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mckennamayfairgoode · 4 years

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I Take Flight but You Hold Me

Wilhemina Venable x Reader

Word Count: 7k

Summary: You hate her. You hate the way she makes you feel, you hate the way you can’t get her out of your mind, you hate the way she makes you burn. You hate her, but you think maybe you could love her too.

Warnings: Brief mentions of past toxic relationships. Slight NSFW. Angst? Yes. Yearning? Haha, no of course not….. 👀 Also, yes.

A/N: I’m supposed to be working on a fluffy Ally piece, but I love this song so much and all it does is make me think of Mina. So this happened instead. 🤷‍♀️ Writing her and trying to capture that snarkiness with the underlying insecurity was very difficult. But I think it came out okay.

Song: To Be Loved by Askjell (ft. AURORA)

You’d seen Wilhemina Venable before: walking through the hallways of Kineros Robotics, her cane tapping rhythmically against the ground in a way that insured others kept a wide berth; sitting outside on a picnic table during her lunch hour, always at the same table, the same space, facing the sidewalk, always, always; once, even, as you stepped out of the elevator to the parking garage at the end of the day.

She’d stood ramrod straight next to her car, one hand gripping the head of her cane and the other fidgeting with her keys. Something inside you had tugged insistently and you had slowed to a stop, your gaze drawn to the fingerless gloves she wore. They were made of a dark purple leather that covered her slender hands all the way to the first knuckle. Her nails were short and unpainted and for some reason, you couldn’t stop staring.

Someone cleared their throat, breaking your trance and causing you to jerk back as if suddenly woken from a daydream. You looked up and met dark eyes. They were deep and brown and furious. She wore a scowl on her face, one you recognized easily as you’d seen it often enough when you passed her in the corridor. “Don’t you have somewhere to be instead of staring at me with that idiotic look on your face?” she snapped and you realized, in all your time working there, you had never heard her speak.

Your face growing uncomfortably warm, you had muttered a vague apology under your breath as you darted past her and into the direction of your car. Her voice had been nice. Low and husky with a slight rasp that gave you goosebumps. You tried not to think about how you could feel her eyes on your back.

You went home that night and lay in your bed and tried to ignore the heat coiled low in your belly. But your thoughts ran rampant in your mind, pulling and twisting into versions of her you had yet to see. You wondered, if when she touched you, whether she would take those gloves off or keep them on so that all you could feel were her fingertips. You wondered if she would speak to you, low and husky and warm. You wondered if her bite would sting.

The thought burned you from the inside out.

The next week, your boss retired and you were granted a promotion. You were excited at first. A better job meant better pay, but now, as you stand in front of Wilhemina Venable’s desk, you think maybe it’s not all that worth it after all.

“I don’t have time to sit here and indulge in your little exercise. Unlike some people in this establishment, I have actual work to do,” she says, tapping at her computer and not bothering to spare you a glance. Like you are less interesting than a fly she has to swat away. The notion churns in your gut, twisting your insides unpleasantly. You resist the urge to shift on your feet, knowing that she will catch the motion in the corner of her eye and latch onto it like a dog with a bone. She is an apex predator always looking for weaknesses she can exploit. You refuse to show her any.

“This ‘little exercise’ comes down from Jeff and Mutt. Spending time with you isn’t exactly on my list of priorities,” you snap and you blink and you wonder where it came from.

Her motions cease, fingertips hovering over her keyboard. You try to ignore the way your gaze lingers on her hands. “Is that so?” She looks up then, suddenly meeting your eyes. You want to look away, to move, but you feel frozen in place. They are so brown. Her words are sharp when she speaks. “Do you not recall the gaping fish impression you showed me in the parking garage last week?”

“I wasn’t gaping,” you retort, neck warming. You hope she can’t see. The flick of her eyes to your ears tells you she can.

Venable gives you a blank look. “Of course not. Because that would imply that the space between your ears is filled with more than just hot air.” The words get under your skin. They rake across the sensitivity of your nerves and coil around your very being and sink into your bones and you hate it. A part of you thinks you could hate her.

Your spine feels like it might snap as you stand up straight, tension lining the squared edge of your shoulders. “Ms. Venable, we really need to discuss these layoffs,” you say, hoping that professionalism will get through to her so you can go on about your day pretending that she doesn’t set your soul on fire.

She arches a single dark brow, pursing her lips. “What layoffs?”

“I’ve been looking at the account ledgers. We’re overstaffed.”

Venable tilts her head, studying your face. “And what is someone with the brain capacity of a park squirrel doing looking at our accounts?”

Your jaw flexes as you grit your teeth. “That’s my job.”

“Since when?”

“Since three days ago when the head of finance retired.”

“Oh really? And they chose you to replace him?” She clicks her tongue, lips pursing once more. They’re a plum color. You silently reprimand yourself for noticing. “I can’t imagine why. It’s clear you have no capacity for intelligence, no work ethic, and not enough brain cells to do it yourself.”

Heat washes through you like an ocean’s surf. “You’re HR,” you retort.

Her fist clenches around the top end of her cane, those damned leather gloves creaking beneath the force of it. “And you’re finance. As far as I’m concerned, if it weren’t for your department, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.” She locks eyes with you for one long moment that makes your breath catch. You force yourself to remain still and curse the fight or flight instinct inside you that’s telling you to run, that she is a danger, that if you look directly at her, you will be turned to stone. “Figure it out,” she demands, voice clipped. Then she drops her eyes and returns her gaze to the screen of her computer.

You resist the overwhelming urge to shove everything off her desk and demand her attention, her time, her respect. Your body burns with anger and humiliation and the need to know what her gloves would feel like against your bare skin, but you smother it down and squash it beneath your foot like a lit cigarette into the pavement of a sidewalk. You turn and walk away and listen as the same rhythmic tapping from before resumes as if you had never been there at all.

You feel her eyes on you as you leave, but when you turn to look, all you can see is the top of her head. It was just your imagination, you tell yourself. The piece of you that spent a better part of a year being aware of any and all movement tells you that isn’t true. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in the sights of a predator.

However, it is the first time you find yourself hoping that you are.

Later that night, you still sit hunched over your desk, finalizing the changes you made to the account ledgers. You don’t know what time it is. All you know is that the sun had gone down long ago, that your back will probably hurt in the morning, that you’re exhausted and your brain is running on fumes, but also that you need to finish. Just a little more time, and you can save these people and their jobs. Maybe a part of you wants to show Venable that you can do it too. She doesn’t believe you can. So you will.

You hear her coming before you see her. The building is completely void of life except for the janitor who came by to greet you a few minutes or an hour ago, you’re not sure. The steady tapping of her cane against the pristine flooring echoes in the empty space around you. You look at your computer, save your progress, and wait.

She appears in your doorway like a ghost draped in lavender. Her pale skin and bright red hair stand out from the shadows like the highlights in an oil painting. You will yourself to look away, but find that you can’t. She raises her eyebrows at the sight of you. “You’re still here.” It’s not a question.

You bristle at the tone of her voice and sit up in your chair. You want to cross your arms, but don't; you don’t want her to think you’re being defensive. She will only see it as an act of war and you are too tired to battle with her tonight. Maybe tomorrow you will adorn your sword and shield and finish what you started, but tonight... Tonight, you just want to look at the stars in her eyes. “I had some things to finish up,” you say once you finally find your voice.

Venable hums, her eyes raking over your form in a way that is not comforting at all. Her path raises goosebumps along your skin. You tell yourself not to blush, and bite back a curse when you do. You search her form for a reason to break the tense silence between you when you notice the folder she holds between her fingers. “What is that?” You nod to the item in question.

She glances down at it as if she forgot she was holding it in the first place before extending it out for you to take. “It’s a list of low level employees.”

You rifle through the papers and recognize several of the names. People you know, people who work under you, people who trust you. There’s the janitor who always checks on you when you work late and the security guard at the front desk who greets you every morning by name and the young woman who used to work in the cubicle next to yours before you were promoted. Her name is Maria and she has a daughter. You know because there’s a picture on her desk of a little girl with a gap-toothed smile. Your stomach churns unpleasantly. “So those you deem expendable.” You can’t help the bitter tone to your voice.

Venable catches on if the slight raise of her eyebrow is anything to go by. “They’re replaceable,” she says simply.

You shake your head and with a flick of your wrist, toss the file back onto your desk. It slides to a stop back in front of her. “I don’t need it.”

She blinks once, twice. “What?” She watches as you stand and begin to gather your belongings. “What do you mean you ‘don’t need it’? Unless you simply tossed them from the window, someone still needs to be fired. Don’t tell me you’re that incompetent,” she scoffs.

You grab your bag by the strap and throw it over your shoulder. “I figured it out,” you respond, voice bitter and words sharp like knives. You refuse to be prey, to roll over until your belly is exposed and your weaknesses are aired out for the whole world to see. Not again. Especially not for her.

Just as you’re about to march out the door, she grabs your arm. You freeze in place. You think you both do. The tips of her bare fingers brush the inside of your wrist and you wonder why your skin burns when her hands are so cold. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, you can only stand there and wonder if she can feel the rhythm of your heartbeat beneath her fingertips. Does it speak to her? Does she understand? Does she want to?

You lock eyes. One long, impenetrable moment passes between you and you hate that you can’t tell what she’s thinking, you hate that she has your heart in her grip, you hate her, you hate her, you hate her. She blinks and the sharp glint in her gaze returns. You snatch your wrist back before she can say something that poisons your soul. You flee your office like it’s on fire. But it’s not your office that’s on fire. It’s you.

When you’re alone, you think about her. You chastise yourself, force the thoughts away, but eventually, like the tide rolling in, they always, always come back. It is infuriating. You don’t really know this woman, and the things you do know are nothing good. She is selfish and entitled, cruel and hateful, and worst of all, she makes you burn without ever having touched you a single time.

The sound of the bell jingling above the door yanks you abruptly from your thoughts and you resist the urge to sigh out loud as you realize, once again, where your mind has gone. You tighten your grip on your book, forcing yourself to concentrate on the words but only managing to repeat them several times as they don’t sink in like they should. You’re vaguely aware of a familiar thumping sound growing steadily closer and it’s not until it stops at your side that you realize what it is. Or rather, who it is. You look up to see dark brown eyes already staring down at you.

“You’re in my chair,” she says before you can even work up the courage to speak.

You blink. “Excuse me?” For a moment, you’re reminded of the picnic table she sits at during her lunch hour. The same table, the same space, facing the sidewalk, always, always.

“I know it’s hard for you to comprehend the English language, but if you could summon all of your brain cells to at least try, I’m sure society would thank you.” Venable looks at you disdainfully, her eyes flicking to the open collar of your shirt and then down to the book clasped in your hands. “Lord knows I won’t,” she mutters.

You bristle at her tone, at her words, at her everything. “This is a public space, Wilhemina.” She blinks owlishly at your use of her first name and taps her cane against the ground, just once, before settling both of her hands on top of it. It is a warning you ignore. “You don’t own this chair or this table or this cafe. I’m sure you can find another seat.” With that said, you turn back to your book, intending to ignore her further.

It works… until you hear the scraping of a chair against the floor and you glance up just in time to see her easing into the space across from you. She pulls a book out of her bag and sets it on the table, but does not open it. She looks at you instead, her eyes cold and calculating as she tries to size you up. You could imagine the gears in her head turning but you decide you don’t want to see inside her mind. If you did, you don’t think you’d make it out alive. “I don’t recall asking you to take a seat,” you comment pointedly. Your body hums at her close proximity and it drives you mad.

“I don’t recall asking for permission,” she snaps back. You huff, but concede her point and avert your gaze, anything to keep yourself from looking into her eyes. “I’ve never seen you here before,” she says.

“That’s because I’ve never been here before,” you retort under your breath, looking at the words on the page but not reading them.

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you here? In my chair?”

You sigh and close your book. “How exactly is it your chair?”

“It’s my table.” Her response is spoken with the conviction of someone who thinks they are always right. Your nostrils flare in annoyance. Venable’s eyes are intense and endless as she studies you like you are a science marvel she can’t figure out and it makes you uncomfortable, like you’re nothing more than an experiment under a microscope. She tilts her head, the motion causing her bright red ponytail to fall over one shoulder.

Your eyes travel the length of it and you’re suddenly gripped with the urge to free it from it’s restraint. You want to see it draped over her bare shoulders or formed into a halo around her head. You want to know what it would look like in the morning, in the earliest rays of sunlight, if it would hurt your eyes to see. You swallow the ball in your throat. “What?”

She rolls her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you here?”

You raise your eyebrows and fold your hands around your coffee cup, allowing the warmth to seep into your skin, your bones, eager to feel anything other than the burn inside you. “I just moved down the street from here,” you answer absentmindedly, watching as a man pulls out a chair for the woman in his company. She smiles up at him, warm and real. She’s in love with him, you think. You can see it in her eyes.

“Why?”

You sigh. "Why do you care?”

She laughs and it startles you so much that you turn to watch it leave her lips. It lights up her face but it is not right. It is cold and harsh and cruel. You wonder if this is what the gods hear before they are smote and sentenced to a mortal life on Earth. “Care?” She laughs again, and shakes her head as if the thought alone is one she wishes to physically knock from her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I merely wish to know if this will be a common occurrence.”

Frustration bubbles up in your chest and you hate, hate, hate how she can get under your skin. You will not give her the satisfaction of watching you break. You shrug indifferently. “Considering this is the closest coffee place to my apartment, probably.” She looks peeved and you preen a bit like a proud peacock for finally making her feel something other than indifference. You stand up to leave.

“Wait,” she stops you. She doesn’t move; she doesn’t have to when your body ceases all movement as soon as she speaks. That fact alone fills you with dread. You watch in amazement as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She flicks her ponytail back over her shoulder and lifts her chin. “You don’t have to leave.”

For the second time in less than an hour, you feel yourself become speechless. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, runs the tip of her index finger absentmindedly along the spine of her worn, hardback novel. “Stay,” she says. She sniffs then, as if allergic to kindness. “If you’d like.”

You meet her eyes, briefly, intensely, too long and not long enough. It feels like a trap. Your brain throws mental hazard signs all around for you to see, bright flashing lights and neon letters that read ‘DANGER, DANGER! DEAD END; TURN AROUND BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.’ You don’t. “Okay,” you find yourself saying. You sit back down in your seat, pull your book closer to your chest and resume where you left off. Your eyes dart back to her figure and you watch from across the table as Venable does the same.

Silence settles between you like a blanket. It is warm and comforting and still, you burn.

The next week, Venable comes into the coffee shop on her usual day at her usual time, and just as she expected, she finds her chair empty. What she didn’t expect to find was you, sitting on the other side.

No words are spoken. She takes her seat, you stay in yours. You drink your coffee, you read, you people watch, you take comfort in another person’s presence. You don’t know why, but you feel safe.

You hate it. Truly, you do. It doesn’t make any sense. How can you be safe in the presence of the one who belittles you? Who makes you feel small? Who has only shown you cruelty and whose words are always laced with razor blades?

And then you realize, this makes perfect sense. For the woman you used to love hid her cruelty behind pretty words and even prettier lies. She had torn you down and disguised the knife in your heart as a beautiful red rose. She had put your hand around the hilt and convinced you that it was you who had done the hurting, the breaking, the stabbing. She had said, with conviction and earnestness in her words, that you were the cause of everything that was wrong with you and her and the both of you together. You had believed her.

Venable is not like that. She does not lie. She does not hide. If you want to find her, all you have to do is look- and she is a painting. It’s pretty at first glance, but the longer you look, the more you see. The beautiful and the ugly, the deepest darkness and the hidden light, all the things she tries to hide and fails to be rid of. You see her.

Sometimes, you wonder if she can see you too.

The days bleed into weeks and you wonder if you will ever be free of this hold she has on you. It’s like the seed she’s buried in your head has finally taken root and no matter how hard you try to fight it, you can’t get her out. That’s days, weeks, it feels like years, that you spend thinking about Venable, burning and scorching until you’re sure all that’s left inside is ash. You hate it. You think you might hate her. No, you don’t, a part of you whispers, but you ignore it like you always do.

You butt heads at work. Often and with force, but she will never fire you, because despite her best efforts to prove otherwise, you are competent and you get things done. She thinks you are a menace; you think she is a mad goddess high on a pedestal of her own making. You want to knock her off. You refuse to be another sheep cowering at her feet. When you pass her in the corridors, when you see her on her lunch hour (the same table, the same space), even during the late evenings when you catch her in the parking garage, you don’t cower. You don’t flinch. You look her in the eyes and dare her to smite you.

Every Saturday at 7:50 in the morning, you go to the coffee shop down the street from your apartment. You sit at the table in the back right corner with a coffee and a book and you wait. At 8 o’clock on the hour, Venable will join you. She will sit in the chair facing the room, pull out her novel, and read while you do the same.

The thoughts that plague your mind don’t stop until you are in her presence. When she sits down, your mind goes quiet. Finally, finally. So you sit and you read and sometimes, only sometimes, do you wish you could reach across the table and stroke her hand.

You rarely speak. When you do, it’s a discussion about literature, about the authors you find redundant and the works you think are derivative. Sometimes, she will comment on something that has happened at work. It is always sarcastic, a jab at some hapless employee or something inane like she is just trying to fill the silence, like she wants to talk to you.

You know this can’t be true. Venable likes no one, takes pleasure from no one’s company, but sometimes you think maybe she doesn’t mind yours.

You and Venable eventually settle into a new rhythm, one that ebbs and flows with the days and the flux of your emotions but it is one that is constant and real. Most of your arguments have progressed from barely concealed insults to clever banter and a back-and-forth repertoire that make smiles come unwittingly to your mouth. She smiles sometimes too when she thinks you aren’t looking. A little lift at the corner of her mouth, barely there, but noticeable all the same. Only because she never smiles and it looks so out of place there on the curve of her lips. If you blink, it will disappear, but you see it. You always do. You think it is beautiful; you also think you are losing your mind, being so attracted to a person you dislike. But you don’t hate her, a little voice in the back of your head reminds you.

You can live with that though. The attraction, the thoughts running on a never ending cycle in your mind, the burn. And you do, for many weeks that turn into months that turn into long hours working together in overtime, that turn into you sometimes joining her on her picnic table during lunch, the same table, the same space, always, always. It isn’t lost on you that she’s let you intrude on her safe spaces, not once, but twice. You don’t know what it means so you don’t think about it. You don’t want to give water to a plant you aren’t sure you want to grow. And you are fine with that. You live with it.

Until one day, you fuck up.

It’s one of those Saturday mornings in which you speak. These mornings are not so rare anymore, but when they happen, you cherish them, turn them into memories in your mind. You don’t even know why, but you bottle them up like four leaf clovers and put them in your pocket for safe keeping. The sun is out, shining through the window over Venable’s shoulder. It sets her hair aflame. It hurts your eyes to see, but you can’t look away.

You don’t even remember what you’d said and doesn’t that just eat you up inside? That a woman you can’t stand has the ability to completely turn your brain to mush? You’d said something and it had just come bubbling out of her: a laugh. A real one, warm and low and husky. The sound of it makes it seem like she laughs all the time, like those laugh lines around her beautiful mouth are genuine. You have never seen her look happy before. You wonder if you make her happy. You wonder if you could, if she would let you.

As you look at her, as you watch the smile on her face grow, as her hand comes up to settle on her collarbone like the motion will keep her heart from leaping out of her chest, you feel your own heart drop unpleasantly into your stomach. And you freeze.

Oh.

Oh, no.

You don’t know when it happened. When the Venable who made you feel small became the Venable who laughs at your jokes and smiles where you can see her. When the Venable who tore you down became the Venable who presses her hand into the small of your back when she passes by you at the office. When the Venable you detested and who detested you became the Wilhemina who makes you feel safe.

You don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know.

She is the deep blue underbelly of the ocean and she is pulling you under. You don’t want to drown. You want to burn and burn and burn. But she looks at you and douses your fire. She is the chain around your ankle, the anchor weighing you down, pulling and pulling and you wonder at what point you stopped fighting and let yourself sink.

Stomach churning, you lurch from your seat and make for the door.

No, no, no.

You don’t notice her following you until you’ve made it down the sidewalk and feel her hand clasp around your wrist. Just like old times. Her fingers are gentle and soothing and this time, they trace the veins under your skin, timid and softly and barely there but you can feel her. You want to weep. You wonder if she’d been wanting to do that, if she had wanted to do that last time. Can she feel how your heart beats for her?

You watch her fingers for a moment, too scared to look in her eyes, fearful of what might be there. What if she wants you too? What if she doesn’t?

“Wilhemina-” you start, and that single word has her dropping your wrist as if it were on fire. Maybe it is. Maybe you are.

Her eyes darken and she turns without saying a word. Your heart in your throat, you watch her back as she walks away, determination in every step she takes. The picture is enough to hurt you more than the idea of falling in love with her scares you.

You’ve been hurt before. Mistreated, gas lighted, bruised, and broken. But you are not broken anymore. You remade yourself. You became a new you that you rebuilt from the ground up, piece by piece, until you were a wall of solid brick. You are not soft, you are not naive or gullible or innocent, not any longer. You know the damage she could do, the danger she poses to your heart and your soul and your brand new walls. How did she knock them down without you realizing? The only conclusion that you come to is that she was supposed to.

You realize, suddenly, with an ache in your heart, that the walls weren’t meant to protect you. They were not even made of bricks. They were the walls of a home and inside was your heart and painted on the front door was a sign. A sign addressed to Wilhemina Venable that simply read: Come on in.

You’d taken too long. She’s almost at the end of the block now. Your heart thunders in your chest as you break into a jog, rushing to catch up with her. “Mina!” The nickname tumbles from your lips before you can stop it.

Wilhemina jerks to a halt, shoulders angry and bunched up around her ears, reminiscent of a disgruntled cat. She locks her fingers around the head of her cane. It seems like she might turn around, like she might let you in. Look at me, please look at me, please, please, please. For a moment, you think she might. Her head turns to the side, just barely, just enough for you to admire the way the sun glints off the sharpness of her cheekbones. But you blink and she’s walking away from you still.

You dodge pedestrians and cyclists and dogs on leashes and in your mind, you beg and plead for her to stop, to turn around, to do anything but walk away from you. You would rather her yell at you and belittle you and call you names. You would rather feel her thorns against your skin, or feel the ire build up in your bones until you know nothing but anger, anything, anything, but this intense helplessness. You can’t do anything but run.

By the time you catch up with her, she is ascending the steps to a townhouse. You reach the mailbox, watching as she pulls her keys from her pocket and fiddles with them like she doesn’t actually want to use them, but feels like she must. “Please don’t run away,” you plead, your voice quiet from exhaustion, from pain, from the feeling of your love for her overwhelming you completely as it fills your body and inflates your soul. You wonder how you hadn’t felt it before.

Wilhemina stops and you could sob with relief when she finally, finally looks at you. Her eyes are so very dark, but they are not stone. They are weary, cautious and guarded, but not impenetrable. “Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said,” you retort, and it’s just like old times. The sparring games that never really ceased. It’s time to pick up your sword and shield and fight for the love of your life. “Please, Mina.”

Her jaw flexes and you can see her knuckles whiten from where her fingers grip the head of her cane. “I’m not running from anything. I am simply going home.”

“Really?” You move down the sidewalk, closer to her and further away from the real world. You want to live inside her bubble if she will let you. As she has before. As she will again. If you cannot quit her, she cannot quit you. Please, please, please. “Because I think you love me and that scares the hell out of you. Well, guess what, it scares the hell out of me too.” It hurts to say, and a part of you is afraid that voicing it out loud may make it disappear, but your heart still yearns and your chest still burns. The realization that it’s real, that it’s not all in your head, has you ascending her front porch steps. You need to be closer. You need to look in her eyes and feel the weight of the world lift from your shoulders. You need to see the stars.

“Funny, I recall you fleeing the coffee shop like I had a disease. Clearly, you don’t want to be seen with-'' You kiss her, smother the words against her lips and press her back into the townhouse door, holding her firmly but gently against you. If love is a person, you can feel her right now beneath your hands. Warm and soft and whole.

