nerves. He can’t believe how fast things went to shit, after all.

“Goddamnit,” Magnus mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s bad enough that my past has come back to bite me in the ass. I always knew it would if I continued this thing with Alexander. What I can’t stand is that I wasn’t the one to tell him.”

Magnus looks at Ragnor, beseeching. “Alec had to find out that my dad’s a fucking con from someone else. From the press? From his PR team? It doesn’t matter-- all that matters is that I’ve probably ruined everything. Sometimes I hate my father so much I can taste it,” Magnus bitterly whispers and clenches his fist where it’s resting on the arm of his chair.

Taking a seat in front of Magnus’s desk, Ragnor takes his time thinking before looking up at Magnus. “What makes you so sure that you’ve ruined anything, friend? Surely if Alec is as great as you’ve been screeching about all this time then he won’t cast judgement so cavalierly?”

“What is there to judge? My dad is quite literally the worst crook Wall Street has ever seen. For Christ’s sake, his nickname is ‘The King of Wall Street.’ How does someone get that reputation,” Magnus demands before answering his own question. “They get it by being a cheat, by swindling hundreds and hundreds of people out of their money. Shit, he took savings from the elderly and college funds from middle-aged couples. He was a greedy bastard and he got what was coming to him.”

“That doesn’t mean that you should pay for what he did,” Ragnor says quietly. “You dad was a bastard. That shouldn’t reflect on you. If Alec is the man you say he is then he will see that, friend.”

“Yeah? And what if he doesn’t,” Magnus asks morosely.

“Then he doesn’t deserve you,” Ragnor snaps back impatiently. Magnus looks up to see Ragnor looking at him with fire in his eyes. “You’re a good man Magnus and I can’t stand that you let your father weigh you down like this.”

Magnus shoots him a dry look. “I think I’m incredibly well-adjusted for the shitstorm that was my adolescence.”

“Be that as it may, you’ve castigated yourself enough. I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you looked at Alec yesterday. From what I’ve seen, Lightwood seems like a decent enough man and anyone with eyes could see the way he’s smitten with you. I’m choosing-- shocking, I know-- to give the boy the benefit of the doubt.”

Thinking over Ragnor’s surprisingly impassioned speech, Magnus reaches for the phone on his desk on autopilot when it starts ringing.

“Bane,” he says, voice clipped.

“Dr. Bane, this is Elle Donovan from Celebrity Magazine--”

“No comment,” Magnus says coldly and hangs up without another word.

“The little parasites have already latched on to you,” Ragnor says easily.

Blowing out a breath, Magnus glares at the phone. “Goddamn rodents.”

“It looks like everything is out in the open now, at least. No matter how it was revealed, at least it’s no longer hanging over you and your relationship with Alec like a proverbial thundercloud.”

“You’re right,” Magnus drawls sarcastically. “Now instead of worrying about Alec’s reaction to learning about my past-- in which I envisioned that we would talk about things and, assuming he didn’t run as far away from me as he could get, we would sit down and formulate a plan to deal with the press-- I get to jump right to the inevitable break-up as well as deal with the fucking media frenzy at the same goddamn time.”

Ragnor raises a brow before standing and straightening his jacket. “I can see that you’re in no mood to listen to reason,” he sniffs. “I’ll leave you to your sulk and trust that you’ll deal with things without too much time spent crying into your damn hanky.”

“Like I have a choice,” Magnus mutters.

Ragnor ignores him. Making his way to the door of Magnus’s office, he spares a glance back.

“I know that this isn’t what you wanted and I know that you’ve been running from your past since the day you stepped foot onto Yale. I know that you had a bit of a misspent youth that’s easily forgiven. Alec makes you happy and I’d hate for you to end things before you even see what your boyfriend is thinking.

“As loathe as I am to admit it, there is rarely a silver lining that can’t be found. Talk to Alec and go from there. It doesn’t do anyone any good to decide the future before it’s even had a chance to play out. Talk to him,” Ragnor repeats and Magnus nods once.

“Thank you, Cabbage,” Magnus says softly.

Ragnor doesn’t say anything, just sends him one last piercing look before leaving Magnus’s office.

Sighing heavily, Magnus scrubs his hands over his face, makeup be damned. Looking at his clock, Magnus laughs a little incredulously that it’s still shy of eight in the morning.

He has class in half an hour and Magnus doesn’t even need to think about it before he’s opening an email and cancelling his classes for the day.

Just the thought of teaching to a room full of twenty year olds with such a white elephant hanging about ominously seems repulsive.

Standing, he picks up his bag-- that he hadn’t even had a chance to unpack-- and calls it a day, leaving his office and locking up.

He heads back to his apartment, hoping to fuck that he doesn’t run into anyone.

Magnus looks up from where he’d buried himself in work. The last of his revisions are due by the middle of August and he still has hundreds of pages to edit and review in the next two weeks.

Seeing that it’s late afternoon-- Magnus has successfully distracted himself for hours-- he stands, working out the kinks in his back from where he’s been bent pouring over his manuscript.

Looking through the peephole to ensure it’s not a particularly perseverent journalist, Magnus opens his door to see Cat and Madzie waiting in the hallway.

“Good afternoon. What are you two doing here,” he asks with an arched brow.

Rolling her eyes, Catarina moves past him as Madzie skips to the living room. “What do you think we’re doing here? The shit has hit the fan and what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t check in?”

“No, ‘I told you so?’”

Shaking her head fondly, Cat goes to sit down in the living room as Madzie goes to her cabinet and takes out some crayons and a coloring book, settling down in front of Cat to draw on the coffee table.

“I’m better than that,” Cat says dryly.

Magnus just sighs before sitting down in a chair. “You did warn me, though,” he admits.

Leaning forward, Cat rests a hand on Magnus’s knee. “Yeah, but even I thought you had more time.” She raises a brow. “You know who went to Aldertree, don’t you?”

“I’d have to be a fu-- fool not to,” Magnus scoffs, clearing his throat as he glances at Madzie.

Smile reaching her eyes, Catarina just shakes her head. “All this time and she just can’t help herself.”

"She did warn me in London. I probably should have seen this coming. Maybe I’m losing my touch,” Magnus mutters under his breath.

“Or,” Catarina draws out. “You’ve been a little preoccupied lately. It happens to the best of us,” she teases.

Magnus laughs a little. “Still,” he allows. “I feel like I should have known-- had a feeling, something-- that my world was about to implode.”

Cat shrugs as she leans down to pick up a crayon that fell to the floor. “The only thing you can do now is move forward. Deal with whatever happens and know that you aren’t alone. You have us, of course, but don’t forget that you have Alec.”

“Do I?”

Glaring, Catarina replies, “Yes, you stupid man. You do. Until Alec explicitly ends things, he’s in your corner. From what I’ve seen, I hardly think that an opportunistic viper is going to make him tuck tail and run. He’s made of sterner stuff than that and you do both yourself and him a disservice thinking otherwise.”

“But I didn’t tell him, Cat," Magnus implores. "He found out from someone else and you can’t tell me that doesn’t cast things in a dark light.”

“Please, Magnus. Like we don’t all have things in our past that we’d rather not see the light of day. Like Alec Lightwood doesn’t understand that.”

“Cat,” Magnus says, tone soaked in self-deprecation. “We literally talked about this a few days ago-- about his reputation and insecurity surrounding his career. He’s been used in the past and was rather jaded. I talked him down and we reached an understanding. I said that I didn’t want his money, that I was far more concerned with the person behind the wallet.”

“Well, there we go, then,” Cat exclaims. “He knows your intentions and that you aren’t just another bottom-feeder.”

“Don’t you see, Catarina? I said all of that only for my past to blow up at the worst imaginable time and you must know that any sane person would have an unpleasant case of whiplash.”

Cat sends Magnus an arch look. “Not if that person was as smitten as your boy is over you.”

Magnus opens his mouth to retort but Cat beats him to it. “On the surface? Yeah, Magnus, it looks bad. I won’t lie about that. But that isn’t taking into consideration that you two have been friends for months and Alec should know better. He should at least talk to you before making any rash judgments.”

