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let-it-raines · 4 years

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Walking the Baseline (Year 2012)

Chapter Summary: He’s seen her around. Of course he has. They walk in the same circles, play at all of the same combined tournaments, and they have mutual friends. It’s not until they both win the Australian Open and start talking over Instagram that Killian Jones gets to know Emma Swan. He doesn’t expect one message to turn into more, and he certainly doesn’t expect to find himself knowing who Emma is when she’s not got a racket in her hands.

Even more, he doesn't expect to let her know who he is off the court when that's a secret he holds close to the vest.

Rating: Teen-ish.

a/n: I told you guys I had more Walking the Baseline coming, and I meant it! I did not expect you guys to be so excited about this universe, but you’re always blowing me away! So, here’s their story for part of the year 2012, four years before the events of Walking the Baseline and the RIO Olympics.

You do not need to have read the original one-shot to understand. If you haven’t, well, that just means you’ll be surprised with the ending of this collection 😂

Found on AO3: 2012 | 2013 | 2014 | 2015 | 2016 (Part One) | 2016 (Part Two)

-/-

2012.

“You look nice, Swan.”

She’s standing in front of him in a pair of long white paints and a matching white shirt that bares her midriff. Her lips are painted red, her blonde hair long and curled. It’s different to how he usually sees her, but the same can be said for him as he adjusts his jacket sleeves. They spend their lives in athletic wear with sweat an almost constant companion. They do not spend their lives dressed up like this.

“Same to you. How are you not dripping in sweat?”

“Oh, I bloody well am. It’s hidden under the jacket.”

Emma laughs and flips her hair off her neck. “Damn Australian summers. Been trying to kill me since I was eighteen.”

“But now you’re the queen of the court. Congratulations, by the way. That was a damn good match.”

She smiles and adjusts her trophy as he does the same, the flashes of photographers surrounding them and the water behind them. They’ve both done their individual photographs but are now doing promotion for the tournament and Nike, their clothing sponsor. Killian has the beginnings of a long flight today, and Emma has an even longer one to America. He believes she lives in Florida, but it could also be New York. Maybe California. He’ll ask Ariel if she knows, because he already knows she will have the answer to every question he asks. His manager knows everything there is to know about everybody. Somewhere in that brain of hers, Ariel Fisher has a file on Emma Swan that Killian has never bothered to ask about.

It’s not that he’s never been intrigued. She’s a damn good tennis player and a successful one at that. He’s watched her rise to the top of their sport for years now, and while they’ve done a few photo shoots and charity matches together, they’re never talked much outside of a professional capacity. He knows her brother is her coach and she’s close to Ruby Lucas, another player, and he’s read a little about her upbringing. That’s something she keeps close to the vest, but he gets it. He does the same thing. That isn’t the easiest when you’re on the world’s stage like they are. Now, everyone has to know the details of personal lives of athletes, and it makes staying private difficult when you have to brand yourself to get sponsors. Killian would rather run for five hours over doing an interview, especially now that he’s given twenty interviews since the championship last night.

It’s media overload in every way.

“Congratulations to you. I may have slept through half your match, but what I saw was good.”

“Thanks,” Killian laughs, scratching his chin. “I’m terrified that if I sit down, I won’t be able to get back up.”

“Oh, that’s definitely a risk. David had to slide me out of the bed this morning. I’m only wearing this because I was too lazy to shave. I was pretty sure I’d have to have help.”

He bites his tongue to keep from making the comment he wants to make and turns back to the camera, smiling and nodding, following the rest of the instructions. He and Emma are quickly pulled in different directions to finish out their obligations, and before he knows it, he’s on a plane, flying away from Australia. It’s been a month since he’s been home, and Oxshott has never seemed so good even if there is no one at home waiting to greet him.

-/-

Killian grabs a sweater from the shelf, pulling it over his shoulders, and heads downstairs where he fixes himself a cup of tea and settles on his couch, his television playing in the background. It’s been a long day. His first day back training after a week break nearly killed his knees, but that’s over now. He’s put in his time on the court and at the gym, and no one is going to bother him for the rest of the day. He’s muted Ariel’s name in his phone, and if she really needs him, she’ll call him from Eric’s phone.

God does he hope she doesn’t need him tonight.

Nemo better not either because Killian does not want to see his coach’s face again until early tomorrow morning.

Despite his sweater, he’s still chilled. Going from an Australian summer to a British winter is quite the adjustment. It’s nearly as bad as the jetlag.

Killian’s phone dings in his hand, and he dreads what message he’s surely gotten. He expects it to be Ariel from Eric’s phone, but it’s an Instagram message.

@EmmaSwan: Whoever said @KillianJones was photogenic needs to take a serious look at these photos.

He looks at the photographs, and it’s a series of horribly awkward faces he’s made. He remembers this moment of the shoot. A bug kept trying to fly into his mouth, and at one point, it succeeded. Emma looks great in them, laughing with a bright smile, and she’s right: there’s no part of him that’s photogenic there.

@KillianJones: So you’re saying there are people out there who think I’m photogenic?

Her reply comes instantly.

@EmmaSwan: Well, there were! ;)

Killian laughs and then clicks on her profile, scrolling through. She has several pictures from her win, a few training videos, but mostly it’s pictures of her with some of the women she’s friends with on tour or her brother and sister-in-law. His page is so different in that it’s made up of a majority of tennis photos. He doesn’t share much about his personal life there because there isn’t much to share lately, and when there was, he didn’t want the world to know who he was dating. They did, of course. There were few ways to hide it all when he had photographers literally hiding in bushes, but he imagines if it was a relationship he truly held sacred, he would find a way to keep it hidden away.

Milah was the last person he would have wanted that with, but she was a fan of the attention. She still is if what he sees around is any indication. She married some older man who is worth millions, but other than that, Killian tries not to keep up with her. Some days it goes better than others, but being disconnected from the world does help.

Social media definitely doesn’t.

And after looking at Emma’s profile a little more carefully, he realizes her profile is more private than he thought. In some way, every photo that has a person in it relates back to tennis.

Killian exits out of the app and goes to the link Ariel sent him of all the photos from his shoot with Emma. He clicks on it and tries to find one where she looks bad. It takes awhile, damn gorgeous woman, but he eventually finds one where the wind blew her hair in front of her and she’s making an awful face. It’s perfect, and Killian quickly saves it and a nicer photo to his phone before uploading them to Instagram.

@KillianJones: @EmmaSwan, if only your serve was as big as your hair.

@EmmaSwan direct messaged you.

@EmmaSwan: My serve stats are better than your serve stats.

@KillianJones: Lies.

@EmmaSwan: Okay, well, my hair is also better than your hair.

@KillianJones: Eh, I wouldn’t say that either.

@EmmaSwan: My ass is better than your ass.

@KillianJones: Now, I will fully agree with that.

@EmmaSwan: Isn’t it, like, midnight in England? What are you doing up, old man?

@KillianJones: Watching TV and having a cuppa. Truly exciting times here.

@EmmaSwan has added a picture to this chat.

It’s a shot of her legs, her feet resting on the court. There’s a pool of sweat underneath her, and he is not jealous. It’s February, and while he knows she lives in south Florida – he did ask Ariel – it shouldn’t be warm enough for anyone to sweat that much unless they put in a massive amount of effort.

He must be getting old for this game if just thinking about that makes him want to retire, but there’s no way in hell that’s happening anytime soon. He told Liam he would play until he no longer had a passion for the game.

That hasn’t happened yet.

@EmmaSwan: I’m making my mark on this court. I cannot wait to be in my pajamas watching TV tonight. If I can get up from this chair.

@KillianJones: I’m sure you can slide home in that lovely pool of sweat.

@EmmaSwan: Honestly, I have thought about it.

@EmmaSwan: I’ve got to practice my shitty serve, but I’ll think of smacking your face every time I do it. I’m sure my numbers will be higher than ever.

@KillianJones: Anything I can do to help.

-/-

“How do you eat your strawberries?”

“With my fingers,” Killian says, arching his brow at such a ridiculous question.

“You’re supposed to say with cream.”

Killian spins around behind him, and he immediately sees Emma Swan walking toward him. He hasn’t seen her in months as the tours haven’t had a joint tournament since Australia, but they’ve been chatting pretty regularly over Instagram. He’s never liked the app, but it’s one of his most used ones now.

“Excuse me, lass?”

“You’re doing a promotion for Wimbledon, idiot. They want all of us to say we eat our strawberries with cream.”

“I actually don’t love the cream.”

Emma mock gasps, covering her chest with her hands, before stepping up to him and giving him a quick hug he’s sure is for the cameras surrounding them. “Well, they should kick you out of England for saying something like that.”

“Believe me, they’ve tried, but I chained myself to the ground to keep it from happening.”

“I’m sure we could find you a place here if we had to.”

“Your place?” Killian jokes.

“In your dreams, Jones.” Emma widens her smile before turning to the camera. “I’d eat my strawberries with cream, just in case you want to use me for the promotions instead of this shameful excuse for a Brit.”

“Actually,” the producer behind the camera says, “we have a game that we’d love for the two of you to play together if you want. We usually don’t have two of the bigger names up here at once.”

“What’s the game?” Emma asks.

“It’s basically beer pong.”

Emma tilts her head back with laughter and claps her hands together. “Oh, I’m good at this. You’re going down, Jones.”

“Nice to see your competitive spirit doesn’t die off the court.”

“It never does.”

Emma shrugs and walks over to where they have a ping pong table set up on the roof of this building. Killian gets to travel a lot of beautiful places for his job, and while he doesn’t get to explore a lot of them, he does get to take in the view. He’ll never get over the oasis that is Palm Springs with its mountains going as far as the eye can see with palm trees and lush vegetation filling in so many other gaps. There’s a hell of a lot of desert, but considering Killian only goes between the tournament and his hotel, he doesn’t see that. For him, it’s all about the oasis.

“You ready?” Emma asks as they settle at opposite ends of the table. “It’s going to be a challenge to beat me.”

He winks and leans forward, hovering over the cups of water. “I do so love a challenge.”

-/-

“I mean, I wouldn’t say that you had a bad reputation.”

Killian rolls his eyes and toes his trainers off, kicking them across his hotel room in Monte Carlo. He pulls his phone away from his ear and puts it on speaker so he can change clothes while Emma talks.

“Then what would you say, love?”

He imagines she shrugs, and if he wasn’t disgustingly sweaty despite his shower at the club, he’d video call her instead of this. “I would say you had a colorful reputation.”

“For fuck’s sake, that’s the same thing.”

“No, no, it’s not,” Emma sighs. “It’s…”

“Swan, I was on the verge of getting all my sponsorships taken away at the age of twenty-two. I’d barely gotten started, and I nearly fucked it all up by drinking too much and being enough of an idiot to do it in public.”

“And now you’re England’s poster boy for all sports, so at least from a publicity standpoint, it’s all okay.”

She’s right. He knows she’s right, and he appreciates being talked down after an awful contract negotiation with one of his sponsors and what will surely be an equally awful conversation with Ariel later. They decided that they suddenly had issues with some shit he pulled six years ago, and he’s tired of having to explain himself to people.

His fucking brother died, and Killian didn’t handle it well. How is anyone supposed to handle that, let alone a twenty-two-year-old whose only family was that brother? It was too much, and while he didn’t tank his career, he did derail it, drinking and sleeping around and making horrible choices for his body. There are times when he still wants to do that, but he knows better now. His grief is private, and the world will never see it again unless it’s on his terms.

“My brother’s life was taken because of a drunk driver, and, you know, I’d give up all the sponsorships to have him back. I’d give it all up. And I know I did a piss poor job at dealing with my grief by getting drunk just like the man who killed him, even if I never got behind the wheel, but what was I supposed to do? It hurt too much to not be dulled.”

The other end is silent, and he focuses on his own breathing. It’s heavy now, and he can feel his heart thumping. He hates this feeling. He hates talking about his past, and he damn well hates having to talk about Liam like this.

He’s got no fucking clue why he’s talking about it with Emma, but she called right after the meeting and he spilled his guts out of frustration.

“I never met your brother,” Emma says so quietly he can barely hear her, “but if he was anything like mine, I can guarantee that he’d be proud of you for getting through it and continuing to move forward. Life sucks, Jones, and we all deal with those sucky moments in different ways. I, for one, eat massive amounts of icing and candy. I have an entire stash in a drawer in my bathroom so David can’t find it and scold me for it.”

Killian huffs and reaches up to yank his shirt off before falling back on the bed. He tugs on his hair before blowing it off his cheek. He needs a haircut.

“You keep icing in your bathroom? That seems unsanitary.”

“I promise it’s very secure.”

Killian hums and more silence falls between them. He doesn’t feel the need to fill it, but he does anyway. “I live alone, so I think I may not need to hide my icing stash. I’d have to get one first.”

“Cream cheese is the way to go. It’s, like, two dollars and all the calories are so worth it.”

“Have you ever considered making it at home?”

“I would give myself food poisoning. I can’t really cook.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not. Never learned how to do anything past the basics, and I’m not home enough to try. When I do, Mary Margaret always takes over so I don’t get food poisoning.”

“Where are we together next? Rome?”

“Madrid,” Emma sighs, and he hears a dog bark in the background. He’s sure she doesn’t have a dog, but maybe someone she’s with has one. Or she’s walking around her neighborhood. He never did ask what she was doing. Instead, he immediately started bitching about his sponsor meeting, and then they ended up here. Most of their conversations veer off track, so it’s nothing he isn’t used to. “I get there Monday.”

“I think the same unless I lose early here.”

“You best not. I have money on you.”

“Well, that’s a good way to get yourself suspended.”

Emma laughs, and Killian stretches out on the bed, flexing his feet. “Well, if you don’t tell anyone, I think I’ll be okay.”

“I swear I shall not say a word. Also, Swan, I don’t think we’ll have access to a kitchen in Madrid, but when we get to Rome, I’ll cook you something.”

“If I’m in Rome, I’m not wasting a dinner on your cooking.”

“We can eat two dinners then,” Killian suggests.

“I like that idea.” The dog barks again in the background, louder this time. “I have to go. My neighbor’s dog is walking over this way, and I have to give him my full attention.”

“Bye, love.”

“Talk to you later, Jones!”

The phone goes silent, and Killian closes his eyes. It’s been a rough day for a myriad of reasons, and all he wants is to sleep. His call with Emma has calmed him, as they usually do, but that’s something he often doesn’t like admitting to himself.

Getting involved with Emma would be complicated, and Killian isn’t sure he can do complicated anymore.

His phone buzzes, and he opens one eye to look at the message.

Ariel Fisher: I’m coming to talk to you because you stormed off.

Ariel Fisher: I have the key to your room, so make sure you’re dressed.

Ariel Fisher: I’m bringing dinner, so I know you at least kind of want to see me.

Killian Jones: I’m in the nude, and I’m not changing for you.

Ariel Fisher: It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

Killian Jones: That is your fault for walking into my bathroom without knocking.

-/-

Killian wins in Monte Carlo, and it feels good to have a trophy for the first time since late January. It’s only April now, and he’s only played three tournaments since Australia. Yet, he had higher expectations for himself for this year. It’s a great year by anyone’s standards, but Killian has really focused on his training this year. He wants another record year like two years ago, and if he keeps this momentum going, maybe he can do that.

That year, he’d worked off the motivation of heartbreak. This year, he’s trying to work off the motivation of doing something for himself.

Whatever keeps him in the game.

Whatever keeps him loving what he does like Liam asked him to do.

-/-

The thing about Killian’s job is that he’s constantly surrounded by bloody people. From when he’s playing a match to doing press to sitting in the living room of the houses and apartments he rents for some tournaments when he doesn’t want to stay in a hotel. Sometimes the only times he has to think are when he’s on court, which is ridiculous because that’s when he’s surrounded by the most people and is supposed to be focusing on his plan for the next point.

Tonight, Killian had planned on having Emma over for dinner, but Ariel, Eric, Will, and Rob have all shown up and are sitting on his couch watching the television and he’s desperately trying to get Emma to pick up her phone before she arrives. He’s sure Nemo and Al could show up any second by the way things are going.

“Hello?”

“Swan!”

“Hey, I was just about to get a car from the hotel to your place. Everything okay?”

Killian sighs and massages his fingers over his forehead. “It seems my team and my mates have decided they’re spending the night with me, so if you want to stay at the hotel, I would understand.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. Of course, you can still come if you want.”

“Is there still going to be food?”

“Absolutely, but I don’t think I’ll be cooking it.”

“Then I’m coming,” Emma laughs. “Would you mind if I brought some people over as well? I can pay for their dinners.”

“The more the merrier,” Killian says, even if that is not how he intended his night to go. “See you soon, love.”

Killian walks back to the living area and settles down in an armchair, bracing himself for the onslaught of questions he’s about to get. “Emma Swan is coming over for dinner. She’s bringing people with her. I don’t know who yet, but I know she is.”

Slowly, everyone turns and stares at him, and Killian is already dreading everything about tonight.

“Why the fuck is Emma Swan coming over?” Will asks as everyone else nods. “I didn’t even know you knew her.”

“How would I not know her?”

“Oi, you know what I meant! You know her, but you know her in a way that has you say hello in the hallways, not that you invite her and her mates over to take our food.”

“You were not invited here tonight, Scarlet.”

“I am always invited.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ariel sighs, holding her hands up between them. “I need more of an explanation. How did this come about? Are you dating Em – ”

“No, A. Bloody hell, no.” Killian stands from the chair and straightens out his t-shirt. “We got to talking about food one day, and I casually invited her over. Believe it or not, I can have other mates besides you lot.”

“Your personality says otherwise,” Rob teases, and Killian rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright. What should we get delivered for dinner? A little bit of everything?”

“I still have so many questions,” Ariel tells him.

“I have no more answers. I’m going to order food. You guys can keep watching the match.”

“Isn’t this who you play tomorrow?” Rob asks.

“Mhm, but Nemo will take enough notes and give them to me, so I don’t have to watch the match too closely.”

Killian walks away from the living room and goes through the contacts in his phone for the restaurants he likes, and once he settles on one, he orders several meals for delivery, chatting with the owner and promising her he’ll be in to see the entire team before he leaves Rome.

There’s a knock on the door, and Killian glances out the kitchen window. He can see Emma, Emma’s brother, and her sister-in-law. He was expecting Ruby Lucas and Anna Jergenson, but he shouldn’t be surprised. Her family is nearly always with her.

Ariel gets to the door before he does, hugging and greeting everyone. She knows David and Mary Margaret from constantly working with Mary Margaret over management collaborations, and while this is a large industry, there is always going to be overlap amongst certain people.

“David, nice to see you,” Killian says, walking into the room and taking David’s hand before kissing Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Mary Margaret, beautiful as ever. Hey, Swan.”

“What? Am I not as beautiful as ever?” she jokes as she embraces him. “I got all dressed up for this. I’m wearing leggings that don’t have any holes in them.”

“I thank you for your effort.” He pulls back and winks. “I’m sorry for the slight change of plans, but I guess I’ll give you food poisoning another day.”

“Can’t wait.”

Killian guides them into the living room, where it’s a mess of greetings and jumbled conversation, and Killian settles himself back in the chair in the corner, watching everyone talk. They’re in the middle of one of the busiest stretches of the season, and it’s nice to have a night where he can relax. He has a match tomorrow and possibly even more depending on how tomorrow goes, but he tries to forget about those. That’s something Killian is still working on. Liam was the one who usually made him forget, and while his mates, many of them under the same pressures, do a damn good job, there are rarely times when his mind doesn’t race with the possibilities of how everything good in his life can slip away.

Killian rents this house in Rome every year because it was Liam’s favorite, so this week is always a particularly difficult one when everything reminds him of his brother.

When the food arrives, Killian spreads it around the kitchen and gets out a few bottles of wine. He won’t drink tonight, but others might want to. They fill their plates and settle back in the living room, the match that was at the forefront now in the background as Rob and Will take the piss out of each other for how badly the mangled the Italian language while asking for directions earlier today.

“I didn’t grow up speaking two languages! I’m still learning!” Will grumbles.

“You trained in Italy for most of your childhood.”

“I have no excuses for Italian, I know. I do speak French pretty well.”

“Oi, and none of us have to wonder why that is,” Rob laughs.

“You’re all wankers.”

“Why does Will know French?” Emma asks him from her seat next to him.

“His girlfriend is from France.”

“Ah,” Emma sighs, picking up a piece of ravioli and putting it in her mouth. “This is delicious. Much better than whatever it was you were planning on cooking.”

“I’m going to prove you wrong one day.”

She shrugs and puts her plate down on the coffee table next to her glass of wine. “If you say so. Where’s the restroom?”

Killian points to the hallway behind the kitchen. “Second door on the right.”

Emma nods and stands from her seat, walking away toward the bathroom. He gets a notification on his watch that he’s got a text from Nemo, and it looks like a long one. Sighing, Killian moves away from the conversation and down the hall to his bedroom so he can text Nemo back. It’s an analysis of his opponent for tomorrow, and Killian skims through it. He’ll read it more in the morning since his match isn’t until the afternoon, but if he doesn’t text Nemo back now, he’ll call until Killian does. The man is a damn good coach, but he can also be high-strung.

The bedroom door clicks behind Killian as he closes it, and at the same time, Emma leaves the bathroom. The two of them are nearly pressed together in the close quarters of the hallway, and Killian aligns himself against one wall while Emma does the same with the other. Still, he can feel her foot brush against his, and he is close enough to see the freckles on her face.

Those freckles are what have himself tilting closer, his breath intertwining with hers, and for every movement he makes, Emma makes an equal one, the voices in the background fading away as Killian focuses on the flutter of Emma’s lashes and the subtle twitch of her lips. He mirrors her, curling up one corner of his mouth and teasingly tapping his lips.

“Please,” she laughs, “you couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Emma studies him as heat swirls around them and tickles up his spine, pulling him closer to her. He watches her, waiting to see if she’ll do something, but he expects her to make a joke, to turn away like she sometimes does when things get a little too serious between them when they’re talking in person instead of over the phone. She doesn’t always do that, not when he’s the one sharing, but when it comes to her, she’s more guarded, holding everything deep within.

Emma Swan is constantly subverting expectations, however, so when she pulls on the collar of his shirt and tugs his mouth to hers, he takes a moment to reciprocate.

Bloody fucking hell.

Emma is kissing him.

And she’s damn good at it too. Killian reaches up to thread his fingers through her hair, pulling and tugging until he can take a little of the control back from her. She’s a demanding one, and while he can’t say he minds, he would like a little control too. Her lips are soft, and she tastes of wine and the spices of her ravioli. He could get lost in it all, especially when she moans in response to him backing her up against the wall. Her back arches, and Killian rolls his hips as Emma’s kiss teases him. The friction is fucking amazing, and it would be so easy to take a few steps to the right to his bedroom and…

Suddenly, Emma pulls back, lingering in his space, breath hot against his skin, and Killian can feel a smile tugging at his kiss swollen lips.

“That was – ” Killian mutters, leaning in to kiss her again.

“A one-time thing,” Emma quickly tells him, shoving at his chest until he backs away, a mountain of space between them. “I’m going to go back to the living room. Actually, I think I need to go home. I have an early training session tomorrow.”

“Swan – ”

“Thank you for dinner. It was great.”

Then she’s gone, blonde hair falling away, and Killian can’t move from his spot, standing there with his fingers against his lips. He listens to her tell David and Mary Margaret she’s ready to go, listens to her telling everyone goodbye, and then she’s gone, the front door shutting behind her.

What the hell just happened.

And when did he fall halfway in love with Emma Swan?

Fuck.

“What happened to your hair?” Ariel asks when Killian gets the strength in his legs to walk back to the living room.

“Nemo,” he lies. “His analysis for tomorrow had me tugging on it.”

Ariel studies him like she doesn’t believe him, but then she’s back to drinking her wine and talking to Eric, her life going on as normal even when his isn’t.

-/-

He gets blown out of the water in his match the next day.

He can’t compartmentalize his thoughts, putting the personal behind him and the professional in front of him. That’s been the key to all of his success. No matter what’s going on in his personal life, he can always lace up his trainers and take the court, leaving all of that behind him.

Today, it’s like everything that’s happened to him in the past decade has come flooding back, and Killian wants nothing more than the floodgates to stop.

-/-

Emma doesn’t respond to any of his texts.

He pretends it doesn’t bother him as his team leaves Rome and flies to Paris, immediately preparing for Roland Garros. Killian can fuck around at other tournaments on occasion, but he can’t do it at a major. There are only a handful of those to go around, the importance of them will never be lost on him.

Even if sliding across the clay is the last thing he wants to do right now.

“Smaller steps,” Nemo yells from his place on the sidelines. “You’re going to fuck up your ankle if you run like that.”

Killian adjusts his footwork and keeps moving, sweat slicking down his back as the crowds around the practice courts fill in while more players keep showing up. When he sees long blonde hair in her trademark braid three courts over, his step nearly falters.

It doesn’t.

He can’t.

If Emma is going to put distance between the two of them, he’ll let her. He had a life long before he began talking to Emma Swan, and he’ll have one if she never talks to him again.

He’s a liar if he says that his world would be anything other than miserable for awhile.

-/-

Killian crashes out in the quarterfinals of Roland Garros, and he immediately puts it behind him, bracing his shoulders for a month of grass court tournaments in his own country, where the pressure is always highest.

Sometimes it can be suffocating, but he has to do it.

-/-

“Okay, now that you’ve answered all of our questions, we want to show you a little video clip,” Chris McKendry tells him while Killian adjusts the mic resting on his ear.

“It’s never good when you tell me that, Chris.”

She laughs, as fake as always, but Killian goes along with it. “I promise you’ll enjoy this one.”

A producer for ESPN hits play on the video, and Killian keeps his eyes glued to the screen even as someone slides several bowls of strawberries and cream in front of him. The video of he and Emma from California plays on the screen, all of the promotional work the two of them did that day after she took the piss out of him for his answer to how he ate strawberries and cream. Killian forces a smile on his face, not allowing the cameras to see him slip, because this is what he does now. He’s a perfectly polished PR machine. If he’s going to show emotions other than happiness, they’re going to be either on the court or behind the scenes with no cameras rolling. They are certainly not going to be here.

“So, Killian,” Chris laughs as the video rolls, “we thought it would be fun to bring you some strawberries and cream with a spoon to eat them.”

Killian chuckles and takes the spoon, scooping up a large helping of the strawberries and cream and eating it. It’s not bad. He doesn’t like it, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever had to eat because someone has asked him to. And the faster he plays along, the faster he can get out of here.

“I think I’ve got it right now,” he jokes, “though I know my last answer went viral because I failed all of Britain with it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but we are giving you this chance to redeem yourself so you can have this crowd behind you for the fortnight. With your draw, I think you might need it.”

“Draws don’t always hold up, but nevertheless Chris, I’m ready for the challenge.”

“You always are.”

-/-

She’s fucking incredible to watch.

She moves with grace but with incredible power underneath her feet and determination set between her brows. Her play gets better with every match she plays, and Killian is mesmerized by it even if he’s been avoiding her matches over the past few weeks. But now she’s on Centre Court, and her match is playing on the screen above his bike where he’s cooling down from his match. There is no avoiding it, and he can’t say he wants to at the minute. He’s obviously a glutton for punishment.

He’s seen her draw, knows that it’s just as difficult as his, and while she might not win here, the Olympics are just around the corner on these same courts. He can’t imagine her not winning at least one of the two.

Then again, he is aware of his bias, but he is also aware of Emma’s skill.

Killian grabs his phone and takes a picture of her match, posting it on his Twitter, which Ariel has told him he has to use more since he “needs to interact with people online.”

@KillianJones: She’s graceful like a swan but also just as vicious. What a match to watch on my cool down. @Emmaswan is the type of player every kid should try to emulate when they pick up a racket

It’s an olive branch.

If she doesn’t take it, Killian will be fine. He may have fallen hard and fast, but that doesn’t mean Emma did. She is free to take things at her own pace, whatever that may mean for the two of them.

-/-

@emmaswan mentioned you in a tweet.

Killian swipes across his screen and opens Twitter, where he sees a picture of yesterday’s match. It’s from high above in what is obviously a private room, but it’s still clearly him on court, pumping his fist after a big point, the crowd standing all around.

@EmmaSwan: @KillianJones, I don’t think any of these people like you. You should try to get them on your side.

He laughs and falls back on his couch. He’s not well liked in a lot of places, but in his home country, he knows that as long as he’s winning, he has the country behind him.

No pressure.

@KillianJones: @EmmaSwan maybe you could help me out. How do I get the crowd to like me?

@EmmaSwan: @KillianJones cook them a home-cooked meal. It’s the way to everyone’s heart.

Killian nearly drops his phone. She’s joking. She has to be. This is the first time he’s so much as talked to Emma in weeks, and she either doesn’t realize the magnitude of her words or is sending him a clear message.

Emma has never cared much for subtly.

He closes out of Twitter and texts her, hoping he’s not fucking up the olive branch she took by snapping it in half.

Killian Jones: I’m making salmon tonight. It’s just me here tonight. I promise. Do you want to come over for dinner?

Emma Swan: How good is your salmon?

Killian Jones: It’s good.

Emma Swan: I’ll be there.

-/-

Emma Swan walks into his home like she belongs there. She steps inside his front door, removes her trainers, and easily walks to him in the kitchen, propping her hip against the counter while he prepares dinner. They talk, mostly about work, and Killian tries to act as unaffected by her presence as possible. The last time they were this close to each other, he had Emma pressed up against a wall. It’s been over a month since then with very little communication, and Killian constantly feels like a bucket of ice has been dropped over him.

He still doesn’t believe she’s here when he is clearly having a conversation with her.

They eat dinner on his couch, the television turned low in the background, and the conversation stays stilted. If Killian is honest, he wants to sink into the cushions and have this night be over with, but he knows better. Either this night firmly cuts the ties between them, or it ties the string back together.

He knows which one he wants, but he dare not speak for Emma.

“This is really good,” Emma says as she scoops up some of her remaining salad. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Thanks for coming over.”

“It’s a really nice place. I bet it must be nice to be able to stay home for a month while still working.”

“Yeah, it is.” Silence falls between them again, but it’s not comfortable, not like it used to be. “Look, Swan, I – ”

She holds up her hands and places the plate in front of her on his coffee table before twisting around and crossing her legs under her on the couch. “Don’t.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t say it. Don’t apologize for doing something wrong when I’m the one who made out with you and then ran away. I fucked things up between us, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Do you want to fix it?” he suggests, knowing the line he walks is thin.

Emma shrugs, sheepish smile on her lips. “I don’t know. I don’t – I mean, I like…you’re…we’re…I don’t know, Killian. I am obviously not the most emotionally aware person, but I care. I care about my family, my friends…you. I care about you. Like, a lot, which was unexpected.” She leans forward and buries her face in her hands, all of her words coming out muffled. “I don’t know how I can do this without messing things up between us where we’ll be avoiding each other while having to walk the same circles.”

Killian arches his brow and stifles his laugh. He shouldn’t be laughing. This isn’t funny, but there is something comical about it.

“What I’m hearing is that you fancy me.”

Emma peeks out from behind her hands, and she glowers at him. “Seriously?”

Killian shrugs and leans forward, grabbing her hands and slowly intertwining their fingers. “I have no bloody idea what I’m doing either, and I don’t mean to upset you Emma. I really don’t. But we make quite the team. I think it would be foolish not to try, but I’ll do whatever you want.”

“That’s really fucking unfair to make me make the decision.”

“If I did, you would find a way to turn it around on me.”

She digs her nails into his palm, but he doesn’t flinch. “Asshole.”

“I would agree with that assessment most of the time.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but there’s also determination there, green, blue, and gold all mixed together to create the emotions hidden just below the surface. “We don’t tell anyone. Like, no one. I don’t like my private life to be public, and if we tell other people, it’ll become public. I’m already risking a hell of a lot possibly being with someone who I’ll have to see on tour if things get fucked up, so I want a safety net even if this doesn’t solve every issue.”

“You’re a romantic.” She parts her lips to protest, and he squeezes her hands, leaning forward and lingering in her space, closing half the gap. “But I agree with you, wholeheartedly. I was with this woman, and – ”

“We don’t have to talk about our pasts right now. I’ve got a match at one tomorrow, so we sure as hell don’t have time to get through everything. I’m also not entirely sure I trust you with everything yet.”

“You shouldn’t,” Killian half jokes as his lips ghost over hers, “but I hope to earn it.”

“Good,” Emma whispers, wrapping her arms around Killian’s neck and pulling him those final few inches toward her until her lips are softly gliding over his, pulling him under as pleasure trickles up his spine.

Good. This is all damn good.

They have no idea what they’re getting into, but Killian can’t wait to figure it all out.

-/-

tag list (you can be added/removed at any time: @qualitycoffeethings @mrtinski @klynn-stormz @scarletslippers @jonirobinson64 @snowbellewells @therealstartraveller776 @thejollyroger-writer @sherifemma @galaxyzxstark @galadriel26 @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @teamhook @spartanguard @searchingwardrobes @jamif @shireness-says @ultimiflos @nikkiemms @onepunintendid @bluewildcatfanatic @superchocovian @killianswannn @carpedzem @captainkillianswanjones @mayquita @mariakov81 @jennjenn615 @onceuponaprincessworld @a-faekindagirl @scientificapricot @xellewoods @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @singersdd @tornadoamy @cluttermind @lfh1226-linda @itsfabianadocarmo @iam2307 @capthamm @ilovemesomekillianjones @kktabjones @jonesfandomfanatic @ouatxxxxx

#walking the baseline #walking the baseline series #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #Captain Swan

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what2finish · 4 years

Text

Creator Post: Rudearrow

Rudearrow’s WTF Creator Post (Auction #1001, #1002)

Creator’s previous works: Here!

