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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

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i can't forgive me & you can't forget

Summary: Spencer is happy that his boyfriend is as compassionate as he is, but watching Derek do everything he can to help Strauss with her alcoholism when he stood by and did nothing back when he was struggling with his dilaudid addiction is beginning to take its toll.

Tags: hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst, insecurity, est. rel., hurt/comfort, cuddling & snuggling, angst w a happy ending, fluff TW: referenced past drug use, addiction, and overdose, implied/referenced alcoholism

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 4.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // The other fic in this universe

Inspired by @marisatomay’s post here!!! The title is from the second part of the poem Betrayal by Lang Leav.

It’s pushing ten pm by the time Spencer finally hears the front door open and close with a soft click, hears the rustling of Derek ditching his leather jacket on the crowded coat rack and toeing off his shoes — no doubt placing them neatly at the side of the hall like he always does — and listens to his footsteps as he nears the bedroom where Spencer’s been holed up since Derek left.

“Hey, baby boy,” Derek says with a warm, relaxed smile, his fingers already working on undoing his shirt buttons, before digging through their wardrobe to find a more comfortable top.

“Hey.”

Spencer watches him with tired eyes. He’s been feeling as hurt and despondent as he does this evening for weeks now, but tonight is the first time he doesn’t have the energy to hide it. He’s spent the entire afternoon in bed, and he’s certain it shows in the imprints of the creased pillowcase on his cheek and his messed up hair, and where just a couple of days ago he’d rush to hide those tells, he simply doesn’t care enough anymore.

Derek turns around from the wardrobe and shrugs off his shirt, replacing it with a soft blue t-shirt Spencer’s always liked on him. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

Spencer shakes his head. Derek undoes his belt and switches his trousers for a pair of grey sweatpants before walking over to the bed and climbing onto the mattress, grinning cheekily as he rolls over Spencer’s body and leans down to press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose.

It’s sweet and romantic and so painfully normal, and maybe that’s exactly why he suddenly finds himself swallowing back tears. He’s hardly spent any time with Derek outside of work in weeks and he’s hurt and sad and struggling, and it’s only making it worse that his loving and attentive boyfriend hasn’t seemed to notice. Really, Spencer knows he needs to communicate, and that a significant part of his pain is his responsibility, but the shame—

“Well that just won’t do,” Derek murmurs, interrupting his thoughts as he brushes his fingers over a lock of curly hair resting on Spencer’s temple. “I’ll go and make you something. Or we can order in? What do you fancy?”

Spencer shrugs, looking away. He’s not trying to be difficult, it’s just incredibly hard to think about food and a relaxing night in with your partner when you feel like your insides are splintering and you’re just barely holding yourself together.

Even without looking directly at his face, Spencer can see Derek’s brow furrow and his happy expression fade, and soon enough Derek’s fingers are at his chin, gently moving his head until he’s looking at him again. “Hey, pretty boy,” he says gently, looking so concerned it makes his chest ache, “what’s wrong? Tell me what’s going on in that big old head of yours.”

So much of him wants to give in and tell him everything, wants to spill his fears and his anxieties and his anger and his shame onto the sheets of their bed and lay it all out for him. He wants to shout, “See? This is who I am! This is all my mess and my pain and my regret! Look at it!”

But he can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to meet the swirling worry in Derek’s deep, beautiful brown eyes and he wills himself not to cry. “Nothing,” he lies. “I’m just tired. Hungry.”

He knows Derek doesn’t believe him, but there isn’t much he can do if Spencer isn’t willing to communicate, so he nods reluctantly and leans down to place a kiss on his forehead this time, lingering there for a moment longer than he usually does. The feeling of his boyfriend hovering over him and asking him what’s wrong and kissing him so tenderly is all Spencer’s craved for weeks, but now it’s here, he still feels sad and empty and hollowed out by shame and bitterness, desperate for something more without so much as an idea as to what exactly more might entail.

“I tell you what, I’ll go make you some tortellini, alright? There’s a pack in the fridge and it only takes a couple of minutes so I’ll be back before you know it,” Derek promises, and Spencer can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Regardless, Derek hops off the bed and heads out to the kitchen, leaving Spencer alone in the softly lit bedroom. He pulls the duvet further up to his chin and buries his face in it, the soft fabric gentle on his skin, and the comforting scent of Spencer’s shampoo mingling with Derek’s cologne settling him slightly.

Derek had spent the afternoon with Strauss at the rehab centre. And not for the first time.

The problem is, how can Spencer be mad at him for that? Really, it’s the epitome of his character: genuine, constant, unconditional compassion for everyone around him, no matter who they are or what his history with them might be. Of course he’d see Strauss struggling with her addiction and swoop right in, getting her settled in at the centre and spending hours with her on visiting days, fighting alongside Hotch to persuade the director to let her keep her job.

But watching him leave every week, watching him text her encouraging messages, hearing him talk about her progress and recovery… it strikes a nerve deep inside Spencer. He isn’t proud of how he feels. He knows it’s petty and illogical, but he can’t help it.

Because somewhere deep in his soul, an old version of himself, a sad, lonely, scared, addicted-to-dilaudid boy is crying out, why didn’t you do that for me?

It’s that question that really plagues him. They’re called into work the next day for a fairly interesting case in North Dakota, and there are some fairly strong links to the world of academia, so usually, Spencer would be all over it, reeling off facts and statistics and reaching out to his contacts to further the case. But for some reason, he just can’t get his head in the game.

He finds himself zoning out on the jet and wandering off at crime scenes without even knowing where he’s going. Initially, his team had assumed that he was thinking, or was going somewhere deliberately that might help them with the case, they’d all counted on Doctor Reid to come up with some brilliant theory to bring them closer to catching their unsub.

But Hotch had quickly realised that his head was somewhere else and kept him close to his side from then on. At least staying at the police station with Hotch and being tasked with reading through the unsub’s literary work and constructing a geographical profile both gives him something specific to focus on, and — as much as Spencer hates to admit it — keeps him away from Derek.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Hotch asks gently when they both find themselves at the coffee pot in the late afternoon. He doesn’t look over at him, his eyes focused on the stream of coffee and creamer headed straight for his mug. Spencer knows it’s a tactic to make him feel less ambushed and more relaxed, but that doesn’t stop it from working.

“No,” he says honestly.

Hotch nods in acceptance. He puts a warm hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. “Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.”

Both JJ and Emily eye him suspiciously throughout the case as well, but no one is more confused and concerned than Derek. Spencer tries not to think about the irony.

“Baby, what’s got you all distracted like this?” Derek asks softly when they’re finally alone in their room that night, full up from the rushed dinner they’d all had in the lobby before crawling to their rooms for a couple of hours’ sleep before the manhunt continues in the morning. “This is so unlike you and you know it.”

Spencer doesn’t reply, just continues quietly changing into his pajamas before brushing his teeth and washing his face. Derek’s still sitting in the same position when he comes out, looking frustrated and contemplative, and Spencer feels guilty for making him feel this way, but he just doesn’t know what to do. He can’t act like everything's okay because it isn’t, and he’s tired himself out from pretending that it was for weeks, now. But he can’t tell him what’s going on either.

The thing is, how is Spencer supposed to admit that he’s still hurt over something that happened almost five years ago now? And how is he supposed to admit that Derek doing the right thing is only reopening wounds he’d tried so hard to heal and close? That both Derek and Hotch had specifically helped him heal and close?

He doesn’t know how to verbalise his feelings without sounding petulant or pathetic, so he doesn’t. He keeps them buried deep inside him and hopes desperately that no one comes digging.

“I’m fine, Derek,” he lies again, leaning down to kiss him gently before rounding the bed and crawling under the covers. “Just having an off day, I guess.”

Derek sighs but doesn’t push any further, clearly knowing a lost cause when he sees one. Instead, he follows in Spencer’s footsteps and gets ready for bed silently, whispering a quiet good night before switching off the lamp and climbing into bed on the other side.

It feels like the expanse of white sheet between them goes on for miles.

It’s the first time Spencer’s regretted Hotch’s decision to continue letting them share a room.

The question continues to plague him over the next week. He gets marginally better at pretending he’s not falling apart at the seams, and it’s enough to make almost everyone back off, but Hotch is still concerned and Derek is still confused, and he can feel himself drifting further away from the team each day, as though his rope tying him to the others has been cut, and now the current is having its way with him.

Nothing much changes. He continues in his hurt and lonely quietude, and Derek continues to ask what’s wrong, sighing sadly when he gets nothing out of him, and they exist in tandem.

It had always felt — ever since the beginning of their relationship — as though their relationship was a salsa dance. They were tangled in one another’s lives, both physically and emotionally, and they existed in this relaxed kind of ease that Spencer’s only ever seen before in long-term relationships. They’d fallen into a lucky, easy kind of love, and it was never as much work as everyone had promised him a relationship would be.

They’ve been together for four years, and their worst fight was over whether the cheese grater went in the cupboard next to the sink or above it. (Granted, it had spiraled into some other disagreements that came along with cohabitation, but. Still.)

Spencer knows he’s introducing a dynamic they’re unused to, and he hates it. Guilt plagues him, mingling with his shame and sadness until he’s drowning under the weight of it, no way to claw himself to the surface to take a breath.

They exist on parallel lines: next to one another; yet never crossing over. Their relationship is no longer a salsa dance.

The next off-day they have, Derek can’t get out the door fast enough. “I’m off to visit Erin,” he tells Spencer, and it still makes him irrationally angry that he’s stopped calling her Strauss and now refers to her like a friend.

Is it better that Strauss is now Derek’s friend? Him helping someone he actually cares about makes him not caring about Spencer all those years again slightly less of a gut-punch, he supposes. But the fact that Derek and Strauss of all people are becoming closer while he and Spencer drift apart hurts in a way he can’t even begin to explain.

This time, he spends the entire day crying. Every time the tears slow down and he catches his breath, another wave of grief and pain and anxiety and shame and jealousy crashes over him, and all of a sudden he can’t breathe again. It’s an exhausting cycle, and by the early afternoon his stomach muscles are aching and his ribs feel bruised.

It’s also the first day he gets a craving.

He’s an addict, right, he’s had periods of intermittent cravings over the years, that’s completely normal. Sometimes, even thinking about it in passing is enough for the itch to come back, to whisper the number of his old dealer in his ear, to recall in both his physical and mental memory the feeling that came with each press of the syringe.

This is the most intense one since his withdrawal immediately after waking up in hospital following his accidental overdose in his parking garage. It’s so intense that it scares him.

Crying harder than he thought it possible, he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and — fighting the temptation to type in the digits of his dealer — he dials the number he’s had memorised since he was nineteen. He can’t speak through his gut-wrenching sobs, but he knows the sound of him crying this hard will be enough, so he lies in bed and continues his pity party until he hears the front door swing open and the rapid steps through the hall.

Soon enough, Hotch is pulling him into his arms and he finally feels a little less alone.

Hotch lets him cry himself out, and only when his tears have dried up and the hiccups have subsided does he say anything besides the reassuring murmurs he’d spoken into Spencer’s ears as he cried.

“Spencer,” he says — somewhat desperately — “please. You have to tell me what’s going on. Let me help you, okay? Whatever it is, I’m here. I won’t let you suffer on your own anymore, I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t raise his head from its position buried in Hotch’s t-shirt, but he does finally say something. He doesn’t know what overrides the shame that’s kept him quiet — maybe it’s the exhaustion or the loneliness finally winning out — but whatever it is, he’s glad it does.

“I had a craving today,” he whispers, because it seems like a good place to start. “Haven’t been feeling good since, uh. Since… Strauss.”

It’s hopelessly phrased, but it’s the best way he can explain it and Hotch, being the miracle profiler and father figure of Spencer Reid, figures it out instantly.

He feels the way he slumps slightly, hears the tired, frustrated sigh, and knows he’s probably beating himself up for not figuring it out sooner.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just… I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

Hotch shushes him. “You don’t need to apologise for that, Spencer, don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry for being so blind, and I am. I hate that you’ve been suffering like this and we’ve all been too stupid to realise why.”

“It still, it still hurts,” he says quietly, sadly, regretfully, “it still hurts that no one helped me until it was almost too late. But everyone dropped everything to help Strauss— I’m sorry, it’s so selfish, I shouldn’t be—”

“Hey, Spence,” Hotch interrupts him, caressing his arm gently. “It isn’t selfish. It’s human. And you’re right, we should have helped you sooner and it’s always been my greatest regret that we didn’t, and that because of that dereliction of duty, we almost lost you.”

“I’m not, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything—”

“Spencer, I know that. But you need to stop feeling guilty for how you feel, alright? It makes complete sense that this is bringing up both the feelings of rejection and betrayal, and also cravings for the drug you were addicted to at the time. It’s so obvious that I don’t know how I didn’t see it earlier.”

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. “Derek’s been visiting Strauss on our days off,” he admits quietly. “I’ve barely seen him for almost a month now, and that— it isn’t helping.”

“I can understand that. Have you talked to him about any of this?” he asks, even though Spencer’s sure Hotch already knows the answer.

He shakes his head.

“I know it’s hard, Spence, I really do, but I think you need to talk to him. Obviously, it would’ve been better if both he and I had figured it out without you having to tell us, but clearly, he isn’t going to realise by himself. I know that as soon as you explain it, he’ll understand completely.”

Spencer sighs. Some part of him had known this was coming, he just didn’t know how it would come about. He wouldn’t have put money on Hotch being involved, but maybe he should have done. He always seems to come to Spencer’s rescue.

“He’ll probably be out for a while. He usually stays out for hours when he goes to visit her.”

“Well, how about I stay until he comes home, and then you can talk to him? How does that sound?”

Spencer looks up at him. “What about Jack?”

“He’s out with a friend and their family anyway,” Hotch reassures him, smiling as he runs a hand down his arm. “Now how about I make you some tea and we go and sit on the sofa?”

Spencer reluctantly agrees and moves from the safety of his bed to the comfort of his sofa, but he has to admit that the light streaming in from the big bay window and the feeling of sitting up makes him feel just a little better straight away. Once Hotch is back and placing a cup of chamomile tea into his hands, he doesn’t feel quite so much like he’s going to burst into tears at any moment.

“I have to ask, Spencer,” Hotch says carefully, “did you buy any dilaudid? Or attempt to contact your dealer?”

“Thought about it,” he admits, not meeting Hotch’s concerned eyes, “but I didn’t.”

Hotch relaxes. “Good. I’m proud of you, you know.”

Spencer looks at him with a hesitant smile that only grows when Hotch beams back.

They spend the afternoon watching nature documentaries — and Spencer admittedly dozes through a lot of them, exhausted from the burden of carrying so much pain around and the physical exertion of crying so hard — until Derek comes home at just gone five thirty.

“Hotch?” he asks, confused, and his voice wakes Spencer up from one of his unintentional naps.

He scrambles to sit upright, going inexplicably red at the thought of what he knows is coming. For some reason, he feels like he’s done something wrong and he’s about to be told off. He hates that this is what his relationship with Derek has come to.

“Hi, Derek,” Hotch says, squeezing Spencer’s ankle and getting up from the sofa. “Spencer asked me to come over earlier” — which is a bit of a stretch when really Spencer sobbed into the phone until Hotch showed up — “and I was just keeping him company until you came home.”

Derek’s eyebrows only furrow further, looking between them, confused. “Right.”

“Spencer,” Hotch says, meeting his eyes, “are you okay if I go now? You’ll tell Derek what we talked about?”

Immediately, Spencer blushes red as Derek’s scrutinising eyes fixate on him, but he nods and smiles weakly at Hotch, following him with his eyes as he lets himself out, if just to avoid meeting Derek’s.

“Pretty boy?” Derek says cautiously, slowly taking off his jacket and approaching the sofa like Spencer’s a wild animal liable to be spooked away at any given moment. He supposes it’s probably quite a good analogy, actually.

Spencer shifts nervously in his seat, moving his legs out of the way to give Derek more room to sit down on the sofa.

“You finally gonna tell me what’s been up with you these last few weeks?” Derek asks, and Spencer isn’t oblivious to the hope in his voice. “I’ve been worried about you, baby.”

Spencer nods and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths to compose himself. He’s told one person, and it went fine— it went well, actually. Derek is his life partner, his soulmate, and they tell each other everything. He just needs to start at the beginning. He needs to tell him all of the disclaimers, remind him that he’s not angry at him for doing the right thing or for being the compassionate person he is, he just needs to— He needs to focus, and he needs to tell the truth.

“I called Hotch earlier because I was scared of myself,” he says, finally opening his eyes and looking into Derek’s. “I was having some of the most intense cravings I’ve had since being sober, and I was seriously considering calling my dealer, but I managed to call Hotch instead, and we talked about how I’ve been feeling.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” Derek says regretfully, his face melting into the very picture of apologetic as he scoots a bit closer on the sofa so he can grab Spencer’s legs and pull them over his lap.

“I know,” Spencer replies, ignoring for now that him not being here is why they have a problem in the first place. He moves on. “I’ve been… struggling… over the last month or so with feelings that I haven’t really known how to rationalise or explain, and when I finally did make sense of them, I felt that I couldn’t share them with anyone, which is why I’ve been so distant and private. And I’m sorry for that, by the way.”

Derek just smiles, caressing his bare ankle with one hand as he rests his other over his shin.

He pauses for a moment, trying to find the best way to word his thoughts, but before he can think about it too hard, the words come spilling out, unbidden. “I’ve found it hard to reconcile your attentiveness and willingness to throw everything at helping Strauss, and the way no-one helped me with my addiction back in 2007.”

Derek’s face instantly falls, and saying the words out loud brings all the emotions he’d managed to control back again in full force, and suddenly his face is crumpling, too. Derek surges forward, moving them both until he’s situated between the sofa cushions and Spencer, cuddling him as close as he can while Spencer cries into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking as he begins to cry as well. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything then and I’m sorry I didn’t put two and two together to realise why you were struggling so much. I can’t believe I was so oblivious, Spence, oh God.”

They lie there for a long time, crying together as Derek runs his hands through Spencer’s hair and Spencer clings desperately to the fabric of Derek’s t-shirt.

“I was just feeling so distant from you because we weren’t spending as much time together, and I had no idea how to admit that I was feeling hurt about something that happened almost five years ago,” he continues when they’ve both calmed down again, and they’re ready to resume the conversation. “I guess I just felt… ashamed of both my feelings now and being jealous, which is so ridiculous, I had no idea how to tell anyone how I was feeling. And I’m so sorry that my lack of communication affected us so much.”

“Oh, baby,” Derek sighs, leaning in to press a kiss to Spencer’s lips. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry that I was hurting you when I should’ve known the effect my actions would have. This whole mess is on me for so many reasons.”

“Der, I don’t want you to feel guilty,” Spencer says insistently, urgently, looking at him imploringly. “You’ve apologised enough for what happened back then, and there’s no way we can change what happened. You were just being the same kind and compassionate person you always are when you were helping Strauss.” He reaches out and cups Derek’s face gently, hating the tells of guilt and self-loathing he can see all over it.

Derek sighs and moves Spencer’s hand to his lips so he can kiss his palm. “When I was sitting in that hospital room waiting for you to wake up,” he explains, “I made a promise to myself. I told myself that I would never let anyone down like that again. I was never going to stand back and watch anyone else I knew fall into the same trap you did. So when I realised Strauss had a drinking problem, all I saw was an opportunity to keep that promise.

“The only problem was that I was so wrapped up in doing the right thing in helping her that I wasn’t doing the right thing by you. I should’ve realised all the feelings, physical and emotional, that this would bring up for you, but I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, baby boy, I really am.”

Spencer cuddles back into Derek, burying his face in the juncture between his neck and shoulder and relaxing into the reassuring scent of his person. “I know, Der. I forgive you.”

“How about we order in some Thai for dinner from your favourite restaurant and watch some Doctor Who?” Derek suggests after a couple of minutes of silence. “I think we’re long overdue for some quality time together.”

Spencer smiles at him, feeling so much of the heaviness that’s been weighing him down over the last few weeks lift that he feels almost like he’s floating. “I think that sounds like a plan.”

They set the living room up to be as cosy as possible, lighting the candles Penelope had made for them and using only their soft lamps to light the room, before piling the couch high with blankets and pillows until they’re cuddled together in a little nest.

The evening is spent eating their favourite food and watching their favourite season of Doctor Who, and while Spencer’s still hurting and they still have healing to do, this feels like a damn good start.

“I’m proud of you,” Spencer whispers to Derek late into the night, when they’re close to falling asleep in the comfort of their blanket pile.

Derek turns to him, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

“You made a mistake when you let things get bad with my addiction back in 2007,” Spencer explains, “and when you saw someone headed down the same path, you stopped at nothing to make sure you didn’t make that mistake again. If anything shows me how much you regret not doing anything sooner, it’s your devotion to Strauss’ recovery.”

Derek smiles at him, his eyes a little watery, and holds his chin gently as he leans in to kiss him. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you so much.”

Spencer kisses him again before cuddling back into his side. “I know you do, Derek. And I love you, too.”

And really, when it comes down to it, that’s enough.

Ahhh, this was the first fic in forever that actually felt fairly easy to write thank GOD. I loved this concept and writing that good, good angst was so much fun. Plus, we always love a happy ending in this house! Also, a reminder that how other people when you confront them with the way they hurt you or made you feel is not your responsibility.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @lesbiantodds @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @enbyspencer @reidology @transhanniballecter @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @marsjareau @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @ropoto @thosecriminalminds @wifeyprentiss @cmily @love-pyramus @notevanbuckley @thebipolarbisexualnerd (add yourself to my taglist here!)

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

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Good Omens - A Corpse, Cake, and a Cuppa (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is Death and Crowley is the serial killer who keeps murdering to catch a glimpse of the ethereal being he fell in love with. (1714 words)

Notes: Written for the above Halloween prompt from @new-endings/M.A.D.#8943. Human Crowley au. It’s kind of gory, I’m not going to lie.

Read on AO3.

“Jesus Christmas!" Aziraphale yelps, tiptoeing through the thick pool of red coagulating on the concrete. Threads of it cling to the soles of his shoes when he lifts his feet as if trying to drag him down. Aziraphale has seen a great deal of blood in his time. None of it has been pretty. But this is especially gruesome.

He wonders if that’s for his benefit.

"Look at... look at this! Look at all the… !” Aziraphale takes a pause and breathes in deep, pressing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to his forehead. Tension causes a vein to distend and throb - quite the feat since, as a non-human entity, he shouldn't be able to experience this kind of pain. Or so he thought. In the thousands of years he's roamed earth reaping souls, he's finally found the one mortal who can give him what humans call a migraine. And he doesn't like it. Not one bit. “Could you please just… stop already?"

Crowley grins, thrilled giddy by the arrival of his intended audience. “No,” he replies, shoving the slicked head of his filthy ax deeper into the severed spine of the fresh corpse at his feet.

Aziraphale grimaces as the blade lands with a resounding slap.

That ax of Crowley's gets on every one of Aziraphale's nerves. It's effective for its purpose but positively unsanitary. It makes his skin crawl every time he sees it.

Crowley lifts it slowly, eyes Aziraphale menacingly.

Eyes his nice, clean coat, Aziraphale realizes.

“Crowley!” he warns, putting both hands up in defense. “Don't you dare... !”

But Crowley doesn't let him finish, hoisting his ax higher with part of the dead man's torso attached. He doesn't need to do anything after that. The torso falls from the blade and splashes down in the pool, accomplishing what Crowley set out to do.

“Holy... GAH!” Aziraphale leaps back to avoid the spray. He frowns at his clothes when he sees he wasn't quick enough. "Look what you've done! You’ve made a mess of my coat!”

“Improved it, I’d say,” Crowley snarks. “Given it a pop of color.”

“I've had this coat for ages and hadn't collected a single stain! Not one! And look at your shoes! Ruined!" He gazes down at Crowley's feet in despair. "I actually liked that pair.”

“Really?" Crowley tilts his head, batting his eyes innocently. "You didn't tell me that.”

“Yes, well... " Aziraphale busies himself fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket. Praying he’s swift enough to save the fabric, he pats at the specks on his sleeve "... it’s not my place to tell a homicidal maniac that he looks fetching in snakeskin, is it?”

Crowley pouts, his lower lip jutting out, making him look comically childish despite the streaks of blood running down his cheeks.

Aziraphale’s brows pull together. He glances around, trying to work out what's wrong. "What? What is it?"

"You're being mean."

"How am I being mean?"

"You're calling me names."

"Accurate ones, yes."

"You sound disappointed."

"You think so!?"

“B-but... but why? I took your advice!" Crowley argues. "I changed me m.o.!”

“I didn’t give you advice! I said you should stop killing innocent people!”

“I did! This guy?" Crowley plants the heel of his sopping shoe into the dead man's crooked neck for emphasis. "He weren’t innocent! He was a serial killer, too! He just happened to be shite at it!”

"I can see that." Aziraphale peers into the vacant eyes of the man on the ground, spirit buzzing beneath his skin, waiting to be reaped. But Aziraphale is in no rush. In the choice between filling out paperwork and shooting the shite with Crowley, surprisingly, he chooses Crowley.

Or maybe not so surprising, Aziraphale muses, biting his lower lip and indulging in a private chuckle. He rolls his eyes in disgust at himself right after. What are you doing? Stop that!

"Besides, I'm doin' you a solid!"

Aziraphale scoffs, snapping back to his senses. "How do you figure?"

"You're Death, ain't ya? I'm keeping you in business!"

"I don't know if you've read the papers lately, dear boy, but humans are dropping like flies thanks to their own stubbornness and stupidity. You're slap in the middle of one of the worst pandemics in history, but instead of doing what you can to stay safe, you lot spend your time arguing over petty b.s.! I won't wear a mask! It's against my rights! I'm not taking the vaccine! It'll make me sterile! There is no disease! It's all a big conspiracy! Meanwhile, in the states, some orange lunatic has everyone drinking bleach! Believe me, I hardly need your help doing my job!"

“Oi! Don’t lump me in with those prats!”

“Why not? You’re not wearing a mask, I see.”

“Don’t have to. I got my shot. And I keep me distance.”

“But you’re covered in blood! Did that man you dismembered have the virus!? You don’t know!” Aziraphale cringes at words that sound far more like concern than scolding. Which he should be doing. Scolding and ridiculing, and possibly calling the police.

But he won’t.

If Crowley were thrown in prison, it would be harder for Aziraphale to find an excuse to see him. Aziraphale has yet to decide if that’s something he wants, but either way, he’d prefer it not be at the expense of another life.

"Fine. Whatever. If that's the way you feel about it... " Crowley grumbles, letting what remains of that statement die as embarrassment rises to his cheeks, settling beneath the red already there. He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his face away.

Just like a child, Aziraphale thinks.

And as with a child, Aziraphale should have nipped this in the bud much, much earlier - like when Crowley realized that he could summon Aziraphale whenever he wanted by upping the frequency of his murderous antics.

This, to date, is his twenty-seventh kill.

Aziraphale doesn't know how Crowley spotted him. He's pretty adept at avoiding human detection. But after victim number eight, Aziraphale turned around, scythe in hand, and there he stood: tall, gangly, bizarrely besotted, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses at one in the morning. Aziraphale thought Crowley was a run-of-the-mill psychopath looking for attention, seeing Aziraphale as a hapless dolt to play cat-and-mouse with, not knowing for one second who he was dealing with.

Not only did Crowley know exactly who Aziraphale was, but he had taken a considerable shine to him.

Aziraphale humored the man when their paths crossed so he could get on with his work, never for one minute considering the consequences. Thinking back on their past interactions, Aziraphale can pick out the hints Crowley had been dropping.

Aziraphale played right into them, and he could kick himself over it.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Aziraphale quipped dryly after Crowley had beheaded some poor, down-on-his-luck fool. "I'm going to start thinking that you have a thing for me."

"Finally!" Crowley tossed his arms in the air. "At this rate, I was going to have to murder half of London and spell out the words��’Will you go out with me?’ with their bodies. Do you know how time-consuming that would have been?"

Aziraphale had written that comment off as a morbid attempt at humor.

Now he feels like an imbecile.

He’s going to get an earful from Gabriel if he ever gets wind of this. Aziraphale has been able to cover up the increase in London deaths by blaming the pandemic. But once people get their acts together and things calm down, he’ll have to come clean.

There’s a serial killer roaming the streets that has a serious crush on him.

Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh as he comes to a decision.

A bad decision.

He's going to regret this. He knows he's going to regret this.

But will he really though?

Aziraphale looks Crowley over, still moping with his nose in the air. He examines him at depth - his sharp features, his debonair style (hiding beneath a litre of blood), his devil-may-care attitude, his rowdy sense of humor. If he were another angel, or even a demon, Aziraphale would have asked him out already, body count or no.

So what is he waiting for?

It’s not entirely unheard of, an angel dating outside their dominion. And as for the moral issues of dating a murderer, well, Aziraphale is an angel. He has a responsibility to bring sinners to the light, help them see the truth. That can be done anywhere, not just in church - on a street corner, in a diner…

Back at his flat.

Besides, he and Crowley have a lot more in common than Aziraphale did with his last paramour, an angel he had dallied with solely for the fact that he was guardian of comestibles.

It seemed like a match made in Heaven, so to speak.

Far from it.

“Look - if I let you take me out for coffee, will you stop the gratuitous bloodshed?”

Crowley all but gasps when that question leaves Aziraphale’s mouth, the grin growing on his face transforming, becoming less maniacal and more… normal if that makes any sense. "One cup of coffee. That's all I ask."

"Then come along. Here… “ Aziraphale snaps his fingers, cleaning Crowley thoroughly before he takes his arm. “If you're good, I'll let you buy me a slice of cake.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“I’m glad you think so. I’m a very slow eater. And I figure the longer I stay with you, the more I can keep an eye on you."

“Deal. But, you know," Crowley starts, his tone so filled with teasing he’s on the verge of giggles, "if you, say, spent the night at my flat, you could keep an eye on me for hours. Think of all the people I wouldn’t be able to kill.”

Aziraphale smirks, amused that they both had a semblance of the same idea. “You don’t say?”

“I do.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“More so than you bartering human lives against a cuppa and cake?”