“I just don’t want to talk to him-- to have that conversation-- and have it be the end.”

“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do and sometimes people surprise you, even if you thought you had it all figured out,” Cat counters.

“What’s wrong?”

Magnus looks up from where he’d been brooding to see Madzie at his side. He smiles, smoothing a hand over her hair. “Some people found out some things about me that I’d rather they hadn’t. I’m a little afraid of what the consequences will be.”

Madzie hums a little as she thinks before her gaze snaps back to Magnus. “You’re always telling me that I have to be brave even when I don’t want to. Like, when I fell off my bike and didn’t want to get back on. You told me that I had to face my fears and I did! And now I love riding my bike in the park with Cindy.”

“Are you saying that I have to take my own advice?”

Madzie nods solemnly and Magnus smiles. It’s small, and a little defeated, but it’s there nonetheless.

With that, Catarina stands up, helping Madzie clean up her crayons. As she does so, the shifts so that she can see Magnus.

“When are you going to talk to him? You really can’t let this fester,” she warns.

Magnus opens his mouth to respond just as his phone vibrates. He looks over on autopilot and freezes when he sees the text message.

“Speak of the devil,” he murmurs and stares down at his phone, dread settling in his stomach like lead.

Magnus, when are you free? We need to talk.

[forever-more-never-again]

Rearrange My Heart (A Natasha Request)

Requested: Anonymous

Pairing: Natasha X Reader

Word Count:3344

Warnings: Kidnapping, Mentions of injury, blood and death

Request: I really enjoy your writing! Would you be willing to write a Nat x reader: where Nat makes a friend outside of the Avengers and slowly gains feelings for R. R is a regular civilian and therefore Nat is too scared to act on feelings bc of her enemies. Hydra captures/hurts R to get to Nat. When Nat finds R she learns that R can rearrange their organs so its incredibly difficult to wound them fatally and later admits her feelings. Angst with fluff at the end? Thank You!!

Masterlist

You were out at Central Park, enjoying the sunshine for once. Your life had been more hectic than usual. After the Chitauri attack last month, your company, a car insurance company, had been bombarded with frantic calls and policy holders.

Now, you were finally caught up, and taking a much needed break.

Your eyes were closed, as you tilted your face up to the sun, sitting on a bench. You let the sun warm your cheeks, smiling as you felt the warm breeze tickle the back of your neck.

“Excuse me, is this spot taken?”

You opened your eyes, squinting against the glare of the sun up at the person who asked.

It was a woman, with red hair put up in a bun. She looked nervous, so you gave her a small smile, “No, please, sit.” You gestured at the empty space next to you.

The woman sat down with a sigh, smiling shyly at you, “I’ve been working all month, it’s nice to finally have a break. What brings you to Central park?” You laughed, waving off the concerned look of the woman, “No, it's just, that’s why I’m here too. Taking a break from this month’s craziness after the Attack.”

The woman grimaced, “Sorry.”

You tilted your head, a smile still gracing your lips, “What do you have to be sorry for?”

The woman appeared startled, then relaxed, an easy going laugh emerging from her red stained lips, “I guess, for you working so hard. I don’t know.”

You laughed with her for a moment, enjoying the breeze, sunshine and birds chirping.

You turned to face the woman after a few moments, “My name is [Y/n]. I’d love to get coffee with you, if you have the time.”

The woman gasped, “Are you asking me..?”

You smirked, “And if I am…?”

She grinned, “I would say yes.”

You jumped up, “Then what are we waiting for!?” She laughed at your enthusiasm, Standing up and holding hands with you. As you began walking out of the park, she said, “My name is Natalia. I think meeting you is the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time.”

You smiled at her over your shoulder, “I think we are going to get along famously.”

~~~~

Two months later, and you and Natalie were still going strong.

You stood outside your office building, waiting for her to pull up. You smiled when you saw her black sports car rounding the corner.

Jumping in, you leaned over the console to give her a quick kiss.

“How was work?” She asked, as she drove into the city.

You groaned, leaning back in the seat, “It was slow. I’m kinda missing the hectic days after the attack. At least then, I had something to do.”

You didn’t notice your girlfriend flinch.

“How was your day?”

Natalie parked outside the cafe where you had your first date, climbing out and opening your door for you before responding, “It was intense. I actually might be unavailable for the next couple days.”

You pouted, leaning against her as you waited in line to give your orders, “Your security company can’t spare you this weekend? It’s the weekend of the film festival, I already bought our tickets!”

Your girlfriend ruffled your hair, a small smile on her face, “I’m sorry. But you know that my company needs me. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

You grinned, stretching up on your toes to kiss her, before pulling back and gazing into her green eyes, “You better.” You warned, laughing with her as you stepped up to place your coffee order.

~~~~

The next night, you finished putting on your outfit and fixing your hair. Glancing into your mirror, you smirked at your reflection, “Looking good [Y/n].” You snapped a selfie and shot off a text to Natalia.

In seconds, your phone buzzed as she replied, ‘Looking good. Already miss you, be home soon.’

You smiled, texting back, ‘Hopefully this millionaire that hired your security company is nice.’

You shoved your phone in your purse and headed out to the film festival.

New York was lit up like the fourth of July, with strobe lights, and limos and stars everywhere.

You were unashamed as you gawked. Walking around with eyes wide.

Finally, you managed to get inside the exhibit. Grabbing a glass of champagne off the table by the door, you walked further in, peering in doorways.

“What’s a spectacular beauty like you doing alone?”

You turned to face the cultured german accent, attached to a distinguished gentleman.

You smiled up at him, a feeling of unease settling in your stomach at his sharp silver eyes and silver hair as he stared down at you like you were prey.

“My girlfriend couldn’t make it. I’m just exploring.”

He smiled, sipping his own champagne, “Ahh, young love. How the fruit of labors gains pain in the absence of love.”

You frowned, trying to figure out what he was saying.

Edging away from where you, you realized, he had backed you into a secluded corner, you muttered, “Excuse me, I think they’re showing the new Quintera film now.”

Before you could leave, his hand stretched out and gripped your arm tightly.

You winced, tugging on your arm, “Let me go! You’re hurting me!”

The man glared down at you, his accent becoming more pronounced as he growled, “What does she see in a quivering civilian like you?” He shrugged, tugging you down an empty hallway, “No matter, we just have to keep you alive for a few days anyways.”

Your heart and mind were racing a mile a minute as you struggled against his iron grasp, screaming, “Help! Someone help! Help me!”

The man laughed, as you exited the back of the building, he pulled you so that you were in front of him, your champagne glass shattering on the ground, “Yes, cry, scream. It will bring your girlfriend to us that much faster.”

You glared, “What do you want with Natalie?”

The man peered at you, curiously, “She never told you? She really left you in the dark! Oh, this is just wonderful!” He began smiling, his eyes glimmering with a dangerous malicious light.

You spat at his face. His smile disappearing as he wiped the spittle from his cheek. “Just because we have to keep you alive, doesn't mean we can’t have some fun.”

And with that, a car drove up next to him, and he injected a needle into your neck.

