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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

for reasons wretched & divine

summary: unfit: unfit for duty, unfit for a proper teaching position, unfit for you.

word count: ~14k

warnings: ~inappropriate~ student/teacher relations, age gap (27 & 19), war related topics, mental illness related topics, some suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), angst, innuendo, language

a/n: what can i say? i’m a hoe for period pieces. i have been laboring over this for an embarrassingly long time so i’m pleased to finally share it with you all! would love to hear your thoughts. also: big big thank you to @joemazzmatazz for being an extra set of eyeballs on this one and listening to me ramble about my insecurities every other day! love you long time, sis. xoxo.

(photo: @consumedbygwirst)

snowshill, gloucestershire, england. 1917.

a deaf ear, that’s why they wouldn’t take him; a deaf ear. he’d tried—god, he’d tried—to convince someone on the medical board that he was fit for duty. he’d come dangerously close to offering a bribe; something, anything, to be able to go and fight alongside his kinsman. but in the end, they’d still slapped his file with a rejection stamp.

gwilym james lee: unfit for duty by reason of physical impairment necessary for proper military response.

the words are engraved on his very heart now. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

his hands shake as he gathers the papers littered across his desk. the tremor has plagued him since he left his review with the medical board. why he can’t say for certain, and he doesn’t like to probe the issue too deep, but it’s always there, fluctuating in intensity. a slight waver in his fingers one moment and a full-scale trembling the next. it makes him feel like an old man, his deaf ear, his shaking hands. he’s twenty-seven years old, in the prime of his life, not eighty.

it’s sunday, and the mid-afternoon sun warms him through the window. he’s been in snowshill for a fortnight now yet his students—all twelve of them—remain a mystery. it’s clear they miss their former schoolteacher, but, like most, jefferson lewis has gone to serve his country. the vicar, bless him, had proven to be of more harm than good during his brief tenure as schoolmaster for the last four months, hence, gwilym’s new post: a stone, one-room schoolhouse on the edge of a vast field; a community away from civilized society, away from his father, away from any place he could soil the family name with his failures.

materials gathered, he slips out the front door. he considers locking the place up, but if anyone does break in, there isn’t much to steal. he’d come by this afternoon on a whim. lodging with an elderly woman and her six cats is one of the many things about snowshill that grates on his nerves, and the quiet air of the schoolhouse is a welcome respite from constance’s inane titterings. it’s nearly time for afternoon tea, though, and she’ll be cross if he doesn’t show, so he heads down the dirt lane, hands in his pockets, head bent low.

his steps slow, but do not stop, when the sound of his name reaches his ears. it sounds muffled, far away, as most things do. still, it’s loud enough to give him pause. he throws a glance over his shoulder. two pupils—maryanne clouder and you—walk down the lane. you stroll arm in arm with maryanne, your hair tied back in a long braid. maryanne’s arm is raised in a motion meant to flag him down. begrudgingly, he stops.

“mr. lee!” maryanne is not coy in the way she grabs your wrist and drags you across the road. her cheeks are flushed when she reaches his side, her elbow still circled around yours. “we didn’t see in you sunday service this morning.”

he shifts on his feet, fingers curling around the strap of his satchel. “no, i didn’t attend.”

“any reason?” maryanne’s head tilts to the side, her lower lip caught between her teeth. he stifles a sigh. the girl is young, merely fifteen. she’s cute in a girlish sort of way; one might see her as a pesky sister. still, she tries to catch his attention each day, her eyelashes batting against her sun-chapped cheeks, her legs swinging back and forth at her desk.

“i... overslept,” he lies.

his eyes flick to your face, which struggles to remain unamused. you’re the eldest of his pupils, nineteen and itching to capture whatever semblance of freedom is left in the world. maryanne is your closest classmate in age, and he rarely sees you without her on your tail. to your credit, you never complain, never seem to mind. he admires that. there had once been a day he’d been like maryanne—so eager to please whoever would give him the time of day—but those days are long gone.

“well, mother asked after you,” maryanne continues. “she’d like to invite you over for supper sunday next—as a proper welcome to snowshill.”

he’s quick to turn her down, as he has two other families since his arrival. “that’s very kind, maryanne, but i’m not sure it would be appropriate.”

“nonsense, sir!” he hopes his eyebrows don’t rise too much in surprise when you jump to maryanne’s aid. “i’ll be there with my niece and my grandfather, and mrs. coulder makes the best roast you’ve had this side of london. you must come.”

from behind his circular, wire-rimmed glasses, he wonders if you can see the way his eyes widen. since arriving at the schoolhouse, he’s known you only as the eldest, wisest, and least rambunctious of his class. you’re quiet, but well-spoken; authoritative, but not domineering. the way you carry yourself—shoulders held straight, chin extended outward, eyes soft yet purposeful—he could easily mistake you for a woman. but you’re not. you’re a girl, his student, and just because you insist he attend sunday supper does not mean you look at him as anything other than your teacher. certainly, he doesn’t look at you as anything other than his student.

he clears his throat. it’s been a long day. he’s tired, on edge. he shouldn’t be thinking about these things.

forcing a tight smile, he gives a nod. “it seems i have no choice.” maryanne claps her hands together as he says, “tell your mother i’ll be there.”

“oh, goody! you won’t regret it, sir, i promise. i’ll be sure to tell hastings not to pester you too much.”

a groan nearly surfaces as he remembers the previous week’s antics of maryanne’s brother. he bites his tongue to keep from retracting his acceptance. “hastings doesn’t bother me, maryanne.”

her grin turns sly, and she pushes his arm in a playful gesture. “you don’t have to lie, mr. lee.” her tone is slow, drawling, and he has the integrity to blush. his ears feel hot, uncomfortable—and not at all pleasurable.

you tug on maryanne’s arm. “come on, mary.” stepping away, you jerk your head toward town, a measure of concern hidden beneath your smooth features. “we should leave mr. lee be. we’ve bothered him enough already.”

he doesn’t refute your statement. even if he jogs the rest of the way, he’ll still be late for afternoon tea, and he’ll still bear the brunt of constance’s wrath. in truth, you have bothered him enough already. so he lets you steer maryanne away without another word. at the last moment, he thinks he’s imagined it when you twist to look over your shoulder, your eyes running over him with a modicum of interest. he shakes the feeling off; it must have been his untoward imagination.

by the time he reaches contance’s cottage, a light drizzle has wet the shoulders of his suit jacket. his hair is damp, his glasses foggy. he ducks to avoid smacking his head against the doorframe as he enters. the cottage smells of tea and scones, both fresh, both warm.

from the kitchen, constance’s shrill voice meets his ears. no matter his hearing loss, her voice will never be one he can ignore. “is that you, gwilym?” she putters to the kitchen arch, wrapped tight in her pink robe, tea kettle in hand. when she sees him standing in the doorway, she frowns. “you’re late.”

“yes, yes, i’m sorry.” he sheds his jacket and places it on the wooden banister. rolling up his shirt sleeves, he makes his way to the kitchen. “i was accosted by some of my students.”

constance laughs, her fleshy cheeks taut with a smile. “oh, child, you make it sound like you loathe those students.”

he says nothing, simply brushes a few crumbs away from his place at the table. a fat cat jumps to take his seat before he can settle, and he sighs. constance chuckles at his misfortune, placing the tea kettle in the center of the table. she shoos the cat for him, and he sits.

“pour for us, won’t you?” she says, turning to gather the scones.

gwilym hesitates. his hand flexes on his thigh, but there’s no point in arguing with constance, so he lifts the kettle. heavy with hot water, the pot wavers in his hand. as he pours, his tremor grows stronger, the pot shaking so violently water makes it everywhere but the teacup.

“dammit,” he mutters. he puts the kettle down with more force than is strictly necessary; enough that he can feel constance’s eyes slide to his back as he rises to mop up the spilled water. it’s hot as it drenches the napkin, and he takes the moment of pain as punishment. he uses both hands to pour on the second go around. there’s still an unnatural rhythm to the stream of liquid as it descends to the teacups, but it hasn’t ruined the tablecloth, and he supposes that’s all that matters.

“there we are.” constance places a scone—blueberry iced with cream; she always makes his favorites—before him, and she does not mention the spilled water. “who were the rascals that accosted you this time?”

between bites of scone and sips of tea, he answers. “maryanne coulder and [y/n] [y/l/n].”

constance replaces her teacup on its saucer with a knowing nod. “ah, i know the coulder family. good bunch, except for that son of theirs.” her smile widens as his face blanches. “it seems you know him too.”

“he put tacks on my stool this thursday.”

“did you sit on them?”

he shakes his head. “no, but i might’ve.”

“and it would have given all the children a royal laugh.” she takes another sip, challenging him over the rim of her cup. “[y/n] i don’t know so well.”

“she’s in her last year. bright girl.” he doesn’t know why he feels to need to say such a thing. he’s barely given constance any information about his students thus far, but there’s something about the way she’s watching him that makes him speak and speak fast. “she could go on to university if she put her mind to it.”

“nineteen, i think, yes?”

he shrugs. “i think so.” constance hums and reaches over to pet an orange tabby cat. “they’ve wrangled me into sunday dinner next week. the coulders, i mean,” he adds.

“oh?”

“it was impossible to say no.”

“well, i believe it’s about time you show your face around town.” constance lifts a barely visible brow. “you really much try and engage your students more, gwilym. no one likes a sour puss.”

heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. she’s right, of course. he hasn’t always been this way, but since the war broke out and his subsequent service denial, he’s been nothing but a gray cloud in every room. he can’t help it.

constance changes the subject as her eyes move to the window at the back of the cottage. “did you know michael livingston went and shot a fox at four o’clock this morning?” she tuts her tongue. “that man! he really is the bane of my existence. a horrid excuse for a neighbor.”

gwilym’s gaze drops to his teacup, and he filters out what he can of constance’s prattle. she’s right. he should work on connecting with his students more. his father is a master at that. he has every student at the university eating out of the palm of his hand by the end of the first term week. gwilym thought he might have the capacity to do the same, but it seems he had been wrong. his students are respectful enough, but aside from maryanne and her silly crush, they are largely unattached. though, it isn’t as if he wants their affection or even their approval...

he’s fine without it. really, he is.

still, it wouldn’t hurt to at least seem approachable. he’s in snowshill for the foreseeable future. he might as well face it and try to appear like he gives a damn.

at four o’clock sharp the following sunday, he stands outside the coulder household, his fist poised ready to knock on the dark green front door. only he can’t seem to bring himself make his arrival known.

if he knocks, he has to be sociable. if he doesn’t knock, he can retreat to his attic room and spend the rest of his sunday in peace.

if he knocks, he might begin to chip away at the three-foot-thick barrier he’s placed around himself. if he doesn’t knock, he remains hidden, but protected.

his fist trembles in front of the door.

“mr. lee, are you alright?”

he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of your voice. dropping his hand and readjusting his hold on the plate of muffins constance sent along with him, he turns away from the door. you stand halfway down the stone path leading to the home, one hand holding the chubby fingers of a toddler he doesn’t recognize. your other hand is pressed against the back of an old man, his shoulders bent with age, hands wobbling as he uses a cane.

gwilym swallows and looks away. “oh, hello. i just...” he can’t think of an excuse, so he, lamely, settles for the truth. “well, if i can be frank with you, miss [y/l/n], i was—am—feeling a bit apprehensive.”

you just smile and lift the toddler from the ground. with the girl on your hip, you come to stand by his side. he shifts when he catches a whiff of your shampoo. you glance up at him, your smile lifting, before knocking on the front door yourself.

“there’s nothing to be nervous about, sir,” you whisper in the lull between your knock and the door opening. “’s just maryanne.”

he isn’t certain, but he thinks you’re teasing him. the possibility makes his skin crawl in more ways than one. he hates that.

saved the duty of response, he pulls his mouth into a tight smile as the door opens. mrs. coulder, flanked by her daughter, stands in the threshold, brightly patterned apron snug around her waist.

“oh, mr. lee!” she stretches out her hand, and he shakes it, the plate of muffins tipping precariously in his opposite palm. “we’re so glad you decided to join us.”

“thank you for the invitation, mrs. coulder.” he waits until you’ve passed with your grandfather to cross the threshold.

“please, call me vivianne. can i take that for you?” she nods to the plate of muffins, eyes sparkling all the while.

“yes, thank you. from constance pruder,” he adds. “she told me to tell you hello.”

“how kind of her!” vivianne takes the muffins from his arms and gestures toward the back of the house with her chin. “my husband, john, is out back. why don’t you go and chat until supper’s ready. he is ever so eager to meet you.”

gwilym fights to hold back his cringe. fathers—he doesn’t do well with them. not his own, not anyone else’s. it’s just another item on his long list of dislikes and annoyances.

but he’s a guest, and he really does want to try. so he fixes his tie and follows vivianne’s directions to the back garden.

john is sat on a wrought-iron chair, his hands braced against the arms, round face pulled tight in a frown as he watches maryanne play with the toddler on the grass. he stands when gwilym ducks to step outside. he extends a hand, his grip painful.

“lee,” he barks in greeting before dropping back to his seat.

the old man—gwilym assumes he’s your grandfather—twists from his place in a similar chair. “forgive me if i don’t get up, son.” the way his fingers waver in the air makes gwilym’s stomach clench; his own hand shakes slightly as he touches the old man’s palm. “name’s richard.”