Aziraphale shrugs, but he doesn't relinquish Crowley's arm. He does, however, relieve him of his ax so he doesn’t get any ideas along the way. “Fair point.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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stillness-in-green · 3 years

Text

Ahistorical, Absurd, and Unsustainable (Introduction and Part One)

An Examination of the Mass Arrest of the Paranormal Liberation Front

INTRODUCTION

The title states my premise here: the breezy way My Hero Academia presents and resolves the mass arrest of the Paranormal Liberation Front is ludicrous. If taken as presented and allowed to stand without being further addressed, it serves as a breaking point from which the series will be incredibly hard-pressed to recover. Why, you ask?

From a logistical standpoint, it strains credulity. From an ethical standpoint, it suggests deeply troubling problems with the state of Hero Society. From a thematic standpoint, it unravels whole portions of the narrative’s spine. I’ll be looking at each of these facets in turn to discuss the questions they raise which My Hero Academia has not yet seen fit to answer. Many in fandom don’t seem to be thinking about it too hard, so I’d like to lay out—in exhaustive detail—all the reasons I find this plot element so wildly out of touch with causal reality.

Please note that while they are discussed when relevant, this essay is not principally about the named characters in the League of Villains or the erstwhile high command of the Metahuman Liberation Army. The sorts of consequences Shigaraki Tomura or Re-Destro would and should be facing in a courtroom are orders of magnitude beyond what Random Liberation Warrior X would be, but it’s the mass numbers of Random Liberation Warrior Xs that this essay is most concerned with, as they are the ones most in danger of being swept under a rug and forgotten by the series in its current state.

Further, be advised that this essay in its full form is both very long (about 21K words excluding Sources and Further Reading) and will contain extensive discussion of real-life Japan—comparisons to historical events, minutiae of its legal and carceral systems, and general cultural views on criminality. This will include references to imprisonment, government oppression, and incidents of terrorism both real and in the context of My Hero Academia.

Being as it is about quite a recent event in the series, it will also contain heavy spoilers all the way up through the most recent chapter as of this writing, Chapter 310. It likewise contains spoilers for the spin-off series My Hero Academia: Vigilantes up through Chapter 95.

The essay will be posted in parts on tumblr and in full on AO3. For the tumblr posting, I will provide links to other tumblr posts as I reference them; however, as I would like this to actually show up in the tags, outside links containing my sources and further reading will be provided in a separate post following the conclusion of the essay.

Lastly, I spent an entire month writing this as a fan who is sympathetic to the villains in general and the MLA in particular. If your response to the very concept of this essay is anything to the tune of, “Who cares what happens to a bunch of disgusting quirk eugenicists?” know that you and I have radically different views on the MLA, and the role of the justice system in general. You are, of course, welcome to read the essay anyway, but, having said my piece about the MLA and their relationship with quirk supremacy elsewhere, I will not be engaging with arguments or gotchas on that subject here.

PART ONE: The Facts at Hand

Before we get too deep into things, let’s lay out the basic facts: how many people are actually involved in the arrest, as well as some comparisons to real-life events to contextualize that number and provide some referents for the issues the arrest raises.

Re-Destro gives the numbers of the Metahuman Liberation Army as 116,516. A lot of people go on to die in Deika, though we’re never given a solid count. The biggest batch we see killed in a single go are the press of sixty or so people Shigaraki decays, then the sixteen-ish Toga drops, though some of those might possibly have had quirks that allowed them to survive. Any number of people certainly died as well simply in the moments we didn’t see, and who even knows how many were caught in the radius of Shigaraki’s last attack.

Further, there may well have been a measure of organization bleed when the MLA became the PLF (though I imagine trying to leave was a very dangerous proposition, giving an additional reason to stick it out on top of the general cult-like mindset the MLA displays); likewise, I find it hard to believe that there wouldn’t have been some deaths at the Gunga Villa, be it from Gigantomachia’s departure, Geten cutting loose, or combatants—be they hero or comrade—overcompensating somewhat in the middle of a chaotic melee.

I suspect it’s overestimating the depletion, but for the purposes of simplicity, let us call it 115,000 remaining members at the time of the raid.[1]

We are told that, in all, 16,929 people were captured at the villa—just about 17,000. 132 escaped in the confusion; this is a fairly negligible number, save for the fact that it includes high-ranking advisors, but not Machia and those of the Front that were with him.

We are further told, and I quote, “Their bases scattered around the country were hit too, and the sympathizers rounded up.” Horikoshi did not provide any solid numbers for this,[2] but if we’re to assume that it is just the rest of the group (more on the logistics of that bit of spycraft later), “the sympathizers” would be 98,000 additional people.

However, 98,000 may be a significant underestimation. It’s based, after all, on a number Re-Destro cites to describe “warriors lying in wait, ready to rise to action.” This begs the question: is Re-Destro quoting the entire membership of the group, or only those who actually are ready to take action? In other words, does his number account for non-combatants? Is he counting young children? I tend to assume the MLA doesn't have a retirement age as such,[3] but if they do, does his number account for the elderly?

How many more people might be “sympathizers” to the PLF insomuch as they are e.g. the six-month-old infant daughter of an MLA couple? What about the ninety-year-old man in the retirement home whose only real act of war these days is tying up the phone line at City Hall to complain about repressive quirk use laws? How about the fired-up fifteen-year-old that was going to get their official code name next month, just in time to join the first wave of attacks? If he’s being literal in his usage of “warrior,” the actual count of the MLA could easily be twice as high as the number he actually gives.

But okay, maybe Re-Destro’s number does include absolutely everyone. Maybe he’s just being rhetorical—maybe, in his mind, even the six-month-old is waiting to rise to action; she’s just going to have to wait a bit longer than the rest, is all. For simplicity’s sake, let’s stick with the numbers we have: a low-end of 17,000, a high-end of 115,000, captured not merely in a single day, but allegedly in the span of a few hours.

I’m sure I don’t need to stress that that is a lot of people. But how many people is it, practically speaking? Is there a precedent? Anything we can look to for guidance on how this kind of thing would go in real life?

Comparative Analogues

The PLF is tricky to categorize for the purposes of real-life comparison, especially compared to how they’re treated in-universe. In some lights, they resemble a protest movement; in others, a terrorist group. Just looking at the way the government reacts to them—and certainly in terms of their combat capabilities—they might as well be an all-out insurrectionist uprising! Below, I’ll examine a handful of historical incidents that cover that spectrum; they will continue to provide useful reference points throughout the rest of this essay.

The March 15 Incident

In the first half of the 20th century, Japan saw a huge uptick in socialist and communist activity, much to the general dismay of the ruling powers. In response, they passed a series of laws commonly referred to as the Peace Preservation Laws, designed to better enable authorities to suppress political dissent and freedom of speech, particularly that of leftists and labor movements.

The Japanese Communist Party was founded in 1922, but outlawed in 1925. This merely drove members underground, however, from which position they pointed supporters towards the numerous other parties with more legally tolerated leftist policies that had cropped up in the wake of the JCP’s dissolution. Following the February 1928 General Election (the first in Japan held with universal male suffrage), those parties supported by the JCP saw enormous gains in representation in Japan’s National Diet. Alarmed, the Prime Minister declared the mass arrest of known communists and suspected communist sympathizers. Accordingly, on March 15, 1,600 people were arrested throughout Japan.

Over the course of twenty years, some 70,000 people would be arrested under the auspices of the Peace Preservation Laws, the majority of them in 1925 through 1936. The laws would eventually be repealed by American occupation forces after WWII, and the JCP allowed to operate openly once again.

The Rice Riots

In 1918, an inflation spiral had driven the price of rice out of control, exacerbating economic insecurity and hardship. Farmers were being paid a pittance of the market value of their crop by rice buyers and government agents, while urban consumers were being charged an exorbitant price for the staple food, as well as a great many other consumer goods, and their own rents. In response, a series of riots ripped across Japan in late July through September. Beginning with peaceful protesting in a small fishing town in Toyama Prefecture, the unrest escalated to involve riots, strikes, looting, even bombing in demonstrations that reached major cities like Tokyo and Osaka. The scope was and remains unprecedented in modern Japanese history, seeing some 25,000 people arrested.

The Sarin Gas Attacks

If you’ve heard of any of them, it’s probably this one. On March 20, 1995, members of the cult Aum Shinrikyo released sarin gas on five different Tokyo Metro trains in the middle of morning rush hour. Thirteen people were killed and over 5500 injured, about a fifth of them moderately to severely so. If not for small errors in the production of the gas and the rudimentary distribution method thereof, loss of life might easily have been catastrophically higher.

Aum Shinrikyo was a doomsday cult, but the motives for that particular attack were much baser than bringing about the Apocalypse: at the time, the organization was under police investigation for its involvement in the kidnapping of a public official. Its leader, Asahara Shoukou, hoped that the attack would divert police’s attention from a planned raid.

It did not do so; police executed raids on numerous of the cult’s compounds, arresting many of its senior members both immediately and over the course of the following months as the investigation unfolded. In all, over 200 members were arrested of an organization that counted its membership prior to the attack as numbering 11,000 people in Japan.[4]

The February 26 Incident

There have been a significant number of uprisings and violent protests in Japan’s modern history; when looking for a representative example, I focused my attention on the military coups of the 1930s and 40s, largely because they took place in what was closest to the modern Japanese legal context.[5] Of that subset, I chose the February 26 Incident for the severity of the government response. The others disintegrated before they could be properly carried out or were met with sympathy for the dissidents despite the obvious illegality of their actions. The February 26 Incident, however, was when they finally became too troublesome to dismiss, and the Emperor himself ran out of patience.

In this period, the Japanese military had become drastically factionalized into two main groups—an ultra-nationalist group, largely powered by a group of young officers, which supported the Emperor and wanted to purge Japan of Western influences, and a more moderate group mainly defined by their opposition to the above faction.[6] Occurring in 1936, the February 26 Incident involved the young officers, believing that they had tacit approval from higher-ranked officers of their own faction, launching assassination attempts against the nationalists’ most prominent enemies in the government (six assorted Ministers and former Ministers in the Emperor’s Privy Council and the Diet) and a bid to seize control of the administrative center of the capital and the Imperial Palace, after which they planned to demand the dismissal of more officers and the selection of a new Cabinet.

The seven ringleaders had convinced eighteen other officers to lend their forces to the attempted coup, a total of around 1,500 men, calling themselves the Righteous Army. Several of their assassination attempts failed, however, and while they succeeded at taking the Prime Minister’s residence and the Ministry of War, they did not manage to secure the Palace. The outraged Cabinet demanded the Emperor take a hard line with the rebels, and by the 29th, the Righteous Army was surrounded by 20,000 government troops and 22 tanks. In this hopeless situation, the officers dismissed their troops; two committed suicide (a third attempted it unsuccessfully) and the remainder were arrested by military police.

International Examples

For obvious reasons, I prefer to limit my examples to events that happened in Japan. However, I will also be briefly referring to a few international incidents of mass arrest, taking place in India, the U.S., and Egypt, respectively.

In the following parts, I'll use these facts and comparative analogues to take a closer look at what readers were told became of the Paranormal Liberation Front.

Part Two

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

Footnotes (Part One)—

[1] Over three months’ time, they likely gained some new blood also, simply in the course of their usual recruitment tactics. You don’t get an underground organization that size by sitting back and waiting for people to come to you, after all. I don’t know a practical way to calculate that, though, so just bear it in mind for when I talk about new members later.

[2] Possibly because he was aware that 17,000 people captured in one fell swoop was difficult enough to swallow without adding on more than five times that number.

[3] We do, after all, see some very aged people fighting in the streets of Deika.

[4] They were considerably more international than you may have heard. They had 50,000 members at the time, some 30,000 of them based in Russia.

[5] The Meiji Constitution was ratified in 1889; universal suffrage (for men) was granted in 1925. The modern constitution was enacted in 1947.

[6] More moderate, mind, in the context of the Imperial Japanese military. Neither of these factions had any time whatsoever for leftist movements, hence all those suppressive crackdowns.

#bnha analysis #bnha meta #paranormal liberation front #meta liberation army #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #bnha spoilers #my writing #plf arrests #stillness has salt

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thewickedkings · 4 years

Text

Between the Two of Us ~ Chapter 8

Masterlist || AO3 || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Summary: Jurdan High school AU. Rivals Jude and Cardan are forced to partner up for a history project, and drama ensues. Filled with banter, pranks, an unhealthy amount of pining, and Jude being clueless as usual.

Trigger Warnings: I don’t think there’s anything so far, but please let me know if there’s anything I missed!

~~~

A/N: This has minor spoilers for Knives Out, just FYI.

Jude’s plan to avoid Taryn for the rest of her existence was foiled the next day at lunch. Oriana had tried a new pasta recipe, and Madoc had made sure Jude and Taryn were downstairs for lunch. When Jude had first moved in with Madoc, days after her parent’s accident, Madoc and Oriana’s relationship had been an enigma to her. But as Madoc scooped extra pasta in his plate and Oriana smiled down at her food, Jude knew they cared about each other more than she knew.

Taryn shifted on the seat next to her, and Jude studiously focused on twisting her noodles around her fork, choosing to ignore Taryn. She wasn’t going to be petty about it.

When Taryn reached for the last garlic bread, Jude deftly picked it up, biting into its delicious warmth and ignoring Taryn’s irritated glance. Not petty at all.

“Girls, how was your party last night?” Oriana asked.

“It was okay, but Taryn really enjoyed it,” Jude responded casually, eyes not leaving her plate.

“I mean, Jude wouldn’t know, she left halfway through.”

Oriana’s watchful gaze jumped between them, and she asked, “Oh? Who did you get a ride home with?”

“Just a friend.”

Jude felt Madoc’s gaze on her, and she sank into her seat, knowing what was about to come. “Was it a boy? Who? Do I know him?”

“You met him the other day. Cardan Greenbriar.”

Oak piped in. “The boy from the soccer game. Vivi said you two pretend to hate each other, but you actually-”

“Anyways,” Jude quickly interrupted. “He just gave me a ride home because I didn’t feel like staying.” She wished Vivi were here so she could punch her.

“You seem to be spending a lot of time with Cardan, Jude,” Taryn said slowly.

“Well, Locke wasn’t around and I couldn’t find you either, so I had to get a ride with Cardan.”

“Who’s Locke?” That came from Madoc, who was suddenly very interested in the conversation.

“Jude’s boyfriend.”

Oak frowned into his glass.

“He’s not my-”

“But you like him, right?” Taryn needled.

What the hell? What was she playing at? Suddenly Jude was glad she hadn’t confronted Locke and Taryn yesterday, if only to be able to watch Taryn’s deceit and try to decipher it.

“We’ve only been on one date, okay?”

“So you’re leading him on?”

“Can you not?” Jude snapped.

The room went silent, and Oak stared at Jude with wide eyes over the rim of his orange juice. If she wasn’t so mad, she might have laughed at the ridiculousness of situation.

It wasn’t like this was the first time her and Taryn had fought. They were siblings after all. But it seemed everyone could sense the pure venom between them.

Madoc cleared his throat, clearly at loss for words. “Girls, I think…”

Taryn pushed her seat back, interrupting him. “I’m full.”

“Same here,” Jude said, and they both marched away in opposite directions.

~~~

Work the next morning was a welcoming distraction from her tumultuous thoughts. The morning drifted by as Jude took the occasional order and chatted with the Bomb. Sunday mornings were usually the slowest, and Jude loved the steady thrum of the café as the sun rose higher in the sky.

After her lunch break, the Bomb handed her a pink drink, gesturing for her to take it to the table in the back corner of the cafe. Jude scrunched her face at the sugary atrocity and the Bomb laughed. “Not everyone drinks straight up black coffee like you do.”

Jude’s reply was forgotten as she caught sight of the recipient of said atrocity.

Cardan sat hunched in the corner, a navy beanie slung atop his head and airpods in his ears. Jude’s brain went into overdrive, wondering how she was supposed to act around him. Friday night felt almost like an alternate reality, one where her and Cardan actually got along. And she didn’t know if they could exist like that now.

As Jude approached his table, she hesitated, taking in his appearance. His shirt collar was rumpled, as if he had thrown it on without a second glance, and his eyes were shadowed. His hands fidgeted with a pencil, charcoal smudging his fingers.

“Um, hey, here’s your pink drink.”

Cardan looked up from his laptop, startled, and one of his arms quickly moved to block his notebook from her sight. “I thought you didn’t work on Sundays,” he blurted, pulling out his airpods.

“Oh yeah, my schedule changed,” she replied, playing off the insecurity that statement wrought. He didn’t have to be so obvious that he didn’t want to see her.

“Right.”

His eyes flickered away from hers, and Jude cleared her throat. “Right. Um- Let me know if you need anything.” She quickly turned around, mortification burning through her. She’d thought that Friday night had changed things between them, but she was foolish for thinking so.

“Jude, wait.”

She turned slightly, waiting. His jaw worked before he finally said, “Thanks. For the drink.”

She nodded curtly, not trusting herself to speak, before going back to the counter. When the Bomb saw her expression, she asked, “What happened?”

Jude sighed. “I don’t even know where to start.”

~~~

After Jude had recounted all the events since Friday, the Bomb glared at her. “You let me ramble about my crappy professor and my crush on Garett all morning while you were sitting on all this?”

“I didn’t know how to bring it up…?”

The Bomb sighed. “I do not miss high school.”

“Just… help me.”

“Okay, first of all, Locke is a douchebag. Second of all, Taryn is also a jerk, no offense. And third of all, why did you go out with Locke instead of him?” The Bomb’s eyes glanced towards Cardan meaningfully.

“It’s not like that. We haven’t even been civil to each other until Friday. It’s… complicated.”

“Sounds like a whole lot of excuses to me.”

“You’re one to talk.”

The Bomb ignored the jab. “Me, Van, and the Ghost are going to the movies after this. Come with us and invite him.”

“Wait, what? How’s that going to help anything?”

“Come on Jude. It’ll be fun. I want to meet him and see what his deal is. Plus, he looks like he needs some cheering up.”

Jude watched as he rubbed a hand against the tension in his jaw, and something inside her gave. He had cheered her up on Friday, so she would only be returning the favor.

“Okay, fine.”

The Bomb rolled her eyes. “You’ll thank me later.”

~~~

Two hours later, after her and the Bomb closed the coffee shop for the evening, Jude found in the food court at the mall with three of her coworkers that might be becoming her friends and a guy who had, until a week ago, been her nemesis.

Despite Cardan’s initial hesitation at her invite, he accepted after confirming she wasn’t just trying to prank him.

Jude had spent enough shifts with them to be comfortable with them, and she watched warily as the Bomb introduced them to Cardan.

“This is Cardan, Jude’s… friend,” she settled on. Cardan’s fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on his hoodie as he gave an awkward wave. “And this is the the Roach, aka Van, and the Ghost.”

At Cardan’s confused expression, Van and the Ghost began to explain the backstory, sentences overlapping as they cut each other off in their efforts to explain each nickname.

The three of them began to walk ahead of Jude and the Bomb, and Cardan shot a wide eyed look behind him at Jude. She grinned. Even she couldn’t keep up with the Ghost and Garett’s endless bickering. If it weren’t for the sharp contrast in their features, she would’ve thought they were siblings.

The Bomb hooked her arm through Jude’s as they lined up for the pretzel cart while the three boys wandered off to browse the movies. “I told you it’d be fine.”

Jude rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

After they secured their snacks, they joined the boys in line for tickets.

“You might want to hide that. They don’t let you take in any outside snacks.” Garett gestured to the pretzel.

“Crap, okay.” When she realized she didn’t have any bag or clothing bulky enough to hide her pretzel, she shoved the pretzel at Cardan, who was wearing a black jacket. “Hide this in your jacket.”

Cardan raised a brow. “Only if you share.”

“I asked you if you wanted one!”

He shrugged, stepping back. “Fine, then. You can smuggle that in yourself.”

Jude grabbed his jacket and shoved the pretzel inside, mumbling, “I hate you so much.”

“So you keep telling me.” His hands were warm as they closed over hers, gently grasping the pretzel out of her grip.

When she pulled back, the Bomb, the Ghost, and Garett all looked at them with varying expressions. The Bomb looked much too smug, Van confused, and the Ghost thoroughly entertained.

“So you two are… friends?” That came from the Ghost.

Jude felt a flush warming up her neck, forgetting that they had an audience and just now realizing how flirtatious their interaction would seem to someone who didn’t know them.

Cardan’s eyes glinted humorously. “It depends on her mood.”

The Bomb snorted and nudged Jude. “I like him.” Van’s expression tightened for a fraction of a second before clearing. Jude filed that information to think about later before making her way to the ticket counter.

“Let’s go watch this movie, losers.”

~~~

“I aspire to achieve her level of pettiness,” Cardan whispered into her ear as the credits to Knives Out rolled in. Because of course he would be a movie talker, whispering his opinion every five seconds.

“I think I like evil Captain America.”

“The blood on her shoe!”

“Is it just me, or is this dude’s accent getting really annoying?”

His warm breath against her ear left her feeling restless and jittery the entire movie.

They got up as the faint lights illuminated the room, making their way to the exit.

Van was giving the Bomb a full analysis of the subtext of the movie, and the Ghost rolled his eyes at Jude from behind him. “Such a nerd,” he mouthed and she snorted.

“So, out of ten, what did you think?” asked Cardan.

“A solid eight.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t solve it until the end.”

“I would have if you didn’t keep interrupting my concentration every five seconds.”

The Ghost laughed. “I’d dock a whole star because that dude’s Southern accent was terrible.”

“A donut hole in a donut hole,” Cardan said, mimicking a line from the movie in his own attempt at the accent. She snorted a laugh, and Cardan’s eyes brightened.

The group of them made their way to their cars, their voices loud and bright against the chill of the night. Garett had his arms around the Bomb’s shoulders in front of them, and Cardan and the Ghost joked from either side of her. A happiness flowed through her veins that could only be found after leaving a movie theatre, a sense of dreamy optimism and possibility.

Before she knew it, the Bomb and the Ghost were making plans for the next week. Cardan shot a hesitant glance towards her, his hands burrowing into his pockets, and Jude returned it with a shrug and a grin. And so Cardan agreed, and then so did she.

After the Bomb dropped them both off at the café so they could get their cars, he walked her to her car. He leaned back against her car, hands in his pockets. “So… those are your friends.”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t expect you to be friends with a bunch of college kids.”

Jude scowled. “Why? I’m cool enough.”

“I never said you weren’t,” he replied, lips curving up in a smile, but then his expression sobered, eyes flickering to the pavement below. “Thanks… for inviting me out with your friends. You didn’t have to.”

“I know. But I wanted to,” she let herself admit, because something about Cardan in that moment was oddly vulnerable.

His hand reached foreword and tucked a strand of hair that the wind had pried loose behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “Jude, I…”

The shrill tone of her phone interrupted him, and he withdrew instantly before gesturing towards her bag. “You should get that.”

“Yeah, okay.” Except now she really wanted to know what he had been about to say.

He watched as she got in her car and shut the door behind her. She mouthed bye before picking up the phone. The streetlight casted shadows over his figure, and then he disappeared into his car. Once he was out of sight, she raised her palm to her cheek, still warm from the memory of his touch.

~~~

A/N: I didn’t really edit this as much as I usually do and just went with my first draft of this chapter because I haven’t updated in so long, so sorry if it’s kind of bad lol. I started overthinking the whole fic and feeling like I should be planning a lot more than I do, but I realized that this fic was more for fun so I’m kind of just going to go with it and hope you guys like it. Anywayssss, I plan to update a lot once my semester finishes in two weeks, so look out for that!

Thank you so much for reading <3 I’m still amazed that people actually enjoy this so yeah :) Let me know what you thought in the comments! I LOVE it when you guys comment!

Tagging: (Bolded tags don’t work)

@goddess-of-writing @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @amoosewithflannelforfur @aneurwin @mercrutiodidntdieforthis @hizqueen4life @mi-mavencalories @simonelovesff @b00kworm @nope-has-lied @andromeddea @aesthetics-11 @queen-of-glass @runnybabbit9 @afexiss @the-keen-queen @yesimtheslytherinwitch @fizziefaerie @abigneignenn @storiesandschemes @aelin-queen-of-terrasen @words-of-the-wise @thedazzlingheights @magicalbookwyvern @kittkatandbooboo @queen-of-no1 @iminsanenotobsessed @dorkzrul @snusbandxknifewife @aknymph @clouds-and-peonies @thefolkofthefic @snorting-up-pizza @fandomfanatic987 @fandom-will-be-the-death-of-me @cardanslittletail @curlyredqueen06 @losssssstttttt @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @omfglucayababies @judiecardan @woodsbeyond1 @yourroyalbooknerd @ireallyshouldsleeprn @st00pid231 @alittledribbledrabble @nomotivation-lads @herladyshipxx @emmabookworm08 @ducksmurf135 @jurdanhell @booksandothersecrets @fangirlprincess09 @ysitsohardtofindaname @dressedindustandshadows @mickeymouse-house @clockworkgraystairs @thesirenwashere @courtofjurdan @blackjacks-donuts @pig-on-acid @krispytalerebel @misskillerdarkness @sanctalina @dirigibledinosaur

#between the two of us #chapter 8 #wow i actually wrote something #jurdan #jurdan fanfic #jurdan fanfiction #jurdan fic #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tfota #tfota fic

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purekesseltrash · 4 years

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My Fic List

Whelp, decided I should do one of these. I have mostly written for Hockey RPF and BNHA, as you have likely already seen!

My BNHA Fics

Bury Them Deep

- “Shouji Mezou's entire life has revolved around being a goalie and playing hockey since he was five years old. After being drafted in the third round in the NHL, Shouji has two more years of college before moving on to playing professional hockey like he's always wanted. Or at least like he always thought he wanted. An injury that ends his season throws him into a tailspin, forcing him to take a look at his life and how he is going to live it, especially after meeting his fascinating new goth history tutor.”

(This bad bitch is 81k total and is chock full of my red hot hockey takes and midwestern references. I love it very much and it is a sweet baby.)

The Rooftop Necromancy series AKA my black metal band AU:

Downhill from Here

- “ Hizashi just wants to tour the country with his best friends with their metal band in their shitty van like they've been planning for years. He'd successfully hidden his crush on one of them for years, after all, he would definitely be able to make this work and keep things fun and uncomplicated. Until Aizawa decided to start acting weird. “

(In which I take you all on a nostalgic trip to 2006-2008 metal culture and you can see the black metal love song that my dumb ass wrote.)

The Perfect Mistake

- “ It wasn't as though Hizashi had planned on breaking up with his boyfriend while they were on tour in a tiny cargo van with no room and no peace. He would have much rather preferred to do it when they were home and he could easily go and crawl back into his mom's basement. But he didn't have a choice. “

(As relationships tend to do, theirs goes through problems.)

Rooftop Necromancy

-"He’d even ended up leaning into the crowd when someone’s elbow had connected solidly with his nose and thrown him back. They’d gone quiet as Hizashi got himself up to his feet, ripped off his now bloody ‘Within Temptations’ tshirt from 2004, whipped his hair back from his face and screamed, “That’s what I’m FUCKING talking about.” into the mic.

They went wild for it, cheering as blood ran down his nose, past his mouth and dripped onto the stage, leaving him feeling like an otherworldly monster performing an occult ritual. Metal, he thought dazedly to himself, why in the fuck had he ever stopped doing metal."

(I hyperfocused so hard at the idea of Mic as a metal head that I wrote this in seven straight hours and WROTE THROUGH THE ATTEMPTED COUP ON DEMOCRACY WITHOUT KNOWING IT. It’s a bit rough, but it’s got some good parts and it spawned the whole damn series.)

Hands Up

- "But of course he had, they had always been able to read each other and what they meant. That had often been their problem, if he was going to be honest."

(In which they figure their shit out. Basically it was written when I was thinking alot about how my own mental health had evolved through the years. It’s basically the story of two people who are both very good for each other and also very bad and how they deal with that. It’s probably the most personally meaningful thing I’ve ever written.)

The other BNHA fics:

Waking Up With Ghosts

-"Hizashi opened his eyes to a world that belonged to ghosts. His headphones were gone and the gray, grimy world that he felt more than saw was muffled and still. This was bad, he hazily thought."

In which we follow Hizashi shortly after the events of 296. How he's found, how he finds out and how he has to tell.”

(I fished this one out of the garbage of my Google Docs because I’d written most of it and forgotten about it. I dragged it out, prettied it up a little and threw it up on AO3. It is by far my most well read BNHA fic, go figure.)

Leave Her Johnny

-”Captain Hizashi Yamada has combed the Seven Seas looking for the elusive smuggler Eraserhead. He has spent years searching for him, tracking his movements and trying to anticipate where he would be next. But he had never considered what would happen when he finally found him. “

(I wrote a paragraph of this and was immediately like ‘I MUST CREATE THIS’. I take some chances writing wise in this as the whole thing is done in a Victorian Era ish style of writing. But I think it’s effective and the ending is likely one of the best that I’ve ever managed. I’m proud of it.)

Gold Rush

-”"That earned him a laugh and Mashirao’s smile made something in his chest ache, something that made him want to hurt. Why had he ever left?

“I’m really not,” Mashirao was saying but Shinsou just shook his head and kissed him once, twice and wished he could take the sunny afternoon and make it stay forever. Make it stay forever like Mashirao somehow had, while the neighborhood had adjusted without Hitoshi’s permission.

“You are,” he said, “And I love it.”

I love you, he should have said. But as Mashirao’s eyes softened and the blonde pushed him back against the bed, Hitoshi knew he didn’t need to say it."

(You know how sometimes you listen to a Death Cab for Cutie song about gentrification over and over until a fic comes out? Because that’s basically what happened here.)

Black Sun

‘"But then he remembered the way that Shouji had eaten the night after, one hand curled into his hair as he hung back in the corner. Shouji hid when something was wrong, like a wounded cat trying to find a dark place to either live or die and he was being released tomorrow. Now was the time to push or he’d find Shouji right back on his bed, staring at nothing."

Something happened to Shouji on the beach. Tokoyami is sure of it.‘

(Aaaaaand Death Cab for Cutie strikes again. But heyo, my first published ShouToko and it is SOFTTTTT)

In the Far and Mighty West

Mic came closer and despite himself, Shouta could not find it in him to feel afraid. “You won’t understand, not really. I’ll try, though. I’m like Pecos Bill or Paul Bunyan or a jackalope or that fish that your friend caught that he swears he brought in but that you’ve never seen proof of. I’m the herd of dogies moving sweet and steady in the right direction, I’m no stragglers to worry about, I’m that perfect dog that’s there to keep them in line. I’m that group of good friends that you would kill for, I’m the woman who you’re dying to come home to, I’m that promised home of milk and honey. I’m Mic.”

