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oh-for-fic-sake · 4 years

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Ghosting A Wayne

Masterlist

Warnings: Adult content +18 only!! Smut, Agegap, Swearing, A Little Angst?

A/n:Ok so this is the first real full smut iv done and im super nervous about posting this one i hope its good but if its shit im sorry hope you enjoyxx

After getting cold feet because of your own insecurities you get a visitor pick you up from work.

Ghosting A Wayne

You sighed as you pulled out a batch of cookies from the oven placing the three large trays out on the cooling racks today was a baking day to fill the display out the front ,you'd been alone with your thoughts all day and were just about done, glancing at the clock you fist pumped the air. Home time. You quickly undone your apron hanging it on the hook by the kitchen door then called out to Tom that your shift was done.

After your first lunch date with Bruce you intended to leave it there but the man was very persistent... and charming somehow he'd managed to talk you in circles and wrangle a second date and third and forth. you'd canceled your fifth using work as an excuse and he bought it for about a week, then he began asking when you were free telling you to call him giving you his personal number which you didn't call.

That worked for about three days before he began messaging you about a date you replied with excuses it seemed to work until he showed up at the door to drop Damien round instead of Alfred, Jack had covered for you not letting either of them in saying you were ill. It wasn't that you didn't like him or anything you were scared, scared of getting hurt he was amazing a perfect gentleman he made you laugh he took you to fancy places but didn't make you uncomfortable even going so far as to berate another guest as he heard them make a comment of the restaurant 'letting anyone in these days' when he was returning from the rest room , you felt special and safe with him.

But he was The Bruce Wayne and nothing would ever come of it. Someone like you had no right to be with someone like him, he deserved a high class well educated successful woman not a minimum wage cafe worker who dropped out of college. You found yourself growing to attached to him and it had frightened you. Not only that but what would people say when they found out, probably think your a charity case or a gold digger you could see the headlines now ' The playboys new sugar baby' with photos of you plastered across the tabloids you shivered.

Damien had spoke to you about it he was far to smart for his own good telling you your being a 'stupid female' and that you should just talk to Bruce about it, Jack also scolded you for being stupid and letting your insecurities hold you back.

The boy had been soo happy for you when you were going out with Bruce, he admitted that he felt responsible for you being alone and not having friends or a boyfriend it broke your heart, hearing how he blamed himself for it, yes it had been hard taking on a 8 year old at 20 years old and yes you did need to grow up quicker then most and avoid the typical early twenties drinking and clubbing but you wouldn't change a thing. When he had brought it up you both had a heart to heart and you were gobsmacked at just how mature he had soundec. He told you that he didn't care about Bruce being Damien's dad or that he was older than you, he was happy that you had someone who made you happy and wanted you to got out with him again and be happy. The boys didn't understand.

"Tom I'm finished don't touch the cookies before they cool you can have one to test but that's it theirs 48 here I've counted, so if you have anymore I will know its you, you greedy little shit" you said opeing the door you walked straight into him he was wide eyed pointing out to the font over his shouldet. You froze thinking the worst it was gotham afterall.

"Oh my god tom?"

"You have.. Out the there.... Man front" he said not making any sense you pushed past him through the door

"whats wron-"

"y/n!" you snapped your head to the counter seeing Bruce standing their ignoring the odd looks he received from the other few customers scattered about in the cafe. You slung your bag over your shoulder cradling your coat in the other hand cursing quietly. Scanning the cafe for a quick exit wanting to run. There was one way in and out and he was between you and the door. Giving in you plastered on a polite smile.

"Bruce what are you doing here?" you asked tentatively due to the blank look on his face unsure what mood he would be in after you ghosted him. Making your way around the counter he followed on the other side meeting you at the end.

"I wanted to take you out, Jack told me when you finished so I thought I'd come pick you up for dinner" you felt the gazes in the room shift from him to you and the whispers started. Bruce held out a hand taking your coat from you while you tried to come up with a reason not to your anxiety screaming at you to run. You sighed at him biting your lower lip raw he lifted a hand pulling it gently forcing you to release it. He smiled meeting your eyes trying to calm you.

"Bruce I don't feel like going out tonight can we reschedule?" hooking his arm around your waist guiding you out of the cafe past the gossiping customers opening the door for the both of you pressing himself to your back giving you no room to bolt away. Hed catch you anyway.

"Good news, we don't have to go out Alfred is making us dinner back home, so we get to have a relaxing night in." you nodded as you left walking down the street feeling your nerves spike as you realized there was no reason to avoid this. He kept pace with you to the side arms ready to dart out and catch you as you glanced around a little skittish he ushered you into a ridiculously expensive Lamborghini and took off down the road.

"So that's Tom then? the one you were talking about?" he started you were confused as he acted like you hadn't been avoiding him for the past week and half you just nodded.

"Err yeah that's him we get along work really well, I was doing all the baking today couldn't handle the customers they were doing my head in." he nodded placing a warm hand on your knee running his thumb in small circles you took a deep breath.

"I know what you mean, had a lot of meetings today with a bunch little men wanting me to over invest in companies that wont last the financial year" you tensed as he left his hand on your leg still navigating the traffic, you tried to shift your led from underneath him but he just followed squeezing it lightly making your breath hitch and clench your walls tight.

"Sh-shouldn't you have both hands on the wheel in a car like this?" you asked quietly he laughed giving you a mischievous look then you screamed as he let go of the wheel completely still picking up speed quickly.

"OH MY GOD BRUCE NO!" you cried leaning over grabbing it yourself he just laughed out loud placing one hand back on it the other still resting on your knee.

"Its fine I could probably drive this with my eyes closed, it's nothing like my other car" he said cheekily as he made his way towards the outskirts of gotham you swallowed nervously.

"yeah please dont do that"

"Don't worry I'd never let anything happen to you sweets" you blushed as he used the nickname he'd given you onde he found out about your sweet tooth and the fact you do all the baking at the cafe.

"He says after driving without hands." you scoffed looking out of the window as the scenery changed. It wasn't long before you pulled up to the manor. It was impressive you'd only been inside twice whilst waiting for Jack to get his things he thought it was the perfect place to hid from his dentist and doctors appointments. Once out of the car he lead you inside where Alfred greeted you both.

"Ah Master Wayne dinner will take another hour or so I'm afraid and Y/n its lovely to see you again." Bruce gave you both a look seeking an explanation for the first name basis.

"Have you met everyone in this house before me?" he asked sarcastically you smiled at him before Alfred took your coats hanging them up.

"Well sometimes the boys play about getting ready so Alfred comes in for tea whilst we wait and I've met Tim he has come over a few times drank my whole pot of coffee and left." he grunted before leading you to a small sitting room off to the side.

"We will be in here Alfred call us when dinner is ready." Alfred nodded smiling slyly before closing the door leaving you in private. You sat down on the leather sofa a nervous wreck looking around the opulent room feeling out of place, he took a seat beside you offering you a glass of what you assumed was scotch he sat and leaned in next to you. Relaxing as he took a slow sip of his drink.

"Don't look so worried the boys explained for you. Your scared of getting hurt I can understand that I don't exactly have the best record but I'm not giving up as you can tell."you looked down into your glass a little ashamed as you heard hurt laced in his words.

"I-its not that, its me I.. I love spending time with you I really do... but I dont think you should waste your time on me... thats all" he frowned you sounded so ...defeated , he didnt like it one bit placing his glass down putting two and two together. That he didn't know Damien said you were being a 'difficult woman' and Jack had said that you hadn't dated since school and were afraid of being hurt he summarised that it was because of him but it sounds like there was more to it then that. Bruce took a deep breath regarding you carefully.

"Waste my time? why would spending time with you be a waste. There is something between us, I have never felt this type of pull to a woman before and I'm quite determind to see you if you havent already noticed" he said sternly you shrunk into the sofa he sighed pulling the glass tumbler from you hand.

"Whats really going on? we were going fine then you just pulled back. I want this, us and I know you do to but we have to talk to each other." You leaned forward locking eyes with him feeling overwhelmed you shook your head pulling back he followed leaning back pulling you across the seat wrapping his arms around you pulling your face into his chest holding you, you tried pulling yourself off of him but he was to stronger than he looked. You Gave up then took a deep breath endulging in the closeness breathing him in.

"Talk to me please" he spoke quietly into your hair

"I cant, I just cant, your-I, you need someone better. And if people find out then what will they think? that I'm a charity case some passing fancy? that you'll get bored with and you will bruce. When you find some older succsessfull women who equals you. someone that I can never be for you. I wont be good enough for you and you'll see it one day" once you started you couldn't stop as the words kept coming your fears poured out after being kept bottled up since that very first date.Fears of loving him and then him leaving, or of what backlash Jack could face if you were painted to be a whore trying to capture Bruces attention, the cps could investigate if it seemed like you were becoming a party girl like what Bruce typically dated. Then there was the fact that the school could start being funny if word got out that you and bruce were together. But the main reason was that he was to good for you and you knew it. You heaved a breath feeling lighter yet your stomach churned he had been quiet throughout and you'd gotten yourself worked up shaking from your anxiety feeling sick to your stomach.

"I'm sorry I know I should have spoke to you instead but I... I was scared that you were going to realize I'm right and leave ...so" he hushed you rubbing your back lightly causing you to shiver and relax onto his chest.

"So you left before I could?" you flinched then nodded it sounded so petty when said out loud he moved sitting up a bit more dragging you with him not releasing you for a second, he would have preferred if it had all been about his past but now realized you had low self esteem you had fears about the future, the age gap, Jacks future and how people would judge you all of these fear were to blame. And he understood it must be daughting, but what got him most was that you thought he'd let you deal with it alone , that you were so scared of loosing him in the long run you tried to walk away now and that was all the proof he needed that you did feel somthing for him.

"Tell me something does Jack have a problem with you being with me?" he asked you shook your head instantly.

"No he loves it, he wants me to be with you he saw how happy I was he has been pestering me to call" he pulled his head away smiling confusing you.

"I can tell you that Damien is thrilled he has even been bragging to his brothers that I've found the perfect woman and they cant wait to meet you by the way the

and he threatened me before every date to 'not to fuck it up' so let me ask another question if Jack, Damien me and you are happy what does anyone else's opinion matter? it's our life why should we make ourselves miserable over a few tabloids that can be taken to court and be corrected? and I do have reporters that I trust with these type of stories one is a very close friend who I could give an exclusive to before any rumors get around and the press make up some nonsense. Not only that I know Clark wold print the truth if he knew that it involved the boys being bullied in the school." he let you pull back shocked you didnt think he would want anyone to know, you thought hed be ashamed of you.

"wh-what?" it was bearly a whisper but he heard it.

"You heard me sweets, Clark wouldn't let me down not with this and there are other reporters who I've trusted to cover stories of the boys in the past one phone call and I would have everything sorted and anyone who tries to make this something its not will feel the full force of my legal team." he leaned in giving you no time to reply kissing you deeply invading your mouth moaning into you. His tongue dominated your mouth taking your breath away he paused pulling you to straddle his waist you blushed looking down at him.Trying to put your weight on your knees conscious of your weight Bruce not having any of that tugged harshly pulling your weight on his thighs.

"And as for finding someone better I doubt it. I've said it before and I will say it again I want you. Not some stuck up model who's one surgery away from being on botched. The day we met I was floored and for the first time I saw what I truly wanted for me and my family. And it wasn't some highly educated business woman, no it was a sexy little mama bear who treated my son as her own." you gasped as he brought your hips closer resting you on his crotch before leaning forward capturing your lips again this time slow and deliberate pouring himself into it you, you moaned quietly as he rocked you across his groin. Pulling back for air

"So little miss now we have all that cleared up is there anything you want to add?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" you gasped out trying to collect yourself as you began getting tearful as you felt stupid for being so silly yet relieved that he hadn't thrown you out, he chuckled shushing you then moved biting at your earlobe .

"That's ok love I'm sure you'll make it up to me" he said kissing down your neck biting below your ear then lower to your pulse point feeling it race under his tongue before sucking harshly bordering on painful.

"o-OH Bruce" you gasped gripping his shoulder trying not to lean back to far and fall he noticed using and arm to hold you elbow resting on your waist curling his fingers into your low bun pulling slowly stretching your neck before him leaving marks up it you groaned closing your eyes trying to rub your thighs together as your pussy grew hot and clenched dampening your panties he ran his nose down your neck kissing your collar bone lightly.

"Aww sweety so desperate hm?" you whined squeezing his hips between your thighs again grinding softly against him he chuckled biting the top of your breast running his tongue along your cleavage unbuttoning your blouse with deft fingers then returned them to your hips pushing you harshly on his erection you cried out looking down panting as he dragged you slowly back and forth feeling him through his trousers was almost to much you fisted your hands in the crisp shirt covering his shoulders. He let out a breathy growl smug as you started trying to rock on him faster pouting when he held you controlling your pace circling you slow on his bulge dipping his thumbs into your pelvis tilting you catching your clit with every pass of your hips you shook your head eyes tightly shut.

"OH fuck shiiitt Bruce" he watched eyes blown as he built you up slowly drinking in your flushed face pouty full lips forming an 'o' as you let out high pitched cries his hands smothered your breasts squeezing them in his palms testing them before he tipped the cups down teasing your pink nipples to attention. You opened your eyes glazed over pleading with him.

"Please Bruce... I dont-fuck" you moaned high and louder almost squeeling as he pinched one of your nipples refusing to let go pulling your chest towards him by it until he could lay a sweet kiss to the other suckling catching it between his teeth nipping it letting go with a loud pop. You panted harder as he toyed with you, your body trembled as he pulled you closer to the edge your clit rubbed harshly against him and he growled relishing in the way your heat seeped onto him. He couldn't wait. He wouldn't. With a one sweeping motion you found yourself lying on the sofa with him hovering over you pulling your leggings down over your hips skimming your quivering thighs with his knuckles befor rubbing your calves and griping your ankles encircling them effortlesly, running his thumbs across the inside of them . Following bending as he went kissing your soft stomach and pelvis finally leaving a small kiss on your mound over your panties you moaned at that. He slipped your leggings off taking your flats with them you blushed as he stared seeing the wet patch you'd left on your panties crawling back up you exploring with his hands the whole way. Hooking a hand around to back of your neck he pulled you up into a bruising kiss needy as he angled his head to devour you deeper his other hand dragging your shirt from you by the back of the neck unclipping your bra and he went lowering you back down you blushed trying to cover yourself he growled pinning them beside you.

"Nooo you dont babe, let me see, show me" he ground out a deep gruntle sound that vibrated threw you trailing the tips of his fingers from your throat down in slow unpredictable patterns leaving goosebumps in his wake your nipples pebbled as he past them your whole body shuddered

"Fuck. Your stunning" you didn't meet his gaze it was to hot, posessive like he was claiming you already just with his eyes watching closely memorizing every freckle and mark on your skin, he let out a deep shuddering breath when you arched up inyo him as he fingered the bow on the waist band of your panties back and forth he brought his fingers lower and lower across your mound. You squirmed trying to buck up against him trying to get him where you desperately needed him whimpering pitifully. His response was to stretch out his fingers across your lower tummy and push you back down holding you still. You protested as his warm hand covered your whole mound and rocked forward trying to catch your clit on the heal of his palm that rested just out of reach.

"Such a greedy little thing. I think I'm going to have to work on your manners" he chided before using a hand to unbutton his shirt revealing a perfectly sculpted torso, you made a noise in the back of your throat that you didn't recognize at the sight of him, caramel skin taught over deliciously defined muscles and small thatch of hair disappearing below a teasingly low hanging trousers he let the shirt slide to the floor undoing his belt then slowly pulled his trousers over his hip grunting thrusting forward as it glided over his cock. You bit your lip still trying to move against his heavy hand he granted you a little mercy twisting as the wrist slotting his thumb between your lips seeking your clit and rubbing a figure 8 hard.

"AHH! F-Fuck BRUCE yes oh god-" you gasped deep breaths as he rolled your cilt around almost rough in his ministrations the fabric of you panties hieghtend the sensation you closed your eyes grinding yourself down on him tears leaked from them his other hand came up to your throat forcing you to face him.

"Look at me baby. come on let me see you... ah there she is good girl" he praised as you looked at him tears clinging to your lashes his hand still working you. Sobbing incoherently trying to buck up to him.

"OH fuck please-PLEASE let me come bruce please I'll do anything PLEASE" you breathed out hoarse gasping when your pussy weeped wetting the sofa below you he played you like an instrument taking you higher and higher you clenched and withered as you felt that familiar burn of an orgasm start in your lower tummy , almost cramping as it traveld lower to your pussy you chased it trying to rock harder just as you were at the presapice he stopped pulling his thumb away bit still pinned you down.

"AH! NO Br-BRUCE come back" you sobbed reaching out for him as your body hummed hot and quivering you gave up on finding his hand throwing yours between you trying to take over and force yourself over the edge. Soo close. Bruce was quicker catching them in one hand pulling them above you head. He watched waiting for you to come down from the almost high. Pouting all the way.

"You can count that as your punishment babe" he whispered huskliey into your neck kissing at the marks he has left. You cried out frustarated sweaty and exhasted.

"But im feeling a little mercifull tonight." you looked at him from below your lashes his heart skipped a beat seeing you look at him so needy and ready you looked so small,he could do anything to you right now but only wanted one thing. Shuffling back leaning down he placed an open mouthed kiss on your panties slipping his fingers in the sides draging them off before standing removing his boxers freeing his erection you gasped as it bounced up tapping his stomach ,hesitantly you reached out running a single finger along the underside from tip to base he jerked forward when you cupped him testing your grip befor stroking him he stopped you

"Fuck sorry babe but I cant wait." he growled out pinning you back down running his weeping head up and down your slit you tensed as he probed your enterance. Sensing your nerves he locked lips with you coaxing out your tongue sucking on it before licking in your mouth makeing obscene noises feeling you relax he took the chance and slowly begun stretching you around him ,you gasped at the slight sting pulling back rest your forehead on his grunting softly as he kept a slow steady pressure finally knocking his hips with yours you panted feeling your walls fluttering around him then squeezing

"shit Bruce" he huffed out a laugh flexing in response

"carefull there babe" you grunted feeling stuffed full as his head pushed against your cervix.

"Bruce please...HUrry up!" you clenched him stealing his breath from him he gave a playfull glare you felt a little tremor of apprehension as he repostioned your legs higher on his hips placing your heels into his lower back before plowing you into the sofa grunting and growling as his thrusts rocked your body you were by no means quiet as the veins on his cock massaged your walls with delicious friction he slowed then pressed himself tight against your clit rotating catching your gspot you bucked violenty against him head thrown back as you wailed he leaned up sucking and biting at your neck then resumed finding a brutal pace aiming for your gspot hitting it with pinpoint accuracy. You shook your head screaming out uncontrollably bucking begging for him to go harder, faster just wanting more. It wasn't long befor you saw stars letting out a silent scream tensing before you snapped cumming around him almost blinded as he rode you through it still hitting your spot faster if that was even possible before stuttering his hips holding himself tight locking you both together as he flooded you.

"OH GOD fuck FUCK yesyesyes good girl yes fuck" he moaned as you lay beneath him, limp body still quacking in the aftermath of your own end. He stayed still until he was soft catching his breath recovering before you removing himself he sat back on his knees watching as he leaked from you quick to scoop his cum and press it back within you, you whined still painfully oversensitive trying to pull away from his invading fingers. he chuckled as you squirmed utterly spent.

"nooo bruce" you whined as he prodded your freshly fucked pussy lighly grazing your abused clit causing you to whine at him pitifully jolting with every swipe.

"Aww baby are you sore?" you pouted at his words nodding he got up sitting you up handing you your forgotton drink you took it gulping it down ignoring the burn. he retrived his boxers throwing them on then a soft blanket covering you before scooping you up heading for the door.

"Bruce? what are you doing?" you asked gorgily already struggiljng to stay awake he leant down shutting you up with a kiss.

"We are going to bed you need some sleep before we continue." you blinked

"wha?" he grinned cheekily

"well how are we going to build up your stamina if we dont push past your exhaustion?" you almost cried just wanting to sleep.

"What about Alfred dinner?" you questioned

"He didnt make any I had to have a reason to get you here didnt I? he went to bed. and dont worry about Jack he is staying over in a room next to Damien's" you looked at him shocked

"What why was he here? do you think he could have heard me? bruce!" you panicked suddenly fully awake trying to wiggle out of his grip he laughed kissing your face.

"Oh my god what about our clothes? Bruce go back and shit we made a mess i need to clean that up..Bruce are you listening?" You created as he continued further away from the room youd just soild.

"he didnt hear you at all it was one of his demands when we planned this. And dont worry about the room or the clothes alfred will take care of it" he said scaling the stairs with ease taking you to his room

"planned? you who else knew? And what do you mean alfred will take care of it? no absolutly not that is embarassing" you argued as he kicked the door to his room shut behind him depositing you on his bed following you down landing above you kissing you again.

"me alfred damien and jack planned it but dick and jason knew too thats why they are scarce and alfred has cleard up worse trust me." he explained you stared at him in horror

"My little brother set me up with you?oh my god I'm not going to live that down and i need to clear that up its to embarassing for alfred to see" you cried he laughed out loud.

"Well I think its was worth it, and you can try and beat Alfred to it but that room will be ccleared up before sunrise and you won't be leaving this bed before then" he said snuggling up with you under the cover ,you made a noise as he tucked you into his chest his heart beat calming you making you drift into a peaceful sleep resting on his chest, feeling safe and sound wrapped up in him as he traced patterns on your back, sighing he was finally content a peace he hadnt known befor washed over him satisfied that he had found the woman that would complete his family, his chest swelled as he placed a kiss on your head. He wasn't ever letting you go now that he had you here. Glancing over at the clock, hed give you an hour or so to build up some energy before he woke you smirkjng to himslef planing all the wicked ways he was going to toy with you during the night. Oh yes the night was young and if Bruce had his way you wouldnt be leaving his bed tomorrow because you wouldnt be able to, thankfully you hade a few days off so he might let you recover. Then again he might not.

#bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayned fic #bruce wayne x reader #batmom imagines #batman x y/n #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x you #dc x y/n #dc x reader

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twistedapple · 4 years

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Regarding what I do with my blog

I’m bringing this publicly because I can’t talk to this person by DM anymore. I didn’t want to do that, but that’s what happens when you get shut down without having the option to react and talk things out in private. It’ll be tagged as Twisted Wonderland because it’s specifically for a big shot in this fandom. It’ll also be an exceptional post because I have no mean to keep this to the DMs (which is regrettable). I won’t react to commented reblogs and replies because I refuse to have anymore to do with that publicly. If you have a comment to make, my DMs are open, they’re a more appropriate place to wash one’s dirty laundry. More under the cut.

Earlier this week, a TW OC creator I won’t name went in my DM and the very first thing they said is to ask me why I unfollowed them. Now let’s see so far how my interactions with that person went, from my point of view, to understand how I reacted the way I reacted (i.e not very well).

The first contact with that person was brief and fairly cold. Fair enough, it was to create a relationship between our OCs but I’m not one to force things on other persons. I still decided to give a follow because why not, it doesn’t cost anything.

The second contact was when I published my first post regarding an OC feeling oddly similar to mine. Keep in mind that so far, I had no more contact with that TW OC creator, but they slid in my DM to tell me I was likely exaggerating (which is something I suspected as well, I already recognised that). The way they behaved during that exchange didn’t exactly vibe well with me because it felt like they were being patronizing and acting like my mother even though they were a perfect stranger. I decided to not comment on that because they had, however, no ill-intent. This conversation being fairly stressful, I decided to put it aside, calm down, and I moved on (because the world doesn’t revolve around me and I have bigger worries IRL to deal with).

The third contact happened earlier this week. This person started the conversation by asking why I stopped following them, then if they had done something wrong for me to do that. Now I was really uncomfortable because 1) it felt like I was being policed over how I run my tiny blog, 2) I don’t know this person, we barely talked like, 3 times so I’m afraid they aren’t exactly central to my life. Considering I had held back during our previous chat, this time I decided to do something pretty fucking rare: share my thoughts and feelings when they’re negative. I’m used to things blowing in my face so when it happens, I’m either being really stressed or doing this in a very private setting (such as a DM, because I deeply dislike washing my dirty laundry in public and this very post does not please me).

My reaction didn’t please that person, who promptly shut me down and left me with no other option than this post to react. It clearly seems there’s an issue of miscommunication between that user and I, based on a poor ability to express their intent and my own callous reaction as a consequence. For that, I apologise. However I won’t accept comments such as, and I quote (yes, I dare do that):

“ But where I'm from when you're talking to somebody who never responds back to you and then suddenly stops following you, it brings up concern regardless of how long you've been talking. “

We’re random strangers on internet. I don’t know you, you don’t know me either. If you don’t clearly express you intent, I can’t guess it because I’m not a mindreader. Bonus point for being from different countries, so this sort of patronizing comment is not welcome in my book. LPT: when you’re concerned about someone, maybe don’t start with “I noticed you stopped following me”, it gives an awful impression. To use your own manner of speaking, where I come from we don’t start a conversation by questioning one’s way of running their blog, when we address someone. Because not once, not once did I feel any friendliness or actual interest from you, from all of our interactions so far. How am I supposed to understand that you’re trying to be friendly, when you don’t feel as such from my point of view (the subtlety is there: your intent was very poorly conveyed and translated into something very different than what you apparently wanted)?