“sit down.” john points to a bench against the house. “i’ve got questions for you.”

gwilym hesitates, caught bent at the waist as he goes to sit. his hands are firm on his thighs, and unwittingly, his eyes flick to yours. he’s surprised to see you already watching him, your fingers twirling in the blades of grass around your legs. when the moment has stretched far too long, he sits and smooths his sweaty palms against his trousers.

“i hope easy questions, sir,” he says. his tone is light, but his teeth are gritted.

“easy enough if you tell the truth.” john withdraws a silver cigarette case from his breast pocket. jamming a butt between his teeth, he offers the case to gwilym, who declines with a shake of his head. john puffs on the cigarette for a moment before saying, “why aren’t you off fighting, lee? all the other lads from gloucestershire are doing their part. what makes you special enough to stay away from the battle?”

to say gwilym is shocked by john’s pointed question would be an understatement. the force of the query, spoken in harsh, biting tones, is enough to tilt him sideways in his chair. he’s sure his face is red, his chest tight from forgetting to release the breath he holds in his lungs. his hands curl against his trousers, his knuckles gone white with rage.

“well, sir,” he drawls, careful to keep his tone even. more than anything, he wants to stand, leave, and slam the door on his way out for good measure. his ears burn with embarrassment. “i would certainly be fighting if i could.”

it’s an honest answer, the truth if ever he’s spoken it. what he wouldn’t give to be away from snowshill, rushing the battle field with his brothers-at-arms. what he wouldn’t give to be worthy of a moment’s notice when he returned from war.

but he’s not worthy and he’s not fighting. he’s stuck in the back garden of his most precocious and love-sick student, the sun beating down on his brow with an undue heat, his muscles twitching with the restraint it takes to keep from decking snowshill’s most prominent lawyer.

john narrows his eyes across the cobblestone patio. “if you could? what’s wrong with you?”

gwilym says nothing. red—the color of blood, ambulance sirens, and fire—flashes before his eyes.

“in my day,” john continues. “we fought no matter our delicate sensibilities.” he huffs around his cigarette, his chest ballooning like a baboon. “i’d say that i—”

“mr. coulder!” your voice is sharp, though not unkind, when you break into coulder’s soliloquy. gwilym’s eyes snap from john’s throbbing forehead muscle to you. you stand beside your grandfather, your skirt tangled around your legs in your apparent haste to stand. there’s grass pressed against your knees, and a faint tinge of red on your cheeks. “i believe i heard mrs. coulder calling for your just now,” you say, sweetening the blow of your interruption with a smile.

john looks to the open door, a pucker forming between his brows. “oh,” he mumbles, rising to his feet. “i’d better go see what that’s about.” he ambles on bowed legs into the house, and gwilym is left to pick of the pieces of his fractured dignity.

he dares glance at you. your eyes lift from the ground slowly, your fingers curling along the hem of your cardigan. when you meet his gaze, you look away first, as if you’re scared—scared to look at him, scared to admit you had to rescue him like a drowning puppy. he swallows hard and stands, though he isn’t sure why. he just can’t stay sitting anymore.

vivianne pops her head around the frame of the back door. “come come, everyone. supper is ready! mr. lee, you sit beside john. he has so much he wishes to discuss with you.” she grins and waves him inside, and who is he to refuse her?

later that night, when his back is pressed against his firm mattress, moonlight washing through the attic room, gwilym feels the overwhelming urge to cry. he can’t remember the last time he shed a tear. after his mother’s passing—god rest her soul—tears have seemed... pointless. they didn’t bring his mother back; they won’t cure his deaf ear or his tremor, won’t stop people like john coulder from asking questions.

still, his chest aches. there’s something in his lungs scratching to get out. it rises in his throat like a lump and bubbles forth in a broken sob. he presses his hand to his mouth, feels a hot tear slide down his cheekbone.

god, he hates it here.

really, he hates it everywhere. there’s nowhere he can go to escape from himself.

class on monday is disjointed.

he didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning the whole night long, his dreams plagued with images of his mother, the war, you staring at him like a broken man. he woke several times in a cold sweat, his bedclothes drenched and sticky.

his students bear the brunt of his poor night’s rest. he is tired to the very core of his being, and it shows in the way he waves hastings away after one-too-many attempts at the same arithmetic problem. it shows in the way he sits at his desk before the class, rubbing at this throbbing temples, the echo of the previous night’s supper ringing in his ears. though the sentiment is there most days, today he truly does not care if his students learn or not. he just wants a stiff drink, maybe a quick shag, something to take his mind off it all.

shifting in his seat, he withdraws the pocket watch snug in his trouser pocket. the gold around the clasp is worn with decades of use, and when he unlocks the face, the watch within is slightly obscured by a thin crack over the number five. still, despite its flaws, the clock ticks on. there’s a metaphor there, he knows, about himself: worn, broken, but still working. he’s too jaded to believe it.

he rises from his chair. the legs scrape against the floor. “it’s lunch,” he announces, breaking the heavy silence of the classroom with his deep voice. “take your things and go home. class is dismissed for the rest of the day.”

from her place in the front row, maryanne bats her eyelashes in confusion. “what’s the occasion, sir?” she sits straight at her desk, eager to please, panting for some drip of his attention.

gwilym doesn’t have any attention to spare for maryanne, for any of his students, really. his eyes flick from maryanne to the open window to you. he clears his throat and looks away. “it’s a nice day out, maryanne,” he says. “we shouldn’t waste it inside. don’t you agree?”

she grins and nods as she hastily gathers her things together. “oh, yes, of course!”

his jaw goes tight as he says, “thank your mother again for inviting me to supper yesterday. it was very kind of her.”

scarlet blush crawls over maryanne’s cheeks. she holds her books snug against her chest, her shoes dancing back and forth in nerves across the hardwood floor. “you are more than welcome any time, sir.”

he nods once, glancing toward the open schoolhouse door. she gets the picture; their conversation is through. grabbing hastings hand, she drags her brother out of the building and into the sunshine, leaving gwilym in blessed silence. he drops to his chair with a groan, cradling his forehead between his pointer finger and thumb. outside he can here his pupils laughing in the field. he removes his hands from his face and looks out the window-lined wall. hands crossed in his lap, he watches the children play, wonders what it feels like to live so carefree.

had he ever been like that as a child: wild, uninhibited? he must’ve been—surely. his long-term memory is poor, brought on by a hard tumble he’d taken from a horse at an early age, but memory impairment aside, he wasn’t always this sullen, this removed. surely.

“mr. lee?”

he jolts at the sound of your voice, twisting in his chair to see you standing before his desk, a crease of worry between your brows. he frowns. “miss [y/l/n]? have you been there long?”

you shake your head, and a lock of hair falls out from behind your ear. you tuck it back, your eyes falling momentarily to the floor before you say, “no. well, yes. i was gathering my things, and you looked... pensive.”

he sits upright, and the urge to smooth his hair works its way to his fingers. he adjusts his glasses instead. “pensive? that doesn’t bode well.”

at his half-hearted attempt at levity, the corner of your mouth lifts. you step closer to his desk. “i wanted to be sure you were alright after supper last evening.”

his gut clenches at the memory, the shame of john coulder’s interrogation, at having to be saved by his own student, at that student being you. “i’m fine, truly,” he says, an edge to his voice he doesn’t mean.

still, you push further. “it’s just that mr. coulder... he’s not very diplomatic when it comes to asking questions. i thought maybe you—”

for the second time, gwilym stands from his chair with the intention of ending the conversation. he will not discuss sunday’s supper with you. the memory is still too raw, and his dream of you coming to his rescue is thoroughly and completely humiliating. yet when he stretches to his full height and sees you standing there, the most earnest expression of concern he’s ever seen on another face, he is powerless to stop himself from admitting the truth. he shoves his hands in his pockets, rolling his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“your concern is kind. mr. coulder’s questions were ill-phrased but not unwarranted. the men of this country hold a heavy duty right now. i suspect he was only asking out of patriotism.”

you blink, lips pressed together. he’d thought you’d be satisfied with his answer, but it appears you are not. the crease in your brow deepens. “sir, he was very unkind to you.” you speak as if he didn’t realize, as if he didn’t wet his pillow with tears of shame and hurt.

he nods. “perhaps.”

“it’s not fair, though. i’m sure whatever your reasons are for staying away from the front are valid.”

“again, your kindness does you credit.”

“i’m not trying to flatter you, mr. lee. i’m only speaking the truth.”

gwilym hesitates before saying, “i did not assume you were the flattering type.”

you shake your head. “i’m not.”

he’s not sure if it’s just the warm spring breeze drifting through the open window, but the air feels heavier than it did moments before. his eyes search yours. searching for what he can’t say, but he searches nonetheless. you hold his gaze until the faintest of blushes rises to your cheekbones.

“i must thank you, though, miss [y/l/n], for coming to my aid last evening.” he’s surprised by his confession. it should drive him to his knees in embarrassment that he must concede to his student after they help him with a man twice his age. he is embarrassed, but something—manners, the desire to replicate your honesty, your doe eyes—makes him say it. “i am not sure i would have answered mr. coulder’s questions with a cool head, but you showed great tact. i’m indebted to you for that.”

he bites his tongue. too far, perhaps. a teacher should never be indebted to his student. least of all his oldest, brightest, and yes, he will admit it: most attractive student.

your chest lifts as you draw in a breath through your teeth. “well, i know a way you can repay me.”

his eyes widen, his throat seizing around his adam’s apple. he removes his hands from his pockets and shuffles a stack of unmarked papers on his desk. his hand wavers as he moves, though he’s not sure if it’s due to his tremor or an unwarranted image of you in his arms flashing through his mind.

too far. too far. you’re just a student. he’s just your teacher.

“what would you have me do?” it’s stupid to ask, to play along, but he can’t help it when your hands are clasped behind your back, the ribbon at the end of your braid falling over your shoulder.

“there’s a benefit next week,” you say, and your face eases into a smile. “it’s for the wounded soldiers, and i’m in charge of the bake sale. my grandfather is too old to help and my niece is too young, so i thought perhaps you might like to help me? i’m sure more people will stop by if you’re there. everyone’s still curious about the new schoolmaster.”

gwilym stills, his eyes falling on you. not for the first time, he wonders if there’s something beneath your gaze, beneath your question. there can’t be; there isn’t. just like he is not interested in you, you are not interested in him.

unless...

he clears his throat and looks down at his desk. he brushes a stray pencil to the side. it rolls, rolls, rolls, stops against a heavy book. “i suppose i can make the time to assist.” he meets your eyes despite his gut telling him not to entertain this foolishness any longer. “for you, miss [y/l/n].”

your face clears in something akin to shock. you blink rapidly, your eyelashes fluttering against your freckled cheekbones. for a moment, gwilym imagines maryanne in the moments past, batting her own eyes. it hadn’t made his gut twist like this.

“it’s not for me,” you whisper, and the breathy sound of your voice sends a rush of blood from his head to his manhood. “it’s for the soldiers.”

“yes,” he replies. your gaze is locked on his, deep and probing. “the soldiers.”

a pebble hits the window with a sharp ting, and you both startle—you with a gasp, he with a muttered curse. turning, he stares out the window long enough to see a few of his male students playing a game of stickball with pebbles. a sigh shudders through his chest. no one had seen, had felt the thick tension in the room. thank heaven.

when he turns back to ask you how he can help before the benefit, you are gone.

the day of the benefit dawns bright and clear. it’s warm despite the month. april is generally cool and balmy, but gwilym breaks a sweat as he carries arrangement after arrangement of flowers to a little red wagon outside the cottage. constance sits perched on her portable stool, a cane between her legs as she watches him work.

“be careful with those, gwilym james,” she chides. “i spent all week and won’t have you breaking a single one.”

“i’m being careful, constance.” he huffs as he lowers a bouquet of blue hydrangeas to the wagon. the glass rattles as it squeezes between the dozens of other vases. the wagon is full to bursting of flowers of all kinds and where constance unearthed such of a treasure trove of flowers, he cannot be sure. “you truly expect to sell all these in one afternoon?”

constance draws in a sharp breath and whacks the butt of her cane against his shin. “how dare you!” he yelps, clutching his offended leg, but for once finds it easy to match her sly smile. “my flowers are sought after in the next three counties!”

“i’m sure they are,” he says, chuckling at her twisted features.

she stands, snapping her stool shut with ease. with her chin tilted, she gestures with her cane to the road. “we’ll be late. you know i detest being late.”

rolling his eyes, gwilym grabs the wagon handle from the ground and gently maneuvers the vehicle onto the dirt road leading to the center of the village. the flowers jostle and clang as the wagon dips with the unevenness of the road, but the arrangements hold steady. constance’s steps are slow and small, so he shrinks his stride to match hers. a whisper of a breeze cools the sweat lingering on the back of his neck, and he glances at the cloudless sky. no one could have asked for better weather.

“i hear you are to assist miss [y/l/n] in her confection sale today?”

gwilym nearly trips over a rut in the road, but catches himself at the last moment. he adjusts his hold on the wagon handle, his hand trembling even curled against the cool metal. “yes—she had no one else to help her.”

constance’s eyebrows lift. “ah.”

“you did tell me to be more kindly with my pupils.”

“that i did.”

“then why do you look so displeased?”