The last thing you saw before the world went dark, was another man with a mask and a symbol of a multi headed snake on his jacket, opening the car door.

~~~

You blinked groggily, your head lolling around on your shoulders.

Slowly, the memories of what happened edged into you mind. Jolting awake, you raised your head to look around.

You tugged on your arms, and looking up, saw that your hands were tied and hooked onto a chain, elevating them above your head.

Your feet scrambled on the ground, as your toes barely reached. You were dangling like a fish on a bait hook.

Looking around, peering into the dark shadows, you conferred that you were in some sort of warehouse. It looked abandoned and decrepit. You smothered a gasp as you saw a body hanging like you were on the other side of the building. Only, they appeared to be no longer alive.

A puddle of dried blood circled under their feet, their eyes glassy, seemed to stare into your soul, warning you.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you mumbled a prayer.

Out of the shadows, the man from before appeared, he held a knife and was cleaning it with a rag. He didn’t look up at you as he spoke, “Nice of you to wake up and rejoin us, [Y/n].”

The tears overflowed, and you spoke through gasps and hiccups, “Please! Just let me go! I’ll pay you whatever you want! I won’t turn you in, please...just let me go!”

The man smiled, he crooned, coming close, he gently ran a finger down your cheek, tracing the path of a tear.

You struggled, trying to turn your head so that he couldn’t touch you.

“You don’t understand yet. Because she left you in the dark. Her mistake. She should have known that we would find her weakness...you.” He pointed the knife at your chest and you swore your heart was going to give out on you.

Your throat closed up and you fought through the sobs, “What are you talking about? I’m no one special, please! Just let me go!”

The man sighed, the smile disappearing and a look of disinterest appearing, “I grow bored of you thinking this is about you. News flash, [Y/n]! You’re no one special. No one cares about you. Except for a certain Avenger.”

Your sobs slowly let up, your arms straining against your restraints and your feet struggling to support your weight. You begged the man in front of you, “I don’t understand! Please, just let me go!”

The man sighed, flicking his knife towards the shadows. Lights came on, blinding you. You squinted against the sudden onslaught of harsh light, your tears dripping onto the concrete as you struggled to realize that you were most likely going to die in the warehouse. Because, surrounding you and the man before you, were hundreds of armed men clad in black masks, wearing that symbol that you recognized from the driver.

“Who are you guys?” You whispered.

The man laughed, “We are Hydra. We are the next generation of Humans! And you, my dear, are our secret weapon at finally destroying one of our enemies...the Black Widow.”

You frowned, trying to see what he was talking about. And then it hit you. You gasped, struggling against your restraints as you thought back over your relationship with Natalia.

How she had striking red hair and green eyes. How she was secretive about her job at a ‘security company’. How she had apologized when you first met her when you spoke about the Chitauri attack. It all clicked.

“Natalie is...Natasha?” You mumbled to yourself.

The man’s smile widened, “Ding ding ding! We have a winner gentlemen!”

The assembled men all laughed, the sound causing you to flinch as you remembered where you were.

The man raised his knife and trailed it down your chest, settling it against your abdomen, “You will remember the name Misha Petrov. Because, my dear, we are going to get very intimate as we wait for your girlfriend to come to your rescue and ultimate demise.”

You screamed out, sobs pouring forth once again as the man, Misha, slowly pushed his knife forward.

Searing pain sliced through you as he cut through tissue and muscles.

When the hilt of the knife hit your skin, you were barely able to breath, pain shooting through you.

Misha frowned, wiggling the knife as it was wedged inside you. You screamed out, “Stop! Please!”

Misha shushed you, “Shut up! What are you!?” He glared up into your eyes.

Your vision was hazed over in red, the pain blinding you, “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please, stop!”

He backhanded you, the slap resounding through the warehouse, “What are you!? I should have hit your intestines and kidney! Instead, all I feel is air! What are you!?”

He pulled the knife back out and slammed it suddenly at your heart.

You gasped and shut your eyes, waiting for the sudden death.

When you still felt alive, you slowly opened your eyes.

There was the knife...sticking out of your chest, right where your heart should be. But you could still feel your heart beating...only now it felt like it was coming from the right side of your body instead of the left.

Misha breathed out, “What..?”

You sniffled, snot and tears running together off your face onto the ground. Your shirt was now torn to shreds and soaked in your blood. Your body on fire from being stabbed...and yet you were not focused on the pain now, rather, on the fact that you still seemed to be alive and your organs intact.

Misha and the men surrounding you were startled when a new, feminine voice rang through the room, “And what are the chances of running into Hydra again? All in a day's work I suppose.”

From the rafters, a figure in all black dropped down to the ground. Whipping their hair out of their face you gasped, “Natalie!?”

She startled, staring at where you were strung up, “[Y/n]!” Her eyes landed on the knife that was still in your chest. Her eyes widened and she screamed, “[Y/n]! Hold on!”

She pulled out her gun and rolled to the ground as the surrounding men opened fire on her.

Your eyes stayed trained on her, marveling at how fluid she was, the determination in her green eyes as she shot off bullets, dropping the Hydra men like flies.

Misha stayed by your side, and for that, you were oddly grateful, because no men were shooting your way. No way you could evade a bullet when you were strung up unable to move.

Misha yanked the knife out of your chest and held it up to your neck, his hot breath whispered in your ear as the gunfire rang out from around you, “Now, let’s see just how much your girlfriend loves you, after all….she hid who she truly was from you, who knows what else she lied about.”

Eventually, the warehouse grew silent once again. The bodies of the Hydra men lay scattered on the floor, their blood pooling together.

Natasha whipped her hair back, her skin shining with sweat as she marched towards you and Misha. He tightened his grip on your neck, the knife drawing a thin line of blood from your throat.

Natasha halted in her advance, her eyes worried, glancing between you and Misha. “Hey, now, we can discuss this without harming them.” She spoke to Misha, her gun aimed at his head.

He laughed, but the sound was deranged, maniacal. And ice cold fear slid into your veins.

“Like I will take the word of the Avenger aiming her gun at my head!” The knife dug further into your neck.

Natasha carefully pulled the gun away and holstered it, and then raised her hands, inching forward, “Okay. The gun is gone. Now why don’t you release the civilian?”

Misha breathed deeply, his mouth close to your neck, “You mean your lovely little partner? Do tell us, Natasha...or should I call you Natalie? It would seem you left some details about your life in the dark. I wonder if [Y/n] will ever trust you again. After all, you are the reason they are in this mess in the first place.”

Natasha looked pained, she met your eyes, “[Y/n]...I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you’re here. I’m sorry for lying. I’m just...sorry.”

You gave her a weak smile, “Well. Natasha. If you get me out of here, we can discuss things over coffee.”

She smiled, tears sliding down her cheeks, “I promise. I’ll keep you safe.”

Misha growled, “This is all very sweet, but I want you to put your gun to your head and kill yourself, or else I kill your little lover!” He screamed at Natasha.

You nodded at Natasha, who let a feral grin spread across her face. In a single leap, she punched Misha and he stumbled back, the knife leaving your throat.

He growled, rushing forward, he ducked under Natasha and slammed the knife into your back. You screamed out as you felt the searing pain of your skin being cut into. But you didn’t feel the knife hit your spine, or hear a crack, or anything. And you felt funny.

Like you were standing tilted.

Natasha screamed out in pain, yelling your name “[Y/n]! NO!”

With a sickening shot, and blood spatter appearing in your peripheral, Misha slumped to the ground, face down beside you, a pin hole in the back of his head from a bullet.

Natasha rushed to you and began untying your hands.

You dropped to the ground, but Natasha caught you in her arms and began carrying you out of the warehouse.

She cried, “It’ll be okay, [Y/n]. Just stay with me.”

You frowned, searching within yourself, but aside from the pain of cuts in your skin from the knife, you felt fine.

Once you reached outside, you saw a jet sitting in the distance. Natasha rna and jumped in, the jet starting up, “Tony! Bruce! I need you!” She screamed. Laying you down on the floor of the jet carefully.

You looked up at her, “I think I’m fine Natalie. Really.” You started to sit up. But she pushed you down.

“You were stabbed [Y/n], and it looks like more than once.” She carefully peeled off your shirt, revealing the abdomen and chest stab wounds.