It saddens me that this sort of shit happens because of an obvious miscommunication. Earlier this morning, I intended to reply by DM and give a proper apology for my callousness, but being shut down not only made it impossible, it only worsened my view of that person instead. I’m a small TW OC creator, I don’t interact with a lot of people in this fandom and some of the bigger accounts have been ignoring me when I reached out to them. So having that sort of fall out with one of the largest accounts doesn’t exactly amuse me - quite the contrary. It’s incredibly off putting from the fandom as well - and I know for a fact I’m not the only one who’s been feeling that way lately towards the TW OC corner of Tumblr. What a shame. What a shame.

#twisted wonderland #personal rant #I am not amused #not one of the cool kids #DM if you wanna chat #I'm not talking publicly about it further than that #it feels already too much and too public in my book #however I won't accept any patronizing bullshit #even from the bigger accounts of this fandom #this is why I generally avoid fandoms like the plague

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baby-blossoms · 4 years

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Honey Bunny

Pairing: Connor Murphy x Reader

Warnings: Kind of angsty, mentions of death (mother), profanity, shaded mentions of self-harm

Word Count: 2,507

Request: “Could you possibly do a (sort of) continuation to your Evan Hansen x Reader - The Tree, except for Connor x Reader?”

Summary: Soulmate AU where you have a mark on your wrist that shows you what your soulmate is most passionate about, and you can feel physical pain they go through. Reader is very popular in high school, but everything starts to go downhill when her mother passes. She then unexpectedly meets her soulmate, Connor. Basically the Connor Murphy version of my Evan x Reader story, The Tree.

----

You were living every high-schoolers cliché dream. You were head of the cheer-leading team. All eyes were on you when you walked around the halls with your friends. You had been the Homecoming Queen, the runner up being your best friend. You had perfect grades and the perfect life. Your popularity was almost unmatched. But your mother had passed recently, and everything seemed to fall to pieces the moment she took her last breath. She was a free-spirited woman with many ambitions and interests. This, she had passed down to you along with beautiful y/e/c eyes. Your father could barely maintain eye contact with you anymore. He said looking at you hurt. You looked strikingly like her, and he avoided you because of it. Every time he looked at you directly his eyes got weepy, and he had to leave the room. It chipped away at you quickly.

You were left heartbroken and alone. It became apparent to you how shallow and two-faced your friends were. They expected you to be over her death within a week and got frustrated when you didn’t want to go shopping or partying with them. It felt as if the only thing you had left in the world was the pet rabbit your mom had surprised you with days prior to her death. You had all known she was ill, but the abruptness of her death tore you to shreds. It took everything in you not to give up after her passing. Your father was dealing with her death much worse than you. He sobbed for hours when he saw the soulmate mark on his wrist had vanished with her passing.

You avoided looking at your own now, scared of losing your soulmate like your father had. You felt every physical pain your soulmate endure, and the same stinging pain on your wrists made your eyes water. The pain came more and more often, and you couldn’t help but feel sick at the conclusion you had come to regarding what the pain might be stemming from. It felt like you were left with a hole where your heart should be, just empty. It was a struggle to maintain your high school life, nothing mattered as much as it used to.

“You’re late once again, Y/N. Do you have a tardy pass?” Your teacher called out to you as you made your way to your assigned seat. With a heavy sigh, you didn’t bother to sit down.

“Oh, sincerest apologies, my liege. Let me fetch that for you at once.”

You retorted sarcastically. Your ‘friends’ snickered, and you shot them all an empty smile as you made your way out of the classroom. You had the choice of going to the front office and getting reprimanded for your third tardy of the week or ditching class and getting reprimanded for skipping class later. It really wasn’t a difficult choice for you. Lunch was the next period, anyway. You spent the entirety of your class sitting just within the tree-line of the forest next to your school. The gardening class had planted a new tree sapling as if there weren’t enough trees around. When the lunch bell rang and a small group of kids seemed to be having a serious conversation next to the sapling, you decided it was time to take your leave.

Your teacher quickly tracked you down in the cafeteria and started to escort you to the front office.

“Y/n, I know things have been sticky for you recently, but you can’t just skip your classes when you don’t feel like attending them.”

He sighed softly, looking to you with eyes full of pity. An inferno of anger raged within you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from yelling back,

“Sticky? My mom died! You think sticky was the word to use in that situation? You call it sticky when everyone’s mom dies in front of them, or am I just getting special treatment?”

Your teacher, Mr. Destler, looked to you with surprise. He was used to sarcasm or snotty comments from you by now, but it was rare that you ever truly lost your temper in front of anyone. Taking a step away from you, he calmly stated,

“I apologize for my wording. How about you just take a moment to calm down?” You huffed out a broken laugh, shaking your head.

“How about,” you snarled, “you go fuck yourself, sir.”

A loud laugh caught the both of you off-guard, and you turned to see a boy with long wavy brown hair staring at the two of you, a small grin settled on his face. He had pale skin and sharp features. Dark circles were settled under his bloodshot blue eyes. Mr. Destler glowered at him, then turned to you, letting out a long heavy sigh.

“Y/n, I’m going to have to give you detention for using such foul language, and Mr. Murphy, I’m sure you already have detention. So, I’ll expect to see both of your names on the sign-in sheet.”

You openly rolled your eyes. He went to pat you on the shoulder, and you jerked away from him, then walking back toward the cafeteria.

“Hey, Y/n, what happened?” your best friend, Amelia, looked to you, her eyes yearning for some sort of juicy gossip. You shrugged, explaining in detail everything that occurred.

“Oh my GOD! You told him to go fuck himself? Seriously? That’s hilarious, I can’t wait to tell the girls! I can��t believe that freak was watching you guys, though.”

You bristled slightly at the word ‘freak’, but just shrugged again, snatching a strawberry from her lunch. She snickered at you as your bracelets slipped back onto your upper arm, revealing your soulmate mark. Hers was a seemingly normal one, a polaroid camera. Your soul mark revealed to you the thing that your soulmate was currently the most passionate about. Yours had been a skull for months. You weren’t sure what it meant, but your concern for your soulmate had been raising in the past year. All his passions were morbid or seemed to involve some sort of pain or death. You couldn’t be sure what yours appeared to be for him, but you wanted to meet him as soon as possible and make sure he was okay.

---

Detention was completely empty aside from you and the boy who had laughed at you in the hallway. He didn’t seem particularly friendly. The silence between the two of you was practically suffocating. You had seen him around the halls a few times, always alone and looking pissed at the aspect of even attending school. It was clear that he wasn’t someone you would normally associate with.

“What do you want?” You snapped out of a daze to find him staring at you. You had been looking at him the whole time without realizing it. His eyes narrowed. Your face flushed and you looked away.

“Sorry,” you replied, “I zoned out, I guess.”

He scoffed at your weak response, then turned away from you. You couldn’t help but steal a few glances at him. He was cute. There was something about him that you were drawn to, you just couldn’t stop looking once you started. He adjusted slightly in his chair, and his long hair fell from behind his ear, effectively shielding his face from your curious gaze.

“What the fuck do you want?” he repeated, his voice rising in irritation. You shook your head, looking down to your lap awkwardly. “Looking for a reason to mock me?” he continued with a cynical huff of a laugh. You felt him glaring at you as you quickly shook your head and shrugged.

“Sorry.” You stated dumbly.

“Sure.” He responded in a mocking tone. “What’s up with you screaming earlier, anyway? Aren’t you a teacher’s pet?”

You didn’t respond, continuing to stare at your lap.

“What, scared to talk now? Never had detention before, prom queen?” He poked at you further. Your own irritation was starting to rise.

“I’m sorry for staring. Just leave me alone.” You murmured, refusing to meet his increasingly intense gaze.

“Leave you alone? As if you and your friends would leave me alone if you to. What makes you so special?”

You went to bite back a reply when your phone rang. A small sigh of relief escaped your lips, but your stomach sank when you saw it was your father calling.

“Shit.” You whispered, quickly answering the call. You hadn’t told him about the detention and you were usually home from school by now, excluding the days you attended cheerleading practice.

“Where are you?”

Your father’s worried voice rang loudly in your ear. Pinching your eyes shut, you cringed as you told him you were in detention for the first time in your life. A long silence hung between the two of you before he replied,

“We’ll talk about it when you get home.”

Instinctively you nodded, before realizing he couldn’t see you.

“Yeah…” You replied, your voice full of guilt. “Can you feed Honey for me? She needs fresh veggies, I have some cut up and everything, just try not to spook her too badly when you go to give them to her.”

Your father grunted in response and quickly hung up. You sighed anxiously and shoved your phone into your pocket. Remembering who was in the room with you, you slowly glanced toward him. He was still staring at you. A mocking smile pulled at his lips.

“Not a daddy’s girl, are you?” he pried.

This struck a nerve. You shook your head and barked back,

“Shut up.”

The boy’s eyes sparkled. He had found something to get a genuine response out of you. It was clear he was just trying to irritate you.

“What?” he continued, “You’ve got daddy issues, so you started to act out for attention?”

You gave him a sarcastic laugh, quickly retorting.

“Not exactly.”

His eyes held curiosity as he tiled his head in question.

“What then? Mommy issues? Did mommy run out on you?”

Your eyes started to glaze with tears, and you felt your face get hot. At this point, you would’ve preferred his assumption. Knowing your mom was alive somewhere was much better than knowing you had no possible way of seeing her again.

“She died, actually.”

You said, a small pained smile tugging at your lips. The boy’s face fell, and you turned away from him. Grabbing your bag, you quickly signed your name on the detention sheet and went to make your exit. You had technically attended, even if the teacher that was supposed to be supervising you hadn’t. You heard a string of whispered profanities as you slammed the door behind you and jogged down the hallway.

Practically bursting through the front doors of the school, you walked a few paces. Your heart felt heavy. You crouched, covering your mouth with your hoodie sleeve, trying to silence the sobs that tumbled from your lips. You just wanted everything to go back to normal. You wanted your mom back. You wanted your happiness back. Jumping, you gasped when you looked forward to finding the boy standing in front of you. He looked guilt-ridden.

“Look, I’m… fuck. I’m sorry, okay? I should’ve left you alone, I didn’t realize…” He trailed off awkwardly, picking nervously at the strap of the bag he had hanging from one shoulder. You stood, wiping your tears quickly.

“Yeah, forget it. It’s fine. I gotta get home and take care of Honey anyway.”

He glanced to his wrist, a glimmer of hope playing across his features.

“Honey?” he questioned. You nodded,

“My rabbit. My mom gave her to me, she’s kind of my everything right now.” You finished with a small chuckle. His eyes widened, and he roughly took your wrist in his hand, ignoring your confused protest. You went to yell at him when he yanked your bracelets away from your soul mark. It was extremely rude to force someone into showing you their soul mark.

“Holy shit…” he whispered.

You snatched your wrist away from his hands, taking a step away from him, not sure what to say. Sure, you had gotten some interesting reactions from your soul mark before, but never had you been so offended by someone in so many ways.

“What the fuck is your…” you stopped, eyes widening when he showed you his own wrist. Your yellow rabbit was printed on his wrist. Even the unique white patch of fur across her left eye was present. You took a shaky breath, then finally meeting his gaze. You hadn’t noticed that one of his eyes was half brown before. They sparkled brightly at you, and your heart went into overdrive when he genuinely smiled at you for the first time.

“You’re my soulmate…?” You asked in an astonished murmur. It was an obvious answer, but you were dumbfounded. You had been going to the same high school as your soulmate for almost four full years without realizing it. His smile faltered.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He said, his voice full of pain. You realized quickly that he saw your question as one of disappointment, not joy and astonishment. You grabbed his arm when he went to walk away.

“No!” you said quickly, “I just didn’t expect you to be so…” you stopped, looking for the right word. His stare hardened, seemingly expecting an offensive description. “Perfect.” You finished. His eyes widened in shock, and his lips parted. He was at a loss for words. “Oh my god,” you continued, pulling him to face you, “I’ve been so worried about you.”

You pulled him into a hug, one that he slowly returned. Pulling away after a moment, you took his face into your hands.

“Are you okay?” You asked in a gentle whisper. His eyes closed tightly for a moment. When they opened once more, you could tell he was trying to hold back tears.

“I’m okay now that I’ve met you. I’m sorry I was such a dick to you. My name’s Connor.”

He replied shakily. You beamed at him, gently wiping away a few tears that had managed to escape despite Connor’s best efforts to keep them in.

“I’m Y/n.”

You responded. He nodded, a smile slowly forming. He was beautiful when he smiled. He was beautiful when he wasn’t smiling. You understood now why you couldn’t stop yourself from looking at him. He was genuinely perfect for you. Your soulmate. You slowly slipped your hands down to his shoulders, leaning closer toward him. He didn’t hesitate to meet you halfway, kissing you softly. When you pulled away it was his turn to wipe tears from your cheek. You placed your hand over his when he gently cupped your cheek, but your wrist caught your attention. The familiar skull print was no longer there. Instead, it had been replaced with something that made you start to cry once more. Your own name was printed onto your wrist.

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savage-rhi · 4 years

Note

Gene and Higgs OMFG I need more content :33333 👕 : your muse helps my muse get dressed after my muse sustains an injury or illness .

Here you go honey bunches💙

“Alright missy, down you go.” Higgs said playfully as he eased Gene off of his back, lowering her to the ground where they would make camp for the night. Higgs grunted as he got the rest of Gene’s luggage and his own belongings off of him. He felt much lighter while he stretched, popping his back in a few places before sighing in relief.

“Darlin’, you sure gave me a workout today.” He chuckled.

“You--didn’t have to carry me.” Gene choked out, trying her best not to have another coughing fit as she settled her upper body against a rock. Higgs waved her off.

“Nonsense. You were hacking up a storm back there. I would’ve been an asshole if I didn’t help ya.”

Carrying Gene for the last several hours on top of everything else wasn’t an easy task. Higgs hadn’t done porter activity in years so it was a challenge at first, but instinct took over and he found himself back on the saddle.

Gene smirked. “Aren’t you always an asshole?”

Higgs feigned he was hurt, furrowing his brows as he put on a pout. “Owch. I guess someone doesn’t want a ride tomorrow. I’m kind, but I ain’t your pack mule.”

Higgs chuckled as Gene rolled her eyes, he waited for a comeback but was met with another round of coughs. Higgs’s demeanor changed as he crouched beside Gene and felt her forehead after she was done.

“Phew, you’re sweatin’ up a storm.” Higgs murmured.

“I feel like I hacked up a lung,” Gene said faintly as Higgs quietly laughed.

“Surprised’ you didn’t. Goes without sayin’, you took getting hit with them flu darts like a champ.”

“Wow. Such high praise.” Gene said sarcastically, getting Higgs to grin from ear to ear. He appreciated Gene’s snark when it would show itself. It reminded Higgs of how he used to be when he was a porter. Sure, he still had it but a lot had changed since those days.

“Only the best for my girl,” Higgs said proudly, watching as Gene grimaced at his comment. Higgs brushed it off, sighing as he got up and onto his feet.

“I’m gonna find a water source. Don’t do anythin’ dumb, okay?”

“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to,” Gene said, closing her eyes and letting her body rest. Even though she got a ride from Higgs, the rough terrain he had taken them both through was strainful. The bouncing didn’t help her ailment. She could still feel the migraine that came on about an hour before stopping to make camp.

By the time Higgs returned with some essentials he found, or otherwise confiscated off of unsuspecting travelers, he found Gene had gone through the trouble of getting their sleeping mats, tent, and a fire started. He rolled his eyes, letting out a breath while approaching.

“I thought I told you to stay outta trouble,” Higgs said firmly, to which Gene shrugged as she was lying against the rock from earlier on.

Higgs shook his head, deciding not to fight her this time around. Gene’s stubbornness was something to behold at times, and others Higgs wished he could have slapped it out of her. It was a trait that had its perks nonetheless. Gene had ambition and grit to go along with it, and in Higgs’s mind that made up for things.

“I gotcha some water,” Higgs said, holding out a canteen for her after capping the top off. Gene’s fingers shook as she grabbed the bottle, then started to drink slowly.

“At the rate your fever is goin’, you should be over this in another day or two.” Higgs assured Gene after she was done drinking her share.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Gene said, coughing for a moment. Her skin trembled. Higgs could see even though she was close to the fire, Gene had goosebumps all over her arms. The pale color they had too indicated how cold she was as Higgs sat beside her.

Higgs took off his cape, pulling the hood over himself while taking it off then carefully wrapped it around Gene. He laid a hand on her shoulder, watching as she glanced between it and his eyes.

“Thanks.”

“Heh, no biggie,” Higgs said and moved back to give space. “Anyway, you caught me red-handed. When I was a terrorist, I used to sell flu darts to MULEs all the time. Hot commodity them things are. I don’t know if you ever heard of a komodo dragon, but they were these big lizards. Had nasty bites. What they’d do is they’d snap a prey item, and let it go. Then they’d track the scent of that creature and wait until they’d perish from sickness. Their saliva was heavily debated, whether they were venomous or not. It’s what those darts are based on. The maker of them passed away about three years ago. Surprised to see MULEs using them anymore.”

“Too bad he ain’t alive so I can kick him in the nuts,” Gene said bluntly, to which Higgs laughed. Some relief washed over his face seeing Gene smile. He had been worried about her, more than he let on.

“Well, it sounds like we both have a common enemy,” Higgs said. “But tell me somethin’ aren’t ya at least a bit happy to know I killed all the MULEs back there that did you dirty?”

Gene thought it over before giving a rapid nod. Higgs chuckled and reached over, tucking one of Gene’s small braids behind her ear so it wouldn’t go over her sweat.

“I knew you’d come around,” Higgs said.

“What do you mean?” Gene asked.

“Well, not to be a dick but your little stint about not killing people unless you have to is gonna put you in harms way more so than just offing people from the start.”

“That’s why I have you. You have more balls in that department.”

Higgs made a face. “So, you didn’t want me on this trip for the companionship?”

Gene flexed her hand, emphasizing her answer as she smirked. “Maybe a little.”

“Bitch.” Higgs huffed playfully.

“Fuck wad.” Gene countered, smiling up at Higgs as he returned the favor. He was about to make another remark, then noticed Gene’s tank top had been damp from all the sweat she was losing. Higgs scooted over to Gene’s porter pack, taking a small box off that had some spare clothes in it that she kept around.

“What are you doing?” Gene asked.

“Gonna help you out. Can’t have you shakin’ like a naked chicken all night.”

Gene giggled from his remark, getting Higgs to smile sincerely as he felt his cheeks burn up a little.

“Higgs, it’s not necessary.” Gene protested as he took out a black t-shirt, then scooted back to her side all the while Gene removed his cape from earlier and started to pull her clothes off.

“I insist,” Higgs said. He tried his damned hardest not to let his mind drift off where it shouldn’t go, but he’d be lying to himself if he wasn’t affected. Gene was attractive. Since going on this delivery run with her, it opened up Higgs’s mind to the fact. There was always a sentimental nature he regarded towards her, but like many things about Higgs, his affections had layers. When it came to Gene, he didn’t know where it ended and where it began. All Higgs knew was he was screwed and pining for something he couldn’t have.

Higgs kept his gaze away, but only darted back to Gene when he heard her wince.

“You alright darlin’?” Higgs asked, canting his head curiously at her.

“Yeah--I just ache everywhere,” Gene said truthfully, then managed to get the tank off in full. Higgs observed her, swallowing a lump in his throat as he fiddled around with the shirt, then reached out and gently guided Gene’s hands into the sleeves, before helping her poke her head through the neck area. Higgs gently tugged down on the sides, making sure the shirt was secure on Gene and covering her enough.

“Now you don’t look like you’ve been bathin’ in a swamp.” Higgs muttered, smiling as Gene snorted at his remark. Their eyes met each other as Higgs regarded her by cupping her face with his hands, once more removing strands of hair from her face along with debris. Gene continued to smile up at Higgs, her hand resting on his arm before he pulled back.

“Would it be too weird if I requested somethin’ of ya?” Higgs asked after clearing his throat.

“At this point, nothing you say can surprise me.” Gene said truthfully, coughing into her arm for a time.

“Can I hold you?” Higgs blurted out, feeling himself nervously shake. The way Gene was looking at him made Higgs feel weird. Maybe he crossed a line, but before he could say anything to take it back, she was already getting herself comfortable and moved closer to Higgs. He smiled, letting his arms scoop her up into his lap as she cradled against him, her face pressed against his shoulder near the crook of his neck.

“You're warm,” Gene muttered, her throat scratchy as she nuzzled into him. Higgs could feel her skin quake under his fingertips, dragging his cloak back and putting it over her. He tucked the sides into her body and leaned his head down against hers.

“I gotcha darlin’.” Higgs said quietly.

“Why are you doing this?” Gene asked.

There was a long pause. Truthfully, it was because he craved holding her. It made him feel like he could protect something, someone important to him for once in his life, but Higgs wasn’t ready to face the music. Nonetheless, there was another reason. Something he could share with Gene and not be ashamed of it.

“Cause’ this is what I wished my daddy did for me when I was sick.” Higgs replied, adjusting some to look at Gene’s face. She stared up at him sadly upon hearing that, but she was growing too tired to say anything.

“Rest up, okay?” Higgs said as Gene nodded against him, her eyes soon closing as she relaxed more in his arms. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulled her to sleep. All the while, Higgs watched her before resting his own eyes. As shitty as the situation was, Higgs was thankful for it to some degree. This gave him an excuse to be close to another person. One he held in high regard.

**A link to my ko-fi account. If you enjoy my content and want to support me getting my monthly medication for fibromyalgia and arthritis, I would be eternally grateful. It is NOT a requirement however! All my work is free to read!**

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thedarklordmegatron · 5 years

Text

Fear

I can finally share one of my pieces for the Fleurentia Zine and of course, I'm going to share the angsty one first~

But then again Fleurentia/Ravnis is a naturally angsty ship anyway.

Enjoy the sadness my friends~

Also available on my AO3 - archiveofourown.org/works/21503425 (Sorry it’s not a link but Tumblr doesn’t like those anymore D:)

Ship: Ignis Scientia/Ravus Nox Fleuret

Rating: T

Summary:

There was no mistaking them for what they were, the beginnings of the Starscourge.

As a boy, Ravus imagined that he would die an old man surrounded by those he loved and happy with the love he had lived. Not once had he considered that at the age of thirty he would find out that he was dying.

It started with little black tendrils snaking out from beneath the edges of his Magitek arm. Tiny little things that had he not been inspecting the joint, as he often did, would have gone otherwise unnoticed. As soon as his eyes fell upon them he froze, his breath catching in his throat. There was no mistaking them for what they were, the beginnings of the Starscourge. He had seen enough people in the various stages of Daemonification in his lifetime to know that once the Scourge became visible to the naked eye, and without the immediate intervention of the Oracle, there was no saving the infected party. Indeed, it was generally considered kinder to simply put them out of their misery before the disease had a chance to eat away at their mind and body.

Sighing heavily, Ravus braced his forearms on the edge of the sink and let his head fall forward.

In retrospect, he should have removed the damned thing the second he discovered Ardyn’s identity as the Adagium, perhaps earlier considering the man’s predisposition to causing chaos and misery wherever he went. It did, after all, make sense that the very embodiment of the Starscourge would find a way to kill off the last of the Oracle’s line without initially drawing attention to himself. Unfortunately, with everything else going on, he had never once considered that the arm might be infected.

An oversight that was now killing him.

Running his human fingers through his hair, Ravus moved to sit on the edge of the bathtub. Two options laid before him. One, he could come clean to Ignis and their friends, tell them the truth and try to live a normal life, well, as normal as one’s life could be in a world without the sun and a fatal disease running through your veins. Or two, he could keep it a secret. Ensure that no one but himself would know the truth until it was too late. Certainly not the best option, especially not when Ignis already suspected him of keeping secrets in regards to his health.

No, he would have to tell Ignis the truth. But first, he was going to have to come to terms with the realisation that he was dying.

Yay.

----

Three weeks after he had first discovered the truth about his failing health, Ravus collapsed.

Following the sun’s disappearance the sudden influx of refugees and hunters to Lestallum, Gladiolus had been quite insistent that Iris should not be allowed to wander around unaccompanied, at least until her eighteenth birthday or the Marshal deemed her self-defence skills sufficient enough. With both himself and Prompto otherwise occupied in the movement of refugee caravans, and Ignis having taken it upon himself to deal with the bureaucracy of a ‘post-apocalyptic world’, as Prompto liked to call it, Gladiolus had reluctantly chosen Ravus as Iris’ protector. Because apparently, he was a better option than leaving the daughter of one of the most fearsome men in Lucis to her own devices.

Would wonders never cease?