“i’m far from displeased, child,” she says with a laugh. “merely cataloging this moment for later.”

gwilym doesn’t ask for further explanation. he doesn’t want to know. it’s bad enough that he spent the entire morning primping and preening over his own reflection. god, he’d felt like such an idiot.

but he couldn’t deny the urge to at least try and put some effort into his appearance. he would be spending the day by your side, after all. not that it mattered...

by the time he rolls constance’s wagon into the village square, the benefit is well under way. snowshill is a small parish; only one-hundred-twenty-three residents, yet it seems every soul has turned out for the event. colorful streamers whip through the mid-morning breeze. a gaggle of musicians sitting underneath a shade tree amble through a litany of well-known tunes. the baker twins, annie and joy, race past gwilym, hand in hand as they head for the dunking booth. he pauses in his study of the square. there’s happiness here. despite it all—the war, the fathers and brothers and husbands so far away, the uncertainty of the future—the villagers have still found a reason to smile. surely, he can to.

“i’ll take this.” constance pulls gwilym from his thoughts as she pries the wagon handle from his hand. “you go over there,” she adds, nodding to a booth on his left. “miss [y/l/n] is waiting.”

he ignores the telling sparkle in her eyes. she can see right through him, the old bat, see straight to the part of his heart he so desperately wants—no, needs—to ignore.

chasing the thoughts away, he turns to locate the corner set aside for the bake sale. it isn’t hard. in an uncomfortable but familiar sort of way, he’s drawn to you, and he finds you easily. at the base of the church gardens, you’re already hard a work. your hair is loose around your shoulders, and the sun glints off a pearl barrette clipping a portion of the strands back. stepping forward, he allows his eyes, for the briefest of moments, to run over your frame. your forest green dress is cinched at the waist with a wide gold band, accentuating your curves. the sleeves of the dress, which fall to your elbows, are sheer, and he can see your skin glistening beneath the sway of shadows and sun. you’re lovely, breathtaking even. he hates the way his heart gallops in his chest at the sight, like he’s a love-struck schoolboy. in reality, he is your teacher and a grown man. the thought alone makes him advert his eyes from the picture of you, dressed well and elegantly, smiling as you speak to a customer.

“there you are!” you twist away from the pie, cake, and cookie laden table to grace him with a brilliant smile. knowing you first and foremost as the level-headed student who rarely speaks save to impart pearls of wisdom, the sight of your wide smile is near blinding. “i was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

he shakes his head. “never.”

“good.” you point up the hill to the church. “the rest of the pies are in the kitchen. bring them down, won’t you?”

he does so without complaint, returning to the booth with a cherry pie in one hand and a rhubarb pie in the other. he places them on the table with care before asking, “who made all these?”

you shrug and straighten the sign hanging from the makeshift portico attached to the table. “mostly the older ladies of the parish. though,” you say, your eyes sliding to his with mischief. “i did make those.” you point to a small plate of chocolate chip cookies. “you can steal one if you like. i won’t tell.”

gwilym narrows his eyes. “how do i know if i can trust you?”

you laugh—a clear, bell-like laugh—and it goes straight to his gut. “try it and you’ll just have to find out.”

you sit, your attention caught by the toddler scooting about on the a picnic blanket behind the table. gwilym hesitates before taking one of the cookies. it snaps in his hands, and he nudges your arm with his knuckles. you look over your shoulder, glancing at the half of a cookie melting between his fingers.

“take the other half,” he says. “that way we both get in trouble. if i’m going to go down, i’ll take you with me.”

your cheeks color, and he wonders where your mind has gone, but then you take the cookie and your fingers brush his palm. a jolt shoot through his arm, but he ignores it, sitting in the seat beside you.

“it’s very good,” he says after swallowing the dessert. “chocolatey.”

you smile in thanks then reach out, your thumb nearing his cheek. he stills, uncertain if he should move back and risk offense or lean in and risk it all. you swipe your thumb across the corner of his mouth, your touch fleeting but like fire all the same. sitting back, your grin widens.

“you had a bit of chocolate on your lip,” you explain.

“oh.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks the opposite direction.

few villagers have meandered over to the bake sale booth, but the day is early yet. he dares relax and lean back in his chair. he unbuttons his suit-jacket, letting the breeze waft through his sleeves and around his torso. when he turns his head to look at you, he finds you already watching, your eyes trained against his chest which strains against his snug waistcoat. all thoughts evaporate until your eyes lift to his and you blush.

he clears his throat. “uh—the child?” he questions, pointing to the toddler on the ground. she’s chubby, her legs stumpy beneath a yellow day dress and bloomers. “who does she belong to?”

you lift the baby and set her on your knee. the little girl smiles at him and leans against your shoulder, her mouth gnawing around her fist. “my sister,” you say. “she’s away, so grandfather and i are left to take care of eliza.”

“and where is your grandfather?”

“he’s with his mates. they’ve set up shop outside the pub and are more than likely pestering anyone who will listen with their own war stories.”

“he seems like a kind man.”

“oh, he is!” you grin and return eliza to her spot in the shade. “after my parents died, he took me and peggy—that’s my sister—in without a moment’s hesitation.”

before gwilym can question you any further, a familiar voice hits his ears. he rises alongside you as vivianne coulder draws close to the booth.

“oh, look how darling! [y/n], you’ve really outdone yourself!” vivianne eyes the sweets with interest. “however am i to make such a choice? there’s simply too many good things here to choose from.”

“you can always buy multiples, mrs. coulder.” you press your palms against the table, leaning forward to watch as vivianne surveys the array of food. gwilym’s eyes stray toward your backside, which is pushed out, until vivianne breaks his train of thought.

“mr. lee, how did you get mixed up in a bake sale?” she asks, dropping a few coins in your palm as she makes her purchase. “i might have thought you’d participate in the dunk tank like my john.”

as if to punctuate her question, a bell across the square rings followed by a cheer and a splash. someone hit the bullseye.

“mr. lee owed me a favor,” you say. “i had to watch the class one afternoon while he tended to a feral dog in the yard.”

the story isn’t a falsehood, but it’s certainly not why he stands beside you now. he’d almost forgotten about that dog, but perhaps the mangy mutt had been a godsend after all. it certainly kept you from having to admit the real reason for his appearance at the bake sale.

vivianne giggles behind her gloved hand. “how brave!”

your hand, ungloved and warm, lands on his arm. your fingertips squeeze the flesh of his bicep nearly imperceptibility but he feels the gentle pressure like a vice around his skin. “yes,” you continue, seemingly oblivious to the way your touch wrecks him. “he was quite brave.”

vivianne chats with you a moment more—something about maryanne and her sixteenth birthday celebration—but he can barely focus. he’s unnaturally hot under his jacket, despite the cover of shade protecting the table of sweets. he wants to shake your hand from his arm, loosen your hold around his gut, but he doesn’t want to appear rude. he doesn’t want to push you away.

so he stands still. he lives with your fingers against the curve of his shoulder like a man readying himself for execution. his jaw is tight, his eyes focused on the people milling about the square.

when vivianne finally ambles away, he feels free enough to step out of your grasp. he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. his eyes dart from the ground to your face. you stare at him, your own eyes wide and lips parted ever-so slightly. god, he could kiss you. maybe it would quell the fire in his stomach and get you out of his head. maybe the simple touch would fix all the worn-out and tired thought swirling through his head. he would give into his desire but there’s too many people around and maybe that’s a good thing. he’s not sure he could stop himself if he started.

blessedly, a trio of older women approach the table. he jerks his attention away from you and finds a modicum of solace in auctioning off the bake sale items to whomever will purchase them. the faster the table is clear, the sooner he can go home and take a cold shower.

fate, it seems, has other plans for him because it is not until past-dusk that the charity benefit ends. the last of the pies have been sold off, your niece dragged home by your grandfather when the hour gets too late. gwilym helps you break down the table in silence, the only sound a bird twittering in its nest overhead and the rumble of the dunk tank being hauled away. you look tired, and he’s sure he does too. on the whole, he enjoyed himself. you are pleasant company and skilled at carrying on conversation. in truth, he finds himself wondering if he could spend every waking moment simply sitting by your side. the busy-bodies and children who came by the booth brought him small smiles, as well. the occasional woman called him handsome, even though her age well surpassed his own, and it buoyed his neglected heart. mothers thanked him profusely for his work at the school. he had not realized how much his students seemed to appreciate his efforts in the classroom. on more than one occasion, he’d left the schoolhouse under the impression the vast majority of his pupils were plotting his demise for being so sullen and boring. but perhaps not...

with your aid, he carries the booth’s table to the basement of the church. it is cool in the dark hallway of the building. his shoes sound against the stone floor as he searches for a light switch with nothing but his gaze. he hears a sharp bang followed by a muffled curse.

“you alright?” he asks, casting a glance over his shoulder. he can barely make out your form what with the dim hall and your form covered by night.

you adjust your hold on the end of the table. “yes, i’m fine. i bumped into the doorframe ‘s all.”

“where do we put this table then?”

“the vicar got it out for me early this morning. i suppose we could simply leave it by the pantry in the kitchen.”

“i’m afraid i don’t know where that is.”

he swears he can see you smile despite the low light. “perhaps i should have led the way.”

he mirrors your grin. “perhaps you should have.”

nodding to the left, you say, “that way. down the hall and first door on the right. i left it open.”

with some trouble, he manages to make it to the kitchen, though he too runs into the doorframe of the hallway and you giggle at his misfortune. together, you lower the table against the kitchen wall and step back. you brush your hands together with an air of finality.

“well,” you say with a sigh. “nothing like a good day’s work.”

gwilym turns to look at you in the darkness of the kitchen. a beam of moonlight filters through a single window in the corner of the room. it falls agains the back of your head, shrouding you in a halo of yellowy light. you’re looking at him, too; he can feel it. you look soft, and you stand close enough to touch. he keeps his hands at his sides; they tremble against the creases of his trousers.

“thank you, miss [y/l/n],” he whispers. “i needed a day like today.”

silence reigns supreme for the longest of moments. universes are born and wither in the space between his confession and your response.

but then your lips are on his.

your hands grasp the material around his shoulders, your nails pressing through the fabric in earnest. he can think of nothing else to do—nothing else he should do—other than remain planted firm on the stone floor of the church kitchen. he itches to hold you, to weave his fingers through your hair, and move his mouth over yours. you taste sweet, like cookies, for the brief moment you claim him as your own. still, he is level-headed enough, rational enough, scared enough, to not react—no matter how much he wants to.

you pull back, swallowing hard. your fingertips skim over your mouth. you stare at him, starlight caught in your eyelashes, then run from the basement before he can say a word.

you do not come to class for several days. he calculates that it must be three days you’ve skipped out on him—no, on school. really, he can’t be certain how long you’ve been gone. since he felt the touch of your lips on his, he has thought of little else. the memory consumes him, threatening to swallow him whole. it distracts him when he turns around from the blackboard to see your seat empty and when he dismisses class at the end of the day and does not see you gathering your belongings with your elegant movements. he has lost track of time and of order. at night, he lays awake and stares at his ceiling, his hands clasped behind his head. he runs the moment over and over again, replaying and reframing how it could have gone different.

he could have pushed you away the second you moved closer. at least then he would be able to claim he tried to be a professional, that he tried to distance himself from his interest in his own student.

he could have kissed you back. he’d wanted to. he’d wanted to so badly. he’d wanted to so badly the mere thought of how he’d kept his hands still at his sides makes his brain clench with discomfort.

the thursday after the benefit, after yet another day without your presence in the cramped schoolhouse, he drags his feet to your home. he’s reluctant to go, knowing he should allow you to come back on your own time. whatever it was that possessed you to kiss him, he knows you probably regret the action as much as he regrets not seizing the moment for himself.

you live on the outskirts of snowshill on your grandfather’s sheep farm. the dirt road leading to the white farmhouse is clogged with tufts of fresh grass, revealing its lack of traffic. a handful of hens peck the ground beneath a sprawling oak tree. a flat swing hanging from a thick branch sways back and forth with the afternoon breeze. it’s idyllic—removed from the rest of the world, even as far as snowshill goes, but idyllic.

he’s out of breath from the walk by the time he reaches the front door, but gwilym is self-aware enough to know he would out of breath regardless of his mode of transportation. he’s nervous. his hands shake, and there’s an incessant ringing in his deaf ear. he waits, unsure if anyone on the other side of the bright red door has heard his knock.

“mr. lee?”

the sound, garbled by the blood rushing to his ears and the tilt of his head, comes from his right. he twists to see you standing at the corner of the house. there’s a basket in your hand; it’s empty, save for a pair of small scissors which catch the sun. your blue-checkered dress is faded, the sleeves bunched around your elbows. one of the pockets on either hip seems weighed down with an invisible object. he stops his perusal and notes the clear frown on your face.

he steps forward, huffing out a rushed “miss [y/l/n]”, and nearly topples off the rail-less stoop. he catches himself at the last moment, his hand darting out to press against the frame of the farmhouse.

you gasp, dropping your basket, and rush forward, but when you see he’s righted himself, you stop. “goodness,” you say. “that would’ve been a bad tumble. i’ve told grandfather dozens of times that we need a railing.”

gwilym chuckles in a lame attempt to save face. he takes the three steps to the safety of solid earth and crosses to stand before you. you blink up at him, your lips pinched. there’s a mysterious lack of sparkle in your gaze, and he wonders if he’s the cause of its disappearance.

“you’ve not been to school,” he says.

you shake your head as you turn to pick your discarded basket. “no.”

“why?”

you lift a slim brow. “isn’t the answer obvious, sir?”

“no.”

you hold his stare, and he is the one to look away first. a chill settles around his spine despite the warmth of the day. he wrings his hands together as he looks over the field.

“if that’s all, sir—”

his eyes snap back to yours. “no!” he winces at the desperation in his tone and tries again. “no. i think we should talk, miss [y/l/n], about what happened at the benefit.”

this time you do look away, your cheeks tinged with blush. you gesture toward the meadow behind your home. “i was going to walk down to the river. i need to replenish our herb stock. you may join me if you like.”