She hesitates, only for a second, before you hear the clatter of keys and her cane falling to the steps. Her hands reach up, bare of her gloves, and wrap around the collar of your shirt, simultaneously pulling you in and pressing against you. She bites your lip, harsh and unforgiving, and it stings but it hurts so good. You whimper when she soothes it with her tongue. “Foolish girl,” she hisses against your mouth.

“Am I?” You ask breathlessly, running your fingers up her spine. She’s trembling, but she leans into your touch all the same. “I think you like that about me,” you murmur against her lips.

You look into her eyes. They are still guarded, still cautious and they search your face like she is waiting for the punchline. You realize, with a great overwhelming sadness, that she is expecting you to laugh at her, to betray her and say it’s all a joke. She is afraid of you. You reach up with your other hand to sooth the furrow between her brows. You follow the elegant line of her nose, trace the small groove above her top lip, brush your fingertips along the curves of her mouth. “I won’t hurt you,” you whisper. Like it is a secret, and maybe it is, but it’s a secret just for her.

You watch in wonder as Venable disappears, as chocolate brown eyes turn glossy and vulnerable, as her lips tremble, and Wilhemina appears before you. Your gazes lock, and if two souls can speak to one another, you know that yours are speaking right now. They’ve been waiting for each other all this time.

You take one of her hands in yours and press it against your chest, to the erratic beating heart beneath your shirt. She may be the ocean, surrounding you, pulling you under, and holding you down, but you realize that you were the anchor all along. You will not falter, you will not move. She is a force to be reckoned with and you- you are the stone that will not break. “Feel that?” you ask. She nods, bites her lip, searches your eyes for the answers to questions you don’t yet know. You don’t need to know the questions. You vow to find the answers anyway. “That’s yours,” you say. “That’s for you. No one else. Not now, not ever, not even before. It’s always been yours.”

“That’s very poetic,” she murmurs huskily, trying to sound sarcastic, but her voice wavers and loses the sharpness to her tone. Her eyes are wet. You realize yours are too.

“I’ve seen what you read,” you respond. You feel her hand curl into a fist above your heart. “You like my poetry.”

She snorts, leans up, brushes her nose down the length of yours. You kiss her once, just to feel her beneath your lips. “Possibly,” she admits under her breath when you pull away. You smile, kiss her again and again and again. She leans into you like she wants to crawl inside of you and become one person, one soul, one being. You think you already are.

Her tongue slides into your mouth, hot and insistent, overwhelming your senses and causing your brain to stutter. The burn that settled in your being when you saw her that moment in the parking garage flares like a fire that’s been coaxed to life with kerosene. You’re familiar with this burn, with the nature of it. It has been a piece of you for months now. The very first moment you met her, she crawled into your heart and built a fire inside you. As she sucks your tongue into her mouth and bites at the tip and her nails scratch down the length of your neck, you realize that this fire was never meant to go out. It was meant to be a bonfire that could rival the stars.

You don’t know when you picked up her keys and her cane, or when she unlocked the door to her townhouse, or when you followed her up the stairs. You don’t know when you lost your clothes or she lost hers or when you traced her spine with kisses. You don’t know how you got here, with her underneath you, her long red hair splayed across her pillow like a halo around her head, but you are here. And you are in love.

You watch her throat bob when she swallows. She’s staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answers to the universe. Her eyes are not guarded, or weary, but cautious. Look at me, please look at me, please, please, please. And she does. Your heart somersaults in your chest. She is right. You are a fool.

The cautious look is gone, replaced with a determination that is both strange and familiar. She cups your face in her hands and tugs you down until your faces are so close, you can feel her lips brush yours with every breath she takes. “I might hurt you,” she admits, voice trembling as she looks into your eyes and you wonder if you look as scared as she does. “But I will try. What I hurt, I will soothe.” Her thumb traces the spot she bit not moments ago.

“I know,” you whisper, before you lean down and press your lips together once more. You gently bring your body down to rest on top of her so that all you can feel is your naked skin against hers. It is warm and soft and unbearable and you know you are crying but they are happy tears. As your kiss deepens, and her tongue comes home to meet yours, you feel a saltiness fall into your mouth and you realize that she is crying too. You kiss her and worship her and love her, love her, love her.

You fall like an anchor into her ocean where you will sit unmovable, impenetrable, always and forever. Her waves can lash at you, the tides can rise and fall, but you will not break. For her, you will be everything.

You breathe her in and feel her body move beneath your bare skin. You trace her spine with your fingertips, press kisses to her collarbone, hold her in the palm of your hands like she is the whole entire world. And to you, she is. You show her the night sky when she closes her eyes, and you teach her to reach up and take the stars for herself. You tell her you love her and you make promises you know you will keep. She doesn’t have to say it back. You can see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she kisses you, in the tender way she traces your face and looks at you like you are the sun. You wonder if she can feel your heartbeat against her chest.

You make love and you burn and burn and burn until you are a supernova ready to come crashing down into her ocean.

#wilhemina venable x reader #wilhemina venable #sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson imagine #wilhemina venable imagine #american horror story fic #american horror story apocalypse #ahs fic #ahs imagine #wilhemina venable x you #wlw imagine #wlw fic #wilhemina x reader #venable x reader #angst fic #romance fic

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enviedear · 4 years

Text

that damn american ᶠᶦᵛᵉ

don’t exploit our friendship

DESCRIPTION ⌙ in which y/n and draco go on a ‘date’, meet harry potter, and come to conclusions in the owlery.

PAIRING ⌙ draco x fem!reader

WORD COUNT ⌙ 3k

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five

gonna rec golden hour - kacey musgraves , teenage fantasy - jorja smith and playing games - summer walker for this chapter ;)

“i’m not taking her to madame puddifoot’s.” blaise sighs, exasperated.

“why? i’m sure april would love that tacky shop.” draco snickers, earning a jab from you.

april, who’s far ahead of you all, is making her way for the joke shop. she said something about how she and blaise are going to be pranking quinn. you suppose it’s only fair for what he did to her in fourth year.

the air is cooler now, and the four of you are all clad in warmer garments. the boys sporting slytherin quidditch sweaters and draco wearing a black turtleneck underneath. while april looks straight out of a damn brandy melville ad with her thunderbird sweatshirt tucked into her tennis skirt.

you on the other hand decided it best to wear a simple green tank with a loose cropped cardigan with mom jeans.

you’re now regretting the decision as your upper body is becoming unbearably chilly.

“blaise, look! i got some hiccoughing candy. i think we could give him one after breakfast tomorrow.” april laughs.

draco groans from the bench the two of you are sat on, playing with the silver rings on his fingers.

“this is bloody demeaning.” the boy complains.

“you know, you could be third wheeling. at least i’m here, and i could always leave you here. alone.” you huff.

draco narrows his eyes at you, “if you dare try, i’ll make sure you never get back to america. i refuse to be alone with these two lovesick idiots.”

“jesus someone is in a mood.” you snort, ruffling his perfectly done hair.

“shut it l/n.”

blaise and april walk into tomes and scrolls, leaving you and draco outside.

“screw this, come on, let’s go to gladrags. i want a jacket.” you say, hopping off the bench.

draco gets up, “damn americans and never dressing for the weather.”

“i think that’s more of a me thing.” you retort, heading into the shop.

as you take a look around you find a small section full of coats, sweaters, jackets, and sweatshirts.

“you know these are ridiculously overpriced, right?” draco scoffs.

“well i’m cold draco. and like my mother always says, ‘a fashionable witch always dresses in which she is comfortable’.” you say, reciting a line from one of your mother’s books.

she’s a popular fashion designer, and never let you or quinn forget it.

“excuse me, is your mother, the eliza l/n?” draco gasps.

you nod, a little confused as to how the boy knows her.

“hold on. you’re the daughter of one of american’s best designers and you never thought to tell me? what’s next? is your father the bloody president.”

you laugh, “no, but he is a retired quadpot player for the new york nogtails. you seriously didn’t know? my parents are the wizarding equivalent to victoria and david beckham.”

draco looks bewildered, “this whole time you’ve had prestige, and i didn’t even know? oh, just wait until i owl mother and tell her i’m friends with her favorite designers daughter.”

“don’t exploit our friendship, you fucker.” you say, slapping his shoulder.

he rubs his side and glares at you, “you were the one that begged me to be your friend. at least let me reap the benefits.”

“i’m starting to regret my decision, you’re a shit friend.” you tease.

draco lets out an exaggerated sigh, “fine, i was going to give you my sweater so you wouldn’t have to buy one, but since i’m such a shit friend.. nevermind.”

“i was kidding bitch. hand over the sweater!” you order.

he rolls his grey eyes and slips the garment off, exposing his tight fitted black turtleneck. it’s a sight to behold, honestly. it makes your mind slip into visions of the two of you actually together and on a date.

“well take it, and come on. i want a butterbeer.” he says, snapping you out of your daydream.

you put the sweater on and trail behind your friend. when the two of you enter the three broomsticks, draco immediately scowls.

“what’s the matter?” you ask.

“stupid potter. he’s sitting in my spot.” draco huffs.

“just sit somewhere else, you big baby.”

draco looks annoyed but complies, sitting beside you at a nearby booth.

you want to question why he’s not sitting on the opposite side, but ignore it. you like being this close to him.

“why do you hate harry?” you ask instead.

“he’s a brat. he thinks he so special because he killed a dark wizard when he was a baby. and his stupid parents are always at family events because of my bloody cousin, sirius. they’re the strangest people.” he tells.

“ah, how annoying. the boy saved the world in infancy.” you deadpan.

draco waves you off, “okay, i get it. but he is annoying.”

you laugh as a waitress comes over to take your order.

“two butterbeers.” draco tells her, handing her money.

as she walks away you give him a look, “i could have paid.”

“the guy always pays for the first date, y/n.” draco rolls his eyes, before adding, “not that this is a date. i wouldn’t take you to the three broomsticks.”

you smile, a little shy, “i wouldn’t mind sharing a first date here.”

“then potter is your soulmate. he takes ginny here every date they go on. honestly i don’t know how does he has a girlfriend and i don’t. the irony” he pouts.

you glower at him.

the waitress comes back with your drinks, and draco watches you expectantly. you roll your eyes and take a sip.

“oh shit this is good.” you gasp.

“told you.” he says, smug.

the two of you continue talking and drinking your butterbeers for a few more minutes before april and blaise make their way into the shop.

“look at this pretty necklace blaise got me! oh, and i got momma to mail me my old phone for him to use. he’s with the times now!” april beams, rushing into the booth.

blaise trails behind her, looking very confused by the cellphone in his hands.

“well hello you two. i’m glad you’re enjoying your date.” you smile.

blaise looks up at you, “seems like you’re enjoying yours as well.”

“draco and i are not on a date.” you say, glancing at the boy beside you.

“well we just thought you were since you’re wearing his sweater and sitting in the same bench. couple behavior if you ask me.” april shrugs.

“why do you people think i would take someone on a first date here. i’m far too good for that.” draco sighs.

april laughs and gives blaise a knowing look.

you don’t like that. it makes you narrow your eyes at the two of them, but they continue giggling.

“draco! i’m glad i caught you,” a voice calls.

you look up to see harry potter, followed by a redhead.

“are you coming over to sirius’ for christmas?” harry asks, resting against the booth.

“of course potter. he’s my family.” draco grunts.

“i was just making sure,” harry retorts. he looks at you, “are you bringing your girlfriend? sirius asked.”

draco coughs, “excuse me?”

harry smiles, “y/n, your girlfriend. snape owled my mum about it and dad told sirius. don’t worry, he’s letting you surprise your parents. he just wanted to know if she’d be with us this year.”

draco is fuming as he stares at harry. it’s quite enjoyable.

you grin, “actually, i’m going to be with my parents this christmas. but i don’t see why i couldn’t portkey here. i’d love to tag along.”

draco glares at you, “we are not-”

“great! i’ll owl sirius. come on ginny.” the brown haired boy gleams, walking away.

draco’s still glaring, “you’re dead. i’m going to hex you until you can’t remember your name.”

“oh come on. it was a joke. plus it’d be fun to have christmas with me. can’t you imagine it?” you say, nudging his arm.

“but explaining to my mum that we’re not dating is going to be a hassle. and you’re going to have to meet my crazy aunt bella.” draco groans, rubbing his eyes.

“to be fair, his aunt is mad. but think about it draco, what’s the worst that can happen? y/n would be a great addition to your family, even if it is just as a friend.” blaise says.

“just as a friend my ass.” april whispers.

draco rolls his eyes but gives you all a smile, “i hate everything about this.”

blaise narrows his eyes before smirking, “sure mate.”

once it was time to go back to the castle you told everyone you needed to head to the owlery first to pick up a package your parents had sent you. draco offered to come along and you let him, obviously.

you liked being alone with him.

by the time you get to the tower, it’s deserted, save for you and draco.

“you’re such a menace.” draco speaks, breaking your focus from your letters.

“big word for such a baby of a man.” you tease.

“shut up. i’m being serious. i know the minute i tell everyone you’re not my girlfriend, potter and his friends are going to have a field day.” draco says.

“harry doesn’t seem so mean. i follow him on instagram. he’s always so nice online.” you retort.

“you’ll see. he’s going to be a prat come christmas.” draco sighs, leaning against the wall.

you huff, “stop being so dramatic. if you want i can always just say i’m your girlfriend.”

draco gets off the wall and comes over to you, “you’re serious?”

you laugh, “yeah, i mean, everyone’s right. be basically act like a couple already. we’re really close for friends.”

“i guess..” he trails off, looking away from you.

you bite your lip and examine him. his pretty blond hair, pink lips, flushed face, and perfect posture. of course you wouldn’t mind pretending to be his girlfriend. you love him.

everything about him. you love the way his face contorts into a scowl after any inconvenience. you love how he looks at you when he sees someone doing something stupid. you love how he always has something for the two of you to do. and you love how he shows you the real him.

“but maybe it could be like a trial run.” he mutters, finally looking at you.

“what?” you breathe, voice catching in your throat.

“i mean, it would be stupid to not try. you’re my best friend y/n. i think we could, uh, work together.”

“are you saying you have a crush on me?”

“merlin. this is not as easy as i thought it was. of course i fancy you l/n. why else would i act like an utter buffoon?” he sighs.

you snort, “you act like buffoon even without me present, dickwad.”

“i’m trying to have a romantic conversation.”

“right, sorry,” you grin. “i would love to try to be your girlfriend.”

draco nods, “good. i mean, thank you?”

“come on, you can’t freeze up now. i definitely didn’t sign up for a shy boyfriend.”

he quirks up his eyebrow, “that you didn’t.”

the words and his gaze make your knees weak. and in an instant, draco’s lips are on yours. the wind outside is loud, but as you kiss him, you can’t hear a thing. your sense of smell is attacked with his cinnamon vanilla cologne. the boy is like one of the high end stores your mom shops at in the winter.

and his lips, his pretty full lips. the way they move with yours reminds you of something you’ve always needed but never knew. his hands take hold of your face and he brings the kiss deeper. the two of you oblivious to the world around you.

when you finally pull away, a smirk takes over his face.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that.” he says, satisfied.

“come on, we’ve got to get back to the common room. we have classes in the morning.” you grin, grabbing your letters.

“please, the minute i get to the common room i’m kicking everyone out of my dorm and sneaking you in.” he states.

you look at him, shocked. silently thinking.

“stop staring at me like that. you can speak.”

glaring you say, “we’re going to have to tell everyone.”

draco groans, “maybe we should just wait until tomorrow.”

you nod, “tomorrow.”

#—myfics !#draco lucius malfoy #Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy one shot #draco fanfiction #draco x y/n #draco x reader #draco x you #draco x female reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x slytherin #draco malfoy x american! reader #draco x ilvernmorny! reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #hogwarts

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abyssal-hoonter · 4 years

Text

Evie walked to the table and examined the papers laying on the wooden surface. She had spent years working on the research of the Pieces of Eden but this was the first time she had seen so much about the topic that she put all her mind and heart to care for. Her fingers glid slowly on the documents as she narrowed her eyes to focus on reading with the assistance of the Eagle vision.

There was nothing hidden here, on the lines, yet it could be the other person who was carrying something unclear and mysterious within her rib-cage. Evie turned and saw the woman got up on her feet by gripping the cane in her hand. The assassin felt pity, somehow, though she didn't know why she got that feelings for her enemy.

"Is it true that you want me to help?" Evie raised a question, and was responded by a simple nod. Of course, she hadn't found it enough to believe in, as she continued, "How could I know this is not a set up?"

The woman started to pace toward Evie and came a halt just at a dozen centimeters between them. She lifted her face to look at the young girl by an eye of pain and also, a small piece of disdain. She smiled. A smile that made Evie shiver.

"Were I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be standing here, staring at me like a hungry bullet awaiting to pierce through my body once again, Miss Frye." Lucy stated coldly and confidently with her voice lowered since tired and bored. Evie felt that. A voice that contained a fire of angry and disgust not toward Frye, but to the man that had used her for a very long time and now he was waiting to take over what was rightfully hers and keep those as his own possession. Crawford Starrick, a hypocrite who seemed to be promising and sophisticated upon his outlook, was really a too ambitious, power-hungry and ungrateful son of a bitch.

"You read the letter he sent me, didn't you? Didn't know how long he took to think of a way to comfort me for what he would do, but, I think that was quite enough." Lucy added, waving her hand into the air and walked to the table, "All these years working, bleeding myself dry to uphold the principles of our Order and all that for which we stand, without a thinking of betraying. Wow, Miss Frye, it had led me to this. What a miracle, isn't it?"

"You should have known it would come someday, sooner or later. Society and politics sometimes run by that way as well as people could live by cheating and robbing. You're in a higher place, I wonder why you didn't come to realize that, Miss Thorne." Evie shook her head in frustration.

Lucy took a manuscript on the table, showing it in the middle of the documents so that both women could observe it clearly under the light in Thorne's chamber.

"I thought about what you said. But still, there are hope and faith, victory and achievements we have. So I kept trying and fighting... At least it took him 10 years to cut down this partnership. This manuscript, it's mine, I got it in the auction where I met him for the first time. That was quite a long time, I suppose."

Lucy paused for a few seconds, thinking, and finally let out a chuckle, "Hm, I've been through a lot of things in my life, Miss Frye. Vengeance, well, vengeance is kind of a bad game that we shouldn't play it... But, it's fun, in my way." She narrowed her eyes and glared at the younger one as a mean of both evilness and pleasure. "Care to join me?"

"I'd rather not, Miss Thorne. I'm..."

"A coward, who stabs from behind and runs when face-to-face." Thorne laughed, for the first time in front of Evie and the assassin saw that redhead was pretty attractive and beautiful even when that was her archenemy who was supposed to be eliminated.

"I mean... I'm not sure about your method and your honesty. Even you can see how a Templar brings you disgust and hatred. We have observed for a very long time and see the way The Order treats the lives of people under their control. You say good but that's not what you bring. From oppression, corruption, exploitation and death they suffer." Evie shrugged, "I can't trust you, Miss Thorne... For now, at least... I still can't trust you immediately."

"I understand. I understand." Lucy blinked and nodded. "Everything and everyone has their own reasons. I'm sorry, Miss Frye. I took your time." The redhdead moved to sit down on a dark brown chair while Evie went to the opened window to flee from the manor. All of sudden, she turned back to look at Thorne. She didn't know why she did that but she had already done what she found hard to understand. Why does that older woman seem poor and lonely like that? Perhaps it is because she was still weak and pale after getting a big ass attack that had nearly taken her life? Or maybe it is something else the young girl hadn't figure out?

And she saw Lucy smoking at the table, coughing and breathing hard but still, the woman didn't stop. She smoked fast at a speed of completely consume a cigarette in half of a minute and continued to the point she coughed out her saliva. Evie couldn't stand that as she felt like each time Lucy made sound was a time her heart got punch. Eventually, she jumped back into the room, rushed to the table side and snatched the cigarette out of Lucy's hand in her surprise.

"You've honestly lost your mind!" The brunette's eyes wide opened and glared at Thorne angrily. "I didn't kill you but this one might." She threw the cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out by her heel.

Lucy watched the younger woman did that as she leaned backward and inhaled.

"I know you wouldn't trust me. Since our paths are crossed, we meet and fight, die and survive, not to share our stories nor listen to what the other say. For the first time, Miss Frye, may I ask what drove you to be an assassin?"

Evie looked at Lucy, face-to-face, and none of them blinked or a second until the Frye twin broke the silence.

"I was raised to be what I am now."

"You didn't choose to start it?" Lucy asked, and there was no answer.

Miss Thorne sighed, "Have you ever lost someone you really love, Miss Frye?"

Evie didn't know whether she should answer or not but finally, she swallowed hard, "Yes, I did. Why did you ask?"

"Because losing my daughter put an entrance for me to find the Shroud."

"Really? I'm sorry for your lost." Evie replied.

"Not your fault, Frye. To be honest, that's a long story if you're willing to spend time listening." Lucy released a soft smile.

"Alright then." Evie pulled the chair and sat down opposite to the woman, "This is strange. I could never believe I'll spend such a good time chatting with you, Miss Thorne. Especially..." She wasn't able to fill the sentence when she saw Lucy was staring at the floor, motionless like a statue showing its non-verbal sorrow.

"When I was 18, I saw a family in which the wife had a bad illness. The husband took a loan from some people and put the money into curing for his wife. Once she recovered, he worked his ass off to pay the debt, well, funds and profit, until he passed away for overexertion, leaving half of the debt to his poor family. His wife became a courtesan to earn living for both her and the daughter as well as paying the money. It wasn't long after that, the mother got killed by a robber, only for a few pounds, leaving the child totally alone then without any care or protection." Lucy paused as she poured the tea to the cups and gave one to Evie.

"What then?" Evie asked.

"I raised her on my own. And finally, ha, she left me 5 years ago. Tuberculosis. I watched the kid breathed her last."

Lucy stood up, looking outside the town, "I collected all of those memories and events only to have a question: Is there anyway I could do to make things less bitter? And I think... The Shroud's going to be one of the solutions."

Evie kept listening without saying a word. Perhaps she was opening her mind to digest something new and big.

"I see, that was quite a story."

"Uhm hum, so next time if you think all Templar are the same, then remember me. I might be fool enough to be stabbed on my back, but I have my sense to pursue what is necessary for the betterment of humanity. And... There's no good way for the future that contains no weakness, no pain, no sacrifice, no any negative points. Remember that... At least, we'll try and I'll prove what you want me to."

Evie crossed her arms across her chest and frowned, "Are you serious? Can't we just move on and focus on finding The Shroud instead of revenge?"

Lucy chuckled at that, "Maybe, we can do stuff as you pleased. That's a way to prove I'm not playing an upper-hand." Then she walked closer to Frye, whispering into her left ear, "But save that Crawford for me."

"And no more cigar, okay?" Evie raised her eyebrows as her eyes followed Lucy's steps.

"If that's what you like... Sugar."

#assassin's creed syndicate #evie frye #lucy thorne #assassins creed #assassinscreedsyndicate

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themusicplayedherlife · 5 years

Text

Some Sugar

Part 1: just keep breathin’

pairing: sugar daddy!steve rogers x reader characters: reader, steve rogers, cassandra jones (oc), selena (oc), bucky barnes, sam wilson word count: 3k+ warnings: angst, family issues, money problems summary: you need to just remember to breathe a/n: give me validation please and let me know what you think

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There’s a steady stream of customers all night, nothing like a few nights ago, but it’s definitely better than it’s been for a while. While you want to be happy for Cassandra, your mind keeps going back to your Aunt Magdalena’s threats, most recently a note slipped under your door, that you thankfully found before Esmeralda could.

It’s no wonder why your mom (and dad) kept communications with her to a minimum—which only adds to the mystery of why she went to her of all people for money.

“Excuse me,” a deep voice calls for your attention, it’s strong yet somehow nervous. When you look up to smile at him, you’re greeted by stormy, blue eyes illuminated by the lights behind you on the shelves and mirror. He’s handsome, alarmingly so with brown hair cascading down to the top of his broad shoulders—cheekbones sharp and chin dented right at the end and covered by mild scruff.