It was on one such excursion that Ravus found himself lying in a puddle, his entire body seized up in agony whilst Iris knelt beside him, her hands on his shoulders, crying out for help. Had his head not felt as though it might implode, he would have been quite mortified about his state and the numerous concerned people who had gathered around them. As it was, it took all of his self-restraint to swallow the moan of pain that was attempting to make itself known.

He wasn’t quite sure how long he laid there, only that after what felt like a lifetime, familiar fingers touched his face and neck before two brutishly large hands tucked themselves beneath his body and ever so slowly rolled him onto his back. The sudden movement, despite its slow speed, sent a jolt of pain down his spine and through his head and this time he could not swallow the pained groan that escaped his lips.

“No visible wounds,” Ignis commented as his face was finally freed from the cold water he’d been laying in.

“That’s something at least,” A voice he recognised as belonging to Marshal Leonis muttered as Ravus was finally settled on his back, out of the puddle. Blinking slowly, Ravus stared up at the faces hovering over his, focusing on Ignis as someone, most likely Cor, propped his legs up on what had to have been a jacket or two.

“Hello darling,” Ignis said softly, running his fingers through Ravus’ hair “How are you feeling?”

“M’fine,” The roughness of his own voice had Ravus wincing.

“Fine men don’t collapse in the middle of the street,” Cor interjected as he moved into view.

“I’m afraid I must agree with the Marshal on this one,” Sighing Ravus closed his eyes and lent into the hand that had migrated from his hair to his cheek.

“Ah ah, eyes open kid.” The order was accompanied by the clicking of fingers and a light pat to the other side of his face.

Ravus cleared his throat before opening his eyes once again and levelling the Marshal with as strong a glare as he could muster in his weakened state. “I am not a child.”

“Let’s not have a fight in the middle of the street,” Ignis said before Cor had a chance to reply, leaning in to press a kiss to Ravus’ forehead. “If you do want to argue about ages, would you mind waiting until we are indoors, dry and warm?” Gods that sounded delightful. Without the sun it was almost permanently cold, and the water currently covering the entire left side of his body was doing absolutely nothing to help. Then again, neither was the Scourge but he had at least attempted to counter that by wearing more layers than normal, or at least as many as he could get away with without raising suspicion.

Once again Cor’s hands found their way beneath his armpits, only this time Ravus was absolutely certain that he was going to empty the contents of his stomach over the man’s body.

“Stop, stop, stop-” He begged, bowing his head and clenching his eyes shut as he attempted to regain his bearings and stop the world from spinning. The whole situation was humiliating enough as it was, he refused to let his body embarrass him any further. Thankfully Cor paused immediately, giving him a minute or two to regain control of his body before Ignis joined them in helping him to his feet.

When he finally felt less like death and more like himself again, Ravus nodded and allowed Ignis to continue supporting him when Cor moved away.

“Take it easy,” Cor ordered “Get some rest, both of you. I’ll take Iris home.”

Ah, yes, Iris, he’d almost forgotten about her. Peering around the Marshal Ravus inclined his head ever so slightly, not quite trusting his body to remain on his side should he try and nod fully. “Thank you for your help, I am most grateful.” She gave him a small smile in return.

“Yes, thank you Iris,” Ignis added with a small smile of his own, readjusting his grip on Ravus. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

----

Never let it be said that Ravus couldn’t appreciate the wonders of modern plumbing. There really was nothing better than being able to stand beneath a continuous stream of warm water with one’s partner. Unfortunately, he only remembered that he’d been actively avoiding sharing a shower with Ignis for the past month once he was already naked and standing in said shower. The moment his shirt was off and unceremoniously thrown aside, Ignis’ face became devoid of any emotion, a hand coming up to touch his right shoulder.

“How long?” Ignis questioned softly, his voice deceptively calm.

Sighing Ravus dropped his head back against the tiles, allowing the water to continue soaking his body. “Three weeks.” He admitted, angling the showerhead away from Ignis and over himself entirely.

“And I presume this is the cause of your collapse earlier?”

“Most probably,” He answered, “I didn’t want to worry you.” The second the words left his mouth he wished they hadn’t. Ignis’ head snapped up, his eyes burning with silent fury.

“You didn’t want to worry me?” He repeated, voice eerily calm. “You did not want to worry me so you kept your illness a secret. An illness that had you collapsing in the middle of the street.” Okay, so perhaps keeping the infection a secret hadn’t been one of his better ideas, especially not when he had likely terrified those around him in the process.

“You have enough to worry about.” The sight of Ignis’ face contorting in rage had him raising a hand, “Please, let me explain.” At Ignis’ reluctant nod he continued “I am terrified Ignis. This,” He motioned to the black tendrils that covered a good portion of his upper body. “Is going to kill me. There is no curing it and we both know what the Starscourge does to its victims.” Ravus paused “I thought that if I kept it a secret, that if I didn’t openly admit to being contaminated then I could pretend, if only for a short while, that it wasn’t true.” The rage faded from Ignis’ face as he spoke, being replaced by an emotion he struggled to identify. “You have enough to worry about between Noctis’ disappearance and the influx of refugees. I didn’t want to place another burden upon your shoulders.”

“Ravus,” Ignis said firmly, taking a step closer, inadvertently stepping into the shower despite his fully dressed state to grab his face “You are not, and never will be a burden. Not to me.”

“I am going to die,” Ravus choked out after a few moments of silence, “I wanted to spare you the pain of that for as long as possible.”

“I do not want to be spared the pain Ravus, not when it means spending hours locked away in meetings when I could be spending them with you.”

“I would not ask-”

Ignis’ hand covered his mouth “You are not asking anything of me Ravus Nox Fleuret.” He stated, moving the hand covering his mouth to his jaw, the other coming up to rest over the infected joint. “I am telling you that I would rather tell the world to leave me alone and survive without me for a while, so that I may spend as many hours as is physically possible with the man I love more than anything in this world.” And while Ravus knew that last statement to be false, Noctis was and always would be the most important thing in Ignis’ life, he couldn’t prevent the singular tear from escaping. “I only wish that you had told me sooner so I could have supported you.”

Chuckling mirthlessly Ravus smiled at him “We have enjoyed this last year though, have we not?”

“We have.” Was Ignis’ quiet response.

“All things come to an end Ignis,” Ravus began with a shake of his head “I am just sorry that I will be leaving you behind far earlier than I intended.” The tears in Ignis’ eyes only served to break his own heart further.

“I’m fairly certain you promised that I would not have to lose anyone else I hold dear.”

“Another promise I am afraid I cannot keep.” Bowing his head, Ravus worried his lower lip.

“Ravus,” The declaration of his name was followed by a choked off sound as Ignis threw his arms around him.

“When the time comes,” Ravus whispered, “If you cannot bring yourself to end it, please, have someone else do it. I do not want to become one of those things," he spat.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat and desperately fighting to hold back his tears, Ignis nodded, leaning in to kiss him. “I would not let you.” Ignis knew he would not be strong enough to be the one to end it; that in reality, Cor would likely be the one to strike the final blow and yet he could not bring himself to say otherwise. “I promise.”

Ravus’ almost inaudible ‘Thank you’ is what finally brought them both to tears.

#fleurentia #Ravnis #ignis scientia #ravus nox fleuret #ffxv #Final Fantasy #final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #Fleurentia Zine #Sass & Class Zine #Zine Piece #Vex Writes

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

Text

Thatcher/Lesion oneshot in which Lesion has a tattoo and Thatcher hates it. (Rating T, fierce denial and fluff I suppose, ~2.5k words) - dedicated to @glazkov-smile who put this ship into my brain where it now festers and grows shakes fist

The first time Thatcher catches a glimpse of it, all he feels – curiously enough – is betrayal.

No part of it makes sense, it’s neither his body nor his decision and yet it’s as if he’s been deceived in some way, left in the dark about a topic concerning him personally. It’s irrelevant how nonsensical his emotions are because they’re there regardless and no amount of logical arguing with himself is able to make them vanish. He can’t rationalise it even if he tries, and he tries desperately. He’s merely being a judgemental old fart, probably, something he’s been called before in differing contexts. But he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

It was no longer than a second: Bandit pulled on the back of Lesion’s collar to drop an ice cube into his shirt, and Thatcher just happened to look over at the commotion and saw colour lick at the back of Lesion’s neck, usually hidden by whatever garish shirt the man inexplicably chose to wear that day but now revealed in a flash of ink. And it’s enough to conjure up a profound disappointment in Thatcher.

They’ve known each other for years now, stayed in contact where Smoke exchanged irregular messages which taper off now and then, only to rekindle once in a blue moon. No, Thatcher and Lesion wrote and called almost every week, given their work permitted it, left messages on a variety of media depending on their current location and sent each other postcards even, both of them carefully and happily maintaining an unlikely friendship. They differ in many regards though not the most important ones, and thus remained pointed towards each other like magnets. Friendships like this one are rare, Thatcher has come to understand this all too keenly.

And he can’t stand tattoos.

To him, they’re much worse than gaudy jewellery, flamboyant clothes and unnaturally dyed hair together – not only are they alarmingly permanent but also usually horribly tacky. Who cares if someone managed to father a child? Congratulations, they fulfilled their purpose the way nature intended, no need to plaster their kid’s heartbeat or birth date or entire bloody face all over their arms and legs and basically rub it under everyone’s nose. He doesn’t care to know the names of people’s partners nor is he interested in cringy quotes or supposedly deep and symbolic bullshit which allegedly holds so much meaning for its bearer. They’re ugly. They mar skin instead of decorating it.

He much prefers freckles, scars, stretch marks, hair, natural discolouration, any sort of blemish which tells him this person is alive and breathing and not airbrushed or genetically engineered to look this way. He doesn’t care tattoos have been around forever, to him they’re a disgrace and can erase all his interest in someone. Can, and have.

Thinking back, he’s fairly sure he ranted about this to Lesion’s face before, was met with the usual calm patience tinged with amusement whenever he complains about something at length, earned no more than a half-reply implying his position was at best a bit too extreme and at worst complete and utter dogshite in Lesion’s opinion. He’s never dismissive about it, merely pokes fun but ultimately chooses to respect Thatcher’s views which is probably one of the reasons why they’re still friends.

So when he catches sight of precise strokes lining Lesion’s back, Thatcher is appalled. Indignant. Offended, even.

He needs to see it.

Just like he demands details about all the unnecessary so-called ‘apps’ most people around him use so he can judge them accordingly, curiosity grips him in its iron hold and compels him to view the entire disaster Lesion immortalised on his body for reasons unknown. Maybe it’s linked to a previous partner, a family member, a time in Lesion’s life about which Thatcher knows nothing yet, something deeply personal – in which case he’ll still disapprove of the ink but possibly gain more insight into his friend’s past. In that case, it’d be a worthwhile endeavour despite the knowledge of what exactly is tainting Lesion’s skin. He won’t be able to unsee it afterwards.

“Do you want to fight?”, he interrupts Lesion’s current conversation and gets a good-natured laugh from his friend and a concerned look from Ying in return.

“I thought we agreed not to argue politics in the workplace anymore”, Lesion replies cheerfully and moves his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, Thatcher’s gaze following its journey momentarily.

“You said you were a little rusty in whatever fancy martial arts style you always torture the recruits with, so I thought you could use a refresher.”

“It’s much too warm to fight”, Ying points out and Thatcher barely bites back a response along the lines of that’s the point.

Lesion ignores her statement and leans back in his lawn chair, one of Rainbow’s most sought after commodity in summer – ants are prevalent and therefore sitting in the grass ill-advised. “Even if I did, I’d go to Yumiko and not you – no offence.”

“I bet you’ve been doing it for longer than she has.”

“Possibly, but she’s still lengths better.” The younger man raises an amused eyebrow. “Mike, are you bored?”

Oh. It’s the perfect excuse, his entire team is known for their eccentric solutions to boredom as well as striking fear into everyone’s heart as soon as it looks like they’ve got nothing to do. “Yes”, he lies smoothly, “so you can either join me willingly or spend the rest of the day anticipating a non-consensual fight. I’ll know when you least expect it, Tze Long.”

“Sounds like you don’t have a choice at all”, Ying sighs, shaking her head. “Men.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to roll through the mud with Elena, my dear”, Lesion comments casually after which neither of the two stick around for long enough to watch her turn crimson and splutter at the accusation. “So, tell me. Was this a misguided rescue mission or do you need my help with anything embarrassing?”

Thatcher blinks at the unexpected question until he realises his excuse sounds so terribly flimsy Lesion didn’t buy it for a second, correctly assuming an ulterior motive. Even if he’s nowhere near guessing it. “Oh, neither. I really just – it was a genuine suggestion and I…” He trails off when crinkles appear around dark eyes.

“Aren’t we a little too old to kill time by beating each other up? Let’s go drink some green tea to cool down instead, shall we?”

His objection dies on his tongue as his friend turns away, wearing a small smile. “I don’t even like green tea”, Thatcher protests quietly yet trails after Lesion nonetheless.

“Let’s go swimming.”

Lesion pauses visibly, marks his spot on the page he’s currently on and then glances up sceptically. “Now?”

Yes, Thatcher almost blurts out but catches himself just in time, checks his watch and pretends like he didn’t completely lose track of the hours ticking by purely because of Lesion’s presence. It’s a common occurrence, oddly enough. “Of course not”, he scoffs, “but what about tomorrow?”

“Where is this coming from? We’ve never gone for a swim together, you prefer going alone.” Fortunately, there’s no suspicion in his voice, only curiosity.

“I just thought you might want to join me. When’s the last time you went swimming?”

“Yesterday. Meghan invited me.”

Ah. Thatcher squints before he can help himself – they probably spent the time showing off their respective tattoos, and for some reason this thought makes it worse than as if Lesion had gone with anyone else. Even Blackbeard. “Well. If you don’t want to, that’s fine”, he concludes curtly and directs his attention back to the book in his own lap, fighting down another wave of dismay. So others are allowed to see it, apparently, where he’d not even been aware of it at all.

“What? Of course we can go, I was just surprised -”

“Nah. Nevermind.”

“Mike.” There’s gentle exasperation in Lesion’s voice now and he leans forward in the armchair which has become basically his over the course of several months – it bears his imprint and smells of him. Not that Thatcher would know. “I didn’t say no.”

“I’m busy tomorrow anyway”, he lies through his teeth and wonders whether he sounds cranky.

Lesion silently examines him for a few seconds longer, expression unreadable, and finally shrugs. “Alright. If you do want to go, just let me know.”

The doors of his wardrobe have mirrors. It’s the perfect plan. Thatcher buys the Dutch beer Lesion likes so much, and while Maestro is in the middle of listing all the exotic animals he’s eaten in his life with Smoke listening intently (and probably adding quite a few to his bucket list), while Mute snitches on Bandit’s newest plan to Sledge, while Sledge pointedly ignores Maestro’s hand slowly creeping up his thigh – while all of them are gathered in Thatcher’s living room, he makes sure to spill some of it down Lesion’s back.

“Whoops”, he says after his friend has jumped up with an undignified noise of surprise and hopes dearly that either none of the others watched him very deliberately tip his bottle or that they at least know to keep their mouths shut. “Come on, let’s get you something else to wear.”

“Why did we even stay in if I end up smelling like pub anyway”, Lesion complains weakly on the way to the bedroom, lamenting the wasted drink and accepting the fresh t-shirt Thatcher presses into his hands. “Thanks. You can go ahead.”

Thatcher pauses, hovering uncertainly. This – isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The last time, Lesion undressed in front of him without any qualms and he hoped it would be the same now, positioned his friend between himself and the mirrors so he’d get a good look no matter what. “I, uh -”

“Do you want to watch me change?”, Lesion asks, audibly entertained.

“No, I just – you probably need a towel, right? To get rid of the beer.”

“Sure”, the younger man agrees easily and Thatcher nods more to himself than for his benefit, leaves the room and dashes as soon as he’s out of eyesight. He’s never fetched a wet towel faster in his life, hoping to at least see part of it if Lesion’s in the middle of undressing, yet when he returns, Lesion is still wearing his soaked shirt. As well as a meaningful smirk. “Thank you, Mike. I’ve got it from here.”

No, he’s not going to let this opportunity pass. “Are you sure you don’t need help with your back?”

“Do you want to see it that badly?”

Oh.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Your personal vendetta against my shirts. It took me a few days to realise why so many of them ended up ruined, stained, ripped or threatened. You’ve not seen it before, have you?”

He hasn’t been that obvious. Has he? Thatcher considers denying everything but his curiosity prevails, triumphs over the prospect of never living this down. Defeated, he shakes his head, prepares for the inevitable ribbing yet is merely awarded with Lesion’s fingers reaching up to unbutton his soiled shirt, a gesture so hypnotising all speech evades him.

“I didn’t know you were that interested”, Lesion comments nonchalantly as if the temperature in the room hadn’t just jumped up a few degrees – or maybe Thatcher is experiencing a heatwave, yet whatever it is, his face is burning.

“I’m not”, he replies petulantly and is in the middle of justifying all his actions to himself in his head when the piece of fabric drops, carelessly gets discarded, and then Lesion turns.

It’s -

Well, it’s large, first of all, covering the entirety of his back and seemingly continuing even below the waistband of his trousers, just shy of curling all the way around his ribs. The ink is vibrant and mesmerising, no part of Lesion’s natural skin colour visible between all the vivid colours crassly at odds with everything Thatcher considers desirable. To him, it looks more like a yakuza tattoo than anything else, the motif of a roaring tiger familiar yet kept in a more tasteful style, no cartoonish bulging eyes or exaggerated features. Part of it is shiny with moisture, making it look even more recent and amplifying the otherworldly feel of it.

And it’s still a tattoo, even if the fact that it’s Lesion’s back changes something about it; even if the outline of his shoulder blades, the dip of his lower back, the gently curved spine do something to Thatcher, its nature remains intact. He doesn’t know why anyone would choose to deface their natural beauty like this, would spend a horrendous amount of money on something this hideous, would endure a million needle pricks only to look like this.

He also has no idea why he can’t stop staring.

A detail catches his attention and, without thinking, he lifts his hand and brushes over the tiger’s face with a thumb, the skin warm and slightly sticky. “He’s got a scar below his eye”, Thatcher murmurs and fights hard to keep this odd, uncalled-for reverent tone out of his voice.

“Do you want to watch him dance?”, Lesion asks him quietly and his brain is too occupied to process his words, discern the meaning behind them because – surely, he’s not -

The air is thick around them and it’s not only a byproduct of the season; it’s not stuffy yet heavy nonetheless, struggles against Thatcher’s deep inhale. His other fingers join his thumb in resting on intricate swirls, scared to move in case they smudge the ornate ink. “What do you mean?”, he hears himself mumble, possibly hoping for a repetition only, not even a clarification.

“Oh. Nevermind.” Lesion’s reply is soft and it sounds like he’s grinning. “I’m glad you seem to like it though.”

“I don’t”, Thatcher protests immediately and withdraws his hand, suddenly light-headed with the rush of oxygen, air flooding his lungs, returned to normal from one second to the next.

His friend throws him a look over his shoulder and he really looks like the Cheshire cat for some reason, as if he’s having the time of his life and Thatcher feels like he missed something somewhere along the way. “Alright”, Lesion agrees readily.

They get him cleaned up and into Thatcher’s shirt without any more interruptions, but when he turns to leave, the Brit holds him back yet falters at the expectant, amused and open smile with which the gesture is met.

“How about”, he begins, suddenly sheepish, “we go swimming this weekend?”

And to his relief, Lesion nods immediately, grinning and extremely pleased with the suggestion. “Of course. I’d love to.”

#rainbow six siege #thatcher #lesion #thatcher/lesion #fanfic #oneshot #had I known I'd get myself stuck I never would've encouraged you #all it took was those 1k words you wrote #I already have more ideas #crying

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clarketomylexa · 6 years

Text

The Bucket List

Clexa Week 2018, Day 7, Free Day | read on ao3

Clarke grew up thinking she was fragile. She was too young to comprehend the look on her mother’s face when she had found the number, skewed and grey on Clarke’s ribs while scooping sudsy water over her in the bath. But she knew it wasn’t good because that night when she needed the potty her mommy had been crying in her daddy’s arms. She knew it was the same thing that had her teachers looking at her with that sweet, sad look when they read over her forms at school, the thing that had everyone careful around her.

Everyone but except Finn in the eighth grade whose number was seventeen and who she would have thought had a death wish if she didn’t know he was just living his to the fullest. It made her sad when he did these things, pulled these stunts like shimmying up the side of the gym or swimming out the deepest in the ocean on summer vacation. But it also made her like him. She was thirteen-years-old and love seemed like something for the adult Finn wouldn’t be, so she kissed him under the bleachers and held his hand when they went to the diner after school because he was nice and sweet, and he had something like a sad song in his eyes. He told Clarke he loved her in the summer between freshman and sophomore year, the day before he left to go to California and she cried.

They were a good couple, people told her in the months after. Good because their numbers were both young, Clarke knew. It was widely accepted that people with ill-fated destinies bonded the fastest, loved the hardest. Clarke hated the fact people pushed them together for the simple fact that it wouldn’t hurt for too long when one of them died. When Jake passed two years later, it was peaceful for everyone but Clarke. She told the school guidance counsellor to shove her condolences up her ass and didn't go for her remaining sessions.

She met Lexa in her second year of undergrad – majoring in art at the University of Maryland because Abby begged her not to go too far from home. The brunette with glasses on, standing in the corner of the pumping house party, engaged in a pragmatic discussion with her drunk foster sister. ‘No, Anya, you’re drunk, you’re not driving me home.’ ‘Take the stick outta your ass Lex, my numbers not up yet,’ she patted Lexa on the cheek lazily, ‘live a little.’ She slinked off into the crowd and Clarke saw her crowded against the upstairs bathroom door with Raven later when she went to attend to a throwing up Octavia but Lexa stayed rooted in her corner. She pulled out a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare's ‘Othello’ and sat on a keg in a way that made Clarke laugh out loud.

“Can I help you?”

Clarke snapped her mouth shut, teeth vibrating with the base of the music. “No ma’am,” she teased, tongue through her teeth. She sidled up to the girl and leant against the wall. “You have good taste in literature. Bad taste in glasses, though.”

Lexa took her glasses of an examined them, affronted. “They help me see, they’re not a fashion statement…” she left the statement open ended, clearly angling for introductions and Clarke shook herself to attention. “Clarke,” she hummed, “I’m Clarke.”

“Lexa,” Lexa replied. “You’re an English major?” She assumed.

“Art actually.”

“Ah,” Lexa nodded, “I see.”

“What do you see?”

Lexa smiled, “you have the look of a starving artist.”

“I’ll have you know I go back home every weekend. My mother feeds me up on home cooked meals, I’m far from starving.” But her smile, Clarke decided, despite the faux-degrading comment, was precious. It started slow, non-existent like a star during daylight when you knew it was there but lying unseen. Then, the left side of her lips quirked up and Clarke’s chest sung.

“But you are an artist?”

“Yes,” Clarke confirmed. She drew with whatever paper she could find and her notebooks – and Octavia’s notebooks – were covered in doodles. Kids payed her in middle school to draw ‘tattoos’ on their arms with permanent markers.

“Will you let me see your work?”

“Only if you let me see your…what do you major in?”

Lexa laughed, airy, like she didn't use it that much. “Poli-Sci,” she informed Clarke, closing ‘Othello’ into her lap with her thumb marking her page and waggling her eyebrows suggestively, “I can show you my notes on the American legal system?”

When Clarke made an unimpressed face, Lexa nodded in faux-sympathy. “I don’t blame you, it’s severely flawed.”

In a flash of boldness Clarke plucked a blunt pencil from the spilt mug of pens on the nearby surface and printed her number in neat writing on the back cover of Lexa’s book, thinking humorously that the dusty story could use some action. Lexa complained that the book was not hers, but a class copy from her English course and Clarke assured her that she could rub it off when it was in her phone.

Raven came by shortly after, pulling at Clarke because apparently Octavia had been roped into doing shots with Luna and needed to be given water and put into bed lest she down anymore alcohol and when Clarke looked back Lexa was giving her a small one-handed wave, holding the back cover of ‘Othello’ up in acknowledgement of the number, like a promise she would text. Which she did, three hours later when Clarke was in bed and sober, listening to Octavia stumble around the dorm room in search of water. She flipped the light on in the bathroom with little regard to Clarke and filled up a plastic water bottle at the bathroom faucet before returning to bed, uttering a sloppy, hushed ‘fuck’ as she stubbed her toe which Clarke laughed at.

[Text from: Unknown 02/07/18 2:24 AM] Do I still get to see your artwork?

Grinning into the fluorescent light of her phone turned low, Clarke saved the number under ‘Lexa’ and replied.

[Text to: Lexa 02/07/18 2:26 AM] If you want to

[Text to: Lexa 02/07/18 2:26 AM] You’d have to come over to my place of course

[Text from: Lexa 02/07/18 2:27 AM] Your place?

[Text to: Lexa 02/07/18 2:27 AM] My dorm

[Text from: Lexa 02/07/18 2:27 AM] University housing? You are a starving artist.