Link to GDrive Folder of WIP Summaries/HCs/Plot Bunnies Creator is Offering: Here!

you can contact the creator before bidding at:

email: [email protected]

Likes: fantasy au, sci-fi au, plotfic/casefic, found family, Redemption Arc With Hard Work, Demonstrating Contrition, and Learning to Love Yourself(tm), wingfic, lesser known pairings and characters, crossovers, whacky ideas taken seriously, whacky ideas taken whackily, bdsm

Do Not Wants: no non-con, torture, incest, or underage. no harder kinks, ie: scat, waterworks, gore, etc.

Preferred Charities of the creator: Any

Full Charities List

___

Auction #1

Type of fanwork: fanfiction

Fandom: Marvel, DC, Stranger Things, Game of Thrones, Supernatural, Mo Dao Zu Shi/The Untamed, (honestly, just email me if you like my writing... if I know your canon, I'm probably down)

Pairing(s): I'm a multi-shipper who loves underdog/rarepairs, existing WIPs are for Winterhawk, Winteriron, Winterironhawk, Robb/Theon, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington/Dean Winchester. Platonic/grey-ace pairings welcome!

Character(s): there isn't a character from any of the canons listed that I won't write

Rating: General, Teen, Mature

Marvel WIPs:

Crimson & Clover: Urban Fantasy AU; 616 Clint & Bucky, endgame Winterhawk. Clint Barton has finally done the Right Thing(tm) and left his life of petty crime with Cirque du Nuit behind him. He’s got a GED, a bow, and coffee- and not much else. In the process of rebuilding his life, he runs into a not-so-tall, dark, and handsome stranger. Literally. He thinks a spilled latte and a bump on the head will be the end of his encounter, but with each successive run-in, he realizes that maybe luck just isn’t on his side and outrunning his past might not be in the cards after all. Current WC: 15k.

Half-splitting the Problem: Winteriron canon reversal! Feared dead after an attack on his convoy in Afghanistan nearly three months ago, the CEO of Barnes Industries has once again defied expectations. Having survived the attack and his subsequent captivity by the terrorist organization, The Ten Rings, James ‘Bucky’ Barnes has returned to American soil and turned his company upside down. Tony Stark, a young man from humble means with few options, has been working his internship with SI R&D for nearly a year now. He’s noticed activities that can only be described as ‘iffy’ at best, but with a boatload of student debt and a work history peppered with reprimands and missed deadlines he’s decided to keep his head down for the almighty dollar and hope for the best... Until he stumbles across Obadiah Stane’s personal project. Current WC: 1.5k

Seraphic (Hallowed Incorporeal Entities) Liaison Division, AKA: S.H.I.E.L.D.: Winterironhawk wingfic! Bucky Barnes has been assigned a new Seraph partner and he’s not happy about it. Tony Stark is that Seraph and while he’s not thrilled either, it really is a lot of fun to push Barnes’s buttons. Clinton Francis Barton, unbeknownst to him, is their first assigned charge. And honestly? He could use all the help S.H.I.E.L.D. can spare. Current WC: 3k

Misadventures in Solitude: Clint Barton-centric, fwb Winterhawk, open to endgame romantic Winterhawk, alternative Clint pairing (except Nat. Sorry, for me they are always platonic soul mates), and/or poly. Just a day in the life of Clint Barton, coffee-riddled, exhausted corporate cog. He did all the “right” things- went to school, got a decent white-collar job, moved to the big city- so why is he so unhappy? And lost. Except, shit... he’s actually lost. Where the futz is he? Current WC: 1.5k

Part I: The Space Between Us: 616 Winterhawk; Space! Kidnapped Clint! BDSM. This is technically part one to the fic I finished a few months ago on my linked Ao3, Show Me the Miles. Bucky has been chosen for the “away team”, as Stark likes to call it. While Bucky is bored almost to tears watching Stark and Rogers schmooze with extraterrestrial royalty, Clint is snatched while on a milk run mission back on Earth. Bucky, suffice it to say, doesn’t exactly take the news well. Current WC: 5.5k

Marvel HC:

Fairytale Winteriron AU: Bucky/Tony Bucky is a sprite with moth wings. Tony is a sprite with butterfly wings. Their peoples have centuries of animosity and sharp words for each other. Then ‘the fire(fly) nation attacked’ and [choose which one here] is injured, only to be saved by the other! Begrudging friendship and appreciation turn into more. Endgame is sprites in love. \o/

Completion WC Estimates:

Crimson & Clover, Estimated 40k+ upon completion.

Half-splitting the Problem, Estimated 15-20k upon completion.

Seraphic (Hallowed Incorporeal Entities) Liaison Division, AKA: S.H.I.E.L.D., Estimated 20k+ upon completion.

Misadventures in Solitude, Estimated 10k+ upon completion.

Part I: The Space Between Us, Estimated 15-20k upon completion.

Fairytale Winteriron AU HC, Estimated 15-20k upon completion.

GOT WIP:

Manual for Spaceship Westeros: Robb/Theon; Space Colony Au! There is tension between the loose planetary alliance that calls itself Westeros. Robb Stark, as the only full-blood Stark son of age, is sent to negotiate a stronger alliance with Iron Born, a terrifying clan who has made a small water planet habitable through the genetic modification of its ancestors, sweat, and blood. Robb arrives to seek an audience with The Greyjoy and make his offer- the hand of his sister Sansa. But The Greyjoy deems this insufficient and Robb quickly finds himself on the offering plate. Current WC 2k.

Completion WC Estimate: 20-25k

Stranger Things & Supernatural:

Billy Dean Was My Lover (working tongue in cheek title): main pairing Steve/Billy (possibly Steve/Billy/Dean?); Billy/Dean; crossover plot-ish fic! When his dad called and ordered Dean to pack up Sam then head for the Midwest, he didn’t ask questions. Apparently, strange things were happening in small town Indiana; which was usually a Winchester’s bread and butter. Yet even Dean and Sam aren’t quite prepared for the kind of strange Hawkins has, especially with John failing to meet them at the town’s motel. But there was something even more surprising than the super-powered teenage girl and a whole new world of monsters...

Hearing the name of Dean’s tape-swap penpal out of some preppy, polo-wearing guy’s mouth. Current WC 1k.

WILDCARD, AKA: ANY HC/PROMPT FOR THE ABOVE PAIRINGS AND FANDOMS LISTED.

If you like my writing but aren’t into the WIPs here, I will write a fic that is a minimum of 10k for any character, ship, platonic pair, for any of the fandoms listed above. I’m also happy to write for material/canon I know but that isn’t listed above. If I know it well enough, I’ll write it for you! (Exception being RPS.) Just message me if you’re curious and I’ll confirm that I’m familiar with the source material. :)

Starting Bid: $10

Creator Notes:

Like my fellow mod, Mei, I am willing to work my winner's likes into my stories and am open to brainstorming sessions!

Feel free to email me to learn more about any of the WIPs stories and if you like, I will give you my Discord handle. I am willing to work with my winner's pairings as long as they don't fall into my DNWs. For Marvel the only two pairings (of the ones I am most familiar) that I just cannot see romantically/sexually are Clint/Natasha and Bucky/Steve.

Current Bid Spreadsheet: Here.

Please check what the current bid is at before bidding.

Bids might take a few minutes to load.

Bidding ends on November 28th 11:59:00pm CST. The highest bid before that deadline will win the auction.

Bidding Form: Here.

Please check the Bid Spreadsheet and bid higher than the previous bid.

You will not be notified if you have been outbid. Only the winner will be notified after bidding ends.

___

Auction #2

Type of fanwork: fanfiction

Fandom: Marvel, DC, Stranger Things, Game of Thrones, Supernatural, Mo Dao Zu Shi/The Untamed, (honestly, just email me if you like my writing... if I know your canon, I'm probably down)

Character(s): there isn't a character from any of the canons listed that I won't write

Rating: General, Teen, Mature

WIPs/Prompt:

Literally the same as Auction #1!

Staring Bid: $10

Creator Notes:

Like my fellow mod, Mei, I am willing to work my winner's likes into my stories and am open to brainstorming sessions!

**In the unlikely event that both winning bidders want the same fic and you don’t want any of the other WIPs listed, I will offer up a fic of equal or greater length for whatever HC you desire. Within, of course, the same DNW parameters listed above. This includes the Wild Card option!**

Current Bid Spreadsheet: Here.

Please check what the current bid is at before bidding.

Bids might take a few minutes to load.

Bidding ends on November 28th 11:59:00pm CST. The highest bid before that deadline will win the auction.

Bidding Form: Here.

Please check the Bid Spreadsheet and bid higher than the previous bid.

You will not be notified if you have been outbid. Only the winner will be notified after bidding ends.

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dawnwave16 · 4 years

Text

A Magical Friendship

Let’s see who still reads my stories... As some may have noticed there are only 2 chapters of ‘Gamer Girl’ posted here on tumblr despite it actually being 5 chapters long. If you want them, they are up on AO3 but I got tired of ZERO feedback here so I stopped posting. If you like my work feel free to read everything there, depending if this story receives any feedback I might consider continuing to post my stuff here...

Rant over on with the story.

[Lily was 16 Hotch was 17 at a summer camp. This means I've changed the year that Hotch was born to 1963 and Lily's to 1964. She would have hidden her pregnancy with her robes and James would have helped her by saying that the child was his when she gave birth in the hospital wing.] The case should have been a simple one. Sure it was on a par with some of the worst they had ever worked what with the fact that the unsub was raping and torturing his victims before dismembering them while they were alive but with that level of planning and execution, it should have been easy to get the unsub to slip up. It hadn't been. The unsub had left no DNA for them, the cuts lacked tool marks and the bodies were too clean considering everything that had been done to them. They hadn't even been able to tell what had been used to clean them before they were dumped. It was beginning to look like the case was going to go cold. Reid was staring at the board they had been using for an hour when Morgan walked in and put a cup of green tea next to him. “What do you see, Pretty Boy?” “Something I'm not sure how to react to,” Reid replied softly his eyes yet to move from the board. “Explain,” Hotch said bluntly, having walked in behind Morgan. “All the victims fit the same profile. Petit, well off, successful women that are all unbelievably well-liked due to their kind and giving nature. Our unsub is somehow changing the victim's natural hair colour to black and their eyes to the same shade of malachite green, leaving no evidence as to how.” “We know all of this Reid. While we don't like it and find it unnerving, you seem to be taking that harder than the rest of us. The question is why?” Rossi cut in. “Simple, they are all being made to look like one person and unless they somehow have a twin, the only place they could have met her was in the UK. I know that everyone is said to have a physical twin somewhere in the world but given what these victims are going through, that seems unlikely to be the case here.” “Pretty Boy are you telling me you know who the unsub is trying to make their victims look like?” Morgan asked in disbelief. “Yes. And if my suspicions are correct, she is the only one who will be able to help us catch this person. The only problem is...” Reid trailed off. “Is what?” JJ queried. “No, not now. It won't impact on the case and in all honestly, I don't have any proof as to if what I suspect is true.” Reid said shaking his head before pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialling a number. “Hey, sorry did I wake you? Really? It's 08:30 AM so it should be 04:00 AM in London, did you have to wake up early for a meeting? Oh, wait so where are you? Alright then, um, can you do me a huge favour and come to the police station then? It's really important. Great see you in 5 minutes then!” Reid hung up the phone and looked at it in amazement. “What are the odds?” He murmured. “What are the odds of what?” Hotch practically demanded. “The person that I said all our victims resemble and that I suspect may be able to help us? She's here, in Salem, as a guest lecturer for something.” Reid said still looking amazed. This startled the team. Hotch was about to start asking Reid more questions when there was a knock on the door and he turned to see a pixie-like woman. She had long black hair tied neatly in a braid down her back which drew attention to her high cheekbones and pale pink, cupids bow lips. Her malachite green eyes were frames by thick lashes and a pair of black-rimmed butterfly glasses seemed to make her eyes even larger. She was dressed casually as she was wearing a pair of stonewashed blue jeans that she had paired with a slightly oversized red shirt printed with a gold lion and a pair of sneakers. She was also wearing a black double-breasted coat but it was hanging open. Morgan's jaw dropped as he looked her over a few times as if trying to confirm what he was seeing. Reid had looked up at the knock and smiled when he saw her. “Will! Hey, thanks for coming at such short notice. Guys, this is Willow Potter, we've been friends since we were children,” He said as he stood to greet her properly. “Penn, good to see you. It's been too long.” Her voice was soft yet it carried a hint of steal that let them know she was stronger than she looked. “So, not to be rude but what's up? You didn't say what was wrong on the phone and while I was trying to organise some time off to visit, you wouldn't have asked me to come here unless something had gone seriously wrong.” She smiled sadly as she spoke which helped to keep the tone light despite its severity. “The case we are working on has us baffled but what was of concern to me was how much the victims look like you. Take a look,” he said waving a hand towards the board. The details each of the women's deaths weren't written up but the team was worried about how she would react. She was quiet for a moment as she frowned at the board. “I don't know much about the case but I can see why Penn was worried, they do look a lot like me. Are there any details you can share without compromising your case?” Her voice was flat and gave nothing away which made Reid smile slightly. However, it was Hotch who answered her question. “They were all raped and tortured before being dismembered while they were still alive, then dumped in high profile areas. The problem is the unsub is leaving absolutely no forensic evidence and we have no way of tracking who could be next due to the changes he makes to his victims.” His voice was clinical as he spoke almost as though he was trying to shock her. “Any symbols left behind from where ever the women were taken from or even somewhere on their homes?” Willow asked calmly as she processed what had been said. Reid's head snapped towards her. “You think they might be part of Riddle's group?” He asked with a voice laced with worry. “The MO is identical to three members of his old group, so yes. I may be a teacher these days but I had way too much exposure to those sadists to be able to forget that type of thing,” Was her only reply as Morgan placed a video call to Garcia and Hotch called an officer over to ask him the same question. “What type of symbol are we talking about here? And why is it important?” Hotch demanded as the officer went to double-check. “Potentially, yes it is. If your unsub is who I'm thinking it is, your case just got a lot bigger than it already is. The symbol would be a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth.” Weirdly enough the description of the symbol seemed to come in distorted stereo as Willow and Garcia spoke at the same time. Willow's eyes closed as if she was in pain as she heard Garcia's words. “It was found at each of the victims' houses, burned into the door frame.” Garcia continued before looking at Willow, “Oh, um, hi. Sorry, I didn't expect anyone except my team to be there, I'm Penelope Garcia,” Garcia said slightly flustered. “It's alright, unfortunately, your case just got a whole lot worse and more complicated, though,” Willow said with a sigh. “Riddle's group?” Reid asked sadly. “Riddle's group,” Willow confirmed. “Would someone please explain what the significance of 'Riddle's group' is?” Hotch demanded. Willow and Reid exchanged a look before Willow looked at Hotch calmly. “As much as I want to explain it's the significance, I am bound by law to only be able to give you a highly summarised version until I know what everyone is cleared to know. I know Reid has the correct clearance for this, however that has nothing to do with his FBI clearance and more to do with the fact that he has been my voice of sanity since I was ten.” The team stared at Willow even as Reid watched her calmly. He could see the exact moment she came up with a plan and started smiling as a glint that normally spelt trouble for the one on the receiving end appeared in her eyes. “Hey, Garcia?” “Yeah?” “Try inputting Tom Marvelo Riddle, 1981 and Potter. It will throw up an alert that that is restricted information. It will also bring an agent to your office, which means I need to be clearly visible in your video call screen.” “Um, ok but” “The higher up's will block my requests to get the team read in. By them seeing me sitting with everyone here it'll force them to read every one in. If only to give me the chewing out that they'll want to give me.” Willow had a cheeky smirk as she said the last bit. “I hate when politics get in the way of getting a case solved and I'm not afraid of getting into trouble to get my way.” The team stared at her but Garcia did as Willow had suggested only to jump as her door was thrown open. The agent froze when he saw Willow smirking on the video screen. “Potter!” The agent growled. “You going to stonewall me or am I going to be allowed to get these guys read in so that we can get more killers off the streets? At the rate, you lot generally fuck around before you make a decision you are going to have another crisis on your hands that will make Newt's Mess look like a stroll in the park.” Willow had crossed her arms and was speaking to the agent calmly, however, the team could see the clear challenge in her eyes. “I will be reading in Agent Hotchner regardless of your decision just so you know if only so he knows why his team isn't going to be able to do the final takedown.” “What is it with you Brits thinking that you can do this type of thing?” The agent said throwing his hands up in the air. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I have experience with chasing DE's and those associated with them? The fact that I took out their leader? Or maybe it is the fact that you are so concerned with possible outcomes that you can't see the forest for the trees? How many cases does this team solve per year? And how many cases do you lot get that sit stagnant on your desk that would

benefit from their expertise but don't get it because they are not read in? With all due respect, I'd recommend sorting out your priorities and realise that you could save more lives by asking for the help that you obviously need.” Willow stared at the agent until he suddenly threw his hands in the air. “On your head be it, Potter! But it's you that will be going before Lopez to defend your actions here. Don't forget to get them to sign the forms.” The agent turned on his heel then staked out the room slamming the door behind him. “That went well,” Willow said with a sigh of relief, flopping back into a chair her eyes closed as the unseen tension drained out of her. The team looked at her with a touch of confusion while Reid put his hand on her shoulder, silently asking if she was alright. “I'm ok, Penn,” she said quietly as Garcia let out a yelp as information suddenly became available to her. “Am I reading this correctly?” Garcia asked bemusedly, “Because if I am then I have to wonder how all of this stays hidden so well and how.” Reid motioned for everyone to take a seat while he closed the door and made the room as secure as he could. Willow cast a couple of discrete spells without taking out her wand and when Reid sat down next to her, the two of them tag-teamed with each other to get the team up to speed about the existence of magic. To say that their reactions would have been comical under any other circumstance was an understatement. “I'm sorry, we've seen a whole lot of weird things due to cases over the last few years but I just can't accept that magic is real with no proof.” Morgan spluttered. “That's fair. I didn't think magic was real either until I met Willow. Seriously, we didn't even know what it was until she was elven. All we knew was that if she didn't want us to be found, we weren't. If she didn't want food to go off or lose temperature or melt, it stayed the way it was.” Reid said with a smile as he remembered everything that had happened that summer. “Am I the only one that's confused as to how you two met?” Rossi said suddenly from where he was sitting. “We met and became friends when I helped her hide from her bully of a cousin while her family was in Las Vegas on a business trip for her uncle back when I was nine,” Reid explained calmly as Willow looked over his copy of the case files to get herself up to speed. “Willow had just turned 10 at the time and her Uncle's boss had insisted that she joined the family to give a better impression. We kept in touch after Willow had to return to the UK through letters and later through the odd phonecall whenever Willow could sneak one in. Oh, sure it had been difficult as neither of us had had much money so paying for our letters to be posted to each other but we made do. We had a small problem when she went to Hogwarts and we had to figure out how to get the letters to each other without the normal mail systems. In a fit of desperation, Willow eventually wrote to Gringotts and they recommended we get communication boxes. Willow ordered a pair through them and soon after that, we had each had a beautifully decorated wooden box inlaid with mother of pearl that had been enchanted to send whatever was placed in them to the matching box. It saves on postage and considering how much we wrote to each other that was probably a good thing.” The team smiled at Reid as he got lost in his memories. It was clear to them that there was something more between these two but they didn't know if the two of them had explored it yet so they stayed silent. “Before we continue with this case, can I just say that those details you asked me to look up are just tragic,” Garcia said suddenly. “I'm sorry about that Garcia. Getting you to try to pull the file regarding my parents' murder and the murder attempt on myself was the easiest way I could think of to get people to respond. Most people know I remember the night and more importantly, they know that I remember my mother's screams and my stepdad yelling for her to get away... Anyway, it's because of my views on it that it would automatically be flagged if someone searches for it.” Willow explained with an apologetic smile while the team, other than Reid, looked at her with a mix of sympathy and horror. “Wait, stepfather? I thought he was your father.” Reid said suddenly. “I did too until I read my mother's diary a week ago,” Willow quickly fished it out and handed said diary to him, “It turns out James was my stepfather and that he blood adopted me when I was born. Mom fell pregnant to a guy here in the States when she was 15 but managed to delay her pregnancy with a potion. She got hit with a spell that cancelled out that potion at some stage and after that, she hid it with baggy clothes and robes until she gave birth to me. She didn't give many details about who he could be though.” “She gave one that you would have missed but that gives my suspicion a bit more credence. She gives his first name and the name of the camp she was at when she fell pregnant.” Reid said quietly as he looked through it quickly. “Reid?” “Pretty Boy?” “Hotch, it's the same camp as the one you were telling us about the other day and...” Reid trailed off. “And?” Hotch prompted. “And your first name. She's written that she didn't get your surname and that her parents told her about three months worth of letters that they received and put aside for her but that her sister destroyed out of spite. It was what lead to their final fallout with each other and why she never wrote back, she didn't have an address to post them to.” Reid said looking at Hotch who was staring at both Reid and Willow in shock. “Apparently her parents had sent both of them to the camp as a last-ditch effort to reconcile their relationship. Both girls attended the camp under a false name and Lily wore contacts to hide her unusual eye colour. Either way, you'll need to do a paternity test to confirm all this,” He added. “As nice as it would be to find out my birth father is alive and that it's possible for me to get to know him, we have a case that needs to be solved first. We are both still alive and I think I've proven I'm really hard to kill so the case takes priority right now,” Willow said with a wry smile which seemed to make the team realise that they had gone seriously off-topic. With all the paperwork sorted for them knowing about magic, it was relatively simple for them to piece together why there was no normal forensic evidence. A quick test from the MME (Magical Medical Examiner) told them which spells were used on each of the women, which also gave them the biggest clue as to who the unsub was. “Well other than a rather violent severing charm being used to dismember each of your victims there is significant evidence of the Cruciatus Curse, mild use of the blood boiling hex and the last spell used on each of the victims before they were killed was the mutilation hex. Magic signature detection spells have shown two unique yet similar signatures leading me to believe that your killers are siblings. Oh and because this was done with a spell, a normal coroner would have missed it but each victim had the dark mark on the underside of their patella, placed their post mortem.” The MME's voice was forcibly detached from what he was describing which told Willow just how bad each victim was. With a quick word of thanks to the MME, she made her way back to the team to give them the details. As she walked she went over different ways to track down the Lestrange brothers, muttering as she went which earned her several side-eyed looks for the local LEO's. After walking into the room and giving them all the details she knew a plan was quickly hatched and just as quickly put into place. Neither Reid nor Hotch was too happy about the plan but they agreed that it was the best they could come up with. Willow would play as the bait and several American Aurors would be her back up. This kept the BAU away from the scene and safely away from any spellfire but it also meant that they were essentially handing the case over to the people who were best equipped to handle it. Their part was done and the best part was they would have drastically less paperwork to do then they normally would. That didn't stop any of them from worrying about Willow though so their Auror contact decided to have a bit of a QnA session with them. It didn't take long for the team to ask about potions and it here that the Auror slipped up slightly. Hotch asked if wizarding kind had a way of working out who a sample of blood belonged to which lead to a discussion about heritage potions and how they worked in general as well as if they were affected by blood adoptions. Since the Auror didn't know all the circumstances he had readily answered the question and offered to show them how they worked. A quick look at Reid had him sighing and reaching into his wallet and bringing out what looked to be a letter faded from age. What scared them was the amount of what looked like blood that was staining the page. Reid refused to acknowledge the questioning glances as he asked the Auror how much blood was needed. Seeing the letter and guessing it was important to the man holding it, he admitted that they only needed a tiny piece if they were just trying to identify the person the blood belonged to and the next of kin. Reid handed the Auror the letter and with a quick spell, a small piece was removed without touching the contents of the letter. With the bloody paper added to the potion, he proceeded to drop a fountain pen into the pot he had used since it looked less suspicious. Once the potion had vanished due to the pen absorbing it the Auror was quick to place it on a clean sheet of paper and the BAU team watched in amazement as Willow's name appeared in a neat print quickly followed by

the names Lily Evens (Potter) and Aaron Hotchner. The name James Potter also appeared but with a line next to it that said it was a blood adoption. Everyone in the room stared at the results. Reid ran a hand over his face knowing he would now have to deal with an overprotective Hotch if he ever wanted to act on his feelings. Hotch, on the other hand, was wondering how he was going to get to know his adult daughter and what he should be doing to help her. The rest of the team were just as unsure of what they should be doing. After a further three hours of debates about magic that had followed the awkward silence brought about by the announcement of Willow's paternity, the door finally opened. It was Willow much to their relief however Spencer was quick to notice that she had changed into a button-down blouse and that there was a bandage peeking out from under the collar. “Are you ok?” He blurted out without thinking. “Yeah, I'm going to be on a potions regimen for the next month at least but I'm ok. It seems Dolenhov was with them and he decided to use his speciality curse against me. I dodged the worst of it by creating a marble sheet in front of me but I didn't make it big enough so the edge of the curse caught my shoulder.” Willow reassured him with a soft smile. She walked in and sat down on one of the free chairs tilting her head back and closed her eyes. “I think I'm a little out of practice with my dodging,” her wry comment made Spencer shake his head at her. “I think you've done more than enough of that type of thing in your life to have earned your retirement into being just a teacher, Will,” Spencer said just as wryly. “Besides it's been how long since you stepped down from being an Auror? Cut yourself some slack Will.” “You were an Auror? What made you decide to become one and why the drastic career change?” Hotch asked quietly. Willow looked at him in confusion until Reid handed her the paper from earlier with the heritage potion results on it. Her expression cleared up as she read it even as she sighed. “To understand that you need a fuller picture of what I've lived through. That is a very long story though and I know that this room will be needed by the police here so would it be possible to move this discussion to my suite at the hotel? I promise it's large enough for everyone to be able to sit comfortably.” Willow's voice was soft as she spoke, the edge of sadness making it apparent to the team that she didn't want to talk about her life and that she was giving herself the time to prepare herself to do just that. They made their way back to the hotel that Willow was staying at and were soon settled on the couches comfortably. Willow had brought a stone bowl out from the bedroom area of the suite and had set it on the coffee table. She had explained what it was and how it worked as well as the fact that this one had a projection function so they wouldn't have to touch anything in order to see what she needed to show them. She used a fairly happy memory from her visit to Vegas to show them how it worked and Spencer had blushed a bright shade of scarlet at the teams cooing over how cute he was when he was young. Soon enough though everyone was wishing for something stronger than coffee as they listened and watched some of the important parts of Willow's life. They soon understood why she had felt like she had no choice but to be an Auror and were even more grateful that she had stayed in contact with Spencer as he had been the one to act as her sounding board when she had faced the choice of retiring from the force while still in one piece. Sure she had her scars but she hadn't lost any limbs like some of the others. As for Hotch, he couldn't be prouder of his newly discovered daughter if he had tried. She was strong and focused and had been through what most would consider to be hell. Heck, they had had unsubs that had gone through less than what she had and yet they had snapped but his daughter was still standing strong. She was still able to laugh and smile despite everything which impressed him tremendously. It was very late by the time Willow had finished her story and the room service cart had come and gone with meals and desserts for everyone. The team had tried to pay for their meal but Willow had waved them off saying that she had it covered while Spencer watched in amusement, eventually bursting out laughing when they tried to insist. “What do you find so funny, Petty Boy? It's only fair that we pay for ourselves as shouldn't have to cover all of what we ate out of a teacher's salary!” Morgan demanded heatedly, which made Willow give in to her laughter as well. “Morgan, I have never touched my salary, most of it goes straight to charities to help orphans or those that are being abused. I live off of the interest my various investments make. To be honest, thanks to my inheritance I never have to work a day in my life and neither would my children or grandchildren. I work because I'd go mad otherwise. Besides, I like the fact that I'm teaching the next generation how to defend themselves.” They all headed to bed soon after that with Willow having transfigured most of the couches into very comfortable beds for everyone. It was only when JJ woke up in the middle of the night needing the toilet that she noticed that Reid was not on one of the transfigured beds and that there was a light shining through the crack of Willow's ajar bedroom door. A quick peek showed that Reid and Willow were both still awake and were talking to each other as the cuddled on the bed. Thankfully for her peace of mind, they were both fully dressed.

#criminal minds #harry potter #fem harry potter #harry x reid #au bio dad #mentions of violence #mentions of teenage sex #mentions of murder #mentions of torture

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caedmonfaith · 5 years

Text

Method Acting

A new multichapter fanfic by Caedmon.

Summary: Anthony J. Crowley is an A-list actor who has been in a bit of a slump over the last couple of years. A.Z. Fell is on the brink of superstardom, but has a reputation as a fuddy duddy. Their managers, Beezle and Gabriel, insist that if they pretend to date each other, it will solve both of their problems. It's only for three months. What's the worst that can happen?

Actors!AU, fake relationship, slow burn, rated E for later chapters. Updates every Monday and Thursday. First chapter below.

Read it on ao3!

~*~O~*~

August 19, 2019

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Crowley stated blankly, shock rendering his face devoid of emotion. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It had to be a joke. “A.Z. Fell?”

“Yes. Glad to know your hearing is normal,” Beezle commented drily.

“Who the fuck is A.Z. Fell?”

“He’s an actor, and a rather good one. Surely you’ve heard the buzz about the new drama coming out, ‘Tadfield’. He’s the lead, and poised for superstardom after this film.”

Crowley racked his brain, but couldn’t call anything to mind about A.Z. Fell. The name was certainly familiar, but for some reason, he was connecting it with London, not LA. That couldn’t be right. Could it?

He shook off the thought and went back to his shocked disbelief. “I don’t understand,” he managed. “I genuinely don’t fucking understand, Beezle. I need you to enlighten me.”

“It’s simple. You haven’t had a hit in four years. Your last six movies haven’t done as well as expected—”

“They weren’t bombs,” Crowley muttered petulantly.

“No, they weren’t bombs, but given what you were doing five or ten years ago, they were a disappointment. Frankly, your star has fallen quite a bit as a result. Magazines aren’t writing about you, the paps don’t give a shit about you --”

“You say that like it’s a fucking bad thing.”

Beezle leveled a look at him. “It is a bad thing, and you know it. You know perfectly well that in this business, media silence is a death knell. If you’re not being talked about, you might as well lay down and die. But I know you, Crowley, and I don’t believe you’re done yet. You’re in a slump, yes, but I think you still have a few years of hits left in you. We just have to get people to pay attention again.”

“And you think the best way to do that is with a fake relationship with this A.Z. Fell?”

“Yes. If ‘Tadfield’ does even half of what people are expecting, he’s about to be on top of the world, career-wise. He’s already very much in demand, and highly sought after.”

“Then why the hell should he do this?”

“His manager, Gabriel, and I are old friends. He owes me a favor.”

“Some fucking favor,” Crowley grumbled.

Beezle ignored him. “You don’t have to do this. This isn’t the 1930’s, no one is going to force you. Your job doesn’t depend on it. But this could be very good for you, Crowley. I’m only asking you to go through with it for three months or so.”

“Three months!”

“Yes, at least three. Otherwise the paparazzi won’t even have time to be interested. After a few months, if you never want to see Fell again, you don’t have to. But think about it. Just think for a second. Think of your career.”

“There’s got to be some other way…”

“Oh, sure, we could do it without this, but dating someone on top of his game will open doors for you that I can’t open otherwise, or would be hard to open. It’ll propel you into the spotlight again. Your association with him will put you in front of casting directors and the like. Besides that, being linked with someone seen as stable and safe will help improve your own image. Your reputation precedes you.” Crowley scowled and Beezle leaned forward, propping their hands on their knees. “Think, you stubborn fool. Think of what this could mean.”

Crowley huffed, but he did as he was asked and thought about it. His star had fallen over the last several years, and the roles he was being offered lately were not nearly as good. Producers and directors didn’t want to take a chance on an actor who may not make a good return on investment, and Crowley hadn’t been as bankable lately. Sure, he still had plenty of money squirreled away, but he enjoyed what he did. He enjoyed the lifestyle - although he had to admit, the constant partying was getting old. And he missed working.

Beezle wasn’t done. “You’re not the only one who suffers when your career is in the dumps, you know.”

It was a pointed reminder if Crowley had ever heard one. And what’s more, Beezle was right. Everyone associated with him - Beezle, his agent, his accountants, everyone - stood to gain when he was successful and bringing home top billing pay. If he did well, they all prospered. If he floundered, they did, too. And if he floundered too much, they’d all leave him for greener pastures. Then he’d really be fucked.

“Three months, you said?”

“At least three. You get through to the end of November, and we’ll play it by ear. If the plan hasn’t worked and doesn’t look like it’s going to, we’ll stick a fork in it. But if it’s going well, we might milk it for a while longer. No longer than six months, though. Tops.”

Crowley sighed, his shoulders slumping a little, and he tried not to notice the gleam of triumph in Beezle’s eye.

“Tell me how it’s going to work.”

~*~O~*~

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said politely, inclining his head forward a bit, as if to hear better. “So silly of me, but I’m afraid I must have misheard you, Gabriel. It almost sounded as if I’m going to be in a fake relationship.”

“That’s right,” Gabriel said with a bright smile, as if he was pleased Aziraphale had caught on so quickly to the most perfect plan anyone had ever come up with. A perfect gem of a plan. Aziraphale was forced to disagree.

“And just who are you proposing I have this sham of a relationship with, pray tell?” he demanded, voice chilly.

“Anthony J. Crowley,” Gabriel answered smugly.

“Anthony J. Crowley!” Aziraphale squawked. “But he’s… he’s…”

“He’s an A-list actor whose career has been on a downward swing for the last couple of years. You’re about to become an A-list actor when ‘Tadfield’ is released. You can help each other.”

