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babytaes · 4 years ago

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The Kickback

summary: What happens when your long-life crush's secret is discovered? In hopes of not wanting him to find out, what do you do... nothing.

pairing: dk x female reader

genre: fluff, slice of life, crack lol.

warnings: profanity

word count: 3k

a/n: today is my birthday and I wanted to share this one that has been in my drafts for so long. this campus life is stressful but I’m finding time to upload here and there. I hope you enjoy and have a great day/night. Much love from Babytaes! :) Also I really didn’t read this over sooo... if it doesn’t make sense. Take it up with corporation.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Dear diary, I saw my crush today. I saw him in the living room after my brother invited him over with another friend. It's not as if I'm scared of him. I've spoken with him numerous times. I mean, I'm almost fluent in his language, lol. Seeing him and hearing his boisterous laugh was still entertaining. I'm wondering if he'll be at the kickback this weekend; if so, maybe I'll have the bravery to approach him. Okay, goodbye journal, love y/n.”

Your life consisted of short, insignificant interactions with him; however, when you had a crush, life was exciting and unpredictable. Since you're so near to him on a daily basis, your crush increased exponentially as you couldn't control your intrusive thoughts.

Yes, you did think of him, probably 25/8. It's not like you didn't know him, but you only knew the head version of him. And we all know they could be two different people. So the only thing left to do is keep it secret.

It's impossible for your secret to come out when you're the only one who knows about it. Right? Unfortunately, this isn't a movie, and your secret was revealed, and the perpetrator was none other than your arch-nemesis, Boo Seungkwan.

Okay, not quite that far, but you and him frequently collided because you and him could never agree on anything. He's just Boo, and he has his own behavior category.

He was the second-to-last person you wanted to find out about, after your crush, of course. From this point on, your life was not going as planned.

Your secret would never be revealed to Lee Seokmin, and you would do anything to protect it.

“What are you doing?” You leapt to your feet as you hurriedly closed your diary, terrified of prying eyes.

You rolled your eyes and stuffed your journal into a drawer with random papers, saying, "Shit, why don't you ever knock."

“Well, this is my shared dorm, and you're basically free living here,” he chuckled. You gave him a sidelong glance.

He was right.

“Is that a way you treat your twin? Is it now.”

He strolled away, completely oblivious to your yelling, and into the kitchen.

“Shut up, and get your ass out here we have to go shopping for the kickback. If you’re not out in 10 I’m leaving your ass.”

Great sibling love, what more could you ask for. As much as you know that this is the way he expresses his love, you still got up and started getting ready for the day despite his warning.

Amidst your constant disagreements with him, you still loved him. The only problem was that you had to keep your love interest hidden from him. You could see it now and the big brother trying to protect and all that annoying shit.

You were old enough to take care of yourself and you didn’t want unruly men to ruin something that you wanted for so long.

“Coming, if you leave me, I'll tell Mom.” And I think we can all agree that I am the favorite twin.” As he slammed the fridge door shut, you could hear his huge scoffs.

You hurriedly grabbed your purse and beanie as you dashed for the door, laughing at his tantrums. He had a habit of leaving you behind.

We will not speak of March 5, 2017.

“Hey, wait up,” you said as you ran to his car and jumped in before him, grabbing the aux before him.

He started the car and sped out of the dorm parking lot on his way to the store, saying, "You're such a pain in the ass."

“Oh, don't act as if you don't love me.”

“Whoever said I did must have lied to you. Mingyu laughed as he accelerated through Seoul's crowded streets.

The jokes, the laughter, and the love were all part of the experience of living with one of the biggest Kpop groups.

You wouldn’t have it any other way!

While listening to your playlist, the song "Come to You" perfectly complemented the mood.

You smiled as you passed many streets and watched the busy lives of many different people. You could say you had an imaginative mind.

We arrived at the store a long way down the road, grabbed one of the carts, and proceeded to a separate aisle of the store.

Buying stuff was always expensive with a party of 13 and more friends on the way. Almost everything had to be doubled, and the meat had to be tripled. When throwing a party, everyone is required to provide a dish.

You didn't seem to mind; after all, you weren't paying, so you just chilled on the cart while you watched Mingyu placed the goods in neatly.

You told Mingyu to grab a specific chip as you walked to the chip aisle, and he furrowed his brow.

“What are those? I've never seen them before.

"Dokyeom likes them," you blurted out without a second thought. As you mentally processed what you had said, you stared at him with wide eyes.

Shit.

“When they're not there, Dokyeom and Soonyoung get upset.” You shook your head and scooted by him, tossing two bags into the overflowing shopping cart.

“Oh-okay I guess you can get them.”

As you pushed the cart toward the cashier, you mentally slapped yourself in the face. You were certain that you would not crack.

The ride home was silent as the only noise was the continuous taps from Mingyu's fingers on the wheel.

Mingyu called wonwoo on his phone as he drove up to the dorm and asked him to help with the groceries.

As you heard Mingyu pout over the phone, he refused, and not even minutes after, wonwoo is strolling down the driveway on his way to the car.

“You shouldn't even have picked up I know I wouldn't" Wonwoo pushed your shoulder and chuckled at your humor. “I know”

“Heyyy I'm right here,” Mingyu began to sulk as he observed his sister speaking without him.

You and wonwoo both chuckled as you gathered your belongings and began walking away from Mingyu.

---

The days went by slowly as you reached the door. It was time to leave the house. You grabbed a jacket and purse. Today, the boys went to Hybe for a quick practice session before heading out for the weekend.

Because you are such a good friend and thoughtful person, you decided to buy them a few drinks as a gift. It wasn't anything special, you didn't want to see anyone, noo.

It took some time to order everything, especially with the large number of 13 items. Since you've known each other for most of your lives, the drinks on the list haven't changed. Ice Americanos and Frappes were the most popular drinks.

As soon as you arrived at the Hybe building, you swiftly grabbed the bag containing the drinks and proceeded to their floor. You finally made it to their practice room after thanking the employees for their assistance.

Slowly pushing the door open, you drew the attention of almost everyone as they turned to face you. As a number of them raced over to you and took the beverages from you, smiles crept across their faces.

As they sipped their drinks, the room was filled with thank yous and hellos.

The voice of an angel said, "Thanks again, y/n." He gave you a short smile before returning to his practice. Oblivious to people around you, words spilled out.

“Fuck, he's so attractive.”

“Whose good looking?” As you slowly turned around, you heard a voice speaking to you from behind you.

Fuck

It's Boo Seungkwan. He smiled at you as he grabbed a drink from your hand. He cocked his head as he sipped it, and his eyes widened.

“Don’t tell me you said dokyeom is good looking, no fucking way.”

As you coughed to relieve the high tension in the air, you started to mentally sweat.

“That's insane, I said the room was in good condition," you said as you slapped his shoulder and shook your head.

Come on, y/n, that didn't even make sense.

“You know you're not going to fool me, y/n?” Afraid that someone would find out, you dragged him into a back room and locked the door behind him

“Shit..shit..shit. If you tell anyone, I swear I'll -

Laughing, before raising his eyebrows after taking a sip of his americano, he cut you off.

"You're right, this is important information. But you already know that I'll keep my mouth shut about the situation. I don’t even know what we’re talking about right now.”

Seungkwan heard dokyeom announce that practice had resumed as the door opened. Before he left, he smiled at you and waved goodbye.

“Y/n and dokyeom in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. As you were about to leap across the couch to silence him, he jumped up and ran out of the door laughing.

All of a sudden, your mind was filled with confusion and paranoia.

It became increasingly difficult to watch them practice as the session progressed. Your thoughts were not positive, and your attitude was slowly deteriorating.

Imagining the worst-case scenario. You paced in the back room when you heard a knock at the door. As you mentally prepared yourself, it caught you off guard. While walking side by side, Hansol and Seungkwan were whispering.

“Did they know?” You didn’t want anyone to find out so you ran, and didn’t stop running. To avoid society, you hurried out the door after saying a quick goodbye to the boys.

The goodbyes were not even heard as you hurried out of the Hybe parking lot without looking back. In a small group, information spreads quickly. And he was bound to find out.

Flushed and worried, you staggered into the dorm room. You knew your secret was going to get out eventually. In the case where Hansol and Seungkwan knew, Joshua is likely to know.

And since Joshua is close to the older boys, Seungcheol and Jeonghan know. The news would then spread to Hoshi, and then the entire performance team would be in the know.

The only remaining candidates are Mingyu and dk. If Mingyu finds out, it's game over for you at that point.

There was no point of living any more. Having completed a full loop of the house, you had come to your room for the final time. You slowly melted to the ground and fell out.

Dokyeon is more likely to know if Mingyu knows.

"What went wrong?" Unable to control yourself as you rolled around the floor, you erupted into a tantrum.

You sat up and shook your head, "I'll just have to leave the country," you said. "Man, you're so smart. Your plan y/n is fantastic."

You ran to your room, grabbed your suitcase from your closet, and began tossing things into.

No need to pack everything since you were only going to be gone for a year. As soon as your adrenaline slowed down, you began packing.

(A few hours later)

You were relieved when your clothes fit into your luggage when you had finally done packing. You were on your way now, and as long as it wasn't here, everything was good.

“Ah, I figured it out; now let's book it.”

When you approached the door, you unlocked it, and we were greeted with a pleasant surprise.

You walked up to the door and opened it, where you were greeted by Mingyu and his gang. Outside the door, you could see him, hao, dk, and wonwoo. They stared at you as they looked you up and down, perplexed as to why you appeared to be departing.

“Um, what is going on and where are you going?” Mingyu reacted with a rejoinder of his own.

Your throat felt as though it was clogging up, and you began sweating furiously under your armpits. Thank god for hoodies.

“Well, I was simply going to visit a friend's house,” you explained.

You knew he wouldn't believe you; he knew most of your friends, and they didn't live that far away for you to be carrying that much.

“First, that's a lie, and second, I need to speak with you, so your "buddy" will have to wait.” You sighed and closed your eyes.

Your escape had to wait.

Mingyu took your suitcase and slid it near the door, while the other members shuffled awkwardly into the room. While the other lads sat in the living room, Wonwoo went to his room.

“Maybe I could escape now?”

“What did you say y/n?” minghao said as he glanced at you.

You waved your hand in front of them and did a walk of shame to your room as you physically and mentally prepared yourself for whatever Mingyu had to say.

So much for your crush now.

Mingyu sat on the edge of your bed, arms crossed, staring at you.

“Sit down, he patted the bed on your side before lightly coughing.

"Some rumors have been going around, so I wanted to clear the air."

Seeing what he was about to say made your heart race, and you couldn't take it any longer. Does anyone else hear their loud banging, could Mingyu hear it?

You leapt to your feet and shouted at him before apologizing on your knees.

What a sight to see, a grown ass woman on her knees apologizing to her twin brother.

“I apologize; I should have told you first, but I was afraid you'd tell him. That's why I kept it a secret and plus dating a member of seventeen. That's dangerous enough-“.

Mingyu's "WHAT" cut you off.

You came to a halt as he got up, slowly staring up at him.

“Wait, weren't we discussing my crush on Dokyeom or something else?” Worries began to creep in as sweat began to accumulate on your brow.

“What the fuck, you have a crush on do-?” you exclaimed as you jumped to your feet and tackled Mingyu to the ground.

“Don't say it so loudly; he'll hear you.” As Mingyu began to pace around the room, as he pushed you off of him.

You could see his anger as he panicked, and his small rage tantrum was truly uncomfortable because he couldn't communicate his ideas to you because he was afraid of his companions' sensitive ears.

He pointed to the door and said, "Wait, so you do have a crush on him." You sighed, shaking your head.

As he walked away from you, he had another outburst.

Everything is now turning to shit, this was your only chance.

“I have to escape” you said as you dashed out the door and to your suitcase. Mingyu was standing behind you, staring at you in terror.

It wasn't in the plan for you to fall on him, but it was still nice. Focus y/n.

“I’m sorry, dokyeom; it was my fault. I didn't realize you were there. “Are you okay?” As you extended your hand to him, you pushed yourself off of him.

“Yeah, I'm OK, are you okay?” he asked. You've had quite a tumble.”

“Yeah I’m good, I live with a clumsily brother so I’m fine”

“Hey!"

You swiftly let go of each other and placed your hands behind your back as you became embarrassed.

“Hey, Seungcheol texted the group chat and said he wants to go out to eat. He said whoever can come.”

The boys instantly got ready as they wanted to eat, food is a great scapegoat. As you saw them exit the dorm, you took a step back and found your way back to your room.

“Is leaving still an option?” you murmured into your pillows, plopping your exhausted body on your bed and overthinking life.

---

You rolled over and looked at the clock, which reads 9:30 a.m.

You turned over in your bed, unable to yell, and trudged to the bathroom to make yourself presentable.

“What have you gotten yourself into, y/n?” You stripped off your clothing and stepped into the hot water after turning on the shower.

You didn't spend much time in the shower, but today you were engrossed in how your plan had devolved into this ordeal.

Resting your head on the tile as the hot water traced down your back, you contemplated on what the HELL you were going to do.

*BANG BANG*

“Y/n hurry up, we have to prepare.”

Hearing Mingyu's voice drew you back to reality as you turned off the water and got out of the shower, unlocking the door and letting him in.

“Hey, no snarky remark?” he said as he watched you walk to your room with your head down. You ignored him as you closed the door and prepared for the party.

It didn't take long for your calm disposition to be noticed, since you were the outspoken one. Even if you tried to fake it, it didn't work out.

You grinned as you walked through the background of Seungcheol and Jeonghan shared housing, looking at the celebration.

There were groups of people near the pool, at the grill, and even by the chairs, as you could see.

“Hey, bring the food inside; I'll take the meat to cheol,” mingyu said, shaking your head as you picked up the bags and headed to the kitchen, where you recognized some familiar faces.

“Y/nnnnnnnnn, heyyyyy, I’ve missed you.” When you saw her, you put the bags on the counter and hugged her, smiling into her embrace.

“It's great to see you again, yeji; how are you and the rest of the group doing?” Are the others here?” As she led you back outside, she interlaced your hands in hers.

You saw dokyeom and a few other people descend the steps before you left, as he waved and gave you a quick glance.

As you reach for a drink from the cooler, your heart begins to race. Something had to be turned off if you wanted to make it through the night, and this was the only way.

You took a sip and coughed loudly as you followed Yeji to the poolside.

It was going to be a long night for you.

---

As you and a group of individuals began to dance uncontrollably, the effects of the alcohol in your system began to show as you staggered to the grill.

“HeEeeyyYY, Wheeeere d'ya think yeeeeer goin’?” you slurred, jabbing a finger into seungcheol’s back

The other members laughed as they glanced at you, plainly detecting your intoxication.

“I forgot how drunk you can get, so why don't you take a break,” your overprotective brother says, making you scream within.

He always did this.

Gerroff me!” you said. “I’m ash sober ash ’m gonna git. And nuffink I - wait wait wait - nuffink you can do ‘boutit.” As you ambled back to the kitchen without so much as a hiccup in their direction, they laugh.

As you struggled to reach the door, you fell forward and were grabbed by a hand. As he lifted you from your imminent doom, his hold felt warm. With your eyes enlarged, you focused on the individual and stared at his face.

As you grabbed on to him, your words tumbled out of your mouth, “Ohmygoshimsosorry.” He drew you closer to him by taking your hands in his.

Saying your heart was racing was an understatement, it was literally pounding out of your chest. You were hand in hand with your crush, who you believed was exceptionally attractive and talented, and you wished he knew more about your sentiments or could somehow fill them.

But you know no huge idol like him would go for you. Feeling that made you sober up real fast as you felt your arm being pulled upstairs, you had no idea where you were going but it looked like someone's room.

Dokyeom eased open the door as he sat you on the bed and went to get some water from a little fridge. He handed it to you and sat next to you.

“Thanks”

“No problem, also I've been trying to talk to you all night but you appear to be occupied.”

As you took a sip of water, your heart began to beat faster; “waitttt, we donthavetotalk. Let’s dance! As he chuckled at your erratic movements, you began to wander around the room, pulling your hands into yours.

The alcohol was definitely making its way out of your system.

As he spun you around, his body in tune with the music, the bass of the song could still be heard. Even though this felt like a dream you didn’t quite care at the moment. Was it because you'd finally met the boy from your dreams, or was it because he wanted to meet you in person?

Your connection with him got stronger by the second, as did your heartbeat, which began to rise steadily with it. You couldn't keep stalling any longer; you needed to listen to what he was saying.

“I think I'm sober up for now,” you said as you let go of his hand.

Dokyeom chuckled before tossing his head back, “I didn't realize you could move like that” he said as they sat back on the bed, a little closer than before.

“I guess I learnt a few things along the way when you're friends with the best dancers out here.” As you finished your sentence, he peered into your eyes, making no sound as the room fell silent.

“Soo, what did you want to talk about?” you awkwardly state to relieve some tension in the air.

“I don't know how to explain it, but I kind of heard your "secret" as it passed through the practice room, and I simply wanted to be the first one to tell you about it because-

Your heart stopped pounding as your world came crashing down around you. You didn't want to hear it; the rejection; you'd rather live in your fantasy world, where you don't have to worry about anything. It wasn't true if you didn't hear it.

“Wait, if you can't reconcile those feelings, don't say anything; just let me go.” They're probably curious about our whereabouts anyway.” And with that, you stood up and walked towards the door, but you were pulled back by his hand.

He kissed you as swiftly as his hands linked with yours. You were taken aback at first by his passion, but you regained your calm and reminded yourself of what was going on: he was really kissing you, and you were really kissing him, and the rest of the world was inconsequential.

You were chilling on the outside while shouting for joy at the top of your lungs on the inside, as if your inner child had been set free. You had to be sure if this was a dream or if it was happening in real life.

“Ouch”

“Why did you do that?” Dokyeom asked as he gripped your arm in his.

“I had to double-check that I wasn't dreaming; this isn't the first time something like this has happened to me.”

“So you're saying I've been in your dreams?” he laughed as he cocked his head to the side and placed his hand in yours.”

You smacked your forehead and shook your head, realizing you couldn't get out of this one, and now he knew you fantasize about him. You didn't mind because the lad of your dreams was right in front of your eyes.

AND HE WAS HOLDING YOUR MF HAND. It was clear that your diary needed to be updated.

Stopping at the door, you placed your palm on his chest and worriedly stared at him.

“Wait, how did you find out?”

“Well, a tiny birdie was chattering loudly about it, his name rhymes with coo,” he said as he grabbed your hand in his and opened the door and began the walk downstairs.

“Fucking Boo Seungkwan”

#seventeen #svt #seventeen dokyeom #seventeen dk #seventeen lee seokmin #lee seokmin #seventeen fluff #dk fluff #seventeen crack #seventeen x female reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen reactions #seventeen masterlist #babytaes works #much love from babytaes

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shreddedparchment · 4 years ago

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Spa Day

03/04/2021

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader Word Count: 7,559

Warnings: language, depression, past abuse, emotional abuse, fluff

A/N: I wrote this because I have been feeling pretty down on myself. It’s pure self indulgence to make me feel better. I hope it will help someone else and if not, I hope you at least get a smile or some entertainment from reading it. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

You’re awkward, walking in. Feeling out of place.

This place was for special people. Well, people who mattered.

You’re not sure how you got the voucher. It all happened so quickly.

One minute you were sitting in Mr. Wayne’s office, twiddling your thumbs to expend some nervous energy as you awaited your firing then the next you were being shoved out his office door with a gentle but firm hand at the center of your back.

Mr. Wayne had smiled, his face relaxed and amused.

“It expires soon, so use it tomorrow,” he’d said.

“I work tomorrow,” you’d resisted, no intention of losing a full day’s paid work.

“Take the day. On me. Full pay,” As you opened your mouth to protest again, he quickly lifted his hand to silence you politely and tacked on, “There’s no use arguing with me. Now enjoy it or you’re fired.”

He’d shut the heavy wooden door in your face leaving you standing there, stunned. At a loss to think up a reason to not come here today but obviously you’ve failed seeing as you’re here.

“Good morning!” A young woman with soft to the touch looking blonde hair smiles at you from behind the modern pale wooden counter. The white marble top shines in your eyes.

“Hi. Morning,” you sputter.

“How can we help you today?”

She’s so nice. So polite. Professional. This place is super expensive looking. There’s a crystal chandelier behind you at the center of the small lobby space. Chic sofas line the wall behind you, large pots with dragon trees growing tall add a splash of color to the otherwise sterile and plain gray walls.

Despite its minimalist decor, the office exudes money.

You’re almost at the brink of following the impulse that wants to turn you towards the tinted glass door, but before you can make your escape, the receptionist’s kind voice interrupts you.

“Oh! You have one of our platinum vouchers! Lucky you,” she smiles, genuine in her glee. “Shall I take that?”

She holds out her hands, both of them and waits for you to place the thick and shiny ticket-like paper in them.

Quickly she gives it a read, turning it over and then placing it under a UV light by her computer. An image shines out from under the purple light of a shimmering diamond right at the center of the ticket.

“You’ve got the works. Was it a gift?” She looks up at you, not intending to insult you but you can’t help but feel a little stung by her assumption.

You can’t really blame her though. You reserve all of your best outfits for work. Casual yet distinguished pantsuits and skirts with matching tops or jackets.

Today you’ve chosen a simple floor length skirt. It sits snugly around your waist and hips. Your t-shirt, a simple graphic tee with the words “Touch the Radley House YOLO” printed in bold black letters.

“Uh, yeah,” you admit to the girl, wishing she’d just sign you in and let you go about your day. “My boss gave it to me.”

“Lucky, lucky. You must have a really nice boss,” she admires.

“Well, I lost his company nearly a hundred million dollars and he didn’t fire me, so…” you trail off, still lost as to why Mr. Wayne had been so adamant you take some time off and why he’d been so understanding about the Ronson account.

“Oh,” the girl says, blinking a few times as she tries to process what you just said. “A very nice boss then.”

Her conclusion brings a small smile to your lips because truthfully, Mr. Wayne is very kind. You’ve never heard him berate an employee and he’s usually only tough on his business associates. Members of his board and investors. Like Mr. Ronson.

If he wasn’t so out of your league, you’d even consider maybe letting yourself really look at him. He’s hot for sure, but he always seems so preoccupied. Like he has something he’s trying to keep buried.

Nice, but he has secrets. No one’s perfect.

“Well, we’ve got you all booked in. What you’ll want to do is head in through that door on your right, walk halfway down the hall and the lounge room should be there to your left. Someone will come and escort you to your first experience.”

You observe her vernacular. Every word she speaks is rehearsed and probably scripted to a certain point.

“Thank you,” you give her another small smile, still feeling out of place but a little more at ease.

“Enjoy!” she calls as you cross through the heavy wooden door.

It swings shut behind you silently, a soft hiss at it latches.

The hallway before you is just as simple yet chic as the lobby. The colors are less neutral, a calming turquoise with a black base and a thick silver stripe lining the center of the wall at about waist height.

The doors are pale wood, smooth to the touch. You pass several of them as you make your way to the lounge.

Inside the door to your left at the center of the hall you find the lounge room. Which actually turns out to be a locker room. Smaller than what you would have thought with only about fifteen lockers that look more like small safes. Each one has a digital keypad, a fingerprint reader, and an iris scanner.

“Sheesh…” you observe but pick one and move over to it to set up your passcode, fingerprint, and scan your eye so that you can come get your stuff when your day of relaxation is over.

Inside the locker you find a neatly folded outfit wrapped in sanitary plastic. Completely sealed.

Just in case you’re wrong about this being a spot where you can change, you look for a designated changing area but don’t find one.

With no other choice, you place your purse and keys inside the locker, then slowly begin to strip. Shoes, skirt underwear go into the locker but your nerves don’t let you remove your t-shirt just yet. Untucked from your skirt, it’s easier to tell that it’s intentionally oversized.

After another quick anxious look at the door you’d come in through, you hook your hands into the base of your shirt and pull it up...just as the door opens and a large clearly male body steps in.

You gasp, whirling around in surprise to reclothe your breasts.

Cool air blows against your bottom as your shirt also twists with your movement, but you reach back and yank it down.

“Oh, I am...uh, didn’t see anything?” The voice is deep, smooth. It puts you at ease even though you literally just exposed yourself to a complete stranger.

“No, no. It’s fine,” you tell him, voice strained with embarrassment. “It’s my fault, I didn’t know if there was a separate changing room. I just...didn’t see any.”

“Oh, um...it’s the door right across the hall. But you know what? I’ll actually just step right outside and let you finish.”

That’s so nice…”You don’t have to, I can just-”

You turn around to look at him, keeping your hands on your shirt to pull it down. One at the front. One behind.

Simultaneously, though you don’t notice, both your and his jaw drop.

It takes both of you a moment to find your voices and while he speaks, your mind is busy taking in his massive size.

He’s thick. Muscles bulking through the should-be loose wrap top he’s wearing. Like yours it’s a soft peach color, the same diamond shape you’d seen on your voucher under the UV light etched into the right breast.

With the top he wears loose pants, or somewhat loose around his knee and down to his ankles; there’s a pair of charcoal slippers on his feet. His thighs, like his arms and chest strain against the clothes he’d been given.

It’s clearly too small. You wonder if maybe this place doesn’t carry the outfit in his size. It’s very possible, considering his girth.