[Text to: Lexa 02/07/18 2:28 AM] Like you’re better Miss Residence-Hall-Across-From-Mine

[Text from: Lexa 02/07/18 2:28 AM] You’re not above stalking I see.

[Text to: Lexa 02/07/18 2:28 AM] I looked you up, I like to be thorough

[Text from: Lexa 02/07/18 2:29 AM] And have I met your expectations?

[Text to: Lexa 02/07/18 2:30 AM] To the letter

Lexa came over a week later when Octavia had left for class waggling her eyebrows and telling her to use protection and Clarke stood behind the brunette as she surveyed the quick sketches and hyper-realistic images pinned to her side of the room.

“Well?”

She watched Lexa, the way she sifted through the layers of drawings held fast with the same drawing pin, rough outlines of hands around coffee cups, a road leading to nowhere, a running watercolour on crinkling paper of the aurora borealis. “You’re a wonderful artist Clarke.” She tugged the watercolour gently so it slipped from its drawing pin and the paper next to it fell to the bed. Lexa studied the sketch – herself, with soft hair and round glasses, dog-eared ‘Othello’ in her lap. She grinned, smugly Clarke would say, laughter in her eyes. “What a likeness.”

Clarke snatched the sketch, hands covering her cheeks bashfully. “Shut up,” she scolded. “I like drawing you, okay,” she admitted, “you’re easy.”

“I’m easy?”

“You know what I mean.”

Lexa, Clarke found in the coming weeks, always knew. She saw things Clarke didn’t – even if she insisted the Clarke saw the world entirely in her own way, ‘artist eyes’ she said tracing fingers over collar bone on the sofa – and she quietly commented on them. The way the woman sitting behind them in the cafe off campus looked like she had a bad day, or suggesting they scratch their plans of a night out in favour of watching ‘Stranger Things’ because Clarke pulled an all-nighter the night before. She was everything that Clarke was and everything she wanted to be – soft where Clarke was soft and pragmatic where the blonde was violently emotional and together they would do things.

She was so sure of it – of them and their perfect cliché – when she was shucking the brunette’s university printed tee up her ribs a month later, breaths hot against kiss-chapped lips, that when her fingers raked over the skewed grey ‘23’ above the sharpest point of Lexa’s hip she wanted to cry. It was such a violent, sluggish feeling, like she was plummeting on a fairground ride but wading through glue. Revenant hands traced the mark, feeling it under the pads of her fingers like a sickening reassurance. “Lexa,” she whispered.

Lexa softened and curved, shoulders folding in semblance of defeat. She took the hem from Clarke and smoothed her tee down her body. “Clarke.”

They held each other's gaze, infinite conversations wrinkled into the atoms of their irises and Lexa reached out to bridge the space between them, stroking the pads of her fingers over Clarke’s collar bone like she did. “I wasn't sure,” she hummed and Clarke nodded. It was a tricky thing, your number; something so fragile yet the surest thing of your life and the blonde hated the way it was noted down on her documents like it was as unimportant as her city of birth. She swallowed Lexa’s words with a chaste kiss and took the brunette’s hand in hers, lacing paint stained fingers through Lexa’s to slip them under her shirt, dragging the hem up over her ribs. She pressed Lexa’s hand there, imploring her to understand and Lexa thumbed over the inch of skin with all of the sorrow in the world. “Twenty-two,” she recited. Twenty-two, Clarke remembered, two years left and half a life lived. Octavia was out, Clarke’s laptop was propped on her art history textbook and tilted to forty-five degrees where they could see it from her bed, their mindless evening watch forgotten when Clarke had professed her interest in other things and the blonde tucked herself into her girlfriend feeling fragile and resolute. The AC thrummed, she played with the frayed collar of Lexa’s tee. “It’s not fair.” Lexa hummed and Clarke felt it reverberate in her chest and Clarke’s fingers itched with the need to press themselves there and feel it. “I wish I didn’t know.”

“Isn’t it better to know, though?”

She looked up at Lexa, tracing the strong line of her jaw and her cheeks, her nose, her lips with her eyes.

“So that we can make our peace.”

“I don’t want to make my peace,” Clarke argued, she sat up, irritated and fussy, hot anger blooming like something toxic inside her. Lexa was the best kind of person, dutiful and kind, she religiously held the door for peers exiting their lectures and spotted the woman at the supermarket last week, who was short four dollars and calming her screaming two-year-old. She was realistic, pragmatic, she didn't take more than she needed and Clarke – what had Clarke done in her life that death had to be the equalizer? She thought of Finn, she thought of her father. In kindergarten, they taught her the meaning of fair. Sharing toys was fair, giving her peers turns on the swings was fair. Their numbers? They weren’t fair. “Fuck peace,” she decreed darkly, “fuck everything. I don’t want it.”

“Clarke –”

“Let’s leave.”

“We can’t –”

“We can.”

They would. Abby had told her not to run from her problems when Finn left and she got angry, Jake died and she went hiding from the world, but god it was tempting. Aloof and untethered, it was the only thing she was sure of.

“Two years, Lexa, do you want to spend it here? I can’t do it. I can’t get a degree I’ll never use. I can’t stare at the same ceiling every night and know,” she made an inarticulate noise, gesticulating wildly and refusing Lexa and her attempts to beckon her back into her arms. “I can’t, Lexa, please.”

Lexa relented it and they called it ‘The Bucket List’ – a sheet of paper pinned up on Clarke’s side of her dorm, permanent marker staining the wall beneath it from heavy handed additions. It took Clarke four days to get Lexa to reveal her personal must-do items but when she did she smiled, gingerly writing them down beneath Clarke’s ‘travel first class, ski in the alps, see the northern lights, bungee jump, visit Machu Picchu, go skinny dipping,’ in her neat, law-student print.

Their fall semester came and went in half-conscious actions and pressing close in their dorm room twin beds, scrolling through travel blogs and Lonely Planet suggestions, draining their savings, informing the university they wouldn’t be returning after winter break and telling Abby about their plans, their two-year bucket-list trip, destination unknown that they arguably couldn’t afford. Whoever suggested telling her over Thanksgiving dinner thought it was a good idea was stupid but Clarke was too hopped up on the anxiety of explaining why she had to do this to remember whether it was her or Lexa, especially since they were staying the night in Clarke’s twin bed before driving back to campus in the morning. She wouldn’t do it again, she vowed. But Abby smiled, hugging her daughter and she slipped a signed check into Lexa’s palm when they gathered on the porch the next morning, suitcases in the car, saying goodbye. It was enough to make Clarke burst into tears on the drive back to campus.

They went west in Lexa’s Jeep as per ‘take a road trip without a destination’ after the brunette took Clarke’s ‘enter work in an exhibit’ far too liberally, jimmying the front lock of an art gallery under the cover of darkness to hang the sketches that used to be pinned to the wall of Clarke’s dorm while the blonde sat in the car standing watch. It was the most rebellious thing she had done aside from punch Octavia’s big brother in the fourth grade because he was four years older and going through the stage where he thought he was god's gift to man and she was still laughing about it four days later in a crappy hotel off the highway in Albuquerque, tracing figure-eights into the taut skin of Lexa’s bare abdomen with the nail of her index finger.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

“What?”

“Committed a felony.”

Lexa shrugged against the starch-white bed sheets, the curtains were stained and the mattress had curved in the middle like a sofa-bed but they had established the sheets were clean when they walked in even though the sink was clogged with strangers’ hair.

“It was on the list.”

“Is that going to be our thing from now on?” Clarke asked, hiding her smile in Lexa’s neck where things were soft and dull and smelt like something implacable, perfume and detergent. She feigned innocence and threw her hands up in a semblance of surrender, “‘the list made me do it!’”

“If you want it to be,” Lexa pressed lips to the crown of Clarke’s forehead and the blonde preened.

“I do.”

They made Joshua Tree National Park a day of straight driving later through limiting bathroom breaks and timing their stops at gas stations – Lexa filling the car while Clarke bought snacks with forty-five seconds to spare like something out of the John Green novel she read in high school. It wasn’t hot, but it was California and she helped Lexa strip down to her vintage tee, flinging her jacket into the backseat with her plaid shirt and their ill-packed suitcases, fed her girlfriend a sip of watery gas station milkshake and giggled through roadside landmarks. She felt light, like the wind. Lexa reprimanded her for spilling Cheeto dust in the foot well of the car and she stuck out her orange tinted tongue like the child she hadn’t felt like since Finn.

That in mind, they did Disneyland the next week. Clarke’s overt shock when Lexa wrote it on the list – which was thrice folded and stashed carefully in the glove box – was laughable but she was the perfect guide and when she slipped a pair of sequined encrusted black Minnie Mouse ears onto her head Lexa crowded her against the faux-brick facade of Disneyland City Hall and kissed her filthily.

“Have we found a new kink?” Clarke teased, fingering the collar of the vintage Mickey Mouse tee Clarke and swindled her into. It was tucked into the waist of her cut off jean shorts and if the five-year-old girl in a Cinderella dress wasn’t looking at them perplexed, she would have untucked it and raked her hands over Lexa’s stomach. Instead, she pressed her lips to the corner of Lexa’s quirked lips and pulled her in the direction of Space Mountain, paying a vendor for cotton candy and insisting throwing up was mandatory which Lexa frowned at.

Three days alternating parks and Clarke was suntanned – burnt – and giggly. She revelled in the way Lexa’s eyes lit when Minnie Mouse kissed her on the cheek, rode the Teacups until she was dizzy, did the Tower of Terror nine times and laughed at the ride picture when they passed the exit. They watched the fireworks from main street on their last night, the only place they could find a spot after waiting through the evening for the Indiana Jones ride Clarke insisted was worth it. It was, she maintained, but so were the fireworks. So was the way she stood clinched into Lexa’s chest, hands in the back pockets of her shorts, wearing her girlfriend’s plaid shirt so that the sleeves hung over her palms. So was the way Lexa was looking at her, like she was the happiest she had ever been and the happiest she ever would be.

Together they were a whirlwind. California taking them to Mexico on a first-class flight that they sipped sparkling wine through and made out in the larger than economy bathroom as per ‘travel first class’. They drunk cheap tequila and salt-rimmed margarita’s, and ate tacos from street carts. Lexa dip dyed her hair an outrageous pink, temporarily thank god, because it was a shoddy dye job that had her wearing a hat for a week before the dye brushed out but it earned another tick on the list which was becoming more and more travel battered with pen scribbles and stains. Clarke liked to look at it at night, morbid as it seemed. The paper, their plans, it gave her stability, grounded her to a place where is stray kind of existence her and Lexa were living felt purposeful – they were doing things. She ziplined yesterday and it was exhilarating.

A week later, central Mexico took them down to Tulum, where the water was the clearest thing Clarke had seen yet and Lexa showed so much skin in her bikini of choice Clarke nearly jumped her on site. She didn’t, but she did pull it off later that night when they skinny dipped in the resort’s white sand beach and left that morning before housekeeping could charge them for their pilfered towel robes.

South America found them at Machu Picchu, legs dangling over centuries worn stone and watching the fingers of cloud recede from the peaks of the Andes, Clarke’s playing with the belt loops on Lexa’s pants. She saw Lexa as something formidable, wind back centuries and the girl would be a warrior, swathed in battle garb and wielding spears, streaked with war paint. She could see it as plain as she ruins but here, and when the brunette went to pull lunch out of their bags, crossed legged on the verdant grass, Clarke drew it in scratchy lines of lead. Lexa blushed bashfully when she saw it but Clarke held the paper up next to her face, checking the likeness. She leant forward to press a kiss to her chin, her lips, her nose, her forehead.

“Am I a warrior now?” Lexa teased when she pulled back.

“The commander,” Clarke corrected. “You wouldn’t take orders.”

“I take them from you.”

“That’s different,” Clarke leaned into her. They were speaking in a low hum, something about the atmosphere up here that begged not to be touched, like if they remained here they would be immortalized in the mountains and strong stone. “I’m your girlfriend,” she ran a finger over Lexa’s hip over the material of her pants, “you’re contractually obliged.”

She told Lexa she loved her – wholly and irreversibly – in Kenya, where the greying clouds of a summer storm brew like a pressure headache above the savanna and the rain was hot. It drenched the gauzy white material of the linen dresses they had donned for the dinner of their luxury safari and while couples – finances and anniversary goers escaping children and life in the suburbs – fled to their tents around them with their swathes of mosquito nets and carved chess boards. Clarke inhaled the smell of dust and rain and wound her hands in the frizzing locks of Lexa’s hair as the brunette kissed her until she couldn’t breathe, until ‘be kissed in the rain’ in Africa turned to something else and Lexa kissed the skewed number on her bare ribs like it was a birthmark of little importance.

Europe, Clarke decided, was a realm unto its own. They acclimatised slowly, not straying from tiny towns inland in Germany, where Clarke took candid photos of Lexa smiling over bunches of wildflowers in cobblestoned provincial markets or village squares and they laid together in rented rooms in authentic Inn’s, eating local cuisine – strudel, Palatschinken and pretzels – as per Lexa’s ‘eat a dish from every culture’. They set their sights bigger eighteen days later, ‘go to the Musée d'Orsay’, ‘climb the Eiffel Tower’. The lock they fastened to the chain-link of the Pont de Arts was cheap, bought from around the corner, but Clarke traced their initials on with a steady artists hand and they scoured Rome and Prague and Milan in summer dresses and floppy hats in the days, sending thick stacks of postcards to Abby with tales of their adventures – of how Lexa left her passport in the safe in Italy and how Clarke couldn’t speak French to save herself despite four years of it through high school. And at night, Clarke would wait up on the hotel balconies, watching the outline of Lexa’s bare form in bed while Abby called, asking after Lexa – now her pseudo daughter – and reminding Clarke of how much she loved her.

They summered on the coast. On white sand beaches and illustrious lifestyles. No one knew them here. No one knew them in Mexico, or California, of Peru or Africa either, but this continent was the place they could life infinite lives through infinite lives and the anonymity made Clarke breathless. In Monaco, they were heiresses with hired couture and self-done makeup, escaping the suffocating grasp of their parents and high expectations for a summer of illicit fun. Lexa discovered an affinity for Blackjack in the casino tables and Clare rediscovered an affinity for Lexa.

In Santorini, they whispered to each other conspiratorially over the rims of expensive cocktails and lifting designer sunglasses onto their heads they watched the reactions of the other holiday goers, guessing whether the couple in the cabana thought they were wealthy divorcees, or celebrities escaping the paparazzi. Everywhere thought, they were in love with each other and it was beautiful.

August was in Tuscany, in a sprawling villa with property and vineyards, statues flanking the gravel drive – Lexa found a woman on the internet wanting house sitters for her month’s business trip to England and they crossed ‘rent house for the summer’ off the list – and they spent the month with the windows flung open in gauzy dresses or nothing at all, exploring each other in the most desperate and careless sense of the word. They didn’t linger on the numbers when they were naked at night and Clarke wasn’t anxious anymore. She didn’t want to rage, she wanted to live, like this, with Lexa, nowhere and everywhere because when they were like this, Lexa looked at her like she was the world.

Six days in, Lexa learnt to cook from the groundskeeper with crinkled paper skin and Clarke would sit on the kitchen counter and take pictures at inappropriate times to sketch later. She had a diary now, a leather bound, embossed one she bought in Rome that housed six months’ worth of sketches that she would tentatively show to Lexa when the girl was pink-cheeked and deep-breathing at night, when she would blush further at the drawings and tell Clarke she loved her.

Watching Lexa standing on the train tracks under the austere brick arch of Auschwitz-Birkenau in early November when the snow was light, was the most harrowing thing Clarke had experienced. She stood five paces back, tucking her hands into the thick coat she bought and swallowed, catching up to her girlfriend with brisk steps, distress winding itself into her spine. What had those people thought?

Lexa’s voice echoed in her head from that night back in Maryland, ‘isn’t it better to know, though?’ she had asked. Clarke shook her head. It couldn’t be. Peace couldn’t be made under duress.

She cried that night. She sobbed over the toilet in their hotel room until she made herself sick and when Lexa went to wipe the saliva from her chin she shoved her into the vanity and told her to go away and Lexa – sweet, stoic Lexa – did. It made her cry more. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and kicked the bathtub and wanted to know why the brunette was so okay with things but couldn’t find the answer. She would never understand the peace Lexa made with death.

A half-hour later she emerged into the room, pyjama clad and remorseful and burrowing so deep into Lexa’s arms – somehow religiously open even after what Clarke had done – she no longer felt like they were two people. They were one now, four legs, two bodies, one heart, and for the first time, she began to wonder how it would happen.

Clarke told Lexa she was scared in a glass igloo in Finland. Warmth seemed a luxury in a country seemingly made of snow, but there were feather down comforters curled around their bare bodies and light danced in Lexa’s eyes – great swathes of magic, verdant green morphing into pale pink and regal purple. It danced like candlelight, as fragile as too, like she could pull it into her hands but it would dissipate like Lexa’s breath on the arch of her cheek.

“Lexa.”

“Yes?”

She lay so they were reflections of each other and wanted to kiss the freckle on Lexa’s top lip. But the anxiety was back, the distress from Poland that didn’t belong there to taint something so beautiful. She was crying now, salty tears ruining the sanctity of their night with her head in Lexa’s chest and the covers drawn up tight so they might strangle her. Humming, Lexa hushed her with pretty words and soft hands until her chest wasn’t heavy so violently and her frame didn’t tremble. “It’s okay, Clarke,” she whispered, she repeated the words, breath hot in her ear, until finally it started to ring true.

She didn’t know when it happened. Somewhere between the white sands of Railay Beach, Thailand, and watching Lexa cradle a three-year-old orphan to her chest while the girl giggled and tugged on stray locks of her hair that frizzed under the heat of their week in Cambodia, she guessed. But early March brought with it skiing weather and Lexa coaxed her back to the alps, where snow held the Swiss mountains hostage and the altitude pinkened Clarke’s cheeks quicker than Lexa in a tailored snow-jacket did, and she woke up one morning dizzy and aching.

It was bound to happen. The country hopping, the climate changing meant getting sick was inevitable but the sun was softening the white glare of the snow and Lexa looked so gorgeous with bed hair and hands curling around the coffee mug the chalet provided that Clarke was petulant about it. She pouted and huffed, blocking Lexa out completely when the brunette put her on bed rest. ‘You’re not a doctor, what do you know?’ ‘You’re not a doctor either, Clarke, now drink some water, you’ll get dehydrated.’ Tongue out like a pre-schooler the blonde rolled over and took the comforter with her until Lexa let out a long-suffering groan and set her coffee on the side table, untucking Clarke from her cocoon to sift fingers up her torso dragging up her – Lexa’s – university tee to press kisses to the line at the waistband of her panties, up her stomach, her ribs, her chest, eyes placating. “Don’t start something you won’t finish, Woods,” Clarke warned darkly, she coughed and it rattled in her chest. Lexa grimaced. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she cooed, fingers soothing her skin and Clarke melted into the sensation, eyes fluttering. Something about the domesticity of their easy routine warmed her, the knowledge that whatever bed she found herself in, she could stretch her hand out and find her girlfriends lithe form next to her. It was the only grounding she needed now, their list lay dormant, fold-creased in the front pocket of her suitcase, more checklist than lifeline.

Lexa’s fingers stopped and Clarke whined. “Lex…”

“Clarke,” her voice was tilted with a hard edge the blonde didn’t like. She pulled at her. “Clarke sit up.”

“Ow,” Clarke huffed, but she did so at Lexa’s behest. “Pushy.” The headboard was hard and her head spun like a top. “What?”

Lexa smudged a hand over her ribs, harder than Clarke would have liked, like she was smudging off pen doodles or permanent marker. “Eighty-six.” She whispered.

“What?”

“Your number.”

“Huh?”

“It’s changed.”

Clarke scoffed. “Numbers don’t change Lexa.” People changed. Seasons changed. Feelings changed. Numbers didn’t change.

Lexa pressed her lips into a thin line, grim in ways Clarke didn’t want to comprehend, like the grey of a gravestone or a processional march. “It’s changed,” she insisted, holding up the hem of Clarke’s shirt for the blonde to see and the sight knocked the air out of her chest like a semi to the wall of her chest. “It,” she blinked – hard – twisted her fingers in the hem of her shirt so tightly they turned white, “it can’t.” She looked to Lexa, eyes wide. “Is – you?” her fingers went to the waistband of Lexa’s pants but the blonde caught them and pushed them back before deft fingers could slip below, eyes sombre. “No,” she whispered. If the human body had the capacity to implode that would be how Clarke described the searing, pulling agony on her chest.

The pink sands of Bahama beaches clinging to sun-kissed skin and Clarke wouldn’t release Lexa from her hands. Their sheets were cool, a starched white against the brown of Lexa’s skin, marred with white at the cut of her bikini line and dipping low over her backside. On better days Clarke would shimmy down her body and press kisses these, teasing and tripping, delving deliciously lower but today her hands were in the soft baby curls at the nape of the brunette’s neck and their lips were locked, an embrace that traversed lazy hours against cotton sheets while the sun stained the earth at its hottest time and children shrieked in their bare feet on the sand.

Clarke cradled the point of Lexa’s hip with reverent fingers, a thumb there always, brushing the skin like she could remove the mark but she couldn’t and her chest hurt with the knowledge – the knowledge she had lived with for the past eleven months, that their marks no longer matched and goodbye was real.

She felt utterly, disgustingly betrayed but she swallowed the curdled film on her tongue.

“It’s okay, Clarke,” Lexa hummed. The blonde had lost count how many times she had heard this from her girlfriend’s lips. The words felt acrid now, meaningless as cigarette smoke.

“You’re going to live,” Clarke stated, pulling back from tanned arms.

Lexa shook her head. “You don’t have to fight things Clarke, you need to let go.”

“Like hell I do,” Clarke sat up, mussed hair and kiss-swollen lips. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you die. You’re young,” she prodded at a bicep, “you’re fit,” at the taut stomach of Lexa’s abdomen, “you’re healthy. You have no reason to.”

“Reason means nothing.”

“Reason means everything. Fate is bullshit,” Clarke decided, “I make my own destiny, you have to make yours.”

Later, on white sand beaches and over Maryland Thanksgivings, Lexa would tease that it was the nagging. Clarke, kissing the aching smugness that perpetuated the brunette’s lips, would insist it was superior motivational speaking skills, but both would agree it didn't matter. Not when they had blood in their veins and air in their lungs and the astounding capacity to live.

#Clexaweek2018 #Day 7 #Free Day #clexa fic #aesthetic #bucketlist

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upstartpoodle · 6 years

Text

Bad Tidings (Chapter 3)

Rating: G

Pairing: George x Elizabeth

Summary: The third chapter of the banshee AU, in which George and Francis have a conversation about Ross and Agatha, Caroline makes an appearance and George returns to Bodmin for the first time since his encounter with Elizabeth on the moor.

Previous chapter

Chapter 3

“Francis, may I ask you something?”

It was a few days after the disastrous maiden voyage of the Queen Charlotte and George was sat by the fireside in the parlour of Trenwith, swilling a small glass of port absentmindedly in one hand. Francis sat opposite him, still looking tired and a little pale from the aftermath of the putrid throat, dressed in his shirtsleeves and wearing a dull and rather listless expression on his face. At George’s words, his eyes flickered upwards to meet his friend’s, and he frowned slightly.

“That rather depends on what the question is,” he replied, waving the hand unoccupied with his own glass of port in a vague gesture, “but I suppose I shan’t know that until you ask.”

George was too used to Francis’ manner to be put off by the odd reply, and took it as permission to ask.

“At…at your father’s wake,” he began a little cautiously—Francis and Charles had always had a complicated relationship and he wasn’t entirely sure how the other man would react to him bringing the subject up, “I overheard something your aunt—”

“Oh you overheard, did you?” interrupted Francis with a shrewd expression on his face, though the wry quirk of his lips belied his words.

“I happened to be attempting to distract myself from Dr Choake’s descriptions of the best ways to address the balance of the humours” returned George with dignity.

Francis snorted.

“I will concede that Dr Choake discussing his science is something to be avoided at all cost,” he said with a smirk, “but I was not aware that you found Aunt Agatha’s conversation to be much of an improvement.”

George did not grace this comment with a reply. It was true that he did not remotely care for the old woman’s company—a feeling that was by no means diminished by the fact that she had, as far as he could tell, yet to realise that his name was not “that upstart”—and it was also true that Francis probably wouldn’t have minded even if he said that she was an abominable harpy whose conversation he would only endure if it were somehow the means to preventing the apocalypse, but nevertheless, it still felt rather rude to admit it.

“Yes, well, as I was saying,” he said, wondering how best to bring the matter up without sounding as if he had lost his mind, “I heard her mention something about a sort of…wailing she had heard when…”

He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. Francis stared at him for one long moment, bemused, before he broke into a bout of incredulous laughter.

“Good God, George, whatever do you want to know about that for?” he exclaimed between chuckles.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” replied George quickly. “Something happened recently which reminded me of it—that is all.”