“How on Earth can we possibly do that?”

“Your reputation as an actor is sterling - really, the best of the best - but no one knows anything about your personal life. You never go to parties and are very rarely social. Honestly, you’re developing a reputation as a recluse, a bookworm - almost a hermit. Certainly a stick in the mud. The words ‘fuddy duddy’ have been bandied about, and surely you can see how those would be detrimental to you.”

“I like who I am!”

“And there’s nothing wrong with who you are, Fell. But you’re boring. Boring doesn’t sell tickets.”

“I seem to be doing just fine,” Aziraphale huffed. “All my films have performed admirably.”

“They all did fine, but ‘fine’ isn’t what you want. ‘Fine’ is mediocre. You want excellence, and this will help you to get it.”

“I still fail to see how a false relationship is going to improve ticket sales - especially someone with the kind of reputation Anthony J. Crowley has. He’s a well-known rake.”

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the desk and crossing his ankles, threading his fingers together and putting them behind his head. “First of all, no one says ‘rake’ anymore. Further, a torrid relationship with someone seen as your polar opposite will drum up interest in you. You’re not an unfortunate-looking man, Fell, despite being a little soft around the middle.” Aziraphale covered his belly protectively, but Gabriel didn’t pause. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have legions of fans who adore you and soak up your every move. Entire blogs and websites, devoted to you! You need to build an audience, and having a high-profile relationship can only help that.”

“You can’t make me do this,” Aziraphale tried. “It’s bound to be illegal. Isn’t it?”

Gabriel made a face that clearly indicated that Aziraphale was being ridiculous. “Of course nobody is making you do this. I’m just pointing out the benefits to your career if you agree to fake a relationship for the next ninety days or so. That’s all we’re asking. Three months - maybe more, if things are going well.”

“We? Who else is in on this?”

“Beezle, Anthony J. Crowley’s manager. They’re pitching the idea to him today, too, so we can get started as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale was quiet for a few moments, contemplating. It was a ludicrous idea, laughable, really. But would it work? Aziraphale had always loved acting, loved the craft, but he’d promised himself when he came to LA that if he ever made it big, he’d stay in the spotlight long enough to build up a comfortable nest egg, then he’d ‘retire’ back to London with his books and beat the boards in the West End whenever it pleased him. He’d had it all planned out… but he hadn’t quite had the success in LA he’d hoped for. He was comfortable enough, but not yet able to return to London full time. Los Angeles was still where the money was, so that was where he needed to stay for now - at least part-time.

But if Gabriel was right, this faked relationship could propel him into a higher status - which would let him see his retirement sooner. He certainly wasn’t getting any younger, and frankly was lucky to be getting the parts he was getting at his age. If pretending to date Anthony J. Crowley would open him up to more roles, what could it hurt?

Aziraphale sighed. “I must be mad.”

“You’ll be mad if you don’t do this. I promise, Fell. This will work. Three months of your life to secure the rest of your life. You’d be crazy to turn that down.”

He wasn’t so sure about that, but acquiesced. “Tell me how this is supposed to work.”

#ineffable husbands #good omens #aziraphale/crowley #aziraphale x crowley #good omens fic #my fic #my writing #i'm so nervous about this #it's my first multichap in this fandom #and I'm just a ball of nerves

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chloebeale · 5 years

Text

BROKEN (1/1)

Summary: Double prompt fill for @brihay8 “Bechloe... “Broken” by Seether. Beca writes it for Chloe. Happy ending?” and anonymous “they’ve been arguing/ bickering for weeks bc of “anything you want.” but then they make up bc obviously”. Lots of angst, tears and of course a healthy dose of fluff.

Words: 3.2K | Rating: T | ao3

Protective arms snake delicately around Beca’s small waist, the scent of Chloe’s familiar perfume almost overpowering the smell of the food cooking on the stove in front of her. Beca doesn’t turn around, she just continues stirring the bolognese sauce, her head tilting slightly to the side as Chloe’s lips press gently to the soft, pale skin of her neck. The feeling pulls a natural smile to her lips.

“Stop, I’m trying to impress you with this fancy dinner,” Beca jokes -- spaghetti bolognese? Super fancy. She sets her wooden spoon down on the edge of the small saucepan, hands finding their way to Chloe’s bare arms. “I can’t concentrate with you doing that.” In spite of her words, she makes no attempt to actually stop her, nor to wriggle free of her grasp.

“Mm, you always impress me,” Chloe mumbles, lips peppering soft kisses into the crook of Beca’s neck. Her chin rises to rest lightly against her girlfriend’s shoulder, and Beca can see her pout from the corner of her eye. “You know I don’t like this song.”

Honestly, Beca hadn’t even been paying attention. She’s busy attempting to cook without burning their food, and the random Spotify playlist crooning quietly is really just background noise, nothing to actually listen to. Of course, Chloe drawing her attention to the current song has it flooding into her ears, and Beca’s lips twist into a small, pointed frown, a hand lifting up to settle delicately against Chloe’s cheek.

“So, turn it off,” Beca states, turning her face to push a gentle peck to her girlfriend’s rosy cheek. “We don’t have to listen to it.”

“But it’s yours.” Chloe’s pout intensifies, her lips jutting right the way out. The sight causes Beca to grin, to want to crane her neck and kiss her pout away. “And I never want to turn off your music. It’s conflicting.”

Finally, Beca twists around in her girlfriend’s arms, her own rising to wrap loosely around her neck. “You’re a dork,” she teases, stretching up to place a chaste kiss to Chloe’s lips.

Standing here, with her arms wrapped around Chloe Beale, gazing up into those bright blue eyes, it’s a far cry from the dark place Beca had been in when she’d written this song. It’s really not a time that she likes to think about, but with the reminder radiating through the airwaves, how can she not?

***

I wanted you to know That I love the way you laugh I wanna hold you high And steal your pain away

Beca writes upbeat songs. Upbeat, oftentimes kind of lovey-dovey, that’s just her brand. Maybe it doesn’t seem very Beca Mitchell; she has always had the alt girl look down, never been one to radiate romantic vibes, but Beca has known love so strong, so pure, so sure that the words generally come easily to her. Chloe Beale is her muse, she’s her inspiration. Writing about Chloe is like... It’s like writing poetry.

And perhaps that’s the reason the page in front of her is covered with such sad, empty words right now, because even though they’re broken up, even though they’re not Chloe and Beca anymore, Chloe is still her muse. Chloe is still poetry. And Beca hates that, she really does, but she just can’t help it.

I keep your photograph And I know it serves me well I wanna hold you high And steal your pain away

Because I’m broken When I’m lonesome And I don’t feel right When you’re gone away

She reads back over the words. She doesn’t like them. She doesn’t like the way they sound, the message they send. Beca writes chart-toppers for successful musicians. She writes anthems, songs that make people want to get up and dance. There’s none of that behind these lyrics, though. None of her usual sound, her usual message. Beca really might as well stick an ‘I’m going through a breakup right now’ post-it over the front, because anybody that reads this is going to know. They’re going to know that Beca is broken right now, that she’s not whole without her other half, and that’s the last thing she wants.

For years now, she and Chloe have been a team. They met in college, their relationship blossoming quickly. Have they had their rocky patches? Sure. How many relationships are constantly smooth sailing?

But then rocky had become their new normal, and they’d had to finally accept that that just... Wasn’t okay.

You’ve gone away You don’t feel me here Anymore

Beca tries hard not to think about it, not to let her own sadness consume her every waking moment, but with wounds so fresh, so painful, it’s difficult not to. Oftentimes, remembering the good parts of their time together hurts even more, because Beca longs so badly to have that back again. To go back to a time before every word was laced with venom, every conversation ending in a fight.

Things had been good at first. They were young, they were entirely wrapped up in one another and their fresh, new love. Love so fierce that Beca could finally understand all of those dumb romantic comedies Chloe would watch while Beca curled up beside her and pretended not to focus, but absolutely did so anyway.

“That guy is a tool,” Beca would mumble without thought.

“I thought you weren’t paying attention?” Chloe would retort, and despite the fact that Beca couldn’t see her face, she’d be able to hear the smug smile on her lips. It would always make Beca roll her eyes and scoff loudly, until Chloe was twisting her body toward her, tugging Beca up carefully into her lap and playfully pecking her frown away...

“You’re daydreaming again, Mitchell.”

The voice cutting into her thoughts belongs to her boss. It causes Beca to jump slightly in her seat.

“Sorry,” Beca clears her throat, weakly stretching out her arms, “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Seems to be a recurring theme.”

“Yeah.”

Fortunately, the environment Beca works in is very casual. There are higher ups, but they don’t necessarily act like it, and that’s something Beca needs right now. She doesn’t need anyone breathing down her neck, hurrying her along when she’s so caught up inside of her own mind. She needs patience, she needs time. And God, she needs Chloe... But she doesn’t have her anymore, and that’s the reason the lyrics before her are so sad and so unlike her, because Beca is lost without her muse.

The worst is over now And we can breathe again I wanna hold you high You steal my pain away

“Are you and Chloe still coming to the barbecue next weekend?”

The sound of her girlfriend’s name -- ex-girlfriend -- rings loudly in her ear, causes a shooting pain throughout Beca’s very core. Of course she hasn’t told anybody about their breakup yet. The moment she does, that’s when it becomes real, and she can’t have that. She can’t just accept that this is over.

But it is. They’d yelled and they’d fought, they’d both just grown so tired. Beca had herself convinced it was for the best, and she thinks Chloe did, too. But she’s not so sure anymore. Sitting here, an empty feeling inside her gut, she’s just... She’s not so sure.

It might’ve helped some, if there’d been a fight that ended it all. If there’d been a fire of rage that’d burned them up completely, but there wasn’t, and Beca blinks away the memory of that final, fateful evening.

Only it won’t leave her. It never does.

...

Beca knows something’s wrong the moment she hears the knock at her door.

For the last few minutes, she’d been going over their last text message exchange, wondering if maybe she’d crossed a line. They’re both young adults, they’re trying to navigate the real world, and balancing a healthy relationship on top of all of their individual stress just seems so impossible. It shouldn’t be, but it is, and Beca knows that Chloe knows it, too. She can tell by the look on her face as the door swings slowly open, her girlfriend looking sullen and disheveled before her.

“This isn’t working,” Chloe whispers. Despite the quiet volume, the words seem so loud, so final, that Beca wants to reach up and cover her ears. She doesn’t, though. She just stares, mouth opening and closing soon after, because she doesn’t know what to say.

“Bec,” Chloe presses, her voice cracking mid-word. The vibrant blue of her eyes only intensifies when they’re glazed over with tears, the way they are now, and Beca wants nothing more than to reach out and console her. Comfort her. Take her pain away. Chloe’s head shakes, and a solitary tear rolls slowly down her cheek in the process. “I love you. I love you so much that it scares me sometimes,” Chloe chokes out, “But you know as well as I do that this isn’t working.”

...

“Beca?”

Her head snaps up, vision blurred until she blinks away the mist from her eyes.

“The barbecue?”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Uh, no,” Beca shakes her head, scrambling to find her words. “No, Chloe’s out of town that weekend.”

Although her colleague doesn’t push, doesn’t ask questions, Beca can see the subtle hint of questioning drawing itself onto her features, the way she’s wondering if everything is okay.

Beca offers her a forced smile, and nothing else is said.

***

It’s lunchtime, though the last thing Beca feels like doing is eating. She has barely done any work all morning, though. Usually, she tears through new material like a whirlwind, able to capture the perfect message, the perfect sound. This morning, though, all she has done is repeatedly read over her newest piece, the one she’s supposed to submit sometime soon to go out to a professional musician to release to the world. And she’s hated what she’s read every single time.

There’s so much left to learn And no one left to fight I wanna hold you high And steal your pain away

‘Cause I’m broken When I’m open And I don’t feel like I am strong enough ‘Cause I’m broken When I’m lonesome And I don’t feel right when you’re gone away

Normally, Beca’s mind is her most important tool. Her key to success. All of her music comes from there, it’s literally her money-maker. But it’s something she can’t be left alone with anymore, not if she doesn’t want to do something she’ll regret.

But as she stares at her phone, at the contact picture of Chloe Beale pressing a kiss to her cheek as a tinge of pink overtakes Beca’s pale skin beneath the touch of her lips, she wonders if maybe, just maybe, not hitting that call button is the thing she’ll regret.

She decides to be bold. Decides to tap her thumb against her screen and lifts her phone up to her ear, the sound of it ringing causing a shiver throughout her spine.

And then she gets Chloe’s voicemail, and Beca knows she should hang up, knows she should finish up her coffee and head back to work to finish her day, but she doesn’t. Her hand just won’t move, won’t pull the phone away from it’s position pressed up against her face.

In fact, she doesn’t even want it to.

“Hey,” she finally says, tongue darting out to lick over her dry lips. “Uh, it’s me. Beca.” She knows who you are, idiot, Beca thinks to herself as her eyes squeeze shut, her heart beating hard inside of her chest. “Listen, I don’t know why I’m calling, and I don’t know if you’ll even hear this. But it’s been a week now, Chloe, and I don’t know how to accept that this is really over.” She clears her throat, hoping the way her voice cracks is subtle enough not to come across over the recording. “I take it back, okay? Every crappy thing I’ve ever said. Putting my work first, saying you put yours first... I take it all back. Because you’re everything, Chloe. You’re everything, and I just need us to be okay again.” Her voice quietens, conviction fading, until she’s whispering into the phone. “I miss you... I miss us.”

That’s enough now, she thinks. It’s enough.

***

The work day is over too quickly.

Beca doesn’t want to go back to her apartment, to sitting alone with her thoughts and constant reminders of Chloe Beale. And so she doesn’t, she doesn’t go home. She finds things to do, ways to keep herself occupied, until the sun is setting and there’s a dark blanket weighing heavily over the city.

Pretty fitting really, Beca thinks. It kind of just seems like her life right now.

It’s late evening before she arrives home, boots dragging lazily along the sidewalk. Beca is in her own world, the same way she always is lately. So much so that she doesn’t even notice the figure sitting soundly on her stoop, not until she hears her voice breaking into the madness that is her mind.

“You miss me?”

Beca’s heavy lids turn to the lightest of feathers, shooting open to locate the source. It’s a voice she recognizes, one that sends so many feelings soaring through her body. And then her gaze is landing on Chloe Beale, and Beca almost freezes up completely.

“You think that’s all it takes? A voicemail saying that you miss me?” Chloe questions, her tone a mixture of confusion and what Beca perceives as frustration. “It doesn’t work like that, Beca.”

Their breakup had been no one person’s fault. They were both to blame, both allowed their hectic lives to take over, both said stupid things that they didn’t mean but had put out into the universe anyway. So Beca is a little confused as to why this suddenly seems like it’s her problem to fix, like she’s the one who’s supposed to know what to do to make it right.

It occurs to her quickly that maybe Chloe is just as messed up about all of this as she is. Just as confused, just as broken. And like Beca, Chloe doesn’t know how to handle it, either.

“Can we not do this out here? I have neighbors,” Beca says, her tone tired and defeated. She looks almost pleadingly from Chloe and to the door, before the redhead rises from her spot, motioning Beca to lead the way.

Neither speaks again until they’re inside and Beca has switched on the light, the brightness almost blinding in comparison to the dull, starless evening outside.

“I shouldn’t have sent it,” Beca says, motioning to the phone in Chloe’s hand. “The voicemail. I shouldn’t have called, I just--”

“You just miss me.” Chloe finishes the thought for her, and Beca simply blinks in her direction, looks at her with sad eyes that she tries so hard to disguise.

Beca barely recognizes her own voice as she continues.

“What do you want me to say, Chloe?” She swallows back her emotions. “That I’m sorry? That I take everything back? Because I already said all of that. I already tried that. I don’t know what you want from me here.” She doesn’t mean to speak in a raised tone of voice, but she can’t help it. Her emotions are definitely not in any kind of order around Chloe anymore. She’s tired and she’s sad and she’s angry, and God, she just misses her. She misses her so fucking badly.

Her voice is small as she continues, her tone back to quiet and defeated. “What am I supposed to do?” She asks, eyes pleading once again. “Tell me and I’ll do it. Tell me how to fix us and I’ll fix us, but I don’t know how.”

Usually, Beca can read Chloe. She knows her better than anybody. In fact, she’s pretty sure she knows Chloe Beale better than Chloe knows herself. But right now, she can’t read her. Can’t decipher her emotions or put her finger on her feelings, because Chloe is just staring, just looking at her with those same sad eyes. The ones that have drawn her in so many times before.

“I miss you, too,” Chloe finally says, whispered words cracked and choked up. Chloe has always been much more free with her feelings, much less embarrassed to show the world that she is not in fact a robot, and that she has real, human emotions. Unlike Beca, who does all she can to hold hers in, to never allow herself to be vulnerable.

Around everybody but Chloe, anyway.

“I miss you,” Chloe echoes, head nodding softly. “I do, and I wish that I could say let’s just forget about this last week, let’s forget about all of those stupid fights and let’s just be us again, but--”

Beca cuts into her rant. “So say it.” Almost cautiously, she takes the smallest of steps closer, almost surprised when Chloe doesn’t retreat back. “Say that we can forget about all of that, and we can just be us again.”

Chloe shakes her head, auburn curls bobbing across her shoulders. “It doesn’t work like that either, though. The way things were going before, the way we were fighting and just being so mean to each other, none of that was healthy, Bec. I want us to work it out, I want us to fix this, but we have to be grown ups about this. We have to be adults, and we’ve just been acting like two stupid kids.” Her head shakes softly once more. “This isn’t a high school relationship, Beca. It isn’t a college relationship. It’s you and me, it’s the real world and we have to start realizing that.”

“I do realize it,” Beca says, hesitating for the briefest of moments, before a hand reaches forward to ghost along Chloe’s. It’s surprising to her, the way she feels Chloe’s slender fingers squeezing through the gaps in her own, the way their hands connect so naturally, the way Chloe doesn’t pull away.

“Can we fix this?” Beca dares herself to ask, her voice jumping up an octave mid-word.

There’s more to say. There’s more to work on. There’s a lot to do, in fact, before this can go back to the way it was, before they can go back to being them again.

But Chloe doesn’t do anything. She doesn’t say anything. She just stares, until finally she’s nodding her head, and in that one quick moment, with that one small action, Beca just... Beca knows they’re going to be okay.

***

“That was such a stupid week, huh?” Chloe frowns, clearly in her own head now, too. Although Beca’s arms are comfortably looped around her neck, she finally breaks the contact, finally pulls back to the open, mild disappointment of her girlfriend.

“What are you doing?” Chloe’s voice sounds from behind her as Beca makes her way swiftly over to the computer, skipping it onto the next song.

The expression on her girlfriend’s face is much softer once Beca turns back around, there’s a small smile tugging at her lips by the time she’s standing in front of her again.

“There,” Beca says, arms reaching up to take their spot back around Chloe’s neck. Long arms wrap around her waist, the two of them completely tied up in one another right there in their kitchen. Beca stretches up some, lips brushing delicately against her girlfriend’s, and Chloe seems to relax almost dreamily into the kiss. “You don’t ever have to think about that week again.”

#beca mitchell #chloe beale #bechloe #bechloe fic #mine #mine:writing #broken

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chyrstis · 5 years

Text

From your lips to my ears

This was not what I had planned for a follow up, but apparently wanting Sharky and John to interact more in general lead to…other things. I’m also stuck in OT3 hell for the foreseeable future, so please don’t send help.

Pairing: Sharky Boshaw/John Seed, Sharky Boshaw/F!Dep/John Seed Rating: E Word Count: 9.2K

Link to AO3!

___

John’s looking for advice on a specific topic, and while Sharky’s not sure he’s the right person to ask, he’s certainly willing to give it his best shot.

Sequel to Oh, the things we could do (to see this thing through)

______________

This was not how he expected things to go. Hell, where he expected any of it to lead to.

Sharky had assumed it was going to happen once and that was it. The three would get together, have a go at it if anyone was feeling it – and they damn well did – and things would even out. Go back to as close to normal as things ever got for them, risking the morning after awkward ‘heys’ in the hall that happened whenever the sex had been all right but not spectacular, and hadn’t been enough of a bonding experience to immediately brand them all boner-bros, or whatever else he could come up with to label it.

At least, judging from his last and only other attempt at a threesome, which had crashed and burned pretty badly out the gate. A former bro of his had scored a shot with a chick he’d liked. Sharky had been wingman for him that night, and had to pinch himself when she mentioned wanting both of them at once. That had already blown all of his expectations out of the water, thinking he would walk away with her friend’s number at best, and a few rounds of beers at the worst.

Well, one thing lead to another, and one round of failed expectations later, not even he wanted to look them in the eye the next day.

Thinking back on it even now made him want to wince, and lucky for him he didn’t let that color any of what he thought was going to go down when John arrived. Because no amount of helping on his end – and he’d tried like hell to get that shit going, and make it work – could’ve salvaged it.

But going back to this, Hana had made a solid point. Assuming anything was going to lead to them banging it out had been pushing it. A movie was a movie, and the one John brought seemed like a sure-fire boner-killer, but it swung that way. And maybe he did nudge it along by getting handsy, but Hana took little convincing and John even less, and right around the time he’d gone from having John’s hand on his dick to having Hana sitting on his face, he’d considered it a rocking success. Not to mention John had thrown him for a loop and blown him while he was at it, scrambling him for a good day and a half afterwards.

So, he made a few more assumptions after that. Seemed safe enough considering what he had to work with.

That John was being his own brand of nice – 'cause he was still fucking John Seed, just not as much of a mega-douche as he used to be - and wouldn’t pay him as much mind the next time he was invited over and they all got physical. He’d give Sharky a jerk or two every now and then just so he wouldn’t feel left out or whatever, and then go back to the whole reason they were both there to begin with: making sure the redhead between them had zero complaints, or chances to voice them.

But around the third time he’d found himself sandwiched between the two, it was starting to look pretty deliberate. John never shied away from touching him, and each time Sharky grew a little more confident that while he didn’t have the same amount of experience with dudes as John seemed to have, he at least wasn’t fucking it up with this one.

With Hana at his front, kissing him breathless, and John at his back leaving him covered with marks only his hoodie would cover up the next day, he was honestly having the best sex of his life. No joke. That he was having sex with these two at all was something that blew his mind on a regular basis, even after three years and some change with Hana, and Sharky wasn’t about to question a damn thing about it. She wanted him, actual honest to monkey Jesus wanted to spend her days and nights with him, and John…

Well, John wanted her too. And while it could've been weird to see them together, it wasn't. They’d already sorted through most of it only for John to pitch him a fast one and really, really land him in a spot he was still scratching his head over. Because with her it all made sense. Him, not so much. Not enough for him to fully believe any of that would ever be aimed his way, at least.

So, he was still questioning some things about it, but not the feeling that settled into his chest every time Hana would curl up next to him in bed during the night, right before stealing the blankets. Or the way he’d nearly trip over random shit in the hall when John would catch his eye, holding the look long enough to give him a knowing smile before walking off.

They were both probably going to send him to an early grave at this rate, given the gymnastics his heart’s gotten up to lately, but even if they did at least he’d die happy. There were worse things to end him, for sure.

Like the thing he was currently staring down. Beeping and hissing, he and the technician with him checked the gauge, and he made an adjustment with the wrench at his side, tightening it until the reading evened out.

Dealing with the massive checklist that came with monitoring the bunker’s generators, air purifiers, and fuel was a pain in the ass for fucking sure. It needed to be done, and while he wasn’t one of the engineers that helped to build them, he knew enough at this point from messing around with this kind of stuff back on the surface to tag along with them if they needed the manpower.

Yeah, it was mostly to find ways to pop shit off and get one hell of a finish, but he could apply what he knew to other areas. Fire wasn’t the only thing he was good with, it was just the thing that helped to take the edge off of everything else. When the buzzing would start up, reminding him that he had at least four more years of being cooped up down here, waiting. Wondering just how bad things would be once they were able to get topside, and he’d be able to see the other half of his family again.

Someday, he’d keep on telling himself. But someday was still a long way off.

“Try it again. We need to see if that’s normal.”

The woman with him, Vicky, was someone he’d worked with before. She was nice enough for a former Peggie, at least in terms of letting him talk just to fill in the massive gaps of silence between them, and didn’t slap the tools out of his hands every time he touched something.

But she was serious. Sometimes way too serious, and when he flicked at the gauge just to see if it’d respond, he felt her eyes boring into his back. “It’s spitting out readings, no problem.”

“For now. If you keep on doing that, however…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get you.” He didn’t tweak it again, settling for watching it bob back up to where it needed to be, hovering around the number the system needed. “We cool?”

“Mostly. Just one last check’s left here before we can head down the line to the next, and then that should cover this-“

There was a short whistle from somewhere behind him, and he started.

“Hey, working hard, or hardly working?”

Sharky peered over his shoulder, and once he noticed just who it was, he loosened up immediately.

Walking down towards them with a slight swing in her step was Hana, wearing a wide grin that he quickly matched. She had on what passed for her uniform down here – jeans, and a button-up shirt in deputy green - and was all suited up for a day spent doing the rounds in the bunker. Walking, talking, doing that whole ‘I am the law’-type shit that she swore she wasn’t trying to overdo or go into total Judge-mode over.

Course that wasn’t counting the times she’d deliberately quote a few Stallone worthy lines guaranteed to have him grinning, but that was something a little extra she’d save just for him.

“It’s serious work, you know,” she’d say, sneaking a quick kiss off of him between shifts. “What with the whole crime being the disease, and me the cure bit. You know how it goes.”

But this time around she didn’t have anyone with her, which was rare. That could’ve meant anything, but a chance to see her was a chance to see her, and he wouldn’t ever turn that down.

“Wasn’t thinking we’d catch you down here today, shorty.”

Paying absolutely zero mind to the fact that he wasn’t exactly alone with her, Sharky might’ve flexed a little harder on the next adjustment he made. Just, you know, to show off how hard he was working, even if he’d hardly broken a sweat.

“No? You know there’s always a chance I might stop on by. See how one of my favorite guys might be doing.”

Now he was definitely showing off, and only wanted to amp it up even more. “Sure thing. Might wanna pull up a seat if you’re looking to stick around, though. We’re checking on a leak in the line.”

That made her go serious fast. “Oh. Just one of those, huh? Judging from the lack of alarms, and how we’re chatting like this instead of making a break for it, though, I’m guessing everything’s fine?”

“Yeah, it’s cool. At least here it is.” He removed his cap and swiped at his brow. “We’re taking these in pairs seeing if we can track it, but no luck yet.”

Vicky jotted a few notes down on her clipboard. “There’s a possibility it’s just a faulty reading from one of the gauges, but that means checking each one by one.”

“Nice to see you too, Vic. They take you off of sanitation?”

“No,” Vicky said ruefully, as she adjusted her glasses, “but a break’s a break, Deputy, and I’d much rather deal with this at the moment. Higher priority.”

“Sounds absolutely thrilling.” Sharky shook his head, and Hana struggled to keep a straight face when Vicky scowled at him. “I think I’m going to have to side with Vic on this one, hon. Boring’s better, at least when it comes to stuff like this. Anyway, I was just passing through, but if you get a break, come find me. I don’t want to distract you any more than I already have.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have you hanging here while we’re working, H. In fact, the extra company might be kinda nice. You know, to help break things up.”

“You sure about that? I think someone might disagree with you on that one.” She winked at Vicky, making the other woman roll her eyes. “But don’t think I’m not tempted. They need me down towards storage, so I can’t drag my feet here too much longer.”

“Bunker business?”

“Bunker business. Not the whole nine yards, but close. Oh, and one quick thing,” Hana said, snapping her fingers as she recalled it. “If you see John anywhere near here, kindly redirect him towards that area too. I’ve got a bone to pick with him, and I don’t want him slipping out of it if he can help it.”

Sharky gave her a suggestive look as he opened his mouth, and she held up a finger to stop him.

“No, not that kind of bone, and you know it. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to exit stage left, and wish you both happy hunting.”

She blew him a kiss on the way out, leaving him with a silly grin for a good minute or two before he noticed Vicky’s hand waving in front of his face. When she snapped her fingers right after, he realized she was still waiting on him.

“Uh, shit, I’m here. Were you saying something?”

“Yes.” Vicky sighed deeply, and turned to head down the hall. “Come on. We’re not even halfway through this.”

An hour passed, following the same steps.

Check. Adjust. Re-check.

No amount of whistling, talking, or singing was going to make it any less painful. Vicky gave him a funny look more than once when something clinked when it should’ve clanked, but when he had nothing else to do but check for problems that weren’t there, he had to make do.

And failing that, distract himself from getting distracted to begin with. It was a circle, and he lapped it more than once as he forced himself to listen to what Vicky was telling him to check for.

Maybe he should’ve found a better way to twist Hana’s arm into staying with them, because at least then he’d have something pretty to look at. Someone to smile at and joke with, instead of numbing his brain sorting through these numbers and all this metal bullshit-

“Boshaw.”

He fumbled the wrench and nearly smacked himself in the face with it. There John was, somehow coming out of nowhere like a ghost, and looking dead serious as well. “Fuck, man! Give me some warning first.”

“I’ve been told there’s a problem in the back.”

“P-problem?”

Next to him, Vicky had gone ram-rod straight, not expecting to see John either. It was always weird to see the ex-Peggies react to him, because while they weren’t following the project any longer, that mix of fear and respect never really went away.

“Okay, and…?” Sharky asked, his voice rising.

“And I want you to come with me to fix it.” Still wearing that same expression, John raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Preferably, sometime today.”

“Is it a major issue?” Vicky stepped up beside him, looking concerned. “We’re both available if that’s the case.”

“Nothing catastrophic, believe me, but…only one set of hands should be needed.”

And with that, John’s eyes were focused on him again.

Sharky swallowed the growing lump in his throat, and let out a nervous laugh. “Right. You want me to drop everything and…shit, fine. I’ll smack whatever it is a few times and see if that solves it.”

He could feel the eyes of Vicky on his back as he stepped out with John, and wondered just how bad this problem was going to be. Sure, he was kidding when he mentioned smacking it a few times, but he’d do it if desperate times called for desperate measures.

John led him down towards the area in the back, only to take a left down a twisting hallway. This was further than what he’d expected, but he followed, shoving the wrench into his toolbelt as they kept on walking.

When they finally found the place, some small area tucked way back in a maze of pipes, John stopped and gestured towards the spot in question.

“This it?” Sharky asked, wondering if John was going to be more specific than waving his hand at what looked like a breaker box. “That what’s busted?”

He gave him a thin smile. “Yes.”

Okay, so no, he wasn’t. Sharky rubbed his hands together. “Cool, so let’s see what the problem is.”

He opened it up, and checked the wires, checked the switches, and read the small labels marking the inside. Scratching at his goatee, he stood there, taking in the almost neat way the whole thing was set up, and after five minutes of doing nothing but staring at it he turned to point at John.

“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” John didn’t say anything, but the smile that slid onto his face said it all. “That’s real low.”

“Is it? It did exactly what I hoped it would. To bring you over here so we could speak privately.”

“Private, huh?” That got a reaction he’d hoped to keep under wraps, clearing his throat as he averted his eyes. “Kinda tough to see any part of this place as private, but this ain’t too bad. Depending on, uh…what you’re going for, I guess.”

Yeah, his mind was running through a few things. Recalling how he’d snuck around with Hana, finding any available nook and cranny they could, only to see if this would be the one that got them caught. They never started anything they weren’t able to finish, though it came close at times. Close enough to have her act as the distraction for the person nearly finding them while he hid long enough to get his zipper back up.

Applying that same idea to John, wondering how they could be caught here was just as appealing, and he knew that walking down that line of thought was a dangerous one. With the way his dick was starting to harden, he knew he didn’t need to be entertaining it either. But he did, and with the way John was eyeing him as he approached, some of that had to be running through his mind too.

“I have an important favor to ask.”

Favor? That got his brain firing off any and all suggestions that train of thought could lead to. “Shoot. What is it?”

“I’ve been conflicted lately. Down to choosing three to four new poems that I believe Hana might be amenable to, but…I can’t seem to narrow them down further.”

He almost wanted to laugh. Poetry. He was here to talk to him about poetry. That was a curveball he hadn’t prepped for, or even remotely considered.

“Is that right?” Sharky fiddled with his toolbelt, and wished that the machine in front of him was actually broken so he wouldn’t be standing there half-blushing like the fool he was.

“Yes. Now, you know her rather well. What she enjoys, and what grates on her, so I was hoping to get a second opinion.”

He nearly dropped what he was holding on his foot. “No fucking way.”

“As I said, you know what she likes, so it makes sense to have you look it over before she does.“

This was not poetry night take two. Or it was totally poetry night take two, Boshaw edition. Or it was just him asking for actual advice for stuff to offer on poetry night, and he was overthinking it, jumping straight into the assumption that John was asking to have sex with him.

Which even if he did directly, Sharky would’ve still stood there staring at him like he’d grown a second head. Like he was currently, as John actually started to look uncomfortable with the amount of silence between them.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon-“

“Yeah! Oh, wait, not-aw, shit,” Sharky blurted out. “It’s good! It’s all good, never mind what I said at first. I’m down for that.”

“You are?”

“It’s, um…you’re better at that flowery shit than I am, but you’ve gotta be desperate asking for me to help you go through page after page of that stuff just so you can get laid, man.”

The small smile he wore seemed to help John relax a bit. “It wouldn’t be for my benefit only.”

“But it’d go a long way to getting there,” Sharky replied, raising his eyebrows. “And with a Boshaw on your side, well, you sure you’re ready to deal with sex getting thrown at you 24/7?”