She covered her mouth in horror, “How are you still alive?” She whispered.

By then Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, who you recognized from the news, came rushing towards you and Natasha with a medical kit.

“Tony, scan them plase.” Bruce said, kneeling on the ground beside Natasha, peering at the stab wounds.

Tony’s arm turned red as he powered on his suit, a blue light wrapping your body as he scanned you.

He frowned, “Uhh...Bruce...You’re gonna wanna see this.”

Bruce stood up and walked over to him, peering at the hologram of your x ray.

You sat up, ignoring Natasha’s worried hands. “What’s wrong?” You asked, glancing between Tony and Bruce.

Bruce looked at you, eyebrows scrunched together, puzzled, “It appears that your spine and Heart are not in the right spot. But…” He gestured for Tony to scan again, “They seem to be slowly moving back… This isn’t possible.” He muttered.

Your eyes widened in shock. You turned to share your look of disbelief with Natasha. She was frozen, eyes wide as she stared back at you.

“Who are you?” She asked.

You laughed, “You have the nerve to ask me that? After you lied to me for three months about who you were?”

She shook her head, getting out of her stupor. She grabbed your hand and clutched it close to her chest as her green eyes caught yours, “I’m still the person you love. I’m still Natalie. I never lied about my feelings for you. It’s just,” She sighed. Neither of you noticing that Bruce and Tony had left. “When I sat next to you on that bench in Central Park and realized that you didn’t recognize me...I wanted to be human for a moment. And then I fell for you. I fell hard. And I thought I was protecting you by not telling you I was an Avenger.”

You sighed, “Well, that didn’t work.”

She nodded, “I know. And I’m so sorry.”

You reached up with your free hand and cradled her cheek. Her eyes closed for a second as she allowed herself to lean into the caress.

“ I don’t know what I am...I’m scared Natalie.”

She opened her eyes at your words. She scooted closer to you and pulled you into her arms, “We’ll figure it out together. If you still want to be with me?”

You smiled up at her, you leaned in and kissed her deeply.

Pulling back, you laughed at her dazed expression, “Of course. I love you, Natalie.”

She pulled you closer, “It seems you’re able to rearrange your organs to prevent fatal injury...but you somehow managed to rearrange my heart as well.”

You kissed her again, the hum of the jet fading to the background as you focused on the love you had for your girlfriend. Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow to the rest of the world. But top you, Natalie Koshave, the girl who loved you.

FOREVER Taglist:

@sxph-t @littlestfangirl @rainydaysrnevergrey @not-jk-rowling @sociallyawkwardcircus-freak-hi @ayyidkeither

Natasha Taglist:

@ludwigvonbaethoven @hanjiscience-slut @kitten-q-p @morbid-gaymer @honeybadgerwhodoesntcare @sunnyandtwisty @zoeyknight @kurlyafro @thewomanofwonder @5aftermidnight

Avengers Taglist:

@jadepc

[edgy-fluffball]

Family of Heart

So, a very special person has their birthday today and I wrote a little something for them. Happy Birthday, @tigerthealien!

The TV was loud enough to be heard throughout the whole apartment. The newscaster’s voice was shrill and panicked, short sentences followed each other, all too similar to a rapid fire gun. Her information about the newly arisen threat on the banks of the Hudson River echoed through the empty rooms, clearly audible in the kitchen where she was preparing the meal for later. She had finished the goulash, it steamed on the stove behind her, a salads waited in the fridge and she was stirring together a vanilla custard.

Just as she got ready to transfer it into another bowl, the newscaster said, ‘It looks like Black Widow is down. I repeat, Black Widow is down.’

The ceramic bowl slipped from her fingers and shattered on the stone kitchen ground. Shards broke the skins of the soles of her feet but she did not feel the pain. She hurried over to where the TV still showed the Avengers trying to contain the creatures dropping from a portal just beyond Broadway. She could make out the flash that was Iron Man, tumbling through the dusty air; the Hulk clung to something vaguely resembling a surfboard, trying to bring it to the ground. And there, moving constantly, never stopping, Cap and the Soldier, flipping each other into the air to take out the next enemy. Falcon swooped in from time to time to take care of something behind their backs.

She tried to localise Hawkeye in the midst of the battle, she could see his arrows flying and hitting their mark, but he seemed to move too quickly to be spotted. The direction the arrows came from changed with every second that went by. She noticed, however, the way he circled around Black Widow’s body, motionless on the ground until someone could get to her.

It was a Wednesday, after all, which meant that precisely these Avengers were on call, every New Yorker knew their schedule by this time. It was hard not to notice the regularity evolving around the pattern that saw certain Avengers appear on site on certain days.

The phenomenon superheroes had turned into was supported by the tight news coverage their interceptions received. Whenever they appeared in the streets, news cameras and journalists followed them and their movements as closely as possible. She knew that Cap and Black Widow hated it, they used every press conference to remind the public of the danger they faced, if they defied the Safety Protocol issued by the United Nations.

‘Oh, what a relief, Black Widow is back on her feet,’ the newscaster seemed relieved to see the woman stand again, ‘and she takes down the next creature!’

She exhaled carefully. When the journalists were back to the sports-like commentary, it was almost always save to say that no immediate harm to the Avengers was to be expected. Turning back to the kitchen, she noticed the red stains her feet had left on the previously shiny floor.

‘Shit!’ She cursed as she limped down the hall to fetch a bucket and a rag, ‘of course I bleed all over the flat. Of course it happens now.’

She wiped up what red footprints she had left in the hallway, living room and kitchen before hoisting herself onto the counter to bandage her feet using the first aid set they kept under the sink, usually for her father. His liability to injuries and accidents were more than infamous to their acquaintances and friends. In fact, she had never seen her father without band aids on various cuts and bruises in his face and on his arms or legs. They seemed to be a part of him.

The upside to it was the presence of bandages in almost every room of the apartment. Her mother had installed them there as soon as they had moved in, ‘Just to be sure.’

Every step she took, hurt. The cuts stung beneath the bandages but she had a cake to finish, food to get ready and a table to set. The cake was the easiest to manage, her custard was quick to stir together, even with the remnants of her first batch having ended up on the floor. She could pour it between her chocolate sponges without a problem. Her mother had hidden the decorations, like every year, to keep her father from eating them before the time. Like every year, she had found them in time. This year, her mother had bought fondant and edible paper Avengers cake decorations.

In the background, the newscaster congratulated the real Avengers on seemingly having won the battle and taken care of whatever enemy they had been facing. The news teams would be on site long after the Avengers had left, recalling what had been going on, assuming the motivations and background of whatever creatures they had been fighting. Their theories got wilder with every time it happened. No one wanted to hear that some people were just both evil and stupid enough to attack in broad daylight when the Avengers were close by to stop them.

She put the finished cake into the fridge and got the first salad bowls out. Her parents would be back soon enough and they would enjoy something to eat on the table. She set the table for the fifteen people who might turn up. She could never know how many were to be expected. Not with her parents and their friends. All she could do was to cook enough goulash to feed a whole battalion, make five salads and hope for the best. At least, her father had catered for enough drinks in the fridge and the pantry.

‘We are back, sweetheart!’ Her mother stood in the hallway, smiling at her; a bit dusty, but otherwise healthy and alive.

‘Mum! I saw it on the news – I thought-‘

The excitement had her zapping through the apartment, forgetting every promise she had made when her parents had her taken home with them.

‘Oops,’ she grinned at her mother, ‘sorry?’

‘It’s alright, sweet-pea, I’m sure today is the one day we can let it all slide,’ her father jumped in front of her before she could hug her mother, wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground, ‘Eighteen years of dragging you around, fighting over which movies to watch, which missions to go onto, which to abandon and who has to watch you while the other is off to fight – Happy Birthday, Tiger!’

‘Yes, a very happy birthday. Now where is the cake? We were promised cake!’

‘You have to forgive him, cub, he had to move out without having his three-course breakfast earlier, he might have a little bit of a low blood sugar.’

‘You don’t say,’ she grinned and let her mother kiss her cheek, ‘In that case, the table is set and awaiting your all. Also, I’m glad to celebrate with you stupid people. Just a few minutes ago, I thought I had lost my Mum. So please, sit down and eat, you just saved New York on my birthday.’