Francis, who still looked rather amused, regarded him searchingly for a moment before shrugging and taking a sip of port, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Well it was just the wind, obviously,” he said at length, “but she was obsessed with it—kept saying that it was some omen of terrible things to come. You know, she told us that it was a banshee, for Christ’s sake!”

“A-a banshee?”

“Yes, you know, a female spirit that goes around screaming outside the households of people who are about to die or washing their clothes in streams or whatever rot they’re meant to… Are you alright, George?”

“Oh, yes I-I’m fine” replied George, although he felt that the stammer in his voice had probably betrayed that he was, in fact, not fine at all.

“I always thought you were a better liar than that,“ snorted Francis sceptically. "You’ve turned paler than I am and you don’t have the excuse of having recently suffered a serious illness, so I’m afraid you have rumbled yourself on that count.”

George remained silent. Even if he told the bare minimum of the truth, without speculation—that being that he had seen a woman on the moors who, along with having a singing voice exactly as Agatha had described, had been washing his cousin’s clothes in a stream and had somehow known he was going to die several days before the event occurred—Francis would probably think that he had been subject to some sort of stress-induced hallucination. If he went further and said that that woman had possibly been one of the spirits he had just described, he would think him mad. Besides, George could barely believe that himself. It was too far-fetched, too… He frantically scrambled for an explanation, something rational and sane but…his mind, so used to the rigid order of finance and the harsh measures of schemes and advancement, utterly failed to come up with an alternative reason for what he had seen that day on the moor. He swallowed, staring morosely into the fire flickering in the grate.

“It is nothing” he said quietly, not quite able to meet his friend’s eye.

Francis narrowed his eyes, watching him sharply for one long moment before muttering a slightly grumpy “if you say so” and taking another long sip out of his glass, frowning. George watched him out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to reveal too much by making direct eye contact. Francis was unlikely to press for answers now that he had made it clear he did not want to give them—it was simply not his way—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t find it odd, or that he might not later remember it at some inopportune time, and he did not wish to give his friend any reason to be suspicious of him. An uncomfortable silence stretched out between them, both of them staring determinedly into the fire, before Francis spoke again.

“What are you going to do about Ross?”

“What?” George asked. He had been caught off-guard by the sudden change of subject, and it took him a few seconds to realise what Francis was asking him.

“What are you going to do about Ross?,” Francis repeated, a slightly wary expression on his face. “He led the raid on the Queen Charlotte after all, did he not?”

George’s heart sank. As much as he appreciated that Francis was not digging for the cause of his strange turn, if there were two subjects he very much wished to avoid, it was Ross and the Queen Charlotte. All he had been doing for days was picking up the pieces of that particular fiasco, to the point where burying himself in work could not distract him from the image of Matthew’s corspe, stretched out on the strand. As for Ross…well, if he never saw him again, he would consider it a cause for celebration.

“I have had enough of Ross,” he sighed bitterly, taking a sip of his port as he mulled the matter over in his head. “I don’t give a damn about what he does anymore. From now on, I will live in my world and he can live in his, and our interactions can be kept to a bare minimum.”

Francis looked sceptical, but he was telling the truth. He couldn’t deny that Ross’ words to him on the beach had hurt terribly, that they had lit a spark of rage in his chest at this man who dared to claim he cared for all men whilst acting as if he had the right to decide who deserved to live and who deserved to die. It would have been a lie to say that the spiteful part of him hadn’t desperately wanted—didn’t still want—him to pay for those words, to make him hurt in turn, to punish him for his unkind disregard, and perhaps if he had not been so occupied by something else entirely, he might have let it win. Instead, his mind had seized so absolutely on the strange and—in hindsight—rather disturbing encounter with the woman on the moor to distract him from the grief that he did not dare wallow in that that he could barely concentrate on the matter of Ross long enough to summon up the anger needed to lash out at him, let alone to form an actual plan of how he would go about it.

“So he is not in danger of any…retaliation?” asked Francis, sending him a penentrating look.

“Not from me,” George replied, bringing up a hand to his temple tiredly, “but Uncle Cary wishes to lay charges against him.”

That, he had to admit to himself, hardly encapsulated his uncle’s fury over Ross’ raid of the Queen Charlotte. He carefully kept the wince from his features as he remembered the man’s shouted words to him when he had pointed out that neither Matthew nor Captain Bray could testify to anything they had not witnessed, and later his barked orders to “stop moping and do something about that thieving wastrel”. The cruel part of him agreed wholeheartedly with uncle, but the rest of him couldn’t summon up the energy to care, and as such he suspected Cary would soon take matters into his own hands.

He was proved right the next day when, after going an entire morning and a good part of the afternoon without seeing his uncle, Cary turned up to tea with an entirely too self-satisfied look on his sharp features and, snatching up a crumpet from the table, explained what he had done, and what he planned to do to ensure that Ross was punished for his transgressions.

“Assaulting a customs officer?,” George asked, sipping his tea, a frown creasing his brow. “What evidence do you have for that?”

The first two charges had not surprised him—there were few people in the county who were not at least fairly certain that Ross had incited his tenants to raid the Queen Charlotte of its goods—but that was the first he had heard of the man being suspected of such a thing on that occasion, for all that he—and indeed anyone else who knew the reason why he had been shipped off to the Americas all those years ago—was aware that the man was most definitely capable of it. As such, he began to suspect that his uncle had not deigned to restrain himself simply to truthful allegations, and all of a sudden he began to see the shape of the other man’s plan.

“None at the moment,” replied Uncle Cary with a pointed look, “but some can always be created.”

George shrugged, taking a bite out of his own crumpet. He may no longer wish to deal with Ross, but that spiteful part of him was strong enough to keep him from caring what was done to him. Let his uncle exact his revenge, he thought laconically. He may not wish to participate, but he had no reason to intervene either.

He barely paid attention to what his uncle was doing in the coming days, something which seemed to greatly confuse Tankard, who was used to answering directly to him in most matters. Instead, when his mind was not occupied by work, all he could think of was the woman on the moor, and what Francis had told him about what Agatha had believed the source of the wailing noise outside Trenwith had been. His mind grasped onto any explanation he could think of with an almost feverish desperation, but there were only two that he could hold onto for any length of time: either that the woman had indeed been a spirit sent to forewarn him of Matthew’s death or the—more likely, in his opinion—option that he had at some point misplaced his sanity and failed to notice it. Neither of these were particularly comforting thoughts, and as a result he slept poorly, his overtaxed mind making his dreams strange and disturbing. He wished he could talk to someone about it, to hear a reassurance that he had not gone mad or… But he did not know anyone he trusted enough to be able to confide in them about it, not even Francis, who was his closest and—if he were to be honest with himself—only friend.

If only I was acquainted with someone who had some knowledge of such things, he thought with a soft sigh as he filled out the ledger in that silent, horribly empty study. An image of Agatha with her tarot cards flashed through his mind, fogged and heavy from lack of sleep, and he scoffed at himself.

“I must be tireder than I thought,” he muttered to himself, leaning down to give Ambrose a scratch behind the ear. “I would never stoop that low.”

The day before Ross’ trial, George and his uncle went to Bodmin for the election. The realisation that he had to go there—a place in such close to proximity to the moor—had prompted several mixed reactions in him. Would he find some sign there about what it all meant? Would the woman be there? Would he see her again? As a result of this, all through the carriage ride to Bodmin, he had no idea whether he should be dreading going there or wishing to get there sooner. In the end, he elected to focus as much as he could on the business at hand, that being ensuring that the candidate the Warleggans had chosen to back into parliament. After all, if he hadn’t been mad when he had seen the woman, he most certainly would be soon enough should he continue agonising over the matter as he had been.

Unwin Trevaunance, the man he had chosen to lend his support to perhaps, he admitted to himself, against his better judgement, was easily one of the most ridiculous men he had ever met. As such, he couldn’t help but be somewhat astonished when he was introduced to the man’s intended, Caroline Penvenen. He was not sure exactly what he had expected when he met her, but it had not been what he was faced with—the young lady was fiercely intelligent, with a bold manner and a razor sharp wit that he had immediately found himself being subjected to upon approaching her, and, he didn’t think he was presumptious in thinking, a completely unsuitable match for Unwin. They couldn’t possibly make each other happy, but Unwin only had eyes for her beauty and her coffers. That was the way of such matters in the circles they moved in, though, George supposed, remembering that said circles would soon expect him to take a wife, and for that wife to be a lady of consequence with whom he could make a mutually beneficial arrangement.

“I must apologise for my niece,” muttered Ray Penvenen as the pair of them followed the couple as they left the hall to greet the crowd. “Caroline has always dearly loved to be shocking.”

“Think nothing of it” murmured George truthfully. He had rather suspected that her words were more intended to score a point than strike a blow in any case, and besides, he had heard far more malicious things from a good many people over the years.

There was a slight breeze in the courtyard when they stepped up on the stand, cool for the time of year, and George supposed it must have come down from the moor. He instantly stopped that train of thought, reminding himself of exactly why thinking overmuch about the moor and everything that came with it was a bad idea. This, however, was immediately undermined as, all of a sudden, he began to hear a dreadfully familiar sound, faint, but nevertheless cutting above the ruckuss of the crowd gathered before them like a knife.

“Whatever is that noise?” Miss Penvenen, who appeared to be the first to notice it after himself, asked with a frown on her delicate features. She looked rather uncomfortable, he couldn’t help but think, and, after everything that had happened, he couldn’t help but sympathise.

“What noise?” replied Unwin disinterestedly, too distracted by waving at the crowd to pay any attention to anything else.

“That…wailing,” Miss Penvenen said, glancing around her with a slightly uneasy expression on her face. “It’s a bit like…well it sounds as if somebody’s singing…”

“Oh, that’s nothing to worry about, my dear,” said Ray Penvenen jovially. “One hears it all the time in Bodmin, especially during the Assizes. It is simply the way the wind travels through the town—that is all. The locals prefer a different expectation for it though—something about a creature up on the moors sending them bad omens or something of that ilk.”

“A creature? How thrilling.”

Despite her words, however, George did not think Miss Penvenen looked especially thrilled. It was a nice enough explanation, and if he had not seen the cause of the sound with his own eyes, he might have seized on it too, for all the fact that there was hardly any wind in the courtyard that evening somewhat contradicted it. But as it was, he had to accept that there was something entirely different going on, and the fact that at least two other people could hear the sound suggested that it was not, as he had previously been suspecting, a figment of his imagination. Well, perhaps he had not gone mad after all, which, when considering only alternative explanation for the phenomenon he had been able to come up with, was not quite as comforting a thought as it would have been otherwise.

The wailing became louder and louder as the evening progressed, and it was clear that it was having an effect on the crowd gathered to listen to the results of the election. There had been shouting before, of course, and an air of restlessness no doubt caused at least in part by the copious amounts of drink the members of the throng had been consuming, but there now sat a deep, fearful tension over the onlookers. George remembered what Ray Penvenen had told his niece about what the locals believed the sound to be, and could only suppose that this was, at least in part, the cause of the crowds new frenzied energy.

It was after he, having momentarily forgotten the screaming song that was echoing painfully in his ears, had bid Unwin to take the second chair upon drawing level with his opponent that that awful sound reached its peak. As it had when he had first heard it up on Bodmin Moor, it seemed to bounce around the courtyard and into his ears, almost defeaning him. Once again, he felt faint from the force of it, and he surreptitiously put out a hand to steady himself against a nearby post. He could only be thankful for the fact that everyone’s attention was on Unwin, for he did not particularly like the thought of almost the entire population of Bodmin seeing him have a turn like a delicate lady out of a sensational novel.

“Oh don’t do it, please. Can ’ee not hear ’er screaming up on the moor?” he heard the voice of a woman cry as if through glass, or thick molasses.

“I b’ain’t a-feared,” came the reply—a man’s voice this time and, with a momumental effort, George raised his head to see that one of the crowd had stepped forward and was addressing Unwin, his expression stormy. “Who are ’ee?”

Unwin, typically, looked stumped by this simple question, but George couldn’t hear his reply. The wailing was so loud now that he could hear nothing but that mournful, unearthly sound. Then there was another voice—a woman’s. It was familiar to him—so familiar—yet far away, and he could neither place it nor hear what she was saying. His mind tried to snatch for the sound, to pull it closer so that he could figure out what that voice that he somehow knew but could not recognise was trying to tell him, but it skittered away from him, indistinct in the fog of his brain. He could barely hear it over the screaming in his ears and the shouting of the crowd, and—

All of a sudden, the wailing stopped, cut off so abruptly that he swayed on its feet at its unexpected loss. With it went the voice, disappearing deep into the recesses of his mind. The fog that filled his brain began to clear and, breathing heavily, he slowly began to take in what was happening around him once more. Unwin, he suddenly realised, was being pelted with horse manure which, while hardly the reception to the newly instated member of parliament that he had desired, did provide a mildly amusing interlude to the night’s events. As the redcoats rushed to intervene, George pushed himself gingerly away from the post he had been leaning on, his arm trembling from the effort. A glance around confirmed that Unwin’s misfortune had proved to be the opposite for him, as it seemed that everyone had been too distracted by the assault to pay any attention to him swooning up on the stand. He let out a shaky breath, schooling his features back into impavisity. Well, he supposed, ever cloud had a silver lining.

“That rabble!,” Ray Penvenen snarled once they had retreated back inside. “Have they no respect for their betters?! Or for the law?! Someone needs to take them by the scruff of the neck and-and— Mr Warleggan, are you quite well?”

George blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden change of subject. The other man had been working himself into such a rage that he had been sure that he would be more likely to burst from the sheer force of it than notice that his companion was not well at all. He was still feeling rather shaky from his turn outside in the courtyard and would, quite frankly, have greatly preferred to head to his lodgings and lie down for a while as opposed to standing in this draughty room where he was expected to smile meaninglessly, talk business and politics, and in general act as the unfazed, perfect gentleman he had always tried so hard to be. He blinked languidly at the other man, his exhausted brain scrambling for a reply.

“I am quite alright, thank you” he said, more out of habit than any particular desire to be believed. Unsurprisingly, Penvenen was not convinced.

“Nonsense, man,” he scoffed. “You look like you’re about to fall over where you stand.”

“Perhaps I am feeling a little unwell” George conceded, too tired to argue the point.

“Clearly,” agreed Ray Penvenen, throwing him a scrutinising look. “You should probably take a rest. The main object of the evening is achieved, after all.”

“Yes,” replied George vaguely, glad that someone else had suggested it before he. “Yes, I think I will do that.”

After having made his regrets, he headed back to his lodgings, glad to have escaped the pressure and expectations of the crowd. The slightly musty air of the inn was surprisingly cool as he made his way a little unsteadily up the stairs to his room, the wood of each step creaking softly under his weight. A heavy exhaustion had settled upon him, so that he felt as if he were dragging an invisible ball and chain behind him. Eventually, he reached the door to his chamber at the top of the stairs and pushed it open, walking over to the bed and collapsing on it with a groan of relief.

He slept sporadically for a few hours, drifting in and out of consciousness but never fully waking. Sometimes he thought he heard the wailing sound again, faint and in the distance—so faint in fact that it could indeed have been the wind—though he could never quite tell if he had dreamt it or not, even if he had been aware enough to examine the matter during his fitful rest. Then, in the early hours of the morning, a deadly quiet fell around Bodmin, and George awoke properly for the first time, then, much to his chagrin, discovered that, no matter how much he tried, he could not get back to sleep again.

The silence, he thought as he lay on his back, staring up into the pitch darkness of the room, was worse than the wailing. It was the unnaturalness of it, he supposed—the screaming had at least been something he could identify, even if he was both sceptical of and a little alarmed by its believed cause. This quiet, however, was mystifying to him—Bodmin may not be as loud a place as London, or Bath, but it was never silent. In fact, considering the evening’s events, it was even more unusual. George swallowed, gripping the sheets of the bed tightly in his fists. It was so horribly empty—that silence—and, lying there in the blackness, he felt as if the world might have disappeared around him.

“Stop it” he muttered to himself, trying his hard to ignore how resounding his voice was in the silence of the room. It would do him no good to think these morbid, far-fetched thoughts—not when he had other, more earthly concerns to consider. And yet his mind, for all that he tried to persuade it otherwise, refused to turn away from them. He exhaled sharply, angry with himself for entertaining such notions. He had become as ridiculous as the old hag he so despised, seeing portents of doom in every little thing that occurred around him, and still his treacherous brain refused to discout the notions. Well, he supposed, scowling, there was only one thing he could do. He would have to prove it to himself either way. He would have to return to the moor.

Next chapter: An almost meeting up on the moors and a peculiar dream.

#poldark #george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #george x elizabeth #elizabeth x george #georgibeth #francis poldark #caroline penvenen #ray penvenen #cary warleggan #unwin trevaunance #sort of #poldark au #banshee au #mine #fic #my fic #bad tidings

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fuck-customers · 7 years

Text

Warning for a couple walkthroughs of my mild anxiety attacks, mild cursing, and some alcohol and drunkenness mentions. Context: My parents and I just get home from grocery shopping after picking my dad up from work. I get started on my dinner right after we get all the groceries in. It is after 6:30pm. I live on the eastern seaboard. My mom has a private number pop up on her phone and she answers cause we have fucked up legal shit going on and you never know who's calling. "L, it's uh, a guy from /not risking those bastards finding it with even a fake name bullshittery lets call it C corp/ and its for you." My immediate thought is someone from work needs to know if I know a policy question or if I know where a tool might be or how to handle a situation. But then my heart sinks cause my mom knows everyone there and half of them call her mom because she's there early to pick me up all the time. 1. She'd have given me a name, and 2. They'd have texted me first because sometime my phone is off for a week or more because sometimes a can't afford my month by month plan. It happens, I'm poor, but my moms is always on because of legal shit, doctors appointments, job stuff for all of us, and everything else. Thing is. No one who is working tonight really knows that. They're all new or new ish and haven't had thrat happen when they try to call me yet. But it irritates the store manager to no end. She thinks I make enough to not be poor. I make pennies over 11 bucks an hour and close to a quarter of that (like 23%) gets taken out in taxes. Even with our other two incomes right now my family of 6 is broke as fuck. We were homeless for two years (TWO FUCKING YEARS) because our former slumlord neglected to pay his mortgage and the court pushed us out onto the street while charging us with evictions because the bank wanted them to. That is a whole other basket of raging, rapid, monstrous beasts, but that's beside the point. Anyway back to the story, which I now know my manager is involved in because who from corporate would know to call my mothers phone instead of my primary number. So I answer the phone and its a guy from corporate. Technically he works in my region but as far as I'm concerned district manager is corporate. So I'm in the first stages of an anxiety attack and I can barely breathe and I'm shaking and my heart is racing and I'm already tearing up. He wants to talk about a comment I made on the C corps employee resource/announcement/inventory/paperwork page. We are 'encouraged' to make these comments, I believe primarily to out unhappy people, but I had never made a comment before. Last week though, after a few days of other people commenting how unhappy they were regarding the announcement, I felt like I was safe enough to do so. Apparently not. :/ The announcement was about raises in January but with additional 'tenured' 'part/ner' raises. I'm just short of the cutoff for the three year better raise and. I. Am. Livid. Enraged. Pissed. Infuriated. Raging. Antagonized. Outraged. Inflamed. Wrathful. I've been a supervisor for nearly a year and a half. And I've been the only fucking closing one they have been able to keep. I replaced one while she went on her sabbatical, she works mornings now. The other that was there before I was promoted moved to mornings because she got burned out on nights. Which I understand. If you work nights, you get burned out. I only close. I have requested to have at least one mid shift a week, I'm tired and I deserve it. But I'm not allowed. Because this store has been through the first two who are veterans and who trained me, two men one who quit with no notice because he and most of the rest of the team (see, morning crew) and he loathed each other. Another who quit walked out on her last day because she hated the manager, a morning crew member (see a theme? Morning crew hates nights and night crew just sits there, understaffed and denied all there requests off, seething, while the manager only calls out or writes up evening crew). So right now there's me, I close 4 nights a week. I used to be full time but I had to beg for 7 months. SEVEN FUCKING MONTHS. to have one day taken off my schedule. Literally I had tears running down my face as I had to explain to her why I needed go not work t days a week. Finally, convinced I still regularly work an extra day because she's desperate and I need money. But I won't close that extra day because I asked for 3 closes and one mid a week and was still denied it because the morning crews schedules come first. There's a second closing supervisor but she happens to enjoy using racially charged words despite being white as I am and us closing with mostly poc. She sucks at her job and was only promoted because she lied about having experience as a supervisor because she can count cash but she can't run the floor. She forgets everyone else's breaks and runs hers late and literally cannot get done close to being on time. I have been told by at least four closers and preclosers that they will quit or transfer if I do because they cannot stand her. Sorry I'm really pissed and kinda drunk now so I'm getting really off topic but I promise that all of this backs up why I'm fucking pissed. So this guy from not-really-corporate ill call him D, wants to know why I feel the way I do. We have a conversation that was at least 20 minutes long. C corp is obsessed with their 'total pay' style. None of which really helps me. I'm too poor to get their healthcare, I get Medicaid. I never used it but I have to have it so there it is. I use it for glasses and that is it. They offer stock options, which take either two or three years to be available in cash I don't really know all I know is my parents advised me to leave them for when we /really/ need it but I can only.take a small amount of cash out. They offer retirement options and whatnot through a certain financial service but, once again, cannot afford to take money out of my paycheck. They offer a small handful of majors through an online school. Thing is you have to pay upfront for it, and I want to go to art school which obviously isn't offered through this program. We get a food item and free drinks every shift. I can eat a total of 1 food item available to us out of like a hundred. I ate it every day for a year and a half. I can't eat oatmeal anymore. Free drinks are great but even the theatre i worked at offered that. We go over all that. I explain that I have a family of six. I need money now. Not later. Not healthcare. Not a pay up front education (don't worry we'll pay you later if you get good grades). I get sick when I think of eating oatmeal (yeah oatmeal is literally a trigger for me now I used to love oatmeal). I explain that I once applied for the donation fund by part/ners for part/ners on the worst day of my life and when I got the reply email I was told that because I didn't have any utility bills, because my family was FUCKING HOMELESS. He went on to say that if I wanted more money that I should move up in the company. The three people I have watched try to move above a supervisor position have been led along with a carrot attached to a fucking string. One person finally got an ask position and the other even after 9 years is still stuck in the same place I am. I don't want to move up. I want to make a living wage. We discussed this. He asked me how much I thought I should be making. I lied and said 13 an hour. It should be 20. Customer service employees and ESPECIALLY FOOD SERVICE EMPLOYEES should get hazard pay. Forget the raise for managers and supervisors. I do my job. I used to do it better. I left behind two other jobs for this piece of shit company. I have taken shit raises. Pennies. God damned pennies as a raise. I work only closing shifts for three years. I have covered other stores for days to help them out. I have dealt with the shittiest of shitty employees and customers. I have taken panic attack after panic attack and have taken shit from every customer and every single person I have worked with. I like plenty of my team members but goddamn are they catty ass bitches. I take the shift no one else wants. I have taken nothing but shit from my manager who thinks that my dreams don't make money, because its art. He literally didn't care about anything I had to say. Just repeated that there is a cutoff for a reason. Which I fucking I understand. I'm not a goddamned idiot. Doesn't stop me from being fucking enraged. Well ill keep y'all updated when this posts. But its Tuesday and if not friday, I don't think ill have a job by Monday. It's been like an hour since I started this and I'm still crying and still breathing heavily and I hate everything. I fucking hate my job I fucking hate my life and I'm tired.

#trigger warning #submissions #fuck customers #fuck co-workers #fuck coworkers #fuck managers #submission

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jugs-and · 4 years

Text

the last couple of months

I have attempted to explain the entire story to various friends - it’s a mighty long story. It’s been a mighty long year, more than I realised before I started writing this account.

I’m probably the asshole in this situation, but it’s my blog so eh. I needed to say it somewhere for future records because I may be scatter-brained but I take intense pride in record keeping to make up for it.

19th April - We didn’t talk for a week - she said that she thought I’d given up on her.

1. Opening blows.

2nd May. It was the most innocent of days - we were just bantering about life. There was nothing really different about the day, it was just the normal Saturday night conversation - I’d just returned from a run, so I was just relaxing with my hairy legs on the table and mixing G&Ts. The call is always the highlight of my week and I was just free-wheeling as the night grew darker and darker.

I asked about her university time - well, really I had initially opened up about my time in university, and I was recounting it. She has always been deeply fascinated with the enigma of N- and She then just on the train of thought as well, and she recounted, and recounted deeper, with more stories than I had heard before - about attempt to enter the medical exam, and then failing the second time as well. Then she went silent - just completely mute.

This was a Saturday, so I hung up, and left it. Thinking that I’d be able to continue this the next day. She didn’t say anything the next day, and the day after when I sent through a photo of my breakfast.

6th May. She sent me an email on the Wednesday about how down she felt - the email was horrific:

> After our talk last Friday, I felt low, so down like I have never felt in years.

> I just wanted to have a fun, warm conversation with my friend and here I was, buried in my memories, of shame and self-deprecation.