Holy fuck … what you wouldn’t give to spend a night with him. It’s been so long since...

Hey! You’re at work, and work means focusing!

You push your warring thoughts aside and manage your best customer service smile. “What can I get for you?”

“Three beers,” he says, eyes falling to the taps behind you, and with a quiet and unsure voice, he orders three Mirages.

You smile reassuringly. “Good choice.” When he eyes you curiously, you explain, “Local brew.” You turn your back to him and grab the glasses for beer as Cassandra squeezes by you to reach the register at the end of the bar to charge a group.

You fill one of the glasses and set it aside while you absentmindedly fill up another, the sound of the soothing trumpets playing through the speakers washing over the bar.

Eleven thousand dollars. How are you going to pay that much money in two months?

“You okay?” Cassandra asks, watching you carefully, eyes drifting to the glass in your hand.

You’re quick to switch to the final glass when you realize you’re about to overfill the second. With a tired smile you say, “I’m fine.”

She frowns, shaking her chocolate curls, but before she can say anything, someone saunters up to the bar and orders a drink. She gives you a look that says—I’m not done with you—and starts making the drink for the customer.

With the final glass filled, you spin on your heels to face the male that ordered the beers and are surprised to find he’s no longer alone—two men are flanking him.

They’re just as tall and wide as the brunette—a contrast of skin between them, the one on his left a beautiful shade of umber—dark and rich. Black hair short and buzzed, and a thin beard making his face seem slimmer than he appears to be, apple of his cheeks high and round when he smiles at something his companions say. Handsome in a simple white tee and black leather jacket.

The other man on his right is white, almost pink and peach with the low lighting of the bar, nothing like the tanned brunette between them. If his friends are handsome, he’s beautiful. Golden hair slicked back with a semi fade on the sides; muscles tightly wrapped and bounded by a blue Henley that you’re certain is a size too small; lashes, long and thick brush against his cheek bones; face clear of scruff and dark shadows; lips pink and pretty—something almost boyish in his smile that makes you crack a smile of your own.

Shit. You’d take any one of them home!

Three pairs of eyes land on you as you set down their beer, and you freeze, locking with blue eyes—bright and alarming, specks of hazel and greens around his iris making his eyes pop in the dark bar. Something flashes within them, and there’s something familiar about them that you can’t quite place.

What is it?

Cassandra makes a noise from beside you, like a hum and a snicker and you realize you might’ve been staring at him for far too long. Shit.

Clearing your throat, you drag your gaze to the brunette between them and smile politely. “Here are the first two, let me just get the last one.” A sleek, black card comes into view after placing down the final glass, and you take it, a little embarrassed. “Open tab or closed?”

“Keep it open,” the blonde says, a familiarity directed at you that has you raising your eyebrows, but you ignore it. “Just in case.”

“Of course.” You don’t really look at him or his friends after accepting the card, scurrying away to swipe his card to make sure it’s good, and input his first order under the last name on his card—Rogers. Storing the card for the meantime, you go back to cleaning the bar.

“You sure you’re okay?” Cassandra tries again.

“Cass,” you warn with a sigh, eyes trailing over to the men that have decided to settle on the bar-stools instead of an empty table—the three too busy engaged in their own conversation to listen in on yours.

“As your boss and friend, I have every right to worry about you,” she says, resting an elbow on the bar and leaning forward. “Your head has been up in the clouds lately. And more than usual. Did something happen to your mom? Is she okay? Is her arm not healing properly?”

“She’s as okay as a chemotherapy patient can be,” you snap harshly, rubbing at the bar fiercely. She blinks at you surprised and doesn’t retort—shame immediately creeps up on you. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean—“

“Hey. Hey. I know,” she affirms gently. “It hasn’t been easy for you, but you know I’m here if you ever want to talk.” She makes a gesture to herself and your eyebrows knit.

The glasses clink as you put them away. “Thanks. She’s getting better, but I’m not ready. Not yet.”

She nods solemnly. “I understand, but I’m here whenever you are. You hear?” she says, pointing a finger at you before taking the empty tray to the back.

You watch her leave with a sigh. You really shouldn’t be taking out your frustrations on others, you mentally scold yourself.

As you continue wiping down glasses, your phone vibrates in your back pocket, slipping it out discreetly, a notification of a new message appears on the lock screen.

Selena⛱☀️: Went over the docs. You free to talk?

Just those simple words are enough to steal your breath away; dread filling your bones. She didn’t add an emoji, you realize; no emoji usually meant trouble.

Your grip tightens around your phone.

Skyscraper: gimme min

Stuffing it back into your pocket, you look around the semi empty bar—the group in the back, the three men at the bar, a couple by the entrance. Biting your lip, you look back at the door Cassandra slipped through, cautiously. Your phone vibrates again, and it’s enough to push you towards it.

Twisting the knob slowly, you poke your head in and find Cassandra near the merch taking inventory, and your coworker, Matt cleaning up the small kitchen by Cassandra’s office.

Rapping on the wood, the two drag their attention to you. “Cass, do you mind if I make a quick call?”

She blinks, a worried frown stretching itself across her ebony skin and her shoulders tense. You shake your head when she raises an eyebrow.

“Personal,” you tell her. “Kind of.”

Her shoulders drop and a small smile replaces her frown. “Yeah, go ahead. I’ll man the front while you’re away.”

“Thank you.”

You slip into the small hallway connecting the bar to the two gender-neutral bathrooms for customers. You lean against the locked door leading into Cassandra’s office, never used since you started working here, and stare at the door leading out into the dirty alleyway.

The phone rings against your ear, the faint music from the bar encasing the small hallway too, it’s soothing in a strange way, with its slow beat and sensual saxophone solo.

“Hello?” Selena answers, a loose mix of a Californian and Australian accent seeping into her words. She’s only been living in California for a little over a year and she’s already picked up the accent faster than she did yours—traitor.

“How’s the Californian sun?”

“Golden,” she answers readily, a grin apparent in her voice. “Better than New York’s, that’s for certain. Though, not quite like home.” Keys clicking in the background float to your ear. “I looked over the documents—“

You straighten, lifting your thumb to bite your skin. “And?”

She hesitates, clothes rustle and she takes in a deep breath that you try not to read into. “It’s all legit.” Fuck. “Usually, we can exploit mistakes or loopholes, but your aunt was completely thorough with her agreement.” Your head hits the wooden door. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”

“It’s fine.”

“Look, I have a thousand dollars saved up right now—“ You’re quick to stop her by calling her name, but she won’t allow you to interrupt her. “And I could probably get another $500 soon—“

You clench your eyes closed. “You don’t have to do that, Sel. I could always get another loan from the bank and--“

“Will you shut up and let me finish? I know your pride won’t let you accept my money for free.” You slide down the door, head hanging as you listen to her. “You can always pay me back, at your terms. Ten, twenty a month, a year, fuck, I don’t care. Whatever makes you feel better. But I’m not going to let you take out another loan! You’re still paying off your mom’s hospital bill and that dumb loan you got for Esmeralda’s school fees!”

“Selena, you really don’t have to—“

“I know I don’t have to,” she snaps harshly, voice full of tough love. “I want to. You and your family helped me through a tough time and I want to help you guys too. I’m in a place where I can help, and if you won’t accept my help, then fuck you, I’ll tell your sister and I’ll send her the money.”

You choke back a sob.

“Listen,” she starts, her voice soft as you hold back sniffles, “1500 isn’t a lot, or even half of the money your aunt is demanding, but it’s a start. And I have a plan, okay? I asked Camille and Jason to whip up a new contract, using the 1500 as a down payment of sorts. I can’t guarantee it’ll work, but we’re going to negotiate with her, fight for it. It’s not over yet.”

“God, what would I do without you?”

Her voice cracks as she scoffs a laugh. “Good thing you don’t have to find out, huh?”

The music fades into the background, loud laughter cuts through the noise. Cassandra’s voice rings out loudly, announcing last call. “I feel so hopeless, Sel,” you admit to her, words laden with grief and exhaustion, and in some ways guilt. Guilt that you can’t do more for your family. Guilt that you didn’t do more to stop JC from leaving. Guilt that you’re such a horrible daughter and sister.

“Oh, darl’...”

“The hospital bills, Esme’s school, even the bare necessities—it was hard to scrape by, and now this? I just—why can’t we catch a break? Esme doesn’t deserve this. Fuck, Mom doesn’t deserve this!” Maybe if you had fought harder—tried harder, none of this would be happening.

“You don’t either.”

She might be right, but it does nothing to ease the guilt that’s slowly starting to grow in your chest. “I’m sorry, Selena. I should let you go. I’ve asked enough of you already.“

“Hey! None of that, okay? I should be the one apologizing for not being there to hand you tissues and force feed you those ice lollies you like so much.” You let out a wet snort that she mimics. “I want you to know, no, I need you to know, that even if I'm miles away, I’m always here for you if you ever need me. No matter what.”

You rub the heel of your hand against your eye. “I know. Thank you, Sel.”

“You’re welcome.”

With whispered goodbyes and cheesy “I love you’s” you hang up. Curling up, you cover your face with your hands, shuddering breath escaping your lungs as you will yourself not to cry.

“Ma’am?” It’s soft, careful and almost stern like, kind of like Captain America from the hospital. “Are you—are you all right?” No, not kind of. It is Captain America from the hospital!

Your eyes snap up, heat licking your skin at the embarrassment of having been caught crying twice by—eyebrows knead together as they take in the blonde costumer with the black card that can certainly not be your Captain America… right?

Rogers. Rogers… Roge—fucking shit. Wait a minute! He’s the real Captain America? You’ve been caught crying by Captain fucking America? Not once, but twice? That’s fucking worse! “It’s you… you’re really… Captain America?”

He smiles, it’s kind and sweet—warmth. “You remember me.”

Of course you remember him! You just can’t believe he’s the real Captain America, history book figure, war hero Steve Rogers. You feel like an absolute idiot for not having noticed!

“Kind of hard to forget when you caught me ugly sobbing in a hospital courtyard,” you find yourself quipping back as you make to stand, quickly rubbing away your tears. “Thank you for the handkerchief, by the way. I didn’t bring it with me—“ Not that you were expecting to see him again, anyway, but you had been carrying it around just in case.

“Don’t worry about it. I told you I have more at home.” Heat crawls up your neck—because of course he does. He’s Steven Rogers, Captain America. An Avenger. A loaded Avenger in every sense of the word. He chuckles, ducking his head, but then he sobers up, smile replaced by a small frown. “Are you okay—I heard—I heard,” he pauses to swallow and you realize that he’s heard more than your crying. Fuck. “Crying. I heard you crying. Again,” he adds the last bit like a second thought.

He’s a shit liar, but you still appreciate his effort. “Fine. I’m fine, thank you for worrying about me,” you tell him softly, trying to push a smile forward. Probably looks more like a grimace. “You probably have a lot more important things to worry about than me.”

Just as you have more important things to worry about.

Peggy Lee’s voice fills the hallway with her soft, haunting crooning—“I was always a fool for my Johnny,” she sings and it jerks you. For just a moment you forget where you are; you’re suddenly eight years old again, watching your mom teach your brother how to play the guitar as your dad records them with the handheld camera.

Your mom looks at you and asks you to sing along with them, but you refuse, embarrassed that she’d even suggest you should sing! You can’t sing! But she and your teasing dad somehow coax you to screech the lyrics along with your brother’s playing, and by the end of it, you’re completely overheated and embarrassed that your dad got it all on tape, even your impromptu performance of dancing around the living room like a maniac.

But as soon as the memory comes, it’s gone. Fading to the deepest pit of your mind as you once more find yourself in the small hallway of your workplace, Steve Rogers’ frown growing deeper, lines making themselves at home on his forehead as he watches you contemplatively. “Do you—Would you like to exchange numbers?”

His request comes completely out of left field, it’s practically enough to shock whatever tears were still threatening to fall to dry up. It’s a welcome distraction. “Why?” falls from your parted lips.

He scratches the back of his head, ears turning pink as he turns away. “I just thought—uh—too forward?”

A little, you want to say, but your inner Cassandra and Selena are calling you an idiot, urging you to give him your number. Should you? You’re not going to lose anything by giving it to him. You’re probably not going to gain anything from it either. But how many times will you ever be able to say that an Avenger asked for your number? That Steve Rogers asked for your number? “Okay.”

His head snaps up and something within his eyes stir, you don’t know what it is or even come close to understanding it, but it sends a weird hum through your body that you try to ignore. Noticing your staring, his melts and gives way to his earlier softer look—kind and warm. “Here.” He gives you his phone after unlocking it and you take it, inputting your number and name before handing it back to him. He says your name aloud—and you physically resist the urge to react to him saying your name—and his lips tilt upward. “Nice to officially meet you.”

“Hey, Steve, we should—“ Steve moves his head to look over his shoulder as you lean to the side to find who you’ve come to the realization must be another Avenger—Falcon. His earthy eyes move between you and Steve, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Am I interrupting something?”

Your lips roll into your mouth to hide the grimace you’re mostly likely sporting. “Ah, no, we—I was just—thank you again, um, Cap? Steve?”

“Steve,” he tells you, smiling reassuringly in your direction before turning to Sam with a semi serious expression. “I’ll be there in a moment, Sam.“

“It’s fine,” you interject, moving your gaze from him and his friend to stare over their shoulders’ and out into the warm lit bar. “I need to get back to work, anyway.”

“Right, of course,” Steve says, stepping aside to let you through. You smile at him briefly but before you can pass by him, he stops you with a shy smile. “You wouldn’t mind if I call you?”

You falter slightly, taking you a moment to recover, but once your muscles relax, you flash him an unguarded smile. “No, I wouldn’t.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers imagine #sugar daddy!steve rogers #sugar daddy!steve rogers x reader #reader insert

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fandom-necromancer · 4 years

Text

1024. You seem… lost. Is there anything I can do to help?

Okay this is actually an idea for a big story I condensed into a 4-parter of shorts. I mean at my pace I could start writing this full length in 25 years, so... Yeah, better condense it XD

Fandom: Detroit become human | Ship: Reed900 [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [part5] [part6]

‘Reed!’ ‘Ugh, what is it, Chris?’ Gavin demonstrated his disinterest by leaning back and propping up his legs on the desk. ‘New android joining our team. You gonna pick it up tomorrow morning from Cyberlife.’ ‘Yeah like hell I will.’ ‘Reed, don’t do this to me’, Chris sighed. ‘It’s Fowler’s order.’ ‘I don’t care, I’ll not end up like Hank and partner up with some plastic prick. Doesn’t matter they are persons now, they are still phcking artificial goddamn robots.’ ‘You don’t need to partner up with one. Fowler doesn’t want some HR-fiasco if he can avoid it. As far as I know that’s some bot for Lewis. You just have to pick it up because you are the one living closest to that damn tower. Just play nice for one car ride, that’s all.’ ‘Fine. Still can’t believe we get more of these phcking things…’ ‘At least the new one isn’t replacing someone. They talked about needing more android officers to avoid some racist issues.’ ‘Yeah, okay, doesn’t matter anyways. Lewis’ desk is far enough away from mine.’ ‘Good.’

Gavin didn’t like the decision to add new android officers to the force. But he also knew there was no way to stop the world from changing and now that androids had rights, there sure were people who would have fun breaking them. He knew of the old days when there had been injustice and corruption plagued the force and hell, they had all been human back then. No, as long as the damn plastics kept out of his business and didn’t pester him with friendly talking about nothing, he would manage. Just a little detour from his home to the tower and back to work. Roughly fifteen minutes added to his work commute not taking into account he would most likely have to wait in some neat lobby. Meaning he would have to get up a bit earlier than normal. The things he did for money…

He sat in his car, coffee cup in hand, while waiting at the red light of the crossroads that would lead him to the bridge over to belle isle. The light turned green and he began driving again, setting down his cup in fluid, automatic motions. The bridge was devoid of cars, he remembered the vans passing endlessly before the revolution. The gigantic corporation was struggling to adapt to the new situation. They couldn’t produce new androids and sell them to the highest bidder, because that was considered slavery nowadays. They couldn’t produce androids that were immune to deviancy, because that would cause a massive shitstorm from the robot population. But well, people would always find something to make money with and then exploit it just enough to make people rich but not to make headlines.

Still Cyberlife was just delaying the inevitable. It was dying. It was producing spares and upgrades for androids and changed their image to something caring. Androids could get repaired at their centres and could get in contact with them to apply for jobs and find homes. But when New Jericho was still there to make sure android rights were taken seriously and basically supplied the same service, it was hard to compete. Even Gavin couldn’t blame an android to confide into their own over some corporation that took you for an object.

But well, they tried. New slogans all over the roads, telling androids in bright colours they were welcome and Cyberlife was there for them. And someone must had believed them, because at least one android had just gotten a job at the police. How lucky, others would have to work for it. Gavin grit his teeth as he parked his car and walked up the stairs to enter a lobby that spoke of the money made from selling the very robots they now treated as equal. Well, he couldn’t care less as he walked up to the reception and told the pretty woman behind the counter why he was here. Of course, he was told to sit and wait for the android to arrive. Gavin thanked her and didn’t do as told. Instead he wandered through the huge lobby, looking the enormous statues up and down, touching the plants to see if they were real - they were to his surprise - and wandering some more. At this time, he would be late. Damn Fowler if he dared to not pay him full time for this bullsh-

‘You seem… lost. Is there anything I can do to help?’

By now Gavin was far into the area behind the reception not knowing if access was restricted and not really caring about it either. If no one had stopped him, it was their fault, not his. He turned around to look into Connor’s face. Or was it? The tin-can wore a different uniform, wore one at all that was and his face looked different too, although Gavin couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was different. ‘Another RK800 unit?’, he asked and the bot grinned in surprise. ‘RK900, actually. But very close, I am impressed! Do you know any RK800s by chance?’ ‘Yeah, got two of these nagging assholes in my precinct’, he muttered to himself, looking around for a way out. The android in front of him looked every bit the sort of person who wouldn’t shut up talking, because all cues from Gavin’s abrasive body-language went way over his head. ‘Precinct? Are you a police officer?’ ‘Detective, actually.’ God, could this new android please appear anytime in the next century? He would do anything to get away from this baby droid?

‘Oh, that is fascinating! How is being a detective like? My predecessor, the RK800 was designed to be one! I always wondered how it would be.’ Gavin groaned. ‘Well, how about you ask them then, tin-can? I’m sure they would be glad to talk your damn ears off about it.’ ‘Oh.’ The android let his head fall and as Gavin looked at him, he smiled apologetically. He was bigger than Connor, he realised now. And what was different about his face were his eyes. Weren’t Connors brown and not blue? ‘I… Err… I never met a RK800.’ ‘Yeah, I think Connor told me something about being a prototype or something.’ He was still looking for a way out of this conversation but figured the universe wouldn’t be so generous to him. ‘You met Connor? The Connor? The one that helped Markus?’ ‘Yep’, Gavin sighed. ‘That very super nice, definitely not manipulative at all, asshole puppy.’ ‘He must me very friendly. I heard he is very famous. The deviant hunter that turned to help androidkind. I hope to be like him some day.’ ‘Nah, he isn’t that shining star in the sky. Believe me, he knocked me out cold once. I would try searching for some other android idol.’ ‘Do you know anyone else?’ ‘Hey, you are the android, you tell me.’ ‘I don’t know anyone.’

That made Gavin stop his search for a way out for a few beats. ‘Wait a minute. What do you mean you don’t know anyone?’ ‘I was told I am dangerous. I can’t be let near another android because they fear me acting on my programming regardless of me being deviant or not. I live here in this lobby. Security is strongest here in case I try something, and I can stay active like this.’ ‘Wait, wait, wait! You are telling me you never set a foot outside this lobby?’ ‘No. I mean, I spend my days in an underground lab before. But seeing your shocked expression that doesn’t seem to be better.’ ‘No, of course not! You are a damn prisoner here!’ ‘I don’t understand. I am free to go where I want as long as that’s inside here.’ ‘And what do you do all day?’ ‘I watch the people passing by. Sometimes it’s androids coming in and leaving again, sometimes it’s humans leaving with another android. I like to imagine what they do once they left.’ ‘And that is enough for you?’, Gavin asked disbelievingly. ‘I know that this is all I can do without hurting someone. So, I am content with what I have.’ ‘Really? Aren’t you bored? Don’t you want more?’ Gavin couldn’t believe someone to be content with wasting their life away, regardless of human or android. ‘Of course I want more’, the RK900 said, face distorted in a pained expression. ‘I would love to meet new people and see the world. But I can’t. I would hurt people. And I can’t let that happen.’ ‘How do you know you would hurt people? Did that ever happen?’ ‘No. But would you take the risk just to have some nice moments outside? I couldn’t forgive myself if I caused harm.’

‘But-‘ ‘Reed? Detective Reed to the reception please.’ Gavin looked back to the entrance of the lobby, then back to the android. ‘Guess I’ll have to go then’, he muttered and pointed behind himself. ‘Y-Yeah! I guess so, too. It was very nice talking to you!’ Gavin was heading back to the reception as the android called after him: ‘Good luck with your work and stay safe!’

Everything after that felt weirdly numb: The android, a woman named Rita, introducing herself to him with a firm handshake, the ride to work with light conversation Gavin half-heartedly played along to, him arriving at work and getting a coffee on autopilot. All that was overshadowed by a foggy feeling in his guts at the thought of the android being confined to the small lobby because something could go wrong probably. At the rate that humans snapped at others, was that really so much of a risk? He ended up with the conclusion that he didn’t know enough to judge and that it wasn’t his business.

But still that feeling didn’t go anywhere.

[> Next part]

#detroit become human #dbh #Reed900 #Gavin Reed #RK900 #another case of severe soft Nines #This doesn't mean I will never write the big story but I have a list to work off so it will take me a lot of time to ever get there XD #Especially considering the rate I get new ideas at this is a curse #a beautiful curse but still

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billyhardgrove · 5 years

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It’s All Pretend - Prologue

A/N: Hi - please don’t kill me but apparently I’m incapable of sticking to one story and writing it completely; instead i need to have three going at the same time. But I really liked this simple idea and thought it would be quite fun to write and I just had to write at least the prologue so as I didn’t lose the idea. So here’s that. Enjoy xx

Summary: You and your boyfriend have taken a ‘break’ (per his request) and you’re pretty devastated about it. Cue Billy Hargrove. He’s your rebound (from everyone else’s point of view) and he’s going to help you get back at your ex.

Word Count: 1.2k approx.

Warnings: Just some swearing (for now).

PROLOGUE | masterlist

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. You stared at the brown-haired boy, his eyes flickering from you to the wall, to the ground every now and again. His lips continued to move but you couldn’t make out a single thing he said after those five words; ‘We should take a break.’

You should’ve scoffed in his face, laughed sarcastically at the audacity he had. You should’ve perhaps flipped out at him, demanding a good enough reason for him to want such a thing. Honestly, you should’ve just pretended you didn’t even know who he was; God, anything so long as it gave you the upper hand, anything that didn’t make you feel as small as you did.

But instead what did you do? You stood there in silence, your mouth hanging open dumbly, still in shock, before pathetically nodding your head when asked if you understood what he was saying. And honestly, as you angrily stacked boxes in the storage room later that same day, your delayed fury was on rapid fire as you repeatedly cursed; ‘Fuck you Steve Harrington’ under your breath.

Or at least you thought it was under your breath.

“Wow, what’ve I walked in on?” A deep voice made you jump, causing you to spin on your feet to face the doorway in which the individual stood.

“Jesus, Hargrove - you near made me shit myself.” You cursed the blonde boy, your hand reaching up to rest on your chest where you felt your heart still racing from the scare.

Billy had a small smirk on his lips at your bluntness, finding it somewhat amusing while his eyebrows raised at you.

“What are you doing back here? Only employees are allowed here.” You told him, your tone turning bored as you returned your attention to the stupid boxes. God, you hated working at the arcade. It was such a dull job, making the hours pass be at a snail’s pace. But, even though it was shit pay, it was still a way of income that you needed, especially since you recently got a car and needed to start putting fuel in it.