“Miss?”

His slightly concerned expression brings you back to yourself, now flustered because he’s caught you gawking at him.

“Sorry, I’m-you just surprised me and my brain’s a little-what did you say?”

“I’ll just step outside,” he doesn’t wait for you to respond as he backs up to the door then pulls it open and disappears through it, closing it gently behind him.

“What the hell was that?!” you gasp, angry at yourself for staring.

He’s hot! You couldn’t help it. He also looks familiar, though you can’t place the face. How you could possibly forget a face like that you have no idea.

While you change, you think about the smaller things you’d notice.

His hair is dark. Black. Curls that are carefully kept in place with hair products. His skin is a perfect pale peach. Not so pink as the clothes you’re pulling on, but it falls under the same shade. There didn’t seem to be a single blemish from what you were able to see.

A small tuft of chest hair had been peeking out of the V of the top. His face had been perfect, yes, but kind. There was a gentleness in it. The small curve of a smile had played on his rosebud pink lips. Not thin. Not thick. They were perfect.

He was perfect.

And those eyes...so blue. Like a clear spring sky. So bright and observant. There’s no way he didn’t catch you staring. Shit.

You note as you shove your underclothes into your locker out of where he might see them, that your own outfit for this spa leaves even less to the imagination than what must be the male uniforms.

Where the handsome stranger had pants, you were given very small shorts. Little more than boy short underwear in length. Parts of your bottom were threatening to overflow.

The top, while similar to the one the stranger wore, also came with a bandeau given the unique look of being wrapped around your chest when it so clearly is just one piece. You were expected to wear this underneath the looser wrap top.

Pulling it shut, you’re still tying the top closed around your waist as you hurry to the door where the stranger must still be waiting.

You open it...but he’s gone.

Disappointment floods through you. Surprising you.

You have no reason to want to see him, but you suppose you had just wanted to apologize for the awkwardness.

With a sigh you shut the door and move back to your locker to shove the rest of your belongings in just as a kind looking young woman no older than the receptionist at the front desk comes in with a smile.

“Are we ready for the diamond experience? You’re a very lucky lady!”