My heart dropped to the bottom of the ocean. The thing about E- is that she remembers everything - she will remember incorrectly as well, if it makes her look worse and in a bad light.

I had said some thoughts out loud, about her ex-boyfriend being her only support system and I finally realised that it was no small feat to strike out alone to move to New Zealand those three years past. These thoughts which were probably not quite appropriate to say out loud or how I wanted or intended them to sound.

I replied straight away, outlining that I didn’t enter into the conversation with any ill-will or maliciousness. It wasn’t really a good time to point out that her version of events was quite erroneous which is leading to a lot of the misunderstanding - but I didn’t want to be seen as gas-lighting.

She didn’t reply.

2. Restarting the Conversation

11th May. A week later, I sent another email because I was honestly just feeling lonely at the time. I thought we were going to go into a hibernation mode where we don’t talk for a number of months and we’d just be in a cryogenic freeze. As tradition, I initiated the email contact with a mindless paragraph with everything on my mind at the moment, how helpless I felt in the midst of all of this to resolve the situation and distance created.

She replied the next day, which was surprising. I didn’t know what to take from that. She tends to wander off and not return for a while, and act like nothing had changed.

13th, 14th, 16th May. Throughout the week we continued to trade emails on the topic of expectations and the nature of support in the context of friendships versus romantic relationships. It was sort of like normal, she said that she found the support outside of me, which sort of hurt. I know the words are not really there to injure, but it injures me like someone who was deeply invested in their favourite television show. Here I was watching the series finale unfold in slow motion - with the sinking feeling that I’d been cancelled much too early.

17th May She encouraged me to call her whenever I was ready to discuss. I moaned that communication was hard - I don’t know, she came back discussing tantra practices.

3. Talking restarts

19th May - She sent me a Jean Paul Gaultier facemask - but normal talking resumed and it was strangely normal. Photos of nature, everyday things - I was scrambling to get enough content to drag up to the next weekend - but no, we did the normal flirty talks with innuendo and BDSM, which any normal person would see as intensely sexual.

The next week was fleeting conversations about what was going on in life. It was toward the end of COVID19 restrictions and one of the days I was back in the office with Ashley and Summer. We were going to call that weekend, but postponed because I was at Colin’s house for a bbq on Saturday, and calling Mum on the Sunday. I postponed it out of annoyance, I guess.

4. The beginning of the end

25th May - E- shared about her weekend, both Saturday and Sunday. We’d been typing for a couple of minutes, so I decided to call. I remember calling outside the meeting rooms and on the way to the central lifts. I remember being surprised she picked up - I was sat in my car for most of it. The first two hours were wonderful, but then we moved onto the topic of religion.

I was so tired and slightly broken. I was increasingly attacked by some earlier comments she’d made about my tortured state-which I thought was sort of unfair. She was also really dismissive about the moment I talked about how busy I was, and alluding to, oh gosh. I could be doing so much else right now.

There was an unprecedented arrogance to the way I said things - and a few things on yoga, namaste and the spiritual pursuit - I said a lot of things I still probably won’t back down on, but said in incredibly poor taste. E- has a good skill of taking sentences out of context and finding quotes to match and justify the feelings in her heart. It was a four hour phone call, and the last hour was the most difficult hour of my life. I was so defensive, and every part of my body was screaming to burn all the bridges.

26th May - She talked like normal. After I apologised, she said she wanted to move on and We had a conversation like normal - she sent through quizzes to do with inherent biases, and I responded like normal, somewhat, whatever that means. Across messages, and I was in a bridge burning mood. I poured out everything about how dismissive she is sometimes, and they are not respected or explored, even if she doesn’t agree with them.

I didn’t talk for a week. I was travelling to Cape Reinga that weekend, so I didn’t pursue it anymore.

5. Silence

Since that conversation, we’ve spoken sparingly. I sent a photo of the signpost at Cape Reinga pointing at Vancouver, recounted about the guy who shouted racial epithets at us in the carpark.

We’ve called twice. Both times, I’ve left very quickly, and I don’t know what I was going to say.

05 June - The first one, I called, and asked how she was. She’d been distant as always, and I’m not sure if I was supposed to be surprised. She told me about her weekend, and I left after 20 minutes. She was in a shop, and a bit distracted, so I didn’t think too much about it.

08 June - She returned the favour and called me. Talked to me about her knees, and what sort of state they are in - I’d asked her about them during the weekend because she sounded in some sort of discomfort. She discussed the movies she’d been watching, and I was slightly irritated that she made no attempt to relate the movies to me, but it was a recurring issue which I’d ignored somewhat.

6. Cooling down

I guess we’ve traded one-line messages over the past week with increasing weariness - and on some level, it feels like the end. I’m greatly relieved that she is doing much better, and it gives me a lot more peace in being able to let go.

The most irritating is hearing things I told her three years ago, but talking like she’s stumbled on them by herself. I’m realising how little she listens, or trusts in other people. She repeated the same things like it’s the people that are going to save you - the same things I’d been telling her three years ago - fuck dude - that was me.

The urge in my heart is to say that I feel I’ve never truly been listened to - I’ve never had my words of encouragement, my words of caution, my words of love - they’ve never been treasured. I’ve been chasing after the girl beneath the layers of insecurity, anxiety and longing for maternal care, and full of chronic emotional distance - I don’t know if she is there anymore. While society couldn’t see it, I know I was her first ever real friend, and now I just look like I’m crazy desperate.

I don’t think she realizes how hard I’ve worked to support and be a friend to someone who has been incredibly hard to be a friend to the past three years. Where she’s had literally no one on the other side of the world - I’ve ignored a lot of bullshit and I’ve always prioritized her above a lot of my other friends. I’m only holding on for the moment because I spent so much time and effort, but I have zero affection whether platonic or otherwise.

7. Burning bridges

We called for a hour on Sunday (28th June), it arose organically, she’d been out for a sushi dinner at one of the top restaurants in Vancouver. I knew she was with H-, so I didn’t really want to call. But she turned on the cam to show me everything about her apartment - shit-talked with zero regard regarding finding people online, and I excused myself as my parents were up for the weekend. At the end she faced the camera towards herself and said “Thanks so much for calling, I love it” with the warmest, cutest smile in the world.

I’m just here, writing this record. I have a lot of these records, but I don’t think I ever post them, and they become out of date - so they just live in my inbox. But I very much feel like I want to burn every bridge right now.

#this feels terrifying and liberating to press post

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digressfromreality · 7 years

Text

Sometimes, We Survive By Forgetting

Synopsis: “You can erase someone from your mind. Getting them out of your heart is another story,“ Deidra whispered to her newest friend. A stray black dog she found, that had hurt himself outside of her home. What Deidra didn’t know that the stray dog, was her brother-in-law, Sirius Black, who was very surprised to find his brother’s wife very much alive after all these years.

Warning: SMUT, abuse/torture Part 6 of ….

(Past: January 11th 1996)

Janelle had been enjoying sitting in the drawing room reading while the others, the children mostly, were engrossed in Wizarding Chess. They had been a little sketchy of her presence, but hadn't said much to her since she sat down. They basically ignored her existence which was fine.

"Squash him – squash him, he's only a pawn, you idiot – sorry, Mrs. Weasley, what did you say?"

"Professor Snape, dear. In the kitchen. He'd like a word." Janelle gazed from above the top of her pages when the room suddenly became too quiet. All the children looked around the room in an unexplained horror, which amused Janelle greatly. Severus had finally commanded a presence that he all been striving for since their school days. Now his presence caused several people to sour, it had Janelle in a state of giggles.

"Snape?" said Harry blankly.

"Professor Snape, dear," said Mrs. Weasley reprovingly. "Now come on, quickly, he says he can't stay long." They waited until Mrs. Weasley had left the room before starting in on the boy.

"What's he want with you?"

"You haven't done anything, have you?" The girl asked.

"No!" said Harry indignantly. Janelle shook her head, trying to stifle her laughter. It was too much for her. She was trying to maintain a polite façade as Sirius had suggested- well more like told her to do. She left the room to cool off, Mrs. Weasley swept past her quickly. She noticed Sirius and Severus staring at each other with loathing sneers from the closing kitchen door. It gave Janelle an idea. She hurried off to her room to retrieve a letter.

When she returned downstairs, a happy Weasley family came barreling through the front door. The children were enthusiastically hugging their recovered father, with their mother smiling happily from behind them. He still looked a bit peaky, so Janelle quickly slipped around the family walking towards the kitchen. He would need a refreshment. Is a pint of butterbeer appropriate for so someone that just left the hospital? Janelle froze upon opening the kitchen door.

"Why, yes, I suppose I am," said Snape. Harry was between the two wizards trying to discourage what they had planned to do.

"Harry – get – out – of – it!" snarled Sirius, pushing him out of the way with his free hand. The two wizards lowered their wands, coming to their senses as Mr. Weasley commented on the situation.

"What's going on here?" Severus pushed passed Sirius and Harry only pausing for a moment.

"Six o'clock Monday evening, Potter." Severus continued towards the front door.

"Severus!" Snape kept walking hastily towards the front door. The less he was here the better. "Severus!" He didn't want to be held back, he just needed-

"WHAT?" He snarled at the person who dared touch his shoulder. Janelle stared at his with wide eyes. She had forgotten his quick temper. He didn't have time for this. He had to report a similar report to the Dark Lord. "Well?" He demanded, rather impatiently. She dug into the pocket of her robes, pulling out a sealed envelope. She held it out to him.

"Before you start grumbling that you aren't an owl or house elf I was wondering if you could possibly give this to Narcissa Malfoy." He eyed the letter warily before snatching it from her awaiting hand.

"Why should I do that for you?" She bit her lip, she had been wondering that herself. But he was the best chance she had for getting this delivered. His own guilt was now filling him. He was originally the one who had told Narcissa to reach out to the former cousin. Janelle wrapped her fingers around her loose locks, nervously.

"Because," she whispered, "Because you're the last person that will tell Sirius anything." His eyes narrowed looking down the hallway, the devil himself made an appearance to glare at the two. He was less thrilled with Janelle's closeness than him. He smirked, anything to put that bastard Black in his place.

"Fine." She jumped up happily and wrapped her arms around his neck. His back tensed from her touch.

"Thank you, thank you Severus. I truly appreciate it." She breathed into his hair. She was over delighted he had allowed the embrace despite his lack of reciprocation. She pulled back and smiled at his surprise. "Have a good day Severus." Snape tightly nodded before slamming the door behind him. Janelle looked amused as the twin redheads looked at her in horror. She rolled her eyes as she listened to them talking quietly back and forth.

"Do you reckon that is the first time a woman has touched him?"

"I wouldn't doubt it. Do you think she has grease stains now?" She smirked as Sirius's glare grew as she approached him.

"What were you telling Snivellus?" He demanded.

"Jealous?" She threw the insult, hoping he would take the bait.

"Of Snivellus?" He barked a laugh. "Hardly. But what were you talking to him about?" She smiled innocently at him, batting her eyes.

"I can't talk to an old friend?" He answered gruffly.

"No! Especially greasy old Deatheaters like him." She patted Sirius on the shoulder before shuffling pass him.

"Well he was, here wasn't he? Can't be too untrustworthy. Unlike some people I know."

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

"Good morning, Mr. And Mrs. Black and Regulus. What a pleasant surprise." Orion Black nodded, acknowledging the girl's greeting. Walburga on the other hand gave her a customary glance before following her husband through foyer of Fawley manor. Regulus's stocked pass his girlfriend giving her a curious look. "What?" He shook his head revealing a small smile.

"Do you always answer the door for surprised guests, or did your father give you a clue to why we are here?" She blushed, glancing away in embarrassment. She had been too caught up in her own curiosity to see her blunder. Elves answered the door, not witches.

"I might have been a tad excited to know why your parents had requested brunch with my father in particular. Would you have a clue as to why that is?" She smiled, playing with his collar as he spied on her antics.

"Ignorance is below you, Janelle. I suspect your father has informed you of his own suspicions. Now tell me, are you willing to go through with it?" She squealed throwing her arms around her boyfriend's neck, slightly throwing off his stiff posture. That's the closest she was ever going to get for a proposal, Regulus had wanted to marry her. His parents coming to her home to discuss such matters proved it.

"Yes!" She feigned a cough as Regulus stared down at her looking slightly startled, a ghost of smirk on his lips. "I mean, yes Mr. Black you definitely fit all my criteria for a suitor." He released his arms from his stauchy hold from behind his back to resting his hands on her hips.

"Do tell." He was teasing her, mocking her enthusiasm. Two could play this game.

"Your biting sarcasm tends to leave me in stitches. A pureblood gentleman with a sizable inheritance." Quickly eyeing him below the waist. She leaned in closer with every reason, "classically handsome. Devilish smart and..." She paused, her lips nearly pressed to his ear. "Your own sexual prowess seems to keep me coming back for more." This statement crumbled his proper resolve as she wanted, he smothered his lips on her own.

"Children!" Janelle jumped back from Regulus, the both looking at the floor guiltily. Orion had returned to invite the both in for the discussions, only to find them tending to their own. Janelle dared to face Mr. Black only for him to coldly regard his son. Orion sighed, "Anymore acts like that and you two will be wed before the summer begins. Is that understood?"

"Yes father." Regulus, quickly replied.

"Understood Lord Black." Orion paused at Janelle's reply. He nodded, gesturing for Regulus to take his leave.

"No grandchildren of mine will be born out of wedlock." Janelle furiously shook her head, she was embarrassed to have her boyfriend's father harangue her like this. "Good," he clenched his large hand over her shoulder, "welcome to the family, daughter."

"Wake up Janelle." She tried to wrestle from Orion's grip. She opened her eyes wide, almost in daze. She was laying in her bed, and it was Sirius holding her, not his father. She huffed, shoved Sirius off her. Straightened out her nightshirt.

"What?" She snapped as Sirius stared down at her.

"The fireplace has requested your presence." Janelle glared as Sirius peered at her from the door. Safely retreated from her reaching distance. He looked sullener than usual. She moved her forgotten book over, happily staring at his dismal appearance. His current attitude had to do with whomever was requesting to speak with her.

"No hints? Can't tell me who it is?" Sirius sneered, throwing the door forcefully behind him. He apparently was irritated by whomever was calling her. She rushed towards the parlor to be met with Severus's equally sullen grimace as well. "Severus, it's a bit late to be calling a lady?" He huffed, which Janelle remembered was his equivalent of snorting.

"As if I would lower my standards that far." Her smiled dropped, apparently, his sour mood he blamed on her. It wasn't like she told him to call her back or that Sirius would ill-advisedly take a fire call from anyone, less of all from Severus to her. "I call with news. Seemingly I have been demoted to the status of a common owl, being asked once again to relay a message."

"What did they say?" She was careful not to mention gender, Sirius, if he was listening would go on a tirade if he knew she had Snape contacted Narcissa of all people. He nodded his head.

"Your brother kindly asked if you would stay with him for the weekend, to meet his wife and son. While the main festivities will be held Sunday night. Dumbledore agreed this would be beneficial for your reintroduction in the wizarding world and good for your faculties if you mend your family bonds. He asked if I would escort you promptly tomorrow morning." He sighed, "Will 8 o'clock suffice?"

"Yes, Severus! Thank you, thank you so much." Severus huffed again, his face disappearing from the flames. She was excited, she was going to leave this house and do things she wanted. Without Sirius's constant pestering.

"So that is what you gave Sniveiulls this morning? Didn't want me to rifle through your Deatheater love letters?" Sirius snarled, and Janelle glared. It was ridiculous that he would even- she shook her head. He wasn't going to ruin her happy thoughts with his. She smiled, shaking her head at the him.

"I have to get up early, good night." She shuffled passed him, his face more morose than before. His only company was leaving him.

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

(Current: May 1996) Meeting at Malfoy Manor

"I've gather you all here to reestablish our order. Many of you have forgotten your place, you have forged your way in the world for several years without your master. Sitting here now, proves that I am a merciful lord." A chorus of apologies rained towards the dark lord, who nodded stiffly in return. He was still angry, but he had to put revenge on hold for now.

First, they needed to rebuild, reform, reclaim what he had lost over the last decade. With the helpful influence of the Ministry, his presence for the moment was widely ignored. "Now to remind you of the way you have lost. We must fight for a New World, a better world. What is pure must stay pure." All the Deatheaters presence shook their heads in agreement, no more than Bellatrix. "We take up arms to provide a better world becoming of the new generation. Your sons and daughters never should speak, let alone associate with the mud blood or their brethren ever again. Cheers to our success, and the befuddlement of the ministry!"

"To the Dark Lord!" The Lestranges raised their goblets in a toast.

"To the Ministry's ignorance!" The entire table raised their goblets in new found excitement.

"After Lucius completes his mission we will be unstoppable! No more being silent, we will take what is ours! We will subjugate all that are inferior to us and exterminate whatever else!" The cheering continued before Voldemort waved his hands. He wanted to turn their attention to his last guest of the evening, Janelle Black. He had even altered her hair for the occasion, for the others to recognize their lost friend. He wanted- perhaps an introduction to remind his followers who they worked for.

"I haven't seen her- is that- Black's wife?" Voldemort smirked circling around his victim. Janelle was painfully unaware of her surroundings. He was still testing her limits.

"It is." He bent down, playing with a lock of her freshly bleached hair, it was a tangled mess. "She's testing something that I want to try on the boy." His followers looked at her with a renewed interest. The girl, Janelle, was most helpful in challenging his mental capabilities. He needed to be ready for the boy.

"She's seizing." The group watched her unmercifully flounder against the cold floor. "Her mind can only take so much intrusion." Lucius pleaded with his master. They wouldn't be able to scale the success of their attempts if their test subject were to become a vegetable before then. Voldemort relinquish his hold over the poor woman.

"Suggestions Lucius?" The Dark Lord wanted solutions not commands. He dared a step forward, inspecting the girl further. Despite some deterioration in physical attributes, her mind was still resilient. Her mental capacity was not atrophying. He highly doubted that Potter, the halfblood, could stand the barrage of mental attacks before his mind succumbing to goo.

"Perhaps, we lead the boy there over time." He paused, his master said nothing to contradict him, good. "His own curiosity will be his own undoing. And once he is vulnerable enough, you lure him with threat to his godfather." Voldemort nodded, agreeing with his assessment. More work needed to be done, he turned his sights back on his former follower.

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

(Past: January 12th 1996)

Laughter could be heard throughout the Fawley household. Janelle, Sean and his wife Audree, at the Janelle's antics.

"You were a dissident youth? Causing your father premature grey hair." Audree stated.

"Now, I don't know about that." Sean waved off his sister.

"No, no. More like lost hair. This girl, his little princess Slytherin caused father many sleepless nights. Getting in trouble left and right." Janelle laughed, these stories, these memories made her feel light. Lighter than she had in weeks. Being around Sirius had made her feel dark and depressed, she was just as trapped in Grimmauld Place as he was. Besides, she was safe, she didn't need his so called and imposed protection. She would enjoy this, enjoy this while she could.

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

(Past: January 13th 1996)

"Is Mrs. Malfoy in?" Janelle asked the quivering elf. Something seemed to be off, Janelle couldn't place it. Narcissa wouldn't go through with the plans then suddenly not show up last minute. If she remembered right, Cissa was always very punctual, at least through Regulus's eyes. Janelle could hear shuffling from behind the massive doors. Narcissa threw open the door, leaning greatly on the frame. She looked bewildered, but relieved to see Janelle.

"Right now, isn't a good time." Narcissa curtly, which prompted Janelle to ask further.

"Are you sure? I hadn't gotten a reply, I just wanted to make sure that everything was alright."

"Well, I-" Narcissa turned back, feverishly whispering behind the doorway. "No!" The door was pulled open, giving a full glimpse into the entryway. Narcissa looked distress as a dark-haired woman stared hard at her. Her long curly hair was straggly and unkempt. Her robes were filthy and long, it almost reminded her of prison garb.

"Oh Cissy, you shouldn't have." The dirty woman pulled a confused Janelle across the threshold. Janelle tried yanking her arm from the witch's incredibly tight grip. "Oh- I remember you. Tonight, we'll get some answers."

#regulus black #Sirius Black #narcissa malfoy #lucius malfoy #albus dumbledore #hp fanfiction #hp imagine #hp smut #harry potter #voldemort #deatheaters #bellatrix lestrange #the weasleys #orion black #walburga black

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perfectdayforsomemeihem · 7 years

Text

An Honest Woman Chapter Two - A Meihem fluff fanfic

Mei-Ling Zhou x Junkrat (Jamison Fawkes) - Meihem fanfiction

Summary: Mei finds herself in a predicament with Junkrat, and how he might take it scares her. How will her teammates react? How is she supposed to move on from this?

This is mainly a fluff story. It may contain some mild language, and some possible adult content.

by Miki - PerfectDayForSomeMeihem/MikiSneaki

DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION

You can also find this work in the link below. Chapters are posted there first.

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10424193/chapters/23074260

Chapter Two

Manic laughter followed a large explosion on the practice range, but this certainly didn’t take Mako out of his thoughts or the book he was reading.

He was so used to Jamison’s obnoxious antics that whenever his lanky employer started babbling on about whatever he was enthralled with he would absent mindedly answer with a grunt or a nod.

Mako could have cared less most of the time, but today he knew something was up.

When Dr. Ziegler first told Mei she had to go into quarantine Jamison had only become a little bit more irritating than normal. He constantly complained to the older Junker that he missed holding his soft and squishy snowflake. He would go on and on about her trance inducing eyes, her intoxicating vanilla aroma, or the adorable way she pronounced certain words differently because of her accent. It was only when Jamison would start talking about personal things like how he wanted nothing more than to shove his face into her pillow-like breasts that Mako would tell him frankly to shut up.

But as the past few weeks went by Jamison’s lonesome whining started to lessen until it was replaced by an uncharacteristic silence. The younger Junker seemed lost in his thoughts, and the only time Mako would hear him is when he mumbled to himself incoherently. Things like, “Won’t happen, ain’t gonna happen,” or “She’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine.”

These little “mantras” seemed to calm Jamison, but as of yesterday they stopped working.

He figured it had something to do with Mei’s visit to Jamison that same day. She came by to tell him that she was going in for a blood test that Dr. Ziegler requested, and she would have the results the next day. Dr. Ziegler had a few ideas about what Mei’s illness could be, but until she had the test results to back it up she wouldn’t disclose any information. Mei herself had no idea what could be wrong with her, and simply not having knowledge about her own body terrified the poor woman. Mako, knowing his partner, knew that Jamison was also scared. The thought that he could lose his precious Snowflake and do nothing about it drove him even more insane than he normal was.

Unable to stand the waiting Jamison decided that his time was better spent blowing off steam and blowing up practice bots. No doubt Torbjörn wouldn’t appreciate having to fix all the broken bots by the end of this wait, but Jamison certainly didn’t care.

The lanky Junker had been on the range since the night before seemingly unaffected by the lack of sleep. Not that he could sleep. The night was a perfectly horrible mixture of stress, and stress induced phantom pains in his missing limbs.

He tossed and turned in his bed finding no solace from his hurt. Trying to take his mind off of the phantom pains only brought him back to the thought of losing Mei, and trying not to think about losing Mei only made the stress and therefore the physical pain worse.

He couldn’t take it anymore, and with a frustrated growl he tossed his covers, attached his prosthetic limbs, and got up from the bed. The clamoring noise he made as he grabbed his harness, launcher, and extra ammo had woken Mako from his own sleep.

The elder Junker sat up catching his partner just as got to the doorway.

Jamison heard him stir, but only turned his head slightly to regard him.

“I’m goin’ out to blow shit up. Don’t wait up.”

For hours Jamison took his frustrations out on bot after bot, receiving only little satisfaction as each concussion ripped the metal apart like paper. Even if the satisfaction was fleeting he still preferred whatever form of distraction he could take.

He took hardly took notice when Mako made his way out to watch over his partner, and despite how much he ached for her he remained oblivious when Mei made her own way out to the range.

Mako heard the familiar, soft footsteps as she neared, and turned to see if it actually was her.

Mei smiled and waved to the elder Junker, and although she couldn’t see it behind his mask he smiled back.

“Nǐ hǎo, Mako. Is this spot taken?” She asked motioning towards the empty spot on the bench where he sat.

He moved over slightly and motioned for her to sit before replying, “Sure. I ain’t hoggin’ it.”

Mei paused for a moment giving Mako a wry smile.

“Hogging it? Did you really just make that pun?” She giggled.

Mako simply shrugged and chuckled softly.

After taking her spot next to Mako Mei began to watch Jamison intently as he continued his wreckage, and Mako took this as an opportunity to look the woman over. Something was different about her, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Her face seemed to be a little fuller, her skin seemed to have a soft glow to it, and she kept yawning despite the fact that she had been sleeping the past few days away.

Finally Mako broke the silence. “So are ya dyin’ or what?”

Mei perked up in surprise, and nervously shook her head at the Junker.

“N-No. I’m fine.”

“Yer not sick?”

Mei frowned. “Well, yes and no. You see, that’s actually why I came out here. I need to talk to Jamie about my… condition.”