Shouta stared at him dazedly and licked his lips, feeling drunk and stupid as he stared at the man. “You’re… magic?”

“I suppose you could call me that.”

(Cowboy!Erasermic. Inspired heavily by American Gods and my own love of folk heroes.)

In Your Violence

- “'Mezou frowned, eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to say that you’re scared that I’ll be killed by having faith in you?”

“It would be in your best interest to stay away from me,” Fumikage finally said, his voice falling flat and quiet. “I am destined to be a monster.”

'Mezou gets the call he fears, the one that says that Fumikage has lost control again. But this time it's different, in more ways than one.”

(I listened to Silence by Marshmello until I went insane in this is the result. Featuring some of my super depressing headcanons about Shouji! But it’s not awful.)

My hockey fics that I still like:

Hufflepuff Halfwit

- ““Zhenya, the wind is coming from the west, I will not remind you again. You shut that window before the house stinks of factories!” She snapped and Geno stared at the owl as though maybe it would know what to do. But instead, it had given a little hoot and wiggled inside, only to drop it’s letter on the counter.

He turned his head very slowly back to look at his mother, who had suddenly gone very quiet. “It… just showed up, Mama. And um. It brought a letter.” He waited again, looked back at the owl who had begun to nose at the pirozhkis in interest and then looked back at his mother with the best puppy dog eyes he had ever attempted. “Can I keep it?”

(This is a part of my hockey/Harry Potter au that still legitimately haunts my dreams. It’s basically a Sid/Geno in Hogwarts but I really love the world building I got to do with Koldovstoretz, the Russian school of wizardry. Don’t read ‘On the Word of a Slytherin’ though, I’m not as proud of that one.)

The Prince

- “What the fuck.” Matt breathed out, sitting back heavily onto his hotel bed as he stared at his phone.

‘This is Henrik.’ The text read. ‘I would like to meet you. I will book a room in Pittsburgh at your convenience. Let me know what time will work for you.’ -

(Listen, it’s Henrik Lundqvist/Matt Murray smut, I feel like that is novel and interesting and worth your attention. I wax poetic on goalies in this, as you do.)

The Zoo of Toronto

- “No one missed it when a massive porcupine had shuffled in between the reporters with a single minded focus, pushing media away until it was able to grip onto Phil’s suit pants and try to pull itself up. He hadn’t been able to do more then besides pick the animal up before it could shred his pants to shreds and walk out of the locker room before the decision had been made with the Toronto media.

Phil Kessel was guilty.”

(Not gonna lie, this is probably my favorite of the hockey fics I’ve written. And it’s Phil/Carl, which is never found anymore but it was a good pairing.)

#my writing

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tarantula-hawk-wasp · 4 years

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Til Death Do Us Part ch 1

This will end up on Ao3 eventually Based on the @maulusque post (Which You Should Read Before Reading This) where Fox and Palpatine end up in a fake relationship and sham marriage because both thinks the other is sincere and that they are manipulating the other but Fox had one hell of a prenup and ends up cleaning house when he divorces Sheev and saves the galaxy

This is not that story. This is a failed version of that story I thought up because my two braincells were like Rey Palpatine? That makes Fox her step-grandpa??? and i wanted them to meet. It also is turning into a Sequels Fix It (disclaimer- I kind of take sequels canon about the sheev clones and mash it with my fist until juice comes out and make lemonade and do whatever i want bc they dont explain enough)

Summary: Fox wakes up from cryo-stasis to a galaxy recovering from the fall of the Empire as the universe’s Bitterest Ex-Husband because he didn’t get to kill Palpatine himself. He’s not going to let some discount clone of sheev ruin things again either, and ends up with a surprise step-granddaughter along the way. 3k words chapter 1/?

Fox should have known better than to attempt out-manipulating the puppetmaster of a galactic war. What really rankled was how close he had come, his fingers had metaphorically brushed the salvation of the Republic before it had been snatched away.

The divorce had been more than halfway processed, and Palpatine had grown more and more panicked. Under the scrutiny of every lawyer on Coruscant, the prenuptial agreement had been airtight, the political powers Fox tried to give himself in it were unlikely to be enforced, but the monetary and titular aspects were to the letter of the law.

Of course the law only applied to citizens and sentients. Palpatine cracked down hard against Clone Rights in those last months. He himself did not publicly utter a biased word in either direction, only ever praising the effectiveness of the troops, but many of Palpatine’s close associates presented strong cases. People that had been at their engagement party, people who had been roped by tradition into dancing with Fox’s brothers at the wedding, people who had looked him in the eye over an oiled banquet table and praised his wit, became the ones proclaiming that Fox and his brothers had no more inborn rights or legal merit than a droid or womprat.

Palpatine drew the court case out in circular debates, and last minute rescheduling. Fox was kept exhausted and worn to the bone between the ramped up tempo of the war, the grueling hours in court, and the new loathing facing him every second he spent at his job in the Coruscant Guard. Palpatine had dropped any acts around Fox, no longer the doting grandfather of the republic, or enthusiastic geriatric spouse, but bitter and jilted and cruel-tongued. Some days Fox feared for his life.

It was that resignation that he would die that saved Fox’s life. He updated his will -clones were at least allowed those for any non-GAR-issue items they had - and made sure copies were held by numerous offices, and even on other planets. He appointed Cody and the Coruscant Guard as the main benefactors, Cody had the authority to divy resources up among the rest of the vode, and the Coruscant Guard were both his closest brothers and deserving of any boon he could grant them. He left a hefty endowment for the cadets and tubies, to find either adoptive families or to raise them without the military training in the event of the War ending. He left his half of the cultural artifacts that Palpatine had collected to the Jedi for them to distribute as they saw fit.

Even if Palpatine managed to pierce holes through every line of the divorce documents, he could not deny Fox’s last will and testament. Palpatine had to keep Fox alive, or else he would lose many of the assets he was trying to keep in his grasp.

Fox had counted on more time to slip information to the GAR and the Jedi, he had counted on less supervision, and he had counted on Dooku and Grievous lasting for a few more months than they did.

He failed to prevent Order 66, and as his brothers lost their free-will, he was abducted from 500 Republica. A drugged dart jabbing through his blacks and unfamiliar hands hauling him onto a ship. He was put into cryo-cycle stasis. That counted enough as keeping him alive that his will could not be enacted, but kept him and his insider knowledge from challenging Palpatine.

Forty years later, a decade after the fledgling New Republic finally closed the buried account that dripped credits into the facility Fox’s stasis pod was in, the power couplings shorted out - whatever droid or employee was in charge of maintenance long departed for salaried work. The pod had emergency protocols to thaw him out with the last of its energy reserves if the power was cut out.

And so out he had staggered, head aching and bile rising. His genetically wired resilience and discipline had carried him through the worst of the stasis sickness.

The computer terminals were easy enough to slice. Palpatine did not change his cybersecurity strategy over the decades, and Fox knew more than he wanted to of that man’s mind. What he found was disturbing, but not surprising. Weapons capable of destroying entire planets, the genocide of the Jedi, the suicidal brothers made into cyborg Dark Troopers, a Galactic Empire. And cloning, an overwhelming amount of information on cloning. Not just familiar Kaminoan files, but resources from other cloning facilities, Strand-Casts, Splices, Stem-cells- every method explored and combined. Palpatine had been seeking immortality.

Fox did not let himself think about what year it was, he did not think about the decades Palpatine had marred for the Galaxy, the vode all marching far away without him, the history ripped apart by waves of propaganda. What he thought instead about was his own failure to sacrifice himself and put a blaster bolt through Palpatine’s wrinkled forehead so many years ago. It rankled quite a bit that Palpatine died while he was in stasis - the bitterness of unfulfilled hatred. But he could find new purpose. He would not let a false Palpatine return and inflict himself upon the healing Galaxy.

After he left the lunar facility orbiting its dead planet in a nearly-corroded relic of an emergency escape ship, the first goal he achieved was programming a medical droid to excise the control chip from his brain. Then he started slicing again. There were still some accounts he had set up during his sham marriage with credits that had decades of interest. His backup plan to that was selling the material assets he knew either he or Palpatine had stored away in scattered locations.

Fox bought a ship, blasters, and assembled piecemeal a set of armor. He bought bounty hunter credentials, keeping his helmet on always to hide any recognition his face might bring. He stacked crates of rations in the empty bunks in his ship - a Skipray Blastboat - a vessel meant for four was a roomy choice to travel alone in, but still nearly invisible in its ubiquity. And he went hunting.

Palpatine’s clones were hard to find, a challenge Fox embraced for its distraction. He found out some of the pseudonyms running the older facilities, the constructed identities for whatever apprentices, droids, or imperial loyalists were actually doing the work. That was a mystery Fox was still investigating.

Sometimes, to find a clone of Palpatine, Fox anonymously set the bounty himself, and then claimed it as well - getting the resources of the minor guild he worked with, as well as a tracking fob.

Sometimes he killed them. Sometimes it was easy, the compulsions and the personality of Palpatine showing through, and that hated face looking back. Sometimes they were worming their way into government positions to undermine the New Republic. Sometimes it was harder, botched strand-casts that held only a passing resemblance to the man, and were without the force or any malignance. Those, Fox judged on a case-by-case basis. Were they in politics? How connected were they to any neo-imperialists? He judged each of them by their own actions, he knew the way a clone could be blamed for the actions of another.

He was not the only one after these clones, someone else was also hunting them - off of any official Bounty Hunting channels. And with the karked up Sith tradition of usurpers, Fox could not assume it was an ally.

Fox’s unknown rival gradually became more than just a nuisance to compete against. There had been a strand-cast clone of Palpatine’s that bore only a partial resemblance and had been actively undermining some of the networks Fox thought might be connected to the cloning facilities. Fox had been trying to track him down, to talk to someone who might be able to link him to the roots of this operation - he was even ready to offer personal protection - but his opponent had reached him first.

The man was dead now. As was the woman he had been traveling with. It was frustratingly suspicious, and Fox was out of other leads to investigate. He spent a few months slicing and scouring for information about the strand-cast. The man had boarded a ship from a large spaceport with a woman and a child, had transferred numerous times, and then, at the last port before his death, had only embarked with the woman. The child had either died prior the the adults’ deaths, or was still alive. And if the child was alive, they might know where their father had come from.

Shipyard security cameras and life/heat sensors could only tell him so much. He looked into crew manifests, ration orders, and fuel receipts. Between fuel logs and hyperspace maps, he created a list of planets between each refueling stop with more fuel purchased and time between than a direct route would necessitate and worked down that, checking for ships matching their vessel’s description docking with false credentials. Planets with smaller populations were quicker to investigate so he looked there first. It was a slow process over weeks.

Jakku had only a few scattered settlements, and while their ship monitoring was lacking, the local population was likely to have seen anyone who arrived or left. He landed outside of one of the larger trade centers.

He disembarked his ship and walked towards the mass of tents and shabby buildings. He was wearing only a minimum of armor, and had left his helmet on the ship. His blaster was still displayed in its holster, a weight he felt pressed against his thigh with every step. He wasn’t here as a bounty hunter, but something closer to undercover instead, and if the kid was here he didn’t want to scare or threaten the child prematurely. He would blend in more as just another spacer.

He was met by a varied group of sun-beaten and skeptical beings. The welcoming committee seemed torn between distrust and hope for trade.

“I’m here for information.” He began, showing a flash of credit chips when he pulled out his holoprojector. “About a year ago a ship of this type would have arrived and left a passenger behind.”

“Lotta ships come in and out…” A thin Caskadag said unhelpfully. But Fox could see poorly concealed recognition among some of the faces. He mentally debated who to bribe or how else to persuade the crowd.

Out of sight, there was a shriek of conversation and then the frantic scuffle of running feet over sand. A girl emerged from a clump of tents and stopped, almost breathless, staring at him. She was young, between six or eight, Fox struggled like most clones with approximating odd numbered years of natural borns, but she was small.

“Did my parents send you!? Are they gonna come get me?” She asked with bright desperation. She was staring at the holoprojected ship in his hands. Fox knew this was the strand-cast’s child.

“I’m here because of your parents.” He said evenly. He looked at the group of now unhappy onlookers, denied their chance to weasel credits out of him. “Is there somewhere less busy we can talk?”

“Mmhmm.” She walked him between tents to a clearing edged with waste heaps. Fox opened his mouth and then stopped again, hesitant.

“Why did my parents send you?” There was sensible caginess warring with hope in her voice. She kept glancing back to the crowd they had just left.

“I’m sorry, Rey,” He hoped that what the other workers had muttered at her had been her name, and dropped down to one knee to be on a level with her. “But your parents are dead. I’m sorry, but they can’t come get you.”

There was a watery vulnerability to her eyes. Fox expected a denial, he hated being the one to deliver this news. It was partially his own failure.

“So… So I’m just… I’m just going to stay here? And - and work for Mister Plutt forever?” She looked wetly at the pitiful tents around them, the sand, the beating sun, the scrap-sorting piles. Fox looked at her, at the scabs and callouses on her tiny hands, at the stained clothing, at the bones of her arms, at the ring of faint green skin around her wrist. Force, he had always been weak for the cadets.

“No, if you want… If you want I can take you with me.” It was an impulsive offer, but it felt right.

“You’re not my dad.” She said sulkily. “I’m only supposed to leave if him or mum comes.”

“No, I’m not.” Fox did some quick thinking about his relationship to Palpatine, his own apparent age, and the fact her father was a clone of Sheev. “But I am your father’s ex-husband.”

He knew that she had no reason to trust him, and frankly if she had any sense to not get abducted, she wouldn’t. Fox was ready to pull up a datapad with the copy of his marriage certificate, proof her father was a clone, and a discussion of family trees. Instead of an argument, she looked intensely at him and he felt a warmth swell around him, like a summer breeze. Of course the kriffing kid was force sensitive.

It was pleasant, as far as being probed by the force ever was. She was bright and gentle and washed over him, so unlike the cloying oil-slick that he had not realized choked his mind for years until he was finally free of Palpatine. He waited, keeping his thoughts on what he had just said, but not so intently as to raise her suspicion that he was hiding something.

Eventually she nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I know when people are lying. And-” She hesitated, squirming a little. “And you feel nice.”

Fox smiled. Nice was not the word that Fox would have picked to describe himself currently, considering he had spent a better part of the past year hunting down clones of his ex-husband and killing many of them with extreme prejudice. He wondered unhappily at what relative caliber for niceness she was comparing him to. He stood up and paused.

“So you’ll come with me?” He asked again for clarity’s sake.

“Mmhmm.” She confirmed, and stepped to his side, reaching up to worm her little hand into his.

“Do you have stuff to get? People to say bye to?” He asked uncertainly. He wasn’t sure how this was supposed to go, and right now it felt too easy. She started tugging him towards the array of scrap-sorters.

She went to a spot she had clearly hastily abandoned when he had arrived, and picked up a dingy canvas bag and slung it over her shoulder. She walked back to him and put her hand back in his again.

“Okay. Now we need to tell Mister Plutt.” She nodded towards a permanent structure at the edge of the scrapyard.

“Rey, Rey, Who’s that man?” One of the women who had not been in the group that greeted him, skin toughened by sand and sun, rose up from the heaps of metal and brandished a staff at him. Part of Fox was relieved that at least someone was stopping little girls from getting kidnapped. The other part of him put on his most charming, non-threatening smile.

“I’m her father’s ex-husband. Her parents are dead and I only just found out…”

The woman glared at him but shifted to look at Rey, softening her gaze.

“He tellin’ the truth? Do you know this man?”

“He’s not lying.” Rey said. “And Dad mentioned he had a complix-complexcated past.”

“Her father and I may have split over our differences, but I’m not leaving his kid to grow up a scrapper beholden to quotas when I have the resources to raise her instead.” Fox’s honest determination had the desired effect, the woman lowered her staff and nodded, still suspicious but relenting.

“You’re going to have to pay Unkar for her.”

Fox frowned and gestured towards his blaster on his hip. “Sure, I’ll pay.”

“No. I mean it. You try any funny business and he’ll set the guild on you or worse.” The woman was very serious. “You got enough to pay?”

“If I have to, I will.” Fox said with finality. He did not want to buy another being, but he also wanted Rey off of this planet as smoothly as possible.

The questioning was repeated with Unkar Plutt, who glared with equal distrust to the people outside. He took Rey aside into his office room, and Fox hoped it was to question her about his claims and if she actually wanted to leave with him. Fox was concerned by how easy it was for someone to take a child off of Jakku like this, but also acknowledged that this was incredibly convenient for him.

Plutt and Rey reemerged and Rey walked over and clung to his pant leg. Fox brushed a hand over her hair.

“I’m losing years of good labor.” Unkar said callously. “I expect to be compensated.”

Fox told himself that the credits he handed over were a bribe. Fox swung Rey’s little bag over his shoulder and after a moment of consideration, hoisted Rey up to rest on his hip as well. She was light and clung round his neck, giggling with surprise in his ear.

Fox didn’t need to be force sensitive to know that this decision felt right.

#commander fox #rey #rey skywalker #sheev palpatine #foxpatine #fox/palpatine #my writing #star wars #This turned into a kid fic bc Im Me #foxpatine divorce stasis pod sequels fix it au

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scripttorture · 4 years

Note

My question is basically: in the scenario I describe, do you think I should go with or without torture as a referenced thing that happened? The situation is this- my character’s father has been dead for seven years, but I thought that what if, instead of being killed by the monster he was faced with at the time, he was injured by it and then captured by a group of bad guys. This is set in the Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild universe and the bad guys in question are the Yiga Clan, (1/9)

who alternate between a comical and threatening presence in the game. They are presented as a tribe of assassins, but the reason why they decide to take my character’s father alive is that they saw him using a rare kind of magic and either want him to teach it to them or want to get him to use it for them. (It’s hereditary so he can’t teach it to anyone but his daughter, but they don’t know that and he will neglect to inform them that anyone else has the same abilities.) (2/9) Most likely they want him to do something with his magic when their idol (Ganon, The Big Bad) returns or possibly something that they think would help him return. Where the question of torture comes in is, I need him to still be alive and capable of going with an escape attempt after seven years. So, whether or not they get the notion to try torturing at any point, it obviously can’t be super regular or prolonged over this period. I thought maybe one or two incidents toward the beginning (3/9) of his captivity, which were ordered to stop when they realized they would have to keep him alive for an undetermined amount of time and that’s easier when you aren’t treating extra injuries, but I’m not sure that would really add anything other than acknowledging the fact that someone in there probably got the notion to go “hey if he won’t teach us that magic what if we punch him and ask again” and may not have been turned down. Or they may have, (4/9) or they may not have brought it up at all because the Leader didn’t ask them to. Alternately, I could lean into their comical side and say that, while they got the idea to try “torturing” they don’t actually know how to do that. They’re assassins, they usually just kill, they don’t really know what to do with prisoners, it’s been a long time since they split off from another group that may have known torture techniques in the service of the now-destroyed kingdom. In which case it would be (5/9) things like “ohoho what if we give him his food... WITHOUT ANY bananas? he’ll be MISERABLE” (they are obsessed with bananas) played for a weird kind of humor. On the other hand I don’t want to imply that if they’d tried “REAL” torture it might have worked. Possibly the punching and asking again was tried once toward the beginning, then the comical “no bananas” one was tried later and neither one accomplished anything? I don’t want to say he spent seven years underground (6/9) surrounded by a comical murderous weirdo cult and “nothing really happened” in that time until his rescue but I don’t want to shoe in something like Actual Torture Attempts when it isn’t necessary. I could fill his time with escape attempts and/or trying to get information. Final thing: his daughter is going to break him out with the help of the Hero and a friend who defected from the Yiga Clan. This friend’s mother is going to take leadership of the clan but is meant to reform somewhat. (7/9) My character (the one whose father is imprisoned) could funnel her anger at his imprisonment towards the previous leader but if she finds out he was tortured (or weird attempts were made at it) she could have more trouble coming to a grudging, still pretty angry acceptance that her friend’s mother exists and is the way she is and probably shouldn’t be magically lit on fire. Or she could compartmentalize and say the friend’s mother never ordered anything like that, or may have even (8/9) turned a blind eye to her father’s final escape. This was a lot of detail but again the main questions are: does that seem like torture attempts would add or detract, and would it be in poor taste to include something like the “no bananas” scene? (9/9)

While I’d never played a Zelda game when I got this ask I am now one of Those People who got a switch in response to not being able to go outside. (They had pokemon, I was weak). And I’ve put a lot of hours into Breath of the Wild since. It’s a beautifully realised setting and I can see the appeal of writing something set in that world.

Humour is a very subjective thing. Whatever we do there are always going to be people that the jokes don’t land for. I’ve (mostly) got positive responses to my humour but I have had incidents both here and on my AO3 page where people took exception to it. And that’s a lot more likely to happen when we’re dealing with serious topics.

That said, I do think that we need humour about the things that scare us. There’s nothing quite as potent and satisfying as making our fears ridiculous.

If you’re considering using humour in a torture/kidnap/POW situation (whatever you decide re torture the story definitely contains some of these elements) then the main thing to consider is this: what are we actually laughing at?

This kind of humour is mostly likely to backfire or be outright hurtful when it can be interpreted as laughing at the victims. Or at the existence of traumatic events. And it’s most likely to work consistently when it’s aimed at the abusers.

From the way you’ve described this it sounds like the joke is on the Yiga clan. As it is in the game itself. (I have enjoyed the assassination attempts by enraged ‘banana salesmen’.) If you wanted to continue the pattern the game set I think a lot of fellow fans would enjoy this humour.

But the main question here is about when we should use torture in a story. And how we judge whether it’s adding anything.

Personally I start by thinking about the tone and themes of the story. The kind of atmosphere I want to capture and kinds of character interactions I want to write.

Then I try to think through the impact torture would have on the narrative in terms of knock on effects. So, symptoms in victims/survivors, witnesses and torturers but also effects on culture, community and organisations.

It would probably be easiest for me to break this down with an example or two.

I’ve talked briefly about both of these stories before. One of them takes place about two decades after a military coup ousted an absolute monarchy. Ilāra, one of the major characters, was embedded in the old regime and tortured people. They were also tortured by the regime and helped make the coup successful.

And part of the impact torture has on the story is in Ilāra's symptoms. But it’s also in the way other characters relate to them. Normal people are afraid of them or disgusted/enraged at the sight of them. They’re ostracised by their own community and treated with contempt by their military superiors.

One of the major themes running through the story is the question of how we deal with people we love when they’ve done horrific things. And how countries, cultures, move on from atrocities.

Most of the major characters aren’t Ilāra's generation, they’re the kids who came afterwards. The people who just about remember the Revolt but grew up in a world without the monarchy. They’re navigating a legacy of blood and bitterness, things that aren’t their fault but nevertheless have shaped the world they live in.

Part of it is about how the children Ilāra helped raise respond to this personal (and national) history. How they try to square the fact that this person was good (and in some ways defining) for them, while being monstrous to others.

I felt that torture would add to this story because the point of it is those fault lines. In society at large and in personal relationships. It’s about exploring how we try to bridge or heal those fault lines and how, sometimes, we make them deeper.

Torture (and indeed the other atrocities that are part of the country’s legacy) serve to raise the stakes. They deepen that initial emotional trench between the characters. And they also… Pull the camera back I suppose? The story may be about a single family but it isn’t an individual story. It’s about how larger patterns of abuse effect everyone in a society. Torture serves to make it about the culture, the country, instead of just the individuals within it.

There are similar ideas in the other story I’m working on, societal divides and how we bridge them, but I think there’s a slightly different focus.

Both of these stories are fantasy stories, but while Ilāra's story is in a sort of circa 1900s past Kibwe’s is in the future. It’s extrapolating the political oppression and systems from the places I’m interested in (in this case India, the Philippines, Kenya and Nigeria.)

The story takes place across generations starting when Kibwe was a teenager but continuing to his daughter’s formative years and into his children becoming independent adults.

And there’s torture in this story because the entire family is involved in politics. Because I grew up knowing that the natural consequence of acting for major political reform/justice was arrest and torture.

The story is about trying to change unjust systems and generational violence. It’s also about the unhealthy ways people can engage in activism, putting the theoretical good of the community above their health and their families/friends.

I didn’t really have to think about including torture in any depth, it was a natural fit. In fact I’m not sure I could talk about politics in any meaningful way without talking about torture.

So some more specific questions that might help with your story. Is the structure of the Yiga clan important to the story? Is the effect they have on society at large important to the story? Is this primarily an individual/personal story or one with a wider focus?

There aren’t ‘wrong’ answers to those questions, it’s about what you want to write.

Do you want a more personal focus with the relationships between the major characters being more important then the world at large? I think of this as a character focused (as opposed to a character driven) story.

For instance in the Lord of the Rings trilogy while we care about every member of the fellowship the important thing throughout, the focus, is the destruction of the ring and the systems that are harming all of Middle Earth. By contrast in Howl’s Moving Castle we care about the war and the fate of the missing Prince, but the important thing is what happens to the girls from the hat shop.

Both of these approaches to a story can include torture in a meaningful way. It can add to both kinds of stories. But it’s generally adding different things.

In a character focused story (with the kind of plot you’re writing) torture is mostly adding a sudden change to all of the relationships a character has. There might be focus on symptoms, a recovery arc, character development etc but the first and most obvious thing it’s adding is a major change to how these characters interact.

In a story that’s more focused on the big picture of the world torture can add world building elements and it can be used to map out divisions and allegiances in the societies you write.

Part of the reason I’m making this distinction is that in this scenario you can very easily tell a character focused story with trauma-recovery and not have torture. Kidnap and seven years imprisonment is enough to be traumatising.

That doesn’t mean torture couldn’t/wouldn’t add anything to that story. But it might not be necessary for the story you want to tell and the focus you want it to have.

On the other hand if this is primarily a broader story about communities and cultures growing and changing, the decision of whether or not to include torture has much more potential to direct the plot. It could create opposition to reforming the Yiga clan, both inside the clan (wanting to stick with how things are) and outside it (with people wanting it utterly destroyed).

Different factions and cultures might band together on the basis of shared opposition to the Yiga clan. And the clan’s reformation could effect those allegiances.

There could also be knock on effects based on where the clan operates: cultures that have been targetted by them in the past might not want this new ‘reformed’ (and more obvious) Yiga clan on their lands. And that in turn could stir up trouble within the clan because hey they’ve been here for generations it’s their home too!

There are lots of ways torture could add to this plot and these characters. It could also feed in to broader themes.

For instance the main character and her father haven’t seen each other for seven years. The difference between how we remember or idolise someone and the way they actually are is a theme you could add to here. The Yiga clan is going to end up reformed: what does it take for people to accept that reformation and forgive? The main character is friends with a former Yiga assassin: how do we process the fact people we care about might have hurt others?

That isn’t an exhaustive list, I’m just throwing out ideas to see if anything interests you.

In terms of timing and character being physically able to escape I think you’re already hit on a pretty good idea.

Torturers don’t tend to stop when ordered to. Part of the reason a lot of organisations reject torturers is because they… tend to disobey orders. A lot.

So if you wanted to write a scenario where this character is initially tortured and then held for a much longer time without torture the realistic way to do that is to have the character transferred from the ‘care’ of one group of Yigas to another. Torturers tend to exist in groups as sub-cultures within larger organisations. Which means that their presence in an organisation does not necessarily indicate that everyone in the organisation supports/carries out torture.

You could even have the Yiga’s take a (perhaps half-hearted) anti-torture stance and have them punish the torturers.

Wrapping up, the decision of whether or not to include torture is up to you. I can see ways it could add to your story but the points and themes I’ve spoken about might not be things you’re interested in.

Just because an element could add to a story doesn’t necessarily mean it’s adding something you want. There’s nothing wrong with deciding that an element doesn’t interest you, takes the story in a direction you like less or causes more stress then you want as you write it.

Ultimately the question is whether you want to write torture. And there’s no wrong answer to that question.

I hope that helps. :)

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#lia-wild-english #writing advice #tw torture #tw kidnap #writing survivors #writing torturers #effects of torture #effects of torture on society #worldbuilding #fantasy ask #torture survivors and relationships

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sodone-withlife · 4 years

Text

i lost a friend (i lost my mind)

Criminal Minds Fic Part One

| PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 |

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: character death, canon-typical violence, mental instability (I’m reluctant to name a specific disorder or condition)

Notes: cross-posted on Ao3, and this was my first whumpfic in this fandom so forgive me if it sucks. this is canon-compliant until after 12.01 The Crimson King

everyone has a breaking point. especially those who have been at war with the demons in their mind for their entire life.

“Hotch? There’s a lead… ” Rossi knocked on the door of the office he had taken over in the station, having come to let him know of a new lead they got on the child abduction-murder case they had been working on for the past three days in Colorado, only to pause in the doorway. Instead of seeing him wide-awake and sitting at the desk with the case file and piles of paperwork spread around him, the senior profiler was treated to the sight of the unit chief pacing around the room and twisting his hands, a nervous tic he usually hid and rarely gave into.

His concern grew as he took note of the phone that was tossed unceremoniously onto the ground and the papers that were strewn all over the floor and desk. He went to close the blinds to give them some privacy.“What happened?”

The unit chief stopped pacing but didn’t respond, only placing his hands on the edge of the desk and hunching over, trembling and breathing heavily.

“Aaron?”

He looked up, the pure terror clear in his eyes causing an icy, foreboding feeling to creep up Rossi’s spine.

“Jack collapsed at school.”

A bolt of understanding shot through Rossi. He walked into the room, taking a closer look at the panicking father (—he wasn’t the hardass unit chief right now, he was a single father who had no other biological family left apart from his son, who he almost lost to the machinations of a madman—) when he noticed the shaking arms, clearly struggling to support his weight. He made it to him just in time to prevent him from crashing to the ground as his legs gave out.

Rossi held his shaking form, allowing him to try and gather his bearings. Hotch took a shuddering breath in. “Jessica called me about ten minutes ago, the reception’s been really bad and apparently she’s been trying to reach me all day…Jack’s in the hospital right now. They think—” he swallowed, voice breaking. “They think it’s because of the pulmonary valve anomaly he was born with.”