Even though you’re still only halfway sure you even want to go through with this whole thing, her excitement is catching and you find yourself nodding and scurrying after her as she shows you down the hall for your all expense paid spa day.

~~~~~~~~~~

You aren’t used to relaxation.

Not to this degree.

A gold facial? Full body exfoliation with sea salt and Indian kama oil? A rain massage which consisted of you being massaged with several different clays as warm water is cascaded down your body? An herbal bath with murky green water that leaves your skin feeling fresh--like mint but for your skin?

It’s too much!

You’re four hours into your spa session and you’re so sleepy you might pass out in this next one.

As you’re escorted by the same young lady who has been tending to you from the beginning, she opens the door of a long room, the outer wall of which is made up of endless glass panels that catch the rays of the sun.

As you step in, you’re assaulted by immediate drowsiness as your entire being is engulfed in slightly sticky heat.

This isn’t a sauna. It won’t make you sweat buckets. But it makes your skin dewy and your eyes droop.

“Oh, wow,” you gasp, suddenly wanting to run before you can collapse to the floor in unconsciousness.

Your escort laughs, “The hot room has that effect on all of our guests. Come, it looks like we’ve got a spot free over at the far end.”

Along this wall of glass, there are lounge chairs with soft cushions grouped in twos, separated by a lattice waterfall panel that tinkles pleasantly as it empties down into a bed of soft pebbles. On the table at the head of these seats is a pitcher of water, glasses, and a set of small handheld fans that one can use to cool off a bit in the heat. Just in case it becomes too much, you guess. Though you can’t imagine it will. The heat isn’t oppressive. Just consuming.

It’s everywhere but it’s not choking or frustrating.

“I hope you don’t mind if we put you next to one of our other single guests? Most of our diamond packages are used by couples, as you can see.”

Your escorts gestures at the chairs as you pass them and sure enough, every seat is taken with couples hiding behind large potted fan palms.

“No, I don’t mind,” you answer in single, as if you have any choice. “How long will I be in here?”

“An hour or so? If you’d like to exit early, there is a small button on the table by your lounge. Press it and I will come take you to your next experience,” she looks back and smiles at you.

You notice that you pass three spots without lounge seats and wonder silently why some of them have been removed. At the end of these empties is where the escort stops. A set of lounges in the very last spot against the wall.

“Here you are,” your escort smiles. “If you need anything, just give us a call.”

“Thank you,” you smile at her and squeeze between the potted palms.

Slightly nervous, you look for your unintended partner and gasp at the Adonis you’d thought you’d lost.

The sound draws his attention and his expression shifts from stoic concentration to soft smile, “Hey, it’s you again.”

It takes you a moment to find your voice because you’re too busy gawking again.

He’s not wearing a shirt or pants. That is, he’s wearing shorts. A lot longer than yours, reaching about the top of his thighs, but still short. Like briefs. It gives you a good view of every single muscle in his long legs and you suddenly envy anyone that’s ever had the privilege to ride that thigh.

What the fuck am I thinking?! You give our head a shake and try to focus on his face as he waits. It’s only a second too late.

“Yeah, hi. Sorry, I-” you avert your eyes and quickly take a seat in your own lounge chair to his left, keeping your eyes on anything other than the mass that is his chest.

Just as you’d thought, it’s covered in a mouthwatering line of chest hair that trailers down onto his stomach and makes an ever so subtle trail down, down, down...down...down…

He chuckles, “It’s alright. It’s only fair you get a good look too, right?”

You’re not even processing what he’s saying, unable to focus for a bit.

“You’re here alone?” It’s more an observation than a question but you answer anyway, grasping at the distraction.

“Yes,” you nod. “A gift from my boss.”

“Me too,” he turns a little in his seat so that he can look at you, but adjusting his angle so that he can still keep his legs up, one propped up as he rests his elbow on his knee. The other stretched out before him.

This draws your gaze back to him and you’re able to pay attention this time and ignore his very distracting body.

“Oh?”

“I mean, not my boss, but it was a gift from a friend. He thought I could use a nice relaxing day.”

The way he says it, sounds like you’re not the only one saddled with what you perceived was a burden or at the very least, a waste of time.

You grin, “Mine too. My boss. I saved the company I work with from a scandal and his idea of repaying me was to give me a spa day. A raise would have been more than enough.”

“Tell me about it,” the man says, smiling with stunning pearly whites.

His smile is gorgeous and you’re enamored again by how sweet he looks.

How can someone look like he can tear the head off a rhino and still look so adorable? It can’t be fair.

“Rent keeps going up and my job doesn’t pay nearly enough to keep up. At this rate I might end up having to move back to the farm.”

“Oh,” you reply lamely, piecing together where he might have grown his sculpted figure. Farm work can be grueling.

He gives you a look, assessing your response then waves his hand gently as if to swat away his complaint, “Sorry, don’t listen to me. I’ve got it better than most. You don’t need to be hearing about my problems.”

“No!” you rush to assuage his worry. “No, it’s okay. That sucks about your job. Is there no chance at a raise?”

“Not exactly, I have a uh, a hobby that keeps me from taking more work and I kind of get paid by assignment. I have a flat salary but working extra would definitely help with the bills.”

“What do you do?” you wonder, trying to picture this guy doing anything other than just looking like a God in a spa.

He could be a bodyguard? They get assignments. Construction? Personal trainer?

“I’m a journalist,” he tells you, speaking matter-of-factly as if it makes perfect sense.

You blink, then chuckle and then laugh once.

“What?” he asks, amused and smiling again as you chuckle. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “It’s just, journalist is not where my mind went.”

He doesn’t seem surprised but he also doesn’t say anything else.

The two of you lapse into silence. It’s not uncomfortable and at least you don’t feel like you need to say anything to fill the dead air.

Twenty minutes pass and you lean back in your chair to relax, sighing lightly and smiling at the immaculate aura that this stranger seems to emanate.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

The longer you lay there, suddenly not sleepy at all, the more your curiosity grows. Turning towards him, you find him already looking at you.

This startles you but in a good way. You smile and the soft curve of his lips breaks into a full toothed smile.

Both of you move your lips to speak, but before you can either of you get a word in a rustle of palm leaves pulls both your attentions behind your seats.

You sit up, twisting a little to look at who’s come, expecting to see your escort or some other spa staff.

Instead you find a woman you’d spotted laying in another spot with who you’d thought was the other half of her couple. Her waist-length auburn hair clings to the skin of her bare shoulders and sides. She’s removed her top, leaving her in her bandeau.

“Hi,” she says to your stranger-wait not your stranger. Shoot.

He looks confused but not unfriendly, “Hello.”

“My friend finally talked me into coming over and talking to you,” she informs him.

“I see,” your-the stranger says.

The girl seems to be expecting something but the stranger just looks up at her expectantly. Awkwardly.

He looks at you and you quickly turn away from their conversation, pushing yourself to the end of the lounge to sit with your hands holding onto the edge, feet flat on the ground.

You try not to eavesdrop but they’re right there.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asks her, sounded polite but not uninterested.

You can hear the woman shifting from foot to foot, probably pushing her hips from side to side. Her figure is nice. Not like yours. She’s attractive, in a conventional way. In a magazine accepted way.

Your mood sinks the longer you ponder on this random girl and the stranger. There’s an endless string of disappointments that have built you into this person you are.

Insecurities made worse by words spoken by people that should have supported you or those you thought were on your side. Affections misplaced. Kindness taken advantage of. Betrayal. Worst of all the betrayal. Some small. Some big.

You know that you should be less shaky in your self worth. You know that you’re more than the words spoken and the actions taken that brought you to this point. But how do you turn it off? How to fight the thoughts that bring you down?

It’s not something you can do all at once. You know this. And yet feeling bad about yourself makes you feel guilty because you know it’s bad and that makes you feel worse. It’s an endless cycle.

You’re fully wallowing in your own self-pity before the girl even has a chance to answer the stranger’s question.

“Well, I noticed you came by yourself and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to have dinner sometime? Or maybe coffee?”

You don’t dare turn back, you just resign yourself to a lack of luck and stare out at nothing even though the view is really nice.

“Thank, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not looking for a date right now, I don’t really have the time,” the stranger says, giving her a diplomatic response.

Letting her down without letting her down.

“Oh, well,” there’s a beat of silence. “In case you change your mind, here’s my number. Call me, if you find some time?”

You hear her retreat and the soft shift of what must be a business card against the wood of the table behind the stranger’s chair.

Movement shifts in your periphery and you see that the stranger has moved to the end of his own lounge, mimicking your pose though he’s much bulkier and takes up much more space.

“That was weird,” he says, a small puff of air passing between his lips as he huffs a laugh.

“Why?”

“Well, she just came up to me, out of nowhere,” he clarifies.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the first time that’s happened to you.”

The stranger seems to pick up on your mood shift, his face etched with concern as he tries to lean forward, head tilted a little as he strains for a better look at your face.

“Actually, that never happens to me,” he says. A lie?

“How about you?” he checks, probing gently to see if he can get you to talk.

“No. Never.”

“But you’re so-”

“I’m nothing,” you interrupt, the words an automatic response as if you’ve been hypnotized into saying those words exactly. A trained response.

The silence is no longer comfortable, but thick and heavy.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true. I’m nobody.”

It hurts to speak these words aloud. Words that have hurt you in the past. Words that have cut you time and again. Scars left behind by those people that should have loved you but didn’t.

“No one is nobody,” the stranger counters.

He watches you, observing.

You don’t like the front row seat he has to your wallowing. You try to pull yourself out of it but the hole just keeps getting deeper.

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, stealing a quick glance at him.

He’s still got his head tilted a little in pure concentration as he watches you, brow crinkled with focus.

It’s not judgement though, just intent. You can tell he’s really listening and it makes your heart flutter. No one has ever listened to you before. Not like this. Not with a deep desire to understand like he does.

He shakes his head, “Was it the girl coming over?”

You look away, feeling embarrassed, “She reminded me of someone I knew. Someone I dated.”

Nodding, he indicates that he’s listening.

You smile without humor, hurt by the memory, “He thought I should look like her. Or...he didn’t say exactly like her, but he said he wished I looked better.”

He frowns, his deep dislike for your story honest, “He doesn’t sound like a nice guy.”

“No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t like, evil or anything, but yeah. Not a nice guy,” you admit, accepting that in that case, it was definitely your boyfriend’s problem.

“But that’s not it?”

You look at him.

“There’s more to it?” he guesses.

You look out at the scenic view finally, not really seeing it but appreciating the colors at least.

“This spa day?” you begin, stealing another glance at him.

He turns to sit facing you, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped as his listening intensifies.

“The only reason I got it was because as I said before I saved the company I work for from being dragged into scandal. I also lost a bunch of money by losing the client but my boss was pretty pleased.

“But the only reason I even touched the account was because I was sorta forced to?” Is that the best way to describe what happened?

“How were you forced to deal with that account?”

“Well, I’m not exactly the best with making friends? I mean, I have had friends before. I just--I got really sick a while back and I lost most of them because I cancelled on plans a lot or I didn’t have the energy to maintain contact? Even texting felt like such a chore. Just the act of responding and-I guess they thought that I thought being friends with them was a chore, and that wasn’t it.

“I just couldn’t find the energy to try to do anything. Some days I wouldn’t even eat because I’d have to get up and make myself food and I barely got up to go to the bathroom much less make a meal.

“Anyway, I just kind of gave up and they did to and now, I don’t really have an in with people? I don’t say much and it’s not that I don’t want to talk, I just don’t have anything worth saying. Or maybe I just can’t think of anything? I don’t know. But it affects work relationships too.”

“How?” he asks.

You take a deep breath, looking down at your hands clinging to the edge of the lounge before releasing it slowly.

“It’s really just me getting in my feelings,” you shrug.

“What you feel is what you feel, even if you don’t think you should. Our pasts can affect us well into our futures.”

His encouragement helps, and you feel a little less vulnerable to share with him.

“I work in the PR department. There are six of us in total. We’re a pretty big company. Multinational big. So there’s one of us for every form of media. Since we all work for the same clients, bridging the gap, we usually spread the workload evenly.

“Or, the other five members of my team do. Sometimes they just forget that I’m there and I usually get stuck with the leftover work. I’m not one to complain, so-” you shrug. “But they forget me for other stuff too. Company dinners. Competitions for prizes in the office. Secret Santa. Stuff like that.

“It makes me feel alone.”

You chance a glance at him, and he’s still watching you but his eyes are far away for a bit as if he’s remembering something.

“I know how that feels,” he nods. “I’ve felt alone almost all my life in some ways. Luckily, I’ve made a few friends to help me see things a little differently but that loneliness will never really go away.

“I understand.”

You smile, feeling more and more at peace again with him. Calm, like he really does get it.

He responds to the shift in your expression by relaxing his own. A small crinkle forms at the corners of his eyes, a subtle curve of his lips.

Now that you’re both feeling a little better, you can admit to yourself that you were jealous. Not just because the girl was everything that you were made to think you should be, but because this stranger, gorgeous as he is, is so nice.

He’s sweet and you want that in your next partner. You want to have someone care about you genuinely. You’re a little ashamed of wanting to claim him. Do you even dare entertain the thought?

“Yeah, I think you probably do,” you smile wider, turning in your seat to face him like he’s facing you.

“Now that you know all about my depression, would you like to know my name?” you ask him, teasing a smile.

He smiles more freely, “On a first date? Isn’t that moving kinda fast?”

Your stomach tumbles, heart sprinting at his words.

“A date?”

He only smiles wider, your heart stuttering before taking off at double speed again.

You tell him your name and then bite your lip, unable to believe your good luck.

“What about that other girl? You told her you weren’t looking for a date,” you wonder.

“Well, how can I be looking for a date when I’m already on one? Besides, how many girls do you think I can come across before I find another one wearing a shirt about my favorite book again?” he asks, all sincerity.

“Your favorite book is to Kill a Mockingbird?”

His smile is blinding.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he nods, reaching out to shake your hand. “My name is Clark. Clark Kent.”

You take it and almost faint as your head goes dizzy at the soft touch of his skin.

The veins of his forearm bulge as he squeezes gently but he doesn’t actually shake it and instead seems to just hold your hand.

“Wait, I’ve seen your editorials before. You work at the Daily Planet.”

“I do,” he nods.

Your stomach suddenly falls, jealousy raking up along your ribs to settle around your heart to make it ache.

“Aren’t you dating Lois Lane? I thought-you two went to one of my boss’s parties together.”

It had been so long ago. Months and months. You remember Mr. Wayne going on about his friends Clark and Lois. You hadn’t met them, but Mr. Wayne had left to greet them when they’d arrived.

Clark’s own face falls just a tad, a small melancholic shift but it’s not deep. He keeps his smile, though smaller, and nods.

“We broke up last year,” he confesses, still not releasing your hand.

His thumb grazes against the back of it, sending goosebumps up from that point to spread along your arms and the rest of your body.

“I’m...not sorry?” you laugh, unable to help yourself because how can you be sorry about it now?

Clark also chuckles, “You know, right now, suddenly I’m not either.”

Before you can think of something cute to say, your stomach gurgles loudly, announcing to anyone close enough to hear that you’re hungry.

“Oh,” you utter, embarrassed as you finally take your hand back to rub your belly. “Sorry, I guess I haven’t eaten in a bit.”

“They have a menu here, I’ll grab us one.”

He rises and is gone before you can stop him and holy hell does he have a nice butt.

Watching him leave, you contemplate the way he used the word “us” so casually and wiggle with the pleasure it gives you.

As quick as you can, you look for any reflective surface and settle on the window across from you on which you can barely see yourself.

It’s enough though and you quickly go about fixing your hair which is surprisingly not bad even after all the treatments you’ve undergone.

A soft voice calls your name, the young woman who’s been escorting you.

“Hi, are you ready for your next treatment?” she smiles at you politely, kindly even, her body slightly bent down so that she won’t speak too loud and disturb the other people enjoying the hot room.

“Oh, um...I’m actually super hungry and I was going to order something to eat?”

The idea of being taken away to somewhere that you can’t be around Clark devastates you. You haven’t been this into anyone in so long.

“Oh okay! What would you like to order? Did you get a menu?”

The young woman gestures over her shoulder as if asking if she should go get you one.

“Actually-” but you don’t get to explain because Clark suddenly steps up to loom over both of you.

He doesn’t mean to, you don’t think, he’s just so big and he kind of naturally just looms.

“Hi,” he greets her kindly, and she flushes.

You can’t blame her. She takes a step back to put some space between herself and Clark and she’s seriously flustered. He’s hot.

Clark squeezes back by and sits himself in his seat before opening the paper menu and leaning towards you to give you a look.

You read through the choices quickly and nothing looks too crazy.

“Ooh, this one looks good,” you tell him, pointing down at the bottom of the menu.

“Should we get that one?”

“Yeah!” you reply eagerly, excited for the food.

You’re really very hungry.

“Can we get the gourmet pizza?” Clark asks, “And an order of the mini muffins? What kind are they?”

“Blueberry today,” the girl informs him, back to her composed and professional attitude.

“Two orders of those. And…”

“You don’t offer any kind of burger?” you ask the young woman looking back at her.

She smiles kindly but shakes her head, “No, sorry. The closest would be the sandwiches. We have tuna, cucumber, egg salad, and ham.”

While they sound like normal sandwiches, you have a suspicion that they’re going to be fancy in one way or another.

“Can we have an order of the tuna?”

She nods.

“And we’ll get the chocolate fondue, for desert?” Clark adds, folding up the menu and handing it to your escort.

“Alrighty, and for drinks? We can bring just plain water or perhaps some herb infused tea?”

“Do you have any sweet tea?” you wonder.

She nods.

“Two please,” Clark smiles. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” your escort says and hurries off to put in the order.

Both of you watch her go then when you meet Clark’s eyes, he laughs, just once. Failing to keep it inside.

“Did we order too much?” you wonder.

“I’m hungry too,” Clark assures you.

“I really wanted a burger,” you lament. “I mean, this food will probably be better than some greasy burger but-”

“A burger sounds like heaven. I love greasy burgers. Double meat. Triple cheese. Lots of pickles.”

He makes a funny face, pretending to salivate over the image he’s painted and while it’s a subtle change in his expression, you can tell that he’s more prone to being serious and that makes the gesture funnier for some reason.

You laugh, shaking your head.

He laughs with you, leaning back in his lounge.

You follow his lead, then turn onto your side and shove an arm underneath your head.

He mimics your pose, drawing his long legs up a little to bend them.

“I’m sorry about earlier, with the locker room? I really didn’t know that I wasn’t supposed to change in there.”

Clark’s smiles shift to a soft curve of his lips.

“I’m the one that should be apologizing,” he counters. “I walked in on you.”

“But you had no idea I’d be in there half naked, I kinda just thrust my body at you.”

There’s a beat, he looks down at your chair instead of maintaining eye contact, then, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Your neck is suddenly on fire. Cheeks, ears, the base of your belly. It all burns as your heart stutters.

As he looks up to meet your eyes again, those baby blues burning with a striking spark, something he said when you first came in here replays itself in your head.

You frown, narrowing your eyes at him, “Hey, when I came in here, I apologized for staring at your naked upper body and you said that it was only fair I get a good look too.

“Are you saying you saw me when you clearly said you didn’t in the locker room?!”

Clark averts his eyes, clearing his throat loudly before throwing himself onto his back to stare up at the ceiling.

“I’m gonna have to get my friend something really good in return for gifting me this spa day,” Clark says, pointedly changing the subject.

But he has a point. This has been the best little indulgence you’ve ever given yourself and none of it could have been possible without Mr. Wayne’s generosity.

“Me too. I’ll have to make sure my boss knows how glad I am that he forced me to come here.”

Clark smiles, “What’s your next treatment? Did you pick them before you came?”

“We could do that?” You gasp.

Clark just smiles wider.

“No, I’m just going with the flow. The girl who took our order has been suggesting stuff and I’ve just been going with it.”

“I have a fresh water soak after this. You should join me.” Clark offers.

After the hot room, a swim in some fresh water sounds like heaven. And extending your time with Clark is a definite bonus.

“Aren’t we not supposed to swim for thirty minutes after we eat?” you tease.

Clark chuckles, “It’s a soak.”

Then, his voice shifts and you’re knocked breathless as he basically pleads with you.

“Join me. Only if you want to. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

Your brain is buzzing with that pleading voice of his. Gentle urging that betrays his want to be with you rather than wanting to control you.

“A fresh water soak sounds amazing.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Nothing could ever top today. You and Clark stuck together the rest of the day. It was fun getting to know him and exciting because the longer you two spent time together, the closer he sat to you.

As you dropped your spa outfit into a canvas souvenir bag that your attendee had given you at your last treatment--a couple’s massage that you and Clark had talked all the way through--Clark peeked around his own locker door, shutting it.

“So, I was thinking,” he began, moving to lean beside your locker as he towers over you, making you internally swoon with the curve of his lips.

“Yeah?” you urge him on, taking your other belongings and throwing them into the canvas bag along with your spa outfit which is also free for you to take.

“I have some things to do tonight but, how would you like to get some burgers tomorrow?”

“Are you asking me out on a second date, Clark?” as much as you wish you could sound like you were teasing, your excitement betrays you and Clark beams at your tone.

“Definitely,” he says low and deep.

Fuck, you’re totally screwed. You’re falling hard.

You really want to reach up and gently slide the curl falling on his forehead to the side lightly, but you resist the urge.

“I’d love to go out and get greasy burgers with you,” you bite your lip and Clark’s expression shifts a bit more serious but there’s a fire in his eyes, a darkening as his pupils dilate that makes your heart stutter.

“Come on,” Clark nods towards the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

He bumps into you, flirtatiously nudging you as he leads you out and you return his gentle push with your own.

“Had you been to a spa like this before?”

“No,” Clark shakes his head. “I actually don’t get much benefit at these places. It feels good, but it’s not really my thing. You?”

“I feel cleaner than I ever have,” you scoff. “But I could never afford it. Even the cheap places. I’d rather just take a walk around a park or something.”

“Me too,” Clark agrees, smiling.

As the two of you walk out into the parking lot, the cooler air outside feels pleasant against your treated skin.

In the setting sun light, Clark looks especially good and you can’t help yourself. You steal several glances at him with no worry as to hiding it.

You’re happy to see he’s doing it too.

“Oh good,” a familiar voice interrupts, pulling your feet to a stop as you search for your boss’s face. “You two met.”

“Wait, us two-?”

“Bruce?” Clark also stops beside you, eyes narrowed, a crinkle between his eyes.

You look between the two of them, confused but starting to put two and two together.

“Bruce? You-Mr. Wayne is your friend who gave you the voucher?” you realize.

Clark looks at you, his own realizations starting to manifest.

“Bruce is your boss?”

Mr. Wayne moves towards the two of you, hands shoved into his long charcoal gray coat. There’s a satisfied grin on his handsome face, a pride in what you realize must have been a carefully crafted maneuver.

Clark looks at you, a knowing smile on his face as if amused but maybe also a little irritated? Not with you, of course. Clearly his annoyance is with Mr. Wayne.

“You did this,” he accepts, looking back at Mr. Wayne with a tilt of his head.

“I didn’t do anything,” Mr. Wayne denies. “I just gave you two a free day at the spa. Did she tell you why I gave her the voucher?”

“She did,” Clark nods.

“Not every PR rep would overlook a five hundred million dollar investment in order to keep us clean from associating with a suspected illegal arms dealer. Most of them would just look the other way.” Mr. Wayne brags.

A look of understanding crossing Clark’s face and he looks down at you, smiling again as if he’s pieced together a puzzle.

“It was really nothing, Mr. Wayne, and thank you for today. I-I’m actually really glad I came. I would have hated it if the voucher expired.”

“Expired?” Clark asks, turning that confused look back on his friend. “They don’t expire.”

Mr. Wayne clears his throat and turns his full body away from you both, looking back at his shiny expensive sports car.

“Yeah, they do,” he says.

“Bruce,” Clark chides.

“We’re gonna be late,” Mr. Wayne says, ignoring Clark’s reprimand, then looks at you as he pretends he wasn’t just caught in a lie. “Do you have a ride home?”

“Yeah, I brought my car,” you gesture at a modest white sedan parked a few spots over.

“Good. I’ll see you on Monday. Clark?” Mr. Wayne urges him, then walks towards his car.

“I’ll be right there,” Clark tells him, then waits for you to lead the way to your car.

Your heart is still thrumming rapidly with the realization that Mr. Wayne went out of his way to make sure you and Clark met. A set up?

You stop by your car door and unlock it. Clark is quick to take the door from you as you open it and he holds it with his left arm as you turn to look up at him.

“I had a lot of fun today, despite the obvious premeditation of us meeting,” you scoff. “I’m glad I met you.”

You’re quickly becoming acquainted with the gentle curve of Clark’s lips, the peek of his pearly whites as he blushes and meets your eyes.

“I’m glad Bruce interfered,” he nods. “I’ll see you tomorrow for burgers?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” you assure him.

After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out and places his hand on your bicep then traces the length of your arm until he can take your hand.

It sets your skin on fire. It makes you dizzy and breathless.

“You have my number,” you remind him, eager to reconnect if he has the time.

He gives you that pearly smile, blue eyes full of excitement, “I’ll call you later. Tonight?”

You nod, “Tonight.”

He waits for you to get in, shutting the door for you when you’re sitting.

You lower the window as he backs away, “Bye.”

“Bye,” he nods, then turns to meet Mr. Wayne at his car.

“What?” Bruce asks, “It’s been months. She’s perfect for you.”

“Really?!” you can hear Clark demand, more annoyed with his friend again than any consequences his actions might have brought, however positive.

“You like her, don’t you?” Mr. Wayne asks.

“That’s not the point, Bruce. Boundaries.” Clark reminds him. “Why did you lie to her?”

“I knew you were coming today, I had to get her here,” Mr. Wayne explains. “Besides, you’re-”

As their doors shut, you’re cut off from their distant conversation. You shut your window, watch them speed out, and smile to yourself at the unexpected turn your spa day took.

#clark kent x reader #superman x reader #clark x reader #dceu fanfiction #dc fanfiction #clark kent #superman #bruce wayne #batman #dc oneshot

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nirikeehan · 3 years ago

Note

Happy Friday! I'm really interested to know more about the Nightmare!AU 👀 So maybe: "Composed characters losing their composure" for anyone of your choosing in that AU?

AAAHHH thank you. I’m obsessed with this AU because I like it when everything is hideous. The previous fic in this verse set up a conversation between my Inquisitor Thalia and Samson, so I went with that. Things got long, weird and terrible. I’m so sorry.

For @dadrunkwriting

Also thank you to @inquisimer for the encouragement and the vital piece of headcanon that made the ending possible.

Rating: M

Word Count: 4593

CW: Some mild non-con elements, because Samson is a creepy sad sack. Also a situation that is construed by one character as a suicide attempt.

---

At least I’m still alive, Thalia thought grimly, peering through the bars of her cage.

She had been imprisoned in this metal rectangle for untold days in Skyhold’s freezing Undercroft, under a sheet to blind her to everything but the sound of the falls. She had feared going mad there. Only hours ago she’d been moved, and the sheet had been reveal a nasty quartet of Red Templars, and the room was her own.

“What’s happening?” she’d demanded.

“Boss wants to see you,” grunted the Red Templar.

“Corypheus?” Thalia asked, but the guards said nothing more, and left.

Seeing her quarters like this filled Thalia with sadness and dread. She had loved the luxurious tower in Skyhold she had been afforded as Inquisitor. More decadent and spacious than her rooms in the Trevelyan estate — and a far cry from the cramped dormitory she’d shared with half a dozen other mages in the Circle — it had felt, for the first time in her life, like a space that truly belonged to her.

Now it was marred and violated: furniture ransacked, her beloved bookshelves bare, the beautiful lute gifted to her by a discerning noble smashed into kindling. What hadn’t been destroyed was replaced by ghoulish ornamentation: overflowing chests of gold and jewels, stolen pieces of artwork, divans and carpets and ornately carved tables littered with the foul remnants of vice: empty bottles of all shapes and sizes; rotting, half-eaten fruit; scraps of clothing belonging to both men and women.

Footsteps on the stair forced her upright. She squinted through the gloom, her blood pounding in her ears. A man cleared the landing. A thrill of joy and relief shot through her: she’d know the silhouette of that fur-lined coat anywhere. She grabbed the metal bars and pressed her face between them. “Cullen?”

The man stepped into the dying glow from the fireplace, and shot her a nasty smirk. “Sorry to disappoint.”

A horrified gasp escaped her throat. She shrank back. “You— you—”

“Yes, me,” said Raleigh Samson, Corypheus’s general. “I’m king of the castle these days, so to speak.”

Thalia had not seen Samson since the siege of Skyhold, when he and his men had breached the battlements, followed by Corypheus on his archdemon, framed by swirling black sky. With her remaining companions, she had stood behind Cullen as he’d drawn his sword, determined to make one final stand. They’d been separated in the ensuing chaos. She’d hoped, even in the bleak solitary confinement of the Undercroft, that others might have survived.

“He’s dead, then?” she whispered.

Samson drew closer. He had a face that might have been handsome once, but now his skin stretched over his bones. Premature lines criss-crossed his face, and his hair was thinner than the last time she saw him. Dark circles seemed a permanent fixture under his grey eyes, and his smile pulled on dry, cracked lips.

“They all are, love,” he said softly. “You’re the last one left. Too valuable for the master to kill, of course.”

His gaze dropped to her left hand, emanating a sickly green light.