“I’m looking for my stepsister. I’m supposed to pick her up, but the little shit hasn’t bothered to show, and I can’t leave without her.” Billy replied, and although his words implied concern his facial expression showed anything but. He almost rolled his eyes with the lack of care he seemed to have, but still he was going out of his way to find the girl.

“Well, she’ll not be back here.” You clipped, kind of annoyed with his presence and hinting that he should leave. After all, he had interrupted your little session of anger release upon stacking boxes and you could feel the irritation start to return the longer he stood there.

“Right, well I know she wouldn’t dare leave, so I need you to check the girls’ bathrooms for me.” He told you, disinterest still clear.

“Why don’t you do it?” You murmured, not really listening to what he said and when he didn’t reply you looked at him and saw he was giving you a face as though to say, ‘wise up.’ Then realising what he said, you tried again. “How about just wait for her to come out? I’m sure she won’t be long.”

“I’ve been waiting for her for fifteen fucking minutes and still no sign. But she’s probably in there with one of her mates yapping away about girl shit. Why the hell do girl’s feel the need to go to the bathroom together and then spend half a lifetime in there?” He rambled, but you weren’t really paying him much attention. So when you didn’t respond, he spoke up again.

“Can you please just go and fucking check?” He asked again. “I’ve really got somewhere I should be.”

“With some girl, no doubt.” You mumbled under your breath, the words just slipping out without much thought. Billy held a reputation, and everyone from school knew about it including you, so you just sort of figured that his plans were to merely build on said reputation tonight.

“Maybe it is, sweetheart. But what’s that to you?” Billy challenged, taunt filtering through the air as he smirked nastily at you. He was trying to make you embarrassed, to make you feel as though you shouldn’t have let slip what you had, as though you should feel humiliated at the idea you had hinted that you cared that he spent a lot of his time with many different girls.

But quite frankly, his little game didn’t work on you, because in all honesty you didn’t give two shits about the boy or his reputation; it was merely a subconscious slip of the tongue. The only thing on your mind was fucking Steve Harrington and the confusion and frustration he had managed to bestow on you that early afternoon.

You scoffed; “Don’t flatter yourself, Hargrove. Not every girl wonders who the next skank is that you’ll be burying yourself inside of.” Rolling your eyes at the cocky boy, you were tempted to teach him that not everything revolved around him; that people had their own problems to deal with and didn’t all waste their time with his superficial exploits.

Billy only chuckled at your words, trying not to take the hit to his ego too hard. But when he still didn’t make any motion to leave, you were getting fed up with how aggravating he was being. Perhaps your current relationship status played a hefty part on your sour mood then, but Billy’s hovering while you worked really didn’t lessen it.

“What do you want, Billy?” You snapped, turning your head to look at him, your eyes wide, eyebrows raised, as you let your annoyance of his presence further be known.

“I need you to find my stepsister.”

“Oh, for fuck sake, fine!” You spat, angrily stomping passed him and back to the main area of the arcade, where rows and rows of games and entertainment suffocated the room. Heading towards the girls’ bathrooms, you pushed open the door and not thirty seconds later two girls - a red head and a brunette - came shuffling out with you stropping behind them.

“You’re fucking welcome. Now please go.” You grumbled when you walked past the boy, not bothering to wait for a thank you or anything else to come from his mouth.

And Billy just watched, amusement glowing on his face as he watched you storm away. You and Billy weren’t friends, were barely acquaintances, were merely peers at the same school. The two of you shared a few classes together but that was it. You didn’t hang out, you barely interacted with one another, and perhaps you dating someone Billy despised played a part in that (at least on Billy’s part). He had always found you quite fit, with a naturally gorgeous face and sexy body, the blonde boy would be lying if he hadn’t thought about his head being buried between your thighs. But never had he acted on it.

So perhaps tomorrow when Billy found out of your halt in relationship, he would find his opportunity to finally add another notch to his belt (surely you would be looking for a rebound). Or perhaps instead he would find an opportunity for something more; a chance for vengeance.

next part

#Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove writing #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove smut #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things writing #dacre montgomery #dacre montgomery writing #dacre montgomery imagine #dacre montgomery smut #dacre montgomery x reader

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gamechangeroo · 4 years

Text

Part 2/3

Click for Part 1/3

Or read ahead for Part 2, which is Chapter 1, because Part 1 was the Prologue. I acknowledge the pointless confusion.

Chapter 1: Should You Buy a New Moral Compass When the Magnetic Poles Switch?

It had been two weeks since Gintoki had been ‘knighted,’ and in that time span he had gained five kilograms, Shinpachi had gained two, and Kagura had only gained one, because, despite the fact that she was eating as much of the food as all the other moochers combined, she was a monster alien girl that would never have to worry about love handles. Ignoring the limits of physics, her body morphed food into energy with a ferocity similar to what one would find in the center of stars.

That is to say, excluding that one weight loss episode, Kagura consistently had a very high metabolism.

It is perhaps a strange way to start a Gintama story where food can no longer be a concern or motivating plot point, because the Yorozuya team now had any and all of it that they could ever need. One might venture to say it is stranger still that the dawn of a Gintama story breaks over a horizon where rent was also not a concern. Yet, by this time in the plot Gintoki had already convinced Otose to take their rent as an anytime, all-you-can-eat ticket to the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian Embassy. With these two very large issues removed from the playing field, was there any motivation for Gintoki, Kagura, or Shinpachi to do anything? Would there be any growth or motion besides the outward growth of our heroes’ stomachs?!

Gintoki supplied his answer in a large, drawn-out belch, and lazily rubbed his newly accumulated belly fat. From his spot draped over one of the embassy settees he motioned vaguely to the other side of the room.

“Oi, Patsuan. Go buy me this week’s Jump!,” Gintoki managed to mumble through his food coma. As he moved his lips, a piece of beef that had been stuck to them slipped into his mouth. He chewed on it contentedly.

Kagura burped in response. “Shinpachi left hours ago, and I don’t think it was to buy Jump!.”

Cracking open his eyes for the first time since this chapter began, Gintoki peered around the banquet hall languidly. Shinpachi was indeed gone, and Kagura was still munching away at her place at the table as the Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian kitchen staff shimmered, glistened, and replaced plates here and there.

“He said if he stayed around here any longer,” Kagura continued, “he’d turn into a good-for-nothing deadbeat.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Hasegawa,” Gintoki defended his friend absentmindedly.

“Nobody was talking about me, Gin-san!” Hasegawa spoke up, mildly indignant. He sat across the table from Kagura, doing his best to keep on mooching on this food train, and, incidentally, had gained about 10 kilograms himself.

Ignoring the interjection, Gintoki suggested, “Why don’t you follow Shinpachi’s lead, Kagura-chan? Go out and see how the world has grown over the last two weeks. I’ve heard they changed the color palette, and the sky is turning from blue to brown.”

“Who cares about factory smog when I have factory-processed sausage right here?” Kagura asked, leisurely waving a link at Gintoki. “Go find your Jump! lackey somewhere else.”

Running his fingers through his perm in aggravation, Gintoki grumbled and debated the merits of standing up and walking to the convenience store, versus lying around and doing more nothing. Nothing really was very appealing.

However, after two weeks of nothing, its time had finally run out. It was at this moment that a Presence slid firmly into Gintoki’s brain. He blinked twice and shook his head wildly in an attempt to dislodge whatever it was from his mind and thoughts. He then whacked one ear, hoping it would pop out the other. Undeterred, the Presence poked around his mind with a sharp, callous intensity that was, frankly, incredibly annoying. It was bit like when customers come into clothing stores, throw the neatly hung up clothes carelessly off the racks, and expect the shopkeep to clean up after them without thought or concern.

To make matters worse, the Presence paused and encircled his thoughts about how walking to the convenience store to buy this week’s Jump! was too much effort. It hung there in silence, totally judging him.

“You don’t know my life!” He roared. “Get out, you asshole!”

At this, a huge darkness fell over the hall. Actually, it wasn’t the whole hall, there was just someone looming over Gintoki. Yup, it sort of looked like Kagura when she was about to go in for the kill. He paled considerably as he realized what was about to happen.

“Uh, wait, K-k-kagura-ch-chan,” he flailed. “That wasn’t… I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the thing in my head. Something’s in my head and judging me, so I told it to get out. I would never tell you to get out!”

Kagura halted her fist a mere hairsbreadth from Gintoki’s nose. She tilted her head to the side menacingly. Gintoki took that as an excuse to keep going.

“You… you see. All of a sudden, it just popped in there, and was looking down on me for not buying my own Jump!, which isn’t right at all! A man should have peace of mind in his own mind!”

“Not quite,” Hasegawa said through a mouthful of rice, with a small, jaded laugh. “When boys become men, even their minds have no peace.”

Kagura drew back her fist and stared quizzically at Gintoki. “Gin-chan is growing up?”

“He just grew a conscience, Kagura-san,” Hasegawa amended. “It means he can’t do anything fun anymore without feeling terrible about it.”

At this, Kagura’s face scrunched in concern, and she shook Gintoki wildly by the shoulders. “Is it true, Gin-chan?! Are you not going to come home drunk in the middle of the night anymore smelling of the scummiest parts of town?! Who will play midnight games of Five Finger Fillet with me now?”

In light of this new information, Gintoki blanched. What in the hell had Kagura been doing to him after he had blacked out on those nights?! Maybe a conscience could come in handy in having a heart to heart with Kagura about not playing evil night games with inebriated victims, but this new intruder stomping around in his head wasn’t a conscience.

“Stop putting stupid ideas in her head, Hasegawa,” Gintoki retorted. “The plot of my series is all about how I have a great conscience that orphaned children and crying women exploit to get me to save the day occasionally. It’s heartwarming, and people love it! I can’t grow what I’ve already got!”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Gin-san,” Hasegawa opined. “There are two types of consciences. The first type is the one you’ve always had: a hero’s conscience. That’s what gets Mario to save Princess Peach from Bowser all the time.

“The second type is a geezer’s conscience. That’s what makes Mario collect enough coins to pay for multiple life insurance policies, so his family knows they will be taken care of after he’s run into one too many Goombas. It’s an adult sense of responsibility, as the demands of society slowly crush his idealism and spirit.”

“Mario is such a caring hero!” Kagura enthused, spraying tofu in Hasegawa’s direction, as she settled herself back into her chair at the banquet table.

“Well, that depends on the player,” Hasegawa said with a knowing smile, and Kagura’s mouth shaped an ‘o’ of acknowledgment. A conversation about geezer consciences is where a Madao shines, after all.

“As for our Gin-san,” he continued, “his Player 1 has skipped all the coins on each level for so long that he doesn’t know what to do now that Player 1 is aiming for the life insurance policies.”

“Stop making profound statements using Mario!” Gintoki snapped. “And I am still skipping all my coins! I just head straight to Bowser, oi!”

Hasegawa just hmmed knowingly. The bastard. Look at him acting all high and mighty, while eating someone else’s food. What a terrible houseguest, who was stupid and wrong. Gintoki was the last person who would develop a geezer conscience. If there was another invasion of Earth where geezer consciences were aiming to occupy the heads of every human around, Gintoki would be once again on the front lines, but, instead of fighting Amanto, he would be fighting against the importance of mortgages and steady jobs.

“If you’re so sure, why don’t you ask your geezer conscience what it thinks of life insurance policies?” Hasegawa asked in challenge.

Gintoki narrowed his eyes, and dug into the side of the settee cushion to find a fork he had left there. He pointed it menacingly at Hasegawa. “It’s not a geezer conscience.”

“I bet it is,” Kagura chimed in again. “Or, if it isn’t, maybe it’s a brain parasite.”

Gintoki froze, a cold sweat sticking to his neck. He had not thought of that possibility. Could something have crawled into his head, and was now sucking away?! He did yank out a particularly big, green booger yesterday. Was that parasite poop?!

Though, come to think of it, he had not felt the Presence snooping around for a while. Maybe! Maybe it was gone! Maybe it leaked out somewhere! He focused his mind inward, poking around his own thoughts, and anxiously checking for any mental hitchhikers, while he dug around in his nose for any physical ones.

Just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he found it. That thing. The parasite. It was there right in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his thoughts. It was just curled up in a deep mental corner, not really interacting with his head, but also definitely not out of it.

That’s it. Poor Gin-san was going to end up a drooling, brain-dead vegetable.

“Um. Hello. Excuse me,” he thought at it.

At his word-thoughts, the thing that was probably just about ready to suck his mind out through a straw stirred and came to life in his head. Gintoki could just tell somehow. It was more ‘there’ than it had been, even though it was not swirling all around his thoughts like it first had done. It was… to put it to words… paying attention.

“I was just, um, passing by in my head,” he thought as casually as he possibly could. “And I noticed you there doing your thing, and I was-I was wondering if you thought I should get a life insurance policy?”

His brain-parasite-death-machine appeared to consider the question, and he could tell the moment it seemed to scoff. It then pushed at Gintoki’s mind with a small pressure, which popped into his brain as a mental image. There stood Kagura and Shinpachi inheriting gambling debts and bar tabs from a dead Gintoki.

At this, Gintoki mentally laughed in borderline hysteria. “You’re right!” He thought shrilly. “The best I could do for those two brats is leave them as little as possible to clean up! How perceptive of you!!”

Catching his unstable tone, the cerebral terror seemed ready to push another image-thought at him, but Gintoki had had enough. He ran quickly from the depths of his own mind, resurfacing at the embassy with a heavy gasp.

Kagura and Hasegawa stared at him from the table.

“Gin-chan,” Kagura’s voice was uncertain, “are you-”

“I think I’m going to go out and get my Jump! after all!” Gintoki interrupted. “I just remembered the cliffhanger that happened last week. I need to know if Karbo was able to escape from Tommy’s Trial!”

He sped out of the room and zoomed out of the embassy before anyone could question him further. It was time to go to the hospital. They removed brain parasites right?

Gintoki asked this question at the front desk of the nearest emergency room. The nurses backed away and whispered to each other, as they stared at the bedraggled, permy man with a parasite in his brain. Patients in the waiting room made a dash for the exit, which was certainly the right move, as far as Gintoki was concerned. Who would want to stay in a room with a brain-sucking bug?! What if it multiplied and infected everyone?! What if the devil-bug made poor, innocent Gin-san go on a murdering spree?!

Gintoki asked these questions to the tired looking, old doctor who scanned his brain with this and that machine, and occasionally rubbed her chin hairs. After an hour of poking and prodding, the woman proclaimed him parasite-free, and threw him a bottle of pills to ‘make the voices go away.’

The fretful samurai wandered down the streets of Kabukicho in a near-delirious haze of nerves and fear. If the doctors could not find anything in his brain then what was this Thing?! Was it a parasite so crafty that even old doctors with notable amounts of chin hair could not spot it, or was it something else entirely? Should he actually be taking these pills? Was it too late to get a life insurance policy?

Gintoki asked these questions to the barkeep, as he downed his third and fourth beers. He just knew the solution to all of this was waiting at the bottom of one of these glasses, or he could just get drunk enough so that none of it really mattered, waking up the next morning missing a couple digits from an inebriated attempt at Five Finger Fillet a la Kagura.

By his eighth beer, he had enough liquid courage to sink back into his own head and once again confront the beast within.

“Oi,” he thought-yelled. “Bastard!”

The parasite-horror, which had been keeping to itself without any direct interaction from Gintoki, rose up. It pushed back defensively against his anger, as if to say ‘What’s your problem, asshole?’

“You can’t just set up camp in someone’s head when you feel like it! Get the hell out!”

The eldritch monster seemed confused at the accusation. It wobbled about, and poked at the surface of Gintoki’s thoughts. Finally, it pushed an image of its own toward him. The scene popped into his head as him leaving the bar and going home to bed.

“There are enough bouncers in real life, without you acting as one in my head you… you! Whatever you are. What gives you the right to tell me to go to bed when you’re probably just going to suck out my brain when I sleep, huuuh?”

Gintoki’s parasite seemed even more flummoxed by these words. It swirled to and fro, attaching to thought after thought running through Gintoki’s mind until it finally settled around Gintoki’s suspicions about itself. As it realized that the mind it was squatting in thought it to be a parasite, the parasite had the nerve to get extremely exasperated. It roughly pushed an image toward Gintoki, which he mentally squinted at crankily.

There was a yellow book with a weird pair of brown, long somethings on the cover playing with a beach ball. There were too many limbs for just two creatures, and was that a lightsaber?

A moment of heavy silence descended in Gintoki’s mind.

Seconds passed, until another image was furiously flung into his noggin. This time, it showed himself reading that yellow book, a look of dawning comprehension spreading across his features, as his scanned the words.

“So you’re telling me if I read this book about Jar Jar Bink’s summer vacation, you shitting on my brain will make sense?” Gintoki asked, starting to wonder if he had actually had a little too much to drink.

In response, his head-creature slapped another snapshot of the book at his mind’s eye with an aura of supreme pissed-offedness.

“Fine!” he shouted, fiercely ignoring the bartender pleading with him to stop making a scene all by himself. “I get it. Everything will be fine if I flip through this book! I’ll go do that immediately, Grand Supreme Parasite-sama! Post haste!”

…

“So you see,” Gintoki explained to the cashier at the 24 hour convenience store, as the night neared the 24th hour, “I need a yellow book with things playing with a beach ball on the front cover.”

The parasite was writhing in anger and exasperation. It punched an image of a convenience store with a red X through it toward Gintoki.

“Now, now, parasite-kun,” Gintoki mentally chided. “Have a little faith in the host you are munching on. A convenience store doesn’t always have the book you come in looking for, but it will, without fail, be carrying the one you need.”

As he thought this, the convenience store worker slid a yellow, cellophane-wrapped magazine toward him across the counter. On the cover was a beach ball being tossed back and forth between two fit bikini girls.

The parasite was reduced to a black mass of vibrating fury.

“I’m giving you a chance here and following your advice, so you should give me one too,” Gintoki addressed his mental guest with relative cheer, as he paid for the magazine. “Let’s see if I can achieve enlightenment through these pages, just like you wanted.”

Gintoki was humming to himself, happily swinging the bag that held his magazine to and fro, as he stepped toward the exit. This whole parasite thing did not seem like such a terrible ordeal with some alcohol in his gut and a dirty mag in his hand. The weird creature seemed like a bit of a prude anyway, considering the way it reacted to Gintoki’s new beach friends. Maybe he could scare it off with a little good old fashioned debauchery. Let it be known to the brain hijackers of the world that Gin-san’s noggin was not a hospitable place! He never cleaned it, and there were mysterious stains and smells everywhere!

As if at that very moment smelling something it should not have, the enraged presence in the back of his mind rumbled ominously. Gintoki simply sneered, thinking to himself the phrase ‘Just desserts.’

Lost in thought, he bumped into two masked men at the entrance to the store. One of them growled and pointed a sword at his face. The other one growled and pointed a sword in the face of the poor cashier, who immediately crumpled to the ground in the fetal position.

“Get up and give us all your money!” Robber #1 demanded of the trembling employee.

Gintoki sighed and shook his head. “You know, I’m really not in the mood for this.”

“We could not care less,” Robber #2 grunted. “Your wallet. Now.”

“Well, I just spent the last of my money on this great magazine. It gets the best reviews from alien brainsuckers. I was looking forward to reading it, but you can have it if it means that much to you.”

Gintoki threw the bag with his magazine in the face of the robber holding him at swordpoint. In this moment of confusion, he swept a leg underneath the man to send him careening forward, and slammed an elbow into the side of his head as he fell to knock him out cold.

Moving quickly, he drew his wooden sword, preparing to smash the sword out of the other robber’s hand, leaving him with no way to attack the cashier in retaliation. However, his hand’s connection with his weapon caused the parasite’s connection with his mind to flare brightly in response. The angered creature flew to the front of his mind, energized and alive, just as Gintoki swung Lake Touya down. All of a sudden, Gintoki lost track of where he ended, and the Other in his mind began – or, rather, there was no Other.

With a savage intensity that was his own, yet More, he cleaved through the robber’s sword, as his wooden blade erupted in a blast of white light that filled the store. The automatic door at the front of the building opened with a ding, providing an exit for nothing particularly corporeal.

Slowly, gradually, the large mass of light faded, and thick, sizzling tendrils of smoke took its place. Apparently, Gintoki had not only chopped the robber’s sword in half, but he had also burned a deep line through the wall of the store in the direction his wooden sword had been pointing for the cut. He could see cleaved electrical wires and singed ventilation. Following the line of his cut further down, there was a severe, charred groove in the linoleum floor, looking to be about half of a yard deep. The cut traveled along the ground, ending near Gintoki’s feet, where his wooden, infomercial-cheap sword pointed after its swing.

Um. What?

As he continued to gape at the wall, the conscious robber and shivering cashier screamed and scrambled out the door. As he continued to continue to gape at the wall, the sprinkler and alarm system both went off.

Rain dripping down his curls and squelching beneath his boots, he slowly walked toward the remaining robber passed out face-down near the front of the store. He stared at the man in the black ski mask for a few moments, before kicking him on his side and gingerly placing his smoking sword down in the slack grip of the man’s right hand. Rising, he looked ever-so-casually around, scanning the aisles of the store, and, seeing no one, began to walk toward the exit.

He was almost at the automatic doors before he turned around and quickly made his way back to the man. Gintoki crouched down and grabbed the bag with his magazine inside that he had thrown only moments before, and, with it in hand, he upped his pace, exiting the store with as much innocence as a soaked man fleeing a smoking convenience store at midnight could muster. Out on the street, he sprinted down the first alleyway he could find, disappearing into the night.

#gintamafanfic #Foryunthustoriphyxnarfyndalvnuduraqiualinoytfusian #incomplete

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darrowsrising · 5 years

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I always felt like Darrow wanted a communist world. Isn't that like the main idea of the Rising? Equality for all, no more colors, no more social classes? Maybe I am wrong but it's how I always saw it, from the beginning of book one.

Look, I am from a country that was under communist rule for 50 or so years and IT SUCKS EVEN 30 YEARS AFTER THE FACT. I really dislike that system and I always will and this answer will reflect that.

See Publius cu Caraval and his little speech. That is the extreme left.

Pierce has often said that democracy can work, as long as people are actively participating in the process - voting, protests etc. You can't sit on your arse and let people lead you, because that facilitates abuse of power.

As for Darrow being a communist...nope! All the red and the sickle symbolism wasn't about communism vs. capitalism or extreme left vs. extreme right. But if you took it that way, idk, valid!

Darrow, from the beginning, never knew exactly what system should be instead. At first, he thought Reds would take place of Golds. But then he came to know them and understand that Color. He understood early on that it's not about Colors, it's about humans and freedom.

And idk why this "all men are created equal" is plastered as communist propaganda...when it is fucking not. When Publius says it, this idea is corrupt and vile - all men are created equal, but some are more equal than others. When Darrow said it in Heliopolis, he meant it that despite the physical discrepancies between Colors, humans are humans and they all deserve freedom and not chains.

Point is, in demokracy, the pyramid isn't a thing anymore. Pierce said that many renounced their Color sign and sigil, but some things stuck in names for example. But Colors are treated as ethnicities and claimed as such. Which isn't wrong at all.

The reason Darrow dislikes demokracy is because it is too slow. He wanted quick. He missed 10 years out of his son's life for a war that those Senate fools think they can end with peace. Peace with fascists is never an option. So fuck them!

Also, idk why tyranny is only linked to the extreme right, when...idk, there are plenty of communist tyrants out there! Dead or alive.

Getting back to the point, Darrow never knew what exact system would be good. But he understood in Morning Star that demokracy would be in everyone's best interest, although Dancer and his lot would be displeased with the slowness.

Dancer wanted to reverse the pyramid and have the Reds have most of the power if not all. Because he thought it was fair - the opressed to become the opressors and look after the best interest of the Reds. And Darrow isn't for that. Because, while Reds deserve better, continuing the cycle of opression isn't going to work. I mean, let's be serious, what would have these dudes do if they had power? Look what they called Pax and Darrow. Look how they are and how Dancer enabled them to be. I doubt that once in power, Dancer could have stopped them from being awful.