Hotch looked up at Rossi, eyes glassy as he rambled on. “The doctors said he’d probably never have to worry about it much, especially with how well he dealt with the stress of—” his breath hitched and he looked down, unable to force the words out of his mouth. The older agent knew what he was talking about immediately and held him tighter, trying to give him some measure of comfort.

“You should head back,” Rossi said firmly. “Jack needs you more than we do.” He was surprised to feel him shaking his head.

“Oh, believe me, I’d be on my way to the airstrip right now if I could,” he let out a bitter laugh, “but the unit is already facing more budget cuts, I can’t—I won’t—take the jet. Besides,” he cut off his protest, “no sane pilot would fly in this weather, not even for a father whose child might be dying for all he knew—” he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut as a few tears slipped out.

Rossi internally raged at all the deities he could think of for putting his former protégé—practically his surrogate son—through the works. First, he had lost his marriage, then lost Haley to a psychopath obsessed with making his life hell. Not even a year had gone by after that when he had to fake a teammate’s death and accepted a laborious assignment on the other side of the globe in order to cope with the secrets. Then came Foyet’s return from the grave via his torn internal adhesions, Mr. Scratch, the DOJ fiasco, and now this—

Hotch suddenly stood up, having regained tight control over the storm inside. “You said we had a lead?” he asked, his affect completely transforming as he moved to tidy the room.

Had Rossi not known Hotch for as long as he had, he wouldn’t have been able to pick the stress out of his standard clipped tone or the tension that was coiled in his upper body. He stood up and gave him a look behind his back, sighing when he remained unwaveringly silent as he waited for an answer.

Rossi knew there was no point in trying to force Hotch to stay, well aware of his history with being rendered helpless and unable to do anything while a loved one was in danger. “Yeah, one of the parents got an angry phone call from an unknown caller, and you know Garcia set up the trap-and-trace a few hours ago…”

~~~

The team immediately noticed something was off when Hotch and Rossi walked into the conference room half an hour later than they’d expected. The concern grew even more as they noticed their unit chief being more short-tempered and single-mindedly focused than usual—which really was saying something, as he had always pushed himself and the team harder when children were involved.

When they turned to look at Rossi in the rare moment that Hotch wasn’t there for a few moments, however, they only got a serious shake of his head. This and the unit chief’s transformation into Mr. Hyde prevented them from expressing any verbal concern in front of him.

The profiling team spent the next hour trying to maintain a stable connection with Garcia through repeated power shutdowns. The two hours after that was spent outside in the darkness and snowstorm, working with local law enforcement raiding the house Garcia had tracked the call to.

They got there just in time to save the child from dying of hypothermia after being buried in the snow as the other two victims had been just prior to their death. Hotch went after the fleeing unsub with Reid while the others stayed behind to comfort the child and accompanied them on the (thankfully) short drive to the local hospital.

By the time the whole team came back together, the storm had died down and the sun was rising. All too eager to leave the horrific case and weather behind them, it took no longer than twenty minutes for them to be packed and on the way to the airstrip.

The profilers were reminded of Hotch’s strange behavior, however, when they noticed his hands were clenched on the steering wheel and his stoic expression starting to give way to stress as he sped towards the airstrip—that Rossi was busy shooting worried looks at him also added to their suspicions.

On the plane, they watched as Hotch got up to take a call, only to return looking paler than he had been before. He clutched his phone tightly between his hands, rubbing at his knuckles in some measure of self-comfort while trying to control the storm of emotions he was struggling to hold back.

After a few minutes, Rossi went to sit opposite Hotch in the corner. He didn’t say anything, just observed Hotch as he resolutely avoided looking at the other profiler in favor of looking outside the window.

“I’ve called ahead,” Rossi began in an undertone, knowing the man could hear him. “There’s going to be a car right where we land, and I will be driving you straight to the hospital.”

Hotch flicked a scathing look at him. “I can drive myself,” he snapped.

“You are in no condition to drive,” Rossi retorted, raising his voice over his protests, “without harming yourself or others. Jack needs you alive, not wrapped around a pole somewhere along the way to the hospital!”

The silence that was in the jet was deafening as Rossi belatedly realized that the others had heard him and were trying to act as if they weren’t eavesdropping. Hotch looked away from the older profiler, who was looking at him apologetically; there was a moment of silence.

“I don’t know what I’d do if he—” he trailed off, not wanting to think about the worst. Pain and fear broke through his weakened barriers and showed plainly in his expression. “I can’t lose him.”

He had felt the team’s eyes on him from the moment he stepped out of that office at the promise of a new lead, and he could feel them on him now. While normally he would have shot them a look to get them to stop, right now, he couldn’t find it in himself to care as the statistics remained the forefront thought in his mind.

Hotch was all too ready to leave the plane when they landed after two hours of tense silence and worried looks. True to what Rossi said, there was indeed a car waiting for them next to the plane. Hotch didn’t bother grabbing his go-bag, only taking his smaller work bag before practically sprinting out of the plane, Rossi following close behind. The team was left watching the car speed away, worry about their unit chief and the boy who had grown up around the BAU weighing heavily on their minds.

~~~

Hotch was back in his office the next morning as if nothing had happened—only something had definitely happened, as he was even more closed off, colder than he had ever been before. Any attempts to get him to open up about what had happened were rebuffed, even with Reid and Rossi’s individual cajoling attempts. The attempts lessened by the next week with a sudden influx in requests for consultation, and they completely died down when new leads on the escaped serial killers came to light.

They all noticed, however, how their unit chief remained closed off, how he was more single-mindedly focused on the job than he’d ever been before—which was really saying something.

Things almost came to a head two months after the child murder case when they had a married victim who was leaving behind a husband and a stage 4 cancer-ridden child. Hotch had taken the lead in talking to the husband and came out advising that he be surveilled, glaring at the weakly protesting officer until the officer finally conceded and agreed to put him on watch.

The unit chief then completely threw himself into finding the unsub, barely stopping for coffee and bathroom breaks as he analyzed the crimes over and over again, creating and tossing theory after theory. It took Rossi and Luke’s manhandling and JJ’s mothering to get him back to the hotel as the clock ticked towards midnight on Night 1.

Sleep was clearly the last thing on his mind that night, however, as he came back into the station the next morning looking as haggard as ever with what must have been his tenth cup of coffee in the past twenty-four hours held tightly in his hand.

They all breathed an internal sigh of relief when a lucky break in the case led them right to the unsub later that day; they managed to take him into custody and the team was in the air by sunset, all settling in for a quiet flight.

About an hour in, Hotch moved from his seat in the front corner to the back of the plane to take a call. The rest of the team, preoccupied with their relatively quiet poker game, didn’t try to eavesdrop.

The team was pulled out of their focus a few minutes later when out of nowhere, a muffled thump came from the plane bathroom, followed by Hotch brushing past them and sitting heavily in his seat. The profilers exchanged unsure, worried glances—Hotch rarely, if ever, lost his cool—and stared back at the man, who had broken the blank facade he had maintained over the past few months and was hunched over the table, head in his hands.

Feeling the eyes on him, Hotch sighed. “That was Garcia,” he said, rubbing his face before leaning back.

“The kid succumbed to the cancer today, and his father was found in the house,” he swallowed, looking up at the ceiling. “There was a gun in his hand and a bullet entry wound on the roof of his mouth.”

The plane’s machinery became the only noise filling the air. No one moved as each profiler turned inward and digested the information. Their thoughts turned to a sinking realization when they remembered Hotch telling the locals to watch the father—the unit chief must have seen this possibility when he was talking with him.

The rest of the plane ride was spent in subdued silence as they slowly drifted away from the poker group they had formed in the center, turning to their personal methods of self-comfort.

Hotch immediately sent the profilers home for some time off after they landed, ordering them to not think about the BAU for that time. They complied without protest, going home to process and take comfort in what they had.

They wouldn’t learn until much later about how Hotch had stayed behind, trying to do as much in regards to what’s required in the aftermath of a field case for the team as possible. How Rossi had stayed in the office with him, knowing that there was no way that he was going home before he got work done.

How he stayed at Rossi’s place for the next two weeks—even after the team returned to work—because he wasn’t sure if his surrogate son would be making it out of his apartment alive.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #dave rossi #aaron hotchner whump #tw character death #bau #sodone i lost a friend i lost my mind

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hopesbarnes · 5 years

Text

Falling for a God

Summary: Everyone still thinks of Loki as the alien who ruined New York. But after getting to know him you realize he's far from that. But is this just harmless flirting or more than that?

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Curse words, fluff, Loki is really cute in this

A/N: This is a repost of a one-shot originally posted to my AO3 page

The flirting has been going on for weeks now. You’re unsure if this is just a game or if the god wants you as much as you want him. It started when you were training one day.

You were sparring with Sam to work on your skills in the off chance your powers were impaired. For some reason, it was unusually hot in the training room. So naturally, you took off your top, thankful you put on one of your nicer sports bras this morning. It was one of those zipper front sports bras and it was slightly unzipped. However, it had been a push up one and maybe not the most appropriate one to wear in front of your teammates. But it was what was clean, and you felt confident in it.

Sam was looking at you, distracted by you taking your shirt off. You took this chance to knock him off balance and straddle him so that he was pinned. “Uh, I think that is enough for today Y/N, we’ll continue tomorrow” Sam managed to spit out as he scrambled to head towards his room.

You decided to go over to the treadmill that happened to be next to Loki rather than ending your session early.

“You nearly had that poor man panting, Y/N.” Loki snickered at you.

You looked at him confused and asked Loki what he meant.

“Are you that naive? How did you miss that he was clearly aroused?”

There was no way Sam was turned on by you, was there?

“Oh dear, you are that naive. What did you expect when you took your top off to show that off brassiere that quite wonderfully shows off your breasts. Then you straddled the man and had him beneath your thighs in a way we all dream of having you.” he says nonchalantly.

“I didn’t mean to do that, I- oh no” you mumble. What if he thought you liked him? “Uh Loki I should go shower, I’ll see you later,” you say as you head towards the showers to clear your head. It wasn’t until later you thought back to Loki’s words and how he admitted to wanting you on top of him.

A couple of days later you find yourself up late unable to sleep so you go out to the kitchen expecting it to be empty. But sitting at the counter is a shirtless Loki with a cup of tea and a Harry Potter book. You can’t help but giggle at this. When he sees you he magically changes the book to one of Asgard’s history but it is too late, you saw the book already.

“I- uh was just reading this book about history, I couldn’t sleep and this usually bores me enough that I can drift off.”

"Sure, whatever you say there, Wizard’” you laugh at his discomfort

“Okay, fine. I may have started this series and can’t go to sleep until I finish this book. I need to know who wins the tournament.” He mutters and drops the spell that turned the book into an Asgardian one.

So he was at book four then. “I’ve read them a few times and seen the movies more than that. It’s okay to fangirl a little Loki.” you smile.

“There are movies!?” he says way too excited and it causes your smile to get bigger. “Also who is ‘fangirl’?” It takes a few minutes to explain the concept of fandoms to Loki, and then to show him what fanfiction is. The rest of the night is spent with him telling you all of his theories and favorite parts of the books.

The next three nights you talk about Harry Potter and he tells you where he is in the series. The fourth night he finishes the series (you’ve learned that Loki reads really fast) and you guys discuss the ending. You make plans to start a movie marathon tomorrow after you promise to do it in his room where nobody else will find out his love of a mortal book series.

His room looks as you imagined, clean and very minimalistic. It’s decorated in dark black and green with one wall being taken up by bookcases. He has mostly books from other realms but you notice the last shelf is full of Earth books, mostly fictional novels. You spot the Twilight series and upon learning that he read the first one (he begrudgingly admits to liking it) you decide to watch those movies next.

Both of you settle into his bed and begin your marathon. You fall asleep during Prisoner of Azkaban and he pauses the movie and naps with you. It takes a couple of days to watch all of the movies as both of you fall asleep a few times. But you learn a lot about Loki and grow closer to him during this time.

A week later a couple of the Avengers decide to go out for the night, mostly looking for a reason to dress up and act like they aren’t protecting all of humanity. All the girls get ready in your room together.

“Nat can you do my makeup, I want to look hot,” you beg.

“Looking to impress someone?” Wanda teases and you stay uncharacteristically quiet.

“Oh my god, you are!” Natasha says shocked.

“Maybe, I don’t know!” You huff, “I’m not even sure how I feel yet. But he said something a few weeks ago and now I can not get the idea of mounting him like a horse out of my head.” you confess to your best friends.

They both stare at you, then start asking a million questions, who it was, what they said, and many more. Then they start to guess.

“Well, it can’t be Vision or Bruce unless there’s something we don’t know” Wanda points out.

You promise that it isn’t their boyfriends, that is definitely something you would not do.

“Not Bucky or Steve, those two barely take a moment to look at anything but each other. It’s not Tony is it?” Natasha asks as the two girls running through various team members to figure out your secret crush.

You laugh, “No definitely not Tony. Guys, I promise if it becomes something I will let you know, but for now, I just want to look good to see if they even were serious.”

You walk out of the room in a skin-tight black dress, black heels, and dark red lipstick to go with it. Noticing Loki isn’t dressed you go over to him,

“Not coming out Loki?” you ask.

“Midgard clubs aren’t really my scene darling,” he says still looking down at his book. He finally looks up at you and his eyes go wide.

“At second thought maybe I should see what this place is like,” he says while magically changing into black pants and a black button-down. You smile and go to leave.

“Hey Y/N, save me a dance would you?” he asks and you nod in response.

At the club, everyone is trying to get a picture or dance with the Avengers. Being a lesser-known member you are able to avoid this thankfully. An hour or two go by before you make your way from the dance floor to the bar. There you see Loki with a drink in his hand looking bored.

“No screaming fans wanting a picture with the almighty God of Mischief? you ask.

"It seems that once you kill people and try to take over their planet, they do not respond too kindly to you. No Midgard trusts me enough to come near me,” he says and you detect a bit of sorrow.

“Well I am from here and I trust you completely Loki. What happened before is in the past.” You assure him. “Well then I want a picture with you, it’s not every day you are around royalty, is it?” you tease and move to sit on his lap.

"Considering we live in the same tower I would say it is but if it pleases you then sure.” You take out your phone and take a few selfies with him and your heart flutters when he grabs your hips.

“I do believe I was promised a dance.”

“You were,” you say while standing and he grabs your hand and brings you to the dance floor.

The dancing started as innocently as it could in a crowded club, then he whispered in your ear.

“I never did compliment this dress, it truly is exquisite.”

You moved closer to him and continued to sway your hips along with the music. He grabbed your hips and guided them. Loki then begins to place small kisses along your neck making you moan and grow increasingly wetter.

“Baby, as much as I am enjoying this, we should leave now before I take you here in front of all these people,” he said into your ear.

In a haze, he took your hand and led you to where one of the Stark cars were. You quickly texted the girls letting them know you left and were okay. Loki couldn’t keep his hands off of you the entire ride back. He started by just rubbing your thigh but his hand kept moving higher up until it reached your underwear. You had to hold your tongue to keep yourself from moaning in front of the driver. He started to rub over your panties and you swear the look on his face was enough to make you cum. Unfortunately, you were already back at the tower and running towards his room like two horny teenagers.

As you entered his room he shut the door and pushed you against it. He pulled your dress up and knelt down between your legs.

“I apologize for leaving you hanging there Y/N,” he said before pulling your panties down and tossing them across the room. He licked a hot stripe up before flicking his tongue against your clit. You let out a moan that was far more high pitched than you wanted to. He continued to trace patterns with his tongue before pushing a finger into your hot core. It felt like heaven.

He pumped his finger a few times before adding another finger, then added a third and you felt the start of your high. When he sucked on your clit you felt your orgasm take over and you screamed his name. He continued to lick and lap up all of your juices before picking you up and walking you towards the bed.

“Wait, Loki.” you stopped him. “I don’t just want to fuck and be done, I want you.”

He looked startled, “Y/N I want that too, but are you sure. The parts of me you’re asking for are fucked up darling. I’ve hurt people before.” he said.

“Loki, I told you earlier, I trust you. You’re more than a villain. You get excited by books and cuddle when you sleep. You make me feel whole.” You confess. “But please, right now I need you to take me and show me a little bit of that dark side.”

He lunges towards you and kisses you fiercely. Why have you not done this before? He slips his tongue into your mouth and you moan into the kiss. When you finally need air and pull apart you feel dizzy.

He starts to kiss you again and you pull at his shirt not having enough concentration to tackle the buttons. Eventually, you tug hard enough to rip it off and hear the faint sound of buttons hitting the floor around you. Within seconds both of you are completely undressed and on the bed. His hands are all over you, from squeezing your thighs, to lightly touching your nipples he explores every inch of your body. You are doing the same thing, scratching his back, feeling his muscles that nobody else would know he has, and softly grinding against his cock while moaning loudly. His hands hold your hips hard enough that you know tomorrow you will have bruises. He flips you over so that you now are beneath him and starts teasing your entrance with his cock.

“Loki, please. I need you inside of me now. L-L-” you say but are cut off by him slowly entering you. He is by far the biggest you have ever had and the stretch feels amazing.

“By gods you are tight.” he moans. As soon as you get used to his size he starts to thrust out and back in leaving you speechless. Your eyes flutter closed but open when tweaks your nipples. “Be a good girl and leave your eyes open.” he pleads and you obey.

After a couple more thrusts he pulls out leaving you whimpering.

“Baby, I want you to ride me. I want you to use me for your own pleasure and cum on my cock. Think you can do that?” He says breathlessly.

You nod and climb on top of him before taking him all in one movement. You start to move up and down bouncing on his long thick cock. Loki makes these delicious groans the entire time, and you know he’s close when he starts bucking his hips up to meet your movements. He starts to play with your clit and you can feel your orgasm just out of reach.

“Come on baby, cum for me.” his words are enough for you to see stars and he shoots his load into you at the same time while yelling out your name. Once you’ve ridden out your high you collapse on his chest and he rubs circles on your back while kissing your forehead.

“That was by far the best sex of my life.” you manage to mumble sleepily. He chuckles and pulls out from you and moves so that you are next to him. He manages to tuck you both in with the comforter and you hear him tell FRIDAY to turn off the lights.

“Y/N, I think I love you,” he confesses and you smile.

“I think I may love you too Loki,” you reply before falling asleep in his arms.

In the morning you put on a robe and go to grab coffee for both you and the sleeping god in your bed. A few of the other Avengers are awake talking about last night. Before you can escape back to your room you see Loki enter the kitchen, dressed but missing his shirt.

Tony yells “Put a fucking shirt on man!”

Loki replies slyly, “I would have if Y/N didn’t rip it apart last night.”

The various Avengers all look at you with wide eyes.

“Wanda!” Nat yells, “You owe me, it was Loki, not Sam!”

You gasp at the fact that your best friends were betting on who you were trying to impress last night.

“You bet on me?!” you yell at them. They laugh but you ignore them and take the coffee cups and turn to leave with Loki hot on your tail, ready for another round.

#loki x reader #Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki smut #loki imagine #marvel smut #marvel fic #loki x y/n #marvel one shot #loki odinson

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mollymauk-teafleak · 4 years

Text

Missing You

Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment over on Ao3! Getting feedback really means a lot, especially in a small fandom

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Alec comes home from a job and finds an empty house. Missing his talímenios and needing to fill the time, he decides to do something he'd never, ever admit to Seregil.

Until Seregil comes home early.

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Alec knew Wheel Street was his home, he knew he was as much the master of the house as Seregil was. But the place never felt quite right without his talímenios.

It was like whenever he was out, answering some summons or running an errand or out on business that didn’t belong to Lord Seregil at all, part of Alec was thrown years into the past. Somewhere inside himself, he was the naive, shell shocked wanderer from the north all over again. He was wandering these corridors stuffed with luxury and feeling completely out of place, like he’d stumbled into a world he wasn’t meant to be in, given a name that wasn’t his own and a life that didn’t quite fit.

But he had grown into that life, he knew that. Playing Sir Alec came naturally now, the airs of nobility and the smooth charm of a handsome Rhíminee rake fit comfortably like a pair of boots he’d worn all his life. He couldn’t be more different from that scared, nervous boy.

But by the Four, it was so much easier with Seregil.

Fortunately, there was no one to perform for. He didn’t walk in the front door decked out as a young noble, he entered in much the same way he had the very first time he’d ever entered the house. Cloaked in black he made what, he hoped at least, was a much neater, smoother entrance than back then, over the wall and up through their bedchamber’s window. The whole house was still shuttered and dark, it’s masters apparently out at The Dragon tonight, dicing and flirting and drinking shamelessly.

Once inside, Alec pulled the black mask away from his face and sighed deeply, inhaling the familiar, comforting smells of their shared life together. He hoped Seregil was having fun, distracting their mark at the gambling tables while Alec feigned overindulgence in the Dragon’s infamous whiskey and climbed out the bathroom window to go and reclaim the man’s spurned lover’s trinket. The Cat would rob him behind his back while Lord Seregil robbed his purse in front of tens of eager, well bred eyes; it was a ploy they’d used hundreds of times before.

But there would always be this lonely, eerily quiet time when Alec had returned but Seregil was still out, leaving him to rattle around in their empty chambers, full of adrenaline and missing his lover. That buzz of electricity through his nerves, the pounding heart that refused to slow even after the job was done, the bubbling energy was all very easy to remedy when they worked as a pair. Nearly every time they’d simply fall into bed together, if they could make it that far and didn’t end up rutting in the bushes and ruining the flowers, lose a good few hours in each other and fall asleep immediately, exhausted and satisfied entirely by their night.

Alone, Alec was left to fidget in the darkness and miss his lover in more ways than one, annoying enough that he almost regretted being chosen as the one to play the Cat. Everything just came so much easier with Seregil beside him.

He undressed to give himself something to do, freeing his braid from it’s wrap and slipping out of his shirt and trousers, it all becoming one uniform mass of coal black silk on the floor. He would have left it there if he didn’t remember Seregil’s repeated, exasperated reminders to properly tidy up after himself, especially after playing Cat. He would always tap his nose and say firmly that a job wasn’t properly complete until every scrap of evidence tying them to the break in was dealt with. Alec could be as careful as he liked but if someone came in here and saw a pile of clearly worn clothes, tailored exactly to fit a burglar of his size, what conclusions would be drawn?

So Alec sighed and gathered the clothes into a bundle, making himself fold them properly and take them over to the wardrobe. Past the coats and trousers all hung neatly in rows, there was a compartment set cunningly into the back of the thing where they could store all of their more sensitive accessories. Though, in order to be so neatly concealed, it was damn hard to get open. Alec had to wrestle with fine velvets and leathers and linens for nearly five minutes just to shove the damn things back in, proving to himself why he never usually bothered.

And to make matters worse, he spent those five minutes inhaling Seregil’s scent, his perfume and soap and natural amber musk of his skin. His favourite dark brown coat was the first in the wardrobe, not fine enough for the Dragon but the one he wore every day if he was going around as Lord Seregil and sometimes even at the Stag and Otter, he liked it so much.

Feeling like a fool but unable to stop himself, Alec reached for that coat rather than his sleeping shirt. Just a moment, he told himself, a moment so he could shake off the adrenaline and the want. Seregil wouldn’t be home until the small hours of the morning if history was any teacher, Alec could remember a handful of nights they’d spent carousing until a reasonable late breakfast time the next day. With the hour just gone midnight, there was plenty of time for the coat to be returned well before its owner, Seregil never the wiser to how childishly his lover had acted at being without him for a night.

Though he was cringing in embarrassment at himself, Alec wrapped the coat around his shoulders and went to lie in the middle of their bed. Immediately he felt some of the itchiness fade, the adrenaline start to ease. He felt like he was at home, like the job was truly done and he was home safe. Sighing softly, he turned his face into the collar of the coat and imagined Seregil’s arms around him, imagined his lover’s musical voice telling him he’d done him proud and could rest now, that all was well.

It did wonders for the shakes, wearing Seregil’s clothing. But the ache of want, the need, only grew fiercer.

It was getting physical now, the bloom of warmth and the tug and pull of muscles between his bare legs that told Alec, without looking, that he was getting hard. It was like a dog responding to an expected command, his body knew the reward for a well done job and was chafing at the lack. Alec was embarrassed for certain but also curious, wondering where these feelings were coming from, so much rawer and deeper than usual.

But lying there wrapped in nothing but his talímenios’ coat, trying to think with a stiff cock and a deep well of need inside him, it wasn’t going to get him any answers. Alec buried deeper into the fabric and groaned, knowing exactly what he was about to do.

Seregil wouldn’t mind, he was certain, if he ever found out. Not that Alec was ever going to tell him.

Seregil slipped off his boots at the door and closed it softly behind him, wanting to move quickly and silently. There was a pleasing buzz of wine and dice running through his veins but that was far from the reason he wore a grin that stretched a mile as he padded up the stairs. He couldn’t wait to see his talímenios’ face when he surprised him, hours earlier than he’d promised to be home.

He’d caught from their mark, in the course of increasingly sloppy, drunken conversation that he wasn’t even going home that night, going on to spend the hours with some other lover. Lord Seregil had made some lascivious comment that had earned him a loud laugh and a slap on the back that had sent the last of his wine spilling over their cards, while inside Seregil had sighed in relief. With no imminent arrival at the house and the man’s wife off in the country, there was no need to keep him occupied to let Alec work. He was free to take his leave, step outside of the Dragon and immediately look far less drunk than he’d appeared to be inside it, riding home to his love.

Seregil did love it when Illior brought things together so neatly. He knew Alec would be missing him, not to flatter himself too much. It was only that he’d watched his talímenios enough times after Cat work, he’d seen the way he would curl in close against him and seek out comfort and often more. Though they hadn’t been at this together for very long, back in the city from Aurënen only for a few months, he’d been sorely regretting not being there to give him the closeness he knew his lover would be needing.

He understood it, of course, the way a night of risks and thrills could so easily turn into passion and a need for intimacy. Before the best, most fortuitous day of his life when he’d found the other half of his heart shivering in that northern dungeon, Seregil’s nights spent as the Rhíminee Cat would often end at the Street of Lights.

But now he had Alec. He had a warm home and a circle of arms to run home to and right now, he couldn’t believe his luck.

There was no light creeping in from under their chamber door, he could see it from the top of the stairs. Mischievous ideas took root in Seregil’s mind. Perhaps Alec wasn’t even home yet and he could arrange some kind of surprise to be waiting for him when he got home.

Seregil had sharp ears. But still, it wasn’t until his hand was on the brass, muscles tensed and ready to push back the door, that he heard it. The soft moan, the whisper of his name from the room within. Alec was just that quiet.

Seregil’s eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. For a moment, he was just stunned, unable to do anything but absorb the weight of the silence that preceded the gasp of pleasure. And then his slack jawed shock turned slowly into a bright, hungry grin.

“Oh my dear talímenios…” he breathed softly.

Alec’s heart nearly stopped at the soft knock at the door. Immediately the illusion he’d built up was shattered, his hand flying from his cock and jerking up into a sitting position, “Who-”

“It’s Seregil, talí...can I come in?”

Alec’s face burst into flame, wincing, “I...I thought you weren’t going to be home until later, I’m sor-”

“Don’t,” Seregil stopped his apology before it could fully leave his lips, voice firm but warm, “Can I come in?”

“I suppose,” Alec groaned, knowing there was know way out of this, drawing deeper into the coat, trying to kneel so his arousal wasn’t as obvious.

There was nothing for it though. He heard the door push back, creaking slightly, the soft movement of fabric as Seregil drew a lightstone from his pocket and illumination blossomed between them. Already he was smirking crookedly, eyes alight with mischief. Alec himself was thrown into sharp relief, cheeks flushed red, hair matted at the back as he’d writhed against the pillow. The coat only served to highlight what he’d been doing, draping between his legs but the bulge in the fabric was obvious.

After a long pause where Seregil only grinned deliciously and Alec’s cheeks grew warmer, he finally sighed and said, “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Seregil purred.

“I...I missed you,” Alec admitted, blue eyes finding Seregil’s, “I wanted you.”

“Of course, talí,” Seregil cooed, letting his fine plum velvet coat fall from his shoulders and slump to the floor, “The same reason I rushed home to you the moment I could.”

Alec shivered, relaxing, “Really?”

“Oh of course,” Seregil dropped his waistcoat too, sitting back in the chair by their desk as he undid the top few buttons of his shirt, “But now I’m here...I’d rather like to see you finish what you’d started, my love.”

Alec’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening. After a nod and an encouraging smile from Seregil, he moved back onto the pillows, spreading his legs again. Seregil leaned back and grinned appreciatively.

“What were you thinking of, talí? As you touched yourself?”

Alec swallowed, Seregil caught every movement of the apple in his throat, “You. That’s why I wore your coat, I...I wanted to smell you, to feel like you were near.”

Seregil felt a rush of genuine fondness, carefully putting it to one side for the sweetness that would come after this, “And now I am, dear heart. So put on a show for me, yes?”

Alec did, eyes never leaving Seregil’s face, his long, clever fingers moving the coat’s hem aside to reveal his erection, blushed and thick and close to release. Not that Seregil had any intention of letting him get it so soon.

His fingers were deft but direct, moving immediately just to stroke himself, aiming for one thing and intending to get there soon.

“No, no, talí,” Seregil said, watching intently, grey gaze piercing, “Slowly. Carefully. I asked for a show, didn’t I?”

“Right…” Alec slowed his strokes, showing the play of muscles in his wrist as his grip tightened and loosened along his length. In the low light, it was like a form of magic.

“Is that all you know, dear heart?” Seregil hummed, leaning forward over his knees, eyes sparkling, “Is that the only way you’d ever use to pleasure yourself?”

Alec blinked, his mouth slackening and eyes growing hazy, “I...yes, I think so. It’s all I remember doing.”

“Then allow me to educate you. Soak two of your fingers in your mouth then gather some of the slick currently running down your pretty cock, it will help. Be sure to keep stroking yourself as you do but don’t finish,” he made his voice low, a command, unsurprised at the immediate twitch of Alec’s cock.

Alec was panting now, around his fingers as he swirled his tongue over them, making them shine in the low light. Seregil wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt but he made himself wait. The denial only made the eventual release sweeter.

Once his first two fingers were soaked with spit and slick, Seregil could see Alec was actively fighting back the urge to finish himself. He only had to raise his eyebrow and his lover slowed, determined to obey.