“Yet.” Thalia swallowed.

“Yet,” Samson agreed. “He’s still got business to attend to before he has need of the anchor. You’ve been left in my care for the duration.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Samson sighed, turning from her abruptly. “Now, now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I don’t know what your boyfriend might have told you about me, but I assure you I’m a perfect gentleman.”

“Perfect gentlemen don’t usually have to assert themselves as such,” Thalia retorted. “Nor do they usually work for crazed demigods bent on destroying the world.”

“I’m wounded,” Samson murmured, staring into the hearth’s embers. “You’ve built your opinion of me on rumor and hearsay.”

“What else could I do? It’s not like you ever stopped by Skyhold for tea.”

“Sounds nice, actually.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Would you care for some?”

Thalia stared. She was kneeling in a cage, her wrists and ankles shackled, cold and dirty and hungry from the untold time spent in the Undercroft. “You’re offering me tea?”

“Why not?” Samson turned to face her. “Or are you thinking I’m too barbaric for such a thing?”

A sense of unease crept along Thalia’s ribs. He must want something from her, but she couldn’t figure out what: unequivocally, Corypheus had won. She was at his mercy, and Samson’s. She swallowed against a lump in her throat. “I’ll take some, I suppose.”

She expected, at best, to be handed a cup through the metal bars, but Samson fished through the inner pockets of his stolen jacket and produced a ring upon which hung a set of skeleton keys. He inserted one into the lock on her cage door and turned it. The door creaked open.

“You must be toying with me,” Thalia said.

“Does it look like I’m toying?” Samson stepped back, palms up as if in surrender. “Where you going to go, exactly?”

He had a point. The exit was downstairs, in an area surely crawling with guards. Her only other option was the balconies, with a hundred plus foot drop into the icy ravines surrounding Skyhold. Thalia limped out of the cell cautiously, the chains on her ankles too short to allow for a normal stride. The shackles on her wrists pulsated with imbedded shards of red lyrium. In small amounts, it had not been enough to cause corruption, but something about it prevented her from summoning enough mana to work a spell. She’d desperately wished Dagna were here to study it. To Samson, she was completely harmless.

He nodded toward the door off the bedroom. “Go on. Washroom’s over there. Clean yourself up, you look a fright.”

“I know where the washroom is,” Thalia retorted. “I used to live here.”

“So you did. You always stick your nose up at hospitality, or is that a newfound practice of yours?”

She bit back another flippant response. Her time as the Inquisitor had emboldened her, but before that she’d endured over a decade in the Ostwick Circle, where the mages were always one sarcastic remark away from discipline at the ends of the Templars. She could see something of the Templar bearing in Samson, in fact; a rigidness in his posture that reminded her, painfully, of Cullen.

“Thank you,” she muttered through gritted teeth, and turned away.

The guise of washing gave her a few precious moments alone to collect herself. The washroom behind the main room of the tower was largely unchanged. A basin full of clean water awaited her. She cupped some in her hands and stared at herself in the mirror. Samson hadn’t been kidding: her hair was a greasy, tangled mess, face streaked with dirt and dried blood.

She splashed the water on her face and took to scrubbing at her skin with a washrag. The grime melted away to reveal a face paler and thinner than she’d recalled, the circular tattoo of the Ostwick Circle standing out prominently on her brow and cheekbone. She had no means to wash her hair, and the shackles made styling it difficult, but she managed to pull out the half-unraveled plaits. She pulled the unruly mass back from her head in a simple bun and looked almost respectable afterward.

She paused with her hand on the door knob. Surely Samson would become suspicious if she took too long, but she relished a moment alone to think through her strategy. Samson had her bested in every way. There was no point in trying to fight him, but at the very least she might be able to learn something by conversing.

His motivation was likewise a mystery. He was trying to get her to lower her guard, but why? Did she possess vital information in turn, something that Corypheus’s forces had been unable to uncover? She couldn’t imagine what that could be.

She hobbled out into a brighter room. Samson had stoked the fire and lit a number of candles, cleared some of the mess off the low table. He put down a teapot of finely crafted porcelain and a matching set of delicate teacups. The image jarred her — this rough and grizzled man setting a place for her, as well as a tin of biscuits, a pot of jam. She wondered which noble’s manse had been ransacked for the finery.

“Sit,” he said, in a tone that was both kind and a command.

Thalia perched on the edge of the divan. She recognized it. It had been moved, and stained with a number of untold substances since she’d last seen it, but it was hers. She recalled a number of times sitting here with Cullen as the light outside turned golden and faded, curled up with a book, her feet in his lap. She thought of the smile he would give her each time she peeked over the top of the tome. Her heart ached.

She clutched her hands together, the weight of the shackles pressing down on her lap. Samson leaned over and poured the tea into her cup. She watched his hands tremble, another familiar sight.

“Low on lyrium?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I’m surprised Corypheus would deprive you.”

He halted, jerking his head up to catch her gaze. His eyes looked more red than grey now, but perhaps they were only reflecting the firelight.

“I’ve plenty,” Samson snapped, standing upright.

“I see.” It’s just not enough, then. His addiction is that bad. She’d known Cullen had considered Samson a cautionary tale, an example of a future where he could not resist the lyrium’s siren call, and she was beginning to understand his fear. Even world domination could not cure Samson’s sunken eyes, sallow skin and constant need for a fix. She reached out and took the teacup off its saucer. “My thanks.”

He only grunted in acknowledgement, and Thalia knew she’d hit a nerve.

Samson sat down heavily in a chair across from her and picked up his own cup of tea. She didn’t drink until he’d taken a sip himself, though she knew if he wanted her dead, he could have killed her weeks ago. He watched her closely as she drank. She tried to maintain the posture she’d been taught as a child, but her stomach was so empty she experienced a ravenous desire to fill it. She eyed the biscuits hungrily.

“Go on.” Samson slouched in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Didn’t put them out for decoration.”

Thalia hesitated. If she resisted, she would maintain the moral high ground but not much else. A full stomach would help her more in the long run. She leaned forward and snatched a biscuit, shoving it in her mouth in a decidedly unladylike manner. When she looked up, Samson’s gaze still bore into hers, with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

“Ostwick, eh?” he said.

She leaned back, to put more space between them. “What do you mean?” she asked, licking crumbs from her lips. Surely word had traveled far enough that even Corypheus’s forces knew the Inquisitor had hailed from the Trevelyans of Ostwick.

He waved his hand in front of one eye. “The mark of the Circle.”

“Oh. That.” Her fingers crept to her cheekbone, where the tattoo began, curving its way around her eye. “Most people forget that’s what it means.” An absurd statement — as if there was anyone left to care.

“I didn’t.” Samson squared his shoulders. “Worked with a few mages from Ostwick once. Heard about the things they did to you there. Branding you like cattle.” He looked away with a grimace. “Made my stomach turn.”

Bits of biscuit caught in Thalia’s throat as she swallowed. His disgust sounded genuine, a disgust that she shared. As if collecting blood for mage’s phylacteries hadn’t been enough, the Templar leadership in the Ostwick Circle had decided that the best way to ensure mages didn’t escape was to tattoo a symbol of the Circle onto their faces. Phylacteries could be broken, went the logic, but disfiguring someone’s features was permanent.

“I don’t remember the First Enchanter sending anyone to Kirkwall while I was at the Circle,” Thalia said quietly.

A grin quirked at the corner of Samson’s lips. “Didn’t work with ‘em while I was a Templar. I helped ‘em escape.”

“You — what?”

“Oh, did Cullen not tell you that part? That after I was tossed out of the Gallows, I ran unhappy mages to freedom across the sea?” Samson tilted his head. “Typical. He was always trying to shut us down, after all.”

Was Raleigh Samson trying to tell her that he understood the mages’ plight — the biggest issue she’d once clashed with her advisors on? Even Cullen, who sympathized with her point of view, having been on the enforcement end of the mages’ oppression, who had ultimately supported her decision, had his misgivings about giving them their unconditional freedom. And now, was Corypheus’s general truly trying to say he supported that cause?

Her eyes narrowed. “Hang on. Cullen told me you used to traffic people. For money.”

Samson let out a disappointed sigh. “A man’s gotta eat, love.”

“Or feed a lyrium habit,” Thalia retorted. “Sometimes those mages ended up in the hands of slavers, I heard.”

“Hey. That wasn’t my doing. Some people can pay more than others. Or at all.”

“How magnanimous of you. And when the Mage-Templar war broke out, your customer base dried up. Then you turned to smuggling lyrium. Red lyrium, for Corypheus.” Thalia shook her head. “Forgive me, but you aren’t going to win much sympathy from me, painting yourself as the courageous freedom fighter. Where are all those mages now? Dead or enslaved, just like everyone else.”

“There you go, sounding just like Cullen.” A muscle in Sams’s jaw clenched. “Thought maybe, given your background, you’d be more reasonable. But I suppose he has you wrapped around his little finger after all.”

Thalia bristled. She wanted to throw the remainder of her tea in Samson’s smug face, but her fingers halted gripped around the cup.

He’d spoken about Cullen in the present tense.

Thalia slowly returned the teacup to its saucer, struggling to keep her composure. “Is that what this is about? Proving Cullen wrong?” What else might she be able to wheedle out of him? “Is that why you’re sitting there, wearing his coat, trying to convince me you’re actually the hero here? Do you wish you were him that badly?”

“Ha! Me, wish I were him?” Samson leapt to his feet and began to pace. “Why on earth would I wish to be that simpering dog lord? Oh, sure, he was always the golden boy on the surface, kissing Meredith’s arse all the way to the top. But you didn’t know him like I knew him, love. Always battling the demons inside his little head. I helped him out when he needed it, filching an extra dose here and there to take the edge off. I was a good friend, see? And what did he do, when he’d made Knight-Captain and Meredith kicked me out into the gutter, copperless?”

Samson leaned down, leering at her. Thalia tried to inch away, but Samson grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. His pupils glowed with a scarlet fury. Thalia’s heart hammered against her ribcage.

“What did he do?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” Samson growled. “He did nothing. For years. Even when I tried — I tried to help round up the mage extremists and get reinstated, but he couldn’t take the risk. Too much of a junkie — too addicted to the lyrium the bloody Chantry poured down my throat. I was a liability to him, don’t you understand? I was worthless.”

Pain cut through every word of his rant. Thalia watched him with a mixture of fear and sorrow. He was a deeply broken man, that much was evident. Thalia found herself recalling the long afternoons spent with Cullen, trying to track Samson’s movements, how every clue seemed to remind her that there must still be humanity inside him. Cullen never budged. He was moved only by rage at his former friend, the exact same rage she now saw fueling Samson. How did it end up like this? she wondered.

“And then— and then.” Samson sat on the divan beside her, clutching her hands. “I see him running the Inquisition. Following the so-called ‘Herald of Andraste,’ — a mage! When I’d had far more sympathy for their cause — when I’d done far more—” He let out an agitated huff. “Some men are just bloody lucky, I suppose. Good looks, charm, obedience, is that truly all it takes? He gets the fame, the glory, even the girl…”

With one shaky hand, and a gentleness that surprised her, he cupped her cheek. His other hand clenched her palm, engulfing the light from the anchor, nails digging into her skin. Thalia froze, not daring to breathe. Cullen was right. He’s gone mad.

A desperate smile spread across Samson’s face. “Well, I’ve showed him. Who’s laughing now? I’m here, second-in-command to a living god, and he’s below us, rotting in the dungeon…”

He embraced her, clinging to her like a man drowning. Thalia let him, too stunned to fight back.

“I thought,” she breathed into his ear, “you said Cullen was dead.”

Samson jerked back, eyes narrowed. “Technically, you said that, love, not me. Who the fuck cares about Cullen, eh? I can offer you so much more than him.”

She stared, aghast. “You brought me all the way up here, let me out of that cage, tried to entreat with me… because you’re lonely?”

“Why not? ’S very isolating at the top.” He drew a stray piece of hair behind her ear, making her shiver. “I thought you of all people would know that.”

Trying not to recoil, Thalia took a deep breath. “And what does Corypheus think of this plan?”

“Well. He don’t exactly know about it yet.” Samson scratched at the stubble on his chin. “But I think he’d come around eventually. He did with that Dorian bloke.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Samson chortled. “That’s right, he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he? Heads the Venatori now. See what I mean? Corypheus can be reasonable.”

Thalia opened her mouth and closed it again, shocked. The Dorian Pavus she knew would have chosen death before siding with Tevinter supremacists, never mind agreeing to be their leader. Yet — all the rules of her reality had already been broken. If Cullen was alive, why not Dorian? Cullen was here in the Skyhold dungeons, and Dorian must be wherever the Venatori had set up their headquarters. Minrathous, probably. How many of her former allies might still be out there? Were any of them biding their time, looking for a sign, a glimpse of hope?

“Dorian’s a Tevinter,” she said with feigned blitheness. “I imagine he has a leg up from a lowly mage from Ostwick who accidentally got the anchor stuck in her hand.”

“Perhaps.” Samson slouched beside her, leaning on an elbow to prop up his jaw. His gaze was feverish, a mix of hatred and desire — though she couldn’t be sure if it was her he lusted after, or merely the sense of superiority she would provide him. “But if I were to vouch for you, Corypheus wouldn’t have need to kill you anymore, would he?”

“You mean work for him.” Thalia’s tone was cold.

Samson shrugged. “You got anything else going on at the moment?”

“And— what? Agree to be your—” She searched for a polite term and tried not to shudder. “Paramour?”

“Hey, don’t put it like that. I told you, I’m a gentleman. I ain’t forcing you to do anything. I just want you to give me a chance, that’s all.” He leaned forward and took her wrist, holding it up for her to see. “There’s a lot I could do for you, love. You’d like your freedom back, wouldn’t you?”

Thalia looked down at his clammy hand, but something aside from the shackles caught her attention. Cullen’s coat hung open on Samson’s slighter frame, revealing an inside lapel pocket she knew all too well. When the jacket had been Cullen’s, he was forever stuffing missives and scraps of notes to himself in there. The fabric dipped open, revealing the ring of skeleton keys he’d produced to let her out of her cage.

I wonder what other locks those keys could open. She thought of Cullen, in the dank dungeon, any screams being drowned out by the roaring of Skyhold’s falls. She swallowed hard.

“I suppose that would be nice,” she said softly.

Samson let out a smug laugh and dropped her wrist. “Good girl. Glad to see you’re not as thick as Cullen. ‘Reckon she’s got a brain in her head,’ I said to myself. ‘I bet she’s not too proud to refuse me.’”

“Is that what Cullen did? Refuse you?” Thalia felt a painful pang in her chest, because that sounded just like him. He would never bow down to the likes of Samson, now or ever. It was a wonder his stubbornness hadn’t gotten him killed already.

“Not only that, but he was an absolute tit about it,” Samson spat. “But I’ll show him. Oh, I will. Was being too lenient before now, outta the tenderness of my heart. Nah, I’ll get him in the end, when the red lyrium’s song consumes him.”

“What?” Thalia cried.

A slow smirk crossed Samson’s face. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. He won’t be a problem much longer. No one can resist the crimson melody for very long, ‘specially not a Templar. Soon he’ll be as compliant as the rest.” He stretched out slowly and luxuriously, like a cat. “And you’ll be mine, eh?”

Panic gripped her. If anything was being done to Cullen with red lyrium, she didn’t have time to play the long game. She couldn’t afford to be sweet and obedient until she lulled Samson into a false sense of security. She didn’t have days, or probably even hours. All the while, Samson sat beside her, offering her treats and pretty promises.

“Cullen was right,” she hissed. “You are a monster.”

“Eh, maybe. C’mere.”

He grabbed the chain around her wrists and yanked her closer. In his eyes she saw rage and fear and a cruel triumph; underneath it loomed a fierce, fathomless sadness.

He raised her chin with his finger and kissed her. She could feel the desperation there, all the loneliness and agony, the shadow of his addiction and the bitterness it had formed inside him, thinking he was unworthy, believing it damned him forever — unless he reached out and took the world by sheer force. It made her feel, for the briefest of moments, sorry for him.

She kissed back. Not because she wanted to, but because a man so starved for attention would be distracted by any drop of the thing he craved.

When they parted, Samson leaned his forehead against hers to catch his breath, and Thalia held a set of keys in one hand. “You’re lovely,” he murmured, and his cadence twisted a thread of pity deep inside her.

She tried to slip the keyring behind her and under a cushion, but the shackles made her clumsy. She spoke to hide any noise they might make. “You could be better than this,” she blurted.

“Nah,” Samson said. “I’ve made my choices.”

She tried to think of something else to say, but he leaned in again, too soon — knocking her hand and sending the keys clanging to the floor.

Samson pulled away, gaze dropping in confusion. “Wha—?”

Thalia grabbed the teapot from the table and shattered it against his forehead. Shards of porcelain and lukewarm tea flew everywhere. Samson let out a shriek of fury, clapping a hand over his brow where blood poured into his eyes. He lurched to his feet, but Thalia moved faster. She scooped up the set of keys and staggered away.

“You little bitch,” Samson seethed, swaying. “Get back here right now.”

He swung for her, but clumsily; Thalia dodged and tried to run. The chains on her ankles limited her movement and she nearly went sprawling. She shored herself up by leaning against the metal cage. She gripped the bars and tipped it over to put an obstacle between them. The corner of the cage clipped Samson’s ankle and he let out another pained yell. “Guards! Guards!”

Thalia limped out onto the balcony. A darkness black as night engulfed her, but the sky was roiling and starless. The wind was colder and more biting than she remembered.

She had to get away from Samson long enough to see if the keys fit her shackles, but there was no time. He was storming drunkenly after her, one hand nursing his forehead.

“Don’t be difficult, little girl,” he crooned. “Come back and I’ll be forgiving. There’s nowhere to go, anyhow.”

Thalia hit the marble balustrade, breathing hard. She knew how utterly she was trapped. How many months had she spent on this very balcony, gazing out at the snow-capped mountains? How many times had Cullen stood here with her, slipping his arm around her shoulders to warm her while the sun set?

It’s not going to work, she thought desperately. Cullen was directly below her, and she could never reach him. Soon the Red Templars would appear on the stair landing, and they would help Samson drag her back inside, and then…

Thalia gritted her teeth and hoisted herself up onto the balustrade. With effort, she rolled into a sitting position, the keys in a vise-like grip in one hand. She looked around; Samson stood only feet away, one side of his face a curtain of red. The anger had drained from his gaunt face. In its place, lighted only by the emerald glow of her anchor, stood naked fear.

“Come on now, love,” he said, his voice breaking. “Surely it can’t be that bad?”

She recognized his tone. It was the one Templars at the Ostwick Circle had taken with distraught mages — the nice Templars, anyway. The ones Thalia had thought might still have a conscience beneath the facade of duty and protocol. The realization slashed something savage through her heart. She swung her legs onto the far side of the balcony.

“This is the world you built,” she shouted. “Look around you, Samson. Yes. It is that bad.”

Samson stared at her, stricken.

“Then I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I am. Come down from there and we’ll talk about it, yeah?”

He held out a hand, sticky with blood. Thalia looked at it, and then, her stomach lurching, into the chasm below. She could see nothing but darkness, but if she concentrated, she thought she could hear vast, rushing water. She thought of the falls that ran through Skyhold’s dungeons, eating through so much stone that some cells could never be repaired, lest the keep’s entire foundation collapse.

Was it Solas who’d told her that there may be some ancient magic warding Skyhold’s walls, making it impossible to hurt oneself by falling? Or perhaps it had been Cole. She’d never tried to verify the rumor herself, for obvious reasons. And what counted as “within” the walls, exactly? She swallowed hard, clutching the keys to her chest.

“Thalia,” Samson said. He drew closer, his hand trembling in the frigid air. “Please. Don’t.”

“It’s too late,” Thalia whispered, and jumped.

#nightmare!au #thalia trevelyan #raleigh samson #cullen x trevelyan #thalia x weird tension with samson???#sobs #i'm so sorry #fics #dragon age inquisition #dragon age drunk writing circle

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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thatmultifandomhoe · 4 years ago

Text

Knitting You a Home - 8

Pairing: Wolf Hybrid Namjoon and Human Reader

Word Count: 2,731

Genre/Rating: Hybrid AU - Established Relationship - Angst - Fluff - Smut - Rated PG-13

Overview: Things have changed for you and Namjoon. It’s been a year since the two of you got together, and despite a rocky start, it was impossible to deny the bond and love you shared for each other. But ever since Hoseok had been separated from his Mate, Namjoon has been withdrawing himself from you and doesn’t come home until late at night.

With questions far larger than either of you imagined, you can’t help but wonder if he’s let his past and old fears come back to haunt him. You had shown him that it was possible to have a home and be loved once before, but will you be able to do it again?

Warning: Talk of nightmares - discussion of Hybrid abuse - implied mentions of drinking, drugs, hybrid mills - abandonment - Underground fights.

Music Playlist:

Main Master List:

Knitting You a Home Master List:

Mated Love is Never Easy Series Master List:

Sneak Peak - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - ?

©thatmultifandomhoe 2021. Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without permission.

You weren’t expecting Namjoon to come home at a normal hour. To keep yourself busy after Luna headed out, you plated all the goodies you made and cleaned up the kitchen, softly humming the entire time as you refrained from baking any further.

When dinner came and went, you had curled yourself up on the couch. The blanket you were knitting was long enough to cover your knees, but it still had a long way to go. In the living room there were two large windows looking out the front yard, a picture-perfect view of the tall oak and evergreen trees that surrounded your neighborhood.

The sky overhead turned pink as the sun began its descent, washed out burnt orange lights streaked the sky until it reminded you of peaches. If Namjoon had been here, he’d find a spot outside on the grass and watch until the sky was overflowing with stars. By then the fireflies would be out and he’d want to stay, mesmerized as they sparkled on and off until you went out with a shawl wrapped around your shoulders and a teasing grin to try and coax him back inside.

The knitting needles had stopped clicking a while ago. You were so lost in thought that you set the project back in its basket and stood up, tugging your sweater around your body as you made your way over to the window.

In the summer the sun didn’t set until eight at night, dragging out the painted skies for as long as nature allowed for it. Glancing around the room, an old book sat on top of an end table, the cover flipped open to reveal thinly aged paper. It made you smile softly as you picked it up, flipping through it to find the small black typed letters of poetry written long ago.

He was such a lover of words, always amazing you with how wide his reading interests ranged from, to how he even viewed life and the world. After everything that he went through, he still spoke about the world like it was a gift.

Screaming echoed in the house as you shot up in bed, chest heaving as you threw back the blankets to hurry to Namjoon’s room. Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t have entered without knocking, but this wasn’t the first time he’s had the nightmares during his stay with you.

It had been over a month since the storm, and while Luna had said many times that they weren’t as over-packed at the Homeless Center, you didn’t have the heart to tell Namjoon that he could go back. At least here he had a bed – a real bed and not a cot – his own room, new and clean clothe,s and home cooked meals. Even if the Center wasn’t over crowded since the storm had long since passed, it would still be loud and crowded, the very things that Namjoon didn’t need right now.

Turning on the lamp on his night stand, you crouched over Namjoon to gently shake his shoulder. He was breathing heavily as he gripped the blankets underneath him, beads of sweat dotting his forehead and tears formed under his eyelashes, dripping down his cheeks.

"Wake up Namjoon,” you called out, briefly scratching his ear as it twitched. “It’s just a bad dream hun, it’ll be all over when you wake up. I promise.”

He painfully cried in his sleep, body flinching when you touched him, but you didn’t stop trying to wake him up. It hurt to see him suffering like this and you knew, had he gone back to the Center, no one would have attempted to wake him once they realized this wasn’t a one-time occurrence.

“It’s gonna be okay Namjoon, you just gotta wake up.”

It took a little more coaxing on your part, but with one final shake Namjoon gasped as his eyes opened wide, searching around the room until they landed on you. He didn’t look away and he didn’t rip his arm away, a positive sign in your book since he had been doing that the previous times you woke him from a nightmare.

He never told you about the nightmares. Instead, he simply apologized and said to not worry about them. There was just one problem, you did worry. You worried because you knew that whatever was haunting him had been happening for years and every morning afterwards, there were dark circles under his eyes.

You worried because over the course of the last month, you’ve grown to care about Namjoon.

The clock on the nightstand said it was three a.m. Knowing that you weren’t going to be falling asleep anytime soon, you straightened so you were no longer leaning over Namjoon and let go of his shoulder.

“Want some tea?” You gently asked, realizing that the two of you had been staring at each other without speaking, long enough to make your cheeks blush.

Namjoon glanced at the clock too, momentarily coughing into his hand as he tried to catch his breath. You weren’t expecting him to say yes, he declined each time you previously offered after his nightmares. Knowing that, you still asked because a part of you hoped that one day, he’d trust you enough to open up to you.

“Sure,” he spoke, his voice hoarse from crying.

Your eyebrows lifted in shock, surprised that he had agreed. You didn’t let that deter you though, instead you gave him a small smile. “Okay. Come on out when you’re ready.”

Namjoon nodded once and you left shortly afterwards, closing the door behind you to give him privacy. Internally, your heart was leaping around, happy that he was appearing to come out of his shell, even if it wasn’t in the greatest circumstances.

Once you reached the kitchen, you moved out of habit, used to making late night drinks for Luna, but when you reached for the tea, you hesitated. You didn’t know what type Namjoon liked to drink. He only ever had coffee in front of you.

Leaving the orange mug empty for now, you prepared yours with instant coffee, knowing that it wouldn’t impact your sleep. As the hot water poured into the mug, you rifled through the tea bags you had, fingers pausing on one labelled Chamomile. Luna tended to favor this one when it was an especially stressful night, claiming that it helped calm her down.

Namjoon’s cries echoed in your mind and the next thing you knew you were plopping the tea bag into his mug and pressing brew for the hot water to dispense. If he didn’t like it, there were plenty other teas for him to choose. Leaning back against the counter, you softly smiled as he walked into the kitchen, his footsteps silent against the hardwood floor.

He glanced at the Keurig behind you, eyebrows scrunching up as he tilted his head at the smell. You didn’t recall making this one since he’s moved in.

“It’s Chamomile,” you softly explained, watching as his feet shuffled closer to the table. “It’ll help you relax. I thought you might like that after your nightmare.”

The corner of his lip twitched and a faint smile became visible. “Yeah, that sounds pretty good right about now.”

Hearing the Keurig finish, you turned back around to retrieve his mug, grabbing him a spoon and the honey bottle as well. “You’re gonna wanna dunk the bag a couple times,” you suggested, placing it in front of him. He raised an eyebrow at the honey and you shrugged as you retrieved your coffee before sitting across from him. “I wasn’t sure if you liked it sweet or not.”

“Thank you,” taking the honey, he poured a small amount in and stirred, carefully avoiding hitting the sides of the mug. “I…I really appreciate all that you’re doing for me.”

“It’s not a problem. I know things haven’t been easy for you.”

“But you didn’t have to help me.” He spoke, holding his mug in both hands. “You didn’t have to offer up your guest room, or be patient with me and share your meals, but you did.” Licking his lips, he raised an eyebrow at you. “And you didn’t have to let me stay this long. The storm ended weeks ago and the Homeless Center isn’t as chaotic, but you haven’t even mentioned that.”

Your eyes widened, feeling caught in the act when he softly smiled before taking a sip out of his drink. “How?”

“Luna called while you were away at work on day. She was wondering why you hadn’t told me that I could go back.”

Damn technology, you thought, shrugging as you tried to hide your embarrassment by pulling your knees up on to the chair and to your chest.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he softly asked. Lowering his mug, the spot between his eyebrows furrowed as he patiently waited. “Why didn’t you tell me to leave?”

A part of you wished you were able to play dumb and pull it off, to coyly act like you had no idea what he was talking about. Namjoon would know immediately though. His ability to pick up on your emotions hadn’t gone unnoticed in the time he’s lived with you.

The words escaped you for a moment, so you shrugged once as you tried to form the right thing to say. It only lasted a few seconds, because when you met his gaze, it flowed naturally. “I didn’t want you to leave,” you found yourself telling him, unable to say anything but the truth.

He blinked in surprise, leaning back in his seat as the silence took hold again. It wasn’t uncomfortable though. You didn’t mind it, figuring he was assessing your emotions to find the truth in what you said.

As he gathered his thoughts, you rubbed a hand across your eyes in an attempt to ease the headache from lack of caffeine.

“I told Luna it was better for that little Hybrid to be abandoned now because it’s true. It’s a shitty thing to experience when you can remember it.”

Tonight, was perhaps the most that you’ve heard Namjoon speak, and you were surprised with where he was directing his attention towards. Ideas swirled around with what he was talking about, about where this was going to lead, but you remained quiet as you focused on him, allowing him to speak at the pace he wanted to go at.

Namjoon ran his thumb around the rim of his mug, taking a deep breath. “I’ve lost track of all the owners I’ve had. There hadn’t been as many when I was younger, but as I grew up, grew bigger and taller, I got sent back to the Adoption Centers until one day, one of them got lazy and dropped me off at the Homeless Center. I was maybe, fifteen then.”

“Even with all the constant changes, I always knew I was a Hybrid. None of my owners ever let me forget that. They put me in small rooms, sometimes I didn’t even have a room but a closet or a mattress on the floor.” Lifting his gaze, he gestured around the kitchen with a bittersweet smile. “Everything in this room alone, to be able to have a cup of tea and not be afraid of the consequences, was once a dream for me. Still is sometimes.”

Shifting in your seat, you set your cup down on the table, having lost interest in the coffee that you usually loved. Because you were watching him, you were able to see his fingers tighten briefly.

“It was bad,” he simply said, not meeting your gaze this time. “There’d be days where I wasn’t allowed to eat, where I was expected to clean up after everyone and keep the house spotless and if I didn’t, well…sometimes not eat eating was better than their punishments. Almost forgot my own name with one owner. She only ever called me Hybrid.”