John stared at him, giving him a look before replying drily, “I think I can manage.”

---

He all but sprinted to the showers once his shift was officially up. The hot water was welcome, along with the chance to crank out a quick one, because there was no thinking straight with that hanging around.

It was no big deal. It wasn’t anything major, but the longer he thought about it, the more the thought skittered around, and by the time he managed to find Hana where she mentioned she was earlier – hiding in the back of one of the storage rooms, but struggling to grab stuff off of a high shelf – he was on the verge of blurting anything and everything out.

Not his best move, but as he reached over to drop the item into her hands, he kept his mouth firmly shut. A real struggle, as he tried to work out exactly how to phrase any of this.

Hana jumped as he reached over her, and she spun around. “Geez, now you’re being the sneaky one.”

He kissed her before he could talk himself out of it. She sank into it immediately, throwing what she held to the side so she could wrap her arms around his neck. Having lost the chance earlier, he wanted to make up for it now. Just to have her close, to be able to press a kiss to her hair, her nose, and her chin to see how long it’d take to have her giggle until it’d break into a snort.

It was almost silly of him to want it that much, but it helped. It always did, and he loved her for it.

“Yeah, totally a sneak,” Hana said, biting her lip. She kissed him again, letting it linger long enough for him to start pressing her against the shelves, and she grinned against his mouth. “God, don’t tempt me like this. That’s not fair.”

Sharky drew back. “Hey, you said to find you once I was on break. Couldn’t exactly do this earlier, but now…?” His grin fell as he suddenly recalled exactly what she’d told him to do. “Aw, shit.”

“What?”

“The whole ‘if you see John pass him along towards you’, and I blew the second part. He wanted to talk to me about something, and it threw me off. Had a good groove going up to that point too.”

“He did? Everything okay?”

With Hana’s attention directly on him, it was worse, and his words picked up speed as he spoke. “Nah, said he wanted my opinion for some reason. Guess he couldn’t make up his mind on whatever it is he’s got hiding back in his room. And…yeah. Figured I’d help. Maybe head on over tonight and see what’s going on.”

She looked concerned at first, but started side-eyeing him when he scratched the tip of his nose and didn’t quite meet her eyes. After a minute, however, a smile crept in. “Well, you are a pretty decent tie-breaker when it counts.”

“Right? I thought I was pretty good at that, myself.”

“And if he needs another set of eyes, yours definitely wouldn’t hurt. Just one thing, hon,” Hana said, leaning up on her toes.

‘Yeah?”

“Don’t have too much fun, now.”

Sneaking a kiss to Sharky’s cheek, his face burned as she grabbed the box she'd tossed to the floor and left the room. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Her wide grin said it all, and he swore to himself as he tried not to say anything else to spoil it further. Sure, he was heading over to see John. Sure, she suspected enough to jump to a conclusion or two, but he had a reason for it. Not just…assumptions, and he wasn’t feeling too much like an ass yet, so he figured he was doing okay.

But ruining the surprise like this would’ve been the exact opposite of helping, and the last thing he needed was to get drummed out of any future invites just because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

That idea stewed a little, enough for him to backtrack to the shop to get out the welding torch for a while, but he could only mess around for so long until he had no choice but to take a deep breath and dive in anyway.

Finally accepting that, he let that burst of 'fuck it, let's do this' carry him all the way to John’s doorstep.

Were his hands sweaty? He wiped them off on his jeans before knocking on the door, and shoved both deep into his pockets afterwards. There he wouldn’t have to worry about them, and it wasn’t like John was going to want to shake his hand anyway.

Or, uh, shake anything else.

He made a face. What the fuck, man. Cool it. It’s just a damn get-together to work out whatever poetry problems he was having, they could shoot the shit after that, and then he’d head out. Nothing to it.

Something flickered overhead, and he zeroed right in on it. One of the lightbulbs blinked, the action spaced out over a minute, and he stared at it all while waiting for literally anything else to happen.

John opened the door, and Sharky didn’t wait. Just let his mouth run on autopilot. “Hey, man. Don’t know if you think it’s working, but you should get these lights checked.”

The pleased look on John’s face went straight to confusion. “What?”

“That’s going. Unless you want to head on down to the showers in the dark, or break something heading out in the night to take a piss, you’ll want someone to jump on that shit soon as you can.”

It flickered again, and John leaned out to stare up at it, one of his eyebrows raised.

“Real pressing shit, you know?”

He did not agree, judging from the way he aimed that eyebrow at Sharky as well. “Would you like to come in? Or is this something you wanted to take care of now, since you’re insisting on it so heavily?“

“No, I’m-I’m coming, I’m just-“ Fuck. He cringed, internally and externally if he was being honest, and went inside before he could come up with another thing to blurt out at random.

The door shut behind him, and he stood there, his hands still crammed into his pockets as he took in the room’s appearance a second time. Last time he’d only been focused on one thing, getting the question out. This time really wasn’t any different, he told himself as he tried to shake off the feeling weighing him down. He was here because of a question, and maybe this time it wouldn’t end with him getting a door shut in his face.

“Are they right over here?” He walked up to John’s desk, taking in the number of books on it, along with the stack of papers nearby. “Dude, how many did you sort through? Looks like half of the shelf’s out here.”

Picking one up to thumb through, he blew out a breath at the number of pages paired with the size of the text.

“It pays to be thorough. But it’s rather time-intensive, and seeing as you picked that particular one up, I’m sure you can see why,” John said, walking up behind him.

“Yeah, this just looks like it’ll put you to sleep.”

He set it down, and grabbed another nearby as John came to stand by his side. Looking over at him briefly, Sharky noticed he was back to being amused again, and the small smile he wore grew when he caught his stare. “That one should be better.”

“You sure about that?” Flipping through a few pages, he went to John’s first bookmark and skimmed it. It got a laugh out of him almost right off the bat. “All right, that kinda works. And that ain’t talking about anything other than-“

A hand came to rest on his lower back, and when it slid lower to tuck under the edge of his hoodie, his entire posture went rigid.

The minute it happened, John snatched it back like he’d burned him.

And while Sharky didn’t turn to look at him, he could see John starting to back off out of the corner of his eye, and ticked off the seconds as silence filled the room. Then gave up on waiting, because if he was going to shoot himself in the foot any further with this, he might as well go for broke.

“Look, I’m used to the idea of you wanting Hana by now,” Sharky admitted, setting the book down. “Long before you both started banging on the reg, I knew you were into her, and even called that shit up on the outside before. It’s a given by this point, and that’s not counting what we’ve all done together, 'cause fuck, those were some major banging sessions. And going off of that, yeah, it’s cool to reach over and give a courtesy jerk, or go down on anyone that’s in danger of feeling left out, but the idea that you want some of this outside of that?”

He gestured towards himself, and gave John a conflicted look.

“Not that you made me feel like anything we did during those nights was a pity fuck, but…that’s taking longer to sink in, amigo. No weirdness intended.”

John was as hard to read now as he always was, but he wasn’t pissed at him, or offended. If anything, he looked as close to sorry as he’d ever seen him. “None taken, or intended either.”

“Not that I’m not…uh, fuck. I’m into it. You’re-“ Sharky looked him over, gave him a good solid once-over, and found himself drawn back to his eyes like he always was. “You’re the kind of hot that has someone thinking about it long after they see you, you know? Right at the worst times, either when you’re about to sit down for dinner, take a leak, or when you’re about to get in some shut-eye.”

John didn’t move any closer, but the tension that had settled into him seemed to fade the longer Sharky kept talking.

“It’ll pop up, right as you’re cracking open a beer to relax. Just ‘fuck that guy’. Like, seriously, fuck that guy for looking like that and knowing it. I still remember thinking right when you all came here trying to get us to sign up, ‘Look at this asshole. This guy comes sweeping in, with chicks hanging off of him only to say that there’s no fucking allowed? Man, that blows.’”

A frown covered John’s face for a second only to give way to an amused sigh. “Clearly, what mattered at the time.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t important, but it stuck. At least for a little while.” Sharky shrugged, and gave John a light punch to the shoulder. “And it still doesn’t change the fact that they went for you, in most of the videos and the posters, hoping to get people to sign up knowing they’d be throwing ass at you left and right.”

“They didn’t.”

“Didn’t pick you, or didn’t throw a ton of ass at you? I knew at least three people that would’ve dropped and spread ‘em in a heartbeat. What with you walking around acting all like you’d be able to get it with only a look.” He wet his lips. “'Cause you could’ve. Or just asked. That’s a given too.”

Sharky watched John’s eyes zero in on him as he edged closer, how they scanned his face completely, before dropping to focus on his mouth. “That you would say yes?”

“Not back then, but now?” His voice nearly cracked, but his next few words were even. “Yeah. Hell, yeah.”

“Maybe that was my mistake then.”

“What?”

His eyes flicked back up to his own. “Failing to ask from the start.”

Sharky stepped forward and kissed him hard, both hands reaching for his shoulders only to pull him closer shortly after. Standing there, holding onto him tight, he didn’t want to let go.

John let him take the lead, opening his mouth to him seconds after contact. On the third or fourth kiss, he slipped a hand behind Sharky’s head to keep him there, while his other hand hooked his belt. That brought his hips right up against him. Helped him to feel the friction between them as the slow grind made him moan into John’s mouth, and didn’t object at all when John broke the kiss to move his lips along his jaw.

The beard always tickled more than Sharky thought it would, but he was getting used to it. Fuck, was he. “So…”

“So?” John nipped at his skin, and went for the space below his ear.

“You were hoping for it, weren’t you?”

He paused, giving Sharky a chance to trade a look with him. “I was keeping the option open.”

“But you wanted it.” Sharky’s grin grew as John gave him a small shrug. “Don’t lie now.”

“I never said I was.” John’s hands went for the hoodie, pulling it and the tank under it, up and over Sharky’s head. His hat was caught up in the mess as well, disappearing with it, and when John kissed him next, it was with a light push towards the back of the room. “But I did need to be clearer, didn’t I?”

Before long the edge of the bed hit the backs of Sharky’s legs, and he sat down, getting to work on John’s belt right after. It didn’t take long to undo it, and he glanced up at him as John worked to get his shirt open.

John raised an eyebrow, not exactly smiling at him, but the hint was there. “Hmm?”

“It’s…uh,” John stripped the shirt off, and Sharky idly realized he still hadn’t done much to remove his own jeans or shoes. He kicked his sneakers and socks off soon after, and hoped that no one would trip over them later. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Random shit. Nerves, I don’t know. It’s all kinda kicking in and taking turns.”

He undid the button to John’s pants, but right when he was about to drag them down his hips, John crouched down to kiss him. Amused by how insistent John was being, Sharky grinned as he kissed him back, and felt John’s hands work at his own jeans.

“Dude,” he managed between kisses, “you wanna make this difficult, don’t you?”

“Exactly the opposite. I was aiming for easier,” he said, helping Sharky to get them out of the way.

The heated look he wore after doing so made Sharky pull him onto the bed with him.

He lost track of John’s hands after that, focusing on how well he could work his pants down all while seeing if he could actually get a hickey on him for once. It wasn’t easy, between taking him in hand and sucking hard at any of the spots he was covering John’s neck with, but he did it. He kept his hand moving, his mouth right at his throat, and had every intention of going up until either John finished, or he told him to stop.

John’s breathing went ragged, but he drew it back in line somehow as he held himself up and over Sharky. “Flip over.”

The request wasn’t forceful, but there was no mistaking how John intended it. Sharky turned around in his arms, propping himself up on his forearms, and after a few seconds and some rustling, felt John press an open-mouthed kiss to the back of his neck.

“Now, what could we possibly do like this?” John asked, wrapping his arms around him.

His hands ran down Sharky’s chest as he continued to kiss him, lightly brushing his thumbs over his nipples before giving them a tweak. Sharky jumped slightly at the sensation, but wouldn’t have minded if he did it again. “Got a few ideas.”

“Do you? Any that you would like to share?”

“It’s…it’d definitely start like this. What with, you know. You there, behind me.” Not that he’d had a good chance to fantasize about this much before, but he was well on his way to it now, feeling what he was sure was John’s cock against his ass. “You, hard like that’s nice too. 'Cause it’d really blow if after all of this you didn’t have some kind of a boner going.”

He heard John do something suspiciously close to a snort, and wished he could’ve seen his face. “I see. Are you comfortable with that? Any form of penetration?”

One hand traced down Sharky’s back, the warmth of it making a shiver run through him. Then traveled even further down from the base of his spine, running right along his ass. That got a rough exhale. “…Uh, that’s a 10-4 on that.”

“Charlemagne. A simple yes or no would suffice.”

“What, you don’t know half of the shit your truckers would’ve said on the road?” When John didn’t answer, Sharky took a look over his shoulder only to catch the annoyance crossing his face. “Seriously, yes, I’m cool with this. That. Shit, anything.”

John got up, but not before Sharky got a quick kiss off of him. That made him freeze in place, but his frown faded as he slid off of the bed, and walked over to his desk.

“But yeah, about that.” Sharky flipped over to look at him, leaning up on his forearms. “So, Hana and I have done some anal. It’s not a big deal, and she’s liked it well enough, but…after a few times she asked if I’d be into it too. If it’d be cool if she’d slip me a finger or two while blowing me. Just for science.”

“And?”

He watched John bend down to reach into one of the drawers, and slowly let out a breath. “It’s pretty fucking good. Not gonna lie.”

“But no more than that?”

“Uh, no. Not yet,” he said. “But that’s looking to change, so…?”

John chuckled, and shook his head at him as he walked back over. “Well, we can try a few things tonight. See if they agree with you, and maybe we can plan for that in the future accordingly.”

All he had with him for now was a small container of lubricant, but watching him slip a generous amount between his hands as he rubbed them together made Sharky’s mouth go dry. This was actually on the verge of happening, and that made disbelief want to kick him squarely in the shins, yet again.

“…And aren’t you supposed to be on your hands and knees?”

That nearly made him swallow his tongue. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” The sharp look John gave him made him sit up. “Maybe can mean all sorts of things. Such as, maybe I did invite you here for more than just your opinion. Maybe I did intend to see how many ways I could fuck you tonight all before cracking open a single book. And maybe, just maybe,” he said, drawing the words out slowly as he reached the bed’s edge, “I could see how quickly I could get you to come for me, knowing full well that I plan on testing that the next time the three of us meet.”

“That’s-uh, that’s a lot of maybes,” Sharky replied, looking up at John from his spot on the bed. And not a single one of them did a damn thing to kill the hard on he’d had from the minute John laid his hands on him.

“Oh, I’m not done. There are plenty more I could choose to share, but if you wanted to turn any of those maybes into a yes…?”

He moved; a hell of a lot quicker than he thought he could. That he was that eager to do so made his face burn, but hearing John’s hum of approval only made him harder.

“That’s at least one maybe well-removed. Let’s see about removing the others now, one by one.”

Starting from the middle of his back, he felt John press a kiss there before traveling up, leaving more as he went. His left arm curled around Sharky’s midsection as he did so, bringing his fingers up along the underside of his cock.

It was when his palm came to cup him, sliding back and forth with ease as he started to cover him with the lubricant, that Sharky tried to focus on breathing through his nose. Swallowing hard as John’s fingers closed around him, he twisted them in a gentle spin as he slid from the base of his cock up to tease at the tip.

“Is this all right?”

He was warm at Sharky’s back as he leaned into him, wanting more of it. A bunch of responses ran through his head, all of them in the affirmative, but he didn’t let any slip until he felt John’s other hand return to where he had felt him before. His slick fingers pressing against his ass, making sure that he was well coated there too.

“Yeah.” He nodded, then quickly repeated himself. “Yeah, that’s good.”

“And this?” he asked, his mouth teasing at Sharky’s neck.

The hand wrapped around his cock kept on moving at a slow pace, the lube making every slide heaven. “That’s-that’s just not fucking fair.”

“Why would you say that?”

“'Cause, I-“ Pressing down gently, John started guiding one finger into him, and Sharky felt his brain stutter to a halt. “…Oh, jumping Jesus, holy fucking shit-!”

“Mmm. Casual blasphemies? Given how a certain deputy tends to respond to my efforts in a similar fashion, I think we’re on the right track,” John deadpanned.

“Fuck you, man. It’s-it’s just hard to think. Hard to keep everything straight when you’re…you’re doing that,” he breathed. “When I can’t even see you, or touch you much. That’s not cool.”

He tried groping behind him for John, only managing to find and dig his fingers into his thigh. That got Sharky a kiss to the side of his neck that was guaranteed to leave a mark, all while John continued to slide the finger inside of him in and out. It was a slow, gradual build with each press, deeper and deeper, and he felt himself starting to lean more into it.

“Good. Just like that.” He could hear John close by his ear, making pleased sounds himself. “Ease into it. Feel me as I’m feeling you.”

The encouragement almost did it for him just as much as the change in angle, feeling it more when he arched back into him. When another finger slipped in, filling him further, it wasn’t a sound that escaped him, not exactly. But John heard it, increasing the pace gradually as his breaths became shorter with every thrust.

And it felt good. Good enough to know that if John were to pull his fingers out now only to slide in himself, Sharky would have a mess on his hands in seconds. His dick couldn’t get any harder, the sensation bordering on painful, and when he felt another finger start to tease at him, he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“That’s about where you need it, right?” Sharky pushed back against John, urging him deeper, and heard him inhale sharply. “Where you’d need me?”

“…Close, but yes.”

“Well, what are you - you trying to draw it out or something? I-I want to feel you.”

The groan that slipped out of him after hearing that was music to Sharky’s ears. “Later. We have all the time in the world. Focus on this for now, and if you close your eyes, you’ll find it’s still me.” The fingers slid deep, all of them in time with his other hand, and John’s voice was just as rough as his was. “I’m still inside of you. Moving with you. Feeling everything, and waiting to see just what it’ll take to make you come for me. Because isn’t that what you want?”

“What I-what I want?”

The words came in a rush, hot by his ear. “Don’t you want to come for me?”

“Oh, fuck,” he rasped, feeling John’s hand start to jerk him harder. “Fuck, fucking-“ With every stroke of John’s, he kept his hips moving, wanting to take John deeper even if it wasn’t possible.

“Don’t you?”

He didn’t know how, but he responded, his voice shaky and uneven. “Yeah, just-yes.”

“Then go ahead. Don’t make me wait.”

Coming then, was easy. All too easy after that. His body tensed, hot, wet heat spilling out onto the sheets, all drawn and encouraged by the hand grasping him. Arching back into John, he nearly collapsed, but let him take some of his weight as he came back to himself.

Hanging his head as he gulped down air, he felt John’s lips at his neck again, the touch almost soft. “Are you all right?”

That he didn’t shift away immediately was a relief, and Sharky nodded. Responding was harder, but he managed that after a few seconds. “Yeah.” He inhaled, and exhaled, feeling the breath waver. “Still here.”

“Good.”

John withdrew slowly, making sure he could adjust to it without pain. Once Sharky gave him an actual signal, the sloppiest a-ok he’d ever managed, John got up, leaving him to his spot on the bed.

Sharky rested there in the meantime, with his eyes closed as he felt his body relax, and let himself fall onto his side, knowing he was still a mess, but just too high from the feeling to care about it.

“I’ll have you know, we’re not done yet.”

He could hear John at a point further away in the room, either cleaning his hands, or lubing up for an encore. Odds were better for the first, but the thought of the second made the ache running through him twice as good. “I know. Just give me ten like last time. Or fuck, maybe fifteen or twenty.”

“And then again?”

“You want me to open a book for you? To do any serious reading or thinking?” Sharky rolled over and held up two fingers. “Throw in two more rounds of that, and I’m sold.”

Two was pushing it, since after the first time he wasn’t thinking his clearest, and after getting John under him the second time – finally, touching him in the way he’d wanted to earlier – his brain was toast. Blissed out, and content to be lazy as hell as he laid there, almost on the verge of drifting off.

At least for a little while. There had been a purpose behind getting him there after all, and after cleaning up and changing out the sheets, John handed him the first book.

The theme he’d settled on was ‘Wildfire’, said in that airy way John took to whenever he was presenting something he thought was important. It had Sharky struggling to stifle a laugh as he was handed book after book, and flipped through them to the pages John had placed bookmarks.

He had told him three or four poems earlier. It was actually down to eight or nine, and the two were soon surrounded by open books on John’s bed.

Sharky ran a hand through his hair, feeling plenty relaxed at this point, but not sure if he was actually of help here. The poems all sounded good. All of them hit the topic straight-on.

But John wasn’t happy with any of them. At least not enough to narrow them down further.

“Oh, man. Go for this.”

He handed the book to John, and watched as he read through the words, examining them closely. It was an intense amount of focus for what amounted to thirty words total, and Sharky watched a frown work its way onto his face.

“No good?”

“It’s missing something. That…” John started moving one of his hands, rotating it in a circular motion as he searched for the right word to fit what he was thinking of. “Impact. The sense of heightened emotion, the diction-“

“Heh, diction.” John glared at him, and Sharky cleared his throat. “Uh, right. All of that diction. Just hanging out there, you know?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, and let his eyes fall shut. “To be to the point, the intent behind it doesn’t matter if in the end everything hinges on one single word.”

“One?”

He raised his head. “One. And if it’s the wrong one, it all falls apart.”

“You know we’re talking about Hana, right?” Sharky asked, giving him a wry look. “You could read through one of the bunker’s technical manuals, running down through all of the specs, and get the same reaction. Swooning, moaning, telling you to, I don’t know, go through the full hands-on demo for any of the pictures included. Provided the pictures come with positions, but I don’t think that’s gonna work here.”

“Because going through a list of pressure readings is the best form of foreplay.”

“With her, yeah. 'Cause she’s kinda got a thing for that. Or maybe just for you after all of that radio shit you kept up with.”

John’s lips pressed together in a thin line.

That made Sharky backpedal a bit. “Not that you were always going out of your way to tell her anything that sort of implied, or made her think you wanted to fuck her, but you kinda were. Talking all about screaming for you, how good it’ll feel to say ‘Yes’, and just hogging that frequency whenever she’d light any of your shit up. And I don’t think you know this, but when you threaten someone, sometimes you get into that low, breathy, ‘I’m not trying to, but you’re gonna be soaked by the end of this’ tone of voice, which works for more people than you’d think-“

“Charlemagne.”

That was a definite warning, and Sharky threw both of his hands up.

“Fuck, man, she likes you. Loves you, if she hasn’t said anything about it yet. And you’re sitting here worried that one word’ll ruin it all? That any of this’ll make her think this is a bad idea?” He pushed the books away. “That ain’t her for one, and two, you know that ain’t true either.”

Judging from the sharp stare John was aiming at him, he hadn’t let any of what he’d said before this go, but angled it away when Sharky refused to break eye contact. “It’s not that,” John replied with a huff.

“Then what? You’ve got performance anxiety all of a sudden?” He squinted at him, tilting his head as he did so. “…Can you even get that? Guess you can if we’re talking about it and you’re trying to sidestep it like I’d sidestep shit on a sidewalk, but seriously, here.” He picked up one of the books he’d shoved back and flipped it open to a random page. “Read it.”

John was still irritated as he took the book and scanned the poem, but when he started reading, it slowly faded. His voice was warm as he spoke, making his way through each line, holding the dramatic pauses just long enough to feel right, and brought out everything he was complaining about having lost not even five minutes ago.

It was tough not to keep his eyes on him as he spoke, and though he’d ripped on Hana a bit for mooning over this, after listening for a few he had to give it to her. It wasn’t half-bad. He’d still rather go for a night of disco, a round or five at the Spread Eagle, and time spent speeding down the trails in an ATV with a pack of cherry bombs, but not bad.

“Well?” John said, once done.

Sharky gestured down towards his lap. “I’ve got a quarter chub here so that might need some work, but everything else? …Nice. That’s mighty nice.”

He rolled his eyes, and sighed. “Thank you for sharing that.”

“Course. Thought it was only fair for you to get an honest, unbiased opinion of how you’re doing.”

John pulled over another book over, eyeing Sharky as he did, and opened it. The poem he settled on this time was slightly different, but kept fire as its focus. Midway through, he watched as John reached over to him, and tugged the sheet out of the way.

Then his hand was on his cock, slowly stroking him as he kept on going, not pausing or hesitating once as his eyes remained set on the book. That lit a fire in him for sure, and Sharky struggled to keep his hands to himself as John continued.

Thirty words hadn’t been much before. Now, it was borderline cruel and unusual. John kept everything level. Everything even, as if this wasn’t happening right next to him.

“Better?” he asked, once he’d snapped the book shut.

His hand was still moving, though the strokes became surer now. Faster as John turned to look at him directly. Swallowing hard, Sharky shifted his hips to rock into the motion. “Think we’re at three-quarters now, give or take. But that last one? Go for that.”

“Are you certain? I’d hate for you to say that knowing full well your bias towards activities like this. …And also, the subject matter.”

“Nah, it’s-it’s good.”

“Perfect?” John asked, leaning towards him. “You know I won’t accept anything less.”

Sharky looked at him, really looked at him, taking in the blue of John’s eyes and the way his lips had parted, and knew that after cleaning everything up they were about to have another mess on their hands.

He couldn’t help but smile. “Perfect.”

The door creaked as Sharky opened it, just enough to slip through without making any extra noise, but almost slammed shut when he let go of it.

His coordination had gone to shit sometime in the last ten minutes. Pushed along by a mix of exhaustion and the pleasant ache still running through him, he was beat. The best kind of beat to be, but beat regardless.

Resting his head against the metal surface for a moment, he leaned back when he had his bearings again, blinking against the dark as he started pulling his clothes off, and didn’t think his and Hana’s joint beds had ever looked as good as they had in that moment.

Not the least of which because of the person sprawled out on them. Stretched out, her limbs either curled up in the blanket or sticking out at odd angles, Hana was out like a light. And somehow just as fucking pretty dead asleep as she was awake and smiling up at him.

He took three steps towards the emptier side of the bed and faceplanted right onto it. It shook with the impact, and he let himself sink down into the mattress.

“…Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, Dep.” Sharky’s words went straight into his pillow, and he heard her laugh. It was softer, rough with sleep, and he hummed in contentment when he felt her fingers brush through his hair. There were a few things guaranteed to make him putty in her hands, and this was one of them. “Missed you.”

“Hmm?”

He turned his head towards her, and took in the bedhead she was currently rocking. “Missed you tonight.”

“Did you? I missed you too.” He tried to kiss her hand, ending up grazing her wrist instead, and Hana shifted it to stroke his cheek. “Funny how this setup’s almost too small with all of us on it, but huge when it’s just a party of one.”

“I hear you.” He kissed her again, and held his hand over hers. “It just ain’t the same.”

She shifted forward to curl up next to him and he wrapped her up in his arms. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he buried his face in her hair after, focusing on her slow, steady breaths.

He was right on the edge of sleep when he heard her speak up again. It was muffled this time, and he struggled to hear her clearly. “What’s that, shorty?”

“How’s John doing? Still his stubborn, charming self?”

“Yeah, ‘bout the same as he usually is,” he murmured.

“I bet. Didn’t give you too hard of a time?”

That made him go through a few responses. Some funny, some raunchy, some a hell of a lot more sentimental than he was expecting, but he settled for one that was straightforward. “Nah, he was all right. …More than all right. Don’t know if he really needed the help he thought he did, but…”

“He made it worth it?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning in spite of himself. “I think he did.”

She moved in his arms, and he felt her press her lips to his cheek. “You know you can’t tease me about this anymore, right? That right’s hereby been revoked.”

He cracked open an eye to look at her. “Come on, I can get one in.”

“Can you? Really?”

“Though I know you like it better with two or three, so maybe if you let me wiggle it just right-”

He scored a pillow to the face for that one.

Yeah, totally worth it.

#far cry 5 #sharky boshaw #john seed #deputy hana #john seed/sharky boshaw #john seed/deputy/sharky boshaw #fanfiction #nsft #once again hoping there aren't too many errors in here but I'll find them #and I need a proper tag for them stat #FC5 fanfiction #fic series: but if we go we go together #ot3: but if we go we go together

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jenovahh · 5 years

Text

The Honey Pot - Ch.1 - Code Name: Warrior of Light

Rating: E/NC-17 Pairing: M/F - Zenos/WoL Cross posted on AO3 ===========================================================

There was no city more beautiful than Kugane. It’s towers touched the heavens, it’s streets flourishing with wealth and life and love.

It’s gutters, riddled with crime.

This wasn’t to say that Kugane was riddled with mere petty theft. It had its fair share of murderers, robbers, arsonists.

But one stood out from them all.

His name was Varis zos Galvus.

A crime boss in every sense of the word, a man revered as one of the city’s richest businessmen, with no clue to his underhanded dealings. If organized crime ever needed a definition, his face would fit the bill. The police force had tried to put an end to his drug ring for years; but any witness would mystically vanish. He infuriated your higher ups for his knowing smirk as time after time he was cleared of all charges, the police unable to find a single scrap of evidence to pin to him, as if he was water.

His continued reign over the crime underworld was pushing the police to damn near desperation. Nothing seemed to work on him for he was too crafty, too clever. Any police raid on a rumored drug filled warehouse ended up with several men bumbling around to find it completely cleared. Any attempt at espionage ended in total failure, and on more than one account, the loss of a few good men.

The police were at their wits end.

“What would you have us do Merlwyb?” Raubahn groans, scratching a large hand on the back of his neck. He was the chief of police, decorated with more medals and awards you cared to even bother thinking about. Despite that he still remained as diligent and humble as he had when he was a rookie. “I refuse to lose anymore good men to this man. Any attempt we’ve made at him has failed. He pays his lawyers well and the judges even better for all we know. I refuse to lose any more men to this fiend.” He sighs, taking a long swig of his lukewarm coffee.

“Would you have us give up then Raubahn?” Merlwyb challenges, her eyes hard as steel and fierce. She’s as tall as Raubahn and your own police captain. “Please believe me when I say I am loathe to put anymore hard working officer’s life on the line as much as you are, but would you have us throw in the towel? Varis zos Galvus is a stain upon this city, and it will never know true peace until he is behind bars.” Merlwyb is not at all afraid of the difference in power between her and Raubahn, and in most ways they are equals. Raubahn has always shown through his actions that he values her direction and input, but it seems even he is remaining stubborn as a mule.

“What would make this time different?” Raubahn breathes, clearly stressed and doing his best to not show it. Merlwyb’s eyes soften for the smallest moment as she nears Raubahn who buries his face in his hands.

“I know this is aggravating, Raubahn. But we can catch him. I know we can.” She murmurs softly, patting his back.

“You still have not told me how this will differ from other times, Merlwyb.” He sits back in his chair and stares up at her, meeting her gaze.

“Come in!” Merlwyb calls.

Opening the door, you step inside, feeling somewhat meek in the presence of two of your higher ups.

“We have tried undercover cops before. But I’m asking you give it one more chance. Give her one more chance.” Merlwyb urges, pleads.

“What makes her different Merlwyb?” Raubahn’s bronze eyes stare you down, and you fight to keep your back ramrod straight. You can tell he is judging you, and you do your best to look worthy of his scrutiny.

“She can fight.” She says simply, as if that’s all the explanation needed. But she continues. “Recent intel has suggested that Varis has been training his son Zenos yae Galvus to prepare to take his place. However, there are rumors that his son cares little for his father’s dealings, and in fact only participates because he enjoys a good fight.” Merlwyb’s eyes land on you as she crosses her arms. “As fat as the Galvus line lives off their riches, their son can’t turn down a good tussle. This rookie here is by far the strongest I’ve seen in years, Raubahn.”

The chief’s eyes narrow on you impossibly further, now taking note of your muscular arms, your powerful stance. You had no doubt Raubahn could take on Zenos in a fight himself if he wasn’t the chief. “With her, we could gain the opportunity to get closer to this fiend, through his son. Her combat prowess should prove irresistible to someone even as practiced as Zenos. Raubahn, please consider,”

“All right.” He cuts off, eyes never leaving yours. “What’s your name rookie? Actually don’t tell me. You can tell me when this mission is a success.” He rumbles, sitting back in his chair. “I will give you your code name myself. I trust your captain has informed you of everything this job will entail?”

You nod silently, unsure if you should speak.

“Very well.” He stands from his chair, circling the desk to stand before you. Extending his right hand, you take it in your own, shaking it firmly. “A pleasure to meet you Warrior of Light. Let’s bring this bastard to justice.” =======================================================

With KYKM on it’s way to a close, figured I’d churn out this idea I had from FenrirPrime’s fanart of Zenos! They make a ton of cool art so I’d give them a follow >///<. I hope it’s to everyone’s liking :D This’ll be a little small series prob 4-5 chaps long honestly unless i get some wicked ass inspo.

#zenos #zenos yae galvus #FFXIV #ff14 #Final Fantasy XIV #sorry for the repost OTL #anywho more self indulgent fic pog #THP

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kestrellavellan · 5 years

Text

Time Past - Chapter 52

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4,761

Warning: NSFW, mention of past trauma

Weekly updates going forward until the story is finished. Find this fic in its entirety on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423880/chapters/51852871

They returned past dinner from a successful day trip. It’d taken hours of healing magic to see the old woman’s hip mended, but from Dalish’s smile, it was worth it. After using so much magic, he could barely keep his eyes open over his meal. Eating what he could, he stood up from the table with Alvinius and Kestrel and said, “Can I go to bed now? I’m super sleepy.”

Closing the tavern for their day trip meant they were the only three currently there. The quiet was welcomed after their journey.

“Yes. Goodnight, da’len. Good job today,” Kestrel said.

Dalish gave him a sluggish hug in response and trudged towards the stairs.