“Now. Put them in yourself.”

Alec whimpered, swallowing hard but doing as he was bid. After some gentle teasing, his fingers sunk willingly into his hole. With his legs spread as they were, Seregil didn’t miss a moment of it.

“Now find where it feels good. You’ll have to go quite deep, sweetling,” he smirked, “Watch your other hand, you’re stalling.”

Alec was clearly struggling to focus, jaw tight, chest now rising and falling heavily, moans that became higher and more strained falling from his lips. When his searching fingers found that knot of nerves inside him, he nearly screamed, voice splintering and face tight.

“Good,” Seregil shifted so his burning erection couldn’t escape Alec’s notice as it strained against the fabric of his trousers, “Now both of them. Bring yourself as close as you can bear.”

Alec stroked himself and rolled his fingers across his sweet spot, eyes fixed pleadingly on Seregil. He now formed his name shamelessly, pleading for release, those grey eyes burning where they raked across his skin. The fact that his pleasure was entirely in his hands, even from such a distance, clothed while he was exposed, in control while he fell apart, it was something daring and new and delicious.

And of course his talímenios made him wait right until the very last second, right up until it was almost unbearable. Only then did he smile indulgently, wave his hand airily and say, “Let go, my love.”

Alec did, as soon as the words fell from his mouth. With a loud, wavering cry of release, he spurted across his fist, back arching and muscles clenching tight. The moment itself felt like it stretched, the pleasure crashing over him again and again until eventually it let him go and he fell back, muscles aching and lungs heaving.

Immediately, Seregil was there, crouched over him as his lips caught Alec’s in a soft, sweet kiss. Alec whimpered into his talímenios’ mouth, enjoying that simple contact as much as anything he’d experienced that night.

“Did you enjoy that, my love?” Seregil whispered, smiling gently.

“Oh gods, immensely,” Alec gasped, still breathless, “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You were your wonderful self,” he kissed him again, leaning into it more now, “Now...catch your breath. As soon as you’re ready, I’m taking off these damnable trousers and you’re going to show me what you learned. Yes?”

Alec’s eyes widened and he smiled, “Oh yes.”

As they laughed and kissed and tumbled into each other’s arms, Alec felt it stronger than ever. Things really were so much easier with Seregil.

#nightrunners #seregil i korit #alec i amasa #seregil x alec #stag and otter #smut #lots of smut #honestly #please consider reblogging and leaving a comment!

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clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ― Chapter 17: The Psychic

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ⥽

While struggling with nightmares of lives she’s never lived, a shadow from the past looming over her city, and the proposed idea that her life may just be a little bit too weird to handle alone, Nadya makes sure to tell herself that everything is perfect just the way it is. If only. When the self-proclaimed King of Vampires (and Maker of her sometimes-girlfriend and always-boss, can’t forget that little tidbit) Gaius Augustine returns intent on claiming Manhattan as the throne that was promised, she and her friends find themselves forced into the task of saving the world. But with millennia-old vampires and an Order of hunters on their heels as well as allies hiding catastrophic secrets at their backs… it won’t be an easy task. Too bad destiny didn’t exactly ask for her input.

Bound by Destiny II and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny II tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

The group's patience is rewarded when Serafine finally arrives in Paris. But with her comes the reality that it's time to buckle down and do what they came here to do. Seeing as none of her previous experiences with psychics have been even remotely good, Nadya can't shake her doubts.

note: from this chapter and going forward this series will contain Adrian x Serafine content/mentions

[READ IT ON AO3]

It’s the longest week of Nadya’s life. A week of unknowns and uncertainties that somehow both keep her exhausted and refuse to let her sleep for fear they would go ignored. Like there’s any chance of that happening.

The suckiest part is there’s no escaping the worry. She doesn’t stray too far from the block the apartment building is on for fear of losing her way, or worse — losing her life.But it’s not like their apartment was the most spacious thing in the world. Only Lily and Nadya are used to living with each other. They aren’t used to living with two grown men.

They scour newspaper stands, memorize the channel numbers for every news station and use Adrian when translations are necessary. Digging almost obsessively for any information on New York and their loved ones. After all, you’d think a giant pitfall in the middle of Central Park would get even one 24-hour news cycle of international attention.

You’d think.

“The police have the entire park sectioned off,” Adrian summarizes; eyes flying over the newsprint of that day’s issue, “looks like they’re trying to write the event off as a scaled-down natural event. Hartfield’s sent out their geology department but I’m guessing that’s for the newspapers rather than to do actual good. Manhattan isn’t exactly known for it’s sprawling underground caverns.”

They stop looking at the papers after that. Or — they stop asking Adrian to expose himself to all of the things he feels he walked out on. He’s got enough on his plate.

And isn’t that an understatement. Yes; Adrian’s worries about being unable to reach Serafine are definitely everyone else’s problem too. But every time he seems to be getting a little too heated or intense Nadya reminds herself of their first night here and the talk they had. He may not admit it aloud but much of his worry for her is personal.

The side effect is as unanticipated as it is worrisome. Adrian’s a vibrant personality; never one to boast his success but always the center of attention because he’s just that interesting. So to see such an extroverted person retreat into themselves as harsh as he does has everyone on edge. He’s quieter at meals and outright avoids the rest of them in the apartment’s lone bedroom most afternoons.

When Nadya tries confronting him about it (she starts off subtle, but screw subtle they’re all in a bad way right now so if he’s going to be miserable he can at least be miserable with the rest of them) he at least does her the courtesy of not pretending to be oblivious about it.

“I’m just worried, that’s all,” he insists; pushy enough that it’s clear he’s trying to convince himself of it too, “about Serafine, and everyone back home too.”

“You think you’re the only one?”

“No, of course not. I —”

“Okay, so stop acting like it. We can’t do this without you.” I can’t do this without you, but she doesn’t need to say it for Adrian to know.

His excuses are always the same; so are the apologies that inevitably follow. Finally Nadya just forces herself to accept that if Adrian won’t confide in her there’s not much she can do about it. Not that acceptance keeps it from hurting her deeply.

The only consolation the universe decides to offer her is a few (worry-addled) days wandering around a snowy Paris at night with her best friend. It gets them out of the claustrophobic confines of the apartment though, so she’ll take it.

Still rosy-cheeked and shivering from their metro ride, Nadya fumbles to Lily’s delight far too long before she manages to get the key into the lock and her butt into the apartment.

“Karma is real you know,” though her huffs of discontent are made less malicious by the way her scarf muffles her words and makes her glasses fog up to the point of blindness, “and it comes after people who watch their friends suffer.”

Lily laughs in the face of karma. “Oh you poor baby, all cold from your visit to the top of the Eiffel Tower. My heart goes out to you.”

“It should!”

“It does!”

“Good!”

They laugh in unison. When Nadya is finished shedding her many wintry layers she grabs for the takeout bag at her feet. “Looks like Jax is still out,” she comments, and doesn’t miss the indescribable look of continued confusion that gets thrown her way. Yeah, she didn’t understand it either at first, but turns out he’s never been out of the country before and likes walking the streets alone.

A woman’s rich and chiming laughter stops both of them in their tracks. Nadya knows full well it’s impossible for her key to have opened any other door in the building yet still she does a quick double-check to make sure they are indeed in the right apartment. Jax’s sword is where he left it on the coffee table, and Adrian’s suit is still hanging over the bedroom door; so it’s definitely their place.

And Adrian doesn’t laugh like that.

“Hold on,” comes Adrian’s voice from the kitchen, “I think I heard the door.”

The laughing woman’s voice is richly accented when she replies. “If your hearing has gotten so terrible, mon chéri, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long.”

Lily wiggles her eyebrows suggestively before calling out; “If you need a minute or ten, we can circle the block!”

Nadya claps her hand over her mouth to stifle her snort, and the fact she can hear Adrian’s rolling eyes when he talks doesn’t help in the least.

“Ha ha, very funny Lily. Come on in — there’s someone here I want you to meet.”

The woman sitting very close to Adrian at the small kitchen table needs no introduction but Adrian gives one anyway. “Nadya, Lily; this is Serafine Dupont.” And she’s a startling beauty to be sure; hair falling in bushy and effortless curls around features that manage to look flawless even under the harsh yellow light overhead. But Nadya can’t look away from Adrian from the moment she sees him.

Adrian who is smiling; really genuinely smiling, for the first time in a long time. She’d almost forgotten what it looked like, but the sight of it is like an old friend and gives her an immense relief. Not just for his sake either — because just maybe something is finally going right for them.

The girls are barely one foot through the doorway when Serafine descends upon them. Feather-light fingertips brushing through the wool of Nadya’s sweater with gentle kisses gifted to her cheeks. She smells of rose perfume and spring morning dew, and carries herself tall and proud in a way that is so familiar it makes Nadya’s heart ache.

Lily returns the kisses enthusiastically. “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since we got here,” she admits to Serafine’s delight.

“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” The woman smiles sweetly at the both of them before taking up her seat again. “Adrian’s been talking the both of you up for hours. I told him that I could not remember the last time he spoke so highly of anyone!”

“Well we are admittedly awesome.”

“And modest, too, I see.”

Her oh-so-courteous vampire friends wait until Nadya’s settled in with her food unpacked to get down to business. There are only two chairs for the table so Lily joins her up on the counters; their legs dangling and colliding on lazy occasion.

“So, Serafine,” and there’s a depth to her warm brown eyes that Nadya recognizes; they may not have discussed it before but she has no trouble believing that Serafine is much older than her current companions, “no offense — but you’re a hard woman to track down.”

At least she seems genuinely apologetic. “Ah, oui. I’ve spent the better part of the evening giving Adrian my apologies but I should offer them to you as well.”

“She’s been in hiding.” Adrian comments, and with no small amount of sympathy.

Nadya and Lily exchange surprised looks. “Are you okay?”

Serafine nods with a hum. “I am alive, and that is more than can be said for those who fell victim to the Order.”

The Order. Nadya’s heard that name before — though never with her own ears. She may not remember all of her visions but they’ve come up too frequently for her to fully forget. With that name comes the chill of fear and the weight of loss. Serafine radiates it and so much more.

“The Order of the Dawn, you mean.”

Which makes Serafine regard her with surprise. “You know of them?” she asks, and because she’s working really hard on this whole being-honest thing Nadya just shrugs in a noncommittal answer.

Lily raises her hand. “And for those of us who skipped Vampire History 1-0-1?”

“The Order of the Dawn is the oldest enemy to our kind. Legend says they have been around since the time of the First Vampire Herself, and with the amount of wealth and influence they have gathered the world over… I would believe it. They are the worst of humanity. Radicals who exist solely to exterminate us. By their teachings, from the moment we are Turned we cease to be people. They paint us as savages; animals controlled by our need for blood and nothing more.”

“Sounds a bit like —”

“Ferals?” Adrian nods grimly. “They’ve been used as a tactic for the Order’s indoctrination for decades. But they don’t see the difference between a Feral or the likes of you and I. To them it’s all the same.”

Indoctrination, he says. And judging by the pain that flashes across Serafine’s face when he isn’t looking it’s not a word chosen for melodrama. When she tries her hardest to recall what few memories she can that even so much as whisper the Order in her ear, it’s not an unfounded fear the older vampires share.

However there’s one thing Nadya doesn’t fully understand.

“If they’re so powerful and connected, why haven’t you mentioned them before?” Frankly it would have been nice to know of yet another reason to look over her shoulder.

“Because I didn’t see any reason to scare you over something that you wouldn’t have to deal with. Or… so I’d hoped.”

Serafine offers Nadya a sympathetic smile; something a hair’s breadth from pitying. “Don’t think too little of him for it, petit. America has the luxury of letting the likes of the Order fade into history. They fought hard enough for the right to do so, after all.”

Her hand falls over Adrian’s with a feather-light touch; offering a look with it that Nadya only sees half of but that’s more than enough to know the feelings behind it. The tension melts from his shoulders in a steady wave.

“There was a secret war in the middle of the 19th century; the War of the Dawn. A decade-long campaign to wipe every vampire from the face of North America; and the Order’s last and bloodiest attempt at killing Gaius and damaging our entire species beyond repair. They all but abandoned Western Europe and poured every resource into the fight. Unfortunately we were forced to do the same… and because of it they very nearly succeeded.”

He’s had Lily’s interest since ‘secret war’ but everything after is meant to frighten them. It succeeds — rightfully so.

It wouldn’t hurt for him to stop there but Adrian continues almost like he’s duty-bound to finish the story for the warning it is. “We won because we were connected to the human world in a symbiosis. Gaius spent years weaving his court into the very fabric of American history and it paid off when the time came. Politics, industry, big business — when we formed the Council we didn’t create these connections, we merely stepped in to fill the void our coup left behind.”

She gets it now. “You have more power than the Order does.”

“And so they can’t touch us. Not without losing for a second—and final—time.”

For all of the terrible things Gaius is and will always be, he can play the long game well. Nearly every vision he showed up in left Nadya confused as to how such a terrible tyrant could inspire such loyalty. Now… it makes a little bit more sense.

Not that it makes him any less of a villain.

“But it is not my enemies that bring you so far from home, Adrian.”

If Serafine was hoping to cut even the smallest hole in the tension between them, sucks to be her. She takes the defeat with grace though. “I relish this chance to reconnect… though I have a sense our night would be better spent with why you are here, in Paris with her dangers, at all.”

His laugh is as dry as it is fake. “Where to start…”

There’ve been enough psychic vampires probing around in Nadya’s head lately that she knows the look their new friend gives her right away. Before she can even open her mouth Nadya feels the itch of Serafine’s psychic influence right at the base of her skull.

“The beginning should suffice.”

While Nadya may not have picked up on much of the French language in their short time here, she has little trouble imagining the long string of words that roll off of Serafine’s tongue are the pretty woman’s equivalent of swearing like a sailor. Judging by the way Adrian raises his eyebrows and suddenly finds the bottom of his wine glass the most fascinating thing in the room… she should have bet money on it.

“You okay there?” Lily asks, and passes what’s left of the bottle wordlessly back to the table. As vampires, they may not be able to get drunk like humans could but Nadya’s coming to realize her favorite thing about the French is handling stressful conversations with an alcoholic buffer.

Serafine looks between the girls in a strange emotion possibly named ‘wild sadness,’ which is valid honestly.

“Non, Lily, I am not. But I cannot fathom how minuscule my emotions must be compared to your own. And you, Nadya,” who tries her best not to cringe under the emotions that make her voice thick and accent thicker, “to have endured what you have, so young and in the prime of your life. I would not wish such a fate on my worst enemy.”

“Yeah well…” she has no idea what to say to that; so she drinks until something comes to mind, “I would. If only to show him what it feels like.”

Serafine gives a fitful nod. “But it doesn’t do any good to sit here and ruminate on the tragic things which have already passed. Whatever is in my power is yours.”

“Well that’s the thing — I wasn’t sure if it was in your power.” She looks offended that Adrian would even think of doubting her. He doubles-back; tries again.

“You’re the strongest psychic Kamilah and I know, Serafine. But I’ll admit I don’t know much about the skill. Is it even possible to undo the damage that’s been done?”

Nadya doesn’t disagree that damage is right but it still hurts to hear it. He glances at her quickly and utterly remorseful. “I mean —”

“I know what you meant. Let it go.”

Serafine shrugs. “Let me see what I’m working with first. Nadya, darling, if you would?” She gestures and Nadya slips from her stool without argument, is glad for the fact that Serafine stays seated only because she knows the woman would tower over her. She cups Nadya’s face in her cool palms; thumbs brushing over her cheekbones.

Isadora had touched at her mind subtle and with caution. By comparison Jameson had all but swung a hatchet at her brain; chipped away at her until he found what he needed and that was that. And Serafine, too, is different in her own way. But it’s more than the simple differences between individuals.

There’s a power in Serafine’s touch. Impossible for her to ignore. A compulsion of the will that drags her eyelids closed and brings her deep within and along for the ride.

Images, emotions, thoughts. Nadya sees them coming from a great distance but doesn’t have time to brace herself before they hit her like a truck.

Grasping for Lily’s hand on the plane—Kamilah’s lips on her forehead tears welling in her eyes emotion choking her throat—pleasedon’tmakemeleaveyou—I’mrighthereI’vegotyou—fear and worry and the brief flicker of joy—Taylor’s inconsistent eyes Kathy’s rich violet hair—all those months of lying begging for the end in those moments just before succumbing to sleep and the horrible things that alwaysinevitablycome…

And then there’s Gaius. Gaius whispering in her ear feeling Nadya’s heart pounding in her chest Vega two steps behind don’tlethimcatchyou! Gaius entering the dining room with silent fanfare — the glamour fading to reveal the rotting corpse beneath — his shoes taptaptap echoing in the Chamber the blood of the First staining his teeth before he rises up upup and into the oblivion of the night—

Serafine tries to pull back her psychic reach — but something, certainly not Nadya, holds her down. Keeps her still and there and demands of her to watch. As I have watched, as I have seen.

Nadya knows so very little but she knows without a shadow of a doubt the images that follow are memories, too. Serafine’s memories. Surprised to be pulled from some abyss, out of order.

The smell of spice and ocean sea-salt freshly sanded wood on beaches sand still warm with the sun’s heat sinking between her bare toes — electronica pounding through modern speakers club lights shining down on her skin slick with sweat her head thrown back in laughter — Adrian’s lips on her neck on her breasts lilted language on her tongue slow down darling we have a long day ahead of us fingers intertwining skin burning where the barest sliver of sunlight catches on their shared bed—

Paris bright and both new and old history not yet written in cobbled streets an empty void in the skyline where the Eiffel Tower will be and the smell of burning flesh and bone wafting up from deep within the earth tears and ash smeared over her skin—Youwillseejusticeatthehandsofyourenemies—and a burning hatred that ignited the flame.

Nadya tastes something unfamiliar and metallic on the tip of her tongue. Blood, her mind tells her — though her body struggles to accept it as more than just another memory.

She opens her eyes just as the red slips from Serafine’s own gaze. Shame and confusion burn hot in her cheeks and she barely registers the combined cries of “Nadya!” from both of her friends before she’s emptying the meager contents of her stomach in the kitchen sink.

Nadya reaches with a shaking hand to push her hair out of her face. Lily beats her to it; holds her through every shaking heaving breath without a word.

The two glasses of water she all but inhales help soothe the sting of the cut inside her cheek. Still, Nadya keeps the flat of her tongue against it out of habit. And though she’d like nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep off the vertigo a nd nausea still churning in her belly Nadya knows she can’t. Sits back on the counter like a good little Bloodkeeper while Lily scrubs the sink before the smell can linger.

“Je suis tellement désolé, Nadya,” apologizes Serafine, to which Nadya only nods to reply. Words are a little bit beyond her right now if that’s alright with them. “I had no idea even a simple exchange would be so… violent.”

Which is a word for it. Though Nadya would almost prefer they find something more dramatic for the future.

Adrian looks between them in a silent war with himself. Torn between apologizing to Nadya and asking Serafine the inevitable. What had she seen?

“Do you truly wish to stay your current course?”

She appreciates Serafine asking; it’s a consideration she hasn’t gotten much of so far. Unfortunately it doesn’t change anything.

“You—gh,” the three vampires wait patiently while she swallows and regains her words, “you saw what happened. You saw what Gaius became. This is the only way.”

Lily throws an arm around Nadya’s shoulders. “Unless you magically happen to have a God-killing stake you can pull outta your back end.”

Serafine’s laughter is more polite than amused. “Would it spare you further pain, I would. But alas. And I would not ask you to try again so soon. Too much has already been forced upon you.”

“So you’re saying I’m damaged beyond repair.”

“Non, I am not. Psychic intrusion is rarely so simple, and cannot be compared to the likes of physical injuries. Judging by what you have told me and the little I was able to see… most—if not all—of your previous encounters within the mind were done without consent?”

Nadya nods slowly; the heartbreak is plain on Serafine’s face. “Then it is of no surprise that you have put barriers in place; even unconsciously. It will take time to bring down those walls safely and without risking further harm to you both mentally and physically.”

“How much time?” asks Adrian.

“I could not say. Up until tonight I too thought the Bloodkeeper only a myth. Even if there were a clear path to recovery, that alone will undoubtedly bring complications.”

He looks down and away. But he doesn’t have to say it — and they don’t need to be psychic to know what he’s thinking.

They don’t have time. The people they love don’t have time.

Nadya inhales shakily. “How big is the risk if we just wing it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Humor me.”

And the distinct lack of humor in her voice makes all three vampires uncomfortable. If she could, Nadya would laugh. They aren’t the ones with anything to be worried about. Serafine glances at Adrian, almost like she hopes he’ll interrupt before the silence becomes a deliberate refusal to answer.

Frankly she’s getting really tired of people making decisions for her. “Adrian didn’t ask you, I did.” She snaps her fingers. “It’s my head and my risk.”

“Nadi’…”

She shoulders Lily away. “No, no ‘Nadi,’ just tell me. If you dig back in for the memory we need right now, how big is the risk?”

There’s no doubt in Nadya’s already-fractured mind that Serafine won’t spare her from the truth. She’s been inside the woman’s head and that kind of knowledge is a dangerous thing. As dangerous as Serafine herself can be, has been, might become.

Maybe some part of her knows this too, because she finally stops holding back.

“Your body would not be able to cope. Your mind would be so focused on the task it would forget to send signals to the rest of your body. Your heart would forget how to beat and you would even forget how to breathe. You could die before I even came close to the answers you seek.”

“So we put me on a respirator or something.”

Adrian looks up at her sharply. “Stop. We’re not entertaining this; that’s not even an option.”

“Well neither is waiting however long it might take,” she snaps back, “they’re risking their lives for us back home — I think the least I can do is return the favor.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“I’m tired of everyone risking their lives for me! It’s not worth it!”

“Getting you out of New York was worth it!”

“Obviously not, since I’ve got too much brain PTSD to be of any freakin’ use!” Nadya gestures wildly, arms spread. She’s got no idea where any of this is coming from but that doesn’t make it any less true; that doesn’t make it any less painful. “Every day we’re sitting here tiptoeing around what we need to do is another day Kamilah or Maricruz or Arnold or anyone could be killed.”

How are they not getting this, she thinks, incredulous and bewildered and borderline angry at them all. How can they let others put themselves on the line and not ask the same of her? Because she’s fragile; because she’s human?

Nadya doesn’t realize she’s on her feet until the dizziness hits her. She doesn’t let it or Adrian’s desperate “Nadya, wait, come back!” stop her from leaving them behind. It’s easier when she doesn’t think about what she’s doing. Just lets her feet carry the rest of her aches and pains and all out of the apartment and down to the frigid streets below.

She doesn’t know how far she has — or could have — walked in her half-conscious daze until a firm and supernatural grasp brings her back to the present.

“Whoa there — where the hell is your coat?” Jax’s frown only deepens as he watches her become aware of her surroundings. Even if she had the strength left to try and pull away, she isn’t sure he’d let her go.

“I… left it back at the apartment.” She means to look back over her shoulder but the thought of their disappointed faces, despite not being there, is too much. It keeps Nadya frozen (literally) in place, shivering under his hands.

“Uh-huh… well, let’s go get it.”

Nadya barely manages to dig her heels into the pavement. It’s just enough resistance for Jax to notice. “Don’t… don’t make me go back there.”

He raises an eyebrow silently, but thankfully doesn’t push it. “I’m not leaving you out here on your own though.”

“Probably for the best.”

After a long moment the man sighs; shouldering off his coat and letting it hang on her shoulders comically large and smothering. “Lead the way.”

Though the pair of them isn’t one often found, well ever, Jax must have understood and accepted the moment they began their shared walk that eventually she was going to unload on him. He takes it all with great grace and stride honestly; and only shows his disapproval in a look rather than an outright argument when she makes them stop for another chocolate-stuffed crepe.

“Don’t I always miss out on all the fun…” he mutters, something Nadya probably wasn’t supposed to hear so she goes back to her sniffly mouthful of sweet pastry like he never said a word.

“What was it you saw that upset you so much?” And that she was supposed to hear. No doubt about it.

It’s to Nadya’s surprise that Jax waits with an uncharacteristic patience for her to answer. Eventually there’s no avoiding it.

“It wasn’t what I saw that… it wasn’t a vision or anything.”

“Then what had you running out of there so fast?”

“How I acted.”

“Well yeah, that was pretty dumb.”

She pretends it’s an uneven bit of pavement that makes her trip and not, well!

“Uh, thanks… I think.”

Jax gives her a careless one-shoulder shrug in return. “What did you expect me to say? Because I’m not going to tell you that you weren’t in the wrong, Nadya. You know that’s not my style.”

Yeah, unfortunately. “I just don’t think she gets how… how crucial time is.”

“If you really believed we had such little time you wouldn’t be here right now stuffing your face.”

“Joke’s on you, I’m always ready to stuff my face.”

He stops; Nadya gives herself three steps ahead before she accepts he won’t be joining her another step further. She turns back and, luckily, manages to hide most of her face with crepe. But Jax doesn’t spare her even the tiniest bit of sympathy. His frown is stern; almost harsh. It’s hard to see what’s in his eyes with the lights of the city glowing behind him but she can’t imagine it’s anything consoling.

“You really don’t get it, do you.”

It isn’t a question. Nadya doesn’t answer. “Alright, okay, I guess it’s gonna be up to me to do this. But I’m warning you,” pointing a stern finger her way, “you’d better listen, and listen good. Because I’ll only say this once.”

“Say what, Jax?”

“None of this is about you.”

“I don’t think —”

But Jax cuts her off. “You’re right; you don’t think. If you did then you wouldn’t have had me go behind Adrian’s and Kamilah’s backs. But that one’s on me — I had to agree to it. So that’s your one free pass. But skirting Lily and me and getting yourself kidnapped was what gave Gaius the lead on the Amulet in the first place.”

“I didn’t exactly choose to give him the memory, Jax.” And it’s really hard to keep the I can’t believe you right now from her offended voice but that doesn’t help things in the least.

“No, but you don’t let anybody forget it either. Have you ever considered that if you spent half as much time helping out as you did moping and crying things might be at least a little bit better?”

“Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Oh I am,” he snorts a dry, humorless laugh, “because everyone else might want to spare your feelings but I don’t see any point in it by now. Not when there’s so much at risk. Do you honestly think for one second I want to be here, thousands of miles away from everything and everyone I’ve spent my entire life caring for? Do you think Lily wanted to leave Espinoza behind, or that Adrian wanted to leave his Clan without a leader? These are genuine questions, by the way. Because I really don’t know what reality you’re living in, but from the way it sounds the only one any of this sucks for is you.”

Word after word comes at her each one like a blow to the face, to the gut; fighting skills Jax has honed but Nadya never knew she needed to prepare herself for that leave her bruised and just barely standing.

“I… no.”

“‘No?’ No what?”

“No I… I know I’m not the only one hurting.”

“Damn right you aren’t. But just like all of us, Nadya, you have a part to play. Of course all of us — you included — would rather have stayed in New York; tried to fight. But standing here crying about it isn’t going to turn back time. All it does is make the sacrifices of those like Arnold, like Sayeed and Espinoza and countless others we’ll probably never meet meaningless. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not!”

“Then act like it! Take responsibility and realize everything we’re risking for you. You’re our friend, and a sweet girl and all, but sometimes you’re so self-involved it drives me insane! Newsflash — you’re not the only person hurting right now. But the rest of us can put that aside for the greater good. Now it’s your turn. You keep talking about how much it hurts, well take it from someone who has dealt with a lot of pain in a short amount of time. There comes a time when you have to make all of that suffering mean something. Not just for yourself, but literally for the world.”

Nadya’s way passed the verge of tears but that doesn’t mean she’s not doing everything in her power to keep from falling into a blubbering pathetic mess. Jax is right; worse still, Jax knows he’s right, Nadya knows he’s right. If anything that only makes it hurt more.

“I—I’m… I’m sorry.”

In less than a stride Jax is standing in front of her. His hands on her upper arms this time less forceful, less confused. But kinder than his words and tone would allow for.

“Come on now…” he admonishes; softer but no less insistent, “I’m not saying this to make you cry. I suck at dealing with crying people, actually, so I’d really prefer it if you stopped.”

Which works about as well as politely asking Gaius to not go through with his crazy plan would, which isn’t a surprise to either of them. He sighs and pulls her forward into the world’s strangest hug but it works for them both. He doesn’t want to watch her cry. She doesn’t want him to see her break down against his shirt.

“I—” she hiccoughs, “—I didn’t aa-ask for any of this.”

“I know that. But neither did we. And crying about it doesn’t change what happened. We know what we’re giving up to be here — and… maybe I was a little harsh. Don’t think we don’t care about you or keeping you safe. But, hey—hey. But —” Jax gently pries her back and fixes her glasses where they’ve gone askew, “— that’s our job; to keep you safe. And yours is to figure out how we can stop Gaius.”

“I know. I…” I don’t know what to say. And maybe that means it’s best she not say anything at all.

“Remember —” he waits until she can compose herself enough to look at him without wet hiccups spasming in her lungs; and when she does he surprises her with a small smile, “— whatever it takes.”

Whatever it takes. And isn’t that the kind of mentality that had landed them in all of this in the first place?

Though it was also the mentality that gave her the courage to save Adrian in the Bloody Cellars, to confront the Trinity and evade Vega for as long as she did.

It’s obvious Jax isn’t letting her go until she says it back, and out of the two he doesn’t feel the cold on his cheeks. He can wait her out.

“Whatever it takes.”

#bloodbound #choices bb #choices fanfiction #adrian raines #kamilah x mc #lily spencer #jax matsuo #bloodbound mc #mc: nadya al jamil #serafine dupont #fic: oblivion bound #oblv: bound by destiny ii #; my fics

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fourdaysofrain · 5 years

Text

By Any Other Name

Summary: 5 times Peter called Mr. Stark Tony, and one time he called him something else entirely.

(Still set in the Irondad oasis between Homecoming and Infinity War)

Read on AO3

i. in the lab

It started, as most of their personal conversations do, during a late night in the lab. Peter was alternating between working on a history worksheet and his web-shooters, switching between the two projects when he ran out of steam. Tony was idly tinkering with a box of scraps while he waited for FRIDAY to process his newest idea for nanotech, which would take at least another hour. It was a gentle kind of silence that filled the room, only broken by various lab noises that they had both since learned to tune out-- a whir here, the ting of a fallen screw there, the soft scratching of a pencil on paper.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” Peter said, his voice easily carrying over the room, “What was the main catalyst for World War I?”