Mako keyed in on the word “condition”, and it was at that moment he put two and two together and understood what was happening to her. He had been aware of the symptoms she exhibited and felt that they were somehow familiar, but they didn’t make sense until she called it that.

He smirked under his mask, “Condition, huh? And Junkrat’s got a part in it?”

She blushed. “Yea, you could say that.”

He used that as a confirmation of his suspicions, and let out an amused chuckle. This earned him a curious look from the climatologist. “What’s so funny?”

He was about to answer when they heard Jamison’s shrill voice shout, “Mei?!” from across the range.

They both looked out and saw that Jamison had noticed them, Mei especially. She could see his face light up at the sight of her, but she also noticed the worry lines on his forehead. She could tell that he had been under stress for quite some time now, and it broke her heart knowing she was the cause of that stress.

The young Junker carelessly dropped his launcher, unstrapped his grenade harness, and threw them both aside near a demolished practice bot before starting a mad scuttle towards the two.

Mei smiled and prepped herself to be taken into a tight hug from her boyfriend, but was quickly caught off guard by Mako commenting, “I guess I should say “congratulations”.”

His voice was raspy and low, but she could tell by the tone that he was smirking under that mask.

Her face flushed, as she rushed to respond.

“W-What?! Wait, you know?! How-?!”

Mako responded with a deep belly laugh finding absolute amusement in watching Mei become flustered.

She had no time to say anything else as Jamison closed the distance between them. His long arms immediately found their place wrapped around her waist and lifted her off the ground. He took in the smell of her hair, and the feel of her soft skin against his own with great fervor as if he had been kept from her for years.

“Mei, my Mei! I’ve been worryin’ about ya all night!” He admitted as he put her back down.

Despite still being ruffled by Mako’s remark Mei gave her attention to Jamison placing small kisses on his cheek before responding, “I know, I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cause you stress like this.”

Suddenly he perked up, and gently pushed Mei away enough so he could look her in the eyes.

“So the blood test thingy, what happened with that? What’d Angel Doc say? Are ya sick? Infected? What’s gonna happen to ya? Are ya gonna be alright?” Jamison rambled out his questions until Mei stopped him, placing a finger to his lips.

“Jamie, calm down. I’m not sick.”

“Yer not? But then what was with all the hurlin’ and the sleepin’? Are ya sure she didn’t botch the test?”

Mei’s heart began to race as she realized how soon she was going to have to tell him about the results… About the baby…

She took a deep breath, and took Jamison’s hand in her own looking him in the eyes.

“No, she didn’t botch it. I might not be sick, but test did find something… I just don’t know how you’re going to react to it.”

He gave her a toothy grin as a sign of assurance. “How I’m gonna react? Luv, I couldn’t give two shits as long as yer not hurt or dyin’!”

Mei frowned. “Jamison, it’s not that simple.”

His face dropped in disappointment as he sighed; the sheer thought that it couldn’t be over and done with unnerved him, but he supposed that he could tough it out a little longer.

For her.

“Alright, so what is it then?”

Suddenly it was the moment of truth, and Mei felt nowhere near prepared for it. To make matters worse she realized that not only was Jamison staring at her, but Mako as well. Having both of the Junkers at full attention shot her nerves, as if she was nothing more than a preteen school girl confessing a crush. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and having to deal with it again made her stomach turn in knots.

“I-I…”

“… Yea?” Jamison urged.

“It’s… It’s just that…”

It was like her body had frozen, and all she was left with was the cacophony of voices in her head reminding her just how bad her situation could turn out.

“What if he doesn’t want it? He might try to make me get rid of it! Why would he want it? But what if he does want it? Could he ever be happy with a child? What if he blames me for ruining his life? What if he blames the baby? This is going to ruin his life! He’s going to hate me, and he’ll never want to see me again! I don’t even know what I’ll do with it if he does decide to leave me! Should I keep it? Would it even have a chance of happiness if I raise it alone? What do I do? What do I do?!”

The tension was killing Jamison as Mei just stood there in silence. He turned to Mako with a questioning look, but the elder Junker simply shrugged.

The wait finally made him impatient enough that he rolled his eyes, stood up straight, and gestured harshly for her to speak up.

“Earth to Mei! Come on, and spit it out! Why are ya makin’ me wait like this?!”

He immediately regretted how harsh his tone sounded as it seemed to scare Mei right out of her thoughts. Her eyes had widened in surprise, and- were those tears? Was she crying?!

This was very unusual for her, as Jamison felt that Mei had always been a tough lil’ sheila. He certainly never figured that he could make her cry.

Mei on the other hand was very much aware of how quickly she became emotional, and cursed her body for already hitting her with the hormonal mood swings. Normally if Jamison, or anyone for that matter, were to raise their voice at her she’d meet it with an equally as strong or stronger tone and scold them for being so rude. Now that her hormones were already taking over she felt weak and vulnerable, and she couldn’t stand it.

The tears began to flow as Mei put her head in her hands and cried, “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! I just- I can’t-!” Her shoulders shook with each sob causing Jamison to panic as he attempted to comfort her.

“W-Wait, wait, wait! Don’t cry! I-I didn’t mean to make ya cry! Please, Mei…”

Jamison looked back to Mako with the facial expression of “HELP ME” practically slapped across his face.

Mako rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. He understood how scared she was, but he felt that maybe she was over thinking this whole thing a little too much.

He decided that he might as well help the girl, and frankly told Jamison, “Rat, the girl is pregnant.”

Mei froze with the last sob caught in her throat. She was almost thankful that Mako said it for her, but now she was mere seconds from facing the harsh reaction Jamison would have. She braced herself for the worst, but it never came.

Instead Jamison turned to Mako, puffed up, and swung his fist into the elder Junker’s arm.

“Roadie, what the hell is yer problem?! Why would ya say that to her?! Just because the lady is a bit on the heavier side doesn’t mean she up the duff! Don’t be a bastard!”

Jamison tensed for a moment, and looked to Mei with a sheepish grin. “Uh, no offense, Snowflake!”

Mako sighed, picked up his book, and turned to leave. He figured that now that the news was out there Mei could do the rest, so it would be best to leave the couple alone for a bit. Before leaving he faced Mei and gave her a small nod that, despite not being able to read any of his facial cues, she could tell was meant to be encouraging.

He started his walk back to the base, but his partner certainly wasn’t done with him.

“Oi! Get yer arse back here, and apologize to the lil’ bit! Have some fuckin’ manners!”

“Jamie!” Mei held her arm out to stop him. The younger Junker looked to her confused as Mako made his way back inside leaving them alone.

“Mei, he just called ya pregnant out of nowhere! Don’t ya feel insulted by that?!”

He studied her face, and found that there was a small, amused smile. It confused Jamison because it was almost as if she wasn’t offended by the statement at all, as if it were-

Then it dawned on him.

He gawked at her for a second before asking with an almost unsettling quiet tone, “W-Wait… Mei, yer actually pregnant?”

Mei had been looking away, but after a small sigh to build what little confidence she had left she made eye contact with him. A small, but still clearly scared smile appeared on her face.

“Yes, I am.”

Jamison stood there for a moment, his face was stuck in its surprised expression. He felt his knees go weak and his chest became heavy. He compared the feeling to the first time he had a bomb go off on him unexpectedly, and it threw him against a hard, brick wall. Before his legs could give out he managed to quickly sit himself down on the bench where Mako had been sitting.

Mei braced herself once again for whatever kind of negative reaction Jamie might have, and once again it never came.

“I didn’t think it was possible… The Crisis, the radiation… I figured I’d been shootin’ blanks this whole time.”

She breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t freaking out, and sat down next to him cautiously placing a hand on his lap. “I thought I was sterile too. After so many years in cryostasis the doctors told me that being barren might have been a result of it, but there weren’t any other cases of people who had gone through overly extended periods of cryostasis. I suppose I was naive to go by guesses.”

For a moment they stayed silent. Mei looked off into the distance at the ocean just beyond the range and watched it glimmer with the reflections of the afternoon sun. It soothed and distracted her for a moment before Jamison spoke up.

“What’s the folder about? Is it from the Doc?"

Mei perked up suddenly remembering that she had the folder, picked it up from its spot on the bench, and opened it. She glanced at the two forms, and sighed. "Yes, it is. This base doesn’t have the right supplements or equipment to properly aid in a developing pregnancy, and so this form is a request for those supplies.”

He nodded. “And the other one?”

All the air suddenly left Mei’s lungs as she recalled the other form. Jamison saw her tense up the moment he mentioned, and this made him all the more curious.

“The other form… It’s for if I decide terminate the pregnancy.”

Jamison froze hearing the word.

“Terminate? Ya mean get rid of it?” It surprised Mei when he asked the question because she could hear a small lilt in his voice.

She turned to him, and was again surprised seeing the concerned, and almost pained look he was giving her.

“Yes. If I decide to.”

“I don’t want ya to do that!”

Her breath hitched at how quickly he answered, and she couldn’t help but become a little teary eyed. “Y-You don’t?”

He grabbed her by the arms, and looked her straight in the eyes. "No! I mean I never thought I would have kids, but that doesn’t mean I’m not okay with having one!”

Jamison didn’t know how to take it when Mei’s eyes started to well up once again. She clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs as she collapsed against his chest.

“Did I scare her again?… Maybe she didn’t want it?” He thought to himself. He sighed before taking her into his arms, stroking her hair gently.

“But what if you come to resent me?"

The question surprised Jamison. "Resent ya? Why the hell would I resent ya?!”

Mei sat up and wiped her eyes as she looked at Jamison. Her voice still trembled, and it seemed like the tears could come back at any moment. “I don’t want you to feel trapped into being a father! I don’t want to do that to you! I didn’t know if you wanted a baby, and it’s so unexpected I-”

“Mei,” Jamison shushed her by reaching out and cupping his cold mechanical hand to her cheek, “I’m already okay with it. My life has been full of the unexpected, and I’ve always been ready for it. This is gonna be no different.”

“… Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Yea… What do ya wanna do? Are ya gonna keep it?"

She looked down at her belly for a moment as she thought. It was going to be tough raising a child, and she would always worry about whether or not Jamison would still be okay… But he wanted it. That she could clearly see…

Then what did she want?…

She took a deep breath.

"Jamison… Before I was frozen I had a plan for my life; get married, have a child or two, and then raise them in our beautiful world. But before I could do any of that I had to try to save our world. I let my career take control over a great portion of my life, and I felt proud of the progress I made. I thought I had time, but…”

Jamison could hear her voice waver, and despite trying to hold herself together her doe brown eyes still had tears threatening to spill over. There was clearly something causing her pain, but she was trying to remain strong.

“I lost everyone I loved… My family, my friends, my allies… I woke up to a dead world, and I was all alone. Then Winston recalled Overwatch, found me, and I finally got back at least some of my old friends. Then I made more friends, and I met you, and the loneliness faded away.”

She looked straight into Jamison’s amber eyes with the tears now furiously swelling from her own, and wrapped her arms around her belly protectively. “But there are still so many chances with my family I lost just because I didn’t think to live in their moment! I understand that this is also your child, and that means you have a say in the matter, but I don’t want to lose this chance too! I want to have this baby!”

By the end of her thoughts Mei could barely hold herself together. She let some of the tears fall, but Jamison was quick to wipe her tears away letting his hands rest on her cheeks. She looked up at him; there was a huge grin on his face that seemed to suggest he was full of pride.

“Well then we’re havin’ a baby, Mei."

Jamison’s smiles were notoriously infectious, and Mei found herself smiling softly back at him. Despite the fact that she was crying the tears now seemed to be that of joy. "You mean it?”

Jamison’s grin turned playful as he grabbed Mei by the thighs, and lifted her up onto his lap. “Ya bet yer beautiful ass I do! We’re gonna have the cutest lil’ ankle biter anyone has ever seen! You and me, Snow Princess!”

Mei began to giggle as she wiped her remaining tears away. Jamison was always the best at making her smile.

“An ankle biter, Jamie?”

“Yea! You know; tot, rug rat, tyke, kiddo. A baby!”

“I know what it means, it’s just that it’s such a you thing to say. You’re going to be such a strange father.”

“Ahh, but see, Snowball, yer the one crazy enough to have my baby. I thought ya were supposed to be the sane one between the two of us!”

Mei leaned in and kissed his jawline before being tempted into trailing kisses down his neck. “Am I? What’s so crazy about it?"

She could feel his heart begin beat faster as he gave a low, sultry growl in response. Then in one swift motion Jamison grabbed her by the waist, flipped over and pinned her down against the bench. His tall form loomed over Mei as he took her wrist into his hand and began a mixture of kisses and bites down her arm.

"Well, luv, he’s gonna be a little fireball of energy of he’s anything like me. Think ya can handle that?”

Jamison’s eyes burned with the same energy he spoke of. Their pure amber color stared into Mei’s own doe brown eyes for only moment, but that moment was long a enough to light a small fire in her belly.

As his lips made it to her neck she could already feel the passionate shiver that made her back arch. She bit her lip trying to get a hold of herself.

Smiling deviously she responded, “I’m able to handle you, aren’t I?”

｡｡｡｡｡

“You have got to be joking with me, Angela! What makes you think this is a good idea?!”

The doctor gave an exasperated sigh in response to Jack’s outburst. For a moment she looked to Winston, but the ape was pretending to be busy by skimming through a large file on his desk. She figured he probably agreed with Jack, but having to face heated confrontations wasn’t his thing.

Because Winston, Ana and Jack were the highest in command Dr. Ziegler had a responsibility to inform them about the conditions of their agents, and Mei’s pregnancy was certainly something she had to inform them about.

She had gone to see Ana first, and the elder woman took the news very well. The two agreed that if Mei decided to keep the baby that they would be at her side to help her throughout the pregnancy.

Winston and Jack, however, had reservations about the whole situation. Jack was especially upset, as Mei meant a great deal to him.

He came to know her when he became Commander of Overwatch. He even recalled interviewing her for the position she took in Antarctica. She was a young, ambitious woman that had a dream of making the world a better place. That dream clicked with him, and they immediately had chemistry.

Jack admired Mei’s spirit, and her sense of positivity in unfavorable situations. She was always there for him even when the rest of his teammates, politicians and world leaders, and even the civilians he was trying to protect seemed to be against him.

Then Overwatch fell.

Jack felt as if he failed his country. He failed to save the world like he promised. Shortly after he failed to save Mei as everyone thought that Antarctica had been lost.

When Jack found out that Mei was actually alive he was overjoyed, and quickly ran to be by her side as she recovered. He was happy to have his old friend back.

Jack would never admit it, but for a long time he had feelings for Mei. As of now she was more of a little sister to him, but when he was younger he had always secretly hoped Mei would reciprocate his feelings back.

That was before MacReady.

Angela rubbed at her forehead, sighing before responding to the old soldier. “It’s not a matter of whether or not it’s a good idea, Morrison. I’m just telling you what might happen. Besides we can’t do anything about it, not that we should have the right to anyway. Mei is her own woman, and this is her decision.”

“I know that, dammit, but out of all the people in the world it had to be the Rat? For God’s sake I thought she was smarter than that!"

It was known to everyone including the Junker himself; Jack didn’t like Junkrat in the slightest bit. He felt the Australian was nothing but a low life punk that didn’t deserve someone like Mei. It astonished him that she was still together with him after two years, but it blew his mind learning that she was now carrying that idiot’s kid.

”“Smarter than that?” That’s rather insulting to Mei, don’t you think?“ Angela folded her arms as she gave Jack a glare of disapproval.

For a moment Jack seemed to want to argue about it further, but instead he took a deep breath and stood from his chair.

"Forget I said that. I’ll talk to her myself later. Thank you for informing us about this, Angela.”

The doctor seemed a little insulted about being dismissed, but she figured that there wasn’t much else she could do at this point.

Before she left she looked to Jack one more time and said, “Please don’t say anything you might regret, Jack. If she still means anything to you.”

#meihem #junkmei #junkrat #jamie fawkes #jamison fawkes #mei ling zhou #overwatch #fanfiction #pregnant #fluff #feel good #fanfic #overwatch fanfic #an honest woman

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theherothechampiontheinquisitor · 7 years

Text

You’ve Got Mail - Chapter 1

Summary:: Belle French and Callan Gold meet in an AOL chatroom in the late 90′s and quickly bonded over email. Little do they know that in real life they are business rivals that completely hate each other.

Originally published under melissabosquez, September 2014. Cover by Midstorm

Belle French held her breath and watched slyly from the curtain of her bedroom window for her long term live in boyfriend, Geoffrey, to exit the building on his way to work. The mornings were the favorite part of her day, especially when her boyfriend was gone so that she could indulge herself in one of her guilty pleasures; the internet. Geoffrey was a bit of a technophobe that was convinced that modern advancements were going to be the downfall of all mankind, beginning with the internet. Whenever he caught Belle online he would begin harping his conspiracy theories and it was easier for her just to wait until he was gone. He didn’t like what he couldn’t seem to understand, whereas Belle appreciated it for the marvel it was.

They had been in a relationship together for nearly five years now and it had become a thing of habit more than any kind of love or connection. She didn’t doubt that Geoffrey was any more interested in her than she was in him. He was convenient though. Comfortable.

She waited for a few more moments and finally he appeared out the front door of their apartment complex and was on his way down the street. With a squeal Belle dropped the curtain and ran the short distance from the window to her desk and opened up her portable computer with a grin. With a grin and the crack of her knuckles she double clicked the AOL icon and waited to be connected to the internet.

If Belle was perfectly honest with herself, it wasn’t exactly the wondrous depths of knowledge or endless possibilities that the internet entailed that excited her. Those were all good things and she loved to see how things progressed further but all she really was looking forward to was three little words. You’ve. Got. Mail. She smiled and spoke the words out loud in time with the computer voice, quickly clicking on the icon of a letter waiting in a mailbox. The page loaded and she felt her stomach tighten in anticipation as she was rewarded with an email from her favorite person, thespinner61.

Belle had met thespinner61 in an AOL chat room several months ago by accident. It was supposed to be a chat room to talk about common interests in books but turned out to be nothing but crude jokes and desperate attempts at cybersex. Belle had almost logged off after several sexist comments were directed towards her for not instantly responding to queries of her a/s/l. To be honest she had no idea what that even meant. Before she could respond thespinner61 came to her rescue and responded, “Go shake your ears.” Belle had laughed, catching the literary reference to Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare. It had very obviously flown over the head of her aggressor to which thespinner61 replied again, “The simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me,” and “If I were as ignorant as you Ben Rogers I wouldn’t let on.” Each quote taken from The Importance of Being Earnest and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn respectively. He had won her over instantly.

After that incident they had started sending each other emails back and forth for literal hours on end. They talked about all kinds of things. Literature, politics, art, film. Sometimes they even talked about things as simple as the weather and it never felt awkward or forced. The one thing they agreed to not speak of were things that were too personal. Names, ages, addresses and the like were never brought up. The only thing Belle knew was that he too lived in New York City and he had a long term girlfriend of his own.

They had been sending each other emails back and forth for five months now and the thrill of “you’ve got mail” had yet to wane.

To: bookworm1984

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: books you must read spinner!

My dearest bookworm. I write to you from the middle of Atlanta as all hell is breaking loose as General Sherman and his Army invade. Our lovely protagonists have just braved all peril to escape and now have shared a very personal smooch before Rhett has decided (rather foolishly and quite dramatically) to go back and join the war efforts, leaving our strong, but distressed damsel to her own devices as she plots to make it to Tara.

If you haven’t noticed, at your quite incessant behest, I am hundreds of pages into your favorite literary endeavour, Gone With The Wind. Not exactly my cup of tea so far but I cannot say I am entirely dissatisfied with the quality of writing. Margaret Mitchell has a very distinct style and I must say that I quite enjoy when she becomes caught up in her descriptions, especially of the surroundings. It’s enchanting in its own way. I will continue the ill-fated adventures of Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler when I return home this evening.

Tell me, now that I have started your novel, will you finally stop your hemming and hawing and pick up the Hunter S. Thompson novel we were discussing? I promise, his political commentary is often surprising, always amusing and generally spot on in ways you would never imagine. I recommend Fear and Loathing On the Campaign Trail ‘72. Great introduction to his Gonzo journalism. I raise a glass of Wild Turkey to him for that one.

From the thumping noises coming from above, it would seem that the dragon has finally stirred. Best I get the coffee pot brewing before she scourges me with her hellfire.

One last note in regards to your work related problem. Tell the guy threatening your business to fuck off. Stand up for yourself. Do the brave thing and bravery shall follow my dear.

----Spinner

You’ve got mail!

Callan Gold turned back to look at his open laptop on the table. Bookworm was a fast writer this morning he thought with a smile. Normally she took longer to respond, indicating that she was pensive and probably didn’t agree with something that he had said, usually something over literature. The faster she responded, the better mood that she was in, the more excited she was to discuss things.

Turning back to the coffee mug he was fixing, he added three packets of sugar and some hazelnut creamer, stirring and finishing just in time to hand it off to it’s recipient, Mal, as she stumbled blindly through the swinging kitchen door. Mornings were not Mal’s high points of the day, whereas Callan had always been a bit of an early riser.

Mal graciously accepted the steaming cup and slinked into one of the chairs at the small breakfast table. She shoved Callan’s laptop back over to his side of the table as he rejoined her. He raised an eyebrow to her as she slurped the coffee down, not seeming to care how hot it was.

“I’m starting to believe you are really a dragon with your high tolerance to scorching coffee,” he smirked and resumed reading his newspaper as Mal made an incomprehensible grunt, finishing her first cup of coffee of the day and standing to fix another.

He and Mallory had been going through this same routine for decades. First as friends and then as more, though he would hesitate to call her his girlfriend. Their relationship wasn’t like that. They were more roommates. With benefits. They lived together, worked together, slept together but there was no real romantic love between them. They had been friends longer than Callan could even remember. One day not too long after his wife had left him and took their now estranged son with her, Mallory had shown up at his door and never left.

It was an arrangement that they both were happy with. Neither of them had to be alone anymore.

Mal took a drink out of her second cup of coffee and feeling decidedly more human, leaned back against the counter and eyed Callan though his face was obscured by the paper.

“So, do we have any small business owners lives to ruin today?” she asked, her voice still a bit raspy with sleep, a hand combing through her messy blonde hair.

“Only one today I’m afraid. That same damn little bookshop around the corner from where we are building. The owner is stubborn as a mule, refuses to sell. I sent her one last offer that I think may entice her. If not well, don’t say that we didn’t try to help her come six months down the road when her little shop is in the hole,” he answered back, folding the paper up in front of him.

Mal gave him a crooked smile. “There’s a reason that you are known more for your cruel business tactics than your shite coffee.”

“I’m a tea man, Mal. You’ve known this for 20 years. Perhaps if you could wake up at a normal time you could make your own coffee instead of being forced to have your first five cups of the day be my ‘shite’ brew.”

Mal laughed in response. That was something that would definitely never be happening. “Well, I’m off to shower, Cal, I’ll be ready to go quicker than you can say Maleficent!” she winked in regards to the nickname he had given her when he didn’t think she was listening.

Callan waited until he heard the tell tale screech of the shower faucet coming to life before he pulled his laptop in front of him and grinned at the unread message from bookworm1984.

To: thespinner61

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: books you must read spinner!

The Hunter S. Thompson speech again? After seeing that Johnny Depp film based off of his book last year I must admit that I am still a bit sceptical to read any of his works. Though the film did have a few redeeming qualities, particularly the wave speech at the end as he discusses the death of the American dream. I will trust you on this just as you have trusted me on Margaret Mitchell.

Speaking of, I promise that you will quite enjoy Gone With the Wind if you will quit being so cynical. You are right though, MM’s imagery is one of my favorite things of the book. Aside from the strong female characters and the delightfully scandalous Captain Butler.

Perhaps I shall take a page from Scarlett O’ Hara’s book and stop being worried all of the time. I’ll think of my problems tomorrow and accomplish what I need to today. I suppose I should keep this passage in mind...

“A startling thought this, that a woman could handle business matters as well as or better than a man, a revolutionary thought to Scarlett who had been reared in the tradition that men were omniscient and women none too bright.”

I will take your advice to heart my friend. Do the brave thing and bravery will follow, right? Let you know how it turns out tonight.

Hope you have a great day. Beware the fire breathing dragon.

----bookworm

Callan closed his laptop instead of choosing to respond. He didn’t always consider himself a very sound advice giver but when bookworm1984 had told him she was having trouble with a pushy man trying to hurt her business (which she refused to reveal to him, as per their anonymous disclosure), he knew that she just needed a little bit of a push to stand up for herself. If there was one thing that he knew, it was business. He was glad he could at least inspire marginal confidence and hoped that it would all work out for her in the end.

As the CEO of a successful, multi-billion dollar chain of bookstores, Golden Books, he would like to think that he knew a few things about chasing away a competitor. After today, if the owner of Fairytale Corner accepted his buy out offer, his new store would be the only bookstore around for miles.

Packing up his things he moved towards the staircase as he heard Mal beginning to make her way down. It always amazed him how quickly she could go from the monster that morning to the beautiful, intimidating business woman she now presented herself as.