What the Republic must have is a law reform that protects the hell out of the individual - most especially the worker. The only good capitalist market is the one regulated af by laws that tax the filthy rich as they should be taxed, that protect the workers from essenscially modern slavery, that make sure the good work conditions are met to the last detail, protect the HUMAN RIGHTS of every individual! And so on.

And Virginia herself is on that. She must walk the stiletto, but now she has imperium and I am sure that she will use it right and manage to get those reforms approved and sealed.

Demokracy is far from perfect and shit gets crazy easily. But it can work. And it should. Because the alternatives are too damn depressing.

Things is, it is up to the individual. You can't expect the system to just give to you, sometimes you must take it. Lyria and Ephraim were perfect examples of that -Lyria claimed that it was better in the mines, because she was a Gamma and thus privileged among the Reds, then she agreed with the Vox, because Reaper and Lionheart didn't keep their promises, they didn't come down from the sky to serve her happiness on a silver platter - and Eph just gave up on trying to make it work and turned to a life of crime instead, because he...just gave up on believing in whatever the Rising did. They both said that they had no choice, but they did. It was just very hard to see one in their respective conditions.

To make demokracy work in general, it is hard. It takes a lot of losing before winning and playing games. But it is worth it. Because that is how everyone can just be. No matter the Color. They are free to pursue whatever interest they have, free to pursue their happiness, free to be with whom they love, regardless of Colors.

In Caraval's sick vision, he just was another opressor, another tyrant that claimed himself as servanf of the people. A load of bullshit. In the Rim system, slaves are still slaves, except the masters are somewhat nicer. And we all know how fucked up the Core is. Adrius' idea is sort of an...authoritarian hellhole. And the Republic had its flaws that were exploited hard by opportunists which ended up almost fatal. But they can be fixed. And I am sure they will.

And let's be honest here. This book isn't going to end with an extremist regime preached as the best system. It just isn't. Not when Pierce Brown himself believes in democracy - he has a major in political sciences - of course he will present each and every system he created from all angles so that we can see them. And maybe decide for ourselves, but he always reiterates that freedom is important and that it is not worth paying for order.

So yeah, that's my stand on this.

Howl on!

P. S: communism has social classes, despite their handy dandy theory - the proletariat is a social class made up from the members of the party in power. They enjoy privileges that your average person doesn't.

#red rising trilogy #iron gold trilogy #pierce brown

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honekitteh · 5 years

Text

Fic: Countdown - Chapter 7

Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: M Genre: Angst, H/C, Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, Canon-typical levels of poor decision-making Synopsis: A distress call leads the Jedi Battlemaster to Ziost, but time is running out. Follows the storyline of The Rise of the Emperor and inserts missing scenes. Warnings: See Chapter 1

I wasn’t entirely paying much attention to whether T7 had tried to jolt Theron awake from where he lay, or Kira sluggishly picking herself up and offering Lana a hand. I did notice in the corner of my eye, the shake of her head as Lana declined Kira’s hand, making my former padawan frown slightly. Maybe a matter of pride to the Sith Lord for all I knew. I wouldn’t profess to understand the inner workings of someone who has known only but Sith culture but for the year or so working with Theron and Jakarro on Rishi.

My focus was on the Jedi Master who had collapsed at my feet. She was shaking, curling inward upon herself. I knelt down in front of her, watching her closely. I kept my hands in front of me, showing that they were nowhere near my lightsabers. Whether she noticed, I wasn’t sure, but there was nothing calm about her mind.

“I saw it,” she whispered, her eyes not meeting mine, but it was clear that they were her own eyes and not the different coloration that denoted Vitiate still residing in her mind.

I reached out to her forehead, lightly touching my fingers to the sweat beads along her hairline, with a small hush of my voice. “Calm. It’s alright,” I said softly, “You aren’t alone.”

She flinched lightly, but relaxed a slight bit, still rocking herself. “I saw it,” she repeated, a little louder, her eyes flickering behind me and up, “I saw everything. Every life. Every life he too—I took.” She looked back down, giving me a glance in my eyes before focusing on the ground. “It’s all I can see anymore.”

A gentle hand rested on the top of my head, lingering as if desiring comfort yet not quite willing to display it so visibly in our current situation. I didn’t need to look behind me to know who it was. I could sense a wave of exhaustion, but pride and shy affection from Theron, as his gloved fingers lightly traced a strand of my hair before he removed his hand.

I raised an eyebrow but did not look behind me, instead I focused what energy I had left into trying to calm Master Surro with the Force.

The broken Jedi in front of me remained downcast. “I’m a monster,” she rasped out.

I closed my eyes, trying to use the Force to move my calm and assurance into her.

“That’s not true,” Theron stated softly behind me, “You’ll be okay. I’ll take you to Tython. The Jedi will help you restore your mind, make you whole again.”

Before I could slowly nod, my agreement, Lana spoke up. “And then she’ll be no good to us…”

I removed my hand quickly from Master Surro’s forehead and stood up, brushing off my pants. My eyes remained closed, but I took a few deep breaths. I did not want my attempt to share calm with Surro to be disrupted by the flash of hot anger I felt as Lana stated those words.

Lana was still speaking, though my focus was not entirely on her words. “We need to understand the connection Vitiate established with this Jedi so we can stop it or exploit it.”

Kira had swiftly taken up a spot between Surro and Lana, her expression unreadable.

Theron frowned. “Let me guess,” he stated through clinched teeth, “The process is ‘invasive.’ Hasn’t she been through enough?”

“We’ve bought ourselves some time—that’s all. We can’t risk the fate of the galaxy just to assuage your guilt.”

I flinched at Lana’s words but before I could respond, Theron had raised his voice. “You want to take her brain apart and you don’t even know if you’ll find anything?”

“We have to try!” Lana’s voice raised in response.

“He’s never leaving!” Surro cried out, rocking again, despite Kira’s light hand on her shoulder, “I’m going to hear him forever!”

A flame, a white-hot flame burned behind my eyes, a memory, movement not my own. Lightsaber red, killing droids, faceless victims. Blood, fear, a slow laugh, a reminder of things that had once been in the past. Walking through corridors, grey and bleak, a mask to shield my face, to hide my shame, my once yellow eyes. Rage, deep and dark, against all presence of the light.

Then a hum, a low light melody, bright and crisp broke through. I opened my eyes as I recognized Kira’s voice, the sound of her humming a soothing lullaby of sorts. I am not sure how much time had passed, but Theron and Lana were still arguing.

I took a deep breath. “Enough.”

Theron and Lana blinked over looking at me as I had reached out my hand to Surro. The jedi took my hand and allowed Kira and I to help her up.

“Master Surro goes with Theron,” I said simply.

“You’re joking,” Lana rasped out, “Tell me you’re joking.”

“You heard her.” Theron’s voice towards the Sith was cold.

“You may have killed us all,” Lana snarled, “I hope you’re happy.” With the last of her words she twirled around and left the platform.

For a short moment, I wondered if I had done the right thing. I knew Surro must go to Tython and Theron was going to get her there. This was the right thing. But the thing I questioned, was more whether I should have said why. Did Lana even know what I had gone through at the Emperor’s Fortress years ago? Did she need to? Should I have told her.

It was a little late for that now at any rate.

“Well,” Theron said walking up next to me, scratching the back of his neck, “Let’s hope she doesn’t turn the Imperial Army on us. Just to be safe, I’ll get Master Surro off world as soon as I can.”

I nodded. “Kira, go with him. Make certain she gets the care that she needs.”

Kira nodded, letting Surro drape her arm around her shoulders and she started walking back in towards the building.

“They’ll know what to do on Tython,” I said, looking over at Theron.

He nodded. “I know.”

“Trust me,” I said softly, looking back at the ground.

He took my hand in his and gave it a squeeze. I looked back up at him, but he said nothing further on that. He didn’t need to. “We got a break from the Emperor, now,” he said, looking back over the landscape we could see from the platform, “But that may only last until all the trained killing machines we zapped get on their feet again.” He gave my hand another squeeze and then let go. “Meantime, maybe we can get Saresh to agree to a strategic retreat.”

I nodded. “See what you can do.” I paused, frowning slightly as I noticed he had started moving out with T7 and Kira. “And Theron…?”

He looked back to me and raised an eyebrow. “Yes Jyana?”

I faltered slightly. His eyes were exhausted but I nearly got lost in them again. I lost most track of what I was even thinking for a few moments. We didn’t have time; I could feel it. I felt, some kind of doom, a small rise of panic racing through my body that I could not explain.

“Jy?”

I startled. I offered him a weak smile and said simply, “Be safe.”

He nodded. “You too.”

When I am finished here—when every life on this world has been exhausted—I want you to be alive. To know that I have succeeded.

“Jyana, retreat from the planet. Now.”

I sensed it. A growing ache, some wrongness that I couldn’t quite place. Kira was already off world with Theron and Surro and there was no one else in the People’s Tower left. I took a deep breath and called down the nearest transport.

I watched through the windows as I took the transport with a batch of refugees. I could feel it.

I had failed.

When I am finished here—when every life on this world has been exhausted—I want you to be alive. To know that I have succeeded.

I felt a wave of darkness building in the back of my head, throbbing as my temples ached. At first, I thought it was simply exhaustion. Since coming to Ziost I had not once taken a true moment to myself. Not even the five minutes I waited for Saresh’s call as I perched on the statues in the People’s tower. The darkness in the back of my head throbbed, pushing at the far recesses of my mind, taking hold of memories, the white-hot anger I had felt towards Lana’s presumption that she could get any kind of information out of torturing an already tortured soul. I felt the rage build within me again and it took a great deal of strength of my own will to push it back. Not to repress it, but to accept that I indeed felt angry at Lana for her attitude, and then just move on. As soon as the anger that had washed over me had faded, a new sensation hit me.

I placed my hand against the bulkhead as the darkness building in my mind turned into unadulterated terror and threatened to knock me over. Screams, squeals, shrieks echoed in the corners of my consciousness. Thousands, millions, billions of voices, crying out, and slowly silencing. Not a sudden drop from a cacophony to a void of silence, but a slow erasure of the dissonance entirely. I looked up in horror as the blue world through the window of the Defender slowly became dust brown and grey, from what looked like a wave engulfing the entire globe.

Then it dawned on me. That wasn’t an external weapon. That was… him. What was once full of life… was gone… in an instant.

A deep imperial voice growled from behind me. “Now you understand.”

I looked back at Lord Scourge who was still staring at Ziost. For a man who had been unable to utilize any of his basic senses, a man without emotions for over 300 years, I could sense the fragments of terror behind his expressionless face and voice. “Scourge?”

“Another Sith home world, destroyed to fuel his immortality.” Then there was silence as the red skinned sith, Kira, and I stared at what was left of Ziost through the window of the Defender.

“Excuse me,” Doc peaked in the bridge of the Defender, “There’s a personal holo call coming through.”

In unison, Kira and Scourge spoke. “Not now, Doc.”

I could sense the blink from behind me as I continued staring at Ziost. Doc looked past me and startled. “Is that…?”

“Ziost,” Scourge answered curtly.

“What…?”

“Nothing remains alive. The Emperor consumed the world.”

“How is that even… never mind,” Doc sighed. “Jyana, it’s Theron.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. More than anything I would want to talk to him. Maybe rush into his arms and maybe that will erase the growing sense of loss I felt every moment. But, I couldn’t. Not now.

“Now is a really bad time,” Kira said softly.

“Theron’s surrounded by a bunch of Jedi, he said something bad happened. I assume,” Doc made a vague wave at the dead planet in the view screen, “That’s what happened?”

Oh. That’s why… I nodded to Doc and simply said, “Tell him I’m alive, and I’ll see him at Carrick Station.”

Doc hesitated for a moment before nodding his acknowledgement and retreating.

I could vaguely hear the conversation, but I couldn’t make out the words. For once in both of their lives, they didn’t snipe or snark at each other. Just acknowledged the message, expressed concern for each other’s wellbeing, and I assume mine, and ended the call. If I was in a better mood, I probably would have marked this down as a historical achievement.

“You’re thinking about going down there,” Scourge stated after what felt like an hour.

I simply nodded.

“Since I doubt I can talk you out of it, you will not go down there alone.”

I looked over towards the ancient red sith. “Thank you,” I said, genuinely.

We exchanged no further words as we stood there watching the world for another hour.

I pinched the bridge of my nose after pulling the microbinoculars down. It’d been a temple to the Emperor but watching the data of what used to be turned to dust in real time, repeatedly, one after the other, was taxing. Scourge, walking up beside me as he tinkered with his own scanning devices, mentioned a few times under his breath as we walked through the dust and ash that it felt different than what he had expected.

I couldn’t even imagine what he had meant by that. The colors were muted, like they had been sucked out along with the life that this planet once had. Scourge didn’t elaborate but seemed to be surprised at his ability to sense the Force. It wasn’t as strong as it would have been normally. I can’t imagine what he was even remotely thinking of when I heard vague references to a world where even the Force had been consumed.

Kira had remained on the ship. She’d not elaborated on her, “Nope,” reaction, nor did I require her to. Doc on the other hand, had agreed to join us. Probably something in the name of science or medicine. I could sense his regret the moment we had touched onto the world.

It mirrored my own, despite being for different reasons. He perhaps regretted agreeing to come down to the world with Scourge and me. I regretted that this world was in the state it is. I felt the weight of this resting on me. If Theron had felt guilty for what he’d put the Sixth Line through, and then for what Saresh had chosen to do with the Republic troops, I felt guilty for this entire world.

I had failed.

“You’ve got a holo call coming in,” Kira called down through my earpiece, shaking me out of my thoughts.

I sighed heavily. Though on the one hand, a distraction from my own self-pity party would be grand, on the other hand, I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. “Can it wait?”

“It’s the Chancellor and the Grand Master.”

“Fantastic, let me get my portable holo set up for that.” I pulled out my device and started fiddling with it to receive the signal. I looked over to see Doc poking at something on the ground and Scourge had his own microbinoculars up and he was scanning off in the distance.

I got the holo working and as I popped in, I’d noticed it was more of a conference call and they were just looping me in on the discussion. I found myself just crossing my arms and listening for the most part, though occasionally glancing to the doctor who slightly flailed and raced to another section of ash.

After some time, the Chancellor of the Republic turned to me on the holo. I had zoned out at some point, my headache pounding. What she was saying was nothing different than what she had said when I tried to talk with her from the People’s Tower in New Adasta. Before Vitiate had consumed all life on this world. I started to zone back in as she repeated, “I have questions for you. What were these possessions?”

“Now? Now you listen to me?”

Both Saresh and Master Satele startled at my outburst. I’m sure they weren’t quite prepared for a revered Jedi Master and the famous Hero of Tython to actually have a semblance of a temper, but the ashes surrounding me, that I’d been walking through most of today, had a way of making even the calmest of minds snap.

Before either of them could speak I continued, “If you had even remotely listened to the intelligence on the ground instead of being blinded by hatred of the Empire, maybe we would have stood a chance to stop Vitiate from eating an entire world.” I took a deep breath and then made a very exaggerated point to show my backdrop behind me. The muted colors, the grey ash and dust of a torn-up wasteland. “But no. This is on you.”

“Now listen here...” Saresh began.

“No,” and I clicked off the communication link with the Chancellor. I looked quickly to Satele, who was just staring at me with emotionless concern. Before she spoke, I cut off any train of thought she was about to attempt. “I will not take orders from her. If that means I am no longer Battlemaster, so be it.”

“I do not think that is necessary. But remember…”

I took a deep cleansing breath, well as cleansing as could be given my surroundings. “I remember,” I said, my voice taking on the same calm serenity that Master Satele had. Then I ended the communication.

“There’s nothing further we can do here,” Scourge stated after a short amount of time of me staring and lightly fuming at the holo console.

I sighed. I knew he was right. I looked over to where Doc has bent over what looked like remains and closed my eyes. The world felt so hollow, there was no wind, all the color washed out, and the Force felt more like a creeping Void. I could feel the discomfort from the towering Sith behind me, I could sense Doc’s complete distress. I took a deep breath and walked over to him and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder.

He placed a hand over mine and nodded, standing up. “I know, but we had to try, right?”

I nodded. “I cannot even imagine what this is like for you.”

“I have no words,” he sighed looking back down to the remains.

Any other time, we would make a joke at our predicament. But today was not that day. “Let's get going. I believe I have a debriefing on Carrick Station.”

Doc quirked a smirk. “Of course. You want to see Shan.”

I felt Scourge’s frown though I wasn’t entirely sure what this time it was about and just started walking my way back to the shuttle. I took another look back out across the world and rubbed the edge of my eyes.

#swtor fanfiction #theron shan x jedi knight #theron shan #female jedi knight/hero of tython #oc: jyana kai #otp: come what may #fic: countdown #ziost #swtor: rise of the emperor #swtor #fanfic

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bluesimba · 6 years

Text

No-go

Fandom: Gangsta

Pairing: Nicolas Brown/Reader

Warning: suggestiveness, all the things that come with gangsta

Notes: hello I love gangsta and would take a bullet for one nicolas brown. for the thot sabby b/c I always scream with her

It rains. Not a soft pitter-patter that makes grass bend or that hits the inside of an empty metal pail—but a downpour that drowns out Nic’s snoring. The space between you two, sometimes fiery, sometimes freezing, always empty, could fit another person. You sneak your arm out from under the covers and trail your hand along the floor, scooping your tank top up. The bed doesn’t squeak when you untangle yourself from the covers and throw your legs over the side. Benriya money pays, after all. With as many odd, questionable jobs they take, they’d better be able to afford a good bed. Or two when Nic isn’t watching his strength.

Your wrinkled tank top doesn’t unwrinkle no matter how many times you tug it down. Whatever, you’re not dressing to impress right now, anyway, so who cares if it’s wrinkly. Now, if you showed up to Bastard like this, that’d be another story, but your meeting isn’t until later. You pick your underwear up off the floor, tags clinking when you put one leg through. Puddled close by, you grab your sweatpants, too.

Nic stirs. His hand brushes the katana next to his side of the bed even in his sleep. His side? His side? You look back at “your side” and see a fresh indent from your body, but you’d be lying if you said that indent is rarely there. It could be your side. It was before. Don’t you want it back? You could do cute domestic things, then. Like stick around for breakfast or feel emotionally at arm’s length.

Opening the door, you peek out—great, Worick must be sleeping still—and close it behind you. When it closes, it blocks of everything Nic. You could cuddle up to him. You could kiss him on the cheek. You could run your thumb over his knuckles. But you’d be ignoring the writing on the walls; the writing on his door and above his bed. A single scrawled name. Veronica: an untouched relic in the Benriya place of operations, a wave of silence plundering Worick’s voice, a rigidness in Nic’s back. Veronica, the name that sleeps between you and Nic.

Why are you back? Why come back to the person whose body you know but not his history? Why risk it?

The Celebrer on the counter is as good a distraction as any. The stove clock reads 7:03 a.m. in dull green, and you head over and pick up the pill bottle. You dip your head back and swallow a few. If you’re not careful, Ergastulum will break you again.

Vibrating, your phone lights up on the counter with one name popping up, Loretta.

***

Your apartment floor chills your feet. No dust on the old calendar hanging up, none of the doors creak (not even your pesky front door), and the vase the Christianos gifted you during your third anniversary together is clear, polished. Red carnations stand in the vase, petals tipping over the edges. Maybe you would’ve noticed them if you were here for more than an hour or two yesterday. The Christianos know their way around reds. Cute. Loretta must’ve set this up when she got the call from you. Showing their gratitude toward a top Celebrer supplier must be another specialty.

You grab the tiny suitcase you haven’t unpacked and wheel it across the floor to your bedroom. Innocuous things, the counter, the sofa, your bedroom door in front of you, remind you of him, and they overstimulate you with memories and make you taste a sweetness in your mouth that Ergastulum wants to crush. It makes the next wave, bitter and long, worse.

The why question pokes at you again.

Why come back?

Ergastulum would (and will) rot away with or without you. Why come back to the city you clawed your way out of? The anti-Twilights fester in every city, whether the police of said city care to admit it or not, so why, why come back to a place where hate and inhumanity breed together in every crack of every building?

The answer to that comes packaged with a katana. The answer to that comes packaged with a conversation you need to have. Part of you wants to pass off coming back as returning several favors to the Christianos.

Heaving the suitcase on top of your bed, you start unzipping it when two heavy rasps knock against your front door. Your eyebrows furrow. The Christianos, as well-mannered compared to the other families, wouldn’t spend more time on you than a few meetings or occasional checkup (or in this case, someone to swing by your apartment every now and then). They’re a business. So, who, then?

Almost tiptoeing, you avoid anything too loud. Your initials are engraved on the knife in your hand. If someone’s here to kidnap your ass, they’re getting the shit kicked out of them, no compromises.

You open the door. His hair may be longer than before, but the black eyepatch and smirk he sends to you ring a symphony of bells in your head.

“Worick?” Your grip on the knife loosens.

He eyes the knife and puts his hands up. A teasing grin paints itself between his cheeks. He hums. “How scary, and here I was sure you’d have mellowed out a little by now.”

“Force of habit. Remember the tiny little thing? How I was kidnapped before? Besides, it’s not like I’ve been gone ten years.” You put the knife up and cross your arms.

“Ah.” He pauses and looks awkward for once. “That.”

“Why are you here, Worick?”

“So impatient. And here I was going to generously invite you out for drinks tonight.”

“You’re paying?”

“You’re already thinking about exploiting me and haven’t let me in yet.” He sighs. “How cruel.”

Opening the door, you step aside for him, and he comes in with the grin reattached to his face, as though the grin bandages his vulnerability.

Worick came to you under this guise. He’s skirting around, not getting to any major topics, and not to mention he came alone. You have something he wants, the look on his face and still silence tells you enough for a fair assumption.

“It’s Nic,” you say.

He pulls out a cigarette. “You wouldn’t happen to have a light on you, would you?”

You smother down wanting to pull the truth, a letter at a time if you have to, from his mouth like teeth. Instead, you pull a light out from your pocket. “You know the rules.”

“Balcony, I remember.”

The balcony doors creak when you open them, and biting wind makes itself at home on the balcony. Worick puts his elbow on the railing. You light his cigarette.

“It hasn’t been the same without you,” he says. He looks at the tops of buildings, at lights, at people walking, but never at you.

You miss the nights out, the stupid games all three of you’d play early into the morning and falling asleep there. Sometimes, Nic would pat your head, or if you were alone together in glowing twilight hours, he ran his fingers through your hair. His touch, deep and soothing, became addictive, but his silence took your sprinting heart and held it with icy fingers; not silence from a lack of speaking, but silence as in this is off limits. You would wake up to his face and never know his history. The no-go zone.

“Well.” You prop your elbow up on the railing and cradle your chin with your hand. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

He barks out a laugh. “Or the pants tighter.”

The silence and off limits parts are bad enough, but the man—he’s—fuck. He makes a headache easy. Ergastulum divided you in less than two days, split three ways down the middle. Your arm for the Christianos, your heart for Nic, and your throat for yourself, because the all the words out of your mouth string around your neck like fishing wire. Have you changed in the three years you’ve been gone? Ergastulum brought you right back to the same place.

You give him the look. He stops dead in his tracks, and he gives you whiplash while he’s at it, changing between playful and serious Worick in seconds. Did he come here for that? To dance around the heavy topics and let you do all the realizing? Can’t betray Nic’s secrets, can he?

“So,” he says, “about the drinks.”

Old wounds itch. You came here for a conversation with Nic, but the fear dialed up, electrocuting your nervous system, makes you second guess yourself. Why are you afraid?

Because if you tread on those no-go zones, losing him would be quick. A glass cut on your skin. Impersonal. Clinical. Distant.

“I’ll think about it.”

He smiles. This one makes him look younger. “Gotcha. Anything else you need? Maybe a tour of the city?”

“Get out of my house, Worick.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n.”

***

A diva sings in Bastard’s lounge, her voice gliding on the staccato piano and plucky bass. The lush purple carpet matches Galahad’s undershirt.