There was a short pause while Tony switched his attention from the growing pile of machinery in front of him to the teenager across the room before he answered, “Franz Ferdinand’s death.”

“Thanks,” Peter responded as he quickly wrote something down, “that’s what I thought, but I wasn’t sure about his name.” He laughed to himself softly, but it faded when he looked up to see Tony looking at him intently.

Tony took a breath to center himself before speaking. How could he tell the kid every time he called him Mr. Stark, it just reminded him of shitty fathers and childhoods spent masquerading like adults and drinking to avoid the stares of students and professors alike and-- he cut off his spiral with a short sniff. He decided casual was the best way to approach this.

“Hey kid, why do you still call me Mr. Stark?”

Peter blanched as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“It’s just that you’re a billionaire and a literal superhero, and May raised me to be respectful, I guess. There’s nothing more to it.” If it weren’t for the slightly more hysterical than normal nervous laugh that followed, Tony might have believed him.

“You call Rhodey by his first name,” Tony countered, “well, technically by his middle name, but the point stands.”

“That’s different because Rhodey’s not--” the man who spends all of his time either protecting me or poking fun at me, my childhood hero, my quasi-dad parental figure type person “--my mentor.”

“I can safely say that as your mentor, and given that you are also a ‘literal superhero,’” he rolled his eyes, successfully getting an annoyed smile from Peter, “I hereby grant you the ability to call me Tony.” He punctuated his words with a quick flourish of his hands.

Peter sighed before making hesitant eye contact, tapping his fingers against the leg of his jeans, “Okay… Tony.”

“That wasn’t too bad, was it? The world is still standing, the clock is still ticking,” now it was Peter’s turn to roll his eyes, “and speaking of the clock still ticking, looks like we let it tick a little too long. Time for bed, Spiderling.”

Peter reacted quickly to the change in conversation, “I can’t go to bed yet! I still have a few questions on this worksheet, and it’s due tomorrow!”

“You should have thought about that sometime before--” his eyes flitted to the clock and back, “--12:30 am. Jesus kid, you really do have to get to bed. Don’t want you taking after me too much.”

Tony tried to keep his tone light and joking, but it fell flat. Peter and him made eye contact for a second that seemed to stretch towards infinity before Tony looked away, pretending to study something on his desk.

“I mean, red and gold aren’t my colors, but I could manage,” Peter joked.

Tony chuckled at that, letting himself live in a world where his biggest regret was Iron Man’s suit design for a few moments.

“C’mon kid, flattery will get you nowhere. Let’s close up for the night.” He didn’t bother with clearing the scraps off his desk, he would go back down to the lab after making sure Peter went to bed.

“Please let me finish this, I promise it’ll be less than five minutes. I’ll even use FRIDAY so I can go even faster!”

“Kid, only you could make cheating sound like a good thing,” Tony took a beat to decide, as if Peter didn’t already have him wrapped around his finger, “Alright, just don’t tell your aunt that I let you stay up so late, it makes me look irresponsible. Or Pepper, for that matter. Thank God she’s still on her business trip or we would both be in trouble.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Stark-- Tony. I’ll be out of here soon.”

Tony huffed out a laugh at the kid’s antics as he walked across the room to grab some more tools.

True to his word, Peter finished his homework in record time, thanks to FRIDAY’s seemingly endless database of information. Just as Tony was relaxing into the steady back and forth of their conversation, he heard the harsh zip of Peter’s backpack.

“Alright, it’s all finished, so I can go to bed now,” Peter said, looking pointedly at Tony.

“What’s with the look?”

“I think if you’re forcing me to go to bed, you should too.” Peter normally lost his filter when he was tired, so Tony shouldn’t be surprised that he’s getting rightfully called out.

“How about this-- I’ll walk you up, and then you can pretend I went to bed and not listen to my footsteps as I come back down here.”

Peter rolled his eyes but saved the witty comeback. He instead just walked to the door with his backpack and looked back at Tony like a dog getting ready for a walk. The imagery made Tony laugh to himself.

“Alright, I’m coming. FRI, put the lights to 50% all the way to Pete’s room.” A quick confirmation from the AI was all he needed to open the door and lead the way to the bedroom wing. He slung an arm around Peter, grasping his shoulder as the kid walked sleepily beside him.

They walked in amicable, or just tired, silence until they got to Peter’s door. May let him spend the night enough times that Peter finally felt comfortable enough to take ownership of the room, instead of having everyone pretend it was the guest room. It had a small whiteboard on the outside, reminding Tony of his days in the dorms at MIT. Tony smirked when he saw that someone, probably one of Peter’s Midtown friends, had drawn a spider building a web in the corner.

“Last stop, Underoos,” Tony said, softly breaking the silence. Peter mumbled a thanks as he went to open the door. He looked at Tony expectantly for a beat before walking into his bedroom.

“Goodnight, Tony,” came Peter’s voice from inside as the door closed behind him. Tony frowned. He sounded disappointed. He shrugged it off as lack of sleep.

“Night Pete,” he replied.

He stood still in front of Peter’s door. He wanted to go back to the lab to work on his newest idea for nanotech. He knew FRIDAY would be done with rendering the new models by now. Nonetheless, he signed before continuing down the hall to his own bedroom. That damn kid.

ii. in the kitchen

The kitchen was filled with the aroma of warm spices. Peter followed it like a cartoon character after a pie. He expected to find Pepper, or maybe even Rhodey, baking something to share with everyone. He wasn’t prepared to see Tony Stark wearing an apron with the Mark VII’s arc reactor printed on the chest while singing proudly along to the music playing through FRIDAY’s speakers. Peter could have sworn he saw that apron at a tourist shop somewhere downtown. He walked into Tony’s line of sight, causing him to stop singing and tell FRIDAY to turn the volume down, though he didn’t look at all embarrassed at being caught.

“Hey kid, have you ever had my famous molasses cookies? They’re an old Stark recipe. My mom taught me, her dad taught her, his dad... et cetera. It’s passed onto the firstborn. Top secret stuff.” He shot a silly wink across the room.

Peter shook his head, still shell-shocked from seeing Tony acting so… domestic.

“Well, today’s your lucky day. The first batch just came out.” Tony motioned to where a dozen cookies were sitting on a wire rack, and Peter eyed it hungrily.

“Thanks, Mr. Stark!” As Pete moved to the counter to grab one, Tony stepped in to block his way.

“What’s the magic word?” he asked playfully.

“Please?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ with a smirk, “for me, it’s Tony.”

Peter shook his head as he said, “Sorry. Thanks, Tony.” He was rewarded with a clear path to the cooling cookies. He walked over and grabbed one, nowhere near as excited as he was a few seconds earlier. Tony frowned.

“What’s up, Pete?”

“Nothing,” Tony fixed him with a hard stare, and Peter took a second before continuing, “it’s just that calling you Tony is weird for me.” He grabbed a few cookies and a napkin, and sat at the counter across from Tony, not eating them yet.

“Why would it be weird? It’s my name, right?” Peter nodded, so he continued, “Mr. Stark is what everyone called my dad, or what people trying to brown-nose called me. Neither of those options makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You’re better than them, kid.” A flash of guilt went over Peter’s face, but Tony convinced himself he imagined it.

“It’s just I already had the habit of calling you Mr. Stark, so it’ll take me a while to get used to it. No biggie,” he ended with taking a bite of a cookie, “Oh my God, these are insane! Why have you never made them before?”

Tony wasn’t entirely convinced but was willing to let it slide for now.

“Next time, I’ll teach you the recipe so you can make them yourself,” he said casually.

“Um, didn’t you say the recipe was for Starks only?” Peter looked up from his cookies to Tony, his eyes wide and innocent.

“Yeah well,” Tony scratched his eyebrow, searching for what to say, “just don’t tell TMZ and I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Peter smiled softly to himself as he continued to eat. Tony failed to suppress his own warm smile as he started to scoop out the next batch. The unsaid message was heard loud and clear.

You’re family.

iii. at home

May and Peter were eating take-out at the table, May’s failed dinner residing somewhere in the dumpster outside. The clinks of their silverware and their warm conversation filled the apartment.

“So what are your plans for this weekend? Ned seemed excited about something last time I saw him,” May asked as she took another bite. Peter made sure to swallow his own mouthful of food before responding.

“He got a new Lego set, and I’m going to help him build it on Sunday. But Friday night I’m going to spend the night at Tony’s, he said he already cleared it with you, and then Saturday I’ll probably be patrolling and doing homework all day.” Peter looked at May to find her smiling at him. He gave her a confused look.

“It’s so funny to hear you call him Tony. Like he’s a high school friend or something.” Peter laughed along with her goodnaturedly.

“He said Mr. Stark makes him feel like his dad, so I’m getting used to saying Tony.”

“I can imagine. If you called me Mrs. Parker I think I’d have to kick you out.” May and Peter shared a playful smirk.

“Yeah well, that’s different. You’re my aunt, he’s Iron Man!” Peter still couldn’t hide his feeling of awe at personally knowing the Iron Man. May just smiled sweetly at him.

“And being your aunt is the closest to a superhero I ever want to be,” May said as she reached over and rubbed his cheek, “and speaking of Tony, you should invite him over for dinner sometime. I’m willing to let him try to win me over after seeing how much he matters to you.”

Peter blushed but nodded. May hummed in response, and they kept eating dinner.

iv. at the front desk

Peter swore under his breath. He’s supposed to be working on Dum-E and U’s little brother right now, but he has to get to the lab first. He was in the lobby of the tower (Tony decided not to sell it after the whole plane crash incident), and couldn’t think of how to get past the front desk. His suit was still being repaired in the lab, so he couldn’t just crawl up the side of the building. Happy didn’t drop him off today, so he couldn’t use his ID card, and his phone died on the cab ride over, so he couldn’t just text Mr. Stark-- Tony.

He’s gotten better with calling him Tony, but it still feels clunky and strange on his tongue. And now, he had the added guilt of making Tony think of his dad every time he messed up. They didn’t talk about it much, but Peter was good enough at understanding subtext to know he wasn’t a good person to be reminded of. He hated to see the hurt look on his face when he couldn’t say Tony with the same excitement as Mr. Stark. But how do you explain to someone that using their first name makes you think of your dead uncle?

Peter knew he’s had a lot of trauma in his life, especially regarding the death of family members-- specifically, parental figures.

He called Richard “Dad” because that’s what he was, and that’s all he thought mattered at that age. He taught him to tie his shoes, he was there when he was born, and he heard his first word. But then, he died. And Peter moved in with Aunt May and Uncle Ben.

He called Ben by his first name because Dad was already taken. It was a simple decision. They had a conversation one night where Peter said he saw Ben as a father in every way except for the title. Ben’s eyes had been misty as he gave him a hug goodnight that evening. Then Ben was also taken from him, and he was left to mourn with Aunt May.

Enter Tony Stark. Peter has known him since just a few months after he got bit by a spider and fell into the persona of a crime-fighting vigilante. In the short time he’d known him, Tony had already made a big impact on his life. An upgraded suit, access to a high-tech lab with the supplies to make anything he could ever want, and, of course, another sort of father figure. Tony isn’t as confident in his emotions as Ben, or as outwardly paternal as Richard, but their bond is already much stronger than a standard mentor-mentee relationship.

It’s depressing to even think about, but Peter is running out of ways to address the influential men in his life. Richard got the title, Ben got the first name, which leaves an awkward “Mr. Stark” leftover. It didn’t make sense, Peter knew that, but calling Mr. Stark by his first name just made him think of all the times he called Ben by his. But he’d gone through worse, and he could handle saying Tony, for his sake.

He shook his head a bit before finally walking up to the front desk. The best way out of the woods is through, after all. He smiled awkwardly at the woman behind the front desk, knowing he must have seemed very out of place.

“Can I help you?” she said, looking at his nerdy graphic tee and jeans dismissively over her glasses.

“Yes, thank you, I’m just here to see Tony.” Peter tried to give his best I’m a sweet kid, please help me smile.

“Tony…?”

“Sorry, Tony Stark. I’m supposed to be in the lab with him right now, but I was running late so I had to take a cab, and my phone died so I can’t text him,” he started to trail off, looking for any reaction in the receptionist.

“Cute,” she said, her bored expression not changing, “but Mr. Stark is very busy right now. You can check the website for when he does meet and greets. If you have any fan mail, you can leave it with me and I’ll send it to his office.”

“No I’m--” Peter cut himself off by running a hand through his hair, “I’m not a fan, I’m serious, can you just tell him Peter’s in the lobby?”

“Listen kid,” and wow did it sound much icier than when Tony said it, “you seem really sweet, but do you really expect me to believe that not only does a middle schooler get to spend one-on-one time with the owner of SI in his personal labs, but he’s on a first name basis with him, too?”

“I’m in high school,” Peter said, but his confidence had already wilted. He wished that he and Tony had actually set up his internship documents instead of continuously putting it off, so he could just scan an ID and walk in.

“Sure. Do you have any other stories, or do I need to call security?”

Peter murmured to himself as he started to turn away, stopping when he saw the receptionist’s face finally change from bored to shocked. Not a second later, he felt a steady hand clap his shoulder. He instinctively looked behind him, only to see Tony, sporting a pair of sunglasses and a suit.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss…” Tony checked the nametag of the receptionist before continuing to speak, “Debbie. Peter here just got a little lost. He’s a high school intern, who I still need to issue an ID to.”

“I’m so sorry Mr. Stark--” Tony cut her off with a raised hand.

“No need to apologize, I’m glad you’re doing your job well. We’ll be going now.”

Tony led Peter to the elevators, leaving the shocked receptionist blinking to herself. Peter waited until the doors slid shut behind them before he spoke.

“Sorry Tony, I left my suit in the lab, and then my phone ran out of battery on the way here--” Tony cut him off by ruffling his hair as he took his sunglasses off.

“What’s with people and apologizing to me today? FRIDAY let me know when you walked in, I just had to finish some boring meeting before coming down.”

“Oh. Okay, cool.” Peter bounced on his heels awkwardly as the elevator slowed to a stop.

“And,” Tony smirked down at Peter and tapped the sunglasses in his hand when he looked up, “I heard and saw everything through FRIDAY. So if you do have any fan mail, please make sure it gets to my office.”

Peter groaned. He would never live that down.

v. on a rooftop

Peter swung to the top of a nearby building and sat with his back leaning against the roof entrance, letting out a huge sigh as he finally got to relax. He slid his mask off and closed his eyes to work through the withdrawal of adrenaline as he waited for Tony’s inevitable lecture. Thankfully (or not), he didn’t have to wait too long. It was only a matter of minutes before he heard the Iron Man suit touch down next to him. He heard the faceplate lifting before Tony’s voice cut through the silence.

“Are you hurt, Pete?” Peter was too tired to try to analyze his mood through his voice. He just shook his head from side to side.

“FRI, do a scan for me.” He couldn’t hear FRIDAY’s response from where he was sitting, but it must have proved he was okay because Tony just huffed and walked to his side.

“Sorry,” Peter muttered.

“Kid, you can’t just apologize and keep doing the same thing over and over. I told you to not meddle with this… goblin guy. If you’re really sorry you wouldn’t keep going against my direct orders.”

Peter just muttered under his breath as he turned to face away from Tony.

“Hey, we’re having a conversation here, look at me,” he ordered.

“Are we?” Peter swung his head back to face Tony, feeling some of his exhaustion fall away at the prospect of an argument, “because it seems pretty one-sided to me.”

“No, you don’t get to do that,” Tony pointed his finger accusingly, “you could have been hurt, you could have died today Peter, are you willing to face that? What would have happened if I hadn’t shown up?”

“I would have been fine,” Peter said, stumbling as he stood up. Despite himself, Tony automatically started to move to help steady him before he was waved off, “I can handle myself.”

“I wish I believed that.”

“I wish you did, too.”

Tony broke eye contact first, stepping back and rubbing his face as he sighed.

“Kid, you remind me too much of myself, which just makes me end up feeling like my dad. You have to listen to me when I tell you to do something. I do, in fact, have a reason behind what I say to you. If you died out there, I’d--”

“You’d what,” Peter interrupted, his temper rising, “you’d feel sad? You’d be guilty? You know what’d I feel if I died? Nothing. At all. So stop trying to guilt-trip me--”

“Guilt-trip? That’s not what’s happening here. Jesus kid, I’m just trying to say that you have people who care about you, and you need to take care of yourself.”

“Yeah well people caring about me won’t stop me from doing the right thing. He would have killed plenty of innocent civilians who also had people that cared about them if I hadn’t stopped him.”

“Listen, I know you think you know what’s best for you and what’s best for the world, but you’re 16, you have no clue what the world can do to a person.”

“I have no clue what the world can do to a person?” Peter was definitely angry now. His filter completely gone, he continued, “My parents died when I was six. I was there to see my uncle die. Aunt May and I were barely living paycheck to paycheck before I met you. My first girlfriend’s dad tried to kill me. Next time try taking the silver spoon out of your mouth before you try to talk to me about knowing what the world can do to a person, Tony.”

The name shot out like a bullet covered in ice. Peter’s shoulders were still shaking with his heavy, angry breaths. He looked up to see Tony’s face passively blank, the same way it looked when Peter asked about his black eye on the way back from Germany. He instantly felt a wave of guilt.

“Look, I’m sorry--” Tony silently raised a hand, cutting him off.

“I know you’ve gone through a lot, Peter. I’m willing to ignore that outburst. I also know that you feel like you need to save the whole world, but you can’t. No matter how good of a hero you are, there’s always going to be people you can’t save.”

Peter looked to his feet as Tony let his final statement float in the air for a beat.

“That’s why I put you on the bench sometimes. You have to let the people who have already lost fight the battles where they’re going to lose more. You’re still young, and you have to let us protect you. Me, your aunt, Rhodey, even Happy. We all want the best for you, kid. You’re going to be the best of us. We want to make sure you stay safe for long enough so we have someone to pass the torch to.” A beat passed before Peter nodded and put his mask back on.

“I think I’m just gonna go back home now.”

“I can handle that,” Tony said cooly. Peter walked to the edge of the roof, about to jump off, when he looked back over his shoulder.

“Tony?” he heard the clink of the faceplate moving back into place before he saw Tony turn around. They looked at each other across the roof for a beat, through the safety of their masks, before Peter continued.

“Thank you.”

vi. in the lab (again)

It was just an average weekend. That is to say, an average weekend for someone who was bitten by a radioactive spider and then taken under the wing of the local billionaire/superhero. Peter and Tony were tinkering in the lab together on Peter’s Mark III suit. The sun was just starting to dip under the horizon, momentarily painting the whole room pink.

“I don’t know if I want the instant-kill mode anymore,” Peter said hesitantly. He looked over to see Tony’s hard stare focused on FRIDAY’s hologram of the suit between them.

“Non-negotiable. You don’t have to use it, but I’ll sleep better knowing you have it.” Peter looked away, suddenly wanting to change the subject.

“What about the web-shooters? Do you still think I need all 576 combinations?” His attempt to lighten the mood worked and Tony looked over at him with a smirk.

“Have you tried all of them yet?”

“Well,” Peter looked to the side as he tried to remember, “I think I’ve used at least 6 different ones.”

“We can keep them until you’ve tried them all, then.” Peter coughed something that sounds suspiciously like “helicopter mom” and Tony jokingly tapped his fist against his shoulder.

“You still like the red and blue?” Tony asked, “I tried adding different colors in different marks of the Iron Man suits, it keeps things fresh.” Peter screwed his face up in concentration, or maybe in disgust at remembering the Mark XXVII’s color scheme.

“I want people to be able to recognize me still. So let’s stick with the same general design.” Tony nodded his head as he typed something into the projected keyboard in front of him and the phrase “similar design” showed up on a growing list of points next to the suit’s hologram.

“How’s your… stickiness working? Is the suit getting in the way?” Peter sighed in frustration.

“I wish I knew how it worked so we could figure out how to help it, but the suit doesn’t bother it. As long as I don’t think about it too hard I can stick to anything.”

“Next week let’s experiment with the ‘anything’ part,” Tony said as he pushed away from the desk they were sharing. He tapped Peter’s shoulder as he walked behind him, “Be right back, coffee break.”

Peter nodded, his focus on the suit. His brain was going a mile a minute trying to figure out what to improve. He remembered that his phone’s touchscreen couldn’t register his fingers in the suit, and they could easily put conductive material in the gloves to solve it. He turned around to get Tony’s attention.

“Hey, Ben--” and he instantly closed his mouth.

Time froze. Tony turned at the noise, and they both stared at each other like two deer in headlights. The amicable silence in the lab turned oppressive. Peter could pinpoint the exact moment when Tony remembered that Ben was the name of his late uncle by how his eyes went from squinting in confusion to wide in shock. They were both somehow blushing and pale as a sheet at the same time, seemingly stuck in that position for hours. Peter tried to think of the best excuse to leave the lab as soon as he could.

“I forgot something in my bedroom,” Peter said, starting time back up again. He quickly skittered to the lab door.

“Wait,” he felt himself stop at Tony’s words, even though he wanted nothing more than to escape this situation, “as much as we both would much rather ignore what just happened, let’s… talk about this.” At least Peter wasn’t alone in his agony. He slowly turned around to face the awkward conversation head-on. They both stood in silence before Peter finally spoke.

“I’m sorry Mr. Stark, it’s just--”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” Tony said, setting his coffee mug down on the counter, “you don’t need to apologize. I’m telling you right now that I’m not offended or upset with you at all about this. I just think we should talk about why it happened.” Peter sighed and ran a hand nervously through his hair as Tony looked anywhere but his face.

“Well… you know how my parents and uncle are dead?” Peter looked over to see Tony’s eyes snap to his as a mix of confusion, sadness, and sympathy. He chuckled a little at the sight before continuing, “sorry, that was a little harsh. But they are. Dead, that is.”

Tony’s face didn’t improve. Peter had to psych himself up a little bit more and took another breath to compose his thoughts.

“Wow, I am just saying… words. But, um, yeah. I called my dad ‘Dad’ because he was my dad. Obviously,” Jesus Parker, get it together, “and then Ben was like a dad to me in so many ways, but I called him by his first name because ‘Dad’ was already taken, you know?” Realization was starting to dawn on Tony’s face.

“Kid…” Peter waved him off and continued, looking pointedly at the ground, trying to ignore the shameful pricks in the corners of his eyes.

“And then you came in, and you do so many things that remind me of them, Mr. Stark,” Peter paused, tears starting to pool up in his eyelids. He forced himself to look at Tony, “so many things. And I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I just latch onto people in my life, and I don’t let them go. Even for a moment. And I’m projecting this idea of all the expectations of people I’ve lost in my past onto you, and that’s not healthy for me because I’ll just be disappointed when it turns out you--”

Peter’s emotions were coming out of him like air rushing out of a balloon. It’s like calling Tony by his uncle’s name took the cork off a bottle that was now pouring all of its contents down the sink. He couldn’t stop talking now, even if he wanted to. He tried to hide his shaky breaths with a sigh, and Tony looked at him sadly, knowing to let him finish before speaking.

“And I just-- hm. I called Ben by his first name because I couldn’t call him dad. And I called you Ben because I’m just--” he cut himself off as his voice filled with more emotion, and started to pace anxiously around the lab, “--I see you as a father figure, okay? Ben was my father figure for over half my life and calling you by your first name when I already see you in the same light just made my wires get crossed. It’s not the end of the world or anything. It shouldn’t have to be this big secret. I’m an orphan one and a half times over, and you’re-- You’re a superhero, my honest-to-God childhood hero, and you take care of me in so many ways. You make me do my homework, you yell at me when I get myself hurt, we watch movies together, you ruffle my hair and call me kid, am I supposed to just treat you the same as any other adult in my life?

“I know that’s a lot of pressure for you, and I know that we’re both shitty with talking about our feelings but this has just been festering inside of me, and every time I call you Tony I just think of Ben, and I--” a sob, this time not hidden at all as he sat down on a nearby bench, “--I miss him so much, Mr. Stark. Every day. I’m never going to get over that. And I called him by his first name. So I can’t call you by your first name, and I’m never going to call you Dad, and I’m sorry. I just-- They’re taken. And now calling someone by their last name will just make me think of you and I’m just so screwed up that I can’t--”

Peter sobbed again, dropping his head into his hands. He kept starting meaningless syllables and cutting himself off with heavy, ragged breaths. Tony quickly went over and sat next to him. He cautiously placed a hand on his back, trying to move it in circles like he remembered Rhodey doing to him when he found out his parents passed away. Peter’s breath slowly became more even as he gathered himself. Tony decided this would be a good time to say his piece.

“Okay, first of all, I want to make sure you are absolutely certain that I am not going anywhere. You’re going to have to put up with me for a very long time.” Peter smiled softly through his tear-stained face at that, which Tony counted as a win as he continued.

“Kid, I know I don’t say it a lot but I do care about you,” Tony hoped he didn’t notice the waver in his paper-thin voice, “I do love you, Peter. In a very paternal way. Don’t ever be ashamed of seeing me as a father figure, because I suppose I see you as a… son figure.” Tony took a second to rub his eyes and steady his breath. He looked over to see Peter’s face red and puffy, but full of adoration, and warmth, and just pure love. Tony swore he felt ten years get added to his lifespan instantly. He wanted to take a picture and tie it to the end of his suit as he flew above the city, showing off to the whole world what love looks like.

“But you have to let me know when you’re hurting, Pete,” he continued, making sure Peter was looking at him still, “you have to. Especially if I’m the cause of it. I don’t care if I’m about to accept the Nobel Peace Prize and the last time we talked was an argument where you said you hated me. If you need help, I will be there in the blink of an eye. You just have to tell me. Tell me what is going wrong so I can fix it. It’s what I do.

“And as for what you call me, Mr. Stark is perfect. I thought I-- well. It used to remind me of my father, but now it’ll just remind me of you.” He finished his small speech with a smile directed at Peter, his eyes wet but sparkling with love as he looked at his kid.

They sat like that for a few minutes. Just basking in the warmth of their shared love as the pink light of the sunset faded and FRIDAY turned on the overhead lighting. Tony eventually decided to break the silence.

“All those emotions certainly tired me out,” Tony joked, getting a grin from Peter in return, “You ready for bed, Pete?”

“I’m ready to lay in my bed on my phone for a few hours before actually falling asleep if that’s what you mean.” Tony rolled his eyes and chuckled.

“Okay whippersnapper, I’ll never understand your generation.”

Tony opened the lab door and led them both out into the hallway. They walked to the bedroom wing without saying anything, the comfortable silence they had in the lab still covering them like a warm blanket. They stopped outside Peter’s bedroom as usual.

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite, Underoos,” Tony said as he turned to go to his bedroom.

“I love you, Mr. Stark,” Peter blurted out, causing Tony to turn around, “I didn’t say it earlier. But I do.”

Peter was biting his lip nervously as Tony felt his heart beat a little quicker. He smiled warmly at Peter, more genuine than he had smiled in a long time.

“Oh, come on over here, kid. I think we’re there.”

Tony opened his arms and Peter practically ran into him.

“Watch the spider-strength,” He grunted as Peter laughed and tucked his face into Tony’s chest. His nose was just barely brushing against the metal border of his arc reactor. The blue light made Peter’s hair look like a painting.

Standing there, with Peter’s arms wrapped around him, Tony knew that he would do anything in his power to make sure he stayed safe and happy. He felt a fierce fire deep in his chest that almost dared the world to send something at him, just to let him have something to prove his strength to. He felt like he could take down an entire army. Like he could climb to the top of Mount Everest without even breaking a sweat.

But instead, he just wrapped his arms around Peter and took a deep breath, committing this feeling to memory.

“I love you too, kid.”

Tag List: @ironfamjam

#wooo im real proud of this boy #feel free to yell at me about it!#irondad #spiderman #spider man #iron man #irondad and spiderson #tony stark #mcu #peter parker #tony stark has a heart #art writes

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mdelpin · 5 years

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Happy Holigays 2019! For: @weissgrayblu - Merry Christmas, I really hope you like your gift! AO3 |FF.Net

The Truth in their Stars

Natsu and Gray - Age 11

"Catch me if you can!" Natsu yelled. With their chores finally done, it was time to play. He took off into the forest as quickly as he could, sparing only a second to gauge how far away Gray was.

With a grin, he raced ahead, his boots crunching in the snow, amused at the determined expression on his friend's face. As soon as he was deep enough into the forest, he climbed the nearest tree quickly, waiting to pounce on his unsuspecting friend. He could hear Gray's steps getting closer and tried to stifle his laughs, even as he panted from his exertions.

When a few minutes had passed, and Gray was no closer to reaching his hiding spot, Natsu looked around only to be knocked off his perch by the force of a well-aimed snowball, landing face down in a large snowdrift.

His ears reddened as Gray’s laughter assailed him, “Next time you want to ambush me, maybe remember that all the leaves have already fallen off the trees, moron.”

Natsu had to admit that had been kind of dumb on his part, so he laughed along, carefully collecting snow underneath him and shaping it into a snowball that he threw at his friend in one fluid motion as he turned over onto his back. The snow hit its target beautifully, covering Gray's smug expression in snow.

“I suppose we should call that a tie,” Gray commented as he calmly wiped the snow off his face. He offered his hand to Natsu and helped pull him back up to a standing position. “What do you want to do today?”

“Let’s go exploring!” Natsu immediately replied as he did every other time, eyes lighting up with excitement as his mouth widened into a fanged grin that caused a faint stirring in Gray’s chest.

"Okay!" Gray agreed, ignoring the strange feeling and once again chasing after Natsu. Together they ran through the trees, occasionally stopping to wrestle and roll in the snow until they were both shivering with cold.

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

Natsu and Gray age 18

Over the following years, the stirring in Gray's chest flourished into a spark, which soon ignited into a full-fledged flame. Every moment spent with Natsu was equal parts enjoyment and torture, especially since Natsu had never given any indication he felt the same way.

Even if he did, Gray would never be able to act on it. They lived in a small traditional village. There had never been two men romantically involved in the entire history of Isvan. Marriages were determined by a ceremony. The village elder would study the stars and consult the gods for every male in the village when they turned five, informing them of who they were fated to marry. The results were accepted blindly. As far as Gray knew, no one had ever gone against the elder's findings.