Steve steered a grumpy Bucky towards the table. She had moved it in front of the window façade soon after her parents had left. There was no way they would let it slide on any other day. In fact, she saw the way her mother eyed the heavy table suspiciously, how her father rolled his eyes at her and how Tony smirked, knowing full well what had changed about the apartment he had designed.

‘You used your powers to get this table over here,’ Steve scratched his head and frowned, ‘I thought you promised not to do that anymore!’

‘Leave the cub alone,’ Bucky grumbled and pulled him onto a chair next to him, ‘I’m starving, so let’s eat. You can reprimand her later. Although, just pointing out, you were the first to break all promises and do stupider things than teleporting a table so that she could have a nice view for her birthday dinner.’

Tony barked out a laugh and flopped down in the chair at the head of the table. She rolled her eyes at him for it, but didn’t complain. No one got Tony out of the spot he chose for himself.

Once everybody sat and Bucky had inhaled his first portion, her parents handed around the pot of goulash, the only food everybody liked that could be made in big quantities without huge efforts. She felt her skin hum across her bones, the anticipation had her vibrating in her chair.

Other teens turning eighteen may have wished for a car, books or cinema tickets. She could wish for only one thing, nothing else came to her mind when she thought about it. From the moment she had zapped out of her cot and into the pantry for the first time, she had thought about it, supported by the first time she had seen her parents in action.

Ever since then, she had wanted to join them. She wanted to be there. She wanted to help. After all, her parents risked their life for something more important than Sunday afternoon coffees and cheesecakes. With great power comes great responsibility, as Peter always said. He and Wanda were out there, why not join them? She had asked her parents exactly that, receiving the same unsatisfying answer for years.

‘Wait until you’re eighteen.’

Everyone at the table knew about what Natasha and Clint had promised their daughter. Bruce and Tony were still against it. Peter had jumped at the possibility not to be the only one under twenty on the team. Thor, Steve and Bucky had opted for the third and insisted on training her to the best extend they could manage, preparing her for whatever she might face out in the open. Her parents may not have approved, but they eventually saw the positive aspects in their daughter being able to defend herself.

‘Are we going to address the elephant in the room, or what?’ Bucky looked up from his plate and cleared his throat, ‘She is turning eighteen today, after all. You cannot ignore that forever.’

‘We aren’t,’ her mother cleared her throat, ‘you haven’t gone soft on her, have you, Barnes? We were going to keep her on edge, slowly roast her until she caves in.’

‘Nat wanted her to beg for our approval,’ her father gave her the side-eye, ‘Your room, sweetheart. Take the shortcut.’

She squealed, jumped off her seat and zapped into her room. She could still hear everything that went on in the main room, Tony was wondering whether they thought it was good idea to do before dessert, Bucky told him to shut up and enjoy the peace while it lasted. She couldn’t care less, there, on her bed, lay a suit. Not any old suit, something seemingly made out of dark teal-coloured material, almost the same colour as her hair. She changed into it just to find that it fit her perfectly. It had loops at the belt and pockets down her legs, providing exactly the right space for knives and the devices she had developed with Tony, they had called them fangs.

‘Are you done?’ Her father leaned in the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, ‘We want to see how it turned out, Tony worked on it without your actual measurements.’

She zapped back into the main room, acknowledging the way that material remained close to her body, not flopping around like her clothes tended to do in the process. No sooner than she had materialized again, everyone around the table started to clap.

‘A fearsome warrior has emerged!’ Thor stood, grinning and overjoyed to see her again, ‘Our enemies will shake and tremble in front of you, little cub.’

‘Wow, you look…awesome!’

The next pat on the back came from Bucky, who simply smiled and raised an eyebrow, ‘You’re sparring with me tomorrow. We’ll have you get used to the suit and its behaviour in combat.’

‘Can we bring Steve along?’ She sat back down to be prodded at by Tony.

‘Please do, but keep the suit out of trouble,’ Tony instructed, ‘I just finished it, inter-dimensional pressure withholding Spandex included. You can thank me later, but it should withstand your jumps without a problem. If not…well, I certainly hope we never find out what happens if it doesn’t work. Your mother would kill me with pleasure if I mucked this up. Speaking of which, the suit is reinforced, bullet- and waterproof and has enough pockets to hold any souvenir or lipstick you bring along.’

‘Thank you! It fits perfectly,’ she got up again to get the cake out of the fridge, ‘Anyone for cake?’

She handed out plates and forks before cutting the cake into slices. There was not much left after everybody had one but the gesture was more important anyway. Tony kept complaining about the way his face was distorted on edible paper but was shut up by Bucky biting his head of the decoration, which had Tony let out a shocked gasp.

‘Buck, no teasing,’ Steve grinned and offered his part of the sugary decorations to Bruce, ‘This is Tiger’s day.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Peter chipped in, ‘has anyone thought of an alias for her?’

They exchanged looks. For a moment, no one said a word. The gathering exchanged looks. Then, Tony perked up and raised his hand.

‘Spiderhawk, to commemorate her parentage,’ He grabbed the remaining piece of cake from Bruce’s plate.

‘Sounds over the top,’ Wanda sighed, ‘Spiderling?’

‘Hey!’ Peter perked up from his phone, ‘That’s a call too close to home.’

‘Maybe something hinting at her abilities?’

‘Jumping-Jack?’

‘Yo-Yo?’

‘What’s wrong with something that doesn’t distort her name, huh?’ Bucky leaned back in his chair and fumbled with his scrunchie to gather his hair in a ponytail, ‘Call her Tigress. Even Tiger Cub would be acceptable, I guess.’

‘Stop forcing it, icicle,’ Tony pouted, ‘You are going to call her Cub, no matter what we suggest, won’t you?’

Bucky shrugged, one arm behind the back rest of Steve’s chair, grinning wolfishly, ‘I’m just saying, why call her anything but what we call her anyway? We all know that Nat chose Tiger for her name because she bit Clint the day she got here, and she’s been biting through everything ever since. ’

‘He was creeping me out,’ she defended herself, sticking her tongue out at her father, ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

No one mentioned her past, the experiments on her DNA that had left her with powers, the panic she had caused when she had zapped out of her nursery for the first time or how her father had found her in the air vents a few hours later. She had demolished his secret stashes of cookies before he got her out of the narrow pipes. No one said anything but how much of a gift she had been, to Clint and Natasha, to the Avengers family, and as of late, to Peter whenever he was freaking out about being part of a group like the Avengers without having graduated from High School yet. Zapping him onto the top of the Chrysler Building only to swing back to Avengers Tower with his webs had caused an uproar on the news and one week grounding for her, but it had helped Peter. Their attempts of denying their involvement had been ruined by his Spiderman suit and her distinct green hair, the side effect of Hydra experiments on a toddler.

Now, at eighteen years of age, the whole world of Superhero work, every opportunity of helping, saving, living her life, lay before her. She could use the powers given to her to make her a weapon for good. She could chose to fight, fight back and save lives. She had found a loving family and a group of friends who would never leave her side; no matter what hardships lay ahead. She was saved in their hearts, every single one of them would do whatever it took to make her feel good, welcome, accepted.

Because family was so much more than blood.

[darnedchild]

Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Winter 2018 - Day 4

Also on FFdotNet and Ao3

MHAW Day Four – Day 4 - Valentine’s Day/Galentine’s Day/Single’s Awareness Day (Fanworks focusing on one of the holidays celebrated in February)

Currently unbeta’d because I was really slow today and only sent it to Lil an hour or two ago.  Will edit on FFdotNet and Ao3 later.

I know parts of this are utterly ridiculous and not terribly believable, but they amused me and it’s a one shot so . . .

Can’t Buy Me Love

There were worse ways to spend Valentine’s Day, Molly supposed.  

Originally, she’d planned to curl up on the sofa with a bottle of wine, a tub of ice cream, and the new DVD she’d picked up on a whim and hadn’t yet had a chance to watch.  

But then John dropped by the week before to ask if she’d like to be his plus one at a semi-formal benefit dinner for the Children’s Hospital.  If it had been any other man she might have thought he was asking her out on a date; but it was John Watson and Molly had known him far too long and far too well to think either one of them might harbour an interest in dating the other.