“that’s fine,” he says, nodding. “you lead the way.”

the beginning of your walk is spent in silence. the meadow grass tangles around the hem of his trousers, staining them green with leftover dew. you trail ahead of him, your basket skimming over the weeds and grasses like a sailboat in an ocean of nature. he realizes you are without shoes, and the sight of your bare calves and ankles sends his thoughts elsewhere.

you lead him into a grove of cherry and birch trees. pink petals cover the ground and obscure the sky. it’s a haze of color here—cherry blossoms and green leaves, the flutter of an anxious bird’s wings, the clear but rushing waters of the creek. he stops when you do and inhales deeply. strangely, tears prick the corners of his eyes. he could stay here, he thinks, in this picturesque place—no one to bother him or question him or loathe his very existence.

“i never knew snowshill boasted such a beautiful spot,” he admits.

from your place crouched against the ground, your voice is muffled. “yes. i keep it secret”—your voice is clearer when you rise and look over your shoulder—“from nearly everyone. it’s too special to share with the world.”

you lean down again and use your small pair of scissors to snip at a collection of herbs growing along the creekbed. gwilym dares take a step closer, and he points to the herbs in your hand.

“what are those?”

“mint. it grows well by the water.” you lift the bundle. “would you like some?”

instead of taking the offer, he squats beside you. his knee, bent as it is, almost brushes your elbow. he plucks a small leaf of the mint and puts it on his tongue.

you watch as he allows the herb’s flavor to coat his tongue. “my mother used to make very good lemonade with mint.”

“my mother too.” he clears his throat, glances at the trickling stream, then back at you. “miss [y/l/n], about the benefit...”

to your credit, you do not shy away from his pointed gaze. your jaw tightens, but you maintain eye-contact, and he wonders if you can see all the thoughts racing through his head as he looks at you.

“i’m sorry if you misunderstood my gratefulness for our interactions at the coulder dinner and at the benefit. my intention was not to give you any untoward thoughts or—”

“why are you not fighting? in the war?” you interrupt with ease and do not blink as you question him.

despite his initial shock at the change of topic, he finds himself rushing to answer, to explain himself—though to anyone else, he would balk and turn away. “my right ear is deaf.”

“oh.”

“has been for a long time,” he continues. “apparently, good hearing is the mark of a good soldier.”

“and your hands?”

“my hands?”

“why do they tremble?”

at this, gwilym does balk. he stands, running the hands in question through his hair as he turns his back to you. “my hands do not tremble,” he says, his tone close to seething.

you stand to your full height, which isn’t much next to him. “yes they do. i’ve seen them—in class, at the benefit. were you denied service because of that, too?”

he openly glares at you, but he answers truthfully. “no. it developed after my denial.”

“oh,” you say again.

“really, miss [y/l/n], this is not why i wanted to speak with you.”

“i know. you wanted to talk about us.”

“there is no us. there can be no us.”

“i disagree.”

“yes, you would because you are a child, and you don’t understand that you and i giving in to whatever is between us would mean disaster.”

the slap that lands across his cheek echoes in the small grove of trees. he whirls, clutching his face as he stares at you in disbelief. his ear is ringing again, and it’s painful this time, but he knows he deserves it.

your chest heaves when you next speak. “i’m not a child.”

he knows this. he’s seen you as a woman—dreamt of you as a woman—too many times to count.

dropping his hand from his face, he nods. “i know. forgive me.”

you’re quiet, thinking, then you open your mouth to speak.

“i don’t think you realize, gwilym, how good you are for this community.” the sound of his name on your lips is sinful, threatening to tear his focus away from your words. “in the short time you’ve been here, i’ve seen the children in that schoolhouse learn more than they ever did before you came. you’re truly teaching them about the world, not just maths and reading and science. why, even last week hastings actually apologized for pulling on my braids in the past. he told me that you taught him that.”

gwilym frowns. “how? i never told—”

“they watch you. he told me you apologized to mark after you were short with him one afternoon. he told me he wanted to be like you—not his father, you.”

“miss [y/l/n]—”

“and my grandfather? he so admires you. i think he sees himself in you, after he came home from the way. he told me you’re very brave. and constance swears you have the gentlest soul built for caring for others. you may hide it, but she knows that you—”

“that’s enough—please.”

you fall silent, unshed tears washing over your eyes before you say, “don’t you see, gwilym? you walk around with such a weight on your shoulders, but all anyone wants to do—all i want to do—is ease the load. you’re worth that.”

he shakes his head and swallows hard. your speech all but shatters his heart. more than anything, he wants to believe you, wants to believe that he’s good for something. but the pesky thoughts in the back of his mind grip him hard. he can’t shake them.

unfit, unfit, unfit.

“i kissed you that night because i think you are wonderful.” your face cracks into a smile, vibrant and gut-wrenching. “wonderful and smart and handsome and—”

he puts a stop to your words. winding his arms around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest, his mouth lowering to capture yours. you’re stiff at first, in shock by his sudden change of heart, but then you relax, your arms lifting to circle his neck, drawing him ever closer. his lips explore yours with desperation, the weeks he’s spent pining after you crashing to the surface in an explosion of want and need. he moves his hands to cradle your face, and your hands skim to his shoulder blades, your fingers pressed into the skin beneath his waistcoat and shirt. you taste like fresh mint. it’s all he can do to not lower you to the bed of blossom petals on the ground and ravish you until the sun dips below the horizon.

he pulls away, breathing heavy, his forehead rolling against yours. “[y/n]...” you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth, and he realizes it must be the first time he’s spoken your name aloud in your presence. “[y/n],” he whispers again. “we can’t.”

you fist your hands in his shirtsleeves. “don’t say that. you feel it as much as i do.”

nodding, he moves to hold your waist. the feel of your body under his hands is heaven. you are divine, like an goddess escaped from la primavera. “i do,” he admits. “i feel it.”

he bends his head to kiss you again. the touch is softer this time, more hesitant, but when he gathers the nerve to pull you closer, your hips against his, you whimper into his mouth, and the sound pulls him back to reality. he practically trips backward, breathing labored, thoughts muddled, and body rigid.

the space between you swims with lust and desire and yearning. your lips are plump, your cheeks flushed. your eyelids flutter, seemingly dazed, but not at all confused. you know what you want; he knows what he wants.

“we must keep it secret,” he says.

you nod.

“i won’t be able to touch you or—or be with you in public.”

“i know.”

“i could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out.”

you flinch at this, briefly looking to the side. “i know.”

shaking his head, he mutters “god help me, it would be worth it even if i did” as he crosses the space between you and crashes his lips to yours once more.

there is no hesitation now. he moves with purpose and you follow his lead. gently, he guides you to the blossom-strewn floor, his fingertips discovering the valleys and contours of your body with ease. his lips graze the curve of your neck, a feather’s touch, a butterfly’s kiss. you shift beneath him and pull his face level with yours. you glance between his eyes, chest brushing against his with the labor of your breathing.

he removes a twig from your hair, flicking it away. “do you want this?” he asks.

“always.” you smile, and it sends his heart tumbling in his chest.

you reach down and lift the hand pressed against the ground beside your hip. it leaves him in an awkward hunch overtop of you, only his left elbow propping him up, but he’s curious at your movements. holding his wrist, you touch your left palm to his.

“your hand isn’t shaking,” you whisper.

he looks at your joined flesh, at the way his fingers stand straight against yours. there isn’t the slightest waver in his hand. dropping his palm from your grasp, he melds his body against yours beneath the cherry tree as the sun inches toward the horizon.

it goes on like this for some time: you and he stealing moments throughout the week, in whatever privacy is available. for the first time in years, he is happy. he’d grown so used to his sullen state he forgot what joy felt like, but you’ve given it back to him in bundles.

he’s not exactly sure what it is about you that captivates him so. perhaps it is your whole being.

you are intelligent, easily tutoring your classmates when they fall behind. you are generous, often sharing your meals with the neediest of students. you are witty and lively in your silliest of moods and gentle and serene at your most centered. you listen to him when he speaks—truly listen—and you challenge him with your observations and questions.

he enjoys holding you, caressing your soft skin, kissing your lips. the cherry blossom grove is where he holds you most. it is a safe place amidst an unsafe world. beneath the shade of the birch trees, he is untouchable. he is free to speak as he wishes, love you as he pleases. he is open and honest and everything he feels he cannot be in town.

and, yes, he thinks he loves you—even after such a short time. he would be a fool not to have fallen for you by now. despite the years between you, despite the complexities of his position, he knows he would chose you again.

the weeks bleed into months. spring edges into the beginning of summer. you will finish school soon and be out from under his tutelage, released to the frayed fragments of freedom to which britain still clings. neither of you have spoken on the topic. though it looms overhead, it’s still far yet. you have time.

you are cradled against his chest, the aftermath of your most recent lovemaking still lingering on your bodies and in the air. you hum into the crook of his neck, and your fingers swirl around the hair peppering his chest.

“gwilym?” you press a kiss to his shoulder before adjusting yourself to lean on your elbow, looking down on him.

he opens one eye. “hmm?”

“what do you think will happen after the war ends?”

he opens both eyes at this and moves his head to meet your questioning gaze. the blanket beneath him rustles, and the branches overhead sway with the warm breeze. he isn’t sure what question he’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the one you posed. you surprise him every day in that way—always curious, always searching for answers.

“i’m not sure,” he says. “provided we win, i suppose germany will be forced to make reparations. with the americans in the fight now it won’t be long before the kaiser gives up.”

“will you leave us then? once everything’s back to normal?”

he answers quickly and honestly, surprised at the passion in his own voice. “no, never.”

your brow creases. “but you came here running from the war. won’t you go home when it’s done?”

he blinks and considers. months ago, he would have said yes. given the chance, he would have fled back to london without a moment of hesitation. now... now he’s not so sure.

“home is wherever you are.” the words tumble from his mouth before he can stop them, but once they hang in the air, he knows they are the truth. wherever you go, he will follow. he would forsake his entire past if it meant he could stay by your side.

your lips tug into a small smile, and you sit straighter, turning your face away. “you mustn’t say things you don’t mean.”

he runs a fingertip over the curve of your exposed shoulder, down the rise and fall of your spine. if anyone were to break through the line of trees, they would see you both and have no issue filling in the missing pieces of the puzzle, naked as you both are. still, he’s comfortable; he always is around you.

“i mean what i say, [y/n]. i’m not a flatterer.”

your head whips around, and your eyes twinkle with mirth. “don’t steal my words, gwilym,” you say with a laugh, pushing at his chest.

sitting up, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you against his side. “i can steal whatever i please. like this,” he says, punctuating his words with a kiss on the mouth. “or this.” he kisses the flesh beneath your collarbone. “or—”

you press a finger to his lips. “not everything.” your grin turns sly, and you coquettishly bat your eyelashes. “i’m a virgin, after all, and must remain so for my future husband.”

gwilym laughs, tossing his head back. “is that so?”

you nod. “my maidenhood is the most sacred thing about me.”

“oh, we’ll see about that!”

with an easy maneuver, gwilym has you on your back. your giggles—girlish but edged with desire—circle his head like a drug. you swat at his shoulders when he braces himself over you, his mouth like a tattoo on your skin. he could stay like this forever—just you and him, the cherry blossom trees, and the endless sky. he would stay, too, but after your picnic dinner and an argument over the smartest literary character of all time (he insists sherlock holmes; you insist portia from the merchant of venice), he must walk you home before your grandfather begins to worry.

he wonders if the old man suspects anything. he comes to your house multiple afternoons a week under the guise of preparing you for university should you choose to go further with your education. that study time always floats from the kitchen table to the back garden to the grove of trees, and you’re gone for hours. you always return looking rumbled, your dress askew, his tie undone, but the old man never says a word if he does know the truth. for that, gwilym is thankful.

tonight, he leaves you at the backdoor. the sky is a blanket of stars, and the moon shines bright overhead. standing as you are on the lowest stair leading to the door, you can meet his eyes with ease, and you seem to appreciate the change in perspective. you run your hands through his hair, your fingernails grazing his scalp. his eyes flutter shut at the feeling, his grip on your hip tightening.

“don’t do that, [y/n],” he breathes.

you smirk. “why? do you like it?”

he grits his teeth and opens his eyes to level you a dark stare. “you know i do.”

grinning, you kiss him hard, enough to leave him breathless when you pull away. “tomorrow? same place?”

“i have a meeting tomorrow afternoon with the vicar. i’ll come by afterwards.”

you shake your head and smooth your hands against his shoulders. the action is so domestic, so wifely, he can’t help but picture you as his wife, sending him away for a day of work. “don’t bother. i think i’ll pop around for tea with constance. perhaps i’ll run into you then?”

gwilym audibly groans at the idea of seeing you in his own home, sat across from his landlady, smiling and laughing, all the while making eyes at him from across the table. he shivers—but not because of the cold. “you’re gonna be the death of me, girl.”

you touch his cheek with such tenderness it makes his knees weak. “i hope so.”

maryanne is the one who ultimately discovers and reveals your affair. even so, gwilym blames himself and himself alone. he got too comfortable. months of loving you in secret—months of tasting you and knowing you and cherishing you—cannot be hid behind a sullen face. and his face is not longer sullen.

he finds himself smiling more, asking his students about their lives instead of their assignments. he grades easier, waves his hand at forgotten homework, prolongs lunch break so he can eat with you. perhaps the change in his demeanor was what sent maryanne on the hunt. that—or the fact she caught him kissing you amongst constance’s prized hydrangea bushes.

he hadn’t been positive if the flash of pink fabric and yellow hair was maryanne, so he’d never mentioned it to you. he’d just kept kissing you, though his attention had slipped and his movements turned distracted when he heard the rustle of a bush. he’d opened his eyes long enough to see the out-of-place pink nestled within the green bushes and blue flowers, but then the color was gone and you were whispering something filthy in his ear and it made him laugh. he’d forgotten; he’d gotten comfortable.

now he wishes he’d grabbed maryanne and forced her to keep her mouth shut. with two weeks until your graduation, time is of the essence. he’d lose you if anyone found out, and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

he hadn’t caught maryanne, though, and she’d rushed home to tell her mother who had promptly told the idiot john coulder who had informed the vicar and the vicar had come to relive gwilym of his teaching duties—no questions asked.