“Yo!” he says. His lip ring bends with his grin, and he hold a hand up to wave you over. “Looking good.”

“You’re lucky Loretta isn’t here to kick you for that.”

Gal leads you through the lounge to the back. You pass by windows with a view of the street and nearby buildings, but when you catch two figures from another building staring at you both, you catch Gal looking, too.

“Cops haven’t stopped watching this place, have they, Gal?”

He scratches his head and sighs. “They’re watching more now. They have people posted there all the time.”

The nice windows and purple carpet are replaced by brick and visible concrete when he leads you to the back rooms. Your feet hitting the concrete, familiar and easy to adjust to, takes most of the stress from your shoulders. You shrug and stuff your hands in your pockets.

“Let them watch. They haven’t found anything before, and they won’t find anything later. You’re all good at your jobs, Gal.”

He raises an eyebrow, then a second later another grin carves itself on his face. “High praise, but if you want to make a difference, you could take our online survey for 10% off—”

“What, write a review of a brothel and bar?”

“The best brothel and bar in Ergastulum. Looks like someone hasn’t been keeping up. It isn’t like you to fall behind.”

You get to Loretta’s office door, steel all the way through. Gal curls his fingers around the doorknob.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll write the review when I get back home.”

He pulls it open. “We thank you for your time.”

Loretta sits behind her desk in a black chair too big for her. She stands up when you walk in and reaches her hand out for a shake.

You shake her hand and sit down opposed from her. Gal stands by the door, arms crossed over his chest. No Marco in sight. Maybe he’s out with Connie today?

“Let’s save the pleasantries for later. Tell me about your Celebrer supply.” She folds her hands together. The spunky pep in her voice is replaced by bluntness.

Gal shuts the door. That’s fine, business as usual, but though her office is large, the confinement squeezes at your nervousness, at your paranoia. You breath. Trust them. The Christianos wouldn’t fuck you over. If you can handle a simple deal, you can handle a conversation with Nic. Maybe buy him something nice with the money from this.

“Sure thing. I’m bringing the supply through the border and funneling it into my old storage container. Same exact one. No numbers, no cops watching it.”

“We’re running low on our current supply, and more Twilights have been nervous about the anti-Twilights being active again. Our Celebrer gives them stability they don’t have otherwise.”

Us. Us, you want to say. “Them” sounds far when you’re right here, a Twilight. The word “us” burns your tongue. When you think about it, it’s ridiculous you have to take Celebrer to live, to keep your bodies functioning only to be scorned by Normals or (you breathe and it fills your lungs) to be hunted by Hunters, if you were that unlucky. They haven’t been seen in years, but the possibility exists. And because of what, the stupid tags around your neck? You already have a short lifespan and they’re bent on cutting it in half.

A short lifespan.

Twilights live until their 30s.

Nic is 34.

The sharp intake of breath cuts your cheeks up. And the crushing weight on your lungs and shoulders is back. Loretta, if she notices, doesn’t say anything. She watches your reaction. You bite the inside of your cheek. With your luck and his lifestyle, that dumbass will get himself killed before he’s 39. You don’t have much time left to spend with him. Maybe a couple years if you’re semi lucky. Hurry. Fix it.

“My supply is in.” You look at the clock to double check.

She puts half of the cash from your deal on her desk, and the faces on the bills are as “old guy” as possible. It’s a thick stack, bound by a rubber band.

Digging your hand in your pocket, you feel around for the key. You put it on her desk, silver and unsuspecting. The last key for the last lock on your container was a dull gold. This silver one looks better.

“We’ll give you the rest of the money after we confirm your supply.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Cristiano Amodio.”

***

You knock on the Benriya door. Once, twice, three times. Cool evening wind settles in.

The door opens, but behind it, a woman in a white dress stands, eyes somewhat wide. She opens her mouth, and her lips curl around the word hello.

But you don’t hear it. A woman. An unfamiliar woman. An unfamiliar woman in a white dress with her strap falling down. Did Nic move on? Are they together? Are you too late to have the conversation you need to have with him? Was everything—the sharp breaths of fear, the re-realization of your short lifespans—for nothing? Should you leave now? She’ll just think some weirdo knocked on their door and left. Doesn’t have to turn into anything big. You can leave them alone and let them be happy. Whatever it is couples do—

Nic passes by in the background. He looks at you. He doesn’t say anything, but he tells you to come in with a tilt of his chin up.

You snap back to reality.

“Thanks,” you say to her. “I’m here to see him.”

She moves aside with a quiet, wondering oh falling from her lips.

Now that you’re paying attention (and not hazy like before), they’ve touched up the place a little, so it’s less of a bachelor's pad and more of a business. You walk straight to Nic while he gets a few beers from the fridge, glass bottles with classic caps.

He turns to you. The necks of the beer bottles are wedged between his fingers.

“Hey, we need to talk, Nic.”

He nods and tilts his head toward his room. Then, he leaves the beer on the counter.

When you walk together, you’re both close and far apart. Your arms touch every once in a while, but his arm around your waist like he used to, secure and soothing, draws you in, further, further until the emotions swelling your heart tide over. And you’re left alone with him in his room. His silent room in which your insides (uncertainty, fear, nervousness, hope) lock together and frenzy, but everything outside of you, everything here, hushes with silence.

“I—” you say.

You don’t like the tremble in your voice. The shakiness. The fragileness. So you regroup and figure out how to attack this the right way.

“I’m sorry for leaving like that. Suddenly.”

He snorts, unamused, and signs, Doesn’t matter. Why’d you leave?

If he’s willing to have this conversation, you need to meet him halfway. You steady your hands, dust off the sign language you remember, and sign, I was scared.

He furrows his eyebrows. He points at you. You were safe.

Not like that—your hands still—but I was scared of the distance between us. I felt like there were some parts of you I’d never get to know. Big parts.

He looks like he’s mulling your concerns over. Deliberate, weighted, he signs slower before stopping. Instead of telling you, he shows you. He steps forward, closer to you, that way a centimeter or two keep you apart.

Close. Close. Close. He’s close.

“And I get it,” you say, “I don’t have to know every single thing about you, but being more open would be better for us. I mean. If you want to.”

He tugs you in a hug, harsh, but you welcome it.

“Shut up,” he says.

You tell him you love him when you kiss him.

“I missed you, Nicolas. A lot.”

He squeezes your ass.

You laugh. “Yeah, I missed that too, you dick.”

#gangsta #Nicolas brown #Nicolas brown x reader #nic x reader #Nicolas x reader #Nicolas brown/reader #nic/reader #worick #worick arcangelo #alex benedetto #reader #reader insert #give my boy nic more love #we need more nic fics #if I gotta do it then I will #anyway nic deserves all the fics and I WILL throw down for him #I gotta control myself before I go tf off in the tags #HAVE Y'ALL READ THE NEWEST CHAPTER

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elane-in-the-shadows · 5 years

Text

Red Queen Fan Fiction - Red Huntress Chapter 5

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Find this on Wattpad and on AO3

A/N: Not to give too much away or to wake too high expectations, but this is were the gay stuff starts.

Clara and Willis Farley had trained together for weeks when Diana joined them. It wasn’t frequent or regular. On average, they sneaked away once a week, although some weeks passed without a session while other weeks offered occasions for several lessons. They tried to remain inconspicuous, regarding their other occupations, Clara's as master butcher and Willis's returning to hunting. Mostly, Diana’s father passed on the standard skills he’d learned as a Red soldier in the army – officially and unofficially. As it was, the Red soldiers had tricks of their own to stay alive, apart from what Silver officers taught them in the few months before they sent the Reds to the choke.

At first, it was these basics Diana learned from her father as they were easy enough for a 12-year-old to perform. At least they should’ve been, but despite her years filled by running, hunting and farm work, Diana struggled to unite these skills into a capacity for battle.

Unlike her mother who was a natural. Even taking Clara’s head start and Willis’s blind eye into account, it was obvious Mama was the best fighter among them. Sparring with her soon became a challenge to both Diana and her father.

Often, when Diana repeated the basic stances once again to engrave them into her body’s memory, her mother sat aside and scrolled through an old book, one looking unusually well-preserved and rich in making. Diana hadn’t noticed it at first, lost in her moves and Papa’s coaching. Then she assumed Mama had another secret hobby. Nothing would’ve surprised her at this point. When she finally asked about the book, Mama shrugged but grinned over her whole face.

“Papa brought it home,” she said. “It’s a manual for Silver training. How they learn to duel one another and such.”

Papa, similarly amused, shook his head. “I just grabbed it by accident. A Silver wanted several of her books disposed of and I picked up a few on a whim.”

Mama kissed his cheek. “The best booty you’ve got.”

Diana, intendedly ignoring their show of affection, went for the book. After a few glances, she looked at her parents in confusion. “I can’t read … can't understand it.”

Mama nodded. “It’s written in the language preferred by the noble Silvers. Papa and I had it in school for a while. Haven’t you?”

Diana tried to remember. “Now that you say it … it was years ago, only for a few months, I believe.”

Mama took her by the shoulder, suddenly serious. “You should refresh your knowledge. Many official documents and forms are written in this language, and you should be able to read them.”

Diana sighed, hearing the implied demand to pay attention to school in general. But as she started to delve into the book and figure out the language and fighting techniques both, she rejoiced at the notion that she learned the tongue of the Silvers through instructions to best them.

"To defeat an eye despite their ability of precognition, bring them into a situation out of which they can't escape, for example, employ attacks from two sides ..."

Yet there was no use to be made of her secret lessons, not for years. Diana hunted and butchered, went to school, worked at her mother’s family’s farm, did the occasional job in the village and trained with her parents to finally make a breakthrough in her lessons when she won against her mother three times in a row.

But when she asked about the Scarlet Guard again, voicing the forbidden name, her parents basically froze and couldn’t hush her fast enough.

There is nothing to be done here, she heard when she was lucky, and more often, you’re too young for this. Which in turn made her wonder there was something to be done; if not for her, then for her parents. Her mother happened to be away on her own for several days every now and then, something she hadn’t done before, and the same applied to her father. Nonetheless, their silence persisted and Diana went along with it. Save for the one time she requested to know how Madeline was involved – not at all, as she didn’t wish for fighting lessons – Diana stopped speaking about the Scarlet Guard or rebellion to begin with.

None of her friends were surprised by her bruises and sore muscles after an intense session, as both were nothing uncommon in farm work. Nobody questioned that Diana had little time or skipped one or two schooldays – there wasn’t much to learn in their little all-age school anyway. She could go through missed lessons later on, by herself, or have her parents teach her about them and anything else she needed to know. Apart from basic subjects like reading, writing and math, the children of Sieverling certainly learned nothing in school that would get them into better jobs, outside of the village.

Would the Scarlet Guard get me out of here? Diana began to wonder. Do they need me out of here? After all, it was almost four years after she’d first heard of them and three years of fighting training, and she’d never been introduced to them. She didn’t believe her parents lied to keep her away from the rebels, and yet …

“Ever thought of going away?” Diana asked Giselle who lay down next to her on a freshly-cut meadow. It was a noon after school on a hot day in the summer when they were fifteen. Giselle shaded her eyes with her arm while Diana looked right into the bright blue sky. In an almost leisurely moment like this, one dared to feel at home with joy instead of dread.

She knew the beauty of the place she called home was an illusion. But not Giselle's. Not the people she loved.

With warmth spreading through her, Diana regarded Giselle, whose skirts had slipped down her angled legs. Although their skin tones were quite the same in winter, Giselle’s had tanned to a deep bronze after only a few sunny days while Diana’s only ever became pinker.

Giselle sighed, still not answering. Hadn’t she heard? Diana turned onto her side and let her hand inch closer to Giselle’s, until their fingers just slightly touched. Giselle hooked her fingertips into hers.

Suddenly, she started to giggle. Diana frowned as Giselle contained herself and sat up, folding her legs. A straw had gotten stuck in her brown hair braided around her head. She cocked her head, eyes sparkling like the sunlight. She said, “are you still embarrassed over Ralf kissing you at spin the bottle that you need to leave home, Diana? I know he can be quite a nuisance, the way he’s pining after – ”

“No, I – ” … I would’ve rather kissed you, she thought but swallowed it down, blushing intensely. Why though? Over the years, her crush on Giselle had never faded to friendship alone. And how long she’d needed to figure out her feelings were a crush …

She didn’t let go of Giselle’s hand as she sat up. But her gaze stayed on the ground where her other hand nervously plucked at the glass. “I didn’t mean that,” she said lightly, shaking her head. “I meant moving into a town or city ...” Diana trailed off as the lazy softness vanished from Giselle’s face, replaced by something sharp and grim.

Diana blinked. Quickly, Giselle hid her dark expression with a faint smile that, for her standards, was as chiding as she’d get. Putting her weight on Diana’s shoulder, she propped herself up, letting their hands disentangle. “Come now,” she urged, “I want to be punctual on my first day.” And although Giselle turned toward the pathway leading to her new job on Armina Cordes’s farm, she wasn’t really in haste. She looked over her shoulder and waited for Diana to follow.

Diana rushed after her quite unelegantly in comparison and pulled the straw from Giselle’s hair when she caught up with her. Giselle’s eyes widened, full of amusement, as she beheld it, and then she snatched it away from Diana to play with it as they walked.

Diana thought herself attractive and was proud of her body shaped by her life, but she could feel a kind of plump next to Giselle. Although they were both leanly muscled and curvy, Diana was broad, chubby and tall where Giselle had something delicate and graceful about her. The curve of her neck, bared by the hem of her summer dress and the hair braided around her head, reminded Diana of a swan, the bird the royal family had named itself for. Indeed, sometimes Giselle left an impression on Diana as marvellous and terrific as a queen.

Still, Diana felt she had to ask. “I understand you don’t want to move into town.”.

Giselle didn’t look at her. She didn’t even look ahead anymore but down to her feet.

“I see,” Diana said.

“No, you don’t.”

“Eh?”

Giselle spun toward her and dropped the straw. For a second, her lip quivered. “Do you know how it is in the cities? Think it’s better there than here?”

Diana lifted her hands in defeat. “Sorry. I mean … I didn't intend to propose moving away ...”

Giselle’s frown was so harsh. “They don’t want us in the cities. You think there are better jobs? But not enough, and not for us.”

She had never seen Giselle speak so negatively, so … hopeless and angry. It frightened her – almost. She moved to touch Giselle’s shoulder, but Giselle reached for her first.

“I’ve seen it,” Giselle said quietly. “And heard from others. The Silvers in the cities – and the Reds entrepreneurs – they want only skilled workers. And for everything else you need contacts. They only employ people they know.” She shrugged, with a helplessly weak smile. “You can try, of course. Apply day after day for some heavy task no one else wants to do, and maybe you’ll find one. But not every day. Maybe not even on most days, and then?

“You’ll fear for how to provide for your family. Tides, how to provide food and shelter for yourself.”

Diana forced herself to keep looking at Giselle, no matter how hard it was. This poverty and exploitation of Reds was, after all, what she wanted to fight against.

It was Giselle who glanced down first. “After my family left home,” she murmured, “… we lived in the city for a while, before we came here.

“We didn’t have somewhere to stay …” She shook her head and sniffed.

Although afraid that Giselle would push her away, Diana hugged her, and Giselle’s arms went around her waist. “You’re here now,” she whispered, breathing in Giselle’s smell and longing to protect her.

“I am,” Giselle replied.

After a few seconds, Giselle pulled away, wiping her eyes. “I was so glad to arrive here, to be welcome.” She smiled, and this was a genuine one. “Hard work I can have here too, but here I am safe. And happy.” Holding Diana's hand, she turned back to the path. “And who knows? It’s been only four years. That’s a very little in comparison. In a short time, we might become tenants of our own farm.”

Diana had to return her smile as she walked beside Giselle. But the moment had changed something in her, as if she’d lost her footing now that she knew Giselle’s dream.

Since Giselle hadn’t really cried, her face showed nothing of her distress when they arrived at Armina Cordes’s farm. Diana found it unsettling – not that Giselle was able to calm herself like this, but that she, Diana, had no idea how often Giselle had done this already and that she did not know what worried Giselle deep down.

But had she trusted in Giselle either? She swallowed. On the contrary, she was internalizing her parents’ rule of secrecy.

That’s only in regard to the Scarlet Guard, she thought. I have so many other things to share with Giselle.

Ms. Cordes already waited for them, her dark brown arms crossed, a red scarf covering her dreadlocks. Giselle rushed to her, about to apologize for any delays, but the farmer smiled, shaking hands with Giselle and welcoming her to her farm and greeting Diana in the same friendly manner.

With a few swift and precise orders, Giselle left for the farm house to meet Ms. Cordes’s daughter, waving goodbye to Diana. Diana waved back and was about to walk to the butcher shop to help her mother when she noticed Cordes’s gaze on her.

The farmer tilted her head. “Come with me to the barn, Diana,” she said. “I think I have a job for you.”

Diana frowned, but had no time inquire as Cordes stepped toward a barn already, so Diana had to leap after her.

The barn was huge, proving why Armina Cordes was Sieverling’s greatest farmer. Sacks amassing tons of grain were stored in one large shelf reaching up the high ceiling; farm vehicles crowded on the other side. Both spoke of Ms. Cordes history of success. She’d invested in specific seeds and the crops to be grown from them; crops she could sell to other places for a good price, and from her profit she’d bought the farming machines to plant and harvest more efficiently again.

Seeing the results, it seemed like an easy, obvious path, although Diana knew it had been anything but. Unlike other ambitious farmers, Armina Cordes had been lucky to pick the plants that turned out to grow well on her fields, true, but it had taken decades of hard labour and setbacks to come this far and still, Lord Isère wanted his parts of her success in the form of a higher tithe.

Yet the farmer never recoiled when she talked to him or his servants, like she wasn’t afraid of anything, least of all her lord. She could afford that – she had power now, power she used for the best of her village. Apart from giving away some of her yield, villagers could ask to loan vehicles and machines from her, even for travels.

Ms. Cordes halted in front of exactly such a machine. Diana ceased staring around with an open mouth and decided to return to the topic at hand. “What about this job?” she asked.

The famer stepped closer to her and pointed to a vehicle. “Tomorrow, Marcus Wolff will take you to the next town, to the market. I’d like you to assist him there.” She thought for a moment. “You might not be home by the evening.”

Diana blinked. “It’s a school day tomorrow, and so is the day after …”

Cordes inclined her head. “Indeed. But I’ve heard – from your father – that you’d be interested still.”

“Oh,” Diana exclaimed, her head spinning with the implication. Could it be? Was Armina Cordes involved with the Scarlet Guard? It wouldn’t be surprising. Did she use a kind of code word? Should she, Diana, drop a code word? Or would she fail a test being too –

The farmer smirked, and Diana calmed herself, imitating what she believed was a soldier's demeanour. “That is accurate, ma'am. I’d like to do this job for you.”

Ms. Cordes patted her shoulder. “Very well. I look forward to working with you.”

A/N 2: Reminder that child labour is pretty normalized in the Lakelands. That is the problem - minors have to work so their families make a living. Diana doesn’t realize she should be able to live diffently, but that makes child labour no less wrong.

@elliemarchetti @lilyharvord @mareshmallow @marecalrandomstuff @choosemarecal @choosememaven @wessanade @avid-author-activist @olivegreenolives @sxfik @shadykittentraveler @maudthebookeater @mvaen @gisabarrovv @misslucyhutton @ifyouholdmebackimightexplode @neyrriz @yjlover @inopinion @scxrletguardsdawn @gamer670 @screams-internally @abbyboul @vampsbeforetramps @almostconstantlyawkward @alicialichter @sparrow-ceol @gred-and-forge-weaslley

#red queen #diana farley #red queen fanfiction #victoria aveyard #captain farley #farley #broken throne #broken throne spoilers #war storm #king's cage #clara farley #colonel farley #willis farley #scarlet guard #general farley #glass sword #red huntress #red huntress ch 5

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aintnouseofpretending · 6 years

Text

Uncool. University AU, Queen fan fiction. (John Deacon x Tomboy!Reader)

For now, it can be read as a one-shot—as it was originally intended. If someone is interested in this to continue, please let me know! 😊😊

Warning: Cursing, fluff, a bit slow burn?

+ ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— -

It's a fantastic drowse in the afternoon Sunday. Nothing beats hanging out with your friends, smoking, eating pizzas, and tuning to some heavy metal and rocks on the college parking lot; especially, after your midterm exam. It’s not much of being glad the torturing is over, more of you know you nail the exam after studying hard, like the usual. Feels awesome still. But just hanging out isn’t the reason you all here. There’ll be more headbanging later tonight, one of the local metal band is coming to shake the building; whilst waiting, you and your gang are enjoying the quality and fun times together.

“Yo, y/n!”

One of your male classmates came, bringing more foods and forcing three people you don’t know to carry it when both his hands are free.

“How’s it, Dave?” You return the greetings with a handshake and hug. “Care to introduce your new mates?”

Dave points at a girl with long brown hair and purple streaks. She wears black leather spiked jacket atop of her purple tank, complementing her style with tight leather pants and black ankle boots. She also wears thick makeup that makes her face says "fuck you" to anyone it greets. You like her already.

“Jess Gun, call her G. Music student. Jess, this is y/n, our top dog. Mech like most of us.”

“Take a piss, Dave.” But you still take the compliment as you give G a warm handshake.

“How’s it, y/n.”

Then Dave points at a tall and large man. The man proudly showed off his brand new tan, covered in tonnes of tattoos by wearing only thin black sleeveless graphic metal band tee. The common theme of the night; leather pants and black ankle boots. But he’s much more complete with spiked armbands, bracelet, and chain necklace.

“This is Charles C. C stands for Colossal.”

Not surprising that C carried the most out of their raids, so you stopped him when he tries to pass it somewhere or to someone just so he can give you a handshake. Dave tap C’s shoulder, told him to move, uncovering the next new dog for the pack. Someone you didn’t quite expect to look for tonight’s occasion.

“This is John Deacon, Mr D. Ace of the electrics.”

“Just call me, John.” Say the man calmly with a much softer voice. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too…” You return, quite astounded by his symmetrical, handsome, princely features.

For some passerby, it might look like Dave bullies John and force him to carry around his things. And that might be correct, John stands out the most in your group; with his plaid brown shirt, light blue jeans, and a black tight vest. His kind, friendly downturned eyes don’t help either. Feels like looking down at a small puppy as a big black alpha. But lo and behold, he’s also into some deafening and blaring as his past time. Wait, is he?

“Big fan of the Devil’s Fork?” You ask him a bit later after the foods he’s carrying was savaged by your friends.

“Haven’t heard them yet, so I’m not sure. What do you think?”

What begins as your attempt to unfold a bit of mystery surrounding him and following your weird instinct to protect the poor puppy; ends with you blabbering about your obsession over the band—their unique harmonies, intense riffs, and sick styles. You even just noticed that despite his looks that perfectly fit how Dave describes him, he joins you as you power through your Marlboro, leaving nothing for the night. And that was your last pack too.

“Mind continuing whilst we walk to store?” You ask him as you check for your funds. Enough for another pack.

“Okay.”

Nope. The band black van that's showing off their logo on the sides—a small gremlin-like devil holding an oversized red flamming fork in exaggerated art style,—just parked right next to your pick-up truck.

“Well, that’s unlucky.”

“I will run and buy a pack before the gig starts if you’d like.” He says, somehow a bit guilty.

“Nah, mate, I will collect these peasants’ tax. Getting us more of a selection till morning.”

“It's okay. I’m good for today.” He smiles.

From behind him, Dave slaps his shoulder and practically shake the man; he yelped in a very high pitch voice, almost make you burst out laughing. You didn't blame him when he hit Dave's shoulder in return.

“D warmed up to ya’ quick, y/n. As expected.” Dave let out a hearty laugh. “Not many can do that to him. Or maybe that’s because you two are our top rank dweller? Can finally speak in your higher-intelligent language?”