“Don’t forget to take off your shoes before getting in to bed!” Kestrel shouted after him, but Dalish gave no indication he heard before disappearing up the stairs. He turned towards Alvinius, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Last night, he was so tired, he passed out in the bed, fully dressed with his shoes on.”

“He’s a good boy. And he saved that woman’s life today. You should be proud of how you’ve raised your son. You’re a wonderful father,” Alvinius said, placing a hand lightly on Kestrel’s arm.

Kestrel looked down at the touch but didn’t pull away, despite the subtle flush that heated his cheeks. Over the last few years of his life, since disbanding the Inquisition and leaving Dorian, praise, even undeserved, was rarely thrown his way. Still, he had to set the facts straight, even if he’d rather selfishly bask in Alvinius compliment.

“I’m not his father. I’ve never been one.” Although, all those milkings in Tevinter might lead to some unknown children. Kestrel shoved that thought away before it could darken his mood. “Honestly, he’s been this loving and helpful as long as I’ve known him, which has only been a few months. I can’t take credit for it, it’s all him.”

“Truly? Just a few months? You two are so close. You don’t look alike, but still, I thought…” Alvinius shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re his caretaker now, and you’re doing a great job seeing to his well being.”

Kestrel laughed. “You’re the one providing our food and lodging! Really, I can’t take any credit.”

Alvinius’ eyes lingered on Kestrel’s lips as he spoke, a gentle smile gracing his own.

Kestrel sensed the change in mood as Alvinius scooted closer on the bench they shared and leaned in. He held his breath, cheeks alight with a deeper, darker blush, wondering if Alvinius dared kiss him. Kestrel stood his ground, not pulling away, but guilt didn’t allow him to close that last bit of distance either. What would Dorian think?

Closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side, Alvinius took the initiative.

The first kiss they shared that night was a soft, hesitant thing. Barely a brush of skin before Alvinius jerked back, pale skin flushed a beautiful pink. Before he could stammer out the apology forming on his lips, Kestrel wrapped his hand around the back of Alvinius’ head and pulled him close for a redo. This one unleashed the shackled passion they’d both been reining in. It was everything the first kiss was not - messy, eager, and unrestrained.

Alvinius slid into Kestrel’s lap, using the new angle to deepen their kiss.

Kestrel could feel his excitement brush against his stomach, and his own body started to respond. This might not be the home he imagined for himself even a few months ago and love was still a faraway concept, if even ever attainable, but it felt nice to be held, kissed, and possibly fucked again. It helped fill a painful void he’d tucked away within him. He was dead to Dorian, which meant he needed to try his best to bury Dorian in his heart. Still, he had to lay all his cards on the table.

Pulling back, leaving Alvinius reeling from the kiss, Kestrel managed to say, “I’m not sure I can give you what you’re looking for, Vin.”

Alvinius kissed his cheek, then his jaw. “That’s okay. We’ll go as far as you want, no strings attached. And if you want the strings, I’m not going anywhere.”

Cupping Alvinius’ cheek, Kestrel gazed into his warm hazel eyes, finding solace there. No judgement, no conditions, just a bright, welcoming soul ready to soothe his wounds. Alvinius offered an escape to his past trauma, a way to forget. “Then let's go to your room.”

***

Kestrel glanced into his room as they padded back, relieved to find Dalish fast asleep. And he’d removed his shoes.

Alvinius waited patiently for him by the open door to his room, red hair and hazel eyes aflame in the dim candlelight of the hallway.

As soon as Kestrel crossed the threshold to Alvinius’ room, Alvinius was on him, lips and hands curious and gentle, joining their bodies again. It was so different from his times with Dorian.

Every touch was delicate, boarding on hesitate, as if one false move would force them apart. Perhaps it’d been like that when he’d first slept with Dorian, but years had blurred that memory into something blissful but still hazy. It was as if Alvinius was afraid he might crumble with too hard a touch. Or run away if pushed too far.

This wasn’t a confident Dorian who knew exactly what buttons to push to get him to cry out. Alvinus was a new partner who needed to be taught. He pushed on Alvinius’ chest to give him enough space to remove his shirt, tossing it aside.

Alvinius’ eyes lit up, taking in the sight of his freshly bared skin. He followed suit, quickly removing his own shirt. Such pale, pale skin, pinkened with desire. So different from Dorian’s darker skin which rarely betrayed a blush.

No, no more thoughts of him tonight. It wasn’t fair to Alvinius to compare every aspect to Dorian. He would never live up to those standards. He needed to do his best to forget Dorian. Maybe sex would help push Dorian from his thoughts.

Kestrel grabbed Alvinius’ hips and spun him around until his back was to the door. Still holding on, he pulled him over to the bed and sat down, maneuvering Alvinius in between his legs, leaving Kestrel eye level with a large expanse of alabaster flesh and twin, rosy peaks.

Kestrel skimmed his nose over Alvinius’ chest, inhaling the scent of dried sweat and lavender from the day on his skin. He planted a soft kiss directly above one of Alvinius’ pink nipples, before lowering his mouth to skim his lips over the sensitive nub. Alvinius trembled beneath his airy touch.

He slowly slid his tongue up and over Alvinius’ nipple in an intentional caress, earning him a soft groan and fingers buried in his hair. That was all the permission Kestrel needed to tease and toy with the small peak. Teeth tugged and tongue soothed.

Alvinius was a whimpering mess by the time Kestrel switched to his other nipple. Still, he made no move to force Kestrel to do anything else but tease him. Dorian normally made it known what he preferred, and how impatient he was growing. Right, not Dorian.

Kestrel bit into the skin just to the left of Alvinius’ nipple, enjoying the way pink marks were left in his abusive wake. He kissed the irritated imprint right after, nuzzling his nose against the elf’s chest in a silent apology.

Alvinius slipped a hand down Kestrel’s back, rubbing up and down.

Grinning to himself, Kestrel decided to mimic Alvinius and rubbed his hand along the fabric of Alvinius’ pants and the obvious bulge there.

Alvinius tensed briefly before thrusting against Kestrel’s palm, needing more.

Eager to comply, Kestrel slipped his hand past the waistband and was greeted by silky, hard flesh. He’d only managed a few quick jerks before Alvinius cried out and came all over his hand.

“Dear Maker…” he breathed, slumping on top of Kestrel, panting. He took a moment to collect himself before dropping his knees to the floor in between Kestrel’s spread thighs. He took Kestrel’s hand into his own and started licking his mess off Kestrel’s fingers. Alvinius maintained eye contact, even while he sucked on each of Kestrel’s fingers, curling his tongue skillfully around each one.

Kestrel felt his cock harden under the sinful stare, mind wondering what those pink lips would look like curled around his cock. Alvinius’ lips weren’t as full as Dorian’s and -- No! Dorian would never be his again. He needed to move on and Alvinius was certainly willing enough.

Besides, his torture which plagued him daily, seemed satisfied to simmer in the dark recesses of his mind, leaving him uninhibited and able to enjoy this time with Alvinius. If he could just stop thinking of Dorian.

Hand cleaned to his liking, Alvinius leaned forward, rubbing his face along Kestrel’s thigh and higher. “It’s your turn now,” he said with a promising smile.

Now that the attention was turned to him, having someone else between his legs only made Kestrel miss Dorian more. Sadness and loss welled up within him, killing any budding lust he felt for Alvinius. Kestrel’s battled against a shrinking erection.

No! This was not how this night was supposed to end. He wanted to forget Dorian and lose himself in Alvinius. ….Right? Now, how to ensure that happened? A thought popped into his mind. It was a terrible thought, but it just might work. Although he couldn’t have Dorian, he might be able to see this through if he imagined that it was Dorian sucking him off and not Alvinius. Part of him felt shame for the subterfuge, but Alvinius was already pulling his pants down.

Kestrel lay back on the bed, imagining it was Dorian kissing the inside of his thighs or dragging his teeth over his hip bone.

As Alvinius took one of his balls into his mouth, sucking, Kestrel thought of Dorian toying with him. He reached out, expecting to find a stubbly cheek and shaved hair, but all he felt was smooth skin and soft hair. He groaned with disappointment.

Even as Alvinius’ tongue danced up the underside of his cock, Kestrel could only think of Dorian. Dorian would’ve had him in his mouth by now. Struggling with his emotions, he threw his arm over his face, hiding behind it. Even the desire demon was better than this.

His cock was fully flaccid by the time Kestrel lost his battle with the tears.

The bed shifted next to him and Alvinius asked softly, “Do you want to talk about Dorian?”

Kestrel moved his arm enough to glare at Alvinius through his tears. “How do you know that name?”

“You only said it a few hundred times while I was on my knees. I figure -” He reached out and brushed away a tear on Kestrel’s face. “-he’s the cause of these.”

“No, no, you’re wrong,” Kestrel said, fresh tears flowing. “It’s all my fault.”

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Alvinius soothed. He climbed into bed next to Kestrel, pulling Kestrel into a comforting embrace. “I know you have to be strong in front of the boy but not here. Here we can talk about anything. Or nothing if you prefer, mon beau oiseau.”

With a shuddering sigh, Kestrel released everything. He revealed his past with Dorian, from the very beginning up to several weeks ago, reliving tender moments with Dorian in Minrathous, the trauma dealt by Morven’s hand, and the true depth of his guilt for abandoning Dorian. He managed the whole tale through bouts of crying and panicked breaths. The night was fully settled by the time he was done, candles sputtering low.

“Your story is more tragic than I imagined,” Alvinius said after a long moment to process, his tone heavy with sympathy. “Know that I am here for you in whatever capacity you desire, whether friend or more. There are no strings attached. There’s no pressure for you to stay or rush for you to leave, but this town could use a healer and I a friend, should you decide to stay.”

Kestrel buried himself in Alvinius’ chest, soaking up the comfort he offered. He might not be Dorian, but would it be so terrible to settle here in Nessum with this man that so clearly cared for him? Perhaps love would even follow if given enough time. Yet the only words that left him in a soft whisper were “I miss him.”

Whether Alvinius didn’t hear or didn’t know what to say, he didn’t respond as he ran his fingers slowly up and down Kestrel’s back. Exhausted from the crying, Kestrel was soon fast asleep under Alvinius’ gentle caress.

***

Warm light bathed his face, stirring Kestrel from a deep slumber. With a soft groan of protest, he turned on to his side, shifting under a warm blanket. The smell of lavender wafted up from the sheets, and Kestrel opened his eyes at the unusual fragrance. Then he realized he was completely naked.

Sitting up with a jolt, his gaze darted around the room, finding it unfamiliar but empty. His tension only eased when the memories of last night popped out from wherever they’d been hiding. Still, he’d slept in a...what was Alvinius? Friend? Acquaintance? Lover? Whatever he might title him, he’d slept in Alvinius’ bed all night without stirring. It’d been his first night without nightmares since his assault.

Before he could enjoy that fact, his mind jumped to another worry - Dalish. He’d been all alone last night. What if…?

Using his growing anxiety, Kestrel stumbled out of bed, found his clothes neatly tucked on a chest, and dashed out of the room still adjusting his leggings. He skidded to a halt in the open doorway of their shared room to find it just as empty as the one he left. There were no signs of a struggle, but he still held onto his nagging doubt.

Kestrel rushed down the stairs, tripping on the last few and landing hard on his feet.

“Kestrel!” said a cheerful, if muffled voice.

Dalish.

He turned towards the source and spotted Dalish sitting at the bar with a big bowl of porridge, gnawing on a piece of bacon. Grease was smeared across his cheek, but he looked otherwise normal and unharmed.

Alvinius stood behind the bar, resting a hip against the wooden counter as he dipped a spoon into his own bowl. The softest of smiles rose to his lips when he saw Kestrel, until he realized Kestrel’s state of disarray. “What’s wrong?” he asked, hand dropping his spoon into the bowl and disappearing beneath the bar.

Kestrel closed the distance in a few steps and hugged Dalish to him, ignoring the protesting muffle from him. “I was worried someone had…” he said and stopped, resting his chin on top of Dalish’s head.

“He’s okay. I would never let anything happen to him,” said Alvinius, face stark with his seriousness.

“I know, I just overslept and then the rooms were empty and…”

“It’s okay,” Dalish said against his chest, hugging Kestrel back and nestling close. “I’m okay, you’re okay.”

“The imagination is a terrible trickster,” Alvinius agreed. “I thought about waking you, but you were sleeping so soundly, I decided against disturbing you. I’m sorry.”

Dalish pulled back with a big grin on his face. “You finally slept good? No nightmares?”

Kestrel couldn’t help but return his smile. “No, no nightmares last night.” He also couldn’t help looking up and meeting Alvinius’ knowing gaze.

“I meant every word of it, mon beau oiseau.”

Feeling relieved with Dalish in sight and refreshed from a much-needed night of undisturbed slumber, Kestrel sauntered over to Alvinius and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Turning his head to rest his cheek against the one just kissed, he whispered, “You’ve told nothing but truths since we arrived. I have no reason to doubt you now.”

“I thought I’d find you struggling, yet here you are, ready to fuck someone else and it’s been, what, not even two months?” sneered a very familiar voice.

Kestrel spun around, but before he could react, Alvinius pulled a crossbow from beneath the bar and leveled it at the new visitor. “And just who might you be, Vint?” he said, tone tight with anger.

“Atronis,” Kestrel and Atronis said at the same time. There was only one reason he’d track him down.

Atronis stared down the crossbow as he slumped into a nearby chair, even as it trailed his movements. “I didn’t think I’d find you in time. Now I have, but you’re useless.”

“What happened? Is Dorian…?” Kestrel leaned against the bar, using it to hold himself up. Here he was flirting with someone else while Dorian was what? Dead? Dying?

“Do you know how many villages I stopped in to find you? And none of them are very welcoming to a Tevinter!”

“With good reason,” muttered Alvinius at Kestrel’s side. The crossbow was lowered but still out.

“I thought when I heard of a one-armed Dalish from the next village over, my search was done, but now I realize it’s pointless. You’ve already forgotten about him.”

Kestrel clenched his jaw. Atronis knew how to ramble about his own hardships but rarely liked to get to the point. “Atronis,” he snapped. “If you don’t tell me what the fuck is going on, I’ll shoot you myself.”

Atronis recoiled, affronted. “He’s still going through with it.” When Kestrel gestured impatiently with confusion, Atronis spat out, “The wedding. He’s still going through with it.”

Then Dorian was still alive.

Kestrel clutched his hand against his chest, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Why?” he asked with a shaky voice.

Alvinius’s hand reached out and rubbed small circles along his back, offering strength and support.

“Your death, it broke him. He’s lost his mind. I tried to convince him that a wedding wasn’t what he wanted, but he insisted it was. He said he planned on a wedding and that was what he was going to do.”

A wedding? Their wedding? Kestrel looked down at his fist and the golden band that glimmered there.

Oblivious, Atronis kept going. “Really, I believe it’s because Aquinea sank her claws into him, spouting off some bullshit about how a child would give him a purpose in life.”

“You were supposed to be there for him. You were supposed to watch out for him,” Kestrel said with an angry hiss. “I trusted you to watch over him since I couldn’t!”

Atronis rose to his feet, hands thrown into the air. “I tried! But he doesn’t want me! He only wants you. Even knowing you’re dead, he only wants you.” The last sentence was barely a whisper, said when he dropped back into the chair with such a dejected look.

Kestrel felt a small tinge of sympathy for him, despite their history.

“How do you think Kestrel can help?” Alvinius asked, sounding curious.

“What?” Atronis looked at the other elf and then at Dalish, remembering they weren’t alone.

“You said, ‘I didn’t think I’d find you in time.’ Why did you come looking for him? How do you think he can help?”

Kestrel knew why, so he answered before Atronis could. “I’m the only one who could convince Dorian not to get married to a woman. He’s single-mindedly stubborn at times.”

“But then that would ruin your plan, no?”

“You know him as well as I do. He’s doing this to punish himself. He wants to live the rest of his life suffering,” Atronis said, every word full of frustration.

Kestrel frowned, deep in thought. “When’s the wedding?”

Counting off on his fingers, Atronis answered, “Two days from now.”

“Two days? You realize even with a horse and using the main roads, it’ll take a good week to make it back,” Alvinius said.

“How is that finding me in time? If I even agree to go back, he’ll already be wed!” Kestrel threw his hand up in exasperation before burying his face in its palm. The thought of someone else marrying Dorian twisted his stomach.

Alvinius was there to soothe, renewing his rubbing of Kestrel’s back.

“Perhaps you can at least persuade him to have it annulled. It’s possible, you know, but only if you convince him within the first month of marriage. I’m sure Aquinea will keep him close until the annulment period is over, so our time is limited.”

That meant traveling back into the country that viewed him as property. Back into the household that had enslaved him and tortured him. All for Dorian. And then what? Once Dorian knew he was alive, would he take him back after such a big lie? After how weak he’d been? Would that even be what was best for them?

“I think you should go,” Alvinius said quietly.

His words yanked Kestrel from his thoughts, and he looked over at him in disbelief. “You do?”

“I know it’ll be dangerous, but I also think there will be no moving forward for you if you don’t. Go see him and determine for yourself if you should intervene. If you see he’s on the mend, then leave him be. There will always be a place for you here, mon beau oiseau.”

“And if I-”

“Then know I will always cherish our time together, however short, and you’ll always have a friend in Nessum.”

“What about me…?” Dalish asked.

“How about you stay with me for a bit until Kestrel figures out where he’s going to stay?”

“I don’t know…”

Kestrel was just as reluctant as Dalish. He trusted Alvinius, and Tevinter would be dangerous for two runaway slaves, but still, his heart protested the thought of leaving him behind.

Sensing his unease, Alvinius said, “I promise I will take good care of him in your absence. I will protect him with my life, if necessary. This whole town will. No harm will come to him.”

“But, your nightmares,” Dalish muttered, looking at Kestrel with those pale blue eyes. “And if you’re caught…”

“I’ll return with him, boy. He can play the role of my slave. My pet bunny,” Atronis said with a smirk. “Really, there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be safe with me.”

Kestrel ignored Atronis’ comment and moved to Dalish’s side. “I’ll be okay, and you’ll be safe with Vin here. Only until we can be reunited, okay? This isn’t goodbye.”

Dalish didn’t look convinced, but he nodded his head, reluctantly agreeing. “Don’t take too long,” he grumbled as he pulled Kestrel into another hug.

“We’ll set out tomorrow morning after I’ve had a chance to rest,” Atronis said. Kestrel opened his mouth to protest, but Atronis continued, “We can’t make it before the wedding anyway. One day of rest won’t hurt anything.”

“Looks like you’ve got me all day, da’len. What would you like to do?” Kestrel said, patting Dalish’s back.

“I have the makings of a picnic. How about I pack you up a basket and you take him down to the lake?” Alvinius offered.

“Join us?” Kestrel asked, snagging his hand.

Alvinius gave him a small smile. “I wish I could, but there’s something I need to do today. You go and have fun, and I’ll see you tonight.” He pulled his hand from Kestrel’s hold and disappeared into the back.

Kestrel was left wondering if he’d hurt his feelings by agreeing to go, even though Alvinius was the one who recommended he see Dorian again. He had little time to worry about it, because the next moment Dalish was grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the stairs.

“Get cleaned up so we can go to the lake!” he commanded playfully.

“Yes, sir!” Kestrel said with a grin. He resolved himself to enjoy the day with Dalish and the evening with Alvinius and leave his worry to tomorrow.

***

Except that didn’t quite work out. Once Dalish and he returned to the tavern from a lovely picnic on the lake with sun-kissed cheeks and hearty smiles on their faces, Alvinius greeted them with a hooded companion right inside the door, Atronis nearby with a frown.

Kestrel could tell immediately by the mood that something had happened. Or was about to.

Dalish yawned long and wide, barely hiding it behind his hand.

They’d stayed at the lake longer than planned, barely making it back as the sun set. Of course, Dalish was tired. It’d been a busy day full of food, sun, and swimming.

“Why don’t you head to bed?” Kestrel said, keeping his tone light and pleasant.

Oblivious to the change in mood, Dalish nodded. Rubbing his eyes, Dalish hugged Kestrel half-heartedly, hugged Alvinius, and made his way upstairs.

Kestrel lowered the picnic basket to the nearby table in case he needed to reach for his blade. “What’s going on?”

“I was approached a while back by some elves. They asked if I wanted to join their network that would bring about the rebirth of the world. While I politely declined, they ensured I had a way of contacting them just in case. Well, I’d say this is a just in case situation. They can get you to where you need to be in a day instead of a week, mon beau oiseau.”

One day for a week’s worth of travel? How…? Only an eluvian path could help him travel so fast, and only one person was rumored to have access to the network now.

The hooded visitor lowered their hood, revealing a young Dalish woman. “Andaran atish’an,” she greeted in elvhen.

Her appearance solidified Kestrel’s suspicions. “You’re part of Solas—Fen’Harel’s group, aren’t you?” Kestrel asked.

“Yes, Inquisitor. Your friend here has explained the situation, and Fen’harel has decided to aid you once again.”

“Why?” Kestrel challenged.

The woman shrugged. “It’s not my place to question. But there are some rules that must be obeyed should you agree.”

“Now you can get there before the wedding,” Atronis said, sounding impressed.

“What are these rules of yours?”

“You will be blindfolded. If you remove the blindfold at any time, I will kill you.”

Alvinius frowned, moving instinctively closer to Kestrel.

Kestrel rolled his eyes at the dramatic rule. Of course, Solas would have such strict rules. “And…?” he prodded, unimpressed.

“Only you may go.”

Atronis rose to his feet. “We’re travel together!”

The woman narrowed her eyes and glared at Atronis. “No. You’re not. Only the Inquisitor is permitted. Finally, you will owe Fen’Harel one favor, however large or small, at a time of his choosing.”

“When would we leave?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Kestrel turned to Alvinius. “You didn’t have to do this, you know,” he said, feeling guilty.

“I care for you,” Alvinius said, cupping Kestrel’s face between his hands. “If this gets you the answers you need and grants you a slimmer chance of running into slave catchers, I’m all for it. If the price is not too steep, you should do it. I’ll keep Dalish safe until you’ve made your decision.”

If the price wasn’t too steep? Hadn’t he already paid a steep price for Dorian time and time again? This time was no different. He’d die for him if that was needed to keep him safe, especially now that he’d found someone to look over Dalish in his stead.

Alivinius was too good for him. It was likely for the best he was leaving. Alvinius deserved better. “You’re too kind to me,” Kestrel said as he leaned in to place a soft kiss on Alvinius’ lips.

“Speaking of, let me draw you a bath? You smell of pond water, and I’d hate for your smell to betray your presence to this man you’re going to check on.”

Kestrel looked over at the woman who just shrugged again and sat down, prepared to wait.

“Okay, thank you, Vin,” Kestrel said.

After taking a quick bath and putting on a fresh set of clothes, he made his way upstairs to Dalish. The boy was fast asleep in the bed, cheeks pink from their day in the sun.

Kestrel ran his fingers through Dalish’s hair, reassuring himself that Dalish would be okay in his absence. Alvinius would care for him like his own, and Dalish was already a favorite of the town. He knew he had nothing to worry about. Still, he knew they’d miss each other after spending so much time together.

He leaned down and kissed Dalish’s forehead. “I’ll see you soon, da’len.”

#time past #chapter 52 #pavellan #kestrel lavellan #dorian pavus #dragon age fanfic #dragon age inquisition #dragon age #fanfic #m!lavellan #Dorian will return in the next update!

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rushmanatalie · 5 years

Text

falling like the stars || ch. 1/?

Rating: E

Summary: In the five years since the world they knew ended, they found solace in each other, until a brief encounter with fate gives them the chance to change everything. A post-Infinity War and Endgame re-write. Notes: Thank you all so much for reading, and for all the love on my last work. It really gave me the drive I needed to get this baby out. Hoping to get the second chapter up some time in the next two weeks. Please feel free to leave comments on what you want to see next because I’m always open to new ideas!

Steve would never let Nat live in the Avengers facility alone, change my mind. Also Steve is a bad cook, it’s canon. Title from James Arthur’s song of the same name.

Read on Ao3

It’s like a ritual now. She wakes up in his arms, the white silk sheets of the bed cold against their warm, entangled bodies as he presses gentle kisses down her spine, drawing out her good morning in a content sigh. He’s perfect like this, mussed blonde hair golden under the first rays of the morning sun, blue eyes almost grey with the haze of sleep, a lazy, boyish smile on his lips. And for a moment she can’t help but to contemplate the irony of it all, how it took the darkest of times for them to finally find this, this happiness.

What did it cost?

Everything.

They had lost everything. Everyone. Nick. Sam. Wanda. Vision. T’challa. Hell, even the kid Tony had picked up from Queens had vanished into thin air.

Half the population, gone. To say they were not prepared for this amount of devastation was an understatement. For months, families, cities, and entire countries fought to put themselves back together. Natasha had done everything she could to help bring order in the year of chaos that ensued, but she couldn’t do anything to subdue the uncertainty that loomed over them, a constant shadow of doubt and grief that hung on every fake smile, every bit of laughter, like salt in the wound of the healing.

And she’d almost done it alone.

The Avengers disbanded shortly after they left the Garden. Some had found a way to live on; Tony and Pepper had gotten married and had a beautiful daughter, Morgan, and Bruce was last heard finding success in experiments with the Hulk. Others fell into their despair; Thor had disappeared to New Asgard, only ever leaving his home to restock his supply of Asgardian mead, and Clint. Clint. She couldn’t bear to think about him.

These were the people she called her family; now they were so broken it felt like she’d lost them too.

Of course, they had all been lucky enough to survive the Decimation (that’s what they called it now). But some days she found herself almost, fuck, just almost, wishing they hadn’t, because knowing they had left each other, had left her, one by one, in a time of such hopelessness and defeat, that somehow hurt more.

Steve was the only one who stayed, and honestly, she doesn’t know where she’d be if he had left her too. For the past three years, the two drowned themselves, Steve in his support group, Natasha in her training, and at the end of the day, they would drown together, in each other, until she didn’t know where she ended and where he began. And she never wanted to come up for air.

Some call it hell. She calls it happiness. At least, it’s the most happiness she’s known in years, though why they couldn’t have found it sooner is a mystery she could never seem to solve.

“You okay?” His voice is soft against the nape of her neck.

She nods, the faintest of smiles crossing her lips. “I’m fine.”

She’s not, he thinks as he smooths his thumb over the creases between her brows, a hint of worry showing between his own. She smiles, but her eyes are empty. That’s all she’s been in the past two years, a ghost, a shell of her former self. And it scares him how hard it hit her. Of course, it had hurt them all, but Natasha was always the strongest one, the one who would rather die than put her emotions out on display. In that sense, she hasn’t changed, but he knows of the crying behind closed doors, the wiping away of tears when he’s not quite looking, the sneaking of cigarettes on the balcony when she thinks he’s fallen asleep.

But at this moment he doesn’t ask any more questions. There’s a trust between them now that goes beyonds words, beyond these feelings. She trusts him with her life, her heart, and she’s proven on various occasions that he could entrust his with her.

She’ll tell him when she’s ready, if she ever would be.

He silences her thoughts with a languid kiss, weaving a hand into her hair. It had grown out over the years so that the bright red reached her shoulders, yet the blonde tips remained, almost as a reminder of the pain they carried with them everywhere.

She kisses him back, growing in hunger, desire, and he opens his mouth to let it take over. He dips a hand down to her stomach and slips under the hem of her camisole, finding the roughness of the scar the Winter Soldier had left on her all those years ago. The satisfaction of hearing her moan makes him reach a little higher, until his hand is over her breast. Her own hands roam the planes of his chest, every touch hotter, lower than the last, until his hardened length is painfully straining against the fabric of his briefs.

But his own pleasure can wait. He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head. She likes him like this: a little rough, a little harsh. It had taken a long time for her to convince him that this was good, that she enjoyed it, and when she finally did, when he finally let himself be in charge, it was pure ecstasy.

He pulls the camisole off of her in one smooth movement. Before she has time to react to the cold air on her skin, he’s planting a row of kisses down her chest, beneath her navel, fingers dancing around the thin fabric of her underwear. That comes off of her torturously slowly, he makes sure of it, and he takes pride in the way she arches her back and spreads her legs in protest.

God, how did he ever get so lucky?

She’s already wet with wanting, aching for his touch, and he obliges, licking a broad stroke over her sex, relishing in the way her hands thread their way through his hair, urging him to keep going. His eyes meet hers from between her legs and she can’t help but giggle (since when did she giggle) at the sight of him like this.

“Shouldn’t we eat breakfast first?”

The corner of his mouth tugs into a smug grin. That dumbass. “I already am.”

He pushes two fingers inside her, curling them just right as he presses his thumb to her clit, circling over the sensitive nerves, taking her closer and closer to the edge, a string of Russian curses falling from her lips. His mouth finds the pulse of her throat, and somehow knowing that it’ll leave a mark makes him suck harder on the softness of her skin. But before she can get where he knows she wants to be, he stops, and it takes everything in her power to hold back a strained whimper of desperation.

My turn. Sitting up, she hooks her fingers into the top of his briefs, and pushes them down to his ankles so that he can kick them off the side of the bed. She’d seen him like this many times before, but Christ, it never gets old. A swipe of her tongue across the tip of his length has him lost in a wave of pleasure, and it isn’t long before she’s closing her lips over him, taking note of the way his breath hitches, the muscles in his body tensing up as he tries not to bury himself in the warmth of her mouth. His patience wears thin, with every hum of her throat bringing him closer to his climax.

“Fuck, Nat, I’m—”

She denies him the chance. The way her mouth comes off of him is absolutely obscene, and ten years ago, it would have sent him into a furious blush, but now, he can’t stop the titillating thoughts of what he wants to do to her from running through his head.

She brings him down on top of her and kisses him hard. It’s almost shameful how much pleasure he gets from the way his taste mixes with hers on their tongues. When she pulls away, it’s green eyes on blue, and somehow, it feels the most intimate they’ve been all morning despite their state of undress. An “I need you” said in complete silence.

He slides inside her slowly, carefully, then all at once, and it earns him a lustful moan that he takes as his cue to move. They find their rhythm with ease. It’s fast, it’s hot, and it’s heavy, and it’s almost muscle memory by now, but the pleasure feels just as new as it did the first time they made love like this. Her legs are wrapped around his back, and this time, she doesn’t hold back the loud wails that escape her lips as he finds the perfect spot inside of her. The bed creaks beneath them; the headboard rattles against the wall as she grasps it so tightly her knuckles turn white, and for a second, Steve can’t help but be thankful they have the place to themselves, because the sounds they’re making are practically pornographic.

They teeter on the edge of pure bliss, and she’s so goddamn close that she’s writhing underneath him, chasing her release.

His fingers circle her clit as he presses an open kiss behind her ear, where he knows it makes her melt. “Come for me, Nat. Let go.”

That was all she needed to push her over, and she falls apart with his name on her lips like prayer from the mouth of a saint. The tightening of her walls around him, sending him down seconds after, and he comes inside her with an unrestrained groan against her neck, and perhaps an “I love you” hidden within it.

He’s never said it before. Neither of them have. Not out loud. Not to each other. But they say it in stolen glances, worried looks, and moments like this.

They lie beside each other, face to face, breathless, for what seems like an eternity as he rubs small circles on her arm. “You know what? I think I actually enjoyed today’s breakfast.”

“Yeah? Well, it was slightly better than the pancakes you made last week.” She eyes him pointedly, her signature smirk more teasing than her words. “Slightly.”

“Well, I don’t know about you,” he says, kissing her forehead, her nose, then, chastly, her lips, “But I’m still hungry.”

She shakes her head as he moves over on top of her again; her laugh is like music to his ears. “You’re insatiable, Rogers.”

“What can I say? I can do this all day.”

—————————

When Natasha gets out of the shower, she’s greeted by the unmistakable smell of bacon. She doesn’t even realize how hungry she is until her feet are betraying her, and before she can even put on proper clothes, she’s walking into the kitchen, pulling her black bathrobe just a little tighter at the sight in front of her. Steve stands in a light grey henley and dark jeans, back to her as he prods at a pan of scrambled eggs on the stove with a wooden spatula. It’s almost strange to see Captain America being so domestic, but she finds it surprisingly endearing. Besides, was he even Captain America these days anymore?

He catches her through the corner of his eye as she saunters over to the island behind him, where a plate of cooked bacon sits on the marble countertop. “Would you look at that?” She breaks off a corner of the meat and finds that it’s a little crispier than she likes, but she manages to both chew and swallow it. “That’s actually almost edible.”

Natasha would never consider herself a picky person, especially when it came to food. Not when missions often required her to cook canned beans in microwaves or instant oatmeal over wood fires. But it didn’t take her long to find out that Steve’s cooking was less than enjoyable, which wasn’t all that surprising since he lived a good chunk of his life on food rations and boiled cabbage or potato soups.

“I’ll take almost,” he chuckles as he sets down a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her.

“Is that...paprika on top?” she questions with a suspecting brow. “Since when did you get so fancy with the spices?”

“Just thought I’d try something new.” Nodding toward the plate, he hands her a fork. “Here, try it.”

With a false reluctance, she flips through the pile of eggs before tasting the smallest piece. “Wow, uh—”

“That bad, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, that’s what it sounded like you were saying.”

She shakes her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Sorry, Gordon Ramsay.”

The name clearly doesn’t ring a bell, his face showing nothing but confusion.

“Celebrity chef? He had this show where he went to the worst restaurants in the world and turned them into these five star places in a week.”

“Must not have made it onto my list.” The plates are pushed to the side as he heads to the fridge for a jug of milk before pulling out two boxes in the cabinet above him. “So, Cinnamon Toast Crunch or Frosted Flakes?”

“Is that even a question?”