A chance to dress up, eat a delicious meal she didn’t have to pay for, and watch the evening’s entertainment—a Bachelor/Bachelorette Auction—without a single worry about impressing her date? Of course she’d agreed.  That John was going to be one of the bachelors up for auction was just the icing on the cake.  

Mrs Hudson had made her promise to take videos.

However, it was beginning to look like Molly wasn’t going to get a chance to do so.  

John had called to say he was held up at work, but he’d meet her at the benefit.  Thankfully, the other people seated at their table were friendly and made Molly feel welcome, since John still hadn’t shown up by the time the meal started.  

She briefly considered leaving once it became obvious that he must have been pulled into an emergency and wasn’t going to make it; but her dinner was already on the table and she had spent a lot of time on her hair and make-up.  Not to mention the program that had been sitting next to her plate promised a wealth of attractive and interesting men and woman up for auction.  Who knew, perhaps she’d find someone she wanted to bid on?

The MC stepped on to the small platform that had been positioned at the front of the room and announced that the auction would begin in fifteen minutes for anyone who might want to visit the open bar one more time.

Molly finished savouring her last bite of chocolate cheesecake just in time to avoid choking as someone dropped into the empty chair next to her in a flurry of motion and startled her. “Sherlock?”

“No time to explain.  Take this.”  He shoved something into her hand.  “Use it.”

She looked down at the black credit card.  “Is this your brother’s?”

“Yes.  Don’t worry about it, he knows I have it.  Or he will soon enough.”  He stood up and rebuttoned his suitcoat.  “Remember it has no limit.  Do whatever it takes.”

Before she could stutter out more than “Wh-What?” he had hurried toward the front of the room and disappeared around the curtain set up behind the platform.

Seven and a half minutes later, her mobile rang.  The number was private, but it didn’t take a genius to put the unknown number and the credit card in her hand together.  She answered with a quiet, “Hello, Mr Holmes.”

There was silence on the other end for several seconds.  “Miss Hooper. My brother has informed me that you have something of mine in your possession.”

“Yes.  Yes, I do.”  Assuming she didn’t get jumped by several men in dark suits the minute she stood up from her chair, she was going to murder Sherlock.  Or at least banish him from the lab for several days.

She could almost hear Mycroft rolling his eyes.  “I will authorize a one-time charge with the benefit organizer, on behalf of my brother. In exchange I shall have symphony tickets delivered to Baker Street tomorrow, and Sherlock will have the honour of escorting our parents next month in my stead.  And I want my card back.”

John had spoken about being stuck in the middle of the brothers’ odd negotiations, but she’d never been drawn into them before.  “I’ll let him know.”

“Please do.  Enjoy the remainder of your evening, Miss Hooper.”

Molly held on to the card as if her life depended on it while she waited for . . . whatever it was she was waiting for.

Forty minutes into the auction, she understood everything.

The MC gestured for the current bachelorette to duck back behind the curtain, then returned his attention to the audience.  “The next bachelor up on the program is Doctor John Watson.  Unfortunately, Doctor Watson is unable to join us this evening.  We are extremely fortunate that another gentleman has volunteered to take his place. Please welcome Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock trudged up the pair of steps to the platform as if he were going to the gallows.  He had the tight, uncomfortable smile Molly recognized from so many press conferences.  She wondered what could have possibly convinced him to agree to this.

“Sherlock, what tantalizing plans do you have in store for our next lucky bidder?” the MC asked.

Sherlock dismissively waved his hand. “Whatever John signed up for.”

“Excellent.”  The MC addressed the audience again.  “What will be the opening bid for an intimate meal, cooked in your own home by Sherlock Holmes himself, followed by an evening at the theatre.”

The sheer look of horror on Sherlock’s face made Molly laugh and completely miss the first bid.  The next came seconds later.  And then another.  

His eyes met hers across the room, silently begging her to do something.  

“Oh, right.”  She raised her hand and added a hundred to the most recent offer. Sherlock’s shoulders slumped in relief until another woman upped the bid again.

Soon it came down to Molly and the other woman.  If it had been her own money, Molly would have dropped out long before; but it was Mycroft’s card, Sherlock had specifically reminded her there was no limit . . . and it was for a good cause, after all.

With a devilish grin, she raised her hand once more.  “Five thousand.”

Several people gasped, the other woman shook her head and settled back in her seat in disappointment, and the auction ended without another offer.

The MC was utterly delighted. “Thank you, madam!  Money well spent, I’m sure.  If you’ll make your way to the back to speak to our lovely coordinator to discuss your winning bid.”  As Sherlock hurried off the platform the MC launched into the introduction of the next bachelorette.

Sherlock met her just as she finished arranging payment with a slightly befuddled benefit organizer.

“Five thousand pounds, Molly?  You value my company that much?”  He said it in a teasingly sarcastic manner, but Molly thought she saw a hint of something (Insecurity?  Hope?) hidden in his flippant expression.

She shrugged and smiled, and held the credit card behind her back when he reached for it.  “Oh no.  Not until we’ve worked out the details of my intimate meal and visit to the theatre.”

The colour drained from his face. “You’re not seriously going to hold me to that, are you?”

“Absolutely.”  Molly’s smile morphed into a grin.  “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since someone cooked dinner for me?”  She studied him as they retrieved Molly’s jacket and his Belstaff from the coat check.

She took a tiny bit of pity on him. “All right, I may be willing go compromise on the play.”  His relief immediately melted away when she continued.  “It sounds as if you’ll have enough of that sort of thing when you take your parents to the symphony next month.  Mycroft’s terms, I’m afraid.”

“John is going to owe me, I don’t care if he threatened to-“  He saw Molly’s eyes widen and quickly cut himself off.  “What do you want instead?”

“Picnic in the park?”  She didn’t even try to hide her amusement, knowing full well he’d refuse.  “A trip to the London Eye where you have to play nice around all the tourists? No?  You make dinner at mine and the DVD I was planning to watch tonight. Final offer.”

He considered it as he flagged down a cab.  “Rom-com?”

“Horror.  No psycho killer, no mystery, straight up man-eating monster movie.”

Sherlock opened the cab door and gestured for her to get in.  “Deal.”

[lavenderprose]

A sampling of some of the many, many universes in which Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki didn’t somehow manage to avoid each other for TEN+ YEARS and are already happily married (Inspired in part by the musings of @kiaronna and @pearlo on this topic from this post):

In 2010, Viktor is leaving an Olympic after party because it has just more or less dissolved into an orgy and that’s not Really his scene. In this universe, he decides not to go back to his room and instead finds his way to an outdoor seating area, which is not very heavily utilized given the fact that it’s February. There is only one other person out there–an athlete with his back turned, curled up onto a bench. The lettering on his jacket says Japan. “Mind if I join?” he asks, and the other man turns to reveal dark hair and the deepest eyes Viktor has ever seen. “Oh,” he squeaks. “No. Go ahead.” They sit, and talk, and three hours later exchange phone numbers. Instead of going to America to train, Yuuri Katsuki goes to Russia to train under Yakov Feltsman. He takes National gold in 2011 and marries Viktor in 2012.

Phichit accidentally posts a video of Yuuri doing a bit of Viktor’s 2013 free skate to Instagram, instead of the hamster video he meant to post. The video makes its way through the figure skating grapevine until, obviously, reaching Viktor. Viktor immediately DM’s Phichit, begging to know who the man in the video is. Yuuri wakes up to six missed calls, 609 Instagram notifications, 49 texts and a DM from Viktor Nikiforov. “I WAS ASLEEP FOR AN HOUR,” he shrieks. Phichit takes complete credit for their marriage in his speech at their wedding less than a year later.