His own ceremony had gone badly, although he’d never been able to get the details from his parents. All he knew was that whatever the elder had prophesied for him had gotten her kicked out of the village.

Gray had never been too concerned that he was the only one that didn't know the name of his supposed true love. He amused himself with the fantasy that maybe she had named Natsu, and it had caused an uproar.

He'd never thought the ceremony made much sense. He might have lived in Isvan his entire life, but he was well aware that they were but a small part of a much larger world. With so many people in existence, how was it possible the stars would only ever point to people in their own village?

Natsu wasn't from Isvan. Igneel, the village blacksmith, had found him in the woods. He'd taken him in and adopted him as his son when no trace of his family could be found.

He’d had become a large part of Gray's life right away as there weren't many children his age in the village and the thought that he could have missed out on him because of something as silly as geography had always bugged him.

Natsu’s arrival and love of exploration had opened up Gray's eyes to the fact that there was so much more to the world than what they were taught. What else was out there? He wanted to find out, to go off exploring with Natsu one day and maybe never come back.

A few days after Natsu’s eighteenth birthday, Gray noticed his friend had been quiet, his usually carefree features furrowed into a frown as he sat across from the entrance to the blacksmith’s shop.

"I'd offer you a jewel for your thoughts, but I know you're not capable of any," Gray shoved Natsu to the side, making some room so he could sit next to him.

"Hey!" Natsu immediately shoved back, and one of their typical wrestling matches began. Gray was pleased to see Natsu's smile return gradually as they rolled around in the ground, earning annoyed protests from the villagers that were attempting to walk by.

Once their energy was spent, they both sat staring at the blacksmith's shop, occasionally catching glimpses of Igneel as he moved around inside.

“So, what’s wrong?” Gray finally asked, not used to so much silence between them.

“Igneel told me the village elder came to see him this morning,” Natsu confessed, looking troubled once again, “She wants to perform the stars ceremony on me, says it’s well past my time.”

Gray found he literally couldn't breathe for a full minute after hearing those words. He knew it was true, all the other boys their age had already begun courting their future spouses, but he and Natsu had lived in this bubble for so long that he'd hoped maybe Natsu would somehow be exempt since he was a foundling.

And of course, his own ceremony had been bungled. As far as he knew, the ceremony had never been performed twice on the same person, so despite the best efforts put forth by the village girls who had yet to be matched to get his attention, Gray had been free to do as he wished.

What would the result of Natsu's ceremony be? Gray dared to hope that maybe he would be called as Natsu's match, even though he knew the odds of this were fairly slim. If it did happen, what would Natsu think of that?

He'd never shown any romantic interest in Gray, at least not that he had been able to tell. Then a worse outcome entered his poor brain, what if Natsu were matched with someone else? Would Gray be able to spend the rest of his life watching the one he loved live out his life with someone else?

But one look at Natsu's face, coupled with the uncharacteristic hug he received before Natsu entered the blacksmith's shop to help his father was all Gray needed to realize that the answer to his initial question was even worse than he'd anticipated.

Natsu was getting ready to leave Isvan, and Gray was faced with a crucial decision. Could he leave everything he knew behind to follow the one he loved?

The answer proved to be simpler than he'd anticipated. Gray would absolutely leave everything behind, but not without at least providing his parents with some sort of explanation.

He asked for their blessing to go seek his fortune, to explore the world that lay past the boundaries of the forest that surrounded them. To his surprise, they encouraged his decision.

And so Gray spent the day packing everything he could think of for the both of them, knowing if Natsu was sneaking out, he might not have the chance to pack very well. At sunset, he bid his parents farewell.

His mother whispered, "Good luck, my darling," into his ear in a way that made Gray wonder if she knew what he was really up to.

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

Gray arrived at the entrance of the forest he knew from experience Natsu used the most. He put his supplies down and settled in for a wait, leaning against a tree for comfort.

About an hour after he arrived, he began to hear quiet noises, and soon Natsu came into view, moving with more stealth than Gray thought him capable of. His expression was sad, and he stopped every few feet to look back at the village.

Gray didn't like to see him like that, so he did the only thing he could think of. He jumped out from behind the tree he'd been resting against and yelled, "Gotcha!"

Natsu was so startled he managed to fall on his ass, “Bastard!” he hissed in outrage, “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Gray grinned and offered his hand, pulling Natsu up once he took it. “I was trying to get that stupid look off your face. Seriously, you looked like you lost your best friend or something.”

Natsu refused to meet his gaze, but he muttered, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Ho ho, so that was about me!” Gray teased, “I didn’t know you cared.”

Natsu glared at him, ready for a fight, as always, “As if. Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

Gray went back to the tree and grabbed his bag, strapping it on his shoulders, "And let you go on an adventure without me? Hell, no!"

“How did you—?” Natsu began to ask but seemed to think better of it.

“Know you were taking off?” Gray chuckled, “You are so easy to read, what I don’t understand is the why?”

Natsu squared his shoulders and crossed his arms in front of his chest, “I’m not about to let some bullshit ceremony decide my life for me.”

"Why do you think it's a bullshit ceremony?" Gray asked, already knowing his own thoughts on the subject but curious to hear if Natsu knew something he didn't.

"Yesterday, I was doing deliveries for Igneel when I saw Jude Heartfilia handing a bunch of jewels to the elder. Then all of a sudden, after years of no one caring about whether the ceremony had been performed on me or not, they're demanding I have one?"

They began walking side by side through the forest with no other light but the moonlight and stars to guide their way.

“Hey, Gray?” Natsu asked after a few hours of traveling in silence.

“Hmm?” Gray had been running Natsu’s words over and over in his mind. He’d had his suspicions over the years, but he’d never thought money was involved. What could possibly have happened at his ceremony to have the village decide to banish the previous elder? It didn’t make any sense.

“How come you haven’t started courting your intended yet?”

“I don’t have one,” Gray said simply.

“I don’t understand, I thought everyone did except for me,” Natsu peered at him, his eyes as confused as Gray felt.

"We used to have a different elder, I barely remember her. She had pink hair like yours and was always in a rotten mood, but after she did my ceremony, she was banished, and the one we have now took her place. I was never told who my match was, so I guess I'm destined to be alone."

Natsu remained quiet for a few minutes before declaring, "No one is destined to be anything, we get to choose for ourselves. I chose to leave the village rather than submit to a life I don't believe in, and you, well, you decided to come with me." Natsu grinned. "So now that we've made these decisions, where should we go?"

“I’ve always wanted to see the mountains,” Gray mentioned, thinking that was as far away as he knew of, and it would keep Natsu beside him the longest.

“Why stop there?” Natsu asked, his eyes shining as they always did when something excited him.

“Well we should at least stop for the night, we should be far enough away now,” Gray pointed out, his eyes beginning to droop with tiredness.

"Alright, I think I see a clearing," Natsu ran ahead, and by the time Gray arrived, he'd already set his pack down and was rummaging through its contents. He grabbed some items and tossed them to Gray, who accepted them gratefully, not shocked at all to see it was food.

Gray dropped his own pack on the ground and sat next to his friend, both munching on the food Natsu had brought. Once it was all done, Natsu lay down on the soft earth, using his pack as a pillow while Gray removed his sleeping bag and laid it out.

"I don't suppose you happened to bring another one of those?" Natsu asked, hopefully.

“You really are an idiot, did you only pack food in that thing?” Gray asked curiously, glad that he had thought ahead to what they might need, afraid of this very same scenario.

“Well yeah, what else would I need?”

Gray pointed at his sleeping bag and rolled his eyes, "It's going to get even colder soon, what were you planning to do when it started snowing?"

“I didn’t think of that,” Natsu admitted sheepishly.

“Good night, Natsu,” Gray muttered as he crawled into his sleeping bag, trying to ignore the sounds of the other’s discomfort, too worried his body might betray him if Natsu was sleeping in such close quarters. He fell asleep quickly, tired by all the walking they’d done.

Gray awoke sometime later to hear a loud chattering noise, and he felt terrible, they should have at least started a fire or something. He was the practical one, he should have thought of that. "Just get in here," he grumbled sleepily, "You're going to wake up the bears at this rate."

There was no witty response, just a flash of pink as a freezing cold Natsu crawled into the sleeping bag and settled in behind him, "Th-thanks," Natsu replied, teeth still chattering.

Gray turned around to face him, wanting to get a good look and tried not to laugh at how miserable he seemed.

"You should warm up soon," Gray assured him before turning back around, not trusting himself to not do something physical to warm Natsu up, and perhaps it was only wishful thinking, but he thought Natsu had looked mildly disappointed.

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

They spent the next day trying to put as much distance between themselves and Isvan as they could, knowing by now Jude Heartfilia must have noticed Natsu’s absence and might have decided to try to bring him back.

By the time the sun had set, they were exhausted and thrilled to happen upon a large outcropping of rocks. Their configuration created a sort of cave that would protect them from the brutal wind. Natsu and Gray crawled in eagerly, and after a quick meal of whatever they could quickly get out from their packs in the dark, they nestled against each other inside Gray's sleeping bag, neither bothering to remove any of their heavy clothing. They fell asleep this way, their back's touching. Or at least that's what Gray remembered, but he woke to find Natsu's arm draped carelessly around his middle. Heat rushed to his face as Natsu's loud snores tickled the back of his neck, and he realized that they were spooning.

He snorted at the noise, in all the times they had shared a room, he couldn't remember Natsu ever being that loud as he slept. Gray decided his friend must just be exhausted since he also couldn't imagine Natsu cuddling him willingly either. Still, he allowed himself to enjoy this rare instance of affection.

And that’s when he heard it, or rather didn’t hear it. The loud snoring had stopped, yet he could still feel Natsu’s breath on his neck.

There was a rustling near them, and a low growl that was soon followed by loud sniffing and the sound of ripping canvas. Gray lay very still, afraid he knew exactly what was there even if he couldn’t see it. The impression of a cold nose sniffing the air around them helped to reinforce his suspicions.

“Natsu,” Gray whispered, gently moving back the arm that was draped over him.

Natsu remained dead to the world, and Gray once again remained quiet, not wanting to draw the bear's attention since it seemed to be enjoying their food. He shook his friend behind him.

“Natsu,” Gray whispered a little louder.

"Hmmm, Graaaaay," Natsu finally replied, although the tone of his voice and the sudden shifting of his hips made Gray wonder precisely what kind of dream he was having.

"Natsu," This time, Gray shook him hard enough that he knew there was no way Natsu could sleep through it, and when he felt his friend move sluggishly, he tried to let him know what was going on. "I need you to be very quiet, okay?"

“What’s going on?” Natsu whispered back groggily, much to Gray’s relief.

“We need to get out of here,” Gray managed as calmly as he could, given the circumstances. “There’s a bear in here with us.”

He didn't get a chance to say anything else as the bear finally ran out of food and became enraged by the noise they were making, Gray tried to unzip his sleeping bag as quickly as possible to give them a way out, but the bear was already charging. Gray had no more time to think. He somehow managed to crawl out quickly, pulling Natsu along with him.

For once in his life, Natsu remained silent, not once complaining about being pulled along by Gray. They both got to their feet and ran as fast as they could with the bear giving them chase.

"Where did it even come from? I thought bears hibernated," Gray complained when five minutes later, the bear showed no sign of slowing down.

"Nevermind that, we gotta find a tree to climb," Natsu's head darted quickly, examining the trees that surrounded them before quickly pulling Gray behind him, "That one!"

Natsu had always been able to climb trees easily, and this was no exception, letting go of Gray's hand he was halfway up the tree in no time, but Gray had never been as good, and now with the added pressure of an enraged bear closing in on them, he couldn't seem to make any progress. He was still stuck on the lowest branch. Natsu scurried down, holding on to the tree trunk with one arm while offering Gray his hand.

“Just go back up, I’ll think of something else,” Gray assured him, not wanting Natsu to get hurt.

“I”m not leaving you down there!” Natsu grabbed his forearm and pulled him up onto the next branch and continued to help him until they were about halfway up the tree. They were both panting as they hugged the trunk as best they could. Their eyes fixed on the bear that had begun to shake the tree below them.

"I guess we're going to be here for a while," Gray sighed in consternation, but Natsu started to laugh.

“What the hell is so funny?”

“I was just thinking that I’d much rather be here, stuck in a tree with you while avoiding a pissed-off bear, than back home.”

"Speak for yourself, idiot," Gray countered, but he was glad it was too dark for Natsu to see the way his words, combined with how they had woken up, had affected him.

“Can I have your belt?”

Gray was confused by the request, but he unbuckled his belt and handed it over, watching as Natsu tied it to their hands then to the tree trunk. "In case we fall asleep," Natsu explained, "It's a long way down."

Somehow they did manage to fall asleep in the tree, with Natsu leaning against the trunk and Gray leaning against him, their hands joined together by the belt, only waking when the sun rose. Thankfully by then, there was no sign of the bear.

Natsu unbuckled them, and they climbed down, feeling all sorts of aches from sleeping in an uncomfortable position.

Gray stretched his arms above his head, looking around to see where they were. Not that he expected to recognize anything, this was the furthest either of them had ever ventured from Isvan.

But the mountains were ahead of them, and they continued to walk towards them.

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

"We're screwed," Natsu finally declared what they had both been thinking. They'd lost their packs, which had contained all their food. They'd also lost Gray's sleeping bag, which had been the only thing to keep them warm at night. They could ignore the rumble in their stomachs for a while longer, but if they didn't find shelter before nightfall, they might not survive the night.

So when they found the small frozen pond, they decided to try to cross it, hoping to reach the other side while it was still daylight. Natsu went in search of sticks they could use to test the ice before walking on it.

While he waited impatiently for Natsu's return, Gray decided to just test the ice, stepping on it carefully to see if it would bear his weight. When there was no sign of a crack, he moved away from the edge, gliding gracefully once he'd gotten his balance.

He didn't attempt to do any tricks, knowing it would be a disaster without ice skates. He was surprised to see Natsu standing at the pond's edge, watching him with what appeared to be a fond smile.

“I’d forgotten how good you were at that,” Natsu called out.

"Well, not all of us can be squirrels," Gray retorted. He liked having Natsu's eyes on him, loved

the attention, and the way his friend was laughing at his lame comeback. He was starting to think that maybe Natsu liked him back.

He beckoned Natsu to come on the ice, showing him it was safe. Natsu stepped on the ice slowly, immediately falling backward as he slipped. He scowled when Gray laughed at him.

“Come on, try again,” Gray managed to keep his balance as he helped Natsu get to his feet, holding on to his gloved hand as he encouraged him to use one of the branches he had collected as a sort of walking stick and taking the other for himself.

“Take short steps, and bend forward a little. Like this, okay?” Gray began walking, continuing to hold on to Natsu’s hand to help him keep his balance, or so he told himself. “And if you feel like you’re going to fall lean your head forward, you don’t want to lose what little brains you have left.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Natsu muttered under his breath as he continued to struggle.

Gray held his tongue, knowing how much Natsu hated to look foolish in front of others. Instead, he squeezed his hand, "Just relax, and do what I do."

Pretty soon, Natsu had gotten the hang of it. Gray could probably have let go of his hand after the first few minutes, but he was enjoying it, and Natsu wasn't complaining.

In this manner, they made their way across the pond, both remaining silent so they could keep track of any noises from the ice. It was slow going, but neither seemed to mind and when they had gotten about halfway, they saw smoke in the sky. It filled them with hope. If they could make it to the other side without incident, they could seek out its source and maybe ask for shelter for the night. They glanced at each other and smiled.

They were almost to the shore when they began to hear a cracking noise. Natsu froze, refusing to move in any direction until Gray deemed it safe. They began to use the sticks to test the ice more and more, but the cracking became louder, and a visible line appeared in front of them. Without even a thought, Gray pushed Natsu as hard as he could towards the shore, trying to keep him from falling in.

It was too late for him though, before he had a chance to move, there was one last loud crack, and the ice underneath him gave way. Gray fell through, managing to keep his mouth shut before he could swallow any water. He was disoriented at first, but there was enough light left in the sky to help him find his way back to the surface, and after a couple of failed attempts, he was able to find the opening.

Gray wasn't able to celebrate this small victory, however, for as soon as his head came up above the water, he soon felt both his heart and his breathing speed up, making him panic. He flailed in desperation, and that's when he saw him.

Natsu was headed back to him, running and screaming at the top of his lungs, "GRAAAAY!"

"St-stay over there, y-you'll only make things worse," is what Gray tried to say, but he was only panting the words out. There was no way Natsu could hear him. He had to get himself under control to show Natsu that he could handle it on his own before the fool ended up in the water with him.

He calmed himself down as much as he could, helped along by the feeling returning to his limbs. Once he managed a deep breath, he was able to call out, “Stay right there, I can get out!”

Natsu listened, although Gray could tell from his stance that it was but a temporary reprieve. He could see the worry in the well-loved features, and it fueled his determination.

Gray tried to grab the ice with his gloved hands, but it was too slippery. He grunted with the effort, his clothes were soaked through, and everything felt cold, but he knew he had to keep trying, Natsu's legs were practically twitching.

This time, instead of grabbing for the ice, he kicked his legs, moving his body as close to the ice as he could manage. He placed his arms on the ice, using them to prop himself up and continued to kick his legs to get as much of his torso as he could manage out of the water and onto the ice.

He could feel Natsu slowly moving towards him now that he was mostly out of the water, and this time he didn't protest. That last effort had exhausted him, and even as he continued kicking his legs weakly, he was afraid of what might happen if he fell back in. Gray felt himself being pulled the rest of the way out until he was on the shore. He had never been so relieved in his life.

"Thank fuck, you scared the hell out of me!" Natsu's breath was coming in pants, and to Gray's confusion, he felt his friend tugging off his clothes.

“What are you doing?!”

“What do you think I’m doing, I’m getting you out of these wet clothes. You’re going to freeze to death!”

Natsu ignored all his protests, and soon he was taking his clothes off as well, placing them on Gray to try to keep him warm and then bundling him up in his coat.

“Natsu, you’re going to freeze,” Gray objected weakly.

“I’ll be fine, there’s a house up ahead,” Natsu reported picking Gray up and carrying him on his back as he ran towards the source of the smoke they had seen from the lake.

Gray saw that Natsu had been right after all, in less than ten minutes they were at the door of a house that seemed to be built into a large tree. Natsu wasted no time, knocking on the door loudly.

“Help!” Natsu knocked insistently until a cantankerous voice could finally be heard.

“What the hell do you want? I didn’t move all the way out here to get visitors.”

"My friend fell in the pond, he's freezing. Please! He needs to be warmed up." Natsu pleaded even as he continued to knock relentlessly.

“Alright, alright, stop that infernal knocking already!”

The door finally opened, revealing an older woman with pink hair that looked vaguely familiar to Gray. She studied him before snapping at Natsu, "Don't just stand there, you simpleton, come inside. We need to get him near the fire."

She slammed the door behind them, leading them to a large room where a fire was burning. She instructed Natsu to place Gray on the sofa, immediately covering him in a blanket and leaving them alone to go in search of others.

“If you had died because you decided to come with me, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” Natsu blurted out as he hugged him through the blanket.

“I’m fine,” Gray patted Natsu on the head, reassuring him as best he could since he wasn’t sure how to react to those words or the hug, “A little time in front of the fire and I’ll be good as new.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the old lady, her arms full of blankets.

“Where are his clothes?” she barked at Natsu, making him jump away from Gray.

“I left them by the pond,” Natsu replied before sitting closer to the fire, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to warm himself up. He was only wearing his pants and boots, having taken everything else off to warm Gray up.

“Go get them,” she ordered as she piled blanket after blanket over Gray’s still shivering body without offering Natsu one.

“What? You’ve got to be kidding, it’s freezing out there, and he’s wearing all my clothes.”

“That’s not my problem, now go get them before I decide not to let you back in when you return,” she shrieked.

“Fine!” Natsu yelled, getting up and slamming the door behind him on his way out.

“Now then, young Fullbuster. This is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” the woman sounded like a completely different person now that Natsu was gone.

“You know me?” Gray furrowed his brow as he turned to look at the woman.

“I should, you’re the reason I was banished from Isvan,” her red eyes sparkled with amusement, “Not to mention, you’re the spitting image of your father.”

"Are you Porly- uhm," Gray tried to remember the rest, but it was a confusing name, and it had been years since he'd heard it.

“Porlyusica. Yes, I am, ” Porlyusica smiled kindly.

"I'm sorry, I don't really know what happened, but they shouldn't have banished you for it."

“They never told you?” Porlyusica muttered something under her breath that Gray wasn’t able to catch.

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Porlysica studied his face intently, looking for what, Gray had no way of knowing, “I imagine you’ll want to know the results then?.”

Gray thought about it. Did he want to know? When he was younger, he'd been very curious to know what happened, especially as no one would tell him. But everything was different now.

He thought of the last few days he and Natsu had spent together. Even though they had been fraught with danger, he had been oddly content and seeing some of Natsu's reactions had given him hope that it wasn't one-sided, that they might be able to have some sort of future together.

There was one question he needed an answer to, but only Natsu could give him the answer he was searching for.

“I was curious for a long time,” Gray admitted, “But now that I’m older, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. I don’t believe anyone is destined to be anything, I think we are all free to make our own choices, and I’ve already made mine.”

"The stars and even the gods can only give their opinions, but only you can truly know what is right for you. In all my years doing that idiotic ceremony, you are the only one who seems to have grasped that simple concept." Porlyusica grinned at him approvingly, patting him on the head but

making no further comment on the subject, "I'll go make some tea for when the idiot returns."

Gray chuckled, and when he began to feel lightheaded, he buried himself in the comforting weight of the blankets.

They stayed at Porlyusica’s treehouse for several days. She was determined to have Gray take it easy until she was sure there were no long-lasting effects from his unexpected swim in the freezing pond.

Porlyusica and Natsu were constantly at odds with each other, their bickering ringing loudly throughout the house. It shocked Gray. Not only did people usually like Natsu, but in all the years Gray had known him, he'd never noticed his friend showing animosity towards anyone before. Even more confusing, Gray had seen that Natsu was acting strangely towards him too, almost as if he were trying to distance himself, and Gray couldn't understand why. And with Porlyusica always there, there was never an opportunity to bring it up.

*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*✭˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ*

Once Gray had been deemed healthy enough to travel, they'd left Porlyusica's treehouse behind, continuing to move toward the mountains, which loomed ever closer. Before bidding them farewell, Porlyusica had given each of them a pack filled with as many provisions as she could spare, along with one sleeping bag large enough to fit both of them comfortably.

He and Natsu had walked all day, taking few breaks now that their goal was so close, but by nightfall, they were too tired to continue. They found a spot to camp for the night, and Natsu went off in search of kindling while Gray looked through their bags to find something to eat.

They got a fire going and sat around it in silence. Natsu had been quiet all day as well, only answering when Gray called out to him. It was obvious he was thinking about something, but Gray had no idea how to get him talking.

He decided that if this behavior continued the next day, he would confront Natsu and force whatever this was out of him. For now, he just laid out the large sleeping bag and crawled into it, Natsu followed, and soon they both lay on their backs looking up at the stars, which at the moment seemed closer to Gray than Natsu, who was less than a foot away.

“What are you planning to do once we reach the mountains?” Natsu asked suddenly, sneaking a peek at Gray before staring up at the sky fixedly.

Gray was surprised by the question, he’d thought they’d just keep going, traveling together until they found a place they’d like to live, but maybe he’d assumed too much.

"I don't know, I never really thought past that. The mountains are as far as I know," Gray responded as honestly as he could, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

"Are you going to go back to Isvan?" Natsu's entire demeanor was tense, and Gray, for the life of him, couldn't figure out what was going on inside his head.

"Why would I want to go back?" Now he was even more bewildered. Hadn't he made it clear he had no plans of ever returning?

"I just thought, now that you know who your intended is, you might want to go back to be with her," Natsu still refused to look at him, but Gray thought maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

Gray sighed, turning to face Natsu, "Is that what this is all about?"

Natsu turned to face him as well but still wouldn’t meet his gaze, “It’s just, before you didn’t think you had anyone, but now you do. It changes everything for you.”

“I still don’t know actually,“ Gray replied truthfully.

“Didn’t the old hag tell you?”

“She offered the first night we were there, but I told her I didn’t want to know.”

"But why? I mean, my ceremony was going to be a hoax, but yours was the real deal," Natsu puzzled, his eyes blazing with questions, "That woman may have been a menace, but she was honest."

And with those words, Gray was finally able to connect all the dots. Natsu had been acting weird because he was upset at the thought of Gray leaving him to spend the rest of his life with some girl, and he resented Porlyusica for being the cause of it.

He wanted to laugh but knew it would only work against him, so he decided to reassure Natsu instead. With only the briefest of hesitations, he reached out and caressed Natsu's cheek with his thumb, "I made my choice long ago, Natsu. Whether she confirmed it or not wouldn't have changed how I feel. "

Natsu's entire face had changed colors the moment Gray had touched him, and he tried to turn away, but Gray wouldn't let him, not when they were finally communicating.

"Do you mean, uhm, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Yeah, I'm not going anywhere. These past few days have been amazing, I mean yeah, we were chased by a bear, and I fell through the ice, and we stayed with a scary lady, but you were with me through all of it. I can get through anything as long as you’re with me."

Gray watched as Natsu's eyes lit up brighter than any star in the sky, his lips slowly stretching into that impossibly wide grin that Gray had always loved. He looked beautiful, and Gray was filled with a strong desire to kiss him, but before he could do anything about it, Natsu had already pressed their lips together.

The kiss was rough and playful and perfectly Natsu, and Gray loved it. He rolled them carefully until Natsu was atop him, allowing him to trace the contours of Natsu’s back as they kissed.

Once they separated, Natsu lowered his head to Gray's chest "I'm sorry, I should have asked. I've just wanted to do that for so long."

Gray chuckled, holding Natsu against him and running his fingers through the pink locks, “I’m glad you did, I don’t know how long it would have taken me to work up the courage.”

Natsu lifted his head, looking into Gray’s eyes with wide-eyed honesty, “These last few days all I could think about was you leaving me behind, and I hated it. I hated her. I always knew I liked you, but now, after everything that's happened, I think it's grown into something more."

“I love you too,” Gray managed to get out before seeking out Natsu’s lips, wanting to feel them against his again.

They were just two men kissing underneath the stars, and whether it was right or wrong, Gray couldn't say. He only knew it was right for them. They had found the truth in their stars, and Gray would happily spend the rest of his life following their light.

#fairy tail #gratsu #happyholigays2019 #ftlgbtales #happy holigays 2019 #ftfanfics #gift exchange #for: weissgrayblu #my edits

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patchwork-panda · 4 years

Text

If A Moment Is All We Are (28/?)

AO3 link here

OP theme here

“So, Nomura-san...”

I placed a hot cup of tea on the table in front of him and sat back to scan through the briefing one more time.

“It says here you want the Agency to look into your teacher?”

“Uh, yes,” Nomura mumbled, picking up the cup with a small, grateful nod.

He took a small, hesitant sip before answering.

“That’s right. Professor Matsuyama Shin. He teaches modern Japanese history to the grad students at my school.”

“Grad students?”

Nomura nodded and I looked down to check the sheet one more time.

Nomura Ken, age nineteen, was a first-year student at one of the local universities in Yokohama (not the one I’d dropped out of). According to the briefing, he wanted us to look into a professor in his department but declined to state why. And it seemed he’d made this appointment only a few hours ago. I put the briefing down and studied him.

“But you’re an undergrad,” I said slowly. “If he doesn’t teach your class, how do you know this professor?”

Nomura colored. He lowered his eyes and fidgeted in his seat. I tried not to stare. With his large, expressive eyes and short black hair, Nomura bore a distinct resemblance to a famous anime character he shared a first name with and it was taking everything I had not to point it out.

“It’s kind of a long story,” he said shyly, making the resemblance to that anime character even stronger. “Would you like to hear it?”

I nodded and picked up a pen to start taking notes.

“I met Sensei a few years ago,” Nomura said, “before I entered university. I was taking a day trip to the beach with a friend of mine when he suddenly got called home.”

He smiled apologetically.

“Family emergency, you know? I told him it wasn’t a big deal and I could go with him if he needed but he said I shouldn’t have to cut my trip short because of him. I ended up sitting there on the beach all by myself for the rest of the afternoon, just checking social media and going for a swim whenever I felt like it. That’s when I saw Sensei.”

He laughed a little then, a small, jittery noise that sounded more like a hiccup than an actual release. But his shoulders looked less tense now and his fingers weren’t gripping the teacup as tightly as before.

“Sensei... he’s kind of a weird person to be honest. While I was sitting there looking at my phone, he had this entire stack of books with him, really old-looking ones, kind of thick. When I asked him what he was reading, he just said, ‘history books,’ and asked me if I wanted to read one.”

His expression softened.

“There’s no way he could’ve known it at the time but I had already been thinking about applying to the history program at the university, so I took up his offer. Before I knew it, we’d spent the entire afternoon just sitting there, reading those books and discussing what we read.”

Looking sheepish, Nomura scratched his cheek.

“I know it sounds kind of odd, a high school kid sitting there on the beach, reading these old books with a stranger almost twice his age but it was nice. I honestly had a lot of fun and it felt kind of natural to end up exchanging emails at the end of the day. That’s when I found out he was a professor and I’ve been calling him ‘Sensei’ ever since.”

I smiled.

“He sounds like a nice guy.”

“Yeah,” Nomura said, taking another sip of his tea. “Yeah, he is. He’s really easy to talk to and he knows a lot about the subject he teaches. I’ve been helping him out between classes since his teaching assistant got sick and he’s kind of started acting like my mentor since then. It’s great. Or, it was great...”

He lowered his eyes and stared into his tea.

“The thing is... he’s been acting kind of strange lately. It’s pretty obvious there’s something bothering him but he won’t tell me or anyone else what it was. A few weeks ago, his wife came by to drop something off for him and he actually snapped at her.”

He chewed on his lower lip.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. He’s always been so patient, even his wife said so and it’s not like him to yell.”

Nomura sighed.

“He apologized to her and then to everyone else for making a scene but I’m seriously getting worried about him. He keeps staring at this picture in his office and talking to it.”

I put down my pen and observed Nomura as he appeared to shrink in on himself.

“I got curious, so I asked him who was in this picture and he answered, ‘Natsuki and Kei.’ I know Natsuki-san is his wife but I didn’t know who Kei-san is. And when I asked about him...”