He sets two bowls and spoons onto the countertop and pours the milk first (to this day, she still has no idea why), then Cinnamon Toast Crunch after (again, no idea why), pushing the bowl with less milk across to her. Just the way she likes it.

“So, what time’s your meeting today?” she asks, a spoonful of cereal in her mouth.

“Two. I should probably head out soon.” He pauses with a breath of hesitation that’s grown all too familiar to her, so much that a small part of her fears what comes next. “You know my offer still stands.”

This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned it, and her answer has always been the same.

“I’m fine, Steve.” She stares down blankly at her reflection in the back of her spoon to avoid the concern of his gaze.

“You can't keep going on like this."

"I said, I’m fine."

"Natasha—"

"Steve, please, leave it—"

"You need to talk to someone, Nat!” The harshness of his tone startles her, and her eyes dart up only for a second, but long enough to notice the clenching of his jaw, the furrowing of his brows. “You can't just shut everyone out." His voice softens. “Don’t shut me out.”

There’s a hint of pleading in his voice, but she chooses to ignore it, because the implications that it comes with are something she’s spent too long considering, and she didn’t want to anymore.

“You’ve been putting up this front for three years, Nat. I know you’re hurting. I’m fucking hurting. But goddamn it, let me help you,” he swallows heavily, as if those words had dried his throat completely. “And I know you’re drinking again.”

Fuck. The back of her throat begins to burn, her eyes stinging with tears that threaten to fall. Part of her knew that she could have done a better job at hiding the bottles. He always seemed to find them. But then again, maybe it’s because deep down she knew that she wanted him to.

When she finally looks up, it’s with an anger in her eyes, but not at him. At herself.

“Why do you care?” It’s not meant to be a challenge, yet she can tell that’s the way it comes off to him because he looks at her, almost stunned.

He opens his mouth to say something, but she doesn’t stay to hear it. Before he replies, she storms out of the kitchen, stopping halfway through the hallway only when she knows she’s out of his line of sight to turn and catch a glimpse of him, a wave of relief and a tinge of disappointment washing over her when she realizes that he hadn’t followed.

But there’s only one place she wants to be now.

By the time she grabs the headphones, leg warmers, pointe shoes, and backup flask hidden in her sock drawer, she hears the soft hum of his motorcycle in the driveway, and finds herself wishing that when he comes back, she won’t be awake to see it.

#my writing #fic #romanogers #stevenat #marvel #mcu #avengers endgame

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serenlyss · 5 years

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For the Sake of a Smile Chapter 4

Rating: G Relationships: terumob, teru&reigen, teru&ritsu, shigeo&ritsu, teru&tome Chapter Summary: Teru interviews for a part-time job. Crossposted to AO3: Chapter 4

Chapter 3 // Chapter 5

"Invest in what’s real. Clean as you go. Drink while you cook. Make it fun. It doesn’t have to be complicated. It will be what it will be." — Gwyneth Paltrow

---

Teru stares up at the cafeteria menu and feels his stomach drop.

In retrospect, he should have known that such a posh school would have equally nice and expensive food, but staring at the prices on the board above his school’s lunch line, he realizes just how ridiculous they really are.

How does anyone afford this? he wonders to himself bitterly, counting bills in his head. He hasn’t exactly brought a ton of spending money with him from home, just whatever he’d had saved up at the time, and it’s clear that it won’t last long if he plans on eating at the cafeteria every day. He’d been anticipating having to pick up some sort of part-time job to cover his extra expenses, even with his tuition covered, and now he knows for sure that he’ll have to find something as quickly as possible.

He settles for a cheap ham sandwich and a miniature water bottle for his lunch; it won’t last him all that long, but it’s better than nothing. Then he retreats to an empty table, awkwardly taking a seat and leaning his head on his hand. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his messages with nothing better to do during his break. There’s a text from Tome at the very top of his notifications from that morning, and he cracks a smile at the sight of it.

“How’s rich person life suiting you? Have you let the fame and fortune go to your head yet?” it reads, with Tome’s signature unabashed snark woven into every word. He can practically hear her voice through his screen.

“About as well as you’d expect,” he replies honestly. “My class is full of rich snobs.” His text is only slightly sarcastic; while there is undoubtedly an air of snobbery amongst some of his more well-off classmates, the majority of them are friendly enough.

It’s the middle of the day, so he doesn’t expect Tome to get back to him for a little while. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and moves to unwrap his sandwich.

He’s interrupted before he can take a bite by Shigeo and Ritsu, the former of which waves a hand at him with a small, shy smile. Ritsu, predictably, hardly acknowledges his presence beyond a cursory glance as Shigeo pulls up a chair to sit across from Teru. “Mind if we join you?” he asks, as though he’s expecting Teru to refuse.

“Not at all,” he replies with a gracious wave of his hand, ripping a piece off the meager sandwich to nibble on. “I’m surprised you both have the same lunch period.”

“Oh, everyone in our homeroom has this lunch period, that’s how they divide it up,” Shigeo explains. “Ritsu does too, but the student council also meets during the lunch break, so he doesn’t usually hang around the cafeteria for very long.” As he speaks, he reaches into his bag to pull out his own lunch, homemade by the looks of it. It makes Teru ache a little for the food from his hometown, but he pushes that thought to the back of his mind before it makes him homesick.

Ritsu, on the other hand, is staring at Teru’s sandwich thoughtfully. “That’s all you’re eating?” he comments, and as he does, Shigeo seems to pick up on Teru’s meager lunch as well.

Teru reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear self-consciously. “Ah, well, the cafeteria food was… a bit pricier than I was anticipating,” he replies, attempting to sound as breezy as possible. “I haven’t managed to find myself a job yet, so I have to be careful about how much money I spend.”

Ritsu’s brow furrows, and Teru tries not to squirm under the younger boy’s intense gaze. He wonders why Ritsu keeps staring at him like that, like he’s some kind of puzzle that needs to be solved.

“I see,” Ritsu says after a moment. He glances down at a watch around his wrist, then adds, “I need to get going, Shige, or I’ll be late for the meeting. I’ll see you at home.”

Shigeo shares a smile with his brother as Ritsu leaves for his meeting, then turns to face Teru again. “You say you’re looking for a job?” he says, bringing the conversation back to places Teru doesn’t really want to talk about. He supposes it isn’t worth trying to hide, though, it’s not as though it would be hard to tell that he comes from less-than-privileged means.

“Yes, eventually. The academy is paying for my tuition and board, which is very generous of them, but I’ll need to have a little money coming in for food and things like that, the necessities,” he explains, looking down into his water bottle with a tinge of embarrassment. He knows that many of the students here come from rich families who have absolutely no trouble sending money to pay for all their childrens’ expenses and more, but he’s not about to go searching for his own parents now. Just the thought of it steeps his dormant rage, and he quickly tamps it down before it can manifest in a scowl on his face.

Shigeo considers this for a moment, poking at his lunch with his fork, then says, “Maybe you could try the place I work.”

Teru looks up in surprise, both at the fact that Shigeo himself has some sort of side job he works and that Shigeo would be willing to recommend him. “Really? Where do you work?” he asks, his interest piqued.

Shigeo smiles, apparently pleased at Teru’s enthusiastic response. “It’s actually a diner on campus. I’ve been working there for a while now, ever since middle school. It’s kind of old and a lot quieter than it used to be, but I make a little money from the customers that do come in and Master Reigen teaches me a little about cooking, when he has the time,” Shigeo says. “You already know how to cook, though, so I bet he’d be really happy to have you working there, too! Want me to introduce you?”

Some of Teru’s enthusiasm wanes at hearing that the diner isn’t quite as successful as it had once been, but he can’t deny the allure of a job like this. He really can’t think of anything more perfect than working in a diner, but the academy’s cafeteria has a strict rule against hiring students, so he figures this may be his best shot. Besides, he reasons, it can’t hurt to just check it out, even if I decide it’s better to find somewhere else to work. With that in mind, he nods his head with a bright smile. “I’d love to! When can I come by?”

---

Teru finds it very, very hard to stay optimistic about this potential job opportunity when the path that leads to it is so overgrown. He can’t even tell if this is a legitimate path anymore or if he’s decided to take a spontaneous detour through the backwoods behind the tennis courts. The grass reaches up past his knees and the sprawling ferns block his path with every step. “This is so stupid!” he curses to himself, stumbling over a well-hidden rock and nearly eating dirt as he does. “No wonder no one goes anymore, who wants to go traipsing through the jungle just for some lunch?”

Still, the walk itself is only a few minutes, even if he does feel abnormally winded by the time he finally stumbles upon some sort of building. At first, all he can do is stare and wonder if he’s taken a wrong turn somewhere, somehow; the diner isn’t very appealing to the eyes, and it looks old, with ivy climbing insistently up its walls and its outdated, chipped sign hanging at a slight diagonal angle that he can’t possibly believe is intentional. Still, the name on the sign is the same one Shigeo had given to him, and the sign in the front window says “Open”.

Sweets and Such… what kind of name is that? Teruki thinks to himself as he clambers out of the woods and onto better-tamed grass, already feeling the suspicious scowl on his face starting to make itself known. He crosses his arms as he warily approaches the front door, hiking his bag higher up on his shoulder. He’d baked cookies earlier to bring to this meeting in hopes of making an impression and showing what he could do, but now he’s starting to wonder if it’s even worth trying if the place feels this much like he’s walking into a ghost town. Still, he’d agreed to this meeting at Shigeo’s behest and it would be terribly impolite to turn away this opportunity without at least putting in his fair share of effort, so he pushes the door open and pokes his head inside.

It’s empty, predictably, and the inside of the building doesn’t look much better than the outside. It’s after school hours, which would normally mean a place like this would be bustling with students fresh out of club activities and looking for a bite to eat, but instead the place looks like the owner is fit to move out. Tables and chairs are scattered around the parlor with no discernable order, and there are boxes of miscellaneous supplies and posters up against one of the walls. It’s, quite frankly, a total mess, and one look at it solidifies the fact that Teru would never choose to sit and eat here, not even if the prices were dirt-cheap.

“Hello?” he calls into the empty room, taking a wary step inside and letting the door close behind him. “I’m looking for a mister Reigen Arataka? Um, Shigeo told me he’d let you know I was stopping by.”

There’s a clatter from the kitchen at the back of the store, and Teru swears he hears someone yell “Shit!” before he calls out more clearly, “Oh, of course, one second please!”

There’s more noise from the kitchen, the sounds of metal objects being knocked against each other and the occasional boom of a particularly heavy footstep, before Reigen makes himself known. He strides out with a confidence that’s easily dispelled by his disheveled appearance; he looks to be somewhere in his mid to late twenties, but he’s rather scrawny, like a sapling that has to have supports tied to it so the storms don’t knock it over. His light brown hair is partly covered by a wrinkled bandana, which is a surprising shade of pale pink and matches the button-up shirt he wears under his black apron. In short, he looks more like a waiter than a chef, especially with the way he hastily puts a cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray as though to hide the fact that he’d been smoking in his own kitchen.

“You must be the one Mob was talking about.” The man greets him with a broad smile, one hand buried in the pocket of his blue jeans while he holds the other out for Teru to shake. “Uh, Hanazawa, right? Mob says you’re on the hunt for a job, and that you’re kind of a whiz in the kitchen. I’m Reigen Arataka, I own the place.” He releases Teru’s hand after his brief introduction, then gestures toward a nearby table. “Let’s sit, yeah?”

Teru starts a little at the invitation. “Oh, sure,” he acquiesces, sliding into a chair opposite Reigen. He casts a quick glance around the diner, then asks, “Are you renovating?” It’s the only suitable explanation he can find for why the place would be in such disarray, aside from laziness.

Reigen reaches up a hand to rub the back of his neck with an apologetic smile. “You could say that. I mean, I was going to, but that kinda fell through. I, uh, haven’t had a chance to clean the place up much,” he explains breezily, but the words feel like only half the truth. The tables aren’t dusty, so someone must be at least keeping them clean enough to eat on, but the whole place has an air of disrepair. “Anyway,” Reigen continues, hastily changing the subject, “I don’t hire many temps here, since the place is pretty small and I don’t exactly have a lot of extra money to spend on help, but it’s pretty rare for Mob to bring up anyone from school, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to see what the fuss was about.”

Teru decides to drop the subject of the diner’s shoddy state of being for now, but he definitely adds that to a mental list he’s making of the pros and cons. It looks like this: Pros, he’ll be able to make a bit of money on the side at a place that’s already approved by the school’s director. He’ll have a friend working here, too, and despite the place’s obvious flaws, Teru can tell that at one point it was probably pretty charming. Not to mention, he’ll be able to cook here, potentially whenever he likes. Cons, the diner is as dead as they come, and it practically reeks of laziness and loss of hope. No self-respecting restaurant owner would let their business fall so steeply into the garbage like Reigen obviously has. It’s clean, at least, but the atmosphere is terrible, and it’s hard to ignore the stench of cigarette smoke that permeates the parlor. The building is so hard to find that he wonders if Reigen gets any customers at all, and what he could possibly be doing to keep his doors open when things are this bad.

“Mob… is that a nickname?” Teru asks, instead of asking all the other questions that permeate his mind. He’s never heard anyone else call Shigeo by that name, and it feels almost mean on the tip of his tongue, like an insult.

“Ah, maybe he doesn’t go by that anymore?” Reigen muses, leaning back in his chair. “When he started working for me in middle school, he said it’s what his friends used to call him. He’s probably grown out of it by now.” He waves his hand as if to banish the thought, something Teru is quickly discovering is somewhat of a habit for him. His hands are almost never still, constantly gesturing or fiddling or doing something equally distracting to occupy himself.

Teru falls quiet for a moment, then remembers the cookies he’d brought with him. “Ah, before I forget,” he says quickly, reaching into his bag and producing a tupperware container he’d borrowed from the school’s kitchen. “I figured I’d bring something to share. Like a portfolio, I guess, if you want to try one.” He cracks open the container, revealing a dozen soft pumpkin cookies dotted with chocolate chips. “This is an old family recipe, something I used to make all the time for my siblings growing up.” The word ‘siblings’ slips off his tongue naturally in reference to the other kids at the orphanage, and despite the mundanity of it, it still seems to pique Reigen’s interest.

He flashes Teru a thoughtful look for just a second before shrugging his shoulders and reaching for the tupperware. “Sure, why not?” he relents, plucking a cookie from the top of the pile. He doesn’t hesitate to take a bite of it, brow furrowed thoughtfully. He falls quiet for a few seconds, even after he’s swallowed, and then he meets Teru’s gaze across the table, wagging a finger at him. “I knew there was something special about you, kid,” he says around a mouthful of pumpkin cookie. “I can tell you’ve been doing this for a long time. You’re lacking in formal training, but that’s to be expected. Were you self-taught?”

“Mostly,” Teru replies, which is mostly the truth. He remembers very little from the cooking lessons his mother would sometimes give him growing up, before she became distant. Most of what he knows is a combination of his own experimentation and his lessons with the sisters who had looked after him growing up.

Reigen nods, considering this, then uncrosses his legs and leans forward on the table, face a mask of sudden seriousness. He clasps his hands together in front of him. “Listen, I’m gonna be honest with you, kid, because I think you have real talent,” he starts. “I’m sure you can tell, ‘cause you strike me as the perceptive type, but this place isn’t exactly what it used to be. I’ve been wanting to close up for a while now, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet. Frankly, I think the only reason it’s still open at all is because Mob likes it here. He’s my only employee, and only a handful of students even bother to come by anymore. I’m kinda surprised ol’ Suzuki hasn’t shut me down already, considering.”

Teru blinks at the name, recognizing it from his acceptance letter. Suzuki, the President of the academy and the one who had placed him in the special class with his recommendation. “I see,” he murmurs, “that’s a shame. This place seems like it was pretty nice, at one point.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Reigen accuses, raising a brow at Teru, but there’s amusement in his gaze. “Mob wants to fix the place up, make it more like what it was like when he started working here, maybe even better. I won’t pretend that hiring one new temp employee is going to suddenly fix everything, but… I’m curious about you, kid, and what kind of ideas you might have. Call it a hunch.”

Teru frowns, attempting to connect the dots in his head, but there’s something missing from the bigger picture that makes Reigen’s logic really fall to pieces. He seems to have an inordinate amount of confidence in Teru’s abilities and judgement, confidence based on a five-minute conversation and a single pumpkin cookie. Something about it makes his skin crawl uncomfortably. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously, putting the lid on his tupperware and stowing the cookies in his backpack. “You want me to… help you remodel?” Who enlists a fifteen-year-old’s help with something like that? Not to mention, Shigeo seems to have been roped in as well. “I don’t think I’m qualified for that kind of job.”

Reigen shrugs. “Not necessarily the remodeling parts themselves, but, y’know, put in your input about what you think would look nice, give Mob a hand with the cooking and cleaning, that kind of stuff,” he amends, tapping a finger on the table in front of him. “It would take a bit of stress off my shoulders, at least, and I think Shigeo would be happy to have a friend around instead of hanging out with me all day. What do you say?”

Teru hesitates, mulling over the possibilities in his head. His first thought is that adjusting to a new job while they’re in the middle of remodeling--and not very successful, for that matter--is a terrible job choice, but the more he thinks about it, the more he sees this as a unique opportunity. It’s a resume builder, for one, even if it’s a little early to be worrying about that, and the job Reigen is offering him would allow him a lot of creative freedom, too. Not to mention, access to a kitchen without having to worry about scheduling time or competing with other students for space and supplies. How bad could it be? “How about a test run?” he compromises. “I can come in sometime this week for an afternoon, see what kind of shift you run, and then decide based on that.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Reigen agrees with a grin. “Come in on Friday, and I’ll have a list of things for you to work on.” He holds out his hand to Teru again, this time in farewell.

“Alright, then I’ll see you on Friday,” Teru replies, and gives Reigen’s hand a firm shake. Despite the oddity of the situation, he can’t help but feel a thrum of excitement at this new opportunity.

He only hopes it won’t come back to bite him in the butt later.

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #terumob #kageyama shigeo #hanazawa teruki #kageyama ritsu #reigen arataka #kurata tome #serendipitousfics #fanfiction #mp100 fanfic

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aiupenn · 5 years

Text

About me

Osamu manages to convince Ranpo to go on a completely platonic date on Valentine's Day.

Or Ranpo and Osamu go to Cosmo World and ride the Cosmo Clock 21. [also posted to ao3]

"You can't actually have plans for Valentine's Day," Kunikida said flatly.

Osamu lifted one lazy eyelid as he lounged in the chair and looked at his fuming partner. The amount of frustration on his face made it very difficult for him not to smile. "I do," Osamu said. Because he did.

"I swear to God, Dazai, if this is an excuse--"

"Mr. Dazai!" Ranpo chose exactly the right moment to speak up, which Osamu assumed wasn't an accident, "I don't wanna dress up!"

Quite reluctantly, Osamu let his eyelid slide closed once more, even though he wanted nothing more than to see the look on Kunikida's face. He was going to have to try harder than usual to keep up an air of nonchalance. "It's not fancy," Osamu said, perhaps a little louder than he needed to.

Kunikida sputtered, which was almost as good as seeing his face. "Mr. Ranpo, you can't be going out with Dazai," he said. It was a statement of fact, not a question. Too bad that he was wrong. Osamu had trouble holding back a smile at this too.

"He promised me candy," Ranpo said, in just the way that he could. It was that half entitled, half pouty tone that Dazai couldn't help but adore because he adored Ranpo.

Kunikida's voice got a little higher. "You bribed him to go on a date‽"

Now that Osamu would not stand for. He might've fabricated his reasoning a little, but Ranpo had agreed almost enthusiastically to the idea. BeforeOsamu had suggested the candy, as a matter of fact.

He let out a sigh, an almost honest sound, as he dragged his feet from the desk and stood. He finally met Kunikida's eyes. "It's not a romantic date," Osamu said, because as much as he wanted it to be, it wasn't. "I couldn't commit beautiful double suicide with him."

Kunikida rolls his eyes.

Osamu clapped him on the shoulder and put on an innocent face. "What? You don't have anyone to spend Valentine's Day with and drink away your loneliness?"

As expected, Kunikida blushes. "It--It's highly unnecessary," he stuttered out.

"Oh?" Osamu quirked a brow, "Tell your date I said 'hello' then." He made a jacking off motion with his hand just to see Kunikida's face turn from a mild rosey pink to bright cherry red.

He walks the short distance to Ranpo's desk and nudges the leg of his chair with his toe. "Where too?"

Ranpo doesn't hesitate with his answer, leaping to his feet and making a beeline for the door. "Cosmo World."

Osamu's footsteps stutter as he follows after. That was most certainly not the location he'd been expecting. An amusement park seemed like so much effort , something Ranpo tended to avoid. Osamu had only expected on a handful of trips to candy shops and cafés. Not that he was really complaining, because Cosmo World would be infinitely kinder to his wallet.

What did bother him was how date-ish it sounded. Going out for candy was one thing, but this? Osamu only just manages to keep his heart beat in check. Such a silly thing to get flustered over, but what could you do? Still, he chastises himself mentally. He was already pushing the boundaries as it was asking for a "platonic" date out of a man he most certainly felt no amount of platonic affection for, so he shouldn't try to make it anymore than it was.

"Cosmo World it is then." His answer comes a beat too late, and of course Ranpo notices.

He slows enough to walk side by side with Osamu, then suddenly wraps his arms around Osamu's right. Osamu very nearly loses control of his heart rate once more as Ranpo buries his cheek into Osamu's coat.

"It's too far," Ranpo whines.

"I could carry you~" Osamu teases.

Ranpo only hums in response, which is a much stranger reaction than the refusal Osamu had been expecting. Thankfully, he doesn't take him up for the offer either.

The walk is slower going than he'd anticipated. He would've liked to say it was because of the unseasonably warm 16°C weather, but in truth it was because he was lugging around a 5'6" full grown man who seemed like he was attempting to melt into Osamu's forearm.

"You're too slow," Ranpo says.

"You're slowing me down," Osamu points out.

"No. You're just slow."

Osamu sighs over-dramatically. "Mr. Kunikida's gonna get the wrong idea about us and then he's gonna chase away all the beautiful girls to commit double suicide with," he says, even though the very idea of having someone get the 'wrong idea' about them makes him just a little giddy.

Ranpo's eyes open a little, something that gives Osamu pause. He finds himself holding his breath, wanting to catch everything sound of what Ranpo would say next. "It was your idea," he says, his voice almost hurt.

Osamu blinks, unsure what brought on such a reaction. He lets his gaze roam Ranpo subtly, hoping for some answers. But there wasn't any. After a moment of puzzling over it, he just sighs again like he's the most put upon man in the world. "So it was."

Ranpo brightens up considerably once Cosmo World is in sight. Although his eyes are closed, he could almost certainly smell all the food he was about to make Osamu buy.

The place is crowded, unsurprisingly. Couples are milling about with barely any room to breathe and Osamu looks on with slight disdain.

But Ranpo doesn't hardly hesitate. He untangles himself from Osamu's arm and darts off into the throng, following his nose to some stand or another, likely. Osamu watches him go almost wistfully. Any onlooker with even half a brain cell could probably see how in love he looked, but for the first time in his life, Osamu found he didn't really care. In this moment, he's perfectly happy wearing his heart on his sleeve and adore Ranpo openly.

Not that he can indulge himself for long. Ranpo's gone and disappeared into the crowd, so Osamu rushes after him with as much casualty as he can manage. He finds him quickly enough. To no one's surprise, he's torturing a stall owner by making grabs at some cotton candy clenched in the vendor's fist.

Osamu smiles a little to himself and approaches. The vendor seems more than relieved to turn his attention away from Ranpo. "Can I help you, sir?" he asks.

"A bag of cotton candy. Pink," Osamu says, placing a hand on Ranpo's shoulder to get him to stop squirming.

The vendor hands over the bag and Osamu barely has time to turn over the paltry amount of yen before Ranpo snags it from him. He stuffs the fluff into his face immediately.

"Don't terrorize employees, Ranpo," Osamu coos with just the right amount of malice to hide how charmed he really is. Honestly. It can't be healthy to be so willing to overlook every flaw of a person.

Ranpo huffs through his mouthful, then quickly swallows. "You were taking too long."

Most of the evening is spent with Osamu chasing after Ranpo, stopping him from committing theft, and buying things he would never eat all in a crowded amusement park he would rather not be in. By all accounts, it should be a monstrously terrible evening. But it isn't. Because Ranpo is there.

Osamu keeps teetering closer and closer with every admiringly glance, every half-hidden sigh of content, to revealing the true reason behind his asking for such an outing. He always just manages to shove it all down when Ranpo looks his way, but every moment between are ones where Osamu slowly feels himself get dragged down into a feeling he's not terribly comfortable with.

It's not one he really understands. It's a weird sort of combination of love and hopelessness. On their own, they were unpleasant enough, but together Osamu has to focus to not let it show on his face.

He'd often wondered if there would be a time when he could give Ranpo these sorts of things--soft glances, dates, admiration--without having to hide it from the both of them. This event brought it in sharp focus that he didn't only think on it, he wanted it. Someday. It might've been a mistake to give himself a glimpse of what it could be like.

A fried pastry gets shoved under Osamu's nose all the sudden and he jerks back involuntarily as it brings him out of his thoughts. Ranpo looks at him a little expectantly.

Osamu shrugs and takes a bite, even though he has no taste for such things. Ranpo quickly moves on, which leaves him confused. One of Ranpo's many flaws is that he wasn't one to share. So what exactly had that been for?

To cheer him up, Osamu realizes belatedly.

His heart warms despite himself. There might be a chance for something more than this. Maybe. He catches up with Ranpo, throws out a joke, and gently leads him to the next vendor. It has to start somewhere. Why not here?

The park has become a sea of neon lights by the time Ranpo seems to be slowing down. The whole city was starting to come to a crawl, even on a holiday. Everything suddenly seems slower and calmer, and they can walk side by side without being pulled apart by another group.

Osamu's terribly aware of the fact that their hands brush every so often. Part of him wants to reach out to Ranpo and take a hold of him, as if that's a perfectly normal thing friends would do. But a larger part of him likes the casualty of this, too. There's no sudden jerk away or outcry from the soft touches, just quiet conversation as they head towards the ferris wheel.

"You look nervous," Osamu says with a teasing smile.

Ranpo purses his lips, then pulls the last piece of dango off the stick with his teeth. "Only a baby is scared of a ferris wheel," Ranpo says with his mouth full. He has a pout on his face again.

"Baby~"

Ranpo hesitates and Osamu realizes a beat too late what he'd just called him. Desperate to recover, he knocks him on top of the head. Like that solved it. Option B, then. Pay the operator and pretend it didn't happen.

When he turns back to Ranpo, his ears look a little pink and Osamu's eyes widen. Had he flustered the great Ranpo Edogawa? Because if so than this evening might've been the biggest success of his life. "If you're too scared, I'll take a beautiful lady with me instead," Osamu says, stepping into the gondola.

This seems to snap Ranpo out of it. He stomps over and, to his credit, doesn't seem the least bit phased by the swaying of the gondola as he seats himself across from Osamu with a huff.

"How have you lived in Yokohama all your life and not ridden Cosmo Clock 21? Never had someone as lovely as me to ride with?" Osamu shouldn't have asked the second question, but he could hardly help himself. If he managed to fluster Ranpo twice...

He doesn't get that sort of reaction, but what he gets is almost sweeter. Ranpo just shrugs and responds with a simple. "No."

Osamu sucks in a breath as his heart does a nervous flip. So Ranpo thought him 'lovely'. That was definitely info he was sorting away for later.

The ferris wheel lurches into motion, then stops again to let the next person board. Ranpo tries to subtly scoot closer to Osamu. "Is it always so slow?" he asks, trying to keep his voice unaffected, but failing.

"Maybe~ Think you can handle it?" Osamu teases even though what he wants is to pull Ranpo closer and calm him with soft words.

Ranpo scoffs. "Of course."

The ride proper starts after the next couple had boarded, and Ranpo quickly loses all nervousness. He tries to hide how enamored he is with seeing the whole city from so high up, but Osamu can still tell. He'd spent too long around Ranpo not to notice.

He excitedly points out the Port Mafia buildings, as if they don't take up the whole city skyline, and Osamu can't help but give him an encouraging smile. He finds the ADA's headquarters next, generally at least, and the a number of café and sweet shops.

The Cosmo Clock 21 comes to a stop at the top after five turns. Ranpo slides closer. "Is it broken?" he asks, his voice a little more vulnerable after having been so openly excited seconds before.

Osamu knows he should tease him and put some distance between the two of them, but he finds he can't. "Just waiting our turn to get off," Osamu says. It's always half fortunate, half unfortunate to be stuck at the top for disembarking. It's nice to have so long to look and see, but it's also a little unsettling.

He scoots himself closer to Ranpo using that excuse in his head, and peaks over the side. "If we really want to get off early, we could jump," Osamu says lightly, "You aim for the water, I aim for the cement."

Ranpo's hand suddenly brushes his own and Osamu looks up to meet Ranpo's eyes. They're closed, but his eyebrows are furrowed and Osamu wished he knew what it meant. It was always so infuriating when he couldn't tell what Ranpo was thinking, but it was also part of what made him so attractive to him. Everyone else could be so easy and predictable to read, but no Ranpo. Ranpo was an enigma.

He grasps Osamu's hand in his, tightly, and Osamu's heart skips a beat. His first reaction is to jerk out of the grasp for what it's doing to his vital signs, but he stops himself only barely. Who knew such a simple action was exactly what it took to ruin Osamu Dazai, former mafia executive?

"You still have to by me more candy," Ranpo said, and then he turned from the skyline with a huff. He tucks himself in the space between Osamu's waist and armpit, still wearing a petulant frown.

Osamu wills his heart to calm, then settled into this new position, definitely one not meant for "friends". The two of them stared out onto Yokohama's skyline, their breathing slowly becoming in sync. Osamu hadn't felt so content in his whole life. But he couldn't put it into words. Instead, he slowly let his head lower to rest on Ranpo's and sucked in a breath. "Hm... I suppose I do..."

#daran #ranzai #bungou stray dogs #writing #fan-fiction #fluff #valentine's day #unresolved emotional tension #this is way too long forgive me

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dreamss-of-boston · 5 years

Text

Rise - ch10

link on AO3!

wow thank u all so much for your kind comments and kudos!! they honestly mean the world to me, i'm so glad people out there actually read what i write and enjoy it! this chapter is pretty long, and there's some gruesome parts in here TW: regarding titans and blood and wounds. please proceed with caution if you are sensitive! i didn't mean for this fic to get so violent, so i will be updating my tags.

please enjoy!

[-]

It was the calm before the storm. The sky was the softest shade of blue, the sun still hidden behind the walls as it rose steadily but surely to warm the world. As Sonya lay in bed, her body was still, her mind devoid of any semblance of worry, or any semblance of emotion in general.

She knew she didn’t have to be up for at least another hour; she watched the blank space in front of her as specks of dust floated through the uninterrupted air. She didn’t know what time it was, exactly, but the only important thing she needed to know about today was that she would be venturing beyond the walls for the second time in her life. For some reason, that fact didn’t land completely in her consciousness. She knew what was coming, yet she felt nothing for it.

Sonya refused to picture her past experience. She refused to picture Anna, the titans and their glistening eyes staring up at her from the depths of the forest; no, right now, Sonya was staring at the tan jacket of her uniform, sitting draped over the chair pushed against her desk. The stitching on the left shoulder had to be redone after her first expedition. She wondered if she would have to get anything repaired this time.

She wondered if she would come back this time.

[-]

It was Hange’s idea to leave at sunset; with their limited knowledge of the titans, they had a working hypothesis that their activity was reduced at night, thus (allegedly) making them easier to subdue and capture. This expedition would help them test that hypothesis. If Hange was wrong, and the titans were just as active at night as they were in the day, Erwin had promised both the troops and Darius Zackley that he would terminate the mission immediately in order to ensure the highest survival rate.

Most of the day was spent preparing the horses and equipment; the soldiers all tried to act as casually as possible, all attempting to ignore the fact that their goal was to bring the devil right through the gates to their home. Hange, on the other hand, was buzzing with excitement the whole day as the entire scouting regiment prepared for the expedition.

“Make sure you’re careful with those nets!” She exclaimed as Sonya and Mabel were working together to haul the equipment onto the carts. “Those spikes are meant to really mess a titan up; think of what they’ll do to you!” Hange said with an almost gleeful smile. Sonya and Mabel exchanged a glance. They didn’t understand the captain, but she was quite intelligent and one of the most skilled soldiers on the force, so they didn’t really question her antics much.

Only about one-fifth of the scouting regiment was going on the expedition. Most of the soldiers were volunteers, but Erwin had to assign more soldiers in order to “round out the mission and increase their chances of success.”

But the fact that most of the soldiers assigned were rather talented or had proved themselves useful in otherwise compromising situations gave Sonya the impression that Erwin intended to come back with as many soldiers as possible. In a way, it was reassuring that she was assigned to this mission; it suggested that she was more capable than she thought.

Levi was treating her the same as before, if not colder. But Sonya didn’t try to vie for his attention anymore; she was embarrassed at herself for being so comfortable in front of him in just her underwear four nights earlier, but she didn’t regret kissing him in the slightest. Sonya didn’t regret it because it felt genuine; it felt right. After finding out that she was the wrong daughter, unwanted by the Romanovs, kissing Levi was like being hit by a cold gust of wind. It reminded her that she was still a pulsing, living being, despite whose blood coursed through her veins. Through the haze of her memory, she distinctly remembered kissing him, him kissing her back (fervently), and she remembered asking him if he was disgusted with her.