A rock settled inside your heart at what he was implying, and suddenly it made sense. The way he flinched at your touch, how you always had to encourage and reassure him that it was okay to eat and have more. Your eyes watered up and you bit down on your lower lip, unable to control the way your emotions seemed to fly around.

His ears flickered in your direction, finally looking at you again. He gave you a sad smile, leaning forward and shakily raised his hand, hesitating only once before running his thumb across your cheek. His touch was gentle but it only reinforced what you were thinking. How could anyone hurt someone as gentle as Namjoon?

“Don’t cry for me,” he whispered, doing it again to the other cheek. “It’s in the past, we can’t change what happened back then.”

Your bottom lip wobbled, leaning into his palm when he cupped your cheek, both drinks long forgotten as you closed your eyes, absorbing his touch. He wasn’t done with his story and for some reason, you knew that it wasn’t going to get any better.

“My last owner wasn’t any different. Like the rest of them, he felt like he was entitled because he had money to waste, and thought he was better because he was human and I was a Hybrid. But unlike them, he participated in the Underground.”

Frowning, you almost leaned back to get a better look at Namjoon, but when your cheek stated to slide out of his hand you stopped, choosing to stay in his touch. “The Underground?”

He gently tapped your cheek with his thumb, slowly nodding. “There’s the good part of it, and then there’s bad side. The good is mostly known for the music and art scene, but that’s not what most people think of. The Underground is mostly known for its bad side; the drugs, gambling, the Hybrid Mills and such, but everyone just calls it by one name since the lines blur together.” Namjoon shrugged, still rubbing your cheek as if to keep you calm. “One of the popular events are the fights, and as long as I was able to stand on my own two feet, he had me in them every night.”

You may not have known or understood what the Underground was, but with a little thinking it didn’t take long to understand what Namjoon meant.

“I was big and as a Wolf Hybrid, I had an advantage over some of the others. We…none of us wanted to fight, but if we didn’t, the consequences were worse than had we just lost.” Sighing, Namjoon lowered his hand from your face, his gaze falling to the floor once again as his shoulders slouched.

“My last fight had been against a kid, barely even eighteen and shaking. The crowd was screaming and whoever his owner was was threatening him…all I could do was stare at him, wondering who the hell I had become. For a split second I had considered it, it would have only taken one punch, and immediately I was disgusted with myself. The fact that I had even thought about it made me realize that I was no better than the human who owned me.”

You blinked as your mind resurfaced from the memory, pulling your fingers from the book cover as you stumbled backwards. Even now, there was still an ache when you thought about the life that Namjoon had been forced to live, the things he had to do to survive until he was able to escape. It had been a damn miracle that he ended up at the shelter that Luna worked at and she had called you when that storm came in.

Sighing, you plopped back down on the couch and turned the TV on, hoping to ind on a show that could manage to keep you awake for the next several hours.

Please Joonie, you thought, gently laying a hand on the Mate Mark that you treasured and wore with immense pride. A life with Namjoon was what you wanted, what you still wanted, but it was starting to feel like the two of you were heading in two different directions and all you wished for was to find the spot where things began to change. But you could only go so far, do so much, by yourself.

Please come home. Please.

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robininthelabyrinth · 5 years ago

Text

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, past 5, part 6 - aka Pastime (with good company) (ao3 link)

Warning: some adult content

Everything was settled.

The marriage date had been set – sadly there was still some time to go, since they’d reached that part of the year where there weren’t any auspicious days for marriage for a while, especially for a marriage like this (they were not getting married on a day that was auspicious for childbirth, no matter how much Wei Wuxian cackled at the thought) – and now all that was left was preparing for the ceremony.

The logistics were a pain, but all parties involved had been determined to hold a single ceremony, both to demonstrate that they were both first, neither above the other, and, as Wei Wuxian had grumblingly put it, to make sure no one was satisfied until they were all satisfied.

The negotiations had gone on forever, representatives of each sect bickering back and forth, but finally, finally, Lan Xichen had conspired with Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng behind the scenes and they’d exercised their authority as Sect Leaders to declare the latest version of the marriage plan acceptable.

There was a distinct possibility that they had gotten somewhat intoxicated before making the announcement, but however it had happened, it been made and Lan Wangji was happier for it.

Now, there was only – the wait.

Each of them had agreed that now that the marriage was settled, they would each stay at home to prepare the necessary things for marriage. Technically, only Nie Mingjue needed to pay the bride price, and of course their families would be providing dowries (with lists so long that Lan Wangji grew numb just thinking about it), but they had agreed between the three of them that it would be suitable for them to exchange gifts between themselves.

A sign of their forthcoming affection, but also – and this was Nie Mingjue’s rare insistence on the subject of gifts or etiquette – independence. Nie Mingjue was the husband, of course, and they the brides, and that meant something, even if cultivator sects rarely imposed the sort of requirements on its female cultivators that the common world did, but in his heart Nie Mingjue was a fairly staunch an opponent of unnecessary hierarchy when in peacetime, though whether this was his own inclination or another of the Nie sect’s oddities was less clear. Politically, he was engaged in a fierce fight with the Jin sect, opposed the mere concept of a Chief Cultivator and preferring that the Sects manage themselves as they always had rather than succumb to the order the Wen sect had tried to impose, but his opposition was – as always with the man – genuine, and it was important to him that his brides knew that they were free in their own right, rather than receiving their freedom as a gift from their husband.

(Lan Wangji had thought of their mother when Nie Mingjue had argued the point, his eyes flashing and hand hitting the table to emphasize it, and his heart had overflowed with joy that he was marrying this man above others, this man and Wei Wuxian who did not know rules, both of whom would rather die than cage him; Lan Xichen and even Lan Qiren had been moved by the demand, their eyes suspiciously wet, and Lan Wangji had seen in the way Jiang Cheng rubbed his thumb over Zidian that he, too, was not unaffected.)

Of course, once the principle was agreed upon, they now had to enact it.

Lan Wangji expected that Nie Mingjue would have delegated the initial task of finding gifts for them to Nie Huaisang, reserving the right for a final decision for himself – if it was a Nie sect principle, there might be some element of ritual involved in the unusual gift-giving, some tradition that wouldn’t make sense or be explained until they were safely married in; Qinghe had long had a reputation for being a little bit different from the other sects, and not just in their preference for the saber over the sword.

Wei Wuxian, on the other hand – Lan Wangji expected he was equally hard at work. Perhaps others in his sect believed that he would ask Jiang Cheng for one of the Jiang sect’s treasures, diminished by war but recovered in their victories, but Lan Wangji thought he knew Wei Wuxian better than that: most likely, he had just decided to use the time before the marriage to invent something no one in the world has ever seen before, and contribute that instead.

That seemed far more his style.

As for himself, Lan Wangji followed his own sect’s traditions, taking on the new request with the dignity and solemnity with which it ought to be respected. He had already spent several days in the Lan sect’s treasure room, sorting through each item and considering whether it would fit one or another of his spouses. His uncle, not yet fully reconciled with his decision – his general approval of Nie Mingjue wrestling against his general disapproval of Wei Wuxian – had come to see him several times while he was there; he would never disagree with Lan Xichen on such a serious matter as someone’s life, and never publicly, but his love for his nephew and his concern for Lan Wangji’s well-being drove him to probe repeatedly as to whether Lan Wangji really thought that this marriage would make him happy.

Lan Wangji was very sure it would. He’d only liked two people in his entire life and thought them both untouchable, forever beyond his reach – to now be faced with the possibility of having them both was beyond even his wildest dreams.

…perhaps not his wildest dreams. He’d been having some very interesting ones recently.

At any rate, it was a wise decision on their part to separate, and to stay separate. After all, they would have their whole lives to spend together – it was better to take this precious time before their marriage to reflect on their families, their past, the events and circumstances that had led them to this moment…

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian called, his eyes bright with excitement as he waved and ran forward to greet him. “What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting to see you – what brings you to Yiling?”

Absolutely nothing, in truth.

There was no reason at all for Lan Wangji to be in Yiling.

He should not be in Yiling: he thought of himself as the patient one of the three of them, suffused with Lan serenity and self-denial, having cultivated long ago the ability to wait forever for what he wanted – none of Wei Wuxian’s impulsiveness or Nie Mingjue’s hot-headedness for him. And yet, of the three of them, Lan Wangji was the one who weakened first.

It was only that he had woken up in the dead of night, alone in the jingshi and abruptly convinced that it was all a dream that had lingered too long, that it would disappear with the morning dew, and he had suddenly needed, urgently, to see one of his future husbands, to confirm to himself once again that this was really happening. And before he knew what he was doing, he had taken Bichen and turned his face to the sky, fleeing to Yiling as the closer and least-bad option –

At least Wei Wuxian seemed to feel the same way, to judge by the way he insisted on dragging Lan Wangji to and fro throughout the Burial Mounds, reintroducing him to all the Wen sect members that he’d already met on his first visit; only things time, Wei Wuxian would stop to speak to each one with a smile, explaining the situation – just now he had greeted a man with a wave and shouted, “Fourth Uncle, this is Hanguang-jun, Lan Wangji. We’re going to be marrying soon, to Chifeng-zun – all of us together, me, Lan Zhan, and Nie Mingjue.”

“Yes, we know,” the man said, looking indulgent. “You’ve mentioned it a few times.”

To judge from his expression, it was more than a few times.

“You remember them, right?” Wei Wuxian barreled on, utterly undaunted. “Lan Zhan’s been here twice before, and Nie Mingjue is the tall gorgeous one. Not that Lan Zhan isn’t tall and gorgeous – wait. Am I the short one in this relationship?!”

Wei Wuxian was two centimeters shorter than Lan Wangji, who was in turn shorter than Nie Mingjue (who he was sure routinely lied about his height in some misguided attempt to pretend he wasn’t quite as toweringly tall as he was); Wei Wuxian was, in fact, the short one, albeit only by a little.

Lan Wangji exercised his judgment and decided not to comment, offering up only a neutral hum when Wei Wuxian looked at him, aggravated.

“It’s good you’ve got a smart one in your marriage, Wei-gongzi,” the man said, chuckling. “Good at spotting and avoiding traps.”

“Traps..? – hey! Are you saying I’m not the smart one? Lan Zhan, tell him -!”

Lan Wangji hummed again, more to make Wei Wuxian laugh than anything else.

At some point, they settled down in the Demon-Slaughtering Cave, Wei Wuxian running around to fetch tea and some snacks; it was getting to be late in the evening, the journey to Yiling and all the introductions having eaten up most of the day, but tea was always welcome.

After a few moments, Lan Wangji realized that no one else was there – not Wen Ning, nor Wen Qing, nor anyone else – and he frowned. “Is this appropriate?”

“Sure it is,” Wei Wuxian said at once, his response coming a little too fast to be anything other than planned ahead of time. “Obviously it would be inappropriate for either of us to be alone with Nie Mingjue, being as he’s our future husband; we would require a chaperone. However, although we will also be marrying each other, we’re both marrying in as brides, and there’s never been any restriction on brides sharing each other’s company before the wedding.”

Lan Wangji gave him an unimpressed look. “Semantics.”

“Very useful semantics,” Wei Wuxian protested, and pushed one of the snacks – a little radish cake, by the look of it – towards him. “Come on, I want to talk with you, discuss some questions about our marriage, and to do it without being gawked at by one of the Wens. Are you really going to insist that I call one of them in here?”

He would probably call Wen Ning if he called anyone, Lan Wangji thought, and felt a spark of jealousy in his belly. Which was ridiculous, he was the one who was marrying Wei Wuxian, and getting Nie Mingjue in the bargain as well; there was no reason to be drinking vinegar at the thought of Wen Ning. Even if he was the one that Wei Wuxian had defied the cultivation world for, resurrected from the dead at great cost, kept by his side at all times –

“…no,” he finally said, and Wei Wuxian’s smile was brilliant enough for him to almost forget about his not-quite-righteous motives in agreeing to waive propriety. “You had questions?”

“Sure! I mean, how is it going to work? Do we split having him on even and odd days, or do we have just one really big bed –”

Lan Wangji’s ears were burning; he had somehow not expected that the questions would be of this type. He pinned his gaze firmly across the room. “The Unclean Realm is large,” he said. “We will each have quarters of our own.”

“Well, yes, of course. Everyone gets their own courtyard; I was there at the marriage negotiations too, you know. But in terms of the details –”

“Mingjue-xiong is the husband. He will decide.”

“He might be the husband, but it’s not as if we’re not men ourselves,” Wei Wuxian argued. “I may not know that much about being a cutsleeve – Jiang Cheng only managed to find me one spring book in all this time, apparently he’s encountering some awkwardness about buying them – but I have a vivid imagination and plenty of yang energy; I’m not going to wait around in my courtyard to see if he wants to visit or not.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Why would anyone have expected that he would? Why had Lan Wangji ever expected that this conversation wouldn’t leave him simultaneously turned on beyond all belief and also wanting to die of sheer awkwardness?

“I can lend you one, if you wish,” he said, still staring firmly at the wall.

“Lend me one – oh, Lan Zhan! You mean a spring book? For cutsleeves? You have one?”

Lan Wangji had more than one.

His brother had figured out years ago what his inclination was, and anyway the Lan sect prided itself on preservation of information; there had been cutsleeves among the Lan in the past, and they had donated their books to the library upon their deaths the way everyone else had. With Lan Xichen’s help, it hadn’t been too difficult to smuggle some of them back to his quarters to review once he’d realized that his spring dreams were not going to go away without external assistance.

(In the end, the information had only made his dreams more vivid and detailed, but at least he learned enough to be able to stop shamefully smuggling in extra robes every day and taking on additional chores to account for overusing the sect’s laundry.)

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you have to tell me everything,” Wei Wuxian said, leaning forward, his eyes bright with mischief – mischief, and something just a little bit more. Before, Lan Wangji would have told himself that he was imagining things, but for the first time he thought that he could hope that he wasn’t, that Wei Wuxian wanted him, wanted him as much as Lan Wangji wanted him in turn. “You have to take pity on me; I’ve never even kissed anyone!”

That got Lan Wangji to stop staring at the wall and to turn to stare at Wei Wuxian instead.

Wei Wuxian, the accomplished and even notorious flirt, as he’d seen with his own eyes in their time in the indoctrination camp; who had told him on Phoenix Mountain that he had lots of experience kissing –

“But you said –” he started, then stopped, pressing his lips together when Wei Wuxian started laughing.

“At Phoenix Mountain? You believed me?” Wei Wuxian said with a smile, his eyes curving into crescents. “No, I was just trying to save face. What was I supposed to say? I would have been embarrassed to admit it! Though actually, even though I’ve never kissed anyone myself, I did lose my first kiss right around that time; someone came up to me while I was blindfolded –”

Lan Wangji’s shoulders went up around his ears. “Wei Ying.”

“– the maiden was very forceful, but at the same time very shy, since she waited until I was blindfolded –”

“Wei Ying.”

“– she was so aggressive! Even managed to slip me a bit of tongue –”

“Wei Ying.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian looked delighted at the thought. “Now, now, fair’s fair, I’ve told you, now you have to tell me – have you ever been kissed?”

“…kissed. Once.”

“Oh, you did the kissing?” And now Wei Wuxian’s eyes were narrow, but playfully so – at least, Lan Wangji thought it was playful. Maybe Wei Wuxian was drinking a little vinegar, too. “You don’t mean a childhood kiss, do you? No? A real one, then; that puts you one up on me. When was it?”

Lan Wangji wanted the ground to swallow him up, but – it was no longer a matter that needed to be hidden lest Wei Wuxian hate him forever, a hopeless infatuation that could go nowhere and would be taken to the grave eternally unrequited. They were going to be married.

You could not start a marriage on a lie.

“…Phoenix Mountain.”

“What, really? Huh, that’s a coincidence! You kissed someone right around the time that –” Wei Wuxian paused, and Lan Wangji braced himself. “Lan Zhan. You didn’t.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t sound angry.

Lan Wangji snuck a peak at him – he didn’t look angry, either. He looked delighted.

“You know, Lan Zhan, that was very bad of you,” Wei Wuxian said, pretending to scold but grinning far too wide for it to sound authentic. “You took my first kiss, which I’d been guarding for twenty years! You have no choice but to take responsibility.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji said, feeling a wave of relief. “Wei Ying is right. Would marriage be sufficient recompense?”

“Now that’s more like it,” Wei Wuxian cackled. “Your first kiss, and mine, and soon we’ll be married…hey, Lan Zhan! We should do it again.”

Lan Wangji’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Kissing! After all, we wouldn’t want to disappoint Nie Mingjue on our wedding night – we should practice.”

“Practice…kissing.”

“We’re just the brides,” Wei Wuxian reminded him, and suddenly he was closer than Lan Wangji had expected; he was pressed right up against Lan Wangji’s side, and every part of them that was in contact felt as if it was on fire, even though there were layers and layers of cloth between them. “Our job in our marriage is to please our husband, since we’re not exactly going to be bearing him heirs. It’s no harm then, is it, trying to study up in advance on the sorts of things that will please him – that’s why I want to read those spring books you have, Lan Zhan. I want to think about all the things we could do together.”

Lan Wangji’s mouth was dry, and Wei Wuxian’s face filled his eyes.

“But I have to admit, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said. “I also – just really want to kiss you.”

Lan Wangji leaned over and pressed his lips to Wei Wuxian’s.

It was better than Phoenix Mountain, when he’d been too aggressive, almost wild in his frenzied need to express himself and yet so new at what he was doing to figure out at first how their mouths would fit together; this time, with the little experience from before, their mouths slotted together naturally, and best of all, this time Wei Wuxian wasn’t just shocked and stiff with surprise in his arms; this time, Wei Wuxian was kissing him back.

Fiercely, even; his hands sliding up into Lan Wangji’s hair as they kissed frantically, Lan Wangji’s own hands on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and waist.

“Oh, Lan Zhan –” Lan Wangji heard Wei Wuxian groan his name against his lips, voice low and deep, and he was drunk on the sheer joy of it. “Lan Zhan –”

They tumbled down to the ground, Wei Wuxian pulling as much as Lan Wangji pushed, and Lan Wangji was straddling him, the two of them hot up against each other as they kissed again and again – lips and cheeks, faces, necks, wherever they could reach. Lan Wangji had had dreams like this, but nothing was compared to the reality: Wei Wuxian was warm in his arms, vocal with his pleasure, full of little whimpers and moans and his name, rolling around his mouth like fine wine; his legs inched up Lan Wangji’s thighs, urging him onwards even as his hands started exploring his shoulders and giving little tentative tugs of his hair that only made Lan Wangji less restrained because of how unexpected it was.

“Wei Ying…” he growled, applying his teeth to Wei Wuxian’s neck and rumbling with delight when Wei Wuxian threw back his head with a surprise moan of pleasure.

“Lan Zhan, oh, yes – is that how you’d do it for Nie Mingjue, Lan Zhan? I bet it is, I bet you’d love to put your teeth in his neck and mark it up – ah! Yes, like that, more – ”

They had long ago left propriety behind, but they were very quickly getting to the point of being truly inappropriate; the thought was fuzzy in Lan Wangji’s mind, seeming very unimportant – they were getting married soon, after all, and that would be even better than this, because Nie Mingjue would be there, his intense gaze on them both, his hands on them –

“We should stop,” he forced himself to say.

“We will,” Wei Wuxian said, tugging him down for another kiss, his hips arching and rubbing up against Lan Wangji’s. “We will, Lan Zhan, just a little more –”

Much more and Lan Wangji would very quickly be lost, violating his oaths of restraint before marriage; he was very near to the edge as it was.

“We can’t, we have to wait until marriage,” he murmured even as he sucked kisses and left teeth marks on Wei Wuxian’s collarbone. “But we can do something else…”

The Lan sect prided itself on a strict adherence to the rules, on obeying the spirit of the rule and not merely the letter, but there had been since long ago a very particular loophole regarding the rules of restraint – an acknowledgment of reality, really, of the fact that the blood of young men and women ran hot, and that it would be cruel to make a rule that so many would find themselves unwittingly breaking.

Sharing physical pleasure with another before marriage was of course absolutely inappropriate – when it was a man and a woman involved, rather than two men, it came with the loss of chastity, the risk of pregnancy, the ruination of all future hopes; it was reasonable to restrict those who had not yet bowed three times to, at most, touching each only with clothing fully in place.

If they were not cultivators, that would be the end of it – but they were, and there were more routes to pleasure than the mere physical.

After all, the act of joining together yin and yang was not called dual cultivation for nothing.

Lan Wangji summoned up the qi from his golden core, allowing it to circulate through his meridians as if he were planning to cultivate, and dropped his hand eagerly between their bodies to Wei Wuxian’s dantian, where Wei Wuxian’s own cultivation, his golden core, would respond to his own, their cultivation reacting to each other as a stimulus, sparking pleasure even as they grew stronger. He’d never experienced it before, but he’d heard whispers of how it felt, a rush that was so good that it was nearly addictive and yet soothing as well, a relaxing of the terrible tension, allowing their bodies the peak of pleasure without the physicality of release that was denied to them.

Lan Wangji put his hand on Wei Wuxian’s belly and felt Wei Wuxian groan, his hips arch –

He felt –

Nothing.

#mdzs #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wangxian #nie mingjue #my fic #my fics #pasttime with good company

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its-sixxers · 5 years ago

Text

Harmonics

Charon once played guitar - a scrap of information more precious than gold. The Lone Wanderer recalls it in the depths of her grief. Both realize that even in the wasteland, neither of them are alone. Charon x Female LW, pre-relationship.

Sorta sequel to Hobbies.

AO3 Link

Charon had mentioned he once played guitar.

Scraps of information about him were rare as intact books and Lizzy was intent on building herself a library with what was offered. Information about what he liked was most precious of all - it took her a couple of weeks to even persuade him to talk about anything beyond his contract, and a couple of months to get him talking about his own personal desires. While the faded slip of paper she kept in the inner pocket of her vault suit said otherwise, she and Charon were equals. She wanted to get him a gift to prove it.

The best part about gifts was the surprise, to Lizzy, and so tracking down a guitar presented a thorny problem indeed. Time spent apart from Charon was scant, and he seemed tense the few times she told him to go do as he pleased. When questioned on it, he said it was always more comfortable for him to stick around and her heart hurt to imagine just what was done to make him feel that way.

Still, she took advantage of what time she had - chatting to Rivet City merchants about possible sightings while Charon was distracted, slipping Crazy Wolfgang fifty caps to keep an eye out as Charon inspected a shotgun grip. Lizzy lingered in the magazine and instrument sections of libraries, sneaking reading material into her bag to figure out just what went into making a guitar work. She even made up an excuse to get them into the area of Agatha’s cabin so that she could check in with the violinist and see if her plan was feasible - and found to her delight that yes, it was.

Crazy Wolfgang eventually came through for her with the guitar, and she enlisted Butch’s help in delivering it unseen. To Lizzy’s despair, the strings were broken or rusted away, but Butch reassured her that at least the body was good, giving it a rap with his knuckles to prove his point. So her search narrowed from a guitar to strings, and even as her work for her father and the Brotherhood picked up she kept an eye out for her quarry. The nights she spent in Megaton (growing increasingly rare, with how much DC needed her) saw her sanding out splinters from the guitar body and varnishing it as best she could. Lizzy winced to see that polish only seemed to bring out a bloodstain on the thing more, but supposed Charon wouldn’t mind.

Blood was just another part of living in the wasteland, natural as snow or rain.

Lizzy soon learned the full breadth of what that meant, and the guitar was forgotten.

Her father’s death made her forget a lot of things - forget why she was trying to put one foot in front of the other, forget that her suffering was echoed by so many other poor souls out in the world. Weeks were spent in a hazy state, eating only at Charon’s urging and starting to dip into the few bottles of alcohol she’d collected. The growing cold outside mirrored the numbness that was spreading through her after she found she had no tears left to cry.

Charon spent more time apart from her out of necessity - it was he who went to see what the caravans had now, who went to Gob’s Saloon to find out the news, who even braved getting them raw meals from the Brass Lantern. When she slept in (slept was a generous term, for she often spent upwards of an hour lying limply in bed in the morning) he’d place a large hand on her shoulder to wake her. His contract meant he had to keep her alive - at least, that was what she told herself. Nothing more.

It was when Charon was out doing yet another thing that used to be her responsibility that she heard a knock on the door. Lizzy dragged herself from the couch where she’d been re-reading the same sentence of her book for the past thirty minutes and tugged open the front door of her Megaton home.

Butch stood with his leather jacket zipped up and knit mittens on his hands, holding a small box. Snowflakes stuck to his pompadour as he fell, and with every exhale his breath puffed out in a fog, reminding her of how they pretended it was smoke back in the vault’s freezer as children. Lizzy could remember the look of horror on her father’s face when he discovered them, her own bewilderment as to how the place could be dangerous. She flinched from the memory, and her dry eyes stung.

“Hey.” Butch said, his smile faltering at the sight of her. While not vain by any means, Lizzy had always placed importance on looking professional and put together - now she couldn’t remember the last time she brushed her hair.

“Hey.” she replied flatly, hand leaning limply against the doorway, subconsciously trying to bar him from entering. Lizzy couldn’t bear the sight of his smile, how it reminded her of the vault, of times when it felt like she’d follow in her father’s footsteps and everything was warm and bright. The fact that she felt such a way toward her best friend in the world filled her with guilt, her cup already overflowing. Guilt was the one emotion that broke through the numbness, and she was drowning in it.

“I found something in Rivet City Supply.” he began. “Had to cash in a favor with Seagrave, but I thought you’d like to see.”

In spite of herself, Lizzy’s eyes dropped to the box in his hands, curiosity sparking for the briefest of moments. Butch moved his thumb from the label, and in faded ink she could read “BKM Guitar Strings”. The cellophane window of the box was still intact, and within she could see shining metal strings.

“You came all this way…” Lizzy’s throat was dry from lack of use, most of the communication she’d done with Charon nonverbal. “... to give me these?”

“I know you were looking for them.” Butch looked over her shoulder and into the house, likely searching for Charon judging by what he said next. “For the big guy.” He held the box out to her, and she took it from him. “I’m gonna be staying up at Gob’s for the next couple’a days. I’d stay and chat now, but Moira wants to interview me about hairstyling.” He made a display of rolling his eyes, and Lizzy knew he was just making up an excuse.

It was a feeling the two of them shared, pain from family. A wish to keep their grief hidden, to keep it manageable and clean. For all the teasing he’d done to her in their childhood, he knew precisely when and how to dodge a painful subject entirely.

Sensation hummed in her fingertips, brushing the old cardboard and tingling in the cold. Lizzy nodded. “I’ll stop by.” she said, not entirely certain it was a lie. The guitar. She’d forgotten about the guitar, an idea born of the time before, when the sun wasn’t so cold and remote. Now the project was rekindled in her mind, something separate from the cloud that loomed over her.

Butch tilted his chin up in acknowledgement. “Say hi to the big guy for me.”

“You’ll probably see him on your way out.”

“He’s a hard guy to miss, I’ll give you that.” He laughed, turning back to Megaton’s many platforms. He cast her one last concerned look over his shoulder before she shut the door.

Lizzy moved faster than she had in weeks, the metal stairwell echoing from her hurried footsteps. She took the box into her room and shut the door before falling to her knees and crawling forward to her bed. Setting the box upon the mattress she set her palms flat against the cold metal floor, finding the panel she was looking for and pulling it open, revealing a floor compartment. Within were her most treasured possessions - her mother’s holotapes, the photographs from her tenth and sixteenth birthdays with Dad and Jonas, Butch’s first leather jacket. With them were items of value - an engraved magnum, an intact camera and film, a half empty bottle of scotch, and the guitar body. Lizzy pulled it out of the hidden floor compartment and retrieved a rolled up instructional booklet from inside of it.

The next two hours were spent sat on her bed with necessary tools in hand, stringing the guitar. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings, the saying went - and with her hands put to work Lizzy was incapable of thinking of the guilt that threatened to drown her. At some point Charon returned, and his knock at her door startled her terribly.

Lizzy froze, vaguely recollecting that surprise was a large part of why she’d gone to such lengths. If she was discovered now, all the work had been for nothing - and she couldn’t bear something else hoped for being snuffed out. To her relief, Charon did not try to enter. She must have made a noise when he startled her, for he seemed satisfied enough that she was still alright judging by his retreating footsteps.

Soon after her work was complete, and she almost wept on the instrument from relief. So much work, so much time, and now she had something in her arms to show for it, unlike…

Unlike…

It reminded her why venturing out of her carefully constructed bubble was a mistake, for she had no cushioning, no numb protection to the raw assault of memory. A hand pressed to glass, fingerprints on the glass, the geiger counter, the geiger counter -

The bath faucet in the other room turned on, the movement of the water through pipes gently rattling the wall the bathroom shared with her room. It brought her back to the present, staring down at the guitar. Lizzy mopped at her wet cheeks, clinging to the last stage of her project. The gifting itself. Thinking up solutions to the problem crowded out her memory - Charon only took what was directly offered to him if it was ammunition or a grenade. With food or medical supplies, she’d have to make a point of having it appear as if she was doing it for her own sake and creating plausible deniability - a gift of convenience.