“you do realize what a mess you’ve made, haven’t you?” the vicar had said upon his arrival. “there will have to be an investigation. we don’t stand for this sort of thing in snowshill.”

gwilym hadn’t said anything. he’d simply loomed over the squat man and summoned as much of a glower as he could. it wasn’t very hard, not with his entire world crashing down around him.

he lies down that night and wonders what will become of him. he will be a social pariah, an outcast, the man who seduced a child, the teacher who coerced a student. it isn’t like that; he knows it and you do too. he loves you, though he hasn’t said as much. he suspects you love him too.

he could take you away from here. you could both start over somewhere new, where no one knows your names. the idea is tantalizing, and it wouldn’t be hard, but he knows you won’t leave your grandfather and niece behind.

there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and he sits up, hitting his head on the slope of the attic ceiling. rubbing the offended area, he frowns.

“who is it?”

“who do you think?” constance says, her tone as unamused as his.

“i’m not really in the mood for visitors.”

he knows she knows. he knows she stood in the front parlor and listened to every word the vicar spat at his feet. he just didn’t have the guts to look her in the eyes before he fled to his room.

“you missed supper, child. i’ve brought you a bowl of soup.”

reluctantly, gwilym slides from bed and goes to open the door. constance stands at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a purple robe, the neck lined with feathers. she pushes him a bowl of split-pea soup and swishes into the room to drop in the single, hard-backed chair. it creaks beneath her weight. he turns to look at her; the heat of the bowl burns his hands, and his palms tremble.

“constance, i—”

“i must admit that i’d hoped you would find a friend in [y/n] [y/l/n], perhaps even something more.”

his jaw slackens. “i’m sorry?”

“when you mentioned you were going to the coulder house for supper and she would be there, i knew she would do you well. i knew her mother before she died, and that girl has her mother’s tender heart. both could heal even the sternest of wounds.”

he blinks, looks away. yes, you could. you healed him, after all.

“i simply wished you would have been more careful. my hydrangea bushes are not the most secretive spot in the world.”

“you knew?”

she nods, her painted lips tight. “mhm. ever since you came home that first afternoon smelling too much like women’s perfume and sheep’s wool.”

gwilym drops to his bedside, the soup in his bowl sloshing with the movement. “why didn’t you say anything?”

she laughs as if she’s taken offense by his query. “i may concern myself with everyone’s business, gwilym, but it is not my business to go about spreading the business which i know.”

“you are a strange woman.”

“you are a man in love.”

he looks down at the rapidly-cooling food in his lap.

“i shouldn’t tell you this,” constance continues. “it will only make you hope, but i know what it is you’re feeling.”

he scoffs. “do you?” somehow he doubted that. constance, having never been married, knew more of felines than she did feelings. at least, any of the feelings roiling through his person now.

“when i was seventeen i had an affair with my teacher. he was young and handsome and charming, and i was happy. but we were found out, and he was run out of town. i never saw him again.”

“how is this supposed to give me hope?”

“my xavier was not given the chance to explain himself before his accusers. you are being afforded that opportunity. use it.”

“they’ve taken my position already. they can do nothing more. this hearing is a farce, and you know it.”

constance smooths the wrinkles of her dressing gown and flicks away a spot of imaginary dust as she shrugs. “prides goeth before the fall. remember that come thursday.” she rises. “you have the chance to keep her, gwilym. she turns twenty next month and will graduate in a fortnight. even if you leave snowshill together, will you be able to live with yourself knowing you did not defend her honor before the people who know her best? sleep on that, won’t you?”

she exits the room before he can respond, and he falls asleep to growing pit of desperation in his stomach.

there’s a ping against his window some time late wednesday night. it startles him out of his uneasy sleep, and he sits up, rubbing his eyes. when it happens again, he turns to look out the window over his head. nothing but the black, starless night sky and open meadow beyond constance’s gardens. he huffs. perhaps it had been a bird or—

another ping.

teeth gritted, gwilym flings his window open and peers into the darkness, straining his eyes to see. what he doesn’t see, he hears, despite his deafness.

“gwilym!” the whisper is harsh and frantic, but a beautiful melody nonetheless. somewhere in the darkness, you stand, looking up at him. “gwilym, come down here!”

he doesn’t need to be told twice.

forgoing his shoes, he tumbles down the stairs and into the back garden. the night is brisk, chilly, a precursor of what is to come at dawn. he finds you in the darkness, or maybe you find him, but you’re there, in his arms, and that’s all that matters. you cling to him, your hands fisted in his bedshirt, ear pressed against his chest. he hasn’t seen you since maryanne revealed your relationship to the world; you feel like heaven amidst hell.

“i don’t have much time,” you whisper. “mrs. coulder is at the farm, watching over me to make sure i don’t come to find you.”

gwilym draws back. he holds your face in his hands and is struck by how large his palms are against the side of your head. your hair feels soft under his shaking fingers. the tremor is back; it has been since his world collapsed.

“are you alright? have they done anything to you?”

“i’m fine. the vicar questioned me yesterday, tried to make me confess that you’d pressured me into being with you, but i only told the truth.”

“the fucker,” he mutters. “i’m sorry you had to do that. the blame lies entirely with me.”

“don’t worry about me. you have to speak before everyone tomorrow.”

“and it’ll be fine.”

“will it?” tears sparkle in your eyes as you look up at him. “no one will accept us even if—”

he silences you with a kiss to the forehead. “hush, [y/n]. whatever happens will happen. so long as you are well cared for, it will all be fine.”

“you sound as if you’re prepared to go away.”

“if they ask me—”

“gwilym, you promised you wouldn’t leave.”

he looks down at you. god, he loves you. with every fiber of his being, he longs to make you his. but he’s reminded of constance’s story every time he thinks of you now, and he’s been imagining a new sort of life by your side. one filled with dirty looks and whispers around every corner; of evenings alone, no friends to call on, no family to worry over; of a job in a far off village which takes him on the road and leaves you to yourself in that overly large farmhouse; friendless children; lonely in old age.

can he subject you to such a life? a life so similar to the one you’d pulled him from? he’s not sure he can—and he’s begun to wonder if constance’s xavier did the right thing by leaving her, by giving her a second chance.

“i know i did,” he finally says.

“then why are you talking like this? like you want to go?”

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip and feels his gut wrench. “that’s the last thing i want.”

you chin quivers beneath his fingers, and he removes his hand from your face. “then tell me what it is you’re planning to do. please, gwilym. don’t you owe me that?”

in lieu of answering you, he wraps his arms around your back, lifting you so your feet merely brush the carpet of grass. he kisses you softly, savoring the touch and tucking it away in his heart for a future moment. he wants to memorize the map of your skin beneath his fingers and the feel of your mouth on his. he wants to commit the smell of your hair and the contours of your body and the feeling of love that crashes over him to memory. he’s not sure if he’ll have a moment like this again, so he prolongs the touch until he can barely breathe. he returns you to solid ground and pulls away.

“gwilym—” you’re crying, and he wonders how he didn’t taste your tears.

“don’t come tomorrow. i don’t want you to hear what they say.”

you set your jaw. “i’ll be there. i won’t leave you.”

he knows you’re bating him to reveal his plan, but he won’t. until his dying day, he will protect you from harm. tonight, he must protect you from himself.

because he can’t help it, he grabs your elbow and pulls you in for a last bruising kiss. you circle your arms around his neck and cling to him, even as he tries to pull away.

“let me go, [y/n],” he whispers.

you hold tighter, your eyes screwed shut as you shake your head. “no.”

“let me go, angel.” with some amount of effort, he pries you from his body. a rush of cold fills the spot where you’d stood, pressed against him.

he turns away, returning to the cottage, but not before he sees you hide your face behind your hands and hears you sob softly into the darkness.

you arrive at the hearing dressed in red. the sight of you flanked by your grandfather, wearing your boldest, brightest red dress, almost makes him laugh. you’re nothing if not brave.

standing in the doorway of the church, you survey the room, which is full to bursting. everyone has turned out for the event of the year, and the air is hot with sweat and summer and scandal. when your eyes meet his from across the room, he can’t help but offer a smile. you smile in return, and the softness around your eyes is a balm to his soul. you point to an empty pew in the back of the hall and take your seat. though your face is obscured, he can make out the shoulders of your bright dress from his place in a chair on the dais.

he sits before the entirety of snowshill, the weight of the world pressed down on his shoulders. he feels close to vomiting, but he knows what he must do. he’s ready.

when the vicar begins the proceedings, outlining your entire affair in torrid detail, gwilym keeps his face set firm. his hand bunches the fabric at his thighs and his teeth press against his tongue but he’s calm to the untrained eye. it’s only when the vicar asks him to say his piece that his facade begins to crumble.

he stands too rapidly, and his chair crashes to the floor. he leaves it lying against the cobblestone. he opens his mouth and releases a squeak. heat rushes up the back of his neck, and he clears his throat. from her place in the front pew, constance leans forward, her brows knit tight in concern. his gaze skips to you and, standing now, he can see your face.

you’re beautiful.

gwilym opens his mouth to speak. “everything you have said about me here today is true, vicar.” there’s a muffled gasp throughout the crowd, but he continues. “i did enjoy an illicit affair with my own pupil and, though i admit i should have perhaps waited to court the girl in question until after her graduation, i will not concede that what we did was wrong.”

the vicar’s hands curl around the pulpit, his face ashen. “have you no shame, sir?”

“no shame in partaking in what the lord intended us for: communion and fellowship with one another.”

“how dare you!”

gwilym ignores him and returns his eyes to yours amidst the crowd. “if i am guilty of anything, i am guilty of doing as the lord commands us: loving my fellow man—or, in this case, woman. the greatest of these is love, i believe, yes? so yes, i am guilty, but guilty only of loving a woman whole-heartedly.” he pauses and feels the overwhelming urge to laugh bubble in his chest. “i love you, [y/n], and that is the truth. if that is my crime, i will bear it with honor.”

tears blur his vision as he extends his hand to you. a beat of silence and then—

you stand, your red dress a spotlight among the sea of browns and greens and grays. you step into the aisle, smile, and he notes as you walk forward that his hand does not shake as he waits for you to reach his side.

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #prof!gwil #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody fanfiction #j writes

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anotherhargrovebitch · 5 years

Text

you’re not allowed near her : b.h

you’re dustin’s older sister whom he and steve are protective of. when they learn you’re dating billy, that protection only amplifies. but when something happens that you never expected, things get out of hand. (2.7k)

* PART TWO *

When you told Dustin that you were dating Billy, you weren’t sure what kind of reaction to expect. You knew he wouldn’t be happy by any means, but the fact he recruited Steve into the situation only made it more painful than it had to be.

“Seriously, you brought Steve?” You huff as Steve stamps alongside your brother in your living room, both of them with their arms folded and parental scowls. “Alright, say what you gotta.” You gave in and silently listen along.

“Okay, so he nearly broke Steve for starters,” Dustin states loudly, causing you to look to Steve who nods along to the kid. “and there was that time he tried to run us down, and,”

You raise your hand, causing Dustin to pause. “Firstly, he isn’t like that anymore you guys,” You try to defeat the guilty party, who isn’t present to defend himself. “and I know he was a dick,”

“Still is.” Steve mutters, catching a glare from you in retaliation. “Sorry.” He adds, hearing you sigh heavily.

“As I was saying, he can still be a dick. But he’s trying really hard,” You wish you could tell them about Neil, about all the reasons why Billy has such pent up anger. You want to desperately tell them as they held you close and listened to your worries. Explain all the times Bily snuck in with a bloody face and bruises forming as you silently cleaned him up. “just ask Max!”

Dustin looks up at Steve who is no longer frowning so deeply, easing the premature wrinkles from stress and worry over these kids. “She’s got a point, Dustin.” Steve states, watching as Dustin rolls his eyes.

“Seriously? Come on, Steve we’re supposed to be on the same team.” Dustin raises his arms in annoyance, catching a small chuckle that leaves your lips. “You’re not done yet, Y/n.”

You raise an eyebrow as your younger brother points his finger in your direction. “Dustin, that shit doesn’t work you know.” You remind him, batting his finger away as you smile softly. “This doesn’t change anything you know,” You rise to your feet. “I’m still going to spend time with you all, I mean, how can I not?” You bring your brother into a hug, hearing him exhale.

“Why couldn’t you just date Steve? Things would be less complicated that way.” Dustin complains, missing the look on your face as you glance over to Steve.

“In your dreams, buddy.” Steve throws the comment out, awkwardly smiling to you. “But that being said, Y/n, if he ever does anything to hurt you,” Steve rolls his shoulders back, forcing himself to stand taller.