Nomura sighed again.

“He just stopped talking entirely.”

“I see...”

“This is going to sound kind of strange,” Nomura admitted, squirming a little in his seat, “but I couldn’t help thinking that Kei-san has something to do with Sensei’s recent behavior. I’ve known him for years, and although we weren’t exactly the closest of friends, he’s never mentioned Kei once even though he was fine showing me pictures of his wife and his other friends.”

He grew quiet.

“Yesterday, he accidentally left something at his office. I knew where he lives so I went by his house to drop it off but he wasn’t there. Natsuki-san was instead and she insisted I stay for a cup of tea before I went back home. I...”

He twisted his hands in his lap.

“I ended up asking her about Kei-san, since she was in the picture with him. She told me that he was an old friend of both hers and Sensei’s and that...”

Nomura trailed off. I wasn’t sure if he was going to continue talking but then I saw his lips moving, so I leaned in to listen.

“...Kei-san actually died several years ago, long before I’d met Sensei at the beach.”

I stiffened as Nomura continued, looking pained as he spoke.

“She said the police ruled it as a suicide, since there was a note and everything but apparently she and Sensei were never allowed to see the contents of the note.”

Suicide...

Without meaning to, I glanced out beyond the stained glass panels of the client booth, my eyes sliding towards the desk area I shared with Dazai. Shadows moved beyond the tinted, lightly frosted walls. A phone rang and I heard Atsushi pick it up and answer. I turned back to Nomura.

“Kusunoki-san.”

“Y-yes?”

I started. Nomura suddenly sounded very serious.

“I want you to look into who Kei-san was.”

He clasped his hands together and squeezed them tightly, his face drawn.

“And...”

Nomura looked up at me, his dark eyes determined.

“I want you to tell me if Sensei was responsible for Kei-san’s death.”

I breathed in sharply.

“What...?”

My throat felt dry and I swallowed before trying to speak again.

“Wait. Why... why would you think Sensei–I mean, Professor Matsuyama had something to do with...?”

“Because I realized,” Nomura said, “that these episodes of odd behavior seem to come after he spends long hours in the office. When he got home last night, he got really cagey when he realized Natsuki-san and I were talking about Kei-san and when I asked him why it upset him so much when we were just talking about his old friend, he said this.”

His jaw tightened.

“‘I’m sorry about what happened to Kei. Really, I am, but he is my burden and mine alone.’”

A hush fell over the room. I could still hear Atsushi talking on the other side of the glass-paneled doors but it seemed somehow muffled by the oppressive silence that was filling the booth like fog.

I cleared my throat a little.

“Um, Nomura-san.”

I tried to put what I hoped was a professional look on my face.

“If you suspect a homicide might have taken place, why not go directly to the police?”

“Because they already closed out the investigation,” Nomura answered dully. “And unless something new happens in regards to the case, there’s no way they’re going to reopen it.”

“I see...”

I felt a chill creeping into my veins.

Outside, Atsushi hung up the phone. I heard him asking someone if they’d seen Dazai. When the person answering said they hadn’t, Atsushi began walking around, calling for our mentor, who did not answer...

“And besides...” Nomura was chewing on his lip again. “I don’t want to see him get in trouble.”

He sucked in a breath, a shaky one, and bent forward over his hands, his bangs falling so that they obscured his eyes.

“I...”

His knuckles were going white. Atsushi was still walking around, calling for Dazai, who was still, seemingly, nowhere to be found.

“Professor Matsuyama is...”

Nomura seemed to be thinking very carefully about his words. So carefully, in fact, that he didn’t seem to know how to speak of it.

From outside the booth, I heard Atsushi sigh, an audible sign of defeat. He trudged back to his desk, his feet dragging along the tiles.

“He’s more like a close relative than a teacher,” Miura sighed at last. “I don’t know how else to put it but... he’s very important to me.”

Ah.

My eyes traveled to the shadows moving outside the booth, to the lack of a tall, laughing figure wearing a trench coat.

I understood.

“You care very much for your Sensei, don’t you?” I asked gently.

A soft smile spread across my face as Miura looked up at me.

“I completely understand. I think we can help you, Nomura-san.”

“Really?”

Nomura looked ecstatic. He rose from his seat, relief etched into his every feature.

“Thank you so much, Kusunoki-san. I’m really grateful—”

I held up a hand to interrupt him.

“But before we start,” I said, my chest tightening as I spoke. “I want you to be prepared.”

Nomura froze.

“For what?”

“For the possibility that Kei-san’s death was exactly what the police determined it to be,” I said. “But more importantly...”

I swallowed.

“I want you to be prepared for what comes after if we do find out that Professor Matsuyama was somehow responsible for what happened to Kei-san.”

Hearing my tone, Nomura tensed.

Was he preparing himself emotionally for what was to come if it turned out that his Sensei was indeed a murderer?

I grew quiet, thinking back to the conversation I had with Dazai during my last case about the theoretical “goodly apple.” And about how it may change Nomura’s relationship to his mentor should his worst fears turn out to be true.

“Because I’m required by Agency policy to turn over my case files to the police,” I said, at last. “That is, if we do uncover any evidence of wrongdoing. Is... that alright with you, Nomura-san?”

After a beat, Nomura nodded. He looked determined. Nervous, but determined.

“Yes.”

I nodded back.

“Okay, then. In that case...”

I scooped up the papers on the table, tucked them back into the envelope and slowly got to my feet. Somehow, I managed to put the professional smile back on my face, even though I was honestly feeling too tense to.

“I look forward to working with you.”

***

That odd chill that had slowly settled into my bones as Nomura and I discussed the case lingered even after I saw him out the door. It stayed with me as I began walking back to my desk and grew stronger as I stopped next to the colorful client booth.

Suicide...

It was something I was all too familiar with. President Fukuzawa couldn’t have known exactly what the case was about before assigning it to me (after all, Nomura wouldn’t disclose the full details until he was inside the booth) but even if I had known, I wouldn’t have refused the case. President Fukuzawa believed I could take this case and something about that made me want to believe in myself. And besides...

I gripped the case files tightly against my chest.

If I wanted to climb the ranks so that I could be that much closer to finally confessing to Kunikida... this was the way to do it. One case at a time.

No matter what the case may involve.

I was about to step beyond the hedges when something caught my eye.

In the space between client booth and the hedgerow was a large decorative plant.

I stopped in front of it and stared.

I’d never seen this plant here before. It looked to be comprised entirely of broad, fan-shaped leaves—so many, in fact, that I couldn’t even see the wall just a few feet behind it. Stranger still, the plant was lined up with the client booth so that there was a fair amount of space between it and the back wall...

But as I reached out to touch one of the leaves, the plant moved.

I let out a shriek and jumped backwards as the plant was abruptly pushed forward. Bit by bit, a familiar bandage-covered figure emerged from the space behind it and I groaned when I saw who it was.

Speaking of connections to suicide...

“I should’ve guessed,” I sighed as Dazai moved a few of the leaves aside on his way out of his makeshift hiding space.

“What were you doing back...”

But as I watched Dazai carefully pick his way around the side of the plant—the plant that hadn’t been there before my meeting with Nomura—something dawned on me.

“...there?”

Dazai had been sitting right behind the client booth the entire time. I’d heard Atsushi calling for Dazai through that very wall.

I frowned.

“Dazai-san.”

“Hm?”

The bandaged brunette cocked his head towards me. Smiling, he continued brushing bits of dirt off his vest and pants, not even flinching when I shot him an accusatory glare.

“Were you listening in on my client meeting just now?” I asked, tucking my folder against my body as I crossed my arms.

Dazai’s brown eyes widened.

“Kusunoki-kun!”

He placed one half-bandaged hand over his heart, looking thoroughly wounded.

“What makes you think I’d do such a thing?”

“Oh, I dunno,” I said sarcastically, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Maybe it’s because you followed me into the booth earlier and tried to stay there?”

“I was just looking for my headphones,” he whined.

“Then where are they?”

“Oh, Kusunoki-kun,” Dazai sighed.

He stepped forward and took my hand.

“You’re so sweet, being so concerned about my belongings. If your offer to buy me new headphones is still good, I—”

“It’s not,” I said, pulling my hand away with a sharp snap of my wrist.

I sighed, tucked my folder more securely under my arm and studied him as he shrugged and started searching behind the plant for something.

First, he tried to follow me into the booth and then, when that didn’t work out, he ended up sitting outside anyway just so he could listen in...

I felt my irritation slowly wane as I watched him continue to rummage around.

Was he that interested in seeing my case or was I right in guessing he was worried about me?

The folder felt slightly heavier under my arm and I adjusted it once again as Dazai pulled something out from behind the plant with his lanky, bandaged forearms.

He wouldn’t admit it when I asked him earlier but... he really was worried about me, wasn’t he?

As I watched, a corner of the bandages around his left wrist caught around one of the leaves and came untucked. It began to unravel.

“...Kei-san actually died several years ago... The police ruled it as a suicide.”

The air in the room suddenly seemed much thinner than before.

“Hey, Dazai-san...?”

“Hm?”

Noticing at last that his bandage was coming undone, Dazai took the portable game console he’d just retrieved and tucked it into his black vest. Smiling, he looked up at me and began re-wrapping his bandage.

“What is it?”

I hesitated. My eyes were firmly locked on the motions of Dazai’s hand as he wrapped his bandage more securely around his wrist.

I’d never really thought about it before but... why was he covered in bandages...? Was there something under there he didn’t want us to see?

I grabbed my own wrist.

Like layers of mottled scars?

“Oh, um... Nothing, really.”

I smiled softly and as Dazai watched my expression change, his eyebrows slowly rose into his bangs.

“Atsushi-kun was looking for you earlier,” I said at last. “I could hear him calling for you, even from inside the client booth. Why don’t you go find him and see what he needs?”

I moved to walk past him but before I could, Dazai stepped in front of me.

“What’s this, Kusunoki-kun?”

He bent down a little and studied my face. He rubbed his chin, keeping his bandaged wrist at eye level as he moved; the bandage came untucked again. I returned my gaze to Dazai’s face a second too late and his deep brown eyes instantly became piercing.

“Don’t tell me...”

The corners of his lips quirked upwards and as I watched, a sly smile slowly spread across his face.

He knew what I’d been thinking.

“Did you want to goof off and play games too?” he asked, slowly pulling the console out of his vest. “If so, I know a great place where we can sit and play games, completely unbothered. Just the two of us!”

He waved the console in front of me.

“Or maybe...”

The bandage around his wrist unraveled even further, an entire loop of the stark-white fabric slipping off his wrist all at once. Dazai’s voice remained bright, but his eyes looked much darker than before.

“You’re finally reconsidering my proposal of a double suicide?”

I stiffened.

The inside of my wrist began to tingle and Dazai’s grin widened.

“Not on your life,” I whispered.

Tightening my grip on my folder, I brushed past him.

“That’s the whole point,” Dazai said, sounding disappointed.

But I kept walking and didn’t stop until I got back to my desk. Ignoring him, I shoved my folder into my messenger bag and began packing.

Seeing this, Dazai approached.

“Going out?” he asked, walking past the hedgerows and into the main office area.

I didn’t answer.

“If it’s a snack run, do you think you could get me—”

“No.”

His face fell.

“Aw, c’mon,” he wheedled. “I didn’t even tell you what it is I wanted yet—”

“The answer is no,” I snapped, throwing the strap of my messenger bag over my shoulder and grabbing my coat. “Whatever it is you want, go get it yourself. I’m not running any errands for you today.”

“Then where are you going?” he asked.

I could feel his sharp brown eyes following me as I quickly strode through the office and towards the front door.

“Don’t you have that meeting with Kunikiiiiida-kun at the end of the day?”

I faltered, my hand stilling on the doorknob.

That’s right. He’d heard that too...

“That meeting...”

I shot a look over my shoulder, at the bandaged brunette still standing in the middle of the lobby with one hand in his pocket, his game console held loosely in the other. His bandage had unraveled even more and was now trailing on the ground. Some of his wrist was exposed...

I tore my eyes away, not wanting to see.

“That meeting is none of your business,” I said quietly.

I turned back around and walked out the door.

***

“The file on... let’s see...”

The girl at the counter paused to write down the name.

“‘Kei?’”

She frowned and looked up.

“Do you have a last name that goes with that?”

“Uh, no but...”

I glanced down at the packet and tried not to make a face. I knew this was going to be a long-shot but I had to give it a try at least...

I offered the girl a small, hesitant smile and placed the relevant page of my case file onto the counter before her.

“I was wondering if you could try to look up the file with the information in here.”

Shooting me a doubtful look, the girl took the page from me and scanned through it. Her eyes widened.

“Uh... Kusunoki-san, was it?”

She chewed her lip.

“I know you’re with the Armed Detective Agency and that your cases are very important... but as much as I want to help you, I can’t.”

She made an apologetic face.

“Not with this alone, anyway. We don’t even know where the alleged suicide took place or what year. Without that information, I won’t be able to find anything.”

She slid the paper back to me.

“Kei is a very common first name, after all...”

“I understand,” I sighed.

I slipped the paper back into my bag and zipped it up. “Thank you for your time.”

“I really am sorry, Kusunoki-san,” she said and she really did look it. “Come back when you’ve got some more information?”

I nodded, bowed politely and turned around to leave.

I really didn’t know what I was expecting.

When I’d left the Agency earlier, I honestly had no idea where I was going to go. I’d just wanted to get away from Dazai but as I headed out of the building, I realized this would be a good chance to get a head start on my case, maybe see if I could get the police report on Kei’s suicide. But unfortunately, given the small amount of information I had to go off of, it wasn’t enough. I’d have to do some more background investigating before I could obtain the report.

Neither I nor Nomura knew Kei’s last name. The one person who knew for sure would be Professor Matsuyama, but somehow I got the feeling that barging into his office and asking questions about a dead former friend was a good way to get kicked out or get the case revoked. Not to mention, I didn’t want to get Nomura in trouble either...

I paused at the crosswalk and glanced down at the report in my hand.

Nomura had mentioned a photograph in Professor Matsuyama’s office, a photograph showing the professor, his wife and the mysterious Kei. Was it possible that Professor Matsuyama’s wife knew Kei as well? If they were in a photograph together, then they must’ve at least met before.

But how was I supposed to get in touch with her without raising any red flags?

I took out my phone to check the time.

I’d been out for less than an hour, so there was no way Kunikida would be back yet. Should I try going to the library, maybe see if I could get information on Professor Matsuyama there and try to find Kei that way?

I stared at the numbers on my phone, chewing the inside of my cheek as the minute digit abruptly changed.

No, an hour barely gave me enough time to travel to the university library, much less do any sort of meaningful investigation. If I wanted to spend the rest of the work day doing something productive and avoiding Dazai, returning only at the end of the day so that I could meet with Kunikida, I’d have to think of something else...

Suddenly, the phone in my hand lit up with a new message.

It was from Kunikida.

“We finished early,” it said. “I’m heading back to the Agency as we speak. Sorry for constantly changing the time, but would now be okay?”

“Yes, of course!” I exclaimed out loud as I texted, relieved.

Thank God. I was really at a loss back there.

Shoving my phone into my bag, I ran for the nearby bus station just as the massive vehicle pulled into the stop.

Maybe if I got back to the Agency fast enough, I could even ask for some advice on the case, given that he was still technically my mentor. I just hoped my other mentor wouldn’t be there when I returned...

***

“Huh? Kyou-chan?”

Yosano blinked at me in surprise as she passed me going down the stairs. For some reason, the elevator wasn’t working when I’d gotten back and in my rush to get to the fourth floor office, I’d nearly smacked into her on my way up.

“Why are you heading back into the office? The day’s over!”

“Ah,” I mumbled, bowing hurriedly and trying to get past her. “I have a meeting to get to.”

The doctor’s purple-toned eyes widened.

“At this hour? With who?”

Why did I have to go red now? Why?!

“I...” I stammered, looking away. “I, uh...”

“Oh, Kyou-chan. Really?” she sighed.

Before I could stop her, she grabbed my arm with one black-gloved hand and began guiding me down the stairs with her.

“It’s almost the end of the week,” she griped, not listening to the frantic gibberish that was coming out of my mouth. “You’ve been working really hard and I think you deserve a break! Come with me, we’re going to get dinner at this new izakaya I found and have ourselves a nice time.”

“But Yosano-sensei!” I burst out at last. “I really do have to go! You see my meeting is with K-Kunikida-san and—”

I flinched as Yosano stopped walking immediately and turned around to give me an odd look. I felt my face burn even hotter as she eyed me suspiciously.

“Hohh...”

She let go of my arm.

“Well, why didn’t you say so sooner?” she asked, the corners of her glossy pink lips turning upwards into a knowing smirk.

The look on her face was eerily reminiscent of Dazai...

Smiling, Dr. Yosano clapped me on the shoulder and waved goodbye as she descended the stairs.

“Don’t stay too late!” she called after me as I bolted.

I could practically hear the grin on her face as her words echoed after me up the stairwell.

“And good luck~!”

“Luck?” Atsushi repeated as he and Kyouka walked past me on my way up. “What’s she talking about?”

But Kyouka shook her head and ushered him along as I hastily bid them goodbye and kept running. One by one, I passed the remaining members of the Agency from the Tanizaki siblings to Kirako, promising not to stay too late and outright lying to the last of the clerks about needing to drop something off when I saw the one with the short hair eyeing me suspiciously as well. By the time I got to the fourth floor, my face felt hotter than the surface of the sun and I was pretty sure I’d go to pieces if one more person asked me why I was returning to the office at closing when everyone else had gone.

I grabbed the doorknob and hesitantly turned it.

Please don’t let me run into Dazai. Please don’t let me run into Dazai...!

But to my relief, the bandaged maniac was nowhere to be found (probably left early when he realized neither I nor Kunikida were around to bother). I’d gingerly opened the door to the main office only to find myself arriving at an empty room.

I’d beaten Kunikida here.

“Oh, thank God,” I breathed, almost collapsing in a heap in the middle of the floor.

I thought for sure with all those stupid delays, I wouldn’t have made it in time. Reassured, I started walking back to my desk and hung up my messenger bag, taking out my folders to be put away. Since I’d come early, I could dust myself off a little, drop things off properly and finish closing things out at my desk—

“Kusunoki.”

For the second time today, I jumped, dropping my pencil case. It split open on top of my desk with a soft “pop,” pencils scattering everywhere. As a few of them rolled off the surface of the table and onto the floor, I whirled around to see a tall figure carrying an olive-green notebook stepping into the room from the inner hallway.

Putting his notebook down, Kunikida nodded at me in greeting.

“Thanks for coming back to meet with me,” he said, smiling apologetically.

He walked forward, into one of the many slats of sunlight from the unshuttered windows. In the soft orange-toned light of the slowly setting sun, his gray-green eyes looked warm and radiant, his skin smooth and bright.

“I know this was hard to arrange and that it’s getting late, so I appreciate your meeting with me today.”

He stopped near my desk and bent down to pick up a runaway pencil.

“I promise I won’t keep you long.”

He dropped the pencil into my hands.

I swallowed. My throat suddenly felt very dry. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d just run up four flights of stairs and talked to everyone I passed or if it was because tall, blonde Kunikida was now by my side, looking very attentive and so very handsome in the early evening light.

“N-no problem.”

My smile felt awkward and way too wide and my heart was pounding so loud, that I half wondered if Kunikida could hear it as well. But judging by the look on his face, he probably couldn’t, so I tried to clear my throat and speak.

“So, um... what did you want to talk about, Kunikida-san?”

I brushed a stray hair behind my ear just as another pencil fell to the floor behind me. I tried not to wince.

God, why was I always so clumsy and awkward around him?

“Ah, well...”

He trailed off, his polite expression faltering a little. I watched as he reached up, rubbed the back of his neck and quietly looked away. In the light of the setting sun, his cheeks looked a little pink...

Wait a minute.

I quickly looked around.

It was early evening, after hours at the Armed Detective Agency’s main office. Beautiful, orange sunlight softly filtered in through open, unshuttered windows, casting everything in a velvety, romantic glow. Kunikida and I were here, completely alone and the atmosphere was awkward but in a pleasant, exciting sort of way...

I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp.

No way.

This was exactly how I pictured my ideal environment for confessing my feelings to Kunikida...! But I hadn’t worked my way up through the ranks yet! I hadn’t even been here an entire two months. It was too early for this...!

My heart was racing. My entire body felt hot and flushed.

What was I going to do?!

“The truth is, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for a while now,” Kunikida admitted, dropping his hand. “You’ve come a long way since you started here and I’ve been thinking...”

He glanced down at me, his gray-green eyes contemplative behind his thin rectangular glasses.

I swallowed audibly, my heart beating so rapidly I was about ninety percent sure I was starting to hyperventilate.

“Y-yes, Kunikida-san?”

He studied me for a moment before speaking.

“How do you feel about one-on-one combat training?”

I thought I heard a record scratching somewhere inside my head. My smile suddenly felt stiff.

“...Huh?”

“You know?” Kunikida explained, waving his hand. “Like martial arts?”

I thought I heard someone laughing from outside the window and without meaning to, I flushed.

Looks like it really was too early for a confession...

#kunikida x oc #dazai x oc #bsd #bungou stray dogs #fanfiction

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thisdiscontentedwinter · 5 years

Text

Bad Blood - Chapter 2

You can read it here on AO3 or find the Tumblr Chapter index here.

*****

Peter Hale has known the name Stilinski since he was a child, and began his training to be Talia’s left hand on the day that she would became pack alpha. Peter knows the names of all the most powerful hunter families: the Argents, the Caleveras, the O’Rourkes, the Horaks, the Stilinskis. He knows their histories and their family trees, their alliances and their disputes, as well as he know pack politics.

When Deputy John Stilinski moved to Beacon Hills with his wife and his infant son, Peter had noticed. He’d followed the man for weeks until one night, in an alleyway beside a bar where the deputy was kneeling over a passed-out drunk, the deputy said, without even turning his head, “Mind your business, wolf, and I’ll mind mine.”

Peter had barely swallowed back his growl. “When hunters move into my alpha’s territory, then it is my business, Stilinski.”

The deputy had turned his face toward Peter then. “I’m not a hunter anymore.”

There was no lie in his heartbeat, but Peter didn’t believe it.

Peter wasn’t a fool.

He continued to watch the deputy, keeping his distance this time, and the deputy continued to go about his business.

Peter didn’t trust him.

Peter never trusted him.

He never had a reason to.

Until the night of the fire.

***

Peter has spent so often lurking in John Stilinski’s back yard that he can pick his way through it even without the benefit of his wolf’s sight. The yard is well kept, but it doesn’t burst with flowers the way it did back when Claudia Stilinski was still alive. And the swing set is long gone.

Claudia and the little boy used to spend a lot of hours in the garden, Claudia working on keeping it neat while the boy worked on running in circles until he fell down laughing. Stilinski hires a lawn service now, not because he cares, probably, but because he’s the sheriff these days and people won’t vote for a man who can’t even keep his lawn mowed.

Peter listens to the creak of the sheriff’s footsteps inside the house as he climbs the stairs. He listens for a while longer too, but hears nothing except silence, and, under that, the sound of the man’s heartbeat as he sleeps.

Peter leaps over the back fence and into the easement that backs onto the Preserve.

He walks home to the loft, fighting the urge to shift and run. The wolf always wants to run, particularly on nights when the moon is bright and the Preserve is alive with scuttling little creatures to chase and toy with, but it’s a pain in the ass to have to come back for his clothes in the morning.

The loft is mostly in darkness when Peter makes it home. He lets himself in, and heads for the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

The light is on in the kitchen, and Derek is sitting at the table with his books spread out in front of him.

“Wasn’t it midterms last week?” Peter asks him.

Derek glances up at him, and then back at his books. “I’m getting ahead on my reading.”

Like he goes to Stanford or something, not the local community college. Peter reserves the right to be a snobbish asshole about it. Peter went to Stanford. Derek had the grades to go too, but not the confidence. He’s not the kid he once was. He needs to stay close to pack these days.

“Nerd,” Peter teases.

Derek rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirk in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile.

Peter runs his hand over Derek’s shoulder as he heads for the refrigerator, leaving his scent on the pup. Derek would rankle if Peter knew he thought of him like that, so Peter’s never told him.

He grabs a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and cracks the seal. “Is your sister still up?”

Derek shakes his head. “She went to bed hours ago. Where were you, anyway? You missed dinner.”

“Out,” Peter says vaguely, and then waves his hand. “And about. Just generally around the place.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

Peter cultivates an air of I-don’t-give-a-fuck, but he’s not sure how much the pack believes it. The truth is, Peter hasn’t slept through the night in six years.

A lot has changed since Kate Argent burned half their pack in their sleep. Laura is harder now. Derek is quieter, and Matty still has night terrors. And Peter, though he doesn’t like to admit it, isn’t as arrogantly sure of himself as he once was. All those years stalking John Stilinski, and he never even saw Kate Argent coming.

Peter won’t make that mistake again.

He’s not entirely sure what compulsion keeps dragging him back towards John Stilinski though. His name, probably. It’s a hunter’s name. It’s a name Peter learned to fear long before he met the man attached to it. And he doesn’t fear John Stilinski now, but he’s wary. It would be stupid not to be wary.

And Peter doesn’t trust him—Peter doesn’t trust anyone—but then he thinks of the night of the fire.

He thinks of trying to break through the door of the tunnels, Matty limp in his arms, and staring out through the barred window into the eyes of Deputy John Stilinski.

And Peter had roared out his rage, thinking that he knew exactly what had happened.

A hunter. A fire. A circle of mountain ash.

It wasn’t a difficult conclusion to draw.

And then…

And then John Stilinski had dragged his boot through the line of mountain ash, and broken the chains on the door with a pair of bolt cutters.

And he’d been the first man on the scene.

There hadn’t been anyone watching him. He could have let Peter and Matty burn to death and nobody would have known that he’d chosen not to act.

But he’d acted, all the same.

And later, when Peter was getting loaded into the ambulance to have his burns tended to at the hospital, John Stilinski had leaned over him and said in a low, cold voice, “I told you I’m not a hunter anymore.”

***

Peter talks with Derek for a while longer, and then heads upstairs to bed. He doesn’t sleep for long. He’s awake again before dawn, and his instincts, as always, draw him toward the Preserve, to the trees and the moonlight, and the blackened heart of ash that is the Hale territory.

In the distance, he hears a howl.

And then, so faint that his werewolf hearing can hardly pick it up, a muffled scream.

Peter calls Laura.

***

The rogue alpha doesn’t put up much of a fight. It’s strong, but it’s out of its mind, and easily confused by a calculated attack by the Hale pack. Laura takes the lead, and Derek and Peter snapping at his heels confuses the alpha and brings him into the right position for Laura to deliver the killing blow.

The boy the alpha attacked blinks up at them blearily. He’s covered in blood. It soaks through his shirt like the fabric is litmus paper. He’s a teenager, pale and frightened as Laura leans over him and peels his shirt up carefully.

There’s a jagged bit on his side, blood pouring from it.

No, the alpha didn’t intend to kill him. The alpha bit him to turn him.

Peter meets Laura’s gaze.

He isn’t sure which is worse.

They boy is unconscious by the time they get him back to the loft where Matty is waiting anxiously. He’s still breathing though, so the bite might take. It also might not.

The boy is Laura’s problem for now. Peter has his own job to worry about.

It’s dawn when Peter arrives back at the site of the alpha’s body, armed with a shovel. Typical. The asshole couldn’t do them a favour and stay in his wolf form when he died, could he? That way Peter could have left him for birds to pick over until the park rangers found him. No, instead he’s got a body to dispose of, which means he’s got a shallow grave to dig.

It takes the better part of an hour to dig the grave, even with his werewolf strength, and then Peter takes a while to make sure the ground looks as undisturbed as possible. Everyone always thinks of the left hand as more Machiavelli than Yorrick, but being the left hand involves getting his hands dirty in more ways than one.

Disposing of the rogue alpha is only the first part of Peter’s duty. He also needs to put some enquiries out and find out where the hell the asshole came from, and if there’s anyone looking for him, either other packs, or hunters, or even law enforcement if he’s killed before.

Peter heads back to the loft, stashes the shovel, and goes inside to the laundry room to scrubs his hands.

He can hear a frantic heartbeat coming from upstairs��the boy is still alive then, and he’s turning. So there’s a new complication that can’t just be hidden in a shallow grave. The boy will have to be brought into the pack, and he’ll have to be taught control, and also secrecy. Peter doesn’t envy Laura having to teach all that to a teenager. Peter’s also going to have to keep a close eye on the boy, to make sure he doesn’t expose the pack. A newly turned werewolf is always a risk—a werewolf who was turned unwillingly is even more of one.

Peter’s skin prickles.

The boy could be dangerous, even without intending them any harm. They’ll all need to tread very carefully until he learns control. Peter hopes he learns willingly.

Peter goes into his study and closes the door. He digs his phone out of his pocket and calls Alan Deaton, the former pack emissary. The new Hale pack’s relationship with him isn’t the same as the one he had with Talia. Peter doesn’t trust anyone enough to call them a friend, but Deaton is still a valuable source of information.

When it suits him.

Fucking inscrutable druids.

“Alan,” he says. “We have a problem.”

Deaton sounds as calm and unruffled as always. “Yes, I just heard. I was about to call you myself.”

Peter’s brows tug together. “What do you mean you’ve just heard? It’s only just happened.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then: “Peter, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the rogue alpha who just bit some kid in the woods,” Peter says. “What are youtalking about?”

“I’ve just got off the phone from the emissary of the Acosta pack in Phoenix,” Deaton says. “She told me that Christopher Argent is moving his family back to Beacon Hills.”

Peter growls before he can stop himself, and his fangs break through his gums.

***

Peter knows the Argents. He knows how they operate. He knows they’ll move into an area to get the lay of the land. He knows they’ll pay lip service to their precious Code while at the same time they’re planning slaughter. He knows they like the play the long game. They’ll goad a wolf into snapping, and then they’ll use it as an excuse to attack. Or, in Kate’s case, they’ll attack first and fuck the consequences, because who polices the hunters? Other hunters.

Peter knows them.

And he knows exactly what it means when hunters move into his territory.

It means war.

And Peter can’t stop them, but this time he’ll be ready for them.

#bad blood #my fics #discontentedwinter #sterek #steter senior

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