She remembered that he said no, that he said he had never been disgusted with her: the bastard whore from the Underground.

She also remembered being assigned stable duties on her own for the entire month. But, Sonya was very glad that she didn’t get latrine duties - Peter got to deal with that.

As the sun curved higher in the sky, becoming ever closer to sunset, Mabel and Sonya had decided to eat a late lunch of bread, cheese, and cold meats at the top of the wall. Sonya’s legs dangled over the edge, while Mabel sat cross-legged, sitting back on one hand contentedly. Sonya and Peter had been assigned to the expedition; Mabel and Ada had not.

“Don’t try and be a hero,” Mabel warned. “I’ll never forgive you if you die trying to protect someone like Peter.”

Sonya laughed. “Don’t worry; if a titan comes for Peter, I’ll look the other way.”

Mabel smiled, taking a bite of her makeshift sandwich. The two girls sat, basking in the glow of the sunlight while a slight breeze kept them cool. Sonya watched as a flock of birds soared easily over the walls, dipping and rising with the wind currents.

“Imagine if we invented a way to fly.” Sonya reclined to lay on her back, folding her hands over her stomach. “We could get so far away; we might even find another civilization of people behind other walls. Or, maybe on a giant mountain with a moat of spears around it to keep titans out--”

“You’re crazy.” Mabel said. “You never went to school, did you?”

“No.” Sonya said quietly.

“Well, it’s common knowledge that we’re the last of humanity. Everyone else was eaten by the titans; we’re all that’s left.” She said grimly. “Making contraptions to fly over the walls would be useless; everywhere is overtaken by titans, and it’s all the same wilderness, for miles and miles. Besides, we’re safe here. No titans have been able to break through the walls in a hundred years.”

Sonya didn’t say anything. In a way, Mabel was right; Sonya had never gotten the same schooling as her, and she hadn’t really realized until now just how different their worldviews were. For a moment, she couldn’t understand how Mabel could’ve joined the Scouts if she didn’t believe there was something out there. Sonya loved to entertain the many possibilities of there being life beyond the walls, but Mabel just couldn’t envision such a thing. She wondered for a moment if perhaps Anna would have understood her better.

“What’re you two lovely ladies doing up here?” Peter’s voice came from their left, and the two girls smiled as he joined them.

“We’re talking about boys,” Mabel said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Ooh,” Peter tore off a piece of bread for himself as he sat next to Sonya. “I have a crush on Max Petersen!” He batted his eyelashes as Mabel and Sonya laughed.

“Hey, Max is probably the prettiest person in the whole Scout regiment.” Mabel said.

It was true. Max had dark russet hair, golden smooth skin, and eyes as blue as the sky on a summer day. He was tall, unironically kind, and had the most charming smile and personality to match. It was almost infuriating, how he was both beautiful and a joy to be around.

“Max is a person I could see myself dying to protect.” Sonya decided.

“Max could step on my throat and I’d say, ‘thank-you.’” Mabel said, a little too seriously. The three soldiers burst out laughing, and for those few minutes on the top of the world, bathing in sunlight with a cool breeze, they could forget the prospect of death hanging over their heads.

[-]

Sonya ran her hand along Chuck’s strong neck, his soft fur calming her nerves just slightly. Long shadows of the walls were cast from the setting sun, dropping the temperature drastically; the corps were a sea of green, as everyone had opted to wear their cloaks. The time to begin the expedition had come, and Sonya and the rest of the soldiers were prepping their horses and equipment before the official departure. She bit her lip as she sighed, inadvertently glancing around to try and spot Levi’s black hair. Just as she turned, she caught his eye across the rows of other scouts and their horses; he seemed to have been looking for her, too. She lowered her head, silently pleading him to come over to her.

He started to turn away, though he kept his gaze on her. He must’ve let out a scoff, because she saw his resolve crumble as he made his way over to her, careful not to act like he wanted to be by her side.

“Did you buckle your saddle correctly this time, brat?” He said irritably, inspecting Chuck’s saddle.

Sonya felt a smile tug at her lips; she pressed her finger against them, unable to forget how she had kissed and held the man in front of her just days ago. She wanted so badly to embrace him now, to feel his heart thump against her own in order to drown out the world around them. Levi glanced at her, and studied her closely. His gaze fixated on the frizzy curls which poked out and framed her face.

Almost without realizing it, his expression softened as he reached out, wrapping a strand of curled hair around his index finger gingerly. She felt her heart leap in her chest at the contact. His lips slightly parted as he gazed at the brown lock, but just as quickly as his hand was there, it was gone, and he had glanced away from Sonya to look at Chuck.

She was so irritated at his actions. Why did he just do that? Was he thinking of the same experience they had shared, as she was? Sonya reached out and grabbed his hand under his cloak, forcing him to look at her. She needed physical contact with him, to feel the validity of warmth in his hand; she needed to know if he still felt anything for her. He was forced to look back at her, irritation quite evident on his face, but when he saw the silent plea within Sonya’s expression, his demeanor changed.

Levi’s expression softened into that familiar look he had when it was just the two of them, no subordinates or officers around for him to keep up his hardened reputation for. He stepped closer to her, entwining his fingers with hers, their scouting cloaks hiding their affection from the rest of the world. Sonya wished she could kiss his stupid face so that she could pull him out of hiding; she knew he had compassion in him somewhere. It was astounding how much affection she held for him; she couldn’t deny how much joy it gave her whenever he looked at her as if they shared some secret, like two outlaws getting away with a crime. What they were sharing now was a welcome change from his cold attitude thus far; it gave her hope, and encouraged her to feel more for him if they could share more moments like this.

He ran his thumb over her knuckles, and she squeezed back. She understood that they couldn’t exactly be public; she wasn’t even sure if he shared the same feelings as her. In fact, gazing into those cold, gray irises, Sonya started to suspect that, as far as Levi was concerned, she was just a pretty subordinate he could mess around with in order to get out a little tension. She felt a string pull on her heart at the thought of that; and in just a moment, he was gone from her side, and her hand was cold once again.

When he turned and left, his expression was back to the same old, bored and irritated Captain Levi. Sonya’s hand dropped limply to her side. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she was right. Why else would he ignore her for days-- weeks on end, only to suddenly kiss and touch her when she was drunk and half-naked?

She crossed her arms, biting back tears. What a wonderful thing to realize just before heading on the most dangerous expedition she’d ever been on.

“Sonya, what’re you doing? We’re all getting ready to go to the gate.” Peter got on his horse, completely unaware of the whirling mess of thoughts inside Sonya’s brain. She took a deep breath. This wasn’t the first time she had been deemed invaluable according to a man.

As Sonya mounted Chuck, she took hold of the reigns with a forced calm. Very well. For the moment, Sonya accepted her role as a simply physical outlet for the man she had come to care for. Perhaps she could sway herself to see him the same way, and avoid getting hurt even further. Her gaze drifted ahead of her, where Levi was waiting with Oulo, Eld, and Gunther. She refused to think of how poised he looked; she refused to think of how good it felt to tangle her hands in that black hair, to trail her finger down his neck and along his collarbone.

With a huff, Sonya steadied Chuck, who was growing impatient at standing and waiting for so long. She refused to let her personal situation get in the way of this expedition; it was far too important. So, as hard as it was, Sonya shoved all of her overly-analytical thoughts to the back of her brain, and focused on everything presently in front of her.

The sun was dipping lower in the sky; the gate was opened, Erwin gave the command, and the expedition began.

[-]

“Why'd this stupid mission have to be at night…?” Peter grumbled as he clumsily ascended a tree near Sonya, who was already perching on a large branch. The moon was full, so the Scouts were able to see relatively well without the help from the torches. Still, the fact that the mission was at night did give them a disadvantage at spotting titans early, and so they had proceeded with the utmost caution up to their current point.

They were in a large clearing deep within the forest; the moon was just above the tree line and so it was able to shine down on them to give the scouts enough light to pounce on a weary titan. While Sonya set up the torches on the branch she was currently on, she was caught by surprise when Peter swooped over to help her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping set up equipment?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, but I figured I could-- uh, help you out first.” Peter said, sheepishly lighting a torch.

Sonya didn’t say anything, she just cast him a look. “... Okay, well, put it on the next tree over, ‘cause this one already has enough light.”

“Right. Okay.” Peter flashed her a thumbs up, but stalled in his leaving. “Um--”

“Wagner.” Levi’s call came from two trees over. He was standing, apparently speaking with Oulo, when he noticed Sonya’s and Peter’s interaction. He was glaring something fierce at Peter; it even sent a chill down Sonya’s spine. “Do as you’re assigned; she doesn’t need your help.”

Peter gulped. Sonya shared a glance with Levi, who was clearly irritated at Peter for wasting her time. When Levi turned back to continue his conversation with Oulo, she looked back over to Peter, who handed her the torch back, descending quickly to go do his actual job.

It didn’t take long for everything to be set up. The soldiers all mostly worked in silence, the soft light of the moon casting a peaceful quiet over the anxious humans puttering about in the forest. There was hardly any wind, so Sonya’s torches were burning brightly, illuminating the clearing fantastically.

And so they waited. Erwin and Hanji were so tense, Sonya thought they might burst at any moment. Levi was still calm-- on the outside, at least. She couldn’t help but admire how poised he was, standing in wait on the branch just adjacent to her, his blades drawn and at the ready.

The waiting seemed to go on forever. Sonya couldn’t help but pace in her small area, unsure if she should unsheath her blades, as well.

“Perhaps we should go out and lure one in--?” Hanji began, but stopped short when the chillingly familiar sound of footsteps startled everyone into a tense silence.

Now, Sonya unsheathed her blades. The thumping continued, getting closer, louder with each step. Her heart was hammering in her chest-- everything that moved within her line of vision was of utmost importance. She strained her ears to try and hear if any other footsteps were accompanying the approaching titan. As far as she could tell, the beast was alone.

Erwin glanced over to Mike Zacharias, who was standing tensely on the branch adjacent to him. He sniffed the air, and raised his index finger-- he could only smell one.

Sonya relaxed a little at that; she could handle one, especially with all of these soldiers-- mostly veterans-- on her side.

The thundering footsteps finally gave way to the view of a towering, nine-meter tall titan. The dead eyes were the same; glassy, unblinking, hungry. Sonya forced herself to take a deep breath as the titan’s gaze landed on her. Could it see her terror?

Could it smell her?

It must have been an Abnormal-- all at once, it actually leapt from the ground and towards Sonya. Even as high up in her perch as she was, the titan was coming for her fast. It didn’t even need to climb the tree to get to eating-level, and soon, she was face-to-face with the monster.

She couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, or see anything aside from the wide expanse of flesh in front of her. Fear had pinned her to the spot. The rank, heavy breathing from the titan extinguished her torch, it swept through her hair, clung to her clothes.

The titan leaned forward, mouth opening slowly to reveal hideously human teeth, rotting breath as hot as a fire-- the same vision Anna must have seen before…

“Sonya!”

One voice cut through the din of silence-- Levi.

With a gasp, Sonya snapped into that familiar numbness of defense. She suddenly had complete control, and in one fluid motion, she pushed backwards, falling off of her branch and away from the titan into the dark forest behind her.

She couldn’t see anything; the potent smell of the titan was distant as she plummeted down and away from the clearing. Sonya shot her grappling hook blindly, hoping it would hit something and stay.

Snap!

Her hook found a home in the dense bark of some evergreen she couldn’t see. Her line went taut all at once, snapping her forcefully from her falling descent to the forest floor. She let out a grunt at the impact-- she suspected she would have a couple new bruises tomorrow. If she made it.

In the distance, she could hear the commotion of the Scouts grappling with the titan, probably finding some trouble with securing it to the platform it was intended to be carried out on. She could see the light of the clearing through the trees, but she had fallen so far, she suspected the floor was not far beneath her. With a few grunts of effort, Sonya swung herself enough to get some momentum to propel her forward. In a brief moment, she laughed to herself at the memory of the disastrous lesson with Levi in which he forced her and her friends to use their gear without their gas.

The thought of her friends was what pushed her forward-- the thought of Levi.

As she began to make her way back to the clearing, she felt a hot, giant hand wrap itself around her leg and yank her down all at once. She yelped in fear, and strained on the triggers of her equipment to stay secured in whatever tree they were stuck in.

Sonya glanced down to see a six-meter-titan staring up at her, hand wrapped securely around her calf. She almost retched when she saw drool spill from its mouth, dribbling down its chin.

She could have sworn she saw a glimmer of amusement when it yanked on her again, harder this time, causing her to strain even more. She was being pulled in two directions-- being held up by her ODM gear, and being pulled down by this hungry monster.

There was nothing she could do.

Well-- one thing.

Sonya held her breath. With all her might, she pulled herself up with the intention of leaping out of the titan’s grasp. She didn’t come free, of course-- but it gave her enough leverage that, when she released the triggers of her gear, she came plummeting down to the titan-- fast.

In one swift motion, she sliced underneath her, severing the titan’s hand from its arm mid-way at the wrist, and she quickly attached herself to a tree, pressing on the gas to propel her upwards at as fast a pace as possible.

She didn’t think as she careened towards the clearing, back to her friends, her comrades. All she could feel was her clammy hands gripping her swords, now steaming from evaporated blood, and her heart pounding in her ears.

The tree she essentially crashed into was home to Levi and Oulo-- she was on the branch beneath them, and the sound of splintering wood accompanied with her yelps of pain made her presence known.

She noticed for a fleeting moment that the titan that had first come after her was successfully restrained, pinned to the platform underneath a net of spikes which Hange had so lovingly made. It wasn’t until she caught her breath, when she looked down at her leg, that she noticed the steaming hand of the titan still gripping her fiercely.

Sonya screamed-- she frantically tried to pry the flesh off, but it was too hot to touch. She couldn’t feel the pain in her leg just then; all she could think of was the hand being there, chaining her, burning her.

“Sonya!” Once again, Levi’s voice was the only thing to reach her. He had descended to her branch, clawed his way over to her.

“Get it off-- it won’t come off!” She shrieked, reaching out for him-- for any of him.

He came to her side, he let her cling to his arm, let her fingernails dig into his skin through the fabric of his uniform. Levi was calm as he looked her over, as he looked at the rotting flesh clinging to her leg.

“It’ll burn her leg too severely--” Mike began.

“I know.” Levi cut him off, unsheathing a sword. His jaw was set-- he refused to look at Sonya’s face, now red and streaked in tears. Levi pried himself from Sonya’s grip, who was now beginning to feel the intense pain of the burning hand, and made his way to her foot. “Hold it down.” He told Mike.

Mike did as Levi said-- Sonya couldn’t comprehend what was to come.

In one clean, precise slice, Levi severed the hand from her leg by cutting at the finger joints. The one thing he didn’t want to happen did, though. He had cut through the titan’s hand, through the durable leather of Sonya’s boots, to leave a long, shallow cut on the front of her calf.

Sonya couldn’t register that specific pain yet-- she was still processing the burn. She gasped at the blossom of red pooling in the cut. She was sure it would spill over the lip of her sliced boot, like a cup of tea that was too full.

Sonya glanced up to Levi, who looked positively horrified at what he’d done. She reached out to him, because it was the only thing she wanted to do, and he reached out to her, pulling her to his chest tightly, desperately.

The pain hit her all at once-- she felt a surge of white heat pulse through her body, and then her vision blurred to darkness.

#attack on titan fanfiction #shingeki no kyoujin fanfiction #aot fanfiction #snk fanfiction #levi x original character #levi x oc #levi ackerman #levi fanfiction #levi ackerman fanfiction

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sevi007 · 5 years

Text

Waiting for the Sun - Chapter 1

Rating: Teen and Up Audience should easily cover all bases here

Summary: The thing was - Dante didn’t celebrate things like Christmas. The last time he had celebrated any holiday was… well, frankly, he didn’t really want to remember the last time, too much was tied to it that didn’t feel good to remember.

Now, if only he had remembered to tell all his friends that he didn’t wish to celebrate. Then they probably wouldn’t have brought him to the point where he actually had to think about things.

Chapter: 1 out of 2

Warning: Some musings and introspection in the first chapter, heart- and teeth-melting fluff in the second chapter. Oh, two child OCs snuck in here, too, I do love me some fluffy moments with kids.

Read it on AO3 (also for some added Trivia at the end, for fun!)

____________________________________________________________

Dante did enjoy a free day every now and then.

That might have been surprising to some people – even those who knew him – but Dante did, actually, honestly, enjoy a free day. Especially after too many tedious missions at once. Or a whole save-the-world-gig. He found that after those, even he had enough of kicking-demon-butts for a while.

(And of holes in his clothes. Or his body. Honestly, just, holes in general.)

So when there actually was someone ringing the bell at his door the one day he had decided to take off, he was all kinds of things, but pleased was not one of them.

He shifted the magazine laying upturned over his face just enough to send a one-eyed, offended look towards the door. Nope, no way in hell was he going to open it. If he just let them try without success, hopefully, they would scram soon enough. Having just unplugged his phone, there wasn’t even a way they could ring through.

He waited another beat, but the doorbell didn’t sound again. Satisfied, Dante shifted just enough to get his propped-up feet in a more comfortable position, before closing his eyes again. Finally, some peace and quiet.

Then there was a sort of thumping sound coming from the door. He did let himself be goaded by it to glance over again. That was never knocking or ringing or anything else he was familiar with.

He did, however, recognize the hoarsely grumbled swear that followed, no matter how muffled it was through the door.

Oh. Alright, then.

With a snort, Dante pushed himself upright, shaking off the magazine and dropping it back onto the desk without so much as looking.

“Did you lose your key or… huh.” he stopped mid-sentence once he got the door open, taking in the unusual sight that presented itself.

Not that Morrison was an unusual sight, no really, the opposite. But Morrison, carrying two boxes that looked heavy plus balancing an assortment of metal and plastic pieces on top of it, now that was something he didn’t see often. Never, to be exact.

“Oh, good,” Morrison greeted him, angling around from where he had apparently had tried to find his key and open the door without putting anything down. “Take the stuff on top for a second, will you? Else I drop everything on your doorstep.”

Without much thinking, Dante obliged, helping the other out – and was left standing there with his arms full as Morrison brushed past him into the room with a muttered thanks and a relieved sigh.

Dumbfounded, Dante blinked down at the assortment of things in his arms, recognizing it to be kitchenware, of all things.

“What the heck do you need so many bowls for?”

“You are going to need them,” Morrison informed him – rather unhelpfully, Dante found. Having shook of coat, hat and wet boots, the older man shrugged his shoulders, gesturing, until Dante put the bowls back on top of the boxes the other was still carrying.

With a grunt, Morrison fumbled for a moment before he found his balance again, making his way towards the kitchen. “Don’t mind me, I know where to put this.”

“What do I need them for?” Dante followed after Morrison, not knowing what else to do. But the other had the gall to simply snort and shoo him away before vanishing into the kitchen, leaving him standing rather dumbly in the middle of his own shop, without any clue what was going on.

Really now, this got to be some sort of joke on his expense.

Grumbling, Dante only now noticed the source of the cold air suddenly finding its way into the shop. “Oi, don’t just leave other people’s doors open!”

“Ain’t gonna close the door in front of Patty’s nose!”

And as if on commando, a blur of blonde hair and pink cheeks came basically flying through the door. Only practice and inhuman reflexes made Dante catch her before she ran him over.

“Hey!” Patty greeted him where she had basically tackled him, laughing into his grumpy face. “You were taking a nap, weren’t you? You’re so cranky when you get woken up from your naps.”

“Patty. What did I tell you about jumping at me?”

“Oh, puh-lease, as if you’re not gonna catch me”, she rolled her eyes at him – that was very familiar – and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before dancing out of his reach – that was absolutely not familiar.

When exactly had she grown so tall that she could do that without having to be lifted up?

The door slammed with a well-aimed kick, before Patty asked all too innocently, “Morrison is here already?”

Drawn from his musings about kids and growing up too quickly, Dante gestured over his shoulder towards the kitchen, grunting an affirmative out.

“Neat!” Innocence gone in a blink, Patty’s face was all mischievous joy while she started unwrapping her scarf, throwing it haphazardly over the nearest chair before starting on her jacket. “Means I don’t have to worry about the kitchen.”

“Why are you guys worrying about my kitchen all of sudden?” Dante couldn’t help but snort at the thought. He didn’t even use that kitchen all too often. That’s what food delivery had been invented for.

“It’s not only the kitchen, believe me,” the long-suffering look she gave him made him grin. Some things never changed. “Anyway, do you have any decorations or stuff?”

That wiped the grin straight of his face again. “Any what?”

“Decorations,” Patty repeated, slow and accentuated, then groaned when she caught sight of his blank expression, waving it off impatiently. “Never mind, you’re a lost cause. I’m going to look upstairs if I find something.”

“Why do you even need… Patty.”

But she was already gone, bounding up the stairs taking two steps at once. Halfway up, she stopped to lean over the railing and called out, “Morrison, if I don’t find any decorations, can you tell the others?”

“Got’cha, Patty.”

“You’re the best, thanks!”

“Wait,” having a bad feeling about this, Dante frowned, calling after Patty’s retreating back. “Who do you mean with others, Patty?!”

“It’s gonna get a bit crowded,” was all she answered before he heard doors slam, falling victims to the human-shaped whirlwind.

Crowded?!

Dante was just about to ask again when a soft knock reached his sharp ears, almost timid in its nature.

Even vary as he was, he couldn’t help the smile ticking the corner of his lips upwards. There was only one of his many associates who even had the patience to knock at his door.

Two quick strides and he was across the room, opening the door – again - with a mock-bow to top things off. “Ma’am?”

“Hello, Dante.” Kyrie laughed at him, always amused by his antics (and absolutely not the reason why he got even sillier with her around, if anyone asked). There was a beanie pulled over her red locks and a scarf wrapped nearly up to the tip of her nose, but her cheeks were still kissed pink by the cold. She didn’t seem to mind, near glowing with joy as always.

She didn’t hesitate to duck over the doorstep and stand on her tiptoes to give him a hug. Dante let her, wrapping one arm around her waist to squeeze back quickly, warmly, before allowing her step away. “Hey there, kiddo. How you doing?”

“Wonderful, to be honest,” there was mischief twinkling in her eyes as she looked him up and down before casting a quick glance around the shop. “A bit sorry for ambushing you like this, perhaps?”

Dante had been about to give back a quip or something of the sorts, but her comment made suspicion rise. “Kyrie, you wouldn’t happen to know why everybody is frequenting my shop today, would you.”

The way she smiled while biting her bottom lip was telling all on its own. “Maybe?”

That was it. Dante threw up his hands, turning towards the kitchen to make sure that all of his (uninvited) guests could hear him as he called, “Seriously, guys, did I miss a birthday or something?!”

“Told you he missed it!” Morrison’s grumble was even audible over the clacking of him unpacking whatever he had had in those boxes.

Quick steps could be heard from above, before Patty all but threw herself over the railing of the stairs, eyes wide. “Dante! Do you ever check your calendar?!”

“Which calendar?” He retorted, stubbornly, because this was absolutely not his fault this time. Even though he was already wracking his brain to find out what he could have missed there.

“I gifted you one, you big dummy!”

“Was that the thing you threw at my head when-…”

“It’s Christmas Eve, old man.”

The deep voice cut easily through the beginning of a full-blown argument – as did his and Patty’s conversation turn so often into – and Dante blinked, perplexed, before his head turned around slowly to the newcomer.

Nero ambled through the open door, one arm loaded with shopping bags, amusement and surprise warring on his face. “You really didn’t know?”

Still perplexed, Dante found it unusually difficult to string a sentence together. The comment that was meant to be funny sounded more like a question even to his own ears. “Could have sworn we had Christmas Eve last year?”

Nero’s eyebrow rose higher up, amusement making way for something else, and Dante caught him exchanging a quick glance with Kyrie, who looked more worried than anything else by now.

Oh, but damn the kid, he shouldn’t know him so well by now. Shouldn’t have been able to tell when he had been caught wrong-footed, or was actually shaken about something.

(When had those people become so attuned to him, that they could pinpoint his moods when he wasn’t sure what to feel, himself?)

A tiny weight cannonballed into Dante’s legs right that moment, saving him from whatever question that was about to come. Blinking down, he recognized a wild mop of tousled, long brown hair, before a face with big green eyes blinked up, a smile as bright as the sun directed at him. “Uncle Dante!”

Even feeling blindsided as he still was, Dante grinned brightly back, swooping down to lift the little girl up onto his hip. “Well, well, what’s that, princess - did you grow again? You stop that, you hear?”

Elisa giggled, flushing happily, and contented herself with tugging shyly at strands of the silvery hair that had always fascinated her so much.

“Nero, where should we put this stuff?” Angelo pushed past Nero into the shop, indicating to yet another, much smaller and lighter, shopping bag that he was carrying. “Uh, hey, Uncle Dante.”

“Dante?” Nero’s question was uncharacteristically soft, and Dante knew that this wasn’t going to be a question about where to put groceries, not really.

He opted to pretend it was, though, jamming the thumb of his free hand over his shoulder. “Back there. Just ask Morrison where to put… whatever you have there.”

Another quick exchange of glances between Nero and Kyrie – he would have to tell them to stop doing that – before Nero laid his free hand on Angelo’s back, gently steering him forward. “Com’ on.”

“Hey, Elisa, you want to help me look for something to decorate with?” Patty asked right this instant, clearly having the same thought as Nero.

Immediately, the little girl beamed, letting go of Dante’s hair to squirm in his grip instead. He barely had put her back onto her feet before she raced off, following Patty upstairs.

Behind him, the kitchen door closed, cutting off the sounds of Morrison greeting Angelo and Nero.

It left Dante in the main room, alone with Kyrie.

Kyrie, who, Dante reflected with wry amusement, was most likely the only one in this colorful bunch who really knew how to talk about things. Smart move of them. Unluckily for her, though, he didn’t share that ability.

He turned his back towards her as he walked back over to his desk, absentmindedly and without much plan starting to push the things on top of it from one side to the other as if to bring some order into the mess.

There was silence, only interrupted by the rustling of clothes being taken off as Kyrie turned to hang up her winter gear.

Somehow, it was worse that she didn’t start talking immediately, and Dante reverted back to joking. “Well, you guys sure know how to surprise someone.

The rustling slowed, than stopping completely. When she next spoke, Kyrie’s voice was soft, nearly apologetic. “We really thought you knew what today was.”

“Yeah, you just heard it,” he gestured over his head towards the upper floors, crooked smile on his face that wouldn’t quite stay how he wanted it to. “I’m not the best when it comes to remembering dates.”

A half-truth would have to work, he supposed, because he didn’t feel like outright lying to her, sweet girl that she was.

(Fact was – he remembered all of the important dates, didn’t need something like a calendar or notes, not usually. He simply preferred to ignore anything that wasn’t the birthday of a friend.)

“I’m still sorry.” Kyrie wasn’t so easily distracted, because of course she wasn’t. She didn’t try to get him to turn him around, but continued talking, “I know none of you ever mentioned celebrating the holidays, but when the children started asking where we should celebrate, all of us, I mean, we started asking around…”

Dante slowed, having reached the photo frame he had been working around so diligently. Gingerly, he touched the frame before focusing on the opposite end of the desk, all while listening with one ear to the young woman behind him.

“We asked Lady and Trish about it. They said you all never really celebrated… well, anything, if we don’t count drinking for birthdays,” there was a chuckle, badly hidden, behind those words, and Dante felt his lips twitch against his will. “But they also said there seemed nothing against it, so we kind of…”

“Thought it would alright to drop by?”

“Yes.

Dante had finished with the desk top, magazines and guns shoved into the topmost drawer (keeping them away from the children had been the first thing they all had had to learn), a hint of order in his usual messy home.

There was nothing to distract himself with anymore, so his hand traveled back to the photo’s frame almost unbidden, turning it around.

Eva smiled back at him as always, a silent joy on her features that he both missed and sometimes could barely stand to see.

(He remembered every important date.

The red shawl she presented here had been a joined Christmas gift from all of them.)

Putting the photo back was a gentle affair, even if part of him wanted to slam it down – he could never bring himself to do it. “I didn’t actually think of celebrating today.”

“I’m sorry, Dante.”

“It’s fine, just next-…”

“No, it’s not.”

How she managed to sound so firm without being forceful, he would never know, but he closed his mouth obediently nonetheless, for once struck speechless.

When he turned, she stood right in front of him, head held high and jaw set, and he couldn’t help but think that just perhaps, it was exactly this gentle firmness that made her able to stand their combined daily craziness.

Seeing his perplexed expression, her own features softened, and Kyrie looked almost sad as she shook her head, despite the tiny smile on her face. “It’s not fine. We should have asked first, before just showing up on your doorstep and pushing this onto you.”

Blowing out a puff of air, he couldn’t help but agree. “Some warning wouldn’t have been too bad. ‘M not too big on surprises.”

At that, she nodded, in understanding or agreement, he wasn’t sure.

And despite that, her next question still surprised him yet again.

“Should we leave?”

For a moment, the answer seemed easy, right there on the tip of his tongue – yes, please, leave, because he had never planned to celebrate any of this.

But then it slipped right through his grasp, and Dante couldn’t help but think of the way everyone had seemed so damned chipper about this, showing up laden with goods they would need, grinning and smirking and laughing at his perplexed reaction. The excitement radiating from them. The beaming smile little Elisa had given him upon seeing him. The ease with which they moved around him, as if they were comfortable here.

Hadn’t he enjoyed that, once?

Finally, he settled on a rather lame, “You’re already here.”

“And we can leave again,” Kyrie pointed out immediately. “We will just think of a reason to tell the kids – and the others wouldn’t even need to hear a reason, I bet. They would understand.”

For a moment, she looked like as if she wanted to reach for him, perhaps hug him in comfort. He was kind of glad she didn’t, right then. “Dante, it’s your shop, your decision. Say the word, and we leave.”

He opened his mouth to answer-

The door to the shop flew open anew, the sounds of heavy boots on wooden floors resounding.

“Yo, can any of you sweethearts probably help me out with getting that tree you ordered off my car, ‘cause…”

Nico trailed off as she saw Dante and Kyrie looking at her, both a little aghast. The mechanic blinked, frozen mid-motion, before it clicked. “Oh. I interrupted something, didn’t I?”

“Well…”

“Nico! Did you bring the tree?!” The kitchen door banged open and Angelo bounded out, eyes glittering with excitement.

Nero followed after him, apparently ready to pull the boy back to stop him from interrupting – only to realize that had already happened. Sighing, the youngest half-devil stopped in his tracks, scratching his cheek. “Oh, great timing.”

“Erm, should I come back, like, later?” Nico offered, even while she crouched down to greet the excited boy. “Yeah, bud, I brought the tree. Biggest one I could find.”

“Guys…” Kyrie began, lifting her hands to stop the tumult, her eyes darting quickly over to Dante and away again.

“Great! Nero, can we go get the tree and set it up? Please?”

“Angelo, we…”

“Auntie Nico!” An excited squeal was all the warning they got before Elisa came flying down the stairs and straight into a spluttering Nico’s arms.

“Okay, my favorite mini-people are all here, but perhaps we should…”

“Sorry guys, I swear I tried to hold her back,” Patty called from above, appearing on the stairs with an apologetic grimace.

“It’s fine, it’s all cool...”

“Elisa, Nico brought the tree!”

“Really?!”

“Um, guys?”

And everybody started to talk over each other once again.

It was entirely too loud to think in here, and Dante couldn’t very well tell all of them to leave so that he could have some much needed quiet – not when he wasn’t sure yet if he still wanted them here.

So he chose the next best thing, crossing the room to pick his coat from the racket – a racket that was suddenly very crowded with scarfs and jackets, much more than usually – shrugging it on. “I’m gonna go for a walk. Be right back.”

“Dante…”

He wasn’t sure who had called for him, but he shot an overly-bright grin over his shoulder, anyway. “No running away, you hear?”

(Asking it, jokingly, even when he was the one doing just that. There was some irony in there, for sure.)

He didn’t wait for an answer and brushed past Nico – giving her pat on the shoulder half in greeting, half in goodbye – before ducking out the still open door.

Walking fast enough that, hopefully, nobody would even think about following him right now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ D ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be right back, as it turned out, had been a bit too hopeful on his part. Much too hopeful, to be exact.

By the end of his rounds around town, dodging into side streets and alleys to get away from the few streets that were crowded with passersby doing their last shopping before the shops closed for the holidays, Dante wasn’t sure how long he had been out. Only that it had been much longer than he had planned for (not that he had really planned much, at all), that streets were near deserted now since people had other places to be, and that it looked like it was going to rain soon.

And wouldn’t that just be the icing on the cake. A big fuck you from the heavens itself, now that was what he needed right now.

Not to mention that he still hadn’t come to a decision, Dante mused, sourly, watching yet another shop’s lights go out when the owner left and locked the door behind them.

No matter how many times he turned it over and over in his head, he couldn’t figure out what he wanted to do.

Indecisive.

Not a feeling he was entirely familiar with, being an impulsive guy most of the time, and it was starting to seriously piss him off.

He continued on his way, aimlessly walking just to keep moving. By now, even he was starting to feel the cold, the shirt and open coat only doing so much to help his warmer nature out against the winter’s bite.

It shouldn’t be that hard, right, he pondered. He preferred a holiday-free life and his quiet shop, it would be easy to turn around and go back to his friends, thank them for the idea, but they would just have to find a different place to celebrate. Without him.

Then again, what exactly was there to say against some nice food, freely offered, in a warm home, with people around that he actually liked? Most people would have called him crazy for walking out on that, he supposed, for even thinking about ditching that.

But most people knew how to celebrate. Especially celebrate Christmas, something meant to be spent with family and loved ones.

When did he last have that?