Through the careful and judicious saving of money for several years, and because in at least one timeline the main waterline in the onsen and the transmission on the family car don’t go kaput in the same year, Yuuri’s family is able to send him to one of Yakov Feltsman’s ice skating boot camps when he is fourteen years old. Viktor is there, all shining hair and huge smile and new celebrity. He has just placed at the Turin Olympics and is on his way to becoming a Russian household name, and Yuuri has been in love with him for two years already. “Yuuri!” Viktor coos across the ice, over the heads of the fifteen other skaters in the bootcamp. “Keep your hips even! It won’t make it so hard to turn into your Axel!” “Yuuri! Don’t hunch your shoulders on the spread eagle!” “Yuuri! Your thigh should be parallel to the ice on that sitspin!” “He’s incredibly skilled for his age,” Lilia tells Yakov in the back of the rink one day. “And Vitya has been behaving remarkably well, since he came here.” She fixes her eyes on Yakov, deep and determined. “He’ll be old enough to make his senior debut next year. If we groom him through his last year of juniors, he could bronze in his first GPF, or better. I want him, Yasha.” Yakov Feltsman is not in the habit of denying his wife those few things she asks of him. Yuuri Katsuki returns home after that bootcamp to pack his things and collect his dog and hug his parents goodbye. “I’ll take good care of him, Mr. and Mrs. Katsuki,” Viktor assures from a Skype call. “He’ll be getting the best training in the world. I even have a poodle, so Vicchan won’t be lonely during the day!” Hiroko and Toshiya just smile knowingly. Yuuri Katsuki is newly fifteen when he moves to Russia and begins sharing a condo with Viktor Nikiforov. He is sixteen when he wins his first GPF silver, and eighteen when the Vancouver Olympics roll around and he stands below his best friend on the podium and accepts silver for Japan as Viktor accepts gold. He is nineteen when, after five years of glances and touches and shared secrets and tears and laughter, Viktor pulls him into bed. “About time,” is the general consensus to that. They have only been dating, dating-dating, for five months when Viktor asks him to marry him. “I know it’s quick,” Viktor says, “but I feel like–I feel like we’ve known each other all our lives, anywa, so what’s the point in waiting?” Yuuri, of course, feels the same way.

Viktor makes a split-second decision to touch up his make-up before a press conference at the Trophee de France 2011, and as he’s patting the sweat marks off his temples hears the definite sound of someone crying. “Um,” he announces to the otherwise silence bathroom. “Are you okay?” “Yeah!” comes the answer, shrill. “I’m totally fine!” “You don’t sound fine,” Viktor says, and ducks his head to see which stall has feet under it. In the last stall, he sees a pair of badly-abused sneakers. He straightens up and knocks on the door. “I’ll leave you alone if you want me to, but I can–if you want, I can show you a better place to cry. Than here.” It takes a moment, but the door opens. The man in front of him has watery eyes and puffy red cheeks and Viktor isn’t sure he has ever found someone so beautiful. “Okay,” he whispers, and Viktor leads him onto the roof where instead of crying, he stares out over the skyline and tells Viktor about his home town. Viktor never does discover why Yuuri was crying, but he does get his phone number–and he does visit his hometown with him, a year later, to tell Yuuri’s family that they’ve decided to get married.

Yuuri is somehow convinced by Phichit to go out with a group after Skate America in 2013–Phichit is in his element, leading people around the city with expansive gestures and the effortless social confidence Yuuri has come to know of his best friend.  “You’re from this city too, aren’t you?” asks someone at Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri turns from Phichit’s monologue to see Viktor Nikiforov of all people. Yuuri, distantly in the back of his mind, realizes that he didn’t see Viktor before because he is wearing a hat, scarf, and enormous sunglasses. “Um, not from here,” Yuuri says, trying not to squeak, “but I–we both live here, Phichit and I.” “But you know the city,” Viktor says, “so that means you would know a place where I can get the most disgustingly greasy food imaginable and you and I can go there and my coach never needs to know?” “Yes,” Yuuri says immediately, because he may be timid around most people, and especially around his idol, but he has more than enough sense to realize that His Time Has Come. “I can absolutely do that.” Yuuri takes Viktor to American Coney Island, where they eat loose burgers and chili fries and drink diet coke, which is the only cession to their diets. “Oh Yuuri,” Viktor laughs at the end of the night, a speck of chili cheese still at the corner of his mouth, “I could fall in love with a man like you.” And he does.

Celestino wins a radio lottery and receives tickets to Champions on Ice in Las Vegas–he decides to take Yuuri and a rinkmate. Yuuri’s rinkmate is nice, but he doesn’t know her very well, and he’s several years younger. She also has friends in Nevada who she wants to meet up with, and Yuuri doesn’t know anybody in the state for obvious reasons. On the first day they are there, Yuuri’s rinkmate disappears with her friends and Celestino takes his wife and goes exploring on the strip. Yuuri stays in his room and plays Pokemon and Skypes his mother. On the second day, Yuuri goes shopping for souvenirs for Yuuko and his family, and stares far too long at the billboard of Viktor Nikiforov’s face that is advertising the ice show. That night, he debates which of the three posters he brought with him he should bring to have Viktor sign, before deciding on none–the odds that he will meet Viktor Nikiforov tonight are practically not any higher than they were when the were on opposite sides of the world, and Celestino won’t want to wait in the long autograph lines. “Don’t you want an autograph, Yuuri?” Celestino asks after the show, and Yuuri thinks it’s nice of him even though they both know that the polite thing to do is say no. “No,” Yuuri says, staring at the long line, and continues out of the building.  They branch off then–Celestino has dinner plans with his wife, and Yuuri’s rinkmate is meeting back up with her friends for some clubbing. Yuuri is walking back to the hotel when he bumps headlong into somebody’s solid chest. “Oh, sorry,” they say, and steady him with hands on his shoulders. Yuuri looks up and finds the same icey blue eyes frm that billboard yesterday staring back at him. “Oh,” Yuuri whispers, wide-eyed. “You’re–” “Shhh,” whispers Viktor Nikiforov, pressing a finger to his own lips. “Don’t give it away, I’m hiding.  “VITYA,” someone from the alley leading back towards the ice center screams. “Come on,” Viktor laughs, and tugs Yuuri away by the hand.  It’s the spring before Viktor will cut his hair, and it flies out behind him in a magnificent cascade as they run. They find their way into a club, where Viktor buys them drinks and laughs and laughs no matter what Yuuri is saying, and then drags him out onto the dance floor. Yuuri has not yet met Phichit Chulanont, who will drag him to pole dancing classes and teach him how to move his hips like a weapon, but he and Viktor get by in the crush of bodies, pushing against each other. “I think I love you,” Viktor breaths against his neck, and they’re both three sheets to the wind, but Viktor is Russian and Yuuri is a college student and their tolerance is astronomical. They aren’t even stumbling. “I know we only just met, but I think I love you.” “Then let’s get married,” Yuuri blurts before he can help it, and Viktor beams. “Yes!” he cries. “Yes, let’s do that!” It isn’t hard to find a place that will marry them–even though Viktor’s signature on the certificate looks more like a drawing of a tree, and even though Yuuri’s tie ends up around his forehead halfway through the ceremony. In the morning, Yuuri wakes up with the worst hangover of his life, fully-clothed next to Viktor Nikiforov, and says, “We can–this happens all the time, we can have it annulled.” Viktor stares down at the ring on his finger, tangled hair all over one shoulder. Yuuri realizes that he doesn’t even rememer where the rings came from. How much did they cost?  “I would rather not, if that’s okay,” Viktor murmurs, and so they don’t. Yuuri carries out the rest of the year in Detroit, wearing the ring around his neck on a chain and thinking about his husband, half a world away, waiting for him.

[misadventuresofthatoregongirl]

A little background... I am 27 years old. I have a 9 year old. I have been with his father since I was 12 years old, I have never “dated” anyone else. I have seen others, but never been in a relationship with anyone else. in January 2019 my little brother (we were 4 years apart and very lose) was left for dead by police after he got in a car wreck and had a head injury. He had a pulse for 30 minutes yet was never taken to the hospital, that was 10 minutes away. A week later some rich yuppie blew their entire head off with a shotgun, 80 miles away from the hospital, had no pulse, but was air lifted to the hospital. I strongly feel my brother was left for dead due to the fact he had unpaid fines. Mostly due to no car insurance or “driving while suspended” over no car insurance. But I know only blacks matter in this country, not some mutt who is half native american half white. That has been made ABUNDUNTLY CLEAR. 

If you are one of those stupid cunts with the “driving is a privilege” bullshit mindset, (driving to work should not be a privilege should be a basic human right and “ride the bus” only big cities have busses and many people have to commute to larger cities in Oregon) when basic liability insurance is about $300 a month for people who are never on mommy and daddys insurance, please kindly fuck off. Housing in Oregon is insane, already, most people have half or more of their money going to rent if they can manage to get somewhere to rent to them at all, they should not have to have another 1/4th or more of their income going to basic liability insurance when they have never even had a ticket. I went through the same shit. Eventually police would just wait in the parking lot for me to leave work and just ticket me over and over, I was denied a hardship permit that is also such a scam. Pay a bunch of money for something you aren’t even guaranteed to get. I drove 1000 miles a week just to get to work, because I could not find work in the rural area I live in not could I afford the $1500 a month rent in the city that has jobs (that’s basically how much I made a month) it is what is is. I had no choice. 