You jokingly kick Dave away and he joins, pretending to be running away from his life, as John—and some that overhear Dave’s remark—laugh at your shenanigan. You hope John didn’t notice you staring at him; amidst the chaos that is Dave munching some arse-whooping from you. You savoured his shockingly cute laugh and face. No. You wish it was forever, so you can admire him to your heart content…

Well, crap.

You just met and you’re crushing hard on him already?

Wouldn't be the first time.

It won’t last long like the others. You assure yourself, tangling your arm on his shoulder as if you’re his old friend. Understanding boundaries and someone else personal space were not one of your strong suits; you get in a whole lot of problems that turn things awkward, but you’ll exploit that fact to get even closer to John.

“But, Dave’s right. You’re gonna have fun with us. And with me, mate.” You say, confidently.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

When you think it’s not possible for a man to be any more charming and stunning, he proved you wrong by just smiling a bit wider.

“I will personally guarantee it.”

***

“Fuck my life.” You sighed after Deacy left your home. You practically let your body fall on the couch as you put your palm on your chest. “What the fuck is going on with me…”

It has been several months since you have attended the best college gig. The same day Dave introduces you to John. You did promise to give John a good time—and it’s a hell of a good time for you and your friends as well. Even John tell you to call him Deacy—or Deaky? He never wrote it down,—the privilege that was only given to you. That might also the reason why your crush now develops into actual feelings.

“Absolutely. Not because he comes here almost every day. All studying together, rocking to music, the fact he makes cool riffs, shred his guitar, and even taught me how to play them…”

You talked to yourself in an attempt to calm down. It works. Partially. You scratch your head furiously and rolled about. Angry that you knew you catch the feelings, but mind goes on thinking it was not a big deal, that it’ll soon be gone. Only when you fall down the couch face first, your decision was made; you will be upfront about it, you will show him your interest. Then, when he returns them warmly, you will do a sneak attack, and ask him to be your boyfriend! Perfect! Maybe then you’ll figure out your feelings more?

“Fuck the tradition.” You exclaimed as you get up. “Says who I can’t woo and pamper my man?”

And so you did. At first, it was very subtle; longer physical contact, purposeful stare, spending more time with him, wearing things he likes, giving him gifts that he likes, listening to even the most curious of his nonsense when he’s drunk. Then it escalates slowly but surely, you have constructed a plan to ask him out to places he likes; arcades, music shop, buy him movies ticket, buy him tickets to concerts. You never fail the dates. And of course, you’re getting even bolder to the point that hugs that used to make your body numb, head empty, heart pounding, feels much too normal now. Occasional holding hands after college or hanging out. Cuddling when watching movies at your house, in front of your friends, even.

But what about him? How does he react? Is it warm enough yet for you to ask him out? You can’t tell. There might be a slight change, but you really can’t see it. It’s always you that initiate physical contacts, even for just a hug. He asks you out to hang, but never to his house, or even special places; just for shopping, to cafes, arcades, library, something very casual. Almost every dates now you try to kiss him, and every time too, somehow, he deflected it as if you purposely closing your eyes and get your face close to him with your award-winning kissy face was just an accident.

“That happens by the end of every date!” You mutter to yourself, burying your face in your palms. “What the hell did I do wrong? Don’t make it clear enough? What do you think, G?”

G stares at you whilst chewing on her gum and smoke at the same time. Now it’s almost on every date too that you drag G and told her your tales of woe. Although you’re paying for her foods, you can clearly see that it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s fed up and well-fed—apparently, she gained a lot of weight because of you.

“Fucking tell him you love him.” Her words came out like venom. “Ask him to be your boyfriend. Stop being a fucking pussy about it. Don’t come to me again if you didn’t do what I said when he’s dating someone else.”

She’s right, you think. Either Deacy is extremely stupid—unlikely for an honour student that beats the crap out of you score wise, or you were never one of the options he wants and simply think your shameless boldness was because you are in fact have zero sense of personal space, and getting used to it fast. Or maybe you're the one that's a wee bit dumber than you thought about not being able to read the atmosphere well most of the times? No other choice but to find out which answer it is.

You’re trying hard to gather your courage, but now you’re still stuck, trying to solve other mysteries instead. As he stares at you, sitting on the other side of the table, eating a giant pile of expensive ice cream quite seriously. Waiting.

You asked him out to an ice cream cafe a week after your date with G, and G said when someone is happy, they tend to give more positive feedbacks, reactions, whatever; because you use that trick and charm her to fatten herself up. It most likely works on him too. Of course, it will be like normal hangout after class, you never miss a day when taking him to places, even if they might be just a small store. It’ll be a hundred per cent chance that he thought today will be normal like thousandth days before. The surprise factor might contribute.

Excellent.

But you’re running out of time; Deacy is powering through the ice cream like it was nothing. If you keep on failing, he might end up like G. Not that it'll affect your feelings towards him.

You took a deep breath.

“Deacy.”

“Yes?”

And there it goes all the courage you have collected for the past ten minutes. Shattered completely as he stopped the scooping mid-way to his mouth.

“See. That’s what happens when you let cats get into your mind. When your guard is lowered, thinking they’re just small creatures that can do you no harm; they took the chance and get your tongue.” He says, then continues eating.

“I am sorry, good sir. But I am willingly and consciously serve my tongue for their enjoyment. Speaks nothing but praise. And they’re very pleased, so they return it.”

He gave out a very monotone gasp.

“They’ve got my best friend under their control. I must go on a journey to find the materials so I can create the machine to reverse the effect of their alien-like ability.”

“She’s your best friend? How sweet, oh, puny mortal. But there’ll be a legion of our army that’ll stop you. By the time your machine is done, she’ll forever be gone. Nothing and no one can save her.”

"A hero will never give up. With the power of friendship, love, and bravery, I will not let anything stops me."

Usually, the odd banter lasts longer and gets weirder by the minutes, to the point that both of you forgot of what you two are previously doing or talking. But this time it doesn't work. What you expected was that you'll just magically drop the L-bomb in between the exchange. Instead, that thought makes you aware of the possibility and suddenly words were lost.

"Y/n? You okay?"

"Yeah. Things get progressively harder to overcome."

"Our made up stories, exam, or something else?"

"Something else."

"What is it?"

You're extremely frustrated by how easy it is to continue talking when it’s just jokes or normal trivial conversations. But when it comes to serious business, you suddenly have no power to speak...

Then you get an idea.

"I got a joke. Knock knock."

"Okay? Who's there?"

"Will you."

"Will you who?"

"Will you be my boyf—."

"There you are! Always leaving us with the dust! Not this time, mate!"

After the initial shock that quite visibly makes you—and Deacy—jumped, you immediately throw your spoons at Dave and his friends that suddenly came. Pouting and fidgeting in your seat in silent anger as they approach you.

“How’s it, mate?”

“Shove those spoons right up your arse!”

It makes you even angrier that no one seems to care about why you’re very angry being disturbed. Not even Deacy himself, as he joins the others and laughs at you and Dave’s yet another antic when you keep hitting him as he tries to sit next to you. You ended up sitting next to Deacy after kicking the other boys that previously sat there.

“That’s his fucking food. I paid it specifically only for him. Shoo!” You yell again at some of the boys that try to put their spoon in Deacy’s ice cream. Slapping them like flies. “The waitress is coming back, buy your own!”

“It’s okay. Do you want some too, y/n? You did pay for it.”

It’s pretty clear that Dave can’t stop staring at the both of you when Deacy keeps on feeding you ice cream before you can even say yes or no. There’s something in the metalhead's eyes that makes you feel a bit uncomfortable. Though you did feel a little bad, he’s used to be the one that receives your attention the most, now you can’t even remember the last time both of you hang in a college gig.

“How long have you two been dating?” Dave asked, almost makes you jump in a surprise.

Deacy answered in lightning. “No no no. We’re not dating. I’m not sure we fit each other. I think I only pair with shy girls...”

There’s a sharp pain in your chest when you hear that. You stare at Deacy that’s not even giving you a side-glance after hearing such question. Does he even think about your relationship at all? It’s not even one year, wouldn’t that makes him question why you seem to not only clingy and protective of him, but also very forward? Or does he thinks that’s just how you really are?

“Not the first time you’re rejected like that huh.” Dave jokes.

“Go fuck yourself, David.”

You try your best to repress people’s laugh when they still think this is just the usual friend-insulting-friend jeer. But when you didn't join, the sounds quickly dies down, replaced with conversation and the sound of clanking. You want to change seat so bad; being too close with Deacy right now is very uncomfortable, after he straight up rejecting—well, softly saying he’s not into you. Eventually, you let the pang of pain in your heart submerged by the busy sounds of people talking, spoons clinking, and bustling streets as you play with your freshly ordered strawberry cheesecake. Never really a fan of sweet stuff, you think.

But I need it. Hell of a rejection.

One spoonful almost makes you cringe, but you chew them anyway, enjoying the sweetness in the now duller ambience. Has it always been this orange-ish brown in this cafe? Huh, this is the first time you noticed how warm this place feels. Maybe that’s why both you and Deacy always the frequent here. Whenever you are here with him, it’s always fun. Would it stay the same once your feeling is gone?

This one will go away too. Not the first time.

You hope it’ll be fast this time. Just another heartbreak. Not a big deal. You’ll move on, and Deacy will be like Dave, one of the lads that reject you from being a tad too tomboyish for their taste. You wonder will the next love ended up the same? You hope not.

***

“You look like shit.”

“No shit, mate.”

The gal just cut her hair short and now fully coloured it purple, as per your suggestion, and she looks great. C also think so and accepted G’s confession. You’re happy for them. Very happy. And wish that it’s just happy, and not incredibly envious feelings about her moving on fast from being rejected by Dave. Because of your misery from last rejection, that’s far before G is forcing you to start hooking her up with Dave. And right now G is about to celebrate her four months relationship with C.

That’s also why you are here. To cover G’s shift in the electronic shop G hook you in. As thanks for helping you get a job when you quit the car repair shop right after you see John flirts with one of the regular customer’s daughter. Cute girl, a wee bit younger, long blonde hair and blue eyes, always wear a bright coloured dress. Well, you have to admit, she’s very gorgeous. And one more thing; she does look like a perfect fit for Deacy. But that’s not what makes you immediately call the manager and formed your magnificent bullshit reason to quit. It was when she calls him Deacy.

“Hello?” G snapped her fingers again in front of you.

“What?”

“I’m going? But now I’m not sure that I should, with you like that taking care of the shop. You’re already on your second warning, y/n. Are you really okay if I leave?”

“Go on ahead, mate. C’s waiting.” You push her out the door. “I will be fine, it was just a couple hours. Worse case I will be zapped dead repairing Mrs Carla’s TV. Have fun!”

You purposely laugh out loud to make sure she buys your bullshit and didn’t stop until she’s out of the shop’s front. You slumped down a chair near the cashier and starts flipping the magazine you just bought; hopefully, it can kill the bore and the sadness. Alas, you bought a guitar magazine, and all you can think is now John. He invades your mind like he owns the place, jumped on the couch and start ordering you to listen on how important he is to your heart and soul. How you’re a queen that sits on a throne of liar for denying the truth that you missed him so much. This is the first time this happens. It was never like this, even with Dave—and you meet the dude almost everyday afterwards,—you moved on from him quick as lightning. But why? Why with Deacy—John?

What the fuck is going on with me?

It’s the same question you asked when you first realised how deep you have fallen for him. And then he rejected you softly, you try to drift a bit apart from him so you can move on and swoon on someone else. A cooler dude, perhaps, that’s just as cute, and as awesome as John when he shreds his guitar. But that never happened. You keep on staring at John and only John. His laugh always makes your heart warmer. A simple gesture like when he asks you out and helps you carry your project to the cafe. It’s not only the good, but the bad part also happens; you’re now very much aware when John uses his softer tone whilst talking to another girl, or how kind he is with them. He might just be friends with them, but it pains you so much to see it. Then you start making more distance, hanging more with your old pack. But then the arsehole Dave says that he saw John hang with this one particularly pretty redhead from another college.

“She’s all shy and cute. They look like a real couple, you know. But when you and D’s hang, you look like you’re bullying him.”

“Piss off, Dave.”

And that might be true. You always force yourself on him. Drags him places. What if all this time he’s saying yes not because he likes spending time with you? That he just doesn’t want to hurt you if he says no? You did say you are bad at reading people and knowing what the hell is going on sometimes. It is almost a year you slowly stopped hanging with John, and not once did John approach you, nor did many—which is a lot—of your mutuals mention John’s looking for you. Even worse, the one time they mention John, it’ll always be about him having a new girl holding hands with him. Maybe all this time you are just delusional?

Even so, you have tried your darndest to forget about him since his rejection. You tell your friends about your sadness—G, mostly, poor her—it doesn’t work. You try to pour it in form of letters and later burn them. As the fire is ablaze, so is your love towards him, so that also doesn’t work. C suggest you to make it into a poem, he said it helps him, he even sang them in gigs and people loves it. And you do it—not the sing in front of people part, just the poem. It’s still a fruitless effort. And your score took the brunt of it. You have been nothing but stressed, even more so knowing the final exam is near. You haven’t been studying.

“Good work today.” Say your coworker. “You know, if you’re sick, you should just tell Gun you can’t cover her shift.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been on autopilot.” Yet another bullshit excuse. “Exam, you know. But I will manage. Thanks for worrying about me.”

“I don’t. But getting you fired when we have many stuff still needs fixing is like shooting oneself in the foot.”

“Aw, geez, May, I’m fine! Don’t kill yourself worried like that!” You slap the lanky man’s shoulder. Damn, he’s tall. “If you keep it up like that, I might fall for you, and that might be a problem.”

“How so?” He challenges.

“One man making me miserable is enough. I can’t have you rejecting me as well. This lady only has one heart after all.”

He fell silent. Whoops, your jokes might go too far, or he simply couldn’t care less. But as you grab your jacket and get ready to be sorrowful again on your way home, May joins you.

“Going to the store?” He asks awkwardly. “You know, all that smokes will kill you someday.”

“It can’t come any sooner.” You joke again as you puff one. “I mean, sure, if you meant by the store is my house as well, you’re very much welcome, mate. Need some witness for my pity party.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, y/l/n. Don’t just give up on love just because of several guys happens to see less agressi—more composed girls.”

“Hah. At least you admit they're not up for the adventure. You’re right, they’re missing out big time; when I am committed to someone, I will love them with the entirety of it. But well, maybe that’s why I’m so bloody depressed right now.”

He looked at you softly. His hands are twitching, but then he put it in his pockets.

“You’ll find there are many men in your life that’s close to you, and the right one for you might just be around the corner.”

“He can’t come any sooner.”

The walk is a bit uneventful from that onwards, just a bit of conversation. You thought he was just bitter and hates fun—the way G describes him, but he’s cool. He knows a couple of good rock and metal bands, attended some, in fact, which makes you a bit curious whether you have met him before or not. Although you thank Brian May for making you forget about John even just for a bit by promising to buy him tea one day and in the end he tells you good luck on your exam. And, hmm, he's a bit cute? And you particularly like his kinky hair.

But as you arrive home, in an instant, your head and heart instantly switches back on thinking and feeling your love for John. The room is cold and empty. How you wish, somehow, John was here, waiting for you as he makes you both teas. Last year, today will be a horror movie night. You’ll play the guitar together, or some scribble, or heck, you’re close with final exam, both of you would most likely studying right now. You will bring home cheesecake from keeping him waiting.

And I did.

It is just a an empty wish for him will be here as impossible it is. But you still bought home two cheesecakes when you can’t even finish one. It was one of his favourite food. It’s too sweet for you, but you will gladly eat one with him. Now what should you do with two cheesecake? Call Dave to come? He used to be in John’s place after all, but it was a very long time ago. May? Even for someone as shamelessly bold as you, you know that’s a bad idea. Or maybe not?

But why? Why can’t I just be alone?

Because you know why, yet you dare not admit how much you miss John. How much you love him. Tears start welling up on your eyes. You know why you can’t forget about him; all the smallest hints that reminded you of him is everywhere. Cheesecakes, cafes, electronics, your house, horror movies, studying... And the acoustic guitar that you bought specifically so he can teach you how to play it, the more excuse for you to invite him to your house. Without you even realised, you grab the guitar and you sit on the terrace. Then you sing. Sing to your heart content. You don’t care how ear wrenching it is to listen to your own voice that breaks everywhere, and not to mention false. But you keep on singing and strumming the guitar with the only notes you’ve learnt. You wish to scream to your heart content.

I have suffered, but the love stays. If I can’t forget, then please, please, allow me to cherish my dreams. For without it I might die. For without it, for without him; I have no more reason to live.

“Please... I still love him... I missed him... I—.”

You are wide-eyed when you see a dark figure standing on the street, facing you. Maybe it’s just someone a bit disturbed and/or petrified by your awful symphony. But, no. It has to be him. Just as wide-eyed as you. Perhaps he has been that way? Or maybe you both spooked each other? Has he been there the whole time? Watching your dramatic blue moment; the snots and tears, voice cracks, and shit guitar skill?

Fantastic. He’s head over heels from the sight.

You wiped your tears with your t-shirt as you put down the guitar. The man is still there, and so you approach him, pretended nothing happened. You always know how to deflect with jokes, so you’re confident.

“O-oh, hi, John. What you got there?”

Not so confident... As you get closer, you can see his appearance clearer; even more handsome than the one in your mind. He wears that particular worn out button up shirt that you bought him as his birthday present long ago, the same dark blue jeans he wore the night you two met, and his school bag. But what caused you to ask is the same carton bag you get when you bought the two cheesecakes just now.

“How’s it?” You ask again, find it a bit rude not asking it after a long time no see. But you say it as you reach the carton bag. He pulled it away slightly from your hand.

“I’m... Good. How are you? Are you alright?”

“Where have you been, D? Don’t get a final exam in your college? Lucky.”

“Ah, every engineering students’ wet dream.” He joins. “It wouldn’t be counted as lucky. My college is on the planet Mercury.”

“Shame. I could not wish more than for your college to give you lots of exams once you get back. But, surely you have seen me. Undoubtedly, a human like me can’t resist the fiery passion, just like everyone else, when it comes to the final exam.”

“I don’t think it’ll be much of a blazing flame for the two of us.” He says as he hides the carton bag behind his back, forcing you to face him.

“Oh, absolutely not! Who ugly cries and screamed like a dying cat that actually is fine from the inside? They do. But certainly not me, excuse me for doing it ironically. How about you, fine sir?” You raised your hands in frustration and also to add to your dramatic statement, at the same time, distancing yourself away from him. Your heart is pounding like mad being that close.

“What happened, y/n? Are you really okay? I haven’t seen you for so long, it’s very worrying.”

“Oh, it’s a perfectly adequate! I have a crush on you, it turned serious. Ask you out, invade your personal space. Turns out I’m not your type. You know, blah blah blah, the common gossip. Now, what you got there? Cake? If it’s not for someone else, might I have it? To be honest, I am very hungry.”

There’s a small victory noise you make when you catch the bag and stole it from him. But as you check what’s inside, you take a peek at him only to find him covering his mouth with his hand; his face is bright red, eyes smiling, and eyebrows sky-high on his forehead. You feel as if your entire being is a firework, blasting through the air and exploding in bright colours when you realise why he’s like that.

“E-exam fried your brain, mate. Your sarcasm detector is rusty.” You say, try not to be too happy; you might be wrong.

“Most definitely. And I will just let you insult your way out of your own fake confession, you know, like a cunt that I am. To keep deflecting your obvious and incredible attempt at seducing a man. Thinking I was too uncool to be your boyfriend. You’re right, just another common fucking gossip.”

Now, you’re actually blasting off. You jumped in surprise when he yells that. He never yelled at you; hell, you never hear him raise his voice, even though he curses a lot too sometimes. But this time he full-blown raise his voice to almost the screaming level, especially when the colour of his face could match a ripe tomato, showing a very visible sign that he’s angry you still can joke about it. About your feelings.

But no words were uttered after that; you’re a silent statue, cheeks red, eyes wide, mouth’s open. Whilst he twiddles about, walking, trying to find something as he covers his mouth still, calming himself down. Hoping there’s a shovel he could use to dig himself a grave. Both of your heart is about to detonate, but you’re used to it at this point.

“Mate, if you’re not serious, know there’ll be consequences. And you wouldn’t like it.” You say with gritted teeth; from holding back your almost spilt feelings of joy.

He takes a quick step towards you, it’s also very clear he’s holding back his smile. He retorts out of habit; “what sort of punishment awaits me if I’m guilty your honour?”

In an instant, you grab his hips and get you body practically touches his; feeling his chest raise and fall, and his heart that’s beating also has hard as yours. You screamed in your mind for not thinking, and now you feel like passing out from the blood that’s rushing to your head.

“I will crush you and kill you with my love, and hugs, and kisses, and cuddles—everything. Don’t make me buy us engagement rings. So, until you plead guilty; that you are absolutely serious.”

John can no longer hold his smile. His eyes’ basically twinkling stars. Cheeks pinkier than the electronic store’s neon sign.

“Then I plead guilty.”

He cupped your cheeks and pushes his lips on yours. You closed your eyes, savouring the sweet taste of his mouth—it taste like cheesecake! He ate one before you that bastard! You punishes him by not letting him let go to breath. After couple more seconds that you wish were forever, you finally part lips.

“You are a demon!” He exclaimed, voice breaking as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand. But he’s smiling wide.

“Oh you have no idea, and in fact, I could show you more if you’d like?” You say cheekily as you encircle him like a hungry shark.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“I will personally guarantee it.”

And you both smiled as your hand's links.

End (?).

+ ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— - ———— + ———— -

Omfg, it’s been long time since I write a reader-insert fan fiction, so writing this kinda makes me blush, especially at the end 😳😳😳😵😵

I really hope you enjoy it! There’s a big potential for this particular Tomboy!Reader’s story to be broadened into a serial, although I’m not sure if I can do it now since I have to study for final exam. But if anyone want to know about it, please let me know! 😉

One more thing! Feel free to request imagines or one-shots! :D

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anosrepasi · 6 years

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Chapter 11: Quiet Moments

Read it on AO3 Bilbo was in the middle of braiding another loaf of bread when the knocking starts. The boys were early.

Nonetheless, they could wait patiently for him to finish and amuse themselves enough while the bread finished baking and the other goods cooled. He called out, confident that the open windows will allow for his voice to carry to his front door, “Come on in!”

He waits until he can hear the door open and close- (hesitantly at that! Did they not hear him properly?) - for him to call out once again, “I’m in the kitchen.”

He busies himself with opening the oven door and sliding in the newly braided loaf, making a mental note to check in again in a little while once he attends to his guests. Closing the door he turns around to greet his company and finds that his expected quartet of gods is down to one.

And the god in question is the last person he expected to have standing in his kitchen.

“Hello Your Majesty.”

— The King of the Dead looks far less regal standing in Bilbo’s kitchen than he did among his own halls, though Bilbo can’t necessarily blame him when Thorin’s appearance has thrown him off his own train of thought. Still, Thorin looks dwarfed by Bag End standing in the doorway of the kitchen, arms pressed firmly to his side as he and Bilbo share a moment of silence that lasts a touch too long to be comfortable.

The silence seems to be enough of a prompt for the King to collect his thoughts, however.

“Hi. I was in the realm and I thought I would take the opportunity to drop by-”

His sentence drops off and his brows furl as he seems to take in the scene of Bilbo covered in flour and standing in his kitchen.

“I should have done a better job of announcing my presence.”

Bilbo laughed and shrugged. He brushed off a bit of flour from his shirt and pointed past Thorin towards the doorway leading to his study and greeting room. “And what kind of host would I be if I needed an announcement in order to welcome a guest. Let’s talk somewhere we can sit down.”

He brushes past Thorin and leads them to the greeting room, with the silent King behind him following his lead. Bilbo motions to the blue armchair and Thorin remains standing next to it, his limbs still pulled close as if he’ll disturb the room around him by taking up his usual amount of space. Bilbo finds it odd, sure, but he’s not about to point it out to the king of the dead. “Would you like some tea?”

“I- sure.” Thorin responds, “I’m not interrupting you, am I?”