“Intimidating as always, my dear,” he joked, taking her hand in his and kissing it.

“Why, Cal, you aren’t turning romantic on me now are you?” she raised a brow.

“Of course not, we have business to tend to. If Fairytale Corner decides not to sell then we will just have to put them out of business the old fashioned way,” he grinned, already calculating plans in his mind.

“What’s the owner’s name again? I will give them a call before lunch, see if I can push this little deal along any quicker.”

“I think it’s something french sounding,” he said as he pulled a few papers out of his briefcase. “Ah, yes. Ms. Belle French, owner since her mother passed away five years ago.”

Mal accepted the papers from Callan and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Well, lets go kick this little girl out of the neighborhood then.”

Callan offered her a smile and then his arm as they made their way out the door.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #rumbelle fanfic #rumbelle fanfiction #ygm1

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slytherindragonfly · 7 years

Text

Bewitching - Draco x Reader

Summary: Convinced by Narcissa earlier during the day, you attend a soirée at the Malfoy’s, where something weighs heavy on your conscience as you feel yourself losing control under Draco’s gaze.

Word count: ~2.6k

You were hurrying down the hallway, clutching a file full of papers that would go flying should you let them slip out of your grip. You were stressed out, as you’d felt a change in the atmosphere at work over the past months. You had to prove your value, or you’d get rid of.

During the war, the Ministry had seized control of the operations at Gringotts. Since your parents had forbidden you from attending your 7th year at Hogwarts, not willing to risk your life, you’d applied for a job at the bank; making sure you wouldn’t stay idle for the year.

Now that the war was over, and that it had been exposed that He had been controlling the Ministry then, control of Gringotts had been surrendered back to the goblins, on the condition that they kept the wizard employees that had earned a position inside during the war.

The goblins weren’t too happy with their institution being taken over, and now that it had been months since they’d won back control, tensions were high. They were extremely scrupulous, and should one task be ill-performed, any wizard was sure to be pointed towards the door. Not that you particularly blamed the goblins for reacting that way. You believed if you could outlast their disgruntled period, you could have a future at the bank, and without a complete education, you wouldn’t let it go without a fight.

So there you were, rushing to deliver some important documents from an office to another when you made eye contact with a woman you’d last seen nearly a week before then. She was talking with a goblin, who seemed to be showing her the way out from the vaults, but you knew she recognized you from the knowing smile that she gave you. Observing decorum, you halted to salute her.

“Mrs. Malfoy, what a lovely surprise seeing you here today,” you greeted her with a polite smile, still holding on to your papers.

“Y/N, I didn’t know you worked here,” she observed, amused, as she looked at the golden name plate pinned to your shirt. “Quite a fine young lady to have in your ranks,” she told the goblin approvingly with a smile like she was miles ahead of the conversation.

“Yes, quite,” replied the goblin with a professional smile, despite the fact you knew for a fact he was high-ranking enough to have never heard of you.

“Say dear,” she added, still looking at who you were pretty sure was Mr. Griphook, “do you think it would be possible for miss Y/L/N to escort me to the exit? I am quite sure you have more pressing matters to attend to, and I would like to speak a few words with her,” Narcissa asked, her tone a perfect blend of pleading and persuasive.

“Your wish is my command, Mrs. Malfoy,” he replied with a crisp smile, before nodding in your direction, a silent command to do whatever she would tell you. “I shall bid you a good day,” he said, before walking away.

You knew that because of the war, the Malfoys had lost some of their... prestige. As far as you could tell, the goblin hated her. But then again, despite being arguably disgraced, the Malfoys were still very much rich. And in a place like Gringotts, greed often overruled ideology.

“Thank you for your kind words,” you thanked her, appreciative.

“No need thanking me dear,” she waved it off. “It was very much deserved. Now, I believe that the last time we saw each other was at Greengrass manor last week, wasn’t it?” she asked as the two of you started walking.

“Yes, that does sound right,” you nodded. “A lovely evening,” you commented as if you were reciting lines.

“Quite,” she agreed with a pleased smile. “Draco seemed to think so too, from the way he mentioned you the day afterwards,” she added, glancing at you, amused.

“Oh, did he?” you couldn’t help but blush. “I’m glad to hear he enjoyed himself,” you added, hoping to go back to small talk.

“You are such a lovely thing, I’m glad your family moved closer to the city,” she laughed, amused. “Your parents are always a delight, I’m looking forward to seeing them tonight. I’m hoping you will join us as well?” she added expertly.

“I’m afraid I will be working late tonight, I wouldn’t want to arrive late and disturb the evening,” you explained, contrite.

Really, you were exhausted and didn’t feel like going to a social event, but she didn’t have to know that side of the story, as what you told her was true as well.

“Nonsense, you must come!” she dismissed, slightly indignant. “I admire that you’re a busy woman, but that’s no reason to shut yourself in! After all, you must wear your dresses out somewhere,” she commented, using the same tone she did to convince Mr. Griphook to let you walk her out.

“I don’t know...” you hesitated, not wanting to be rude.

“Now, now, you’ve lived on the border of society long enough because you lived so far away, it’s time to join us dear,” she insisted, insinuating she knew what was best for you. “It’s such a shame to bury pearls in the country,” she sighed.

You pondered the idea of going for a few seconds. Your mother would be awfully happy with you if you did go, that you knew. Perhaps this was one of those things where you would gain most by not arguing further.

“Fine, I’ll try to make it,” you gave in, forcing yourself to smile.

“I’m certain you won’t regret it,” she approved, satisfied. “Now, I’m confident I can find my way out from here, thank you for walking with me,” she declared the conversation over.

“My pleasure,” you replied.

“See you tonight dear,” she bid you goodbye with a smile worthy of theatre as it made it almost impossible to believe it belonged to such a manipulative woman.

And with that she walked off, leaving you with an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t know where you stood in regard to the Malfoy family. You couldn’t ignore the atrocities committed during the war. But your parents, who had known them their whole life, had thoroughly explained to you how they’d had no choice in participating, really.

Your family itself had come out of the war branded as cowards. Your parents had refused to align themselves with any side, clinging to their neutrality by shutting your family off in your old manor in the country, far away from everything and everyone. While you’d lost more than those who’d picked the right side, you’d lost less than what the losers had.

There was no denying that the pureblood families of England had come out of the war damaged, and there was something quite ridiculous about the way they clung to their broken ways, all of them looking like they had no idea how to do things any other way. Those were confusing times.

“You told her what?!” Draco exclaimed, stepping away from his mother, causing her to almost strangle her with the tie she was tying for him.

“You should see how she blushes, the pretty thing,” Narcissa eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Don’t call her a pretty thing, mother,” Draco rolled his eyes. “You know she’s more than that.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, slightly surprised. She was not one for miscalculations, but yet...

“You really are quite taken with her, aren’t you?” she asked, serious this time.

“No offense, but I don’t like discussing those things with you,” he evaded, heading towards a mirror to rearrange his hair.

“Fine,” she conceded, knowing her son needed to feel like he had control over his life these days in particular. “I just thought you’d like to know I talked her into making an appearance later.”

“I do not need you playing matchmaker for me, mother,” he replied, tense and a tinge of nervousness having found its way into his tone.

“Well then, let the record show that I invited her for my own selfish reasons; I think she will be a delightful guest,” his mother told him.

He looked at her like he was hardly convinced, but she knew he somehow appreciated her words.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish getting ready myself,” she told him before exiting the room. “Just... keep in mind she did mention she might arrive late.”

Draco spent what felt like a major part of the night waiting at an inconspicuous distance from the door. He wanted to know when you’d arrive, but not be close enough that it was blatant he was waiting for you to get there.

However, at some point, he did start becoming quite hungry, and left for the kitchen to grab something to eat before his stomach started drawing attention to him through growls.

Much to his dismay, when he came back, his eyes immediately found you talking to his mother and yours in the living room. Before he could decide on what approach to take, his mother saw him coming back and called him over to join the conversation.

As he walked up, you turned around to face him, all smiles and glittering eyes. In that sliver of a moment, you looked truly bewitching, and he had to hold himself down not to appear affected.

“Hi, Draco,” you greeted him, warm and demure.

“Hi,” he spoke with a polite smile, nodding.

Narcissa could have rolled her eyes, but of course decided against it.

“Draco, I was just telling Y/N about the new changes in the gardens; perhaps you could show her around?” she asked her son, eyes mischievous but voice perfectly on the tone of conversation.

“That would be great! I bet these rose bushes look lovely” you added, waiting for Draco’s response.

“Follow me then,” he lead you astray from the group, but not before one last glance at his mother, letting her know not to interfere anymore.

It was a perfectly pleasant night, and you didn’t need any coat as the two of you stepped outside. The garden was a quiet display of obscene wealth; the kind of understated that could only be achieved with the necessary amount of resources.

There was something about the way the moonlight shone on the stone and vegetation that instilled an element of fear in you, somehow. You were walking ahead of Draco, and you could practically feel his gaze on the back of your neck. You had to be wary; you couldn’t let your vanity enjoy his attention.

“If you want to see the roses, we have to walk some more,” he told you, catching up.

“Alright then, lead the way,” you answered in a voice quieter than you’d hoped for; loading your words with a hidden meaning you hoped he wouldn’t pick up on.

“Haven’t seen you since the other night at Greengrass Manor,” he started, making small talk as you walked side by side, slowly as if not to rush there.

“I think Astoria was quite taken with you, if you don’t mind me saying so,” you teased him, glancing his way.

“Right,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Astoria.”

“I’m just saying, she’s a beautiful girl. A bit frail, perhaps, but not any less lovely,” you kept on teasing, trying to see if he would take the bait.

He stopped walking and grabbed your hands, making you halt too. His grasp wasn’t tight, and yet it felt as if he were holding on to a rope about to sever itself.

“How can you talk to me about Astoria Greengrass when you’re the only one I’ve thought about since that night,” he accused in a burst of passion very unlike him.

“Draco,” you responded, half exclamation, half question.

He didn’t reply, simply gazing into your eyes; yours frightened, his confident yet tender. From what you knew about him, he wasn’t going to verbalize his feelings any further; it was your turn to pick up on all the words hidden in his eyes. But you desperately didn’t want to; you knew it was too dangerous.

“Draco I-” you started, looking away, before he cut you off.

“Don’t lower your eyes, Y/n,” he whispered, making you look back up. “Not now,”

“I don’t understand,” you tried escaping it, though your eyes were transfixed on him.

The combination of the atmosphere in the gardens and the growing anxiety in the pit of your stomach at the fact you weren’t able to say what you needed to say before it all went too far were so frightening they made you dizzy, disoriented. Like you didn’t even know good from bad anymore.

Slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away, he let go of your hands to place one on your bare arm and the other on your cheek. Bringing your face closer to his, his eyes so close to yours you could see nothing else.

“Can I ever?” he murmured, the half-formed sentence a question you knew neither the meaning or the answer to.

And then what was an eternity in the making finally came to be; he pressed his lips against yours, your eyes shutting painfully tight as you felt all your self-control snap at the seams. The kiss was gentle and yet your lips burned against each other’s as he pressed your arm, once again holding on to you.

A moment of clarity forced you to break the kiss, your lungs on fire as you gaped for air. It wasn’t that you’d kissed him long enough to lack air; it was the guilt, like poison, that made it hard for you to breathe.

“What just happened...I can’t,” you said between to breaths, not daring to look him in the eyes, but he didn’t even hear you.

“I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve managed to enchant me, Y/N,” he started, apparently confused too. “It’s like I can’t even do anything about it, whenever I even hear your name, you’re on my mind for days!” he went on, frustrated and relieved at the same time.

“Don’t say such things,” you bit your lip, still not looking at him.

“Why not?” he asked, confused.

“I am betrothed,” you admitted, so quietly you hoped perhaps he wouldn’t have heard.

“What?” he asked, even more confused. “That doesn’t make any sense, you don’t even have a ring on your finger!” he argued, growing upset.

“It’s... a complicated arrangement,” you evaded. “I’m sorry, Draco, I knew I shouldn’t have come,” you apologized, filled with dread you’d lead him on like that.

“Then break it off!” he exclaimed. “I'll love you, I’ll do anything for you,” he attempted, pacing, desperately trying to make eye contact with you.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” you dismissed him, shaking your head sideways as daggers stabbed your heart. “I should leave,” you realized, starting to walk away.

“No, don’t go yet!” he called after you, reaching out.

“I’ll see you around, Draco,” you concluded, before heading off.

He stayed behind, unsure what had just happened. He might not have believed he’d just kissed you were his lips not still tingling. He hadn’t even thought he liked you enough to go on saying what he had. He knew he had a lot to figure out; after enough time had passed, he went back inside and avoided the other guests to start working on the letter he’d send your way this very night.

#draco x reader #draco malfoy imagine #draco imagine #Draco Malfoy #hp imagines #hp fanfic #hp x musicals #narcissa malfoy

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itstimeforspring · 7 years

Text

that’s the pain, cuts a straight line down the heart (we called it love) (3 of 8)

part 3 of this unnecessary PPZ/P&P au. for @piratesails <3 and thanks again to @love-with-you-i-have-everything for reatding this behemoth <3

prologue here, chapter 1 here and on ao3 here and ff.net here

Chapter II.

That night, Mary Margaret and Emma prepared for their nightly sparring. “He is just what a young man ought to be,” Mary Margaret mused with a smile on her beautiful face. “Handsome, kind, well-mannered—”

“—and rich, which any young man ought to be if they can possibly help it,” Emma added, straightening her sparring uniform.

Laughing, Mary Margaret turned to her sister. “Not so rich as Darcy, Emma.”

“It would not matter if Mr. Darcy owned all of Maine,” Emma replied as they made their way down to the basement. “He is still the most insufferable prig I ever set eyes upon.”

“I noticed your eyes when you saw him at the ball,” Mary Margaret said, bowing and receiving a bow from Emma in return. “You thought him handsome!”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” Emma retorted, attacking her sister with no preamble. “Such pride I have never before seen in a man. Killian Darcy is, therefore, a very ill-looking man.”

Mary Margaret disappeared from her view and her voice echoed throughout the catacomb. “Admit you find him handsome!” Emma paused for a moment and thought about Killian Darcy for a moment. His eyes were a stunning shade of blue and his face was of a pleasing shape and countenance. Fine, he was a handsome man. Very much so. The contemplation lost her the match, however, as Mary Margaret seemingly flew out of nowhere and slammed her sister to the ground.

Emma could only glare up at Mary Margaret’s laughter. She flipped them over and slammed her sister into a wall, silencing the laughter into a groan of pain. Then their other sisters joined them, and the sparring continued, with the subject of Killian Darcy blessedly abandoned.

Several days later, Mary Margaret received a letter. “Abigail Bingley has invited me to tea!” she announced happily. “She says that if she is forced to sit alone with her brother and his friend for many more days, she will be forced to assassinate both of them,” Mary Margaret finished with slight concern. Emma laughed at her mental image of tiny Abigail Bingley taking out Killian Darcy.

The only one more pleased by this invitation, naturally, was Mrs. Bennet.

Another hour on the same day saw Mary Margaret sitting on a horse with Ingrid standing below her in delight. “Please, Mama, might I take the carriage?” she begged.

“No, no, it seems likely to rain! You might fetch a cold, and then they’ll have to let you stay on in Netherfield!” Ingrid explained gleefully.

Emma sighed. Would her mother’s scheming never end? “Unless you are sure that they would not send her home.”

Ingrid exclaimed, “Of course they would not! Mary Margaret shall be able to stay in that mansion as long as is necessary for Mr. Bingley to fall in love with her!” Regina and Zelena giggled, whispering among themselves as always.

Emma stepped up to her sister and took her hand from the horse’s mane. “Hurry, Mary Margaret. The zombies spring easily from the wet earth.”

Mary Margaret rode off soon enough, after several more comments about swiftly winning the heart of David Bingley. Ingrid sighed as her eldest daughter disappeared from view and Emma wrapped an arm around her waist. “You know it’s your fault if she dies, right, Mama?”

“Yes, but at least it will be in pursuit of Mr. Bingley,” Ingrid replied happily. “But one does not die from a cold anymore, Emma.” Emma rolled her eyes and stepped back inside the house before the rain began.

Emma received a letter from Mary Margaret at Netherfield the next morning and brandished it at her mother. “She was set upon by zombies and ‘excepting a few bruises and a minor burn,’ there is not much the matter with her! I believe she also has a terrible cold; Abigail Bingley added a postscript that Mary Margaret has the flu!” Emma stood from the table immediately, not letting her parents speak. “I must go to her now.”

Killian was just finishing his breakfast when the doorman stepped into Netherfield’s dining room. “Miss Emma Bennet,” he said calmly. Killian’s heart skipped a beat at Emma’s name and as the woman entered the room. He stood quickly with David, Abigail not speaking. Miss Bennet stood at the door and they all stared at each other for several seconds.

Finally she spoke. “Where is my sister?”

“She’s upstairs,” Killian said quickly.

“May I tend to her?”

“Of course,” David said. Miss Bennet curtseyed and abandoned the room.

Killian glared at David as Emma Bennet left to find Mary Margaret. “She should not tend to her sister until it is deemed safe by the doctor,” he insisted. “I will not make the same mistake I made at Mrs. Tremaine’s party.”

David waved his concerns away. “It’s just a burn from a pistol backfiring, Killian. And now she has a bad cold. I shall send for the doctor soon.”

Killian groaned. “Whale?”

“Naturally. He’s widely regarded as the best physician in this area. Why not?” David asked.

Killian leaned forward, trying to forget his fear that Mary Margaret had been infected and Emma was only getting closer. “You may wish to keep him away from your lady love, Bingley.” With an eyebrow he tried to convey what he didn’t desire to say in Abigail’s presence. The man understood his meaning unexpectedly quickly and Killian grinned, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. David turned abruptly red and nodded, busying himself with his biscuit.

“What is it?” Abigail asked plaintively. David shook his head and stepped over to his manservant to telegram a different physician.

Killian stood at the doorway of Mary Margaret Bennet’s room at Netherfield. Emma sat at her side, brushing back her hair and wiping her forehead. He heard the doctor—not Whale, thankfully—approach and he stepped into the room. “Miss Bennet? The physician is here.”

Mary Margaret barely opened her eyes as the doctor walked over to her side. Emma stood and looked down at her sister helplessly.

Killian took out his bottle of carrion flies and shook it, releasing the little pests. Emma’s head turned toward him and her eyes widened when she heard the buzzing. Killian didn’t watch her, but rather gazed at her sister, hoping he was mistaken but feeling sure the flies would find her.

The doctor placed his hand lightly over Mary Margaret’s head. “She was out in the rain yesterday?”

“Yes,” Emma said shortly. Her hand reached out and caught one of the small flies, its buzzing reduced to an echo within her palm. Killian blinked and stared at her for a moment. How were her reflexes so honed that she could catch such a small flying insect? Before he could say anything, she caught a second one.

The doctor nodded and lifted up her bandaged hand. Slowly, the doctor uncovered the wound and Killian let his favorite knife drop from the sheath in his sleeve. Emma caught another fly. “I see no evidence of a bite,” the doctor said with no small amount of relief. “It appears as you said, Miss Bennet, that Miss Bennet’s pistol merely backfired.”

“That was never in question,” Emma said, glancing over at Killian. Her small hand reached out and captured the final buzzing creature. Killian nodded and pushed the knife back into its concealed sheath.

The doctor bowed himself out and Killian prepared to do the same, relieved that he wouldn’t have to kill another soul today. “Colonel Darcy,” Emma said just before he stepped over to the door. He turned and she held her hand out to him. “I believe these belong to you.” He reached out his hand toward her, prepared to accept his flies again. Suddenly her hand curled into a tight fist, and he heard the sounds of the flies being crushed in her hand. She opened her hand and let the carcasses fall into his palm. Without a word, she stepped back to Miss Bennet’s side.

Once he exited the room, all he could do was stare down at them and wonder.

“Announcing Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bennet, Miss Bennet, and, ah, Miss Bennet,” Emma heard as she woke next to Mary Margaret’s bedside two mornings later. She looked around in confusion before remembering where she was and at whose hospitality Mary Margaret rested. She woke her sister quickly and wrapped her in several blankets before practically carrying her downstairs.

“We’re leaving,” Emma announced, revealing herself and Mary Margaret to her family. Perhaps her sister was still sick, but Emma knew they couldn’t stay at Netherfield anymore.

David Bingley’s eyes widened in alarm. Emma realized as she ushered Mary Margaret towards the door that David actually loved her sister, and it was a thought both unsurprising and relieving. Perhaps the man was actually worthy of her. “Surely she is too ill be moved!” Mrs. Bennet made a short noise of agreement.

Mr. Darcy’s eyes danced with amusement before holding Mr. Bingley back. As her sisters and mother followed her to the carriage, she heard him tell his friend not to keep the women there if they wished not to stay.

“Mr. Bingley, I know exactly the thing that would raise the spirits of the county after the attack last week,” Mrs. Bennet said before being handed into the carriage.

“A ball!” Zelena inserted, the very echo of her mother. “Please, hold a ball, Mr. Bingley!”

“Impossible,” Mr. Darcy said. “The security arrangements alone would be—” Almost without realizing, he took Emma’s hand to help her into the carriage, and their eyes met with the shock of the unexpected contact. Emma settled into the coach beside the feverish Mary Margaret, noting that she was in fact too ill to be moved, but uncaring. She had to get away from the blue fire of Killian Darcy’s eyes.

“Nonsense, Darcy,” Bingley said, making Zelena and Regina squeal. He addressed Mrs. Bennet, “When Miss Bennet is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the day.”

The carriage was fastened securely and the driver began the course to Longbourn. As they rode away from view, Emma saw that Mr. Darcy was clenching and unclenching his hand, as if to savor the feeling of her hand on his.

“Look at her,” Belle said with concern, distracting Emma from Mr. Darcy. “She looks terribly ill.”

Zelena was less sympathetic. “We could have stayed on for a week in that palace.” She crossed her arms petulantly.

“Better home now than another day in Mr. Darcy’s presence,” Emma insisted.

There was silence in the carriage for a moment, probably Zelena deciding whether to maintain the battle, but Mrs. Bennet’s voice interrupted the potential argument. “Oh, Mother Superior’s orphanage fell,” she said sadly.

Emma glanced out of the window and saw the newly-zombified children, who in life had been fondly called the lost boys and girls, stumbling through the woods. All five girls reached for their pistols. No matter what the foe happened to be, they would be ready for battle.

A week passed quickly as Emma cared for her sister in the slightly-less comfort of Longbourn, but Mary Margaret soon rose from her bed with her usual sweet disposition and no problems remaining from her time of illness.

“Ah, Mary Margaret, I see you are well again?” their father called at breakfast.

Mary Margaret smiled. “Yes, sir, I am quite well.”

“Good, good. This noontide, we shall have a guest, then. I will write for him to join us for the meal.”

All of the girls looked around at each other, silently wondering who this guest could be. Mr. Bingley? Mr. Lucas? Mr. Darcy, heaven forbid?

“It is the man who shall inherit the estate when I pass on,” Mr. Bennet explained. Mrs. Bennet scowled. “He is coming to look over the house and its property, and shall likely pick one of you to marry.” The five sisters merely stared at their father.

Graham Collins appeared that afternoon, not a minute late.

The lunch was silent for several minutes. Finally, the man spoke. “To which of my fair cousins might I compliment on the excellence of these boiled potatoes?”

“My daughters are trained for battle, sir, not the kitchen,” Mr. Bennet said jovially.

“We are quite able to keep a cook, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Bennet added.

Mr. Collins bowed as well as he could while still sitting. “Of course. I’m glad to hear that. That Longbourn can support such a living, that is.” He abruptly switched topics. “I’ve been fortunate enough to have as my patroness the esteemed Lady Cora de Bourgh. You have, of course, heard of Lady Cora de Bourgh?”

The Bennet family nodded in a united positive. Everyone had heard of Lady Cora, the greatest zombie fighter in all of Maine and perhaps the entirety of the colonies. Emma waited for the punchline.

“Lady Cora has encouraged me to set the example for matrimony in the church by choosing a wife myself.” He stood slowly, throwing his napkin down on top of the nicely boiled potatoes and ruffling his curly locks before gesturing at Mary Margaret. “Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, I have found myself quite captured by your eldest daughter, Miss Mary Margaret.”

All of the girls looked up in a panic, and Emma could read Mary Margaret’s frantic “but David!” painted across her face. Thankfully, Mrs. Bennet intervened. “Why, my dear Parson, Mary Margaret is soon to be engaged. We expect his proposal imminently.”

Graham didn’t protest this revelation as much as Emma might have expected. He nodded, a smile still on his face, and turned to Emma. “In that case, I should be honored to instead pursue Miss Emma, who is nearly as beautiful as the first.”

Emma barely restrained her groan.

#captain swan #cs ff #ouat #ouat ff #my ff #pride and prejudice #pride and prejudice and zombies #ppz ff #that's the pain (we called it love)

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