When she cracked open her bedroom door, she could hear water splashing from the bathroom next door, the familiar sound of Charon’s large form sinking into it. Even in her state she felt a little swell of happiness to know that he was willing to let himself have such a luxury. Assured he’d be kept busy more than long enough for her to do what she had planned, she picked up the guitar by the neck and crept downstairs into the living room. A fire crackled away happily in the wood burning stove in the corner devoted to the kitchen, and the ground floor was much warmer than her room. It was too warm - too close to reminding her what times before felt like, and so she hurried. Approaching the couch, she set the guitar down in Charon’s favorite spot, in front of the blanket Moira had crocheted her as a housewarming present.

As soon as she was certain the guitar wasn’t going to fall over, she retreated back into the familiar territory of her bedroom. The chill washed over her, icing out not just the wave of memory threatening to drown her again but the fluttering embers of joy her work had given her.

Lizzy stumbled over to her bed and fell upon the mattress. The haze began anew.

When she returned downstairs in the night to grab a bottle of water, the guitar was gone.

Charon didn’t mention the gift, but the next day he woke her with breakfast and an announcement.

“I believe it is best that we go somewhere today.”

Lizzy hauled herself upright and looked at him blankly, her fork scooping up small portions of instamash. “Where?”

While his stony posture and expression didn’t change, she heard him exhale in relief. “Gob’s. They think I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Mm.” she hummed, finding she didn’t feel strongly one way or another. Lizzy didn’t protest when Charon handed her a brush in exchange for her empty plate, and soon she was bundled up and shuffling through the snow to Gob’s Saloon.

Butch was eating breakfast, and Nova’s face lit up to catch sight of her. She poked her head into the back room, and soon Gob was walking out of the kitchen wiping his hands with a rag. Charon placed a hand to the small of Lizzy’s back and gave her a gentle nudge forward.

The next period of time - Lizzy had lost the ability to gauge its passage - was a mirror world of normal circumstance - now it was Lizzy giving short and clipped responses to any conversation, and Charon exchanging longer sentences. What was discussed left her memory the moment it was spoken, and soon enough Charon was tugging her hat back over her ears and guiding her back outside.

“Charon.” Lizzy murmured, when they were back outside. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Is that an order?”

“No.”

He nodded briefly, strands of patchy red hair falling across his brow. “It is my duty to protect you.”

It was all he offered in reply, and she accepted it as she always did.

Going out was a mistake, she realized that night - new color was given to her nightmares, the armored men who’d broken into the Memorial breaking into the Saloon as she visited, the scene melting into Butch, Gob, and Nova staring up at her with glassy eyes, melting into her father’s kind face, gone slack, the tick tick tick ramping into a metallic screech with exploding rads, Charon’s arms tugging her away-

Charon.

Lizzy blearily opened her eyes, greeted by the sight of her room illuminated in the deep blue of early dawn. It was a welcome sight, an escape from the nightmare, and she lay with her cheek crushed against the mattress staring at the wall until the blue light started to tinge pink and sleep threatened to claim her once again.

Movement had to be made, and with great effort Lizzy untangled herself from the blankets, coiled around her from the thrashing she’d no doubt done in her sleep. When she opened her door she was surprised to find the door across the hall that led to Charon’s room was wide open, granting her a rare glimpse of his spartan quarters. He never needed to sleep much, but the pre-dawn was early even for him. The change made a bubble of dread rise in her throat - and she walked to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face.

The pipes groaned when she turned the tap, the water cold enough to make her gasp when she splashed it on her face with cupped hands. It shocked her out of her dream state and brought reality into sharp focus.

In her new clarity, she could hear something faint coming from downstairs once the pipes had settled, and it took her a few moments to register that it was music. It sounded nothing like the radio, lacking distortion and also entirely different from anything played on it. Guitar strings, plucked one by one in a simple melody. Lizzy took a few steps out onto the landing, and peered as far over the railing as she dared to the living room.

Charon sat on the couch with the guitar in his lap, dwarfed by his large form. He was twisting the metal tabs on the guitar’s head, plucking a few notes, then twisting another - she recalled from the books she’d read that he was tuning it, something she lacked the knowledge and equipment to do. The metal floor panel beneath her right foot creaked, and he lifted his gaze to meet hers.

Caught out, she froze, horrified that she’d made a misstep and seen something she shouldn’t have - but Charon just dropped his attention back to the guitar, unperturbed. He plucked a few more notes before giving the guitar a single strum. The sound reverberated through her small shack, and caused goosebumps to rise on the back of her neck.

When the echo of the strum faded he started playing properly, and Lizzy found herself slowly descending the stairs, the torn hem of her nightgown trailing behind her. Slowly she approached the living room, feet thankful to move from cold metal to throw rug. The music was a siren song, simple and warm notes intertwining in a rhythmic and almost hypnotic pattern. Truly hypnotizing was seeing Charon’s hands at work, large fingers suddenly dextrous and precise, hands that seemed built to destroy dancing up and down the guitar neck.

Another low sound joined the melody, and it took her a moment to realize Charon was humming, a bassy rumble of thunder. It had her sinking into the armchair across from the couch, and still Charon did not seem to mind - his attention was caught in his music, the few glances he cast her way seeming more incidental than anything.

Then he began to sing.

Not in a language she could understand - at first she thought he’d made up the sounds, so musically did it flow, but soon she recognized it had the same intonations and cadence as the few unfamiliar terms he’d used around her before. He sang as lowly as he spoke, warm and rasping as a campfire. The melody was terribly melancholy, but to her surprise Lizzy found it did not make her sad.

It made her feel understood.

The two of them sat only a few feet apart, the ambient blue light fading into the pink of sunrise. Shafts of golden light spilled through the holes in the roof. In the warmth of dawn, even Charon’s features were softened. For those few minutes the small space seemed another world, their exteriors cut open and bared to the other, each observing but saying nothing. When he made eye contact with her after trailing off of a particularly low and mournful note, she realized that she did not suffer alone.

Something about it comforted her. When at last Charon placed his palm over the strings to silence them and set the guitar aside, she inhaled sharply as she had when she splashed the cool water onto her face.

“What was it about?” she asked quietly, and to her surprise he smiled tiredly at her - a rarer sight than diamonds.

“A warning.”

Lizzy stared at him for several moments, watching the muscles in his jaw work - as if trying to work up the words to say something more. Whatever battle he fought, he lost.

“Thank you.” she said, more a whisper than anything - but he heard it in the still silence of dawn.

Charon nodded, breaking eye contact and staring at his lap for a few moments before standing. “I will get us some food.”

“No, it’s okay.” Lizzy interjected, at last finding it in her to smile. “I’ll make it.”

#fanfic #fallout 3 #charon x lone wanderer #the fic to accompany that doodle i dun did #butch playin' wingman what else is new ;)))

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chatonne-rousse · 4 years ago

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Lullaby and Good Night

When two-month-old Emma wakes up in the wee hours of the morning, Adrien employs the unique combination of purrs and piano to help his daughter fall back to sleep. His heartfelt song carries Marinette from dreams to reality and back again.

A little story of sleep deprivation, the power of music, and two hearts overflowing with love for their family of three.

Read it on Ao3 here.

*****

The dream is lovely, but clearly a dream. There's no reason, much less space, for a grand piano to be situated on a rooftop, gleaming in the city lights and the nightly glow of the Eiffel Tower, but here they are.

Ungloved fingers glide across the keys, filling the air with a melody she feels in the depths of her heart. It's more than pleasing to the ear, far more than just a beautiful tune, though every stroke of the keys is perfect. This is his heart speaking to hers through music, pure love in every note. Tears spring to her eyes unbidden and she wipes them away quickly, the feel of her suit cool against her skin.

She gently places her hand on his leg, red and black against the green and grey plaid of his...pajama pants? His muscles flex beneath her fingers as he deftly works the pedals and she closes her eyes, letting his closeness, his scent, the feel of him beside her, right where he belongs, wash over her in a heady rush.

Words are unnecessary in this halcyon moment. I love you echoes all around them in the night air.

As dreams always do, this one drifts away on tendrils of contentment, leaving Marinette with a smile on her face even before her eyes open. Warm and cozy under the duvet, she reaches for her husband, ready to snuggle close and chase a few more hours of sleep - or, at least, as many blessed minutes as the adorable alarm clock they created would allow them.

Expecting warm skin and the body she knows every inch of by heart, it's a surprise to find the other side of the bed empty. Well, it's a momentary surprise. One or the other of them leaving the bed in the middle of the night has become commonplace in the past few months, but Emma will be sleeping through the night before it ever becomes normal to be alone in bed without him.

Wakefulness comes quickly from that point. Figuring she’d been awakened by Emma’s fussing but hearing no sound from the crib nearby, she takes several long moments to blink in the darkness and orient herself to time and place.

A soft melody reaches her ears when she sits up, and there's no stopping the smile that crosses her face.

In all these years, hearing him play the piano has never lost its magic.

With rarely a sour note, the technical prowess gained through years of grueling practice is evident, but his genuine enjoyment for the instrument shines brightest.

His life has long since been his own, happily shared with his beloved family on his own terms, with infinite support to chase dreams he would never have entertained in his youth. When he works the occasional modeling gig, it's because he chooses to do so. When he fences, it's because he enjoys the sport. When he plays the piano, it's because the act of creating and sharing music brings him joy. Simple as that. The latter is one last vestige of connection to his mother, a way to escape a difficult day for a little while, a method of bringing beauty into the world that doesn't involve smiling for a camera.

Marinette knows all of this, knows that when her husband sits at the piano he requested to be placed in their living room, that it's an extension of the man she loves, a precious gift that he gives of himself every time he plays.

She pads silently to the crib and peeks in, finding it empty.

A picture is starting to form. She hurries into the living room, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.

It's another surprise, then, to find someone other than Adrien at the piano. She'd expected him shirtless and clad in those green and grey plaid pajama pants, with sleep-mussed hair and a tired smile. Instead, she finds Chat Noir, holding their daughter in one arm as the other hand plays a soft lullaby.

When she slides in next to him on the piano bench, the smile he sends her is indeed tired, but also full of tenderness and a touch of wonder. That's common - his awestruck joy at becoming a father, at seeing the love of his life become a mother, has left him with a permanent soft shine in his eyes. Marinette would have said she couldn't love him more, but he's proven her wrong at every turn. It's a good thing the heart has an infinite capacity because, between Adrien and Emma, hers seems to grow daily.

"Not that I mind," she murmurs, reaching over to caress the back of her daughter’s head and marveling as always at the fine softness of her wispy hair, "but why is a superhero in my living room playing the piano in the middle of the night?"

He chuckles quietly. "You know how much our kitten loves my purr. I thought it would soothe her back to sleep."

Our kitten. It makes her emotional every time he says it.

"It does, Minou, but we both know you can purr without the suit." She shakes her head. "Because that's a thing in our lives, for some reason."

The laugh he stifles shakes his chest and the infant held against it, but, Marinette notices suddenly, Emma's eyes are wide open anyway. She doesn't make a peep, simply gazing up at her daddy, with one tiny hand curled against his suit, directly over his heart. Limned in moonlight from the balcony's double doors, they're an ethereal vision, almost too beautiful to be real. Even as she laughs quietly with him, she's helpless against the tears that finally spill down her cheeks and wet the front of the old t-shirt she sleeps in.

He's used to the spontaneous tears by now, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

"To answer your question, My Lady, I can purr louder and longer transformed, and she loves the feel of the suit." He gently touches the back of his daughter's hand at his chest and meets her silent gaze. "Don't you, my precious girl? You love your Daddy Kitty, yes you do."

That startles a laugh that Marinette doesn't even try to hold back now that she knows Emma is awake. "Let's revisit that name later, Adrien."

At this point, the half-delirious laughter they share is that of two exhausted parents awake for the second time between midnight and dawn.

"These claws make playing a total pain, though." He lays his free hand gently on top of the keys with a little scale of five successive clicks. "Worth it for my favorite kitten, though."

Emma looks so peacefully comfortable in his arms, Marinette hates to separate them, but— "Was she hungry?"

"Dirty diaper," he says, patting Emma's bottom. "She wasn't crying, I just happened to hear her fussing a little. Didn't want to wake you up since you were just up with her—" he glances behind him at the clock on the wall, squinting at it to make out the time in the dimly lit room. He gives up trying to calculate and looks at Marinette with a wry smile, "—a very short time ago. We've been hanging out for...a while."

She wonders what "a while" means, but she's beyond grateful to have a partner so willing to get up and tend to their little one in the middle of the night. His thoughtfulness is never really a surprise, but she has yet to find its boundaries - his kindness and care are seemingly infinite. Marinette can't imagine a better husband, father, partner.

Aaand she's crying again.

"You sure you're okay, Mari?"

She nods and smiles at him, sniffling. She reaches for the baby and he hands her off with practiced ease. Within a moment, Emma roots against her chest and Marinette lifts the hem of her t-shirt to let her nurse.

Adrien slips away but returns immediately with her nursing pillow, which she takes with a grateful smile, sighing in relief once it’s in place between her lap and the baby cradled in her arms.

Taking one look at Emma, Adrien puts his hands up in mock-surrender. "Fine, fine, I get it. I've got a cool suit and strong muscles and I can purr, for heaven’s sake, but mommy wins every time, because I can't do that."

"Darn right," she says with another laugh, before her expression softens. "And...thank you, my love. I slept just long enough to get in one nice dream."

The eyebrows he raises are hidden, but his mask moves with them, big green eyes alight with mischief. "Dreaming about a certain cool cat?"

"And his strong muscles? Maybe."

He hums. "We should...recreate it."

"You don't even know what I was dreaming about, you tomcat!"

"Ah, but you were there and I was there and it was nice, so whatever it was, it sounds great."

She shakes her head and grins at him. "I would love to recreate it, Chaton."

Green light fills the room as his transformation falls, leaving the tired, shirtless dad with sleep-mussed hair and plaid pajamas she'd originally expected to find at the piano. He catches Plagg and gives him a scratch between the ears.

"Thanks, buddy. I appreciate your help."

Plagg's huge yawn morphs into a sleepy half-smile that shows one fang. "No problem, Kid. But I'm going to bed...after a cheese break."

"Good plan. You've earned it." He smiles after his kwami as he zips off toward the kitchen.

Alone once more with only the sound of Emma nursing and Adrien rubbing circles on her back, sleep creeps back in at the edges of her consciousness, darkening the corners of her mind and making her eyelids droop.

Adrien shifts next to her, reaching over to brush the back of his fingers against Emma's cheek; the movement brings Marinette back from the precipice of sleep. She blinks several times at her daughter, perfect and beautiful in the pale pre-dawn light - a miracle created without magic, Ladybug's ultimate lucky charm.

She's halfway to tearing up again when she hears a jaw-cracking yawn beside her and gives him a watery but sincere smile. "You can go back to bed, Minou. We'll be right there."

Though his eyes are half-closed, he shakes his head. "It's okay, I can wait for you."

Marinette repositions Emma to the other side and latches her before placing a hand on Adrien's plaid-pajama-covered leg. Unlike in her recent sweet dream, the hand is ungloved and they're in the quiet of their apartment instead of a rooftop, but the feeling of being blissfully happy and loved beyond imagination is identical. If she's just a bit more tired than she was in her dream, well, that's life with an infant, isn't it?

"Will you play for us, Adrien?” she asks, quickly adding, “if you want to."

The radiant joy that lights his face makes her heart soar, and she falls just a tiny bit more in love.

"For the two ladies I love more than anything?" He bends to kiss Emma's head, then meets Marinette's lips for a soft, lingering kiss. "The world."

"A song will do, Kitty. I'm too tired for the world right now."

He nods sagely. "Right as always, My Lady."

She giggles when he straightens his spine and theatrically flings nonexistent coattails behind him off the piano bench. Exaggerated for show, he places his bare foot above the pedal and positions his hands over the keys as though he's playing to a packed concert hall. He flashes a brilliant grin over his shoulder at her just before his fingers meet the ivory.

The song he begins is soft and plaintive, neither a lullaby nor a romantic epic but a heartfelt mix of the two. Gentle and lovely, the melody he coaxes from the keys reflects his own heart in vivid detail. She hears his devotion to his beloved partner in the deep, solid chords that anchor the piece, his effervescent delight at being a father bubbling over in the tinkling trills at the top of the scale that he plays softly so as not to rouse Emma. With a sweeping glissando, he returns to the center of the scale and lets each note tell Marinette how truly, deeply, eternally he loves her.

It's one of the most profoundly beautiful things she's heard in her entire life, a gift of love for her and for their daughter. It's overwhelming.

Emma's eyes have closed as she drifts off, her lips fluttering occasionally against Marinette's skin. When she's sure Emma is asleep, she lets the hem of her t-shirt fall to her lap again and brings the baby to her shoulder. Cradling her close, she lets her eyes slip shut and sways languidly with the melody. The tears that wet her cheeks are inevitable at this point, her chest so full of emotion she could burst.

Adrien's impromptu moonlight concert concludes on a quiet arpeggio layered over a lingering chord, fading into silence when he finally lifts his foot from the pedal.

He takes a deep breath and turns just as Marinette surges up to meet him, her lips moving against his with her heart's own echo of his song.

I love you. Emma loves you. We're so lucky we have you. You're the best dad. You're the best partner. My heart is yours forever.

When they break apart - gently, of course, so as not to wake the currently-sleeping baby - she imagines his expression of lovestruck exhaustion is mirrored on her face.

"I love you so much."

"Mmm. I love you, too."

A pause.

"I'm so tired."

The laugh they share is one of pure commiseration.

"I know. Let's get back to bed and see how much sleep we can get before our kitten wakes up again."

Adrien carefully takes Emma from her before he stands and starts up a quiet purr, reaching out his free hand for Marinette to take. She lets him help her up and lead her back to their room, watching as he settles Emma back in her crib with the utmost care. When he joins her beneath the duvet once more, she finally snuggles up to him as she had intended a half hour ago, before she found the bed empty and Chat Noir in her living room.

She smiles against his chest and listens to his breathing even out. Chasing precious sleep herself, Marinette lets the memory of his song fill her mind as she drifts off, hoping for another dream as beautiful as the last.

#miraculous ladybug #ml fanfiction #ml fic #domestic fluff #new parents #baby emma #piano and purrs #my writing

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project-rosewood-476 · 4 years ago

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House of Gold

Okay, so this is strictly fluff. This is the fluffiest thing I have ever written for this AU and probably will be the most fluff you all will get for this.

This fic is based on the song House of Gold by Twentyone Pilots. I wanted to explore and explain the relationship between Tabby and her stepdad before everything went to shit. And I feel as though that song suits them.

"Kitty" is a nickname that she had for her stepdad when she was younger because her real dad and stepdad were both named Michael so to avoid confusion but she slowly dropped the nickname when she got older.

Summary: Tabby is six at the time and she is left home alone even though she's not supposed to be due to her mother's A+ parenting choices. When she's bored out of her mind she goes looking around for shit that she's not supposed to. But what happens when she takes a trip down memory lane and remembers all the good times she had before she was left all alone. Will it fill her with despair? or renew her sense of hope?

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

The lonely six-year-old paced around her small apartment relentlessly. Being left home alone yet again, she was pretty bored. She was looking for something to do. She was tired of TV, books, and she wasn’t hungry, so that she couldn’t eat her boredom away. Not that there was much to eat in the house anyways. She couldn’t go outside alone because she didn’t know where anything was, and the outside world scared her. Usually, the person she would consider her dad would be here by now. He would have taken her to the park, play pretend, play fight, or colored with her. It’s boring playing by yourself. But since he wasn’t here for reasons unbeknownst to her for a year now, she was left with her own devices.

What do you do as a child who’s left home alone and bored out of your mind? You snoop around. Tabby went through the drawers in the kitchen. Maybe she could concoct something to eat if she looked hard enough or find something new to play with. She found nothing interesting. Nothing but silverware, junk mail, and odds and ends of a miscellaneous drawer that didn’t hold her attention for very long.

She walked down the narrow hallway, altogether skipping over her room since she knew everything that she had in her room. She went straight into her mom’s room. She took in her surroundings. She saw a couple of unfinished jigsaw puzzles on the floor. Sometimes her mother and her would try to finish them when her mom had the time. She saw the miniature wolf sculptures and figurines that her mother adores on her dresser. She went through her drawers to see if she found anything interesting or to remind her mom to do laundry if she saw that she didn’t have clothes in there. The good news is that her mom didn’t need to do laundry. The bad news was that she found nothing to hold her interest. She took one of her mom’s green work shirts and just inhaled her scent. It calmed her down and took her mind off of her boredom. She missed her mom a lot. Tabby decided to stay buried in her mom’s scent for a few minutes later before moving on.

Tabby decided to raid her mom’s closet at least help her organize that godawful mess in there. Her mother’s closet was on the same length as most middle school and high school lockers. She began to separate the piles of clothes from clean to dirty based on smell until she came across an old blue folder. Finally, something to cure her boredom. Tabby opened it up to have a look and couldn’t believe what she saw.

“So this is where he’s been hiding the stuff that I make for him while he’s been here,” she realized in thought as a couple of pictures, a few short stories, and a couple of fathers days cards that were still all in pristine condition. Even a couple of years later.

That brought a smile to her face and brought back memories.

A little girl four years of age was sitting on the floor, focusing intently on a drawing that she was making on the coffee table. An older man in his late 20’s plopped down onto the couch lazily as he looked over to what the girl was drawing.

“Whatcha drawing?” he asked as he peered over.

“Remember the house by the candy shop that we always pass on our way to the park?” she asked, still not looking up from her drawing.

“The one that’s always on sale on hill street?”

“If that’s what it’s called, then yes.”

“Yeah, what about it?” he asked, still not getting the picture

“Well, someday when I’m all grown up, I’m going to buy that house, and I’m taking you with me. It will be our house!” she said proudly.

He raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Really? What about your mother? Aren’t you going to bring her along too?” he asked, struggling to find the words to speak.

Tabby grew quiet and looked down.

“We all know with the lifestyle mommy is living, she won’t live very long. You’ll last longer,” she said quietly.

“Yeah…” he trailed off, a little disturbed at the child’s eeriness. But she wasn’t far off from the truth either. He was aware of the type of life and choices that her mother led and made. Some of them left him scratching his head, and a lot of the time, they made his blood boil. What kind of a mother would do that to her kid. Tabby was a lot more perceptive than what she’s given credit for. He knew that.

“Besides,” said Tabby bringing him out from his angry thoughts,” You’re my best friend. It would be weird to plan my future and not have you in it. It’s only natural that you would be a part of it.”

“You think that I’ll be around that long?” he asked, amused playing along with the girl’s plan.

“You’d said that you would be around forever, right?”

“Of course, kiddo I-I gave you my word,” he was taken aback by the fact that she took his promise so seriously.

“Okay then,” she went back to drawing.

“How do you think that you’ll pay for the house, huh?”

“I’ll get a job when I’m old enough to work, duh,” she said it like it was the most obvious thing ever.

“You’d have to be 15 to work legally.”

She stopped to look at him in horror.

“But that’s so old.”

He couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh at her concept of old age. It was so fascinating to listen to what the four-year-old thought of the world around her. Sometimes she had solid points and saw the world for what it is at its base. Simplistic and so full of good and hope. Other times her ideas were so bizarre that they showed just how innocent she was.

Tabby looked at him, confused. Had she said something funny?

“Oh, I’d hate to break it to ya, kid, but if you think 15 is old, then it would take even longer to save up money to buy the place.”

She looked at him even more confused.

“How hard can it be?”

He let out another hearty laugh.

“Oh, kiddo, you have no idea.”

I will make you

Queen of everything you see

I'll put you on the map

I'll cure you of disease

Tabby took out one of her short stories that she wrote starring him as the hero and god that she saw him as. She worshipped him. She was rereading her work, a masterpiece at the time; now, she cringed at how godawful it was. However, she remembered beaming with pride when she handed him her finished product that she worked on for a month. It was the first story she ever wrote.

“Kitty, look! Look at what I made for you!” Tabby ran to him as soon as he walked out the door.

“What is it?” he asked as he kneeled to be on her level.

“I made you a story,” she said shyly as she handed it to him.

He was a little shocked at the gift. This was the first thing she’s ever given him. It was one of the nicest things anyone has done for him in a long time.

“Will you read it?” she inquired excitedly.

“Sure, after I take my nap. Then I’m all yours, and we can talk about your story.”

“Awww,” she sounded dejected.

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll put it right beside me so that way it will be the first thing I’ll do when I wake up. Fair enough?”

“Okay,” she sighed. She wasn’t happy with the compromise, but she took what she could get. She went back to play with her stuffed animals to keep herself occupied in the meantime.

However, he did not nap that day like he said he would. He spent his allotted two hours reading her story and just taking it in. She showed a lot of talent and promise with writing. Even with her limited vocabulary, she put so much passion and emotion behind what she was saying and trying to express that it was easy to get what she was saying. What moved him to the point of a few stray tears streaming down his face was how evident she thought so highly of him. She viewed him as a hero and thought he was a good person that he was better. It was so moving when he didn’t even think of himself like that. Knowing that someone out there in the living room loved him enough to see past that and had so much to give left him speechless.

Let's say we up and left this town

And turned our future upside-down.

We'll make pretend that you and me

Lived ever after, happily

Tabby was grinning from ear to ear, sitting on the floor, looking through her old drawings and stories she wrote for him that he still kept in pristine condition. She had a few stray tears from happiness leaking out, but she didn’t care. This was the closest she felt to him in a long while. She took out another picture. It was of her and her dad running through trees on some sort of adventure. There’s a story behind that one.

Tabby was drawing furiously at the kitchen table while her dad made her some spaghetti to eat for dinner. Her dad peered over her shoulder.

“I see that you’re overflowing with creative juices again. What are you drawing this time?”

“You and me we’re going on an adventure, but I can’t decide what the rest of the picture should be,” she said, frustrated.

“What about trees?” he suggested

“Like the woods?” she asked

“Yeah, like we’re going on a hike and camping. That’s an adventure, and we’ll come back when we’re done,” he said as he turned away to finish making dinner.

“Oh, I don’t want to come back,” said Tabby quickly as she went back to drawing.

He almost dropped the hot pot of boiling spaghetti at her statement.

“Why wouldn’t you want to come back?” he asked slowly.

Tabby stayed quiet for a few minutes before slowly turning to face him.

“Is it bad that I don’t want to stay with mommy?” she said in a voice that was barely a whisper.

“I- Uh- W-what makes you say that? Don’t you love mommy?” he didn’t know how to answer that.

She shook her head furiously, sending her long strands of black hair all over the place while moving her little hands in a ‘no’ motion “, No no, no, that’s not it at all! I do love mommy, I do! It’s just- she never listens to me. I tell her that I don’t like it when she brings home strangers, and she still does it anyway. I tell her that I don’t like it when she sleeps all day, but she does it anyway. If you love someone, then you would listen to them. It’s like I’m not here! I am unwanted and unloved, and I don’t belong!” she looked down as her bottom lip quivered like she was going to cry.

Oh boy, he didn’t know what to say or do. He bit off more than what he could chew. He was aware of her mother’s questionable life choices, but he never knew just how badly they affected Tabby. He gathered that they made her sad and lonely and neglected, but he never knew how deep her hurt ran. His burning hatred and anger at her mother quickly turned into heartbreak for the child in front of him.

He went back to plating her spaghetti and set it down in front of the sulking child. He petted her hair in an attempt to comfort her. He continued to do so until he noticed that she was feeling a little better to turn around and eat. Satisfied, he went back to plating his meal.

“You know for what it’s worth; I can promise you that the bad things are only temporary even if they don’t feel like it at times. If anyone can get out of this town when you’re old enough to, I have absolute faith that it would be you.”

“You think so?” she asked excitedly and hopefully.

He ruffled her hair.

“I know so.”

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

Tabby grew bored and put the pictures and clothes neatly back as best as she could and got up to explore the other rooms in the apartment. She went to the bathroom and opened up the cabinets to see what was in there. Her mother often told her not to look through the bathroom cabinets, but she wasn’t here to say no. Tabby concluded that if it were that bad, she would be given a sign that would tell her no. She found nothing of interest. Just chemicals that she knew better to play with and in the upper cabinet various cold medicines, band-aids, anti-bacterial ointment, nail clippers, the thermometer, her mother’s happy pills as she called them, and bandages. Tabby felt a twang of nostalgia that hurt her stomach when she looked at the bandages, and she knew why.