Moving from your embrace, Dustin hardens his gaze as he moves alongside Steve, mimicking his posture. “If he ever lays a finger on you, or does anything to so much as make you sad, we’re not letting him near you.” His voice becomes deeper and you bring them both into a hug, your face resting between them both.

“I can tell you now if anything ever happened you’ll be the first to know.” You say with a small smile, silently hoping nothing will ever happen for them to deal with the consequences.

Pulling up outside of your house, Billy keeps his hand resting on your thigh. “Billy, I gotta go,” You say with a small chuckle, feeling his hand only squeeze tighter before gliding further up.

Looking over at him, you can see the lust in his gaze. “Come on, angel. What're ten minutes?” Billy questions, raising an eyebrow to you as he licks his lips before moving closer.

His fingers grip into your hair, pulling you in as your lips meet his. You find yourself lost in the kiss, the bitter taste of tobacco mixed with minty chewing gum you insisted he has.

You’re both feeling the kiss becoming more and more heated, so much so neither of you hear the sound of your front door slamming and the impatient footsteps of your brother nearing the car.

“Y/n!” Dustin yells, causing you to push Billy off of you as you turn to face your brother.

Evidently flustered, you move your hair out of your face. “Hey, Dusty!” You clear your throat, focusing on his discomfort and ignoring the smirk radiating from Billy as he wears your lipstick across his lips with pride. “How was school?”

Dustin looks from you over to Billy before groaning loudly. “Fine. Steve’s coming over with the others to play D&D, you down?” He asks you, ignoring the scoff leaving Billy’s lips.

You turn back, shooting Billy a look to remind him to not make fun of your brother and friends. He holds his hands up in defence, picking up another chewing gum and slowly chewing it, knowing it drives you mad.

“I’m always down, Dusty.” You say with a bright smile, seeing his toothy grin appear as he walks back toward the house.

“Good. I gotta go wash my eyeballs out with bleach.” He yells before closing the front door, leaving you to turn back and see Billy frowning.

“Why the frown, handsome?” You question, shifting in the passenger seat as you take a hold of his hand in yours.

Billy huffs, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. “I thought you were going to come to that party tonight at Tammy’s?” He asks with disappointment evident in his tone.

“Billy,” You say softly, trying to catch his eyes but they remain fixated on the ash that he taps off the car window. “I never agreed to go, plus it’s D&D night.” You add before you lift your hand to rest on his shoulder, a way to always catch his attention as your fingertips rise into his curls.

He blows out smoke away from you before leaning into your hand. “Another time, then.” He states, not giving you a chance to question.

You chuckle softly, nodding. “Yeah, another time, baby.”

Grabbing your bag, you climb out of the car. “I’ll see you tomorrow, princess.” Billy winks to you before he speeds off, his music leaving a trail down your road until he disappears out of sight.

As you walk up to the house, you’re unable to hide your smile and remain unaware of Dustin watching.

“Hey, when they coming over?” You close the front door, glancing into the living room to see your brother sat with a comic in front of his face, disguising his small pants.

“In an hour I think.” He mutters, lowering the comic to see your smile still remaining bright before you disappear upstairs.

As much as it pains him to admit it, Dustin is glad that Billy is making you happy. Just as long as it stays that way.

Your smile couldn’t be wiped for anything as you woke up the next morning.

“Mornin’” You cheerfully greet your brother as he sits, hunched over in his cereal as he glances over.

“Is Billy coming over?” Dustin speaks up through a mouthful of cereal, watching as you roll your eyes before hiding your head in the fridge in search of milk.

Placing the milk on the counter, you sigh quietly before looking over at the clock. “He should be here later, working the morning shift at the pool.”

Whilst eating breakfast, you can’t help but watch the clock. Your eyes remain fixated on the time, hoping it might speed up if you focus on it hard enough. But it’s no use, no time is passing by and you’re still waiting for your boyfriend to knock on the door.

“Can you take me to the arcade today?” Dustin snaps you out of your trance with the clock as you sit upright, nodding to him. “Steve said he’ll pick us up.” He mumbles and you rise from the table, heading upstairs to get ready.

Dropping Dustin off took less time than anticipated, leaving you to return to watching the minutes pass by painfully slow. You look up to see it’s now midday, and Billy’s shift would’ve just ended.

A smile ghosts your lips as you hover by the door, anticipating the chemical smells of chlorine and his aftershave. But after a half-hour, he doesn’t show.

You put it down to being stuck in traffic, or maybe some kid had an accident. That is until the phone rings from the kitchen and you rush over.

“Henderson residence, Y/n speaking.” You cheerfully speak down the line, hearing a loud sigh in response.

“Y/n, is Billy with you?” Heather asks, evidently irritated.

Your fingers rise to play with the locket Billy gave you the other week as you lean against the wall. “No, I thought he was at the pool?” You hesitantly question, listening as she scoffs.

“He never showed up.” She states coldly. “He’s probably drunk from Tammy’s party. If you see him, let him know he owes me hours, yeah?” With that, Heather hangs up the phone but leaves you with a ball of worry resting heavily on your conscience.

Despite Heather’s confidence in Billy just being drunk, you’re not convinced. With a sigh, you take the phone off of the receiver and ring the number without having to look.

Listening to it dial, a sense of relief crosses over you as it is picked up. “Hello?”

Your heart sinks as Max answers the phone. “Hey Max, it’s me. Is Billy around?” You ask quietly, trying to hide your growing worry.

Max silently swears to herself, knowing Billy didn’t come home last night as she woke up to Neil and her Mom arguing over it.

Closing her eyes, Max knows she has to tell you the truth. “He’s not here, sorry, Y/n.” Max admits. “He erm, he didn’t come home last night.”

The sentence you were terrified to hear. Billy not coming home after a night out. “Okay Max, thank you.” You say quietly, slowly hanging the phone back up before calling the last person who might have something to tell you, a final piece to the puzzle before you give up all hope.

“Hey, it’s Tammy speaking.” She happily talks through the phone with that tooth aching joy.

“Tammy, it’s Y/n. Billy’s girlfriend?” You state through the line.

“Aw, Y/n, hey! Sorry to have missed you last night.” She says, and you can imagine her pouting on the other end.

“Yeah, me too.” You lie as you play with the phone cable, twirling it around your finger. “Did you see much of Billy last night by any chance?”

Tammy hums to herself, leaving you waiting. “Yeah, sorry I did.” She recalls the events of last night. “He erm, he left around 1am with some blonde. She couldn’t keep her hands off him.” She chuckles but abruptly stops, realising what she’s just told you. “Y/n, I, I’m so sorry,”

You cut her off by hanging up the phone, feeling tears slipping down your cheeks as you collapse to the ground in silence.

Hours pass by and you’ve not moved from the spot beneath the phone. You’re numb.

If there was one thing Billy promised not to do, it was to break your heart in such a cruel way. You truly believed he was changing, that he wouldn’t be so heartless to do this to you. But you were wrong, you should’ve listened to everyone else.

The sound of the front door closing and the sound of laughter doesn’t snap you out of it. “Y/n, you in?” Dustin calls out, and you faintly listen to a conversation he’s having with Steve.

“Dustin?” Steve yells for Dustin who runs back down the stairs as he motions to you in the kitchen, your legs sticking out on the floor.

Turning the corner first, Dustin kneels in front of you. “What’s happened?” Concern laces his voice. Never has he seen you like this, not even after everything you’ve been through, you’ve never shut down in a way that you’re non-responsive.

Dustin turns his head up to Steve, silently pleading for help.

Clearing his throat, Steve sits down beside you. “Hey, Y/n.” He speaks softly, knowing that’s the best way to get through to you. “Is everything okay?”

The pair watch as you shake your head, words failing to connect from your mind to your mouth.

“Are you hurt?” Steve looks over your body, seeing no obvious marks or wounds. “Maybe she’s on her period.” He mutters, watching as Dustin scrunches his face. But then you shake your head one again, leaving only one option for the tear stains down your cheeks. “Billy?”

Before you can nod, your lower lip quivers as you start sobbing. You reach out, clutching onto Steve as you bury your face into his neck.

Dustin can feel venom pumping through his veins at the sight of you being distraught over Billy. “Fucking dick.” Dustin mutters forcefully, clenching his fists. “What’d he do?” He asks you, watching as you move away from Steve and wipe your nose.

“Left Tammy’s with some girl, never went home.” You mutter, sniffing loudly as Steve keeps a hold of your hand, rubbing his thumb over your hand comfortingly.

“Son of a bitch,” Steve scoffs as he looks up to Dustin who mirrors his anger. “he’s not welcome here, that’s for sure.”

Helping you to your feet, Steve guides you back upstairs as you curl up in bed. “I’m sorry you both came home to this,” You mumble as you close your eyes, quietly listening as your bedroom door closes and you cry into your pillow, hoping neither of them hears.

Sitting at the kitchen counter, both Dustin and Steve are seething with anger about Billy. “How could he do this to her?” Dustin huffs, looking at Steve who shakes his head in disbelief.

“I honestly thought he was going to change.” Steve states, wishing he’d never have taken notice of Billy when he first arrived. “Guess some people can’t.”

Dustin opens his mouth to comment, but the sound of the all too known Camaro cuts him off. His eyes widen as Steve rises to his feet first, standing in front of Dustin as he nears the front door.

The Camaro door slams as Billy’s heavy footsteps proceed closer to the house until he’s knocking on the door loudly. From upstairs, you stir from disturbed sleep and sit upright.

Opening the front door, Billy pauses as Steve stands in the way. “What’re you doing here, Harrington?” Billy scoffs, but Steve remains perfectly still.

“You’re not coming in.” He tells him coldly, watching as disbelief crosses Billy’s blue eyes as he glances past Steve to see Dustin stood with his arms crossed.

“Oh, why’s that?” He plays along, a smirk growing across his lips until Steve sighs.

“Because you fucked some other girl and broke Y/n’s heart.” Steve bitterly states, and Billy lets his smile drop.

He sighs heavily, rubbing his eyes. “Let me at least explain to her, it, it’s not what it seems.” Billy tries to explain, but Steve shakes his head. “Harrington, let me in the fucking house!” Billy yells, and now you’re on your feet and leaving your bedroom.

“It’s not happening, Billy. Just leave.” Steve tries to stand his ground, but as Billy turns away he relaxes just a moment too soon.

Turning on his heels, Billy kicks the door causing Steve to stagger backward. He grabs a hold of Steve, punching him square in the nose and continues to punch. “No one tells me what to fucking do!” He yells, ignoring Dustin’s pleas for him to stop.

“Billy!” You yell from the top of the stairs.

Billy pauses as he looks up to see you stood with tired eyes and blotched cheeks. “Y/n, baby, let me explain,” He starts, but you shake your head as your eyes glance down to your friend covered in blood.

“This isn’t you, Billy.” You shake your head as you slowly descend down the stairs.

“Baby, please,” Billy speaks up softly, reaching out but you bat his hand away.

You help Steve to his feet with Dustin’s help before you turn to Billy. “Just leave, Billy. This isn’t you.” You quietly mutter. “Please, just, just go.”

Without another word being said, Billy walks out of the door with a heavy heart knowing any chance he had of winning you back are lost. All because he couldn’t control it.

“Are you okay?” Dustin asks you as you sit beside Steve, evaluating the damages.

“I will be.” You tell your brother as you force a smile, listening to the faint sound of the Camaro engine as it leaves your driveway for the final time.

#lotta angst #billy hargrove #billy hargove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove imagines #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove angst #billy hargrove oneshot #billy hargrove x you #stranger things imagine #stranger things imagines #stranger things fluff #stranger things angst #stranger things

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buckmecaptain · 4 years

Text

With Two Os

So, I did a thing for @just-one-ordinary-fangirl ‘s #JOOF500Challenge , and I miiiiight have gone a little overboard with the prompts. Maybe. Kinda. Sorta...uhh... I did them all. (I tried to make sure I bolded them all in this post)

This is silly fluff -falls just short of a crack fic- Steve X (barely described) OC (she has a name and nickname, but that’s about it), with a hint of her having a bit of a thing for Bucky, and even Thor (mentioned). Semi-oblivious Steve, Natasha as the voice of reason, overdramatic OC who might just be kind of a dumbass. Pining, mentions of the rest of the team. Obviously, this story ignores canon and everyone is happily living in the tower. :) Warnings: A few naughty words, suggestive situations, so much dumbassery

Image is from knowyourmeme.com

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

She pushed her long messy braid over her shoulder, then looked down at the table and sniffled, slowly stroking her fingertips over the glossy surface. “So it's over, then. We're finished.”

“Roxy,” Steve began, reaching for her, “I'm sorry, I-”

She flinched away from his touch. “No. You're gonna have to give me some time. This relationship... it isn't what I thought it was going to be.” She wiped her hand over her face and sighed heavily.

“I said I was- wait, what? It isn't?” His eyebrows were knit tightly together, raised comically high, shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller.

Turning to face the Captain, her lower lip trembled and eyes were wide. “It was meant to be us. Me and you, Roxanne and Steve, until death do us part. And now you've destroyed that.”

“Seriously?”

She gasped and flung herself backwards onto the overstuffed sofa, one arm thrown across her eyes. “Yes, seriously. You left an undefended gap and the Empire blew up our base!” she whined, gesturing toward the tabletop game with her free hand.

Across the way, Wanda turned to Sam and asked, “If she's this dramatic when she loses a game, what happens when she wins?”

The Falcon chuckled. “Well, let's just say she puts on a show. Dancing tends to happen.”

Steve shook his head at Roxanne's antics. “Well, that's enough Star Wars: Rebellion for tonight. What's next?” He clapped his hands together and they began placing the game pieces back into the box.