Paying for car insurance crippled me financially. I was actually split up with his father at that time but had to come crawling back begging for money due to my $300 basic liability insurance. The tickets are not even on my record anymore, for driving with no insurance and driving while suspended but its still $260 a month. Absolutely sickening. I don’t have a fucking dime left over after i pay bills, and my boyfriend works and we STILL have no fucking money. Ever. We don’t get to go on vacations, we live in the shittiest neighborhood in the entire county, in a shit trailer, drive shitty cars, I assure you we have nothing nice. Nicest thing he had is probably his work boots which were paid for by his boss, working your ass off in Oregon does not pay off. “Get a better job” no shit sherlock, did it ever occur to you its difficult to not get fired from your job you are currently working, and still go to interviews? Employers be like “I know you have a job currently but can you drop everything and come in an hour?” Oh yeah, totally. And if you try and schedule it for a time maybe you won’t get fired its usually “Nevermind.” And the interview process is a begging a groveling process like you’re a god damn peasant. Why do I want this job? MONEY! Why else! Why does anyone want any job? I worked at a staffing agency for 4 years and I can not tell you how many people did well at those stupid cookie cutter questions but were shit workers. I wish places would just let you work a day or two and see. 

Then I got laid off as soon as stupid corona hit in March, they already fired my office manager and a sales person “over discounted bill rates”. Kinda like how the Dollar Tree stays in business because its cheap but more volume is sold (worked there before too that was horrible) so they have just as much profit if not more, as say Walgreens or something. With corporate clowns coming down and saying to clients basically pay the full rate or we are taking you to court, to 3/4 of the clients, sales tanked. They tried to blame corona but the sales were complete shit before that as soon as they fired the two people who had most of the sales, with discounted bill rates. I am still friends with someone who managed to not get fired. They said in a conference call this week they announced they would be lowering bill rates. *Face palm* now that you fired hundreds of people, you are lowering bill rates. How many lives did you ruin before coming to your senses? Companies here are just so fucking awful!

A few years ago I decided I wanted to move out of the country. However if you have a child, both parents have to sign a passport form unless you don’t have the father listed on the birth certificate. Norway in particular I like, its beautiful, free healthcare, minimum wage twice that of Oregon with cheaper rent and free healthcare, they also help with childcare. They claim they do in Oregon but your “copay” is usually so high you might as well just pay out of pocket and not deal with all the states controlling bullshit you have to deal with when you get state assistance. People like to say “Norway has higher taxes” please shut up and go look at Oregon’s income tax rate. One of the highest in the country. Expensive gas, INSANE housing, its just not possible to have a decent life here in Oregon. I love the ocean also. Norway is beautiful and comes in the top countries for quality of life every year, meanwhile USA is at the very bottom. 

Everyone called me paranoid all those years, I just had a bad feeling that something bad was going to happen also and I needed to get out while I still could. Next remark “how can you afford to get there if you are so broke?” Simple don’t pay my outrageous rent and insurance for 1 month problem solved. My child’s father finally agreed to sign the passport form now that its too late and Americans are banned from basically every country in the world, once the racism and virus bullshit started. Super awesome. He will never hear the end of that from me. Its been months and I still do not even have the passport. Even if I did I AM TRAPPED HERE!!!!!!!!!! I can not even go to fucking Canada!

I decided ok, I will try and move to Montana/Idaho/North Dakota or something. Give up my ocean in attempts to get the hell away from all this mask and the non existent “racism” bullshit. Go somewhere with a lower cost of living, more jobs with higher wages. I absolutely can not stand wearing the face masks. There is no evidence they work, just go look at Sweden. Or the states I just named which have no mask laws. Also a lot of rural areas in Oregon do not wear them seems like the entire populations would have been sick or dead. I am not looking to argue with scared little sheep over this. Before you say “I hope your grandparents die” because I don’t wear them, something that I have seen many people say to myself and anyone else without a mask, my grandparents have said many times they would rather be dead than be completely isolated over some bullshit virus with a higher survival rate than the flu. Plus the media has lied so much, how can you believe a word they say? Seriously? They are all left winged biased. I am not even a conservative and I can see it. But people just eat the shit up. That 26 year old who they claimed died in Oregon from coronavirus, turns out did not even have the virus the CDC medical examiner said. So you choose for yourself what to believe. 

I did get a job in Montana very easily. In six fucking months in Oregon I had maybe 5 phone calls for a job, all minimum wage no benefit shit jobs. I did 2 years of business and law classes, 4 years of heavy payroll and accounting for work so its not like I have absolutely no experience in anything worth a fuck. Plus 8 years total of customer service or more I have been working since I was 18 with gaps here and there between jobs. But with my boyfriend and son back in Oregon, 900 miles away, it was really difficult. I had never been alone like that or even stayed a night away from my child. Never in 9 years. First of all staying in some shitty hotel... I hate hotels in general I like my little nest, as shitty as my house may be, even at a nice hotel I would rather sleep in my own shitty bed. I lasted 2 weeks, only having $100  week leftover for food and other bills spending $400 a week at the cheapest motel I could find, before I gave up. I could not save money for a deposit or loan and my boyfriend has absolutely no credit so he could not get approved for a loan or rental either. He also had absolutely no one to watch our child back in Oregon with everything being closed so he could not work during that time and almost lost the job he had. Done landscaping for 11 years and still only makes $2 above minimum wage because companies treat employees like such shit in Oregon. I was so close, had a decent pay (way more than I ever made in Oregon even though Montana has a lower minimum wage) with benefits, but it was impossible to move into a rental. My credit is good enough for a loan, but I could not save money for a down payment staying in a hotel. Plus I was so lonely and miserable. Now winter is coming and we will not be able to go back and forth in that snow in little cars anyways.

If we would have succeeded, I would have gotten us into a rental and then quit as soon as he got a job because we never have anyone to watch our child and the cost of living is so much lower we would not HAVE to both work like we do here in Oregon. Especially now. Seriously, what the fuck do they expect people with kids to do? Schools are closed and even if they weren’t there is no way in hell I would send my kid wearing a mask all day. SO bad for you! They have to wear them all day “except at lunch” ok so might as well just take the damn things off the entire day. These rules don’t even make sense how do people not see that? Or in a restaurant you have to wear them if you walk to the bathroom but not at the table what logic is that? How do people not see through this bullshit? And children are gross they touch everything masks are going to do shit at schools. Notice the schools that did open, masks or no masks still had a shitload of cases. Single parents are especially screwed in particular. I guess if you could somehow both find employers willing to work with your schedule (good luck with that) you could constantly work opposite shifts as your partner/spouse and never seen them and work. 

Anyways, jobs for him paid more up there too, rent is fucking half of what it is in Oregon. Their average rent is the price of “low income housing” in Oregon. But we just could not do it. I tried. I tried so hard. I even learned Norwegian jeg snakker norsk und ich spreche auch Deutsch because Austria was another country I was interested in. You can try and try and try here, but unless you get lucky, or your parents help you, I do not know how people do it. All the old people I know here don’t have enough money to live off either after working 50 years. Its so sad.

I am no perfect person either. I am pretty bitchy, I have horrible anxiety I quit public school at age 12 and finished online, yes I have a high school diploma. I actually did all my high school schooling in 2 years after skipping 3 years of school with no problem. I never even really went to middle school and still managed. I am not stupid. I just have a hard time doing things I am absolutely miserable doing.

I will go into more detail, year by year on what a shitshow it is to live in the USA but in particular Oregon. The entire west Coast really. I hate it here and I just want out but I have tried everything.