Tabby was sitting on the couch waiting for her dad to come back and babysit her. Where was he? Her mom said that he would be here in two hours. It’s been more than that. She jumped when she heard the sound of the front door opening and closing. Tabby turned around quickly only to be greeted with the horrific sight of her dad staggering in, out of breath, bruised and bloodied.

“Oh my god, what happened?” asked Tabby, horrified as she ran towards him, tripping over her own feet.

“It’s nothing, honey. I just got into a fight; that’s all” He made his way to the kitchen and sat down in the chair as he grimaced.

“Well, we have to get you cleaned up,” she fretted, struggling to figure out what to do.

“Good Idea. Do you know what to do?” he asked

Tabby slowly shook her head no.

He sighed “, That’s okay. I’ll walk you through it. First, get a cloth and wet it with warm soapy water. That will help clean off the blood and kill the bacteria.

“Got it,” she said as she ran into the bathroom to grab a dishcloth from the pile, put on some warm water and used hand soap, and rubbed it into the cloth to make it soapy. She came out waiting for further instructions.

“Good now, gently pat clean up all of the blood as best as you can, okay?” he sounded tired.

Tabby went slow and tried to be a gentle as she could with a few reminders. Laser focusing on the task at hand. His hands revealed minor cuts and shallow gashes.

“Is that good enough?”

“Yes, now go get the ointment. It should be in the upper cabinet in a blue and white packet in the bathroom.”

“On it,” she ran back to the back to the bathroom as fast as she could and grabbed her stepping stool that she uses to reach the sink to brush her teeth. She stood on her tiptoes on the chair to get the cabinet to open it. She looked for anything with blue and white packaging until she found the tiny ointment packets he was talking about. She grabbed a few and ran back out into the kitchen.

“Okay, now what?”

“Now open the packets and gently smear the ointment on just for extra precaution for infection.”

Tabby struggled to open it with her tiny hands, so she had help opening it. She spread the ointment all over his hands as gently as she could.

“Now what?”

“Now, I need you to go into the junk drawer and get two safety pins.”

“Okay,” she knew where the drawer was in the kitchen. She rummaged through to find what she thought were safety pins since she had no idea what they looked like. She pulled out a paper clip and showed it to him for confirmation.

“No, that’s a paper clip. Try again.”

She rummaged through the drawer again and pulled out a thumbtack.

“No, that’s a thumbtack try again,” he sounded exasperated.

Tabby whimpered and held her head down like a scolded puppy. She didn’t like how he sounded displeased with her. She rummaged deeper in the drawer and finally pulled out a safety pin,

“There we go!” he encouraged.

She pulled out another one and set them both on the table.

“Now go get those bandages in the upper cabinet. They are long and white.”

She nodded and went back into the bathroom once more to grab the bandages and ran back out.

“Good, now wrap them around my hands,” he walked her through the process of doing that, and he put on the safety pins to hold the bandages in place himself.

Tabby grabbed his hands and kissed both of them. He jerked back in surprise and was a little taken aback by her actions. She looked just as confused as he was.

“What are you doing?”

“I was just kissing your boo-boos to make them feel better. That’s what mommy does with me. I thought it would work for you.”

He hugged her tightly and tried to choke back his tears at how sincere and pure she was. It was only then, when she calmed down enough that she realized that he stunk. Specifically of cheap whiskey and liquor. Tabby tried to push away and scrunched up her nose.

“You stink,” she complained bluntly.

He burst out laughing. “I suppose I do. I’ll tell you what, let me take a shower, and we’ll have a movie night, and I’ll let you stay up an hour past your bedtime.”

“Okay!” Tabby said excitedly with a giggle.

“As long as you don’t tell your mom.”

“My lips are sealed” she made a zipper mouth motion.

I will make you

Queen of everything you see

I'll put you on the map

I'll cure you of disease (Ooh)

Tabby closed the bathroom cabinets and went back out to the living room. Right back to where she started. She stared out the window at the busy street down below. It became part of her daily routine to stare out the window and see if her dad was coming back. She didn’t know. It could be any day now. She hasn’t lost hope yet. She continued to stare, being lost in her thoughts.

“And the pirate kingdom of Aiwratha is saved from the mutant octopus by the rebel pirates!” she held her stick that she used as a sword up in the air in victory.

Tabby and her dad were currently at Maplehood park on the wooden play pirate ship in the middle of the playground section of the park. With Tabby as captain of the rebel pirate team and her dad as her first mate. Since no one else wanted to play with Tabby, they have played this multiple times with different storylines. Secretly they both never tired from it.

“We did it! We did it! We did it! We are the heroes!” he cheered as he picked her up and spun her around.

“Of course we are! Why wouldn’t we be? We are a team forever and always! Together nothing will get in our way! There’s nothing we can’t do!” she squirmed to be put down.

He took a minute to look at her eyes that were too big for her face. But they were so full of hope, adventure, optimism and had that bright lightning in her eyes. Ready to take on the world. He chuckled a little as he put her down and let her run free.

Maybe he didn’t do a bad job with her after all.

And since we know that dreams are dead

And life turns plans up on their head

I will plan to be a bum

So I just might become someone

Tabby sighed and rested her head on her thin arms on the window sill gloomily. She perked up when she saw somebody that looked like her dad. Only to sink back down when she realized that it was a false alarm. Here she was all alone. So much for his promise of sticking around forever. So much for a future with him in it. That dream is dead.

She slowly sat up with a confused realization.

What was she thinking?

Sure he wasn’t here now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be here until later, right? She recently discovered that dreams do die, but maybe just maybe, dreams can come back to life. Perhaps he will come back, and those dreams can soar again. Yes, that’s right! This train of thought filled her with renewed hope, and she was bouncing in her seat in eagerness. Sure she and her mother aren’t in a good place right now, but that would be her responsibility to bring them both out of this dark place. She believed that she was strong enough to do so. All she knew was that she had to fight to survive for herself and her mother alive long enough so when he does come back, they will be a family again, and her dad would be proud to see just how far she’s come. She’ll be a hero once again.

She asked me, Son when I grow old

Will you buy me a house of gold?

And when your father turns to stone

Will you take care of me?

I will make you

Queen of everything you see

I'll put you on the map

I'll cure you of disease

She didn’t have an exact plan to go about this, but she decided it would be best to start small with stuff she could do. First, she could clean up the apartment as best as she could. After all, she can’t have him come back to a dirty apartment. She was leaving the heavy-duty cleaning to her mom, such as chemical cleaning, laundry, and dishes since she didn’t know how to do any of that. However, she could pick up a little and sweep. She knows how to pick up after herself and has seen her mom sweep multiple times, so she has an idea of what she’s doing. She was too small for the real broom, so she would just use her pink kid one. She got to work right away.

She will do everything in her power to help him come home to her.

All for him.

#every rose has its thorn #erhit au #fanfic #creepypasta fandom #creepypasta #tabbyanderson #tabby #house of gold #twenty øne piløts #send me requests #please flood my inbox #please and thank you

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henryobsessed · 5 years ago

Text

The Widow and The Widow - Epilogue

Jaskier sat to their right playing beautiful tunes on his lute. Jaskier finished his song his face wrinkled which reflected in the warble of his voice as he spoke to Julia "Ahh the good old days, adventures and romance, monsters and money" Geralt growled low as Julia laughed "You didn't go on any of those adventures Jask you were too busy playing with the children"

Word Count: 1950

Warning: Grief

A/N Awwww I didn't want to do this ending but I knew it was needed.

First I want to say Thank you for finishing this book with me, For my first story I know there may have been a lot of mistakes but I wanted to get the story line out.

If your willing and would like to help I am going to edit now so can you comment of the Chapter that you think need the most immediate correction? Which one did you think was weakest?

Which chapter was your favorite?

Epilogue

The Sun was dipping over the garden, the sky was streaked with pinks, reds and deep hues of purple. It had been a full day of laughter and joy, as the estate's families had all returned to celebrate Julia's 98th Birthday. That morning Geralt had bathed his beloved in kisses and cuddles before helping her bathe. She had dressed in her favourite dress the Royal teal satin dress that she had cherished for many years, it was slightly too big for her now thinning frame but it still lit up her face whenever she wore it.

Geralt had settled her in her garden on a special day bed that Tobias had made for her so that she could enjoy the sunshine and watch the children play. Today there were many children running around the garden playing hid and seek and running underfoot of the Adults who were eagerly catching up after some time apart. Jaskier sat to their right playing beautiful tunes on his lute. Jaskier finished his song his face wrinkled which reflected in the warble of his voice as he spoke to Julia "Ahh the good old days, adventures and romance, monsters and money" Geralt growled low as Julia laughed "You didn't go on any of those adventures Jask you were too busy playing with the children"

Laughter rang out from her lips as Jaskier pouted and then smiled a devious smile as he began to strum "Toss a Coin...." Even before he could finish the sentence Geralt gave him a look that silenced the old man. "No fair Geralt, I need to revel in my youth. You still look that same as you did when we first met and Julia and I, well we've seen better days." Putting a soft wrinkled hand on Jaskier arm Julia smiled and said "It's ok Jask, why don't you play me Caleb's favourite lullaby. I always loved that song" a gentle sweet smile formed on Jaskier's face as he began to play a gentle lullaby that almost succeeded in taking Julia away into slumber.

As the morning's festivities moved into lunch and then Mid-afternoon a large cake was bought out for Julia. Large enough to accommodate the myriad of candles adorning the top, she asked the children to gather around and help her blow them out. Geralt loved how much she enjoyed her great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren. He knew however that today she would not have had the breath to blow out one candle let alone 98. He sat behind her as she lay comfortably against his chest, their familiar position as the procession of Gifts were paraded before her. First came Tobias and Renee who both looked remarkably young for being in their late 60's easily mistaken for being in there 40's. Followed by Wilfred and his family and their children and Amelia and her family and their children.

As they moved forward Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert and Cohen bowed low before her Julia the only one looking even remotely as old as Julia was now was Vesemir his frame slightly bent and eyes watery but he looked in his mid 80's rather than the possible 600yrs that he was. The brothers blew her a kiss each and they moved along to allow Visenna and Yennefer a chance to present there good wishes presenting the only Gift Julia would agree to accept today a small bottle of her favourite Honeysuckle oil.

As each servant presented before her Julia remembered her cherished ones those who had passed on ahead of her Nessie her beloved cook who had become a cherished friend. Ruth and Hannah who had died in an outbreak of the pox 20 years earlier along with Jolnar and Petra. She had done all she could for them and it still it haunted her knowing she could not save them.

As the last couple walked near, she recognised both the beautiful lady standing before her and her handsome son standing taller than his father broad shoulders carrying their youngest child. No longer a teenage girl but a regale Queen, Cirilla had rightfully taken her place as the Queen of Cintra along with her husband Caleb beside her. She and her children now ruled the lands of Cintra and had enjoyed peace for many years. Ciri and Caleb kneeled before Julia and took her wrinkled hands in theirs. There eye's meeting, Ciri's full of unshed tears as she kissed Julia on her hand whispering "Happy Birthday Mother, I love you" handing their youngest to Jasker who was happy to cuddle with his nephew Caleb leaned forward and embraced his mother. His deep baritone voice whispered "You're looking well today mum, has dad been looking after you?" the cheeky glint in his eye speaking to how well he knows his parents the even after all these years their passion for each other had never wavered.

Now Geralt had Julia wrapped up in his arms in their favourite place, a blanket sitting over their bodies snuggling on the day bed in the healing rooms looking out over the place where so much love and warmth was met today. As the stars began appearing Geralt whispered to Julia "did you enjoy today my love?" he could hear her gentle soft breathing as she nestled further into his arms "Yes, it was so good to see everyone. This place seems so quiet when they are off living their lives" Geralt hummed in agreement as he ran his fingers through her hair now just as white as his own. They stayed that way for quite some time just enjoying the stars and each other's warmth until Geralt felt something change. It was an imperceptible shift in the way Julia was breathing he looked down at her, as their eyes met. Her pale now milky blue eyes smiled as she said "Take care of them my love" and with that she breathed one last breath and was gone.

He had known it was coming, they had prepared for this moment since Julia had started to feel her strength decline, but it didn't make the feeling of loss any less. Rather than moving Geralt relaxed into the day bed content to hold his beloved in his arms for just one more night.

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

Visenna placed a hand on Geralt's shoulder, she had found him sitting on the day bed looking out at the stars. Thankfully the family had been still in town allowing for a funeral to take place before they all went their separate ways.

At the contact of her hand on his shoulder she sat as he turned, and her son curled into her sobbing. No matter how much they had planned for this, talked about this she knew he would feel the grief and loss for many years to come. She was just glad she could be here to comfort him, to walk it thought with him. She knew he would be ok, that the love of their large family would help him remember the good times. To remember the love that Julia had shown to so many, and to celebrate the life that they had together. Still right now it was raw, and he needed to be allowed to grief so she did what she could she held her son and let him cry.

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

It had been a few months since Julia had passed and Geralt was only just beginning to start to feel more that just the loss. He had woken in his empty bed his arms aching to hold her again. Just wanting to feel close to her he went out to the stables and saddled Roach. The chestnut mare had been a present to him from Julia after Rose had passed away. They had clicked straight away, and roach had been a faithful companion. Today he knew where he needed to go, to their special place. Getting into the saddle he urged Roach into a gallop as they flew over the hills, past the Witcher keep that now rose up to the east of the main dwelling, past the orchards and finally to the river. He had pushed Roach fast needing to feel the wind and adrenaline through his veins.

Here, he found their favourite place, the watering hole had not changed too much since that day he had proposed to her. The trees were still strong and created the sound of waves as the wind rustled the leaves. The birds had come and gone, and now new generations occupied their branches. Even the ant's nests continued their cycle completely unperturbed by the destruction of their colony all those years ago when he had landed his beloved directly on top of their home.

Sitting down on the same bank he shut his eyes, picturing her face he spoke "We miss you Julia, I miss you. Your smile and your hugs. I miss your constant prattle about the grandchildren, and your worry about their safety. I wish you could have lived as long as I did, and that I wouldn't have to live without you" He opened his eyes looking at the water, he realised the biggest thing he missed was the peace that she exuded. Even in her worry she was peaceful.

As he sat a voice seemed to carry on the wind from long ago, her voice as it recited "The lord is my Shepard I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." As the words swirled around his mind a peace settled in his heart. It wasn't just Julia that he had missed is was the presence of her unnamed God that seemed to follow her wherever she was that he missed.

Speaking to the wind his deep voice carrying around the river he said "I know you, I watched you work through Julia's hand, her compassion, her heart for her family for her patients for me. I saw you work your miracle to bring us the child she so longed to have. If she's with you I want to be there too. I have never believed in higher beings, help me find you. I want to know you like she did" With that a peace greater than he had ever felt before wrapped itself around his heart. In that moment he knew without a shadow of doubt that he would continue to protect and love the family he had on this earth, and that he would one day see Julia again. Filled with a renewed strength and peace he went to Roach mounted and set off for home.

THANK YOU FOR READING THE WIDOW AND THE WITCHER

Previous Chapter Twenty Nine Masterlist

I have Tagged people who follow me and who I follow if you want to be removed or added please let me know :)

@keanureevesisbae @darkverrmin @viking-raider @littlefreya@madbaddic7ed @the-soot-sprite @thelastsock @lovetusilver20@crimsonrae @demivampirew @ladyreapermc@henrycavillobsessed @nitannichionne @runawayolives @heartfelt-pen @omgkatinka @star017 @llly113 @sad-ghost-of-garbage @ayamenimthiriel @starstruckkittyangel @lebguardians @summersong69 @notyouraveragemochii @imneonpanda @carriebee1 @ivyfatale @thereisa8ella @lucy930 @sarahmichelle5 @stuckupstucky @cleodoramer @kmuir1 @elliepower @xobriellaxo24 @xxxkatxo @supernovacocorocha @hennerslionhat @xo-mery-ox @waitedforlove743 @ladamari68 @coksy @wickedrum @harleyfranquinn @mysticalstrangerearthquake @justrae9903 @willkatfanfromasia @daddys-littlewhitegirl @cavilladdict @lebguardians @theblondetumbleweed @snowbellexx @radaofrivia @geralttheewitcher @acdd22 @thullyana @fanfictionaddiction99 @beckythfc1882 @heyheyharry @sauve-et-libre @shy-violet-soul @elliepower @msamericanrebel @minion-of-the-lord

#thewidowandthewitcher #geralt #geralt x ofc #the witcher #henry cavill

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scapegrace74-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Don’t Call It Love

A/N With Saorsa done and dusted, it’s time to return to the Metric Universe. When we last left Jamie and Claire in October 2017, they were sharing comforting silence and attending a Depeche Mode concert together. Will things fall easily into place now that they have tripped over the line from being roommates to being friends? Oh, hell no. What would be the fun in that?

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.

The song by Zero 7 (another guest artist!) that inspired the title is here.

Winter, 2017 - London, England

It happened by accident. Happenstance. Serendipity. Fate. The words she used to explain the fact that she and Jamie started seeing each other outside of the flat in social circumstances that would typically be characterized as dates varied, but her opinion remained fixed. They weren’t dates. Jamie was her roommate, a good friend, a fellow enthusiast of the culturally obscure, and a brilliant pub trivia partner. They had both agreed that a romantic relationship between them would be disastrous; ergo, there was nothing romantic about their increasingly frequent outings. If she could memorize the names for the 206 bones in the human skeleton, she could certainly manage to keep her feelings for Jamie inside the tidy box she had built for them.

Non-Date #1

They crossed paths inside the massive Spittalfields Market, both of them with shoulders damp from the chilly November rain. Jamie was on his way to the fishmonger, while Claire carried a cloth bag filled with late-season vegetables, determined to eat something other than take-out on a rare day off from lectures and the hospital.

“Are ye on yer way back tae the flat, then?” Jamie asked, physically fighting the urge to offer to carry Claire’s wee sack.

“No, I’m off to the charnel house first.”

“The what, now?” Surely he’d misheard her.

“The charnel house. Don’t tell me you’ve been living over top of a medieval burial ground all this time without realizing it?” Claire teased.

Intrigued as much by her beguiling smirk as the opportunity to explore a bit of London’s history, Jamie followed Claire to a commercial highrise near the edge of the market. Descending a non-descript stairwell in Bishop’s Square, they came to a halt in front of a glass wall. On the other side was an excavated ruin, the crypt of the long-vanished chapel of St. Mary’s Spital hospital, a quick scan of a nearby information plaque informed him.

“They only discovered it was here when construction of the office tower began,” Claire said, a wistful look on her face. “For centuries, travelers and the victims of London’s many plagues were buried around the hospital, quite literally in the Spital fields. When the graves overflowed, they brought the excess bones here and stacked them for safe-keeping until the Apocalypse. Imagine, forgetting something so...fundamental.”

Jamie grunted in acknowledgement, seeing the reflection of Claire’s face superimposed on the glass. He couldn’t decide if this human tendency towards forgetfulness pleased or disappointed her.

“Tis rather...”

“Macabre?” she suggested with a grin, turning away from the display and climbing back into the cloud-roofed square.

“I was gonna say morbid, but as ye like.”

“We build our present on the bones of our past, my Uncle Lamb used to tell me. He was referring to archaeology, but I’ve found it to be true of life itself.”

They walked back to the flat, collars raised against the hastening rain. Jamie had bought enough hake for two, so they shared the narrow worktop, dicing fresh vegetables and letting their shoulders bump together occasionally.

Claire ate at the two-person dining table while scrolling social media on her phone. Jamie used the coffee table to hold his plate and the gaming magazine he was flipping through.

It wasn’t a date.

Non-Date #4

Her cellphone rang as she was leaving the bathroom, thoughts bouncing between her end-of-semester exams and her non-existent plans for the Christmas holidays. She accepted the call with one hand while starting the tedious job of separating her soaking curls with the other. At first there was only static. She glanced at the screen, recognizing the familiar number.

“Jamie?” she tried.

“...mac na ghalla, Hamish...” followed by muffled noises and masculine jeering. She switched hands and started to towel off, making certain first that the video call button wasn’t active.

“Hal-lo. Paging Mr. Fraser. You have a call on line one.”

“Ach, sorry Claire. I didna mean tae... That is, the lads were just... How are ye?”

She giggled at his discomposure. “I’m well, thank you. And you?” They had seen each other that morning, as he came off shift and she was leaving for her morning lectures, so she assumed there was more to this call than a polite inquiry into her state of well-being. She had learned over their months as roommates that sometimes you just needed to wait for Jamie to get to his point.

“Braw, thank ye. I was... weel, I’m at the park with some o’ the lads, tryin’ tae put t’gether a side, an’ we’re short a winger, an’ I was jus’ thinkin’, ye said ye wanted tae learn tae play an’...”

Another James Fraser quirk was that he rambled in broad Scots when he was nervous.

“Jamie, are you asking me to play rugby with you?”

“Aye. Aye, I am. If ye wish, o’ course.”

“I did just step out of the shower...” she mentioned, already peering outside at the threatening sky and mentally assessing her wardrobe for something suitable for a ruck and maul in the rain. “Hello?” when there was no sound from the other end in some time.

“Aye, I’m here. Nevermind, Claire. I dinna consider, ye must be gettin’ ready to study fer yer finals, an’...”

“Where are you?” she interrupted, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of yoga pants.

“Victoria Park?” Jamie replied, sounding hesitant and hopeful.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Splendid!” She could hear his smile down the line.

“I better not get mud in my hair, Fraser,” she retorted before hanging up, her own smile lingering on her face.

There was nothing romantic about rugby.

Non-Date #7

The flat was strangely forlorn, even with Christmas lights twinkling merrily in the living room windows and a tiny fir tree precariously balancing its five ornaments standing in the corner.

They had exchanged their gifts on December 23rd, sipping on hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua and grinning shyly at each other. She’d bought Jamie the next Call of Duty game for his XBox. Nothing intimate, just something he’d mentioned in passing he was looking forward to trying. His boyish glee upon unwrapping the package warmed her more than her drink. Hands shaking slightly, she delicately opened the tastefully wrapped rectangle he presented to her. Inside was a cashmere scarf, luxuriously soft beneath her fingers as she stroked it.

“Is this?” she asked.

“Aye, tis the Fraser plaid. Ye ken there’s no’ a clan named Bee-cham, right?”

She was deeply touched, and thanked him was a kiss against his scruffy cheek.

Jamie had left for Scotland the next day, having somehow managed to secure a week’s worth of leave from his uncle over the holiday season. As was her wont, she’d put down for as many shifts as possible while medical school wasn’t in session, but by some fluke she wasn’t scheduled to work New Year’s Eve for the first time in recent memory.

Some of her classmates from nursing college had invited her along to a “raging party in Shoreditch”, but she’d made up some excuse. The truth was, she wasn’t in the mood for loud music and over-priced drinks with a group of virtual strangers. If Geillis had been in town, she would have allowed her friend to coerce her into whatever mayhem she had up her sleeve, but Geillis was still in Columbia and eight months’ pregnant with twins, to everyone’s collective shock. Especially the mother-to-be.

No, what she really wanted was a quiet evening at home, snuggled under her favourite fleece blanket on their couch, the latest Ferrante novel in her lap and a glass of Pinot Noir at the ready. Jamie had a turntable and a surprisingly well-curated selection of vinyl in his bedroom, but she didn’t like entering his domain without his permission.

Without giving it a second thought, she rang his cell. It was only upon hearing the raucous sounds of a party in full swing that it occurred to her that just because she was spending New Year’s Eve alone, it didn’t mean Jamie was as well.

“Claire?” he yelled over something that sounded a lot like live music. “Are ye all right, lass?”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, Jamie. I just wanted to ask... never mind. It’s not important. Enjoy your party...”

“Wait!” the background noise mutated, sounding like a riot underwater, and then there was a wooden slam. Jamie huffed a sigh of relief.

“Mu dheireadh. Are ye still there, Sassenach?”

“Still here,” she confirmed, suddenly feeling sorry for herself. She might be the most pathetic thirty-year old in London.

“Did the hospital no’ call ye in for a shift, then?”

She tucked the blanket under her feet, warding off the chill that always seemed to creep in from the wall of windows. The Christmas lights she’d strung reflected against the glazing in alternating colours: blue, red, green, blue, red, green.

“No. By some miracle of the festive season, I have the night off,” she joked halfheartedly. “I’m sorry for interrupting your night out. I wanted to ask if I could borrow your turntable and a few of your albums?”

“O’ course. Ye didna need tae ask. An’ I’m no’ out. I’m at home, at Lallybroch.” He pronounced the word with a guttural flourish that made Claire think of an exotic kind of pastry or a rare tribal custom. Any time Jamie spoke of his family’s home in Scotland, he imbued it with an otherworldly quality, like a fortress in a fairy tale, a far away land of warriors and mist. It was strange to think of him there now, while she sat alone in their flat.

“It sounds like quite the party.”

“Aye. The Frasers take their Hogmanay celebrations verra seriously. Ye shoulda come wi’ me.” Then, as though realizing what he’d said, he added quickly, “We could use a doctor. Dougal sprained his ankle doin’ a sword dance, and Angus singed his arse somethin’ fierce jumpin’ o’er the bonfire.”

She laughed, her mood suddenly much lighter, and asked for more particulars as to how his cousin’s naked ass came to be in close proximity to open flame. Without either realizing it, the last minutes of 2017 crept by.

Fireworks erupted outside, followed by the tolling of bells and honking of horns. On the other end of the call, she could hear cheering and an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne. They were both silent, embarrassed to have been so caught up in their trivial conversation as to have missed the arrival of midnight.

“Happy Hogmanay, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice came soft and sure over the line.

“Happy New Year, Jamie,” she replied. “I should really let you get back to your party. Your family must be wondering where you’ve disappeared to.”

He hummed noncommittally. It occurred to her that had they been in the same place, they would likely be kissing right now. It sent a shiver of want down her spine.

“Jamie?” Her voice sounded thready, like she had just woken from a deep sleep.

“Hmmm?” Shivers, again.

“What’s a Sassenach?”

He laughed softly, and she had to bite her lip. What was the matter with her? “Tis a Scottish word for a foreigner, particularly an English one,” he explained.

“You’ve never called me that before,” Claire remarked.

“I’ve ne’er spoken tae ye while on Scottish soil. T’wasn’t an accurate description ‘til now.”

There was a long silence. She could hear the sound of revelry through the door of whatever room at Lallybroch he’d hidden inside. Outside the flat there were firecrackers. They reminded her of mortar rounds heard from a distance in Afghanistan.

“You don’t like fireworks, do you?” she guessed. It didn’t take an advanced degree in psychology to know that bright flashes and sudden pops of sound would trigger his PTSD. They really were a mess, the pair of them.

“Nay. Jenny an’ Ian’s bairns love them, an’ I told them no’ tae hold off on my account, but they insisted on a bonfire instead. It reminds me o’ when I was a lad, a’fore ye could buy fireworks along wi’ yer ham at the local Tesco.”

Jamie launched into a long account of the significance of bonfires in Highland culture, and she let herself drift on the melody of his voice, the turntable long forgotten.

“Tell me about yer most memorable New Year’s,” he prompted after his cultural diatribe wound down.

“Oh, well, they all rather blur together, actually. Too much drink, too much spent on the cover charge. You know how it is.”

“Nah, I mean when ye were younger. Ye must ‘ave celebrated in some remarkable places.”

She thought back to her time spent following Uncle Lamb around the globe. Truth be told, traditional holidays weren’t something that stood out in her memory. They felt like a foreign custom, a series of drawings taken from a picture book that showed a mother, father and children crowded around a loaded table while snow piled up outside. They bore no relation to her reality. It was no wonder Christmas and New Year’s left her feeling ambivalent.

Still, she didn’t want Jamie to feel sorry for her, so she launched into one of her favourite tales.

“One year, I must have been eleven, Lamb was leading an excavation of a Berber oasis town in northern Mali. The site closed down for the Christian holidays, but Lamb decided to stay behind rather than travel back to England. We ended up riding camels through these enormous sand dunes, following a local guide on an ancient caravan route. On December 31st, just as the sun was setting and we had begun to make camp, the camel Lamb had been riding let out this infernal noise, leapt to its feet, and started to gallop away. Lamb and the guide set off after it on foot, hollering and waving their keffiyeh in the air. It was the funniest thing.”

“They left ye all alone in the desert?” Jamie asked, horrified.

“Oh, well, they came back eventually. The camel had been stung by a scorpion, you see. Once it got over the fright, they were able to catch it and bring it back to camp.”

“Were ye no’ scared, tae be out there in the dark by yerself?”

“No. Not as I remember it. The sunset was glorious, and little by little the sky came alive with a million stars.”

“Ye brave wee thing.” Jamie sighed. “I wish I was there wi’ ye.”

She didn’t know if he meant with her on that sand dune, or with her at their flat. Either way, her answer was the same.

“I wish you were too.”

They finally hung up well past two o’clock. It didn’t count as a date if the other person was five hundred miles away as you whispered goodnight.

Non-Date #12