“Are Thor and Bucky here? If so, I volunteer for naked Twister,” Roxanne offered.

The Captain whipped his head around and gave her the Eyebrows of Disappointment.

She peeked at him from under her arm. “Hey, a girl can dream, right?”

“Let me guess. It's game night and Roxanne's team lost, right?”

“ 'Tashaaaaa!” Roxanne made grabby hands at the redhead. “So glad you're home! It's been forever and I miss waking up next to you every morning.”

Sam, Wanda, and Steve all did sitcom-worthy double-takes as Natasha snorted.

“Well, if you would set your damn alarm at night, I wouldn't have to come drag your ass out of bed in the mornings for training.” She looked around at the other three people in the room. “What? She's like a sloth. Or maybe a koala. Whatever, she sleeps incredibly soundly and clings, even when dragged out of bed by the ankles.”

Roxanne sat up and crossed her arms, pouting. “So? I need my rest. It takes a minimum of eight hours of sleep for me to look this good.”

Natasha turned to Steve and smirked. “You guys lost pretty badly, huh? Little Miss Queen-of-the-sore-losers is in a snit.”

Roxanne grumbled and dug out her phone from the couch cushions. “Fine. I'mma text Bucky. He'll sympathize. Or, wait... Nat, do you have Thor's number?”

Steve's hands clenched into fists at his side and he grit his teeth. Natasha noticed, of course, but didn't react. “He doesn't have a phone, Rox.”

“Really?” she sat up, wide-eyed, “Who doesn't have a phone these days?” she glanced back down at her screen. “Aw, man. They're canceling my favorite zombie drama. That's stupid with two Os,” she muttered as she ambled out of the room.

Natasha watched her leave, then whirled to face the fuming Captain. “Really? You're still pining over her? When are you going to nut up and say something?” she prodded, glancing at his white-knuckled fists.

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “It's pretty obvious she prefers Buck. Or Thor. Or both, you heard her,” he shrugged and looked toward the doorway, then sighed. “I'm not going to chase after a rejection.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “Methinks you might be stupid with two Os. That woman has had the hots for you since she joined the team, and she's pretty much made a fool of herself for you for the last year.”

He groaned and dragged a hand over his face. “Why is dealing with women so difficult? It's just-just impossible,” he complained.

“Steve, you deal with aliens, terrorists, and murderous lunatics on a near-daily basis. After all that, you still think women are difficult?”

He sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “Bad guys can be dispatched, arrested, or otherwise stopped. Dealing with women takes finesse, and I don't have any of that. Or experience. Give me a murderous lunatic any day of the week. I'd much prefer that. The serum doesn't help with this one,” he grimaced.

Natasha's eyebrows raised. “Okay, Captain Wuss,” she teased.

“That's the first time I've been called that,” he mumbled, “at least, to my face.” The only reply was the Black Widow's signature smirk, so he hung his head and huffed. “Sure feels like I'm being ganged up on around here.” He went in search of the rest of the team in an effort to continue game night, following the sound of cheering and whooping to the media room.

Apparently a high-stakes game of Mario Kart was the cause of the cacaphony. The team was gathered on the plush seating, with Wanda, Sam, Clint, and Bucky playing while Vision and Roxanne watched and cheered them on.

Steve squinted when he saw Roxanne was seated on the back of the couch behind Bucky. He was wedged between her legs and she was running her fingers through his hair, detangling it as she encouraged him to “Kick their asses, Buckaroo!”

Disappointed, Steve frowned and turned to leave, almost crashing into Natasha in the process.

She glared up at him, silently stamped her foot, and pointed forcefully at Roxanne.

Steve shook his head and gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, then crossed his arms over his chest.

Natasha squinted.

He shook his head again.

She raised a finger and circled it in the air, then pointed again at Roxanne.

Steve shook his head again.

Natasha placed both hands on his chest and shoved, making him stagger back a step, then jutted her chin toward Roxanne.

He rolled his eyes, but the redhead poked his chest so hard, he coughed. While he was distracted she took him by the shoulders and spun him around, then shoved. He stumbled forward a couple of steps, then glared at her over his shoulder.

Natasha placed her hands on her hips and tapped her foot.

“Oh what the hell?” he thought, and marched over to Roxanne, standing directly behind her. She didn't notice because of the game noise, so he leaned down to her ear and loudly asked, “How's it going?”

In the blink of an eye, Steve found himself flat on his back with Roxanne on top of him holding a wickedly-sharp blade to his throat, wide-eyed and panting.

“Sorry! I didn't mean to scare- Put the knife down. Please,” he pleaded. “Roxy?”

Roxanne tossed the knife aside and scrambled off of him, then ran out the door.

Steve lay there splayed out like a starfish, staring at the ceiling and wondering why fuckery kept finding its way to him, as his team mates gathered around. They peered down at him curiously, barely-concealed amusement on each face.

“Hey Steve, you dead?” Bucky asked, his lips twitching in an effort to keep laughter at bay.

Clint snickered. “Dead from embarrassment, maybe. Rox is crazy fast!”

Groaning, Steve pressed his palms into his eyes. “You should go talk to her, Buck.”

“Huh? Why me?”

Sitting up, the Captain eyeballed his best friend and snorted. “Obvious reasons.”

Bucky blinked, then looked from Steve to Natasha. “The fuck is he talkin' about?”

She shrugged. “He thinks Rox has a thing for you.”

“Oh. Oh! Really?” Bucky hummed. “I should go talk to her.”

Steve made a strangled moan as Bucky headed out the door, then stood and straightened his clothing. “See you guys later,” he grunted and left the room as his team mates watched, helpless and confused.

* * * *

Roxanne was seated at a window and brooding when she heard the tentative knocks at her door. Ignoring the first few was easy, but it became more difficult when the knocks turned to loud booms. Grumbling, she made her way across the floor. “Okay, gimme a second.” She yanked open the door to find Bucky on the other side. “Oh, hey. Come in.” She went back to her window seat while he stood there shifting from one foot to the other. “Close the door, and sit down.”

He complied and took a seat on the overstuffed armchair. “Everything okay, doll? You kinda took off in a hurry earlier.”

She didn't bother to look at him, her gaze still fixed outside and fingertips trailing over the weave of the curtains. “I pulled a knife on Steve, Buck. Steve!”

“Yeah. It's not the first time that's happened to him. Won't be the last.”

“First for me. He's my Captain. My friend. My very dear friend!” she insisted, “You don't hold a knife to your friend's throat!”

Bucky smirked and scoffed. “I've done that. And shot him. Stabbed him, beat the hell out of him... and he's been my closest friend for eighty years.”

Roxanne pinched the bridge of her nose and grimaced. “That is an entirely different situation...uh, entirely, and you know it. He's never gonna forgive me for this, and even if he does, I won't forgive me.” She slammed her fists down on the wooden window sill with bruising force, a resounding crack echoing through the room.

Bucky was across the floor in an instant, taking her trembling wrists in his hands. “Doll, you're scaring me. Please, just, calm down.” They stayed like that until Roxanne's breathing slowed and the shaking stopped. Finally he released her wrists and wrapped his arms around her as she leaned against his chest, swaying them back and forth.

“Ohh, I feel better already. You're really warm.” She snuffled at his shirt. “And you smell good,” she complimented, resting her hands on his sides.

He flinched. “Thanks.”

Roxanne curled her fingers and he flinched again. “Oh, Bucky... you're so...” she curled her fingers again, “Ticklish!” She attacked his sides in earnest as he tried to fend her off carefully.

“Doll,” he squirmed, trying to back away from her, “Woman! You'd better stop,” he warned.

She narrowed her eyes and smirked. “Or what, Buckaroo?” Snaking a hand into each of his armpits, she unleashed tickle hell. “No mercy!”

Bucky bit his lower lip, trying to stifle his laughter. “Okay, girly,” he snorted, “You've messed with the wrong person.” He twisted away from her and crouched.

Roxanne backed up and her eyes went wide. “Oh shit. I've triggered the Big Bad Wolf!” She giggled crazily and sprinted across the room, vaulting over the couch.

The chase was on. Roxanne had the advantage of knowing the living space like the back of her hand, but Bucky was the superior tactician, so she she managed to keep out of his reach by the skin of her teeth. He finally cornered her in the bedroom, where she'd ended up standing on the far side of her bed, plastered against the wall.

“I've got you!” he laughed, and leaped onto the bed with a victory shout, planting both feet in front of her.

Roxanne squealed and Bucky's fingers contacted her ribs, then they heard a small cracking sound. “Uh oh,” she whispered as the bed tilted precariously and slammed to the floor. They both lie there in a heap for a moment before disentangling from one another and jumping apart, Roxanne at the foot of the bed, Bucky at the up-tilted side. They looked from the crazily leaning mattress to each other and back again, then burst into laughter.

“Not exactly the way I pictured us breaking my bed,” Roxanne quipped, waggling her eyebrows as she pulled the bed away from the wall and surveyed the damage.

Bucky's face flushed deep red and dared to glance at her. “So, uh...” he trailed off.

“Hm? I think I have something I can use to prop this up until tomorrow,” she murmured distractedly from the low side of the mattress. “No big deal. I was ready for something new anyway.” The mattress shifted hard and she looked up to see Bucky was perched on the high side. She held up a hand, forbidding him to continue. “Sir, that slide is for children only.”

Bucky snorted and slid across the surface anyway, landing neatly beside her. “Lemme see.” He raised the mattress and box spring with one hand and peered at the broken side rail, then grimaced. “Yep, snapped right in half. I'll hold this up while you get the blocks or whatever,” he offered.

When it was all put right, Roxanne hugged Bucky, thanking him for helping. If they held on a little longer than friends do, neither mentioned it. “Wanna watch a movie?” she offered, breaking the sudden tension, “You can choose.”

He agreed and she hustled off to take a quick shower while he searched through the titles for the new horror flick she'd been excited to see for a while.

When she returned she shimmied under the covers next to him and sighed happily. “You found it! Been waiting for this one.”

“Uh huh. You're gonna fall asleep, you know.”

“No way. I've been looking forward to this movie for months!”

“Right, sure. Wanna bet on that?”

She growled playfully at him. “All I want to do right now is cuddle with you in bed... is that too much to ask?”

Bucky waggled his eyebrows at her. “That's all? You sure, doll?”

“Well,” she turned to him and trailed her fingers over his chest. “I also want you to take off your pants.”

He blinked.

“You gonna?”

He blinked again.

“Earth to Bucky.”

“Uh, sure, okay.” He pulled off his sweatpants and tossed them carelessly to the floor.

“See? Isn't that more comfortable? Oh,” she squinted at him, “You are wearing underpants, right?”

He blushed furiously. “Roxy! Of course I am!”

“Okay, geez. Those sweats are pilly and scratchy. Ugh, how can you wear those? Get comfy and let's watch this flick.”I've been looking forward to this movie for months!”

They joked and snarked at the movie as it played – it really was written poorly – and generally laughed so much, they missed half of the dialogue.

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky snorted as the main characters made yet another idiotic mistake in the haunted estate. “This would never happen if it was you and me in their place, doll.”

Roxanne nodded. “Right? I'd freakin' lose it, I'd be all up in your face like, 'How could you lose our children in our own house?' Bah!”

They made it through to the end and put on a dumb comedy afterward, but they were both fading fast. Yawning widely, Roxanne squeezed the arm Bucky had wrapped around her waist. “Thanks for helping me feel better, Buckaroo. You're awesome.”

“I sure am,” he chuckled. “Anytime, Roxy-girl.”

They nodded off halfway or so through the movie, warm and comfortable in the temporarily-repaired bed. Bucky awoke somewhere around two o'clock and eased his way out of her quarters, still in his t-shirt and boxers, sweatpants in his hand. As he quietly closed the door and made his way to his room, he failed to notice he was being observed by his best friend.

Steve stood at the corner, watching Bucky leave his girl's room, sadness and jealousy bubbling in his gut. He scoffed at himself for calling Roxanne “his” in his own head and spun around to hit the gym again... only to come face-to-face with Natasha.

“Seems like I'm always catching you running away from Rox,” she quipped, and folded her arms across her chest.

He sighed. “Not running away. Leaving. She's already had, uh, company.”

“Who, Barnes?” she snorted, “I have it on good authority that she didn't bang him.”

The Captain raised a brow. “Oh yeah? How's that, spycams in her bedroom?”

“Careful, Rogers,” she warned. “Because you're hurting, I'll let that one slide. Here.” She tapped at her phone a few times and handed it over, open to a messaging app.

Rox: Natty! I need HELLLLLLLP! Please!!!

-What's the matter? Who do I have to murder?

Rox: NAT

-No, really. I will.

Rox: Nothing like that. I freaked out after almost stabbing Steve and Bucky came to check on me and long story short I asked him to snuggle in bed with me. Did I fuck up????????

-…

Rox: Hurry Natty! Need answers I'm in the bathroom and need to leave!

-There's nothing wrong with you SNUGGLING with Bucky.

Rox: that's all we're gonna do I swear. He's super hot but we're not there yet ya know???

Rox: gotta go thnx I love you!!!!

Steve read and re-read the manic message exchange a few times, letting it sink in. He gave Natasha her phone back and dragged a hand over his face. ��Dammit.”

“Uh huh.”

He stood straighter, hands on hips, and cocked his head at her. “That still doesn't mean they didn't... fondue. Going by the timestamp on the messages, they had plenty of time for that.”