He motions towards Bilbo’s kitchen and Bilbo shakes his head and offers a reassuring smile, “Done correctly, it’ll take a while for the bread to bake. Sit, and let me get you a cup of tea.”

He returns with two steaming mugs to find that Thorin finally headed his words and settled into the armchair, though he can see the King’s eyes wandering curiously over the room and the structure of his home. It’s nothing compared to the palace in Erebor but Bilbo still feels a small spark of possessiveness ignite over Bag End. It’s his mother’s legacy, excluding himself. Bilbo hands one of the mugs over to Thorin before settling in his own red armchair, “So what do I owe the pleasure, your majesty?”

“Thorin is fine. I wanted to stop by because it occurred to me that I haven’t thanked you yet, for what you did for Erebor.”

Bilbo finds himself warring between the polite response and his own curiosity. Curiosity takes a few seconds to gain the upper hand but holds out nonetheless. “You came all this way to say thank you?”

“Well I have something for you as well-” Thorin’s hand jumps to his cloak and Bilbo waits, his interest piqued. “One of my citizens spoke of making your acquaintance when you were in Erebor and he wanted me to pass this along to you if we crossed paths-”

Thorin pulls out what Bilbo can only describe as a small statue from where it was hidden by Thorin’s cloak, and their fingers brush momentarily as Thorin hands the object over to Bilbo. Upon closer inspection, Bilbo can immediately identify the statue as a miniature wooden dragon, intricately carved and pieces together by an expert hand. He turns it over in his hands, carefully marveling at the precision of the joinery of the woodwork. Bilbo spots a few well hidden but visible ball joints at certain places in the Dragon’s anatomy- at the tail and neck most noticeably - and gives a gentle experimental tap to the head of the dragon.

The head turns and the stomach of the statue pops open with a small click, causing a small piece of parchment to tumble out of the compartment hidden in the toy. Bilbo deftly retrieves it and settles the toy in his lap as he reads the message.

“Thanks for the trees! This little guy was from the first cut from the grove and his siblings are a huge hit with the kids here.

Hopefully you’ll stop by again sometime soon and see for yourself!”

Bofur’s scratched signature marked the bottom of the paper and Bilbo let out a quick chuckle. “This is delightful- how is Bofur?”

He turns his attention back to Thorin and is taken aback to find Thorin is no longer sitting like a soldier at attention but is leaning forward, chin resting on his crossed hands and elbows resting on his knees while intently watching Bilbo examine the toy dragon. With Bilbo’s attention once again returned to the King he swiftly withdraws and sits up straight, voice police and shallow. “Bofur is well, he’s been a devoted advocate for Erebor’s new forests- the last time we spoke he said they gave him new “Creative Horizons” as he called them.”

“I’m glad to hear it, how about the other shopkeepers?”

Thorin smiled, breaking his mask of polite interest into something warm, and launched into a tale about the most recent passings through the market place- the experiments being done and the new items the different craftsmen had begun to offer with the inclusion of various plants now being available. Bilbo found himself prompting Thorin at each lull in the conversation and it would spark anew with another story. Soon Bilbo was updated on the state of every individual he had helped on his trip, from that cantankerous doctor to the farmers who wished to resume their craft in Erebor.

Their tea was soon cold, left to the side and forgotten in their conversation as Bilbo listened to the King speak of his people. The God of Death, in turn, no long was behaving like his immediate surrounding would crumble if he dared to take up space within the room. Thorin gestured easily through his stories, using his hands to help mime out concepts as he spoke and his voice was confident, dropping low and dramatic for particularly exciting retellings. He coaxed a few easy laughs out of Bilbo as he spoke of his nephews most recent exploits in the city.

It was only the changing of the light that made Bilbo realize he hadn’t been paying attention to the time. He got up with a start and Thorin abruptly stopped his current story mid-sentence, before looking around the room in concern. Bilbo was already out the door but called back behind him, “I need to check the oven! Keep talking!”

The bread was fine, golden brown and filling the kitchen with the savory scent of freshly baked goods- Bilbo was surprised they hadn’t noticed the smell from the other room. He busied himself with pulling out the racks and finding a space for the loaves to cool, given that the pastries he had made before still dominated the counter space of the room.

Thorin did not continue his story, instead Bilbo heard the chink of ceramic and a few soft padding steps through his hallway. Thorin appeared at the entrance of the kitchen, holding the mugs of forgotten tea. “I probably shouldn’t keep you.”

“Oh hush-” Bilbo replied honestly, “This has been nice. It’s good to hear how your people are doing- and I don’t just mean that to boost my own ego over the plants.”

Something Bilbo could not make out flashed in Thorin’s expression but he didn’t miss the small smile on the King’s lips while Thorin quietly walked over to the sink, dumping out the remaining tea and washing out the cups and Bilbo continued to speak, “You’ll have to give Bofur my thanks by the way.”

“Oh, I.” From the side Bilbo couldn’t be sure but suddenly Thorin’s smile seemed less confident, “I thought you’d want to tell him yourself.”

Bilbo shrugs and leans back against the counter, “It’d be a bit silly for you to let me into Erebor just to say thank you to someone. I was under the impression you weren’t a fan of other gods taking liberties with visiting your realm unexpectedly.”

Thorin frowned and opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the sound of the front door banging open- which made Bilbo visibly flinch at the noise - and a clear voice shouting loudly into the house, “Bilbo, we’re here.”

Bilbo raised his voice, “How many time have I told you boys to be careful not to slam that door- it’s not made of stone!”

A different, more timid voice called back as the sound of many people taking off their cloaks rustled forward from the front room, “Sorry Bilbo.”

Bilbo sighs, “It’s always Frodo who shows humility. I’m in the kitchen.”

He raises his voice for the last part and soon there’s a rumbling of steps as his charges appear at the door way and almost immediately descend on the pastries and bread Bilbo has laid out once they see them.

Merry comes to a standstill once he sees Thorin standing there at a loss and Pippin nearly runs into the other gods back as a result, “Who’s this?”

Pippin maneuvers from behind Merry and pays Thorin no mind, continuing on to get his pastries and handing out a few for the other gods in the room. Sam and Frodo also give Bilbo’s visitor questioning looks but their attention shifts into grabbing their snack.

“This is Thorin - and Pippin if you eat or distribute all of those I promise to fate you will be baking each and every replacement.”

Pippin stalled momentarily in his collection of the various rolls and pastries but continued on nonetheless while Merry’s expression changed to one of recognition, “Oh, you’re Fili and Kili’s uncle, right?”

Thorin shifted and seemed equally surprised, “You know them?”

“They saved me from a tree when I was younger,” Pippin said nonchalantly as he shoved another roll into Frodo’s hands and tossed one to Merry. Thorin only looked more confused by the response.

Bilbo quickly intervened.

“Merry is the God of Harvest and Celebration, and Fili and Kili are common guests to his festivals he oversees at the end of the growing season. That’s how I met them actually.”

Merry makes no note of his position and instead lightheartedly bumps into Pippin, “That was the year you got stuck in the tree, right?”

Pippin huffs, “To be fair, that was at least a century ago, I was a child.”

Thorin chuckles and Bilbo lets out a small huff, thinking about how for it being a century his charges haven’t changed that much, speaking of which, “And you all are obviously not children now, but none of you have introduced yourself to Thorin like mannered Gods, have you?”

The four have enough humility to look abashed and each mumble out a quick apology. Merry takes the lead, followed by Sam, Frodo and Pippin.

“Merry, God of Harvests and Celebrations, at your service.”

“Samwise, God of Hard Work and Perseverance.”

“Frodo, of Elrond’s Realm.”

“Pippin, God of Ingenuity.”

“And mischief.” Bilbo adds to Pippins introduction with a teasing smile and the boys go back to talking amongst themselves and eating up all of Bilbo's hard work. Thorin chuckles at Bilbo’s addition and Bilbo returns his attention to his guest, “How about I walk you out?”

They escape the chaos of the kitchen and the hallway is strangely quiet in comparison leading towards the front room and the door. Bilbo takes the lead and once they can no longer hear the boys Thorin speaks up, “So do you have siblings?”

“No. The boys were each found as new gods by Elrond and he thought I’d be a good fit for guardian for them as they figured this out-” Bilbo sweeps his hand broadly and Thorin nods in understanding, “By that point I was alone so they’ve been a welcome addition since Belladonna isn’t around anymore.”

“Your mentor?”

“Mentor and Mother. She’s the one who built this house actually. I inherited my title from her, along with this place.” Bilbo’s hands twirl, his thumb brushing up against the gold ring on his index finger as he twists it around as habit. He stops at the door and Thorin’s eyes drop down to it as he comes to stand next to Bilbo.

“You must miss her.”

Bilbo gives a half hearted nod, “I do. But I know if was also her time and she took it in stride- She kept trying to give me advice and remind me to check up on things until she had faded completely.” He gives a quick laugh but can’t help but notice the slight sting in his eyes. “I hope I’ve got the same grace when it’s my turn.”

“You seem certain you’ll pass on your title, though that’s not a given for every god.” Thorin noted, his sharp eyes back on Bilbo and his expression open. Bilbo gave a half smile, he appreciated the gods bluntness if nothing else with his questions. “I’ve just got a feeling. Frodo hasn’t found his calling yet despite the fact he’s actually older than his brothers. I think when it’s my turn, he’s going to to become the God of Planting - it just seems right, somehow.”

“That outcome doesn’t bother you?” Thorin asked, his curiosity evident in his voice but holding not ill intent in his words as far as Bilbo could tell.

“If that’s what Galadriel foresees, I’m not going to complain. I’ve had a good time, been in good company. Plus, I think I’ve got ages left in me, it’ll be a while until those boys are truly ready to hold their own.”

Thorin did not respond immediately, “Aye, hopefully they’ll continue to be young for a while.”

He passes by Bilbo as Bilbo opens the door for him, “-You should stop by Erebor sometime, if you want to.”

“Thank you, Thorin.” Bilbo replies easily, “I’ll keep that in mind and let you know if I wish to visit.”

“Good.” Thorin says simply, “Goodbye, Master Gardener.”

“Goodbye, Your Majesty.”

#chapter update #fic update #my writing #the hobbit #bagginshield #mythology au #Soil and Ashes

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the-canary · 6 years

Text

Languages of Saints - C.R (7/10)

Summary: A deal isn’t supposed to involve feelings, right? (Reader/Carter Baizen).

Prompt: “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”

A/N: for @imcarterbaizen old challenge. shout out to my bff @ilsa-faustus because i know nothing about high end brands, and she helped picked the clothes for this. please don’t take the person wearing the dress as an actual visual of the main character, it is simple a reference for you to make a basis out of.

Masterlist

Feedback is always appreciated.

It’s easy to let work pile up, to let it be the only thing that dominates your mind to and back home from work. Numbers and words are easier to handle the people and emotions, you tend to ignore those until the fester and it’s too late -- work is always there with a straightforward answer in its numbers and it doesn’t talk back. You can disconnect with it and it doesn’t hurt like when a person stops interacting with you, maybe that’s why you could handle Rocio so well. Roci was forest fire that hid after she burned herself out and didn’t come back until she was some semblance of her former self -- for all the insane schemes she had put you through the years, she had never showed you that softer side of her personality -- and you never had either.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the complete truth. There bits here and there, like the garden party, where you would stand by your best (and only) friend if it was called for. And in the same, twisted sort of way -- Rocio tried her best to protect you too. Though, it was too damn early to be sending her cryptic text messages when you had work in the morning

Don’t do it. You’ll just get hurt in the end.

You move from your bed, as Monsieur makes a loud meow at the interruption to his sleep. You check the time again to see that it’s 4am. You groan and wonder what she means, roll around a bit more -- forgetting all about the message and going back to those strange dreams filled with cold numbers and equally as icy blue eyes -- not that you remember anything when your real time to wake up when morning comes around.

However, Carter Baizen isn’t the same type of rich person as Rocio. He likes poking and prodding at people in his own way until he finds something that bothers them. It had taken him a long while, but once he had found a weakness of yours; he went in for the kill. You were a natural workaholic and while it was something that he admired, it was also something he exploited after the gala event incident. No, it wasn’t that he made you work more, but in his own cheekiness of mentioning how he could ruin the events leading up to gala.

Since agreeing to being his plus one, it had opened some type gate to him trying to get a rise out of you. In the events you needed to attend, he was always dressed to the nines in Hugo Boss suits, but the moment someone turned around he was always making some type of slide remark and he did in moments where the possibility of getting caught was high. At this point you weren’t sure if he was trying to make you mad or trying to make you laugh. As in the current moment, Carter Baizen had taken you to a quick dinner with some “very” important people in downtown Manhattan.

Personal assistant could be added to your resume at this point, but you weren’t sure that the scantily clad woman next to the man was here for the same reason as you. The man was complaining to the waiter about his steak when you hear a small murmur above the classical music.

“Always does it,” you glance to your right side to see sparkling blue eyes and a wagging eyebrow and you put two and two together. This man of high status complained about his steak to get it cheaper all the time. You don’t know why, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, the way he shakes his head with a silent laugh, or just how ridiculous the situation is that it has you letting out a snort, catching everyone’s attention as you grab your handkerchief pretend to sneeze.

“Excuse me,” you manage to say, as the man simply scolds you before going back to talking with Mr. Baizen. You can’t help the smile that blooms on your face for a moment, one that you try to hide behind the wine glass, as the meeting continues.

However, after everything is said and done, after the drunk business man and his “date” leave, Carter Baizen can’t help but let out a loud laugh into the humid New York air as your shake your head.

“What an idiot,” Carter lets out with while placing his hands into his pockets, you just shake your head but can’t help but agree silently, not that you would ever tell him. However, as he runs a hand through his hair with laugh lines around his eyes, you can’t help but think it looks good on him compared to all the other times you have interacted with him.

“You’re child, Mr. Baizen,” is all you’ll say on the subject, as he keeps laughing.

The second time you think Carter Baizen is playing with you is when you come back from lunch and have a beautifully suited woman sitting on your desk. Her blonde hair is flowing to her shoulders. She’s wearing a pure white suit and accessories all over her hands and neck that you are sure cost more than you’ll ever make. However, the thing that stands out most are her high heels that shine gold in the artificial light, you pause momentarily out fear at the entrance of your office door, as beautifully painted brown eyes stare at you. Her mouth twitches just a little as you duck your head in.

“Umm, where you waiting for me?” you ask timid to stare, much less speak to such a stylish woman. It was easier with Rocio after years of friendship, but this woman was something all together. She drops down her legs from the desk and smiles.

“I’m Cameron,” she explains as you close the door, “One of Carter Baizen’s personal stylists, but for today I’ll be handling your dress attire for the gala.”

“I don’t think I need help dressing up,” you freeze up mortified at the attention and money suddenly being placed into what you wore, something that you still aren’t used to even after that shopping spree, “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

“Ah, he said you would say that,” Cameron just keeps smiling while pulling out her phone and relaying a certain message, “Mr. Baizen says: Tell my lovely date, that I am personally paying for your services. It is a waste of your time and my money not to have her at her best, especially with so many potential donors for the children’s hospital. If not I could find someone with --”

“Please stop ,” you groan out, as she gives you a pointed smile, “So what do you need of me?”

“Your body,” she states as your eyes grow wide at her tone. She stands up, heels echoing on the linoleum, and crosses the distance between the two of you before pushing you outside once more, “And for you to do everything I say without a fuss.”

“I-I can try,” you say nervously as she drags your across the office and into the elevators. It isn’t much of a scene, but Cameron’s outfit and you just being out is enough to have a few eyes staring at you. Nick looks on from the water cooling station before waving at you to have a good whatever it is you’re doing.

“Thanks!” you yell back, as the blond chuckles behind you. You’re a little fearful over her next words as she takes you to the elevator -- where she is leading you, you have no clue.

“Just watch, we’ll have Carter Baizen graveling at your feet, sweetie.”

You don’t know if you should be excited or angry at the man who you are sure will be laughing about this later.

Carter Baizen isn’t sure why he is feeling so nervous as he walks around the large hallway leading to the gala he is too attend this evening. He is perfection in a black on black Armani suit with his hair slicked back in just the right angle. He had his selling pitch ready for anyone that is even hesitating to give tonight with the charm amped up to 10x more than usual. Nothing could get in his way tonight, except that his date wasn’t here yet. Cameron had messaged him that there were few problems with the original dress and she was getting a new one last minute. It meant that you didn’t come together as planned, now he was waiting with no updates -- something that drove him a little stir crazy. He’s about have a very angry phone call with one of his favorite stylists, but then he hears it.

“And who are you with, miss?” the maitre d asks.

“I’m Mr. Carter Baizen’s plus one,” there is an unusual pitch to the voice that is usually so sarcastic and fiesty with him, but Carter at this point knows it by heart. Blue eyes look up and freeze at the sight in front of him. Hair pinned back with just a bit of makeup but bright red lips. They match your knee-length dress and jacket in its red-and-black combo with red heels to finish the combo.

He’s mesmerized, making a reminder that he needs to give Cameron extra the next time he sees her. He gets tunnel vision for a moment, as you get closer to him -- a worried look on your face.

“I’m sorry, something happened to the Chanel dress last minute. Cameron found this though,” you sway a little to emphasize the new dress and smile, “I think it looks better though.”

“Yeah, it looks great,” he tries to says as nonchalant as possible before grabbing your hand, though you give him a look that causes him to laugh, “None of that tonight. Smile and sell what you gotta for those kids, but not everything.”

His joke causes you to shake your head but he can feel you ease up just a little at you take your first steps into the large and highly decorated ballroom . Your eyes growing for moment.

“Mr.Bai--” you start, only to have him cut you off.

“ Tut tut , it’s Carter for tonight,” he reprimands you, which causes you to frown as blue eyes stare at your red lips for a moment. He knows for sure they are going to be a distraction for the rest of the night. But, instead of listening to whatever fears you might have due to fully emerging into the world of the filthy rich and famous of NYC, he just grabs your hand tighter and pulls you head first into the shark den. It was a bit harsh, but he knew you had it in you.

“Don’t forget to smile,” he chuckles quietly as the first old, wealthy couple makes its way to the two of you.

Carter knows that there might some ramifications in letting you go on your own to talk to people here and there throughout the event. You were fresh meat for them without the cynical nature some rich people had. There was also the chance that someone might get too touchy-feely with you or someone talked in a certain way about your relationship with him because there were also rumors floating around when it came to him. But, he believed in your level-headedness and natural charisma that seemed to shine in the oddest of moments, plus he knew by now that you cared deeply about cause like this.

Nevertheless, he always stays close to you and as he watches you work your magic on the Livingstons, then the Winthrops, hell even the old Vanderbilt heiress falls under your spell as he watches each one of them head up front and make a donation after talking to you. You just might be even better than him, as he watches you laugh and talk to a certain famous news anchor. And for a moment he wonders it this is just all naturally you or something you have cultivated from knowing Rocio for so long. Eventually after talking and mingling, you end up sitting in one of the many side tables, jacket resting on the chair, as he comes to your side.

“So, how are you enjoying yourself?” he asks, as you look up from your small tray of finger food with a tired smile, though the effect from hours before still hasn’t faded away. He grabs your hand and drags you to the large dancing space. You groan in annoyance, but say nothing, which Carter considers a win as he slips a hand around your waist and you place a hand on his shoulder, frown in place like always. He’s just getting used to it to live with it.

“It’s nice, I guess,” you explain after a smile, as the song dies and a new one begins. It isn’t the same as the garden party. There isn’t any joking around as the soft jazz music plays and he drags you just a bit closer.

“But, not your thing?” he asks, as you shake your head. You bit your lip in thought for a moment, as blue eyes zoom into the action before you start talking once more.

“Hmm, I’m sure that some people would love this glitz and glamour, spending time dancing and eating the best food while wearing an expensive dress,” you look down motion to said fancy thing before admitting the truth, “But in all honesty, I would rather be eating Thai with Monsieur right now.”

“Monsieur?” he has heard everything you had said, and while he mull over it later, Carter asks about the thing strange in that statement.

“Ah, my pet cat,” you clarify as he nods, though ready to add something. However, you beat him to the punch, “And yes, I’ve already heard the old cat lady jokes.”

He laugh as you look away in embarrassment but then think about everything you had said on how you would rather be relaxing than putting up pretenses, and he can’t help but agree. So instead of going back to the table were your jacket is placed, he starts heading toward the entrance. In your confusion you protest just a little, though thankful that all your important stuff in a small pocket on the side of the dress as Carter Baizen drags you from the gala event --clock close to striking midnight-- and to god knows where.

You never make it an easy job for Carter Baizen to have you enter his car, as you frown and complain that you aren’t going anywhere without knowing to which borough he had in mind. He can’t help but reminisce to the party all those months back and grin before letting you know that you were heading to Brooklyn for some real food -- something your stomach greatly approved of. This lead to you and the Carter Baizen to be sitting in your formal wear on a bench on the side of of the Brooklyn Bridge with a pizza between the two of you. It’s silent for a long while, as both of you take your fill, though you try your hardest to make sure the dress doesn’t get any food on it. The silence eventually bothers Carter too much, as he asks the first thing that pops into his head, while staring at the murky waters not that far away.

“So, do you enjoy this type of stuff,” he asks as you turn to look at him, searching for a further explanation, “Charity, helping people?”

“You’re really are a rich boy,” you say with a little malice, as if you had an old anger for something you couldn’t stop years ago, “But, not everyone has the type of money to have preventative care or to pay for their medicine.”

“Who?” he can’t help but ask because he knew the everyone at Baizen Co. had a pretty good healthcare packet compared to other companies, especially you. So, it had to be something connected to your past and it go him curious.

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut him off from learning anything about the part of your life, before taking a bite of pizza, closing off this part of the conversation, “Nostalgia won’t bring the things you love back.”

“How noble of you,” he bites back like a child, as you frown.

“Ah… thank you for the backhanded compliment,” you bite back and he can’t help but be caught off guard that you are calling him back on his attitude in your own way.

“I didn’t mean like that,” he gives a weak excuse as it’s your turn to have that particular grin on your face, in order to push back the unpleasant thoughts of what you had just talked about.

“Hmm,” is all you say as a response.

“You’re a tough one to crack,” he admits in annoyance, before running a hand through his hair as it to emphasize his exasperation towards you even more. Though, he should know that the feeling was mutual by now.

“Would you want it any other way?” you start before going off, while pointing at him with annoyance in your voice, but not much else as when he first meet you, “Or do you enjoying having those young ladies falling at their feet, calling you nicknames, what are they --Saint Carter, Car Car -- while none of the work gets done? I’ve known you long enough to know that you appreciate efficiency over anything else.”

“Ah, you have me there,” he states with a shiteating grin on his face at your little tirade, leaning back onto the bench, full from the meal as he adds on,“Spitfire.”

“Now that’s a compliment, Mr. Baizen,” you nod, before adding much to his surprise, “So, got any good stories to tell?”

“Like what?” he asks while turning just to look at you -- more carefree than usual underneath the moon and streetlights that he wished he had a camera to capture the moment.

“Like Texas or Machu Pichu?” you tease, remembering what Rocio had told you once from her own stories, and hopeful to move the discussion into something happier, “Maybe even that Bass famous rivalry?”

“You really wanna hear about all that?” Carter asks, a curious uptick in his voice as he wonders why you would want to know about all the stupid things he had done back in his youth. You just shake your head and laugh.

“Entertain me,” ( It’s a date isn’t it?) is the thing you want to tack on, but shut your mouth at such a thought, regardless of anything else this man was your boss ahead of anything else.

You pause even more staring at the pizza in your hand, as Carter starts telling you stories that have you laughing at his antics and the general attitude that all these rich people had, but you could see how this allowed Mr. Baizen to con them, though things didn’t always end up well for him as times either. And while you enjoy the rest of the night, you can’t help but think towards the end -- when the hell did your view of Carter Baizen change?

Don’t do it. You’ll just get hurt in the end.

You hear Rocio’s words ringing in your head, completely unaware that said man was looking at you like you have hung yp all the stars in the sky.

Part 8

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