Well, he did remember the last Christmas he had celebrated… He could feel it like a warm blanket wrapped around him, taste it on the tip of his tongue, hear it as if spoken right into his ear, every time he so much let his mind wander towards it.

The entire house had smelled of cinnamon, sugar and chocolate, nearly proving too much for their sharp senses. Vergil had wrinkled his nose over it sometimes, after the first few days, but Dante hadn’t been able to get enough of it, soaking in deep lungful’s of air until he got dizzy.

Mum had shooed them out of the living room, insisting that it was necessary to keep them from peeking both at the tree and the presents – especially the presents. Dante had been torn between going outside and play and staying in and probably get bored. It had been Vergil who pointed out that any sneak-peeks at presents and tree were more likely to happen when they stayed inside – the proposal, of course, not made because his twin wasn’t exactly looking forward to getting pelted with snowballs by Dante again.

Imagine their surprise when instead of managing to get a peek at what was supposed to be a surprise, they were the first ones to get to see their father come in through the doors of their home, boots still crusted with snow and looking tired yet happy, gesturing at them to keep quiet before making his way to the living room without much sound.

Dante had liked that year’s Christmas the most of all for the loud, delighted laughter Mum gave when her husband had surprised her by making it home on time.

Then the memory turned, sharp and sudden and wholly unwanted.

Burning wood and ashes instead of cinnamon, the iron stench of fresh blood instead of sugar and chocolate. There was no laughter that night, only screams and cries, no twin at his side, only loneliness, no father who made it home on time but instead the ever-looping thought of “Where are you, why are you not here, help us-“

And he would never see Mum laugh again…

Enough!

Dante shook his head resolutely, gnashing his teeth until the painful twinge in his jaw chased away the last remnants of that particular dream-turned-nightmare.

He stood, breathing deliberately slow in and out to get control over himself again. Just beneath his skin, heat crawled, crackled, ready to react to his inner turmoil and break free. But it wasn’t needed right now, since the only thing he would need defending from was his own mind. The energy wouldn’t find an outlet – there was nothing to go against, no demons to distract him, no foes to rip apart, no opponent to rile up with sharp quips.

There was just the empty park he had mindlessly strolled into around him, and the dark of the night falling slowly.

And a rumbling voice cutting through silence and thoughts alike.

“If you plan to be a brooding asshole for longer, then do it someplace else.”

Dante jolted, one hand flying instinctively to Rebellion’s hilt while the other dropped to his trusted guns, all while he turned in one smooth motion.

Both hands came up empty.

He actually hadn’t thought of taking his weapons with him, first safe at home where he didn’t need weapons, then, after, too deep in thought to remember grabbing them on the way out.

Great. Beginner’s mistake.

His oversight had led to a brief pause that, in any real fight, would have meant him either getting gobbled down or impaled for the thousandth time.

This time, it didn’t happen (thankfully; he did like this shirt) and Dante breathed out slowly, measuredly, taking the time to really look who had managed to sneak up on him like that.

The stranger who had addressed him sat on the bench nearest to him as leisurely as he pleased - legs splayed out, one broad arm stretched out over the backrest, jute bag that seemed ready to rip at the seams dropped next to him onto the bench. The cigar dangling from the fingers of his other hand seemed strangely misplaced with the way he was dressed in a Santa Claus-costume (neatly done, right down to a fake beard that seemed much too fluffy to be put on such a chiseled face) as were the broad goldrings glinting on each finger, or the tattoos swirling over his dark skin. For some odd reason, he was still wearing sunglasses despite the sun having vanished behind clouds long ago.

Well, whatever Dante had expected – it certainly wasn’t Santa Claus, that was for sure. Even if it was probably the oddest Santa he had ever encountered.

But odd or not, nothing about the guy seemed anything unnatural – his senses didn’t pick up anything other than human. Just another guy without a place to celebrate this day, then.

Having noticed Dante’s gaze, the stranger waved his hand around, cigar-tip glinting in the dim light. Indicating towards the empty park, most likely. “Was here first, after all. Only brooding allowed here is mine own.”

Something about the way the man said it, an unfamiliar drawl and lilt to his every word, made Dante scoff much more angrily than he had intended to, near defensive. “Geez, sorry about that, Father Christmas. I will be out of your hair in a second.”

He continued on – ignoring the heat under his skin once again, wrong place and time – fully intending to just chuck this up to some random guy running his mouth. Not his problem, right.

“Just in case ain’t anybody told ya yet, kiddo”, the voice called out behind him again, something daunting and scathing in it that made Dante’s hackle rise immediately, “Heard today’s one of the evenings that’s perfect to sit in a nice warm home with some nice warm food, getting hammered with friends. Ya really wanna miss out on that one?”

Dante stopped sharply, turning back around as slowly as he could manage. “Says the guy who is sitting out in the cold all alone.”

There was still anger pulsing in his veins like fire, the urge to fight-rip-tear until the adrenaline born of indecision and picking at old wounds would ran out, and this stranger was, for some reason he didn’t quite understand, really pushing his every button right there.

If the guy noticed that he was being glared daggers at, he didn’t show it. A shrug of those broad shoulders, then a flash of snow-white teeth. “I got everythin’ I need here.”

As if for proof, he let the cigar roll between his fingers, letting it tilt dangerously, but never fall. “Can ya say the same, kiddo?”

Dante opened his mouth to retort -

“Should we leave?”

- and closed it, slowly. Suddenly feeling more tired than angry.

A thoughtful hum turned into rumbling chuckles, accompanied by puffs of smoke. “Thought so. Look, kid, I got my own shit to worry about ‘ere-…”

Not tired enough for this, though. Dante rolled his eyes at the other. “Then how about you go take care of that, Santa?”

“… but all I see ‘ere is a fucking idiot running in circles like a headless chicken,” the other continued. “And that’s fucking distracting me from my nice cigar ‘ere, so I would say you scamper home an’ make yerself a nice quiet evening like we all should be allowed to sometimes. Ya know, instead of breathing away my air.”

And Dante, who had been right ready to either blow up at the guy or just turn around and keep walking until he stumbled over a conveniently placed demon’s nest that he could use to let off some steam… just fell silent.

Because even though he hadn’t mean to pay full attention to the other’s speech (he still couldn’t stand people who talked more than himself), some tiny detail had actually caught his attention, making his ever-circling thoughts fall into place.

This feeling of being haunted, of not knowing which path to follow… it wasn’t simply about wanting to be alone, or to be surrounded by friends this evening.

He wasn’t sure if he should be allowed to have this.

What he once had called family, the people he had celebrated every Christmas including the last with, were gone. They weren’t here anymore to celebrate anything.

So why was he? Why should he be allowed to have this, when they didn’t?

Do I deserve this?

With a mutter that sounded like “Oh fuck’s sake”, the stranger rapped his knuckles against the wooden bench, hard, the clacking of rings against wood making Dante blink and look up sharply. “Bullshit, kid. Ya wanna know something about deserving? Well, then lemme tell you - the thing about deserving is that it ain’t on us to decide what we deserve for ourselves.”

With a gesture that seemed to encompass everything around them, the man continued, “Sure, ya can go right ahead and imagine what you think you deserve, but in the end? It’s some other jackass who dishes out for you, be it punishment, or reward. Only thing ya can do is fight against it… or take it.”

The hand still waving the cigar around stopped, suddenly pointing at Dante as if to impale him with a single finger. “You sure know how to whine about all the bad stuff – but say life actually gives ya somethin’ good for once –then what, you gonna be a dick about it and walk away from it? Walk out into the cold to rather chat it up with a random guy out on the street?! Who knows when that chance you ditched is gonna come again!

Nah, don’t know about you, kiddo,” the man huffed, scratching his bald head so that he almost knocked the hat off, “but if it were, for once, a reward being dished out to me, Hell fucking knows I wouldn’t be running from it.”

A cold gust of wind cut through the park, bringing the scent of snow with it. The cigar’s light flickered and then went out, all the swishing around and cold air too much for it.

The other cursed under his breath, momentarily distracted, and flicked his fingers – the ember started burning anew in a burst, smoke rising from the tip when he took a new drag of it.

“Not to mention,” he growled around the end of the cigar, letting out a plume of smoke through his nostrils that reflected the tiny light of the cigar’s tip in a way that looked like Hellfire itself, “Not to mention what yer folks would say about seeing ya run away from something good.”

The words hit home, as if kicking a door open that had been long-since closed, and Dante remembered-

Mum laughing aloud when father swung her around in a tight hug in greeting. Vergil huffing a tiny laugh when Dante pulled a face over the embarrassing display. The snorts of his twin when Dante shoved an empty carton over his head for the betrayal. The joined laughter of his entire family when Dante picked Mum’s and father’s present open – half-expecting his father’s joined-in effort to have ruined a good present – only to find a book about different types of guns and a tiny model to practice taking it apart and reassembling it with.

“Are you happy, Dante?”

Seamlessly, the memories shifted again – but instead of the nightmare that usually followed, it went on without a hitch –

The way Lady would groan with a grin on her face and roll her eyes to the heavens when he was just too much again. Trish bumping shoulders with him when came back from a battle, smile on her face. Morrison patting his back in passing before they were on their way to the next job. Patty slamming into him for a hug and then instantly berating him for not calling when he came home later than anticipated. The barely there laugh Nero gave when Dante joked about something before reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. The warmth of Kyrie’s hugs that she distributed so freely and gladly. The gleam in Nico’s eyes when she excitedly told him about her newest invention that he was supposed to try out. V constantly failing to hide his amused smirk over their antics behind the book he was reading right then. The children climbing all over him, asking for more stories.

Dante stood, thunderstruck, as he suddenly wondered why the heck he was out here, in the cold, when…

“Now you got it. Hurry on home, kid, go on,” a puff of smoke, a laugh that seemed to come from the deepest depths. “Who knows how long they are still gonna be there?”

But Dante wasn’t even listening anymore, he had already turned around and was walking – no, nearly running – in the direction he had come from.

Fervently hoping the whole time that his friends had understood, and actually stayed where they were.

Rodin was left behind alone. He scoffed, finally taking off the offending Santa hat, and waved it after the retreating figure in the distance. “Ain’t that just beautiful. No, no need to thank ol’ Rodin. Yer welcome, kiddo. Didn’t have anything better to do. Really, who taught him those manners? His Dad?”

Snickering to himself as if over a private joke, Rodin took another satisfying drag of his cigar, letting the smoke roll slowly out from between his lips while he leaned his head back. Now talking directly to the heavy clouds above and to whoever might be listening, he grumbled, only slightly pacified,

“Yer lucky I don’t like debts, no matter if I owe ‘em to dead ones, Eva.”

#devil may cry #dmc #dante #my writing #fanfic #kyrie #nero #nico #ocs #rodin #patty lowell #morrison #happy late holidays everyone I DID IT THE FIRST CHAPTER #there's a second one now whoops

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thesecretfandom · 6 years

Text

American Dream: Part One -- Bughead Au

I. Land of Excess

Word Count: 5,051

Rated: G

A/N: Part 1/3 Bughead 1920′s Au.( Read on AO3) (Part 2 Coming Soon)

"Ethel, have you seen my diamond necklace?" Betty called to her assistant. Betty had hired Ethel six months ago, and she was thus far the best assistant she'd ever had. She was responsible for organizing Betty's latest fashion show, with all the biggest names in fashion in attendance. It was the first fashion show Cooper Fashions had hosted, starring the innovative styles of the young yet top female designer, Elizabeth Cooper.

"You hung it on your vanity, ma'am." Ethel replied.

"You don't need to call me ma'am, Ethel. You make me sound like an old woman." Betty sighed. She'd insisted when she first hired Ethel that she call her Betty, even Elizabeth, but she still called her ma'am regardless. "Remind me again why I hung a priceless diamond necklace on my vanity? Do I not have a jewelry box?"

"That's what I said last night, and you said that it could stay there because you were wearing it to the theater today."

"I don't know why I question you." Betty lifted the gold chain from where it hung on the spindle of the mirror attached to her vanity. "Be a dear and make sure the car is waiting. I'm almost ready to go."

"Yes, ma'am."

Betty entered the black town car alone, allowing her chauffer to close the door behind her. The New York City streets were busy on that weekend. Young men and women walked the streets, leaving trails of cigarette smoke in their wake. None would admit what they were up to that night, but in the mid-1920s at the height of Prohibition, Betty knew they must be wandering in to one of many speakeasies that were hidden throughout the city.

Betty preferred to keep up her image, avoiding the less savory locations in the city when there was a chance of the paparazzi catching her. She was just establishing herself in an industry thus far held hostage by men, and she would not allow some scandal to knock her out of the spotlight.

The lights from the theater were glowing, sparkling like stars pulled down from the sky. The night sky in New York City grew increasingly dimmer as the years went on. Betty remembered, as a child, visiting the city before the War… before the city lights drowned out her dreams of life on a farm with her childhood sweetheart and replaced them with dreams of fashion, adventure, and forbidden romance.

She was born at the turn of the century, her age always reflected in the year facing her. Now 1924, Betty was successful for her age, but an enigma to her peers. What was a beautiful young woman like her doing without a husband? That was something that Betty herself couldn't answer. A husband was always on her list, but her career was always higher on the list. Her husband, whoever he was, would have to wait.

A red carpet sprawled across the sidewalk from where her car stopped, leading up the stairs into the theater. Her chauffer held out a white gloved hand and as soon as her foot hit the ground flashes of light burst forth from the cameras of the news reporters.

"Miss Cooper, are you with someone?" A hot topic of conversation wherever she went.

"Miss Cooper, how long are you staying in New York?" Less common, but they always wanted to know which city she was headed off to next.

"Miss Cooper, who are you wearing?" The only question that she answered honestly every time.

Betty smiled toward the direction of the question, the lace of her dress pooling around her ankles. "Myself of course."

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"Mister Jones?"

"What is it, Keller?" Jughead was busy. His newest show premiered tonight and already his lead actress had ripped a seam in her dress and the spotlight bulb had shattered. Luckily, both had remedies. An adequate seamstress and spare bulb would fix all of his problems, if only the damn bulb could be found in the supply closet.

"Elizabeth Cooper is on the red carpet."

Jughead stopped in his tracks. He trained his eyes on his assistant, trying to decide if the young man was lying to him.

"A celebrity is coming to my show?"

"Some may argue that you're a celebrity, Sir." Kevin responded promptly.

"I don't care for flattery, you know this." Jughead was on the move again. If the handyman couldn't find a simple light bulb, he'd have to do it himself. "I wasn't made aware of this when the VIP booths were reserved."

"She didn't reserve a booth." Kevin wrung his hands together. "She came alone with a single ticket, general audience. That's how she slipped through. She had her personal assistant buy a ticket for her."

"Well, move her to a VIP seat then. I would have gladly sent her complimentary tickets had I known."

"That… may be a problem." Kevin shrunk away from his boss when Jughead whirled on him. Kevin hated to be the bearer of bad news, especially with his particularly hotheaded boss. "All of the VIP seats have been reserved by some incredibly esteemed members of society. We can't afford to move anyone."

"Then…" Jughead thought for a moment. "Then put her in my booth. It's the best seat in the house. What are you waiting for? Go!"

Kevin scurried away toward the front of the building, through a small crowd that that had already arrived. Many of the higher class citizens, considered to be celebrities to New Yorkers, had arrived on the red carpet just moments before the esteemed fashion designer. Jughead watched as they entered the theater, seemingly disappointed that their small moment in the spotlight had been stolen away by an international star.

Jughead had first heard of Elizabeth Cooper five years ago, when she was granted her first spotlight at a fashion show in New York at the age of nineteen. She became a celebrated designer with rapid speed. One of few female designers from America, and the youngest female designer in the world to have her first line of women’s formal wear met with rave reviews.

Despite his four year seniority on the young woman, she had found fame much sooner than him. When Elizabeth was jet setting across the globe to various fashion shows, Jughead was struggling with his first big play. While her designs were in high demand, Jughead was begging on his hands and knees in front of potential investors.

His first controversial show was met with mixed reviews, but with a murderous plot line and a mysterious figure pulling the strings, it was a hit that skyrocketed Jughead into the spotlight… quite literally.

"Five minutes to show time! Everyone to your places!" Jughead waited at the center of the stage, just behind the thick, red curtain.

A nervous energy appeared behind him. "Mr. Jones…"

"Now is not the time, Keller." Jughead straightened his tie.

"But…"

"Is this going to affect the show in any way?"

"Well, it-"

"Get backstage, Kevin. Everything is going to be fine."

Once again, Kevin disappeared into the crowd of cast and crew that waited backstage. Jughead slowly pushed through the curtain and stepped into the spotlight at center stage. Through the bright light, he couldn't make out the audience… though he'd been assured it was a full house. Jughead grinned, "Welcome, esteemed guests to the premier of Land of Excess."

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Betty sat in the sixth row back from the stage, watching as Forsythe Jones took the stage to introduce the show. She could feel the eyes of various audience members watching her with sidelong glances. She'd been offered a seat in a VIP booth by Forsythe's assistant and with much disappointment to him, she'd refused. After all, she'd come to this show at this particular theater for a reason.

As a child, when she'd first visited the city with her parents and siblings, they'd gone to a show at the small theater that had once sat on this land. She was quite young when Peter Pan came to America, and her parents had saved money for something of just the sort. A new theater had been built in its place after the war ended, but Betty still felt like a child again as she sat n the middle of the theater six rows back, just where she had been over fifteen years ago.

This show was much more mature. Set in the present day, it was a rags to riches story about a young woman with a dark past establishing herself as a successful business woman. Amidst a stalker from her past and a new mysterious lover, it was a grand romance that would empower any woman hoping to make her mark on the world. No doubt it would have mixed reviews from the influential theater critics, made up mostly of old men.

By the end of the show, Betty vowed to use her influence to promote the show. Not many shows had a female as the lead, especially when most playwrights were men. She had to give Forsythe Jones props, he always found a way to make his controversial plays strike some cord with a large audience.

Betty waited in her seat long after the show ended until only a few audience members still shuffled around the back of the theater.

"Did you enjoy the show?" A deep voice spoke from stage left, followed by a tall man with dark hair.

"Quite." Betty stood at the arrival of Forsythe Jones. She'd seen his face in newspapers before, but he was much more handsome in person.

"You are Elizabeth Cooper." He stated, stepping through the rows of seats to stand in the row just in front of her.

"And you're Forsythe Jones."

"Call me Jughead." His lips quirked into a small smile.

"Well, if we're on a nickname basis… you can call me Betty."

She held her hand out to him and he took it happily. His hand was large, enveloping hers completely as they shook.

"I invited you to a VIP booth, did my assistant get in contact with you?"

"Ah, so you noticed." Betty smiled. "Yes, I got the message. However, I paid my modest fee for my carefully chosen seat and I intended to sit there amongst the… peasants."

"Didn't your mother ever teach you not to tease strange men?"

"Are you a strange man, Mr. Jones?"

He didn't respond to this question. Instead, he laughed. Betty raised an eyebrow at him, something about his presence felt familiar; almost comforting.

"I so wish you would have taken my invitation." He laughed. "Your conversation is much more stimulating than Kevin's, my assistant. He's just a bundle of nervous energy most of the time."

"Were you not nervous on your opening night?" Betty found that hard to believe. "I am always nervous out of my mind when I release a new line."

"You see right through me, Miss Cooper."

She was fascinated by his eyes. A deep sparkling blue. There wasn't a lot of color in today's world. Even her own designs tended toward silver and gold trimming on black and white fabric. Perhaps she should consider investing in some blue dyes, or maybe red and green. The new year approached in a few short months, and with it her next line of fashion due to hit the market.

"The night is young. Care to join me for a night on the town?"

Betty smiled a small apology. She knew just what a night on the town meant. "I'll have to politely decline."

"That's a shame." He shifted his weight and began walking toward the exit. "Allow me to give you a ride home. I'd love to hear what you think of the show."

"My car should be waiting." Betty replied, following him toward the exit.

"Let me at least show you my car." Forsythe Jones walked backward down the aisle, his eyes locked on Betty. "It's a gorgeous light blue with a convertible top, though I'll leave the top up since I believe it's getting a tad cold outside."

"A little presumptuous, aren't you?" Betty smiled regardless.

"I have faith in my car. Come on, I had Kevin bring it around front."

Betty followed him, admittedly curious. She'd never been too interested in cars. Her family had never had a personal car. She distinctly remember her first ride being in a taxi after she'd moved to New York to pursue her dreams. Even now, she owned a car but had never had the courage to drive in the city. Instead, she hired a chauffeur.

The car was beautiful, standing out against the dark city street. It was much more beautiful than Betty's plain black car, which was parked just behind his. Betty noticed the smile in her comrade's eye as she stepped closer to the car. She'd seen some luxurious things in her time, but there was something different about this particular car. Maybe it was the stains of mud swirling around the wheel wells, something most people with such a nice car and good amount of money would normally keep clean.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Forsythe swept his hand across the hood of the car, rubbing out a water spot with his thumb.

"She?" Betty responded.

"Well, of course." He replied. "Something this beautiful has got to be a woman, don't you think?"

Betty rolled her eyes, something she felt she may do often in the presence of this strange man. "I can't argue with that logic. It is a beautiful car."

Forsythe Jones smiled then, his lips curling up at the corners. "So you're saying you'll let me drive you home?"

Betty grinned in reply. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." He stepped off the curb and walked around the driver's side of Betty's car, where Reginald Mantle sat waiting to take her home. "Hello, fine sir. I'd like to send you home early with a hefty tip. I'll escort Miss Cooper home tonight."

Forsythe held out a five dollar bill to the young chauffeur, which Reggie, bless his heart, refused to take.

"I'll need to speak to Miss Cooper. She tells me when to go home, sir."

Betty found her way to the passenger window. "It's okay, Reg. Take the money, go home, and don't spend that all at once."

"Thank you, Miss Cooper. My mother will be so grateful."

"Tell her hello from me." Betty smiled. "And also tell her that I'm still waiting for her to come to the office to get fitted for a new Sunday dress."

"I'll tell her, but I won't promise she'll listen. You know she gets nervous around expensive things."

"I'll win her over one of these days." Betty stepped back from the car. "Have a good night."

Reggie waved and waited for Forsythe to return to the sidewalk before pulling out onto the street. Betty watched the car disappear around the corner, even as she felt the presence of Forsythe Jones at her side once more.

"Well said, Miss Cooper. And it looks as if I've won you over as well?"

"Your car won me over." She corrected. "And it's a short ride home."

He walked over to his car and pulled the door open. Betty lifted her dress slightly to step into the car before she was stopped.

"Before you get in, promise me you will at least give me a chance to win you over during the drive."

"Do your worst, Forsythe Jones."

He closed the door behind her and moved swiftly behind the wheel. "Let's start with you calling me Jughead."

"Okay, Jughead. Woo me."

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Betty hooked her arm with Jughead as she led the way to her temporary New York apartment. He'd driven around the block twice after Betty had pointed out her building. She hadn't said anything when he kept driving, so he knew that he had, in fact, won her over on the short drive.

"I'd expected you somewhere a bit more lavish." Jughead said when they stopped at the front door.

"I'm one woman, who spends a lot of time living in hotels and train cars. I don't need, nor do I care for an expensive house that I'll never use."

"Fair enough, I sleep in my office most days. Lately, actually I've been sleeping at the theater."

"All work and no play…"

"I wouldn't say no play. Normally I would try to go out and find some adventure on a Friday night, but something much more interesting came up."

Jughead frowned when Betty pulled her arm away. She reached for the door handle and prepared to go inside.

"I had a lovely time at the show, Jughead. Thank you for the ride home."

"My pleasure." Jughead held his hand out to her and she placed her hand in his. He lifted her much smaller hand, leaving a light kiss on the soft skin. "Can I call on you tomorrow?"

Betty took her hand back and stepped through her door. "You can try."

Jughead spent the rest of the night thinking about those last three words she said. Her confidence may be the most alluring thing about her, but something told him that she was just as interested in him as he was in her. He knew he'd be back the next day, and maybe convince her to have dinner.

His office was cold when he returned. So maybe he hadn't told the entire truth about why it was that he slept in his office. He had a small bed set up in the corner of the loft, a kitchenette set at the back of the room. His desk sat in front of the only window, providing a view of the city streets panning out beneath him.

It wasn't that he didn't want a bigger home, but he was comfortable here. He'd grown up in a one room home with his parents and sister, one that was smaller than the room he currently lived in. Anything bigger he thought would feel empty.

And anyway, he was satisfied with sending his well earned money to his parents so they could afford to give his sister, ten years his junior, an education. Not many women got the chance to go to school, but Jughead had made sure, since his produced his first play, that she would stay in school.

He was ridiculously proud of her, now in her first year of nursing school. She wanted to become a doctor, but would settle for nursing until she could make her case to the dean of the medical college that women should be allowed to study more advanced forms of medicine.

Jughead fell asleep thinking about this. He thought, maybe if tomorrow went as planned he'd one day be able to introduce his sister to Betty Cooper. Betty had managed to make a name for herself in a man's world. She could instill some hope in his young sister.

The morning sun woke him early, a stream of bright light shone across his eyes. He yanked a pillow over his face, begging for sleep to take him back again, but it seemed he was not destined to return to dreamland. In the light of the new day, he felt nervous about his eventual return to Miss Betty Cooper. There was something about the dark of the night that granted him confidence, like she wouldn't see though him to his less than golden past.

Despite his current misgivings, he left his small home late in the afternoon to call on the young woman. His building seemed different in the daylight, and he caught a glance of golden blonde hair in the window above. Jughead smiled to himself; now he remembered why he swallowed his anxiety to take the few short steps to the building's lobby.

"Good afternoon, sir." A man in a suit and bellman's hat stood behind a desk in the lobby, a bright smile on his face. "How can I help you today?"

"Elizabeth Cooper?" Jughead supplied. "Would you let her know that Jughead Jones is here?"

The man nodded and pressed a button on an intercom. He spoke in hushed tones, so Jughead couldn't hear what he was saying to her.

"She wants me to tell you that she may or may not be down in ten minutes, and that you should wait outside."

Ten minutes. Jughead leaned against his car as he watched the time pass as various businessmen walked down the street, briefcases in hand. As ten minutes approached, he started to worry that she wouldn't be coming. Then… something caught his eye. A swatch of pale yellow fabric fluttered out of the window through which he'd seen golden hair ten minutes prior. A leg poked out from under the fabric as none other than Betty Cooper climbed out onto the fire escape.

"I don't remember Juliet climbing off her balcony to meet Romeo." Jughead called out to her.

"Who said I wanted to be Juliet?" Betty replied. "They die in the end you know. An esteemed writer such as yourself should be familiar with the works of Shakespeare, no?"

She was climbing down the metal stairway, careful not to let her dress get caught on any sharp edges. Jughead stepped away from his car, closer to the building as Betty reached the final ladder leading to the sidewalk. The end of the ladder stopped three feet from sidewalk.

"Well, Romeo. Are you going to help me down or not?"

Jughead obliged. He held one hand to her waist, the other to the hand not holding the ladder, and she hopped to the sidewalk. Betty was smiling, her soft features even more beautiful in the day light. Her hair was tied up in a knot on top of her head, a delicate chain around her neck.

"I'll admit, after last night I wasn't sure how you'd respond to my coming here today."

"What can I say? You are a mysterious man, and I need a little excitement in my life." Betty brushed past Jughead and walked around his car. "It's much more beautiful in the daylight."

"Most things are." Jughead replied. "Would you be interested in dinner?"

"You have a place in mind?"

"I do." Jughead smiled, opening the passenger door for Better to enter. "And I just so happen to be friends with the owner."

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"It was a disaster!" Betty laughed, recalling a story from her past over a plate of spaghetti. "It was my second fashion show ever, and the first model tripped over the front of the dress and fell right on her face!"

"I don't see how that's something you can control, though." Jughead responded. She knew he was just trying to make her feel better. "It's not your fault she was clumsy."

"Here's what you need to know about the fashion industry." Betty took a sip of her water. "If the model stumbles, it’s the shoes. If the model trips and falls, it's absolutely the fault of the dress. I thought my career was over after that. It was all over the community that I couldn't sew a proper hem length."

"It seems you managed to get past that. At least, you seem to have done pretty well for yourself."

Betty shrugged. It had been a little discouraging to have her name alongside "Fashion Fail" in the newspapers, but she had survived. That one moment that had threatened her career, ultimately only increased her motivation to prove the critics wrong. And now here she was, one of the most successful fashion designers in the world sitting across the table from one of New York's greatest playwrights.

"Are you up for a little excitement tonight?" Jughead spoke again. He had finished his food quickly, and watched as Betty slowly took small bites of her food. Now, however, Betty had finished her meal and assumed he would be taking her home.

"I suppose I can't say no to excitement, especially after I specifically said that was what I was looking for."

"I've got something in mind if you'd like to see?" Jughead raised his hand to signal the waiter.

"I trust you." Betty smiled as Jughead spoke to their waiter.

He asked to give his compliments to the chef and they were led back toward the kitchen. Betty didn't bother to ask what exactly they were doing, but she had an idea. The kitchen was a frenzy of activity, but the chef saw Jughead, shouted some instructions, and then made his was to where they stood by the door.

"Jughead Jones!" The tall man reached out to shake Jughead's hand. "And who is this lovely lady?"

Betty offered her hand to him and the chef placed a soft kiss to her hand.

"The is Elizabeth Cooper, world renowned fashion designer AND my date for the evening so you'd better watch yourself, Sweet Pea."

"Sweet Pea?" Betty questioned.

"It's a nickname, obviously. When you're in a certain business it's better for your clients to not know your real name."

"So I take it you're not just a chef then?"

"Clever." Sweet Pea winked at her then turned his attention to Jughead. "So you're going in then?"

"If you'd be so kind." Jughead crooked his elbow for Betty to link their arms as they followed Sweet Pea to the back of the kitchen where two large metal doors stood side by side. The moved through the door on the left and were escorted into a room cloudy with smoke and smooth jazz crooning from a stage set in the back of the building.

Sweet Pea got the attention of the bartender, speaking quietly so that other customers couldn't hear him. "These two are VIP. All drinks are free tonight for them." He turned to face Jughead. "Try not to make me go bankrupt."

"No worries." Jughead clapped him on the shoulder and Sweet Pea disappeared back to the kitchen.

Betty was more focused on the environment around her than the bottles of alcohol organized behind the bar. A few small tables with a few men and women sitting around each. She suddenly felt like her outfit, long and covered in lace, was entirely out of place. The few other women in the room wore black flapper dresses, a fashion Betty had never given a second thought to, and accessories made of feathers around their necks and on their heads.

"Betty?" Jughead's hand was on her elbow, leading her through the small crowd. "Are you okay with this table here? Close enough to hear the music but not too close that I can't hear you talk."

"Who said I wanted to talk?" Betty teased. She took the seat anyway as Jughead ordered from the bar. He returned with a glass of whiskey for himself and red wine for her.

"I wasn't sure what you would like, so I took the easy option."

"That's fine. Honestly, wine is the only alcohol I've had… and that was usually at church or at home when my sister snuck some her current beau."

"I often forget how young you are." Jughead said, followed by a sip of his bitter drink.

"Too young?" Betty asked. She was twenty-four, and by the time she'd reached an age where she felt the desire to drink alcohol it had become illegal. Even with her connections, she had never ventured into a speakeasy until tonight.

"You seem the perfect age to me. It fits you."

The smell of smoke and spilled alcohol permeated the small room, and as the night wore on more patrons entered through the secret door in the kitchen. The room became increasingly crowded and Betty was pushed in Jughead as another couple joined their table.

Jughead seemed to sense the tension she felt with the crowd because he stood and offered his hand to her.

"One dance and I'll take you home?"

Betty took his hand with a smile and followed him to the small bit of the open dance floor. The music came halting to a stop and was replaced by a slower ballad, the bass plunking out a deep rhythm. A sweet melody floated out from the upright piano at the side of the stage.

Betty draped one arm over Jughead's shoulder, the other held in his hand as he pulled her close at the waist. They swayed softly with the music, a few other couples following their lead. There wasn't much room to move, so Jughead pulled her in small circles until the music wound down and ultimately went silent.

Jughead's arm was still around her even when the music stopped, and Betty thought that she quite liked this. She hadn't danced with a boy since she was in school and even then it felt forced, like something she was expected to do. Here, it felt entirely unexpected and exciting.

Jughead led her back to the door they had come through and passed through the kitchen, which had since become much more quiet. The streets outside were still crowded with people moving from one place to another, but in the alley beside the restaurant Jughead's car sat alone.

"I think I'd like to ride home with the top down, if you don't mind." Betty asked as they approached the car.

"I thought you'd never ask."

With the wind in her hair, Betty felt more free than she ever had before. City lights glowing around her and a handsome man sitting next to her, she could get used to a life like this. She wasn't entirely ready for the night to end when her apartment was suddenly imposing in front of her.

"You'll walk me up?"

"We aren't going up the fire escape this time, are we?" Jughead teased.

"I think the indoor stairs will do just fine." Betty took Jughead's arm as she led him to her doorway. She stopped outside the door, not yet taking her key from her purse. "When can I expect you to call on me again?"

Betty turned to face Jughead, their bodies so close she could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He tilted his head down, closer to hers and his lips pressed softly against her cheek.

"As soon as possible." He said, pulling away.

"I look forward to it."

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A/N: Let me know what you think! Trying to write in the mind of how people acted almost 100 years ago was a bit strange, but I hope I did it justice. Keep an eye out for part 2!

#bughead au #bughead #bughead fanfiction #bughead fanfic #betty x jughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #1920s au #bughead edit #riverdale au #riverdale fanfic #riverdale fanfiction #american dream au

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