The Royal London was expanding its pediatrics wing, and Claire was invited to a fundraising gala held, fittingly, in the Museum of Childhood. The invitation included a plus one, and she’d been putting off asking Jamie if he could join her all week. It wasn’t that she doubted his suitability as an escort. Far from it. But the gala was taking place on February 14th, of all nights, and the symbolism made her nervous. Still, the alternative was spending the night being hit on by a drunken internist or hedge fund investor, and that was a headache she could do without.

“So,” she began casually a few nights before the event, “any plans for Valentine’s Day?” If he said he was working or had, god forbid, a date, she would just have to go stag.

Jamie set down his gaming controller and turned to face her desk. The pulsing colours from the screen lit his curls like a neon nimbus in the dim room.

“Nah, nothin’ definite. An’ ye, Sassenach?” he asked tentatively, as though easing himself out onto a frozen lake, unsure of the depth of the ice. The nickname he had assigned to her during his holidays in Scotland had stuck. She didn’t correct the inaccuracy, as she rather liked the idea of having a name that was only his.

“Well, I’ve been summoned to a fundraising gala for the hospital, and I was wondering... not that you need feel obliged... it’s black tie, which is really the height of pretension, if you ask me... anyway, there’s no way to decline gracefully short of an aneurysm, so...”

“Out wi’ it, Sassenach,” he prodded.

“Mightyouconsiderbeingmydate?” she blurted, before taking a large gulp of tepid tea.

“Yer date?” he asked as though he had never heard of such a thing.

She sighed, resigned to the fact he was going to make this difficult. “Yes. My date. My plus one. My social companion. And hopefully, my defence against spending the evening being pitied and set up with someone’s second cousin, Nigel, the chartered accountant.”

“Do ye have somethin’ against accountants, then?” The corner of his lip was twitching with the birth of a grin.

“Oh, very funny, you bloody Scot. Look, I need a date on Valentine’s Day and you are the only man in the Greater London Area who won’t interpret that as an opportunity for a pity shag. The offer is on the table. Take it or leave it.”

Something flashed behind his eyes that she couldn’t interpret. Then it was gone.

“Ne’er fear, Sassenach. I’ll protect ye from all the wee Nigels.”

***

She’d forgotten to ask whether Jamie had suitable attire for a black tie event. It was too late now, regardless. They were meeting at the museum, since she was on shift until eight. Using the nurses on-call room to get changed, she slinked into her burgundy chiffon gown, its gauzy layers wrapping around her like millefeuille. Her hair was a lost cause, so she slicked it back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and hoped for the best. Silver chandelier earrings and a dab of cologne below her jaw, and she was ready to go. She carried a small beaded clutch and her dress shoes - there was no way she was navigating the Tube in stilettos.

The museum was a single massive space, conversation and the tympani of glassware echoing against its high-arched ceiling. She stood in the entryway after checking her coat, spinning in circles and trying to get her bearings. More than one lascivious glance was directed her way, but she studiously ignored them in favour of looking for Jamie. With his height and red hair, he shouldn’t be hard to pick out of the crowd.

There was an appreciative murmur from behind her, a gust of fresh air, and then a soft tap against her bare shoulder. She turned around.

No. Not hard to pick out from a crowd at all. Standing before her was James Fraser in full Highland regalia. He wore his family tartan, a black velvet waistcoat, brilliant white dress shirt and a black bow tie. When her gaze fell to the floor, she noticed his polished brogues and white socks pulled up to his knees. She’d never before considered how a man’s knees might be alluring, but there it was. Jamie had very sexy knees.

“G’d evening, Sassenach. Ye look... weel, ye look bonnie.” Jamie’s normally deep voice was gruffer than usual, perhaps on account of the cold night air. Or maybe his bowtie was tied too tight.

“Good evening, Jamie,” she replied once she found her voice. “You look, well, if you were a Jacobite, I’d say you looked regal.”

The tops of Jamie’s ears went red, and he ducked his chin, his tamed curls falling briefly forward. It gave him the look of a bashful child receiving unexpected praise, completely at odds with the strikingly masculine figure he cut.

“No’ a Nigel, then?” he teased.

“No. Definitely not a Nigel. Come, let’s get something to drink before all the top-shelf liquor runs out. You wouldn’t believe how much some of these doctors can put away!”

Jamie was a perfect date. He stood by her elbow as she mingled and greeted various colleagues and professors, nodding at their tales of medical misfortune and smiling at their awkward jokes. He spoke confidently about his work and current affairs, and patiently tolerated endless jibes about what a true Scotsman wore beneath his kilt.

When she politely excused them from one such conversation, he leaned over to whisper in her ear as they walked away to fortify themselves with more alcohol.

“I’ve a mind tae lift my plaid an’ moon the entire assembly the next time one o’ yer wee doctor friends asks about my underthings. Are ye sure they arena raising funds for a new proctology department, Sassenach?”

She snorted in a truly unladylike fashion and turned to meet his unrepentant smirk. Just then, a figure approaching from the bar caught her eye.

Oh no. It couldn’t be. After five years, she’d finally relaxed her vigilance, had ceased anticipating his presence at every turn, and now, here he was.

“Sassenach?” Jamie was watching her with concern. The blush had drained from her cheeks, leaving her wine-stained lips and sintering eyes the only colour on her face.

“Claire! Fancy meeting you here!” Had his voice always been so nasal? His eyes so glassy and vacant, like portals into nothingness. He’d obviously been drinking heavily. A blond woman half his age had her arm linked through his.

“Frank,” she uttered his name. Jamie stepped into her side, his posture erect, somehow sensing that she needed his protection from this unheralded threat.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise. I’d heard you’d gone into the army, or some such thing. Afghanistan, was it? Well, with your penchant for violence, I suppose that’s fitting.”

She breathed deeply through her nose. She would not let him get the better of her. She wasn’t that person anymore. With a clammy hand, she grabbed onto Jamie’s fingers where they rested around her hip. He squeezed back. He was here. She wasn’t alone. It was all the strength she needed.

“Yes, that’s right. I served overseas for a time, but I’m back in London now. In medical school. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”

Focusing on each step, she turned towards the exit, Jamie’s hand now warm upon the small of her back. Her chin wobbled, but she bit down hard to stave off tears.

“A doctor?” Frank taunted from behind her. “Wouldn’t a demolition expert be more apropos, darling?”

She froze, spine trembling with anger. Jamie made a questioning noise, asking without words if she wanted him to intervene. She didn’t.

Glancing over her shoulder, she dealt her parting blow.

“Give my best to Amelia and the children.” Without waiting to witness the aftermath of her pronouncement, she made her way out into the chilly night air, Jamie’s bulk a silent sentinel at her side.

It wasn’t a date if it ended on the floor of your bathroom, crying ugly sobs as mascara stained your cheeks, while your partner held your shoulders and made soothing noises with his throat.

That wasn’t dating, that was survival.

***

mac na ghalla = son of a bitch

Mu dheireadh = finally

#my writing #outlander

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extremelyblackandwhite · 5 years ago

Text

timeless - prelude

PAIRING: medieval!james “bucky” barnes x reader

WARNINGS: sexual content (18+)

A/N: hello! sorry for my inactivity later with tags and fanfics, i recently moved out of my home into a new one and it took quite a while to set everything up but finally everything is a bit calmer. i hope you enjoy this new work, i’m extremely proud of it xx

NEXT CHAPTER

Time.

Time is an odd concept. The dictionary describes time as the indefinite continued progress of existence and events that occur in an apparently irreversible succession from the past, through the present, into the future. Yet, would it be fair to describe time in such technical words when the movement itself is so ... controversial. For some, time runs fast, like a drop falling from a leaf onto the river, its consequences reverberating in several rings. For others, the ticking of the clock seems like a painful reminder that every single second lasts forever. However, for some, time is just paused almost as if they’re living in their own life repetition and therefore time has lost all meaning and no definition would apply to it. Time after all is of the earth, it’s not a human concept, it’s not something humanity discovered and coined as their own as they would wish. It is merely a thing of innocence of the Earth seen in the blooming flowers and the falling leaves, the growing of flora and the birthing of fauna. Yet, for some time is seen on their faces, the wrinkles and lines that accentuate their skins, scars that never faded, ages rising and the loss of opportunities. For those, if it were possible to freeze time, to reverse it or extend it, they would do it in a blink of an eye and so is the pure innocence of longing defiled.

Lady Y/N of Arendelle had no particular affinity towards time. In all honesty, she barely thought about it yet for some reason the forces of nature had bestowed, unbeknownst to her, with the particular gift of giving people time. Why had it been given to her out of all people was a mystery. She was an ordinary girl born in the last second of the last day of the year when the snow covered the ground white, mostly surrounded in mystery. While her mother, Lady Catherine Bouvaire was one who made her way into the most prestigious circles of society in Arendelle from peasant to the Queen’s lady in waiting, Lady Y/N seemed to be locked away from society in their little cottage. “The outside world is cruel, too cruel for someone like you” is what she would constantly say to Y/N. However, no matter how harshly you try to grip onto time it eventually caught up to her. As the Queen’s eldest daughter caught the attention of the future King of Genoa, quickly enough was this locked environment broken. The Queen of Arendelle believed her daughter should take someone trustworthy, someone to remind her of home and no better person fitted that description than the naively protected daughter of her lady in waiting.

Catherine had protested, arguing that her daughter was much to innocent to join the court of such a prolific kingdom. However, she was merely a lady and what the Queen wants goes. Nevertheless, Catherine would not let her precious daughter go, no, she needed more time and if that meant moving with her to another kingdom, then she would gladly do so. And so, Y/N was thrown inside a carriage with princess Odette which took both women away from what they had known for ages.

They rode the road for a full month, enduring the harsh rains of mid September until, on a late afternoon, the carriage came to a halt in front of the place she would have to call home from now on. The castle grounds were protected by a great wall, tall enough you’d have to strain your eye muscles to find its end, tall enough to look like another prison to keep Y/N. Her mother, whose home arrangements were different to hers, had warned her to be careful with Genoa’s court, not to trust any of the men that paraded the parties. “They are never going to marry you, all they want is a break from their contracted marriages and would use her and leave” is what she said before being separated into a different carriage and Y/N believed her. She remembered the stories her mother had told her, women thrown into the street, into reckless lives and poverty. No, Y/N was there for Odette and no other motive. Yet, she couldn’t deny it was exciting to be somewhere else, to see other things and other people.

The castle itself was old and small dust seemed to be falling from the walls, exposing the building’s foundation that used to look like a second world wonder, she thought. The windows, however, were crystal clear and glistening in the dark cloudy afternoon which was already setting on the opposite side of the building, casting a great shadow.

Her shoes touched the perfectly cropped grass and she was ushered into the palace and straight into her living quarters. It was huge, bigger than her old home and while the outside of the palace looked rather somber, the inside was ostentatious, decorated in dark burgundies, whites and shades of gold enough to make anyone gasp at first sight. Y/N felt like she was dreaming wide awake as she explored every nook of her new bedroom, observing the art, the books and the instruments placed for her own enjoyment.

She couldn’t help but throw herself into the comfortable bed, a small child like giggle escaping her rose painted lips. Yet, she had little to no time to enjoy her new bedroom as the Queen and King of Genoa wanted to welcome the Princess of Arendelle and her entourage with a banquet and Y/N couldn’t be any more excited. With a white ivory dress loosely falling from her shoulders, she joined her princess who was looking at the wall as if it held away the biggest monsters ever created.

- You’ll be fine. - Y/N spoke out, placing a hand on top of her shoulder. - Prince William absolutely loves you, you have nothing to worry about.

- It’s not Prince William, it’s his parents.

- I’ve heard they’re fair rulers.

- Yes but we come from a small kingdom what if they decide it’s an alliance they don’t want? - Y/N merely gave her a soft smile, almost like a promise that she would be fine. The big white and gold engraved doors were opened to a crowd of a thousand faces all in awe of the beautiful foreign princess. Y/N, on the other hand, was in awe of the sheer beauty and light of the room. It was so much different from the walls of the little cottage her mother kept her in, it was light, breezy, bashed in oranges and yellows coming from the flickering flames of various white candles held by the chandeliers and walls. It was almost like a scene straight out a painting and suddenly the crowd of a thousand faces seemed to melt as she was on cloud 9. The scents were of wild fruits and sweetness which possibly came from the beautifully decorated decadent desserts standing on the long table.

She was much too distracted with the sheer delicateness of the world outside her cottage walls to even notice she had been sat quite far from the only person she knew. Instead, she was sat by some of the other court ladies, her dress majorly overshadowed by the precious stones sewn onto the silks and velvet of the Queen’s ladies. Nevertheless, she found something else to be fascinated by, that being the golden cutlery meticulously placed by the sides of the porcelain engraved plates. In that moment, despite her mind telling her it would be bad to be glad about it, she felt like being away from her mother was a blessing.

This dazed dream was broken as she felt a gaze burn on her figure, almost as if she was being watched. Gently and slowly, she raised her eyes from the plate, the atmosphere of the dinner being of joy and hope for the new soon to be rulers too lost for someone to notice her, at least she thought so but was wrong as standing a bit left from her front was a very well dressed man, in shades of burgundy and black with a gold heavy medal weighting from his breast pocket looking at her. He looked almost curious, lines creasing on his forehead as his ocean eyes were glued that left her feeling almost naked to his sight.

- Are you alright? - one of the ladies sat next to her, the one in a ruffled lavender dress asked, noticing how quickly Y/N had resorted to looking back to her food, barely touched.

- Who’s that man? - she slightly moved her head in his direction.

- That’s Grand Duke Barnes of Addia. He’s one of the King’s advisors, people say he killed his wife.

- Not too loud, Eliza. - another lady dressed in baby pink scolded.

- That’s surely just gossip. - Y/N commented.

- Gossip or not, everyone in Addia could hear screaming during the Great Fire. Yet again, royals can get away with anything and everything.

Y/N nodded, looking back to her plate but not before looking up to the grand Duke one last time. It wasn’t exactly shocking news to her what men of court could do. Her mother had told her they were either adulterers, power hungry or untrustworthy men, however, she thought there would be some sort of justice. The dinner continued to go smoothly with Odette spending more and more time sharing romantic looks with her husband to be. Soon enough, she was on the dance floor with him, laughing and telling each other sweet nothings that made anyone and everyone watching smile.

Y/N wasn’t immune to that smile either, standing a bit further removed from the dance floor with her hands on top of her dress fabric. The sweet lullabies played by the orchestra had her head moving slowly from side to side until an overflow of the scent of freshly picked roses made itself quite pronounceable. She looked around looking from here the scent could be coming from as all the flowers scattered around the room were that of Genoa’s flag, lilies. No roses.

- How come you’re not dancing, milady?

- Oh, I’m not one for dan ... - she stopped mid sentence as she rustled through the fabric of her dress to notice who was speaking to her. There he was again, making her take a step back out of fright of what she had heard from Eliza at the dinning table.

He looked somewhat surrounded in an air of mysteriousness costumed by the formal clothing such as his perfectly tailored burgundy jacket whose colour matching the ribbon keeping his long hair away from his face in a low ponytail. There was no denying he was a handsome man but Y/N couldn’t help but keep her guard up. There was always some underlying truth to rumours.

- I’m afraid I’ve never learned how to dance, Grand Duke.

- Please do join me in the floors, milady.

- No, my lord you really don’t understand, I can’t dance ... at all. I would embarrass my princess.

- I’m a good lead. - he extended his gloved hand towards her. She guessed he couldn’t harm her while surrounded by several people including guards. - Please, milady, do me the honour of accompanying me.

She looked at his black matte glove covered his hand which was extended towards her chest and then back to his face and the guards stood in front of every single exit. “You’ll be fine” a voice said inside of her and shakingly she placed her delicate and polished hand on top of the leather, shivering once she felt its texture. Before Y/N could change her mind, he had already led her slightly off centre in the dance grounds, a free hand gently setting itself on her waist.

The young girl could feel her heart beat against her thoracic cage as the violins and flutes led the dance along with him. It was an odd feeling, it felt peaceful and yet she was rather scared to dance with the man rumoured to have murdered his wife. The Grand Duke seemed to notice her unwillingness as the lines of his forehead and eyes creased even more and his grip on her softened.

- You shouldn’t believe in everything you hear. - he whispered against her ear, causing goosebumps to rise on her arms. Her eyes gazed his, lips slightly parted as she wondered if he had heard Eliza back at the dinner table, something she would’ve questioned him about had it not been for the ceasing music. As the music came to an end, he took a step back, bowing to her before disappearing between the crowds leaving her in the middle of the dance floor as another song begun.

- There you are. - a familiar voice broke through her haze of confusion. - I think we should retire for tonight. What do you think?

- I think it’s a great idea.

In all honesty, Y/N was glad Odette wanted to retire from the ball and return to her chambers but it wasn’t without peaking curiosity that she left the room, eyes lingering on the crowds looking yet failing to find the Grand Duke. The orange and yellow lights dimmed as the doors were closed behind the two women and with a sigh, she followed Odette to her chambers, starting the routine taught to her back in Arendelle to get the princess ready for bed. Once she was settled in her silk bedding, Y/N left the room to reach hers, a small golden candelabra held by her hands as she made her way through the halls.

The walls are hollow inside and it is as if they are whispering at her when the wind howls inside them and the rain hits the foot long glass windows, the image strengthened by the portraits of the several monarchs of Genoa. She climbed the staircase slowly, each step creaking at the slighest weight her feet put on the old wood and then creaking some more when the weight on it is loosened and disappear. Slowly but surely, with her heart beating like a drum, the lady in waiting reached the top of the stairs. Suddenly, her heart beat seemed to intensify its beating in her ears for no reason and, once she held her dainty fingers against them, they are hot to the touch and the saying of the Arendelle people echoed like a curse in her brain: “If your ears are red and warm, it means someone must be talking about you”. She shuddered at the thought, specially considering she stood alone atop the stairs.

Once she was back inside the safety of her chambers, she closed the door behind her and enter the soft cold and unknown bed quickly, throwing her clothes to the side, stretching her legs under the covers and pulling the white sheets up to her chest. Her eyes flutter slowly, staring up at the ceiling and the small chandelier hanging from it and, suddenly, she drifts off to sleep lulled by the falling rain: she felt airy, as if her limbs are being held up in the air and she fluttered her eyes open to the dream land that awaited her.

And at the end of the bed is the Grand Duke. He is naked and he crawls to the bed, hands slowly sliding down her sides as he towers over her and, she too, is naked. She sweated and stared at the man’s face and at the medallion hanging from his neck that rocks back and forth as he moves closer and pulls her knees up and apart.

He’s hard and slick with cum already and she’s not entirely not sure what took over her good morality, but she pulled her legs apart willingly and let him move closer and closer to her and her aching heat.

tag list: @lookiamtrying @kmuir1 @anxiousdreamersworld @tinymalscoffee

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lifeofresulullah · 4 years ago

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The Life of The Prophet Muhammad(pbuh): Before His Birth, His Birth and His Childhood

Death of Hazrat Amina

After spending a month in Medina with her son, the Master of the Universe (PBUH), Hazrat Amina decided to return to Mecca. They said their goodbyes to their relatives and left the city.

There were three travelers in this desert: Hazrat Amina, her glorious son, and Umm Ayman. They were all considered exceptional in the spiritual realm. The breeze of longing and separation was blowing close by.

Hazrat Amina’s eyes resembled a stream of overflowing water when she thought about her husband who passed away at a very young age during the first months of their marriage. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) could not bear seeing his saintly mother’s teardrops; thus he began to cry ardently as well. His garment was soaked by his teardrops that fell like the rain.

Instantly, Hazrat Amina became ill while they were halfway through the road. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) and Umm Ayman were alarmed. What could they do in the face of an illness that was only getting worse in its intensity of pain?

They had no solution other than to encamp underneath a tree’s shade that was 23 miles to the south of Medina. Strength and stamina had withdrawn from Hazrat Amina’s knees as she collapsed onto the ground without being able to contain herself. They covered her. Hazrat Amina was sweating due to the severity of her illness. Our Beloved Prophet’s (PBUH) teardrops fell out of fear of losing her and remaining motherless. It was as if everything came to a halt. There was no sound, and stillness dominated the sky.

Hazrat Amina lay on the ground in a weak state.

At one point, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) was able to collect himself and he asked his mother, “How are you, dear mother?”

The mother, whose heart was a trove of compassion, did not want her only child to be upset. In order not to rouse to her dear son the fact that she quivered with intense pain, she answered, "I am fine, my dear, nothing is wrong”.

She lost consciousness after speaking those few words. This illness had now wrested her energy to speak. At one point, she was heard to have said “water”. Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) brought water to his beloved mother at the speed of an arrow being sprung from its bow.

Hazrat Amina drank the water. She held the container of water and her beloved child’s very soft hands. She opened her eyes. She looked at our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) face that radiated noor (light) to her heart’s content, and caressed his hands with her motherly compassion.

At one point, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) slightly straightened out his mother’s position and put her head on his lap. The holy tears that dripped from his eyes were falling on his mother’s shoulders like April rain.

In addition to the anguish of losing her husband, was she now going to have to bid farewell to her son? This was an intolerable agony and an unbearable heartache. She was tormented more by this separation than the illness that she had been afflicted with. Yet, what could she do? This was an unchangeable decree of the Divine fate.

Hazrat Amina now understood that she could not be saved from this illness. In her final moment, with a feeling of deep longing, she looked at her radiant child’s face that shone like the sun, and as she smelled his hands to her heart’s content, the following words spilled from her tongue:

“You are the son of the man who was saved from the terrible arrow of death with Allah’s help and beneficence and in exchange for a hundred camels. May Allah render you glorious and relentless. If what I have seen in my dreams is true, then you will be sent as a Prophet by Allah to inform the sons of Adam of what is lawful and unlawful, and upon this, you will possess majesty and many gifts. You will be sent to complete the submission and religion of our forefather, Ibrahim. Allah is going to protect and withhold you and nations from idol worshipping and idols. Every living being will die and everything new will wear out. Everyone who becomes old will disappear. Everything is ephemeral, everything will leave. Yes, I am going to die as well. However, my name will remain forever because I have given birth to an immaculate child and am leaving a memorable and auspicious person behind me”.

After speaking these painful and foretelling words, Hazrat Amina’s eyes lapsed and she surrendered her soul to Allah.

Place: The Abwa Village, which is located in between Medina and Mecca.

Date: 576 AD.

Hazrat Amina’s Burial

Our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) and Umm Ayman were frozen. In fact, their tongues were stiff. It was only our Holy Prophet’s (PBUH) tears that spoke.

At one point, Umm Ayman was able to collect herself and she wiped the saintly child’s tears. Afterwards, she nestled and tried to comfort him. She said, “Do not be sad, and do not cry, my precious, Muhammad. We must surrender to Divine fate. Both life and possessions belong to Him. Everything has been entrusted to us; He takes back a trust just as He has given it”.

Our Beloved Prophet (PBUH) took a deep breath and said, “I know. I will always submit to His authority. However, a mother’s face is unforgettable. I am sad that I will never be able to see her face again”. Afterwards, he immediately gathered himself, wiped his tears, and said to Ummi Ayman “Alright, she surrendered that trust to its owner. We should submit her corpse to the soil so that she can be in peace”.

They submitted the corpse of the world’s most fortunate mother, Hazrat Amina, to the bosom of the earth. Considering the fact that she gave birth to the Master of the Universe (PBUH), who knows how and at what heights her soul rejoiced with the angels.

After the Burial

The duty of taking this precious orphan to Mecca had fallen on his nanny, Umm Ayman.

With all her effort, Umm Ayman was doing everything she could throughout the entire journey to not have him feel that he had been left motherless. She nestled him as if he was her own child and tried to comfort him. In fact, our Holy Prophet (PBUH) accepted her as a mother and began to refer to her with that title. Much later, he would pay her the compliment of being “the mother who came after my mother” each time he saw her.

Both Motherless and Fatherless!

The radiant-faced Master of the Universe (PBUH) was now an orphan without a father and mother. However, he had a true guardian and patron. That Guard kept our Holy Prophet (PBUH) under His impeccable custody and complete supervision and protected him from all kinds of danger and trouble throughout the his entire life.

We are reminded of this particular incident in the verse, “Did your Lord not find you an orphan and give you shelter and care?”

Years later, during the Hudaybiya Umrah, in the sixth year of the Hijra, the Master of the Universe (PBUH) passed through Abwa once more. With Allah’s permission, he visited his mother’s grave and tidied it up with his hands. Afterwards, he cried out of deep emotion.

The Sahaba (his companions) also cried after seeing his tears of longing and asked, “Oh Messenger of Allah, why are you crying?”

Our Holy Prophet (PBUH) responded, “I remembered the compassion and mercy that my mother showed me and that is why I cried”.

The wisdom behind their early death

This question may come to mind here:

“Why did God Almighty not let his venerable mother and father see his prophethood and why they were not able to be Muslim?”

Badiuzzaman Said Nursi answers this question in his book “The Letters,” in The Risale-i Nur Collection:

“Through His munificence, in order to gratify the Noble Prophet (Upon whom be blessings and peace's sentiments), Almighty God did not put His Noble Beloved’s parents under any obligation to him. His mercy required that to make them happy and to please His Noble Beloved, He did not take them from the rank of parenthood and put them in that of spiritual offspring; He did not place his parents and grandfather among his community. However, He bestowed on them the merit, virtues, and happiness of his community. Indeed, if an exalted field marshal's father, who has the rank of captain, entered his presence, he would be overwhelmed by two opposing emotions. So, compassionately, the king does not post the father to the retinue of his elevated lieutenant, the field marshal.”

THE ISSUE OF THE BELIEF OF THE PARENTS OF THE PROPHET

Islamic scholars agree that:

"None of the noble individuals of the chain coming from Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham) to Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon them) was indifferent to the true religion and none of them blemished their heart with shirk (idol-worship, to associate anyone or anything with Allah) and kufr (disbelief, blasphemy)"

Many Islamic scholars put forward with clear evidence that Prophet Muhammad’s (pbuh) parents will be among the people of salvation in the afterlife, through similar explanations. We can list those explanations as follows:

1) His parents, Hazrat Abdullah and Hazrat Amina, passed away long before their son undertook the task of the prophethood. So, they lived in the period of (fatrat) interregnum and they are regarded as people of interregnum. There is no torment of Hell for those who died during the period of interregnum.

One day someone asked a well-known scholar Sharaf al-Din al-Munawi, "Are our prophet’s parents in Hell?"

Al-Munawi replied, "They passed away during the interregnum. There is no torment before sending down a Prophet"

It is well defined in the Quran and hadith (saying or tradition of the Prophet Muhammad) that no one who did not hear an invitation of a Prophet will have torment in the afterlife. It is also known that no previous Prophet’s invitation reached Prophet Muhammad’s (pbuh) parents. So, we can say that they will have no torment in the afterlife and they are among the people of salvation.

2) There is no information that the Prophet’s parents were in shirk and kufr. On the contrary, they were among the “Hanif” people who were practicing the beliefs and traditions coming from their grandfather Prophet Ibrahim (pbuh), like Zayd Ibn Amr Ibn Nufayl, Waraqa Ibn Nawfal and others.

3) Another piece of evidence that they were not in shirk is a hadith of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh), "I come from a continuous line of clean fathers and always mothers"

In the Quran, people of shirk is defined as “unclean people”. Since cleanness and uncleanness, faith and shirk, believers and unbelievers are opposites, and when we consider the above hadith, we must accept that no one from the ancestors of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) was in shirk.

In short, “While Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) is said to be a mercy to the universe by Allah, it would not be logical and harmonious with good manners to think that his parents, who carried him in their bodies before the sun of prophethood was born would be deprived of the prosperity and light of their sun. The parents of the Messenger of Allah lived in the Period of Ignorance (Jahiliyyah). They did not live during the time of the prophethood of Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh).”

Then, a believer should know and accept the following:

“The parents of Allah’s Messenger are surely from the people of salvation, people of Paradise and people of belief. Surely Allah Almighty will not hurt His dear messenger’s tender and compassionate heart.”

The following stanza expresses that truth in a nice way:

While the sun of the two worlds were in the sign of bliss

How would Allah not give his parents honor?

Oh my heart! Look at the diver with equitable eyes

Would he take the pearl and throw away the mother-of pearl?

Its Meaning:

Is it possible that God Almighty will not honor the Prophet’s mother and father while Hazrat Muhammad (pbuh), who is the sun of the both worlds, is in the sign of happiness?

O my heart! Look mercifully at the diver! Is it possible that he will take the pearl and throw away the mother-of-pearl?

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