Natasha huffed and slapped him hard on the arm. “If Rox had been planning on doing Barnes, she would have asked for wildly different advice.”

With a look, he urged her to continue.

“Oh dear God, you just might be stupid with two Os. She's asked me for sex advice before, obviously.”

Steve frowned. “I don't need to hear this.”

“Actually, I think you do. Remember when you watched 'The Wizard of Oz' with her in your room and she took an oddly long time to bring the popcorn?”

His jaw dropped.

“She asked me how it was possible for you to be such an adorable puppy and so smokin' hot at the same time.”

His face went scarlet. “She asked you that?”

“Yep,” she nodded. “Compared you to a giant yellow labrador retriever puppy. She was hopeful, but it didn't happen. I mean, obviously.”

“I have- I need to- I've gotta go. Thanks, Natasha.” He stepped around her and jogged toward the elevator.

She watched him go, shaking her head and muttering, “All the men in this tower share the same brain cell, I swear.”

Roxanne was dreaming peacefully, quietly snoring into her pillow and curled up burrito-style in her blankets, when she was rudely jolted awake by a loud thumping. Snorting in a completely unladylike manner, she forced herself out of bed and across the floor.

She slumped against the wall and snarled, “It's four in the morning, what do you want?”

Shuffling sounds came from the other side of the door. “It's, uh, it's me. Steve. May I come in?”

“Oh. Yeah- yes, please.” She swung the door open wide to allow him inside.

“Are you okay? You were so upset when you left, and I- I thought you might still be... sad?”

“Really?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah, so I thought I'd bring something to cheer you up.” He produced a plush yellow Labrador puppy from behind his back and thrust it toward her.

Blinking, she gently took the stuffed toy. “So you thought I was sad, because of...earlier.”

“Yes.”

“And you really thought buying me a puppy was going to cure my sadness?”

His expression mirrored the stuffed pup's exactly and she smiled fondly at him.

“Well... you were right. Thank you!” She tucked the gift under one arm and hugged Steve with the other before gasping and jumping away from him. “I'm sorry!”

“Wait, what? Why are you apologizing?”

Eyes glassy with tears that were about to spill over, she blurted, “You must hate me! I put a knife to your throat, Steve. That's not something you just brush off. We're- we're f-friends. Close. You're my Captain!” there was no stopping the word vomit now, as mortified as she was. Might as well rip off the Band-aid. “And you're amazing and smokin' hot and I've had the biggest damn crush on you for so long and all I want to do is kiss your stupidly handsome face, and... Oh no,” she whined and covered her face with both hands. “On a scale from one to ten how much do you want to punch me right now?” She asked quietly, peeking at him between her fingers.

Concerned, Steve placed his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezed. “Sweetheart, slow down. Just breathe for me, okay?” he soothed. “First of all... No, I don't hate you. We're not there just yet. You'd have to do a hell of a lot worse than pouncing on me with a knife to make me hate you,” he grinned at her.

Roxanne winced. “I- I don't-”

“Are you saying you're plotting my demise as we speak, doll?”

“Steve! I would never, and you know it,” she denied.

He laughed heartily at her distress. “Okay, okay, sorry. Just giving you a little grief. I'll let you get back to sleep.” He turned to the door.

“Yeah, like I'm gonna be able to knock out again after all of this.”

Steve sighed. “Want me to go get Buck for you? Maybe he can help.”

Roxanne rolled her eyes and tossed the stuffed dog onto the sofa. “Steve Rogers, you big, gorgeous idiot!”

He blinked. “Um. I'll take that as a compliment...I guess.”

She flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I've been mooning over you for a year now and- and I didn't know how to- didn't think I should say anything. It's not my place and...”

He held her close and smiled. “I've done my share of pining, too, sweetheart.”

“I have an idea,” she said, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to his for a short and sweet kiss. “Wanna go stargazing and cuddle under the moonlight? What's left of it, that is,” she suggested.

“On one condition. Call me your ‘Captain’ again.”

Trailing her fingertips over his chest, she fluttered her eyelashes and in a breathy voice, asked, “Would my Captain like to go up on the rooftop with me?”

Steve’s chest rumbled and his eyes darkened. “Yes ma’am, I’d like that very much.”

Later, bundled up together on one of the rooftop chaise lounges, Steve and Roxanne weren't doing much stargazing. Caught up in the closeness, the newness, instead they spent the pre-dawn time making out and murmuring sweet nothings, as lovers do, until Steve's phone alarm sounding at half-past six pulled them from their serotonin haze, and they both groaned in irritation.

“We probably should have gotten some sleep, sweetheart.”

“I was sleeping soundly until somebody pounded on my door,” she teased, and poked his chin.

“Uh huh. Was it worth it?”

“I dunno... I was really comfortable, and I need my beauty sleep or I wake up looking like sea hag.”

He tutted and kissed her forehead. “Aw, I'm sorry, doll. How can I make it up to you?”

Tapping her lips with her fingers, she pretended to consider his words. “How about... another cuddle session? Longer this time and with more kissing.”

“I think I can manage that,” he grinned.

“Oh, and bring Bucky.”

He gasped and tickled her mercilessly.

“Okay, okay! Enough!” She kissed him soundly, then they untangled from the blankets and headed for the door, hand in hand.

Steve sighed wistfully. “We wasted so much time, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe we really are stupid with two Os,” she teased, nudging him with an elbow.

He chuckled and opened the door for her. “Maybe so, darlin'. Maybe so.”

She passed him and sauntered toward the residential area, calling back over her shoulder, “About bringing Bucky along, though-”

Thundering footfalls sounded behind her as she squealed and ran for her life, giggling madly all the way.

#JOOF500Challenge #steve rogers fanfiction #avengers fanfiction

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years

Text

ancient names, pt. xviii

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xviii: even as a dream

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~7.4k

Rating: Mature; nothing explicit, just mentions/references.

Warnings: almost none, though some descriptions of Elliot's recent actions, as well as some colorful threats and some poor decision making on John's behalf. This whole chapter is basically Elliot suffering and that's probably why it was so hard to write.

Notes: Hello my friends! I am once again asking for your patience as I come to you with a chapter full of emotional manipulation and almost no physical plot movement! All of this felt important to dig into and though it may not be the most fast-paced (or smutty) chapter, I hope that you still enjoy it nonetheless. Drama abound as we are slowly but surely closing in on the end.

I want to give a super special thank you to @shallow-gravy for listening to me whine and complain about this chapter as well as lend me their eyeballs so that I didn't go just fucking nutso trying to write this thing. As well, @lilwritingraven has been SO sweet, cheering me on and keeping my spirits up even when I think this was one of the harder chapters for me to get through; and everyone who comments, kudos, likes/reblogs depending on what platform you're on, thank YOU so so so much. It really keeps me going!

As always, my most beloved @starcrier put her eyes on this and let me feel less like I was going insane. I love you so much and thank you for loving my girl Elliot as much as I do!! God knows she DESERVES it.

“We should get our story straight.”

John’s voice wrangled Elliot out of her brain. She’d been trying to mentally prepare herself for whatever mind games were about to commence, but John stepping in front of her to block her way into the chapel and speaking was enough to yank her right out of it.

“Get what story straight?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze flickered to Boomer, waiting expectantly, and she made the quiet little motion for sit ; he did, obediently.

“Our timeline,” John clarified, “for—”

“You know, for someone who insists his brother doesn’t scare him,” Elliot interrupted, “you sure act like you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar every time he wants to talk to you.”

The brunette’s mouth twisted into a grimace. His arms crossed, mirroring her own.

“I don’t ,” John said, speaking slowly, “want Joseph to get the impression that because we are romantically entangled—”

“Please stop.”

“—that it somehow compromised the work I was doing with you before,” he finished.

“But it did,” Elliot pointed out mildly. “Or did you forget telling me about how long you’ve wanted to fuck me for?”

She saw, for a brief second in time, irritation spike in John’s expression. All this time it had been Elliot smothering him, stopping him from saying the words out loud—but there was something a little liberating about doing it herself, like she had discovered something sharp that had been hidden inside of her all along. It wasn’t useful enough to be used as often as she would have liked, of course; but that didn’t stop her from getting some satisfaction in seeing John’s expression clamp down because the control freak couldn’t stand the idea of her derailing his perfect plan.

(And maybe that had been what she really liked this little game they’d played, all along—the increasing frustration in his voice every time he’d cut in to her walkie talkie, like she could tell that he was losing control thread by thread.)

“I didn’t forget.” John managed to somehow sound both incredibly frustrated and nonplussed at the same time, like ambivalence was a tone of voice rather than an opinion that he could emulate. He continued, “I just think we should be clear about the timeline with each other.”

“Nothing’s unclear,” Elliot replied. “You’ve wanted to fuck me all along—”

“Well, now—”

“—and I finally let you,” she continued.

He sounded spiteful when he said, “Twice.”

“Twice,” she acquiesced, “but do we need to include details?”

John chewed on that for a minute. “Should,” he ventured, and he was clearly trying not to sound smug. “If it’s going to happen again.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think Joseph needs to know that.” And then, light-heartedly, “But if you think he does, we should include how you said please so very nicely for me—”

“Unnecessary,” the brunette interrupted. “Fine. It happened twice, the nature of our relationship is...”

“Tenuous at best.”

“... But not without hope,” John concluded. It took every ounce of her strength not to roll her eyes so fucking hard that she passed out; because yes , she did want to say, I know John was good, sometime, somewhere inside of him, and that means maybe I can bring it back, and if he said that he’d go with me I’d let him.

“Isn’t that right, El?”

Elliot sighed. She regarded him for a moment—grinning, handsome and boyish, flashing his teeth like the cat that had caught the canary. And handsome. He’s handsome, too.

“Whatever,” she relented, at last. “Is that all? Can we go in now? There are things I want to do with the day.”

As she reached around him for the door, John said, “So what are we?” and she groaned.

“ John.”

“I just think that—”

“You are ruining,” Elliot told him, poking a finger into his chest, “the mythos of whatever this is.”

John frowned. He looked like he wanted to say something; he looked like he wanted to say it and very terribly, but like he thought she might be mad if he did. Then again, Elliot had to consider that John said plenty of things that made her angry, and he did so knowing they would make her angry, and that there was no reason that he should start now.

“It shouldn’t be a mythos,” John said after a moment. “We’re… Together, you know—”

Elliot fished the carton of cigarettes out of her back pocket and tapped one out, lighting it. John had stopped himself to watch her, his gaze sweeping over her before he grinned again, wolfish and pleased.

“Does it stress you out?” he asked.

“Baby,” Elliot deadpanned, “if stressing me out was an Olympic sport, you would be a gold medalist.”

John plucked the cigarette out of her hands after she took one drag, dropped it on the ground, and stomped it out, much to her chagrin. One wasted cigarette.

“You owe me,” she said.

“I just want to make sure that we’re on the same page when we go in there,” he reiterated. “Nothing about the nature of our relationship affected the time that you spent in my custody.”

She eyed him. Out of spite, she almost wanted to agree and then say something completely different once she was inside—just to make him squirm, and all for stamping out her cigarette.

“Fine,” she relented, at last. “But that’s all we say about it. I don’t think anything else needs to be said, do you?”

For one second, John opened his mouth again. It was all Elliot could do not to immediately groan; stupid, pretty John, who for some reason needed to constantly be talking, the same way a shark would die if it stopped moving.

But then he said, “Sure,” and suspicion spiked high and hot in her brain. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers; the kiss was unhurried, but short, and succeeded in frying her brain pleasantly.

“Don’t try and distract me,” she snipped half-heartedly, even when she felt the blush crawling up her cheeks. He grinned as though to feign innocence, before he turned and opened the door to the chapel; when he stepped inside, it left her alone.

One blissful, serene moment alone. It felt more and more like she was running short on those. It was probably intentional. Whatever it was happening between herself and John—whatever this mythos really was—it was harder and harder to keep straight with him around her all the time, breathing her in and exhaling her out, hands and mouth and—

And if she just got one more second —

Inside, Joseph said, “You don’t have the deputy with you?” and John made a noise like he was surprised she hadn’t followed right in. Elliot motioned for Boomer to stay before she stepped inside and closed the door behind her; the movement plunged her into the dim, cool light of the chapel, illuminated only by the cut-out of the Eden’s Gate star-symbol, slanting golden light across the floor. Everything else was dark. Like a womb, living and breathing and spitting out cultists.

“I trust you’ve gotten sufficient rest?” came Joseph’s next question, and it was clearly directed at her. Elliot made her way to the front of the chapel and stifled a sigh.

“Faith said you wanted to talk with us?” she prompted, and Joseph looked like he was trying not to smile; the corners of his mouth ticked upward for a moment as he watched her. He liked to do that—let a silence linger between them, let it fester for a moment until she thought she’d rather curl up and disappear than stay there any longer.

He finally spoke and said, “It’s come to my attention, Deputy Honeysett, that your relationship with our brother John has developed.”

‘Our brother,’ he said. Joseph talking like he was the fucking Pope made her molars grind.

Before she could remark on it, Joseph continued, “It would stand to reason, then, that you are intending to enter the End with us?”

I want a home with you.

“Of course,” John said, just as Elliot said, “‘Reason’ is a funny choice of word for you,” and then their eyes met. John’s expression said we’re supposed to be on the same team, but as far as Elliot couldn’t bite back instinct so easily.

She knew John could be good. She knew it, and yet he insisted on acting otherwise, and it just made her think maybe she had been some kind of exception and he really was, all this time, just rotten.

“I know that you’ve had a lot to process these last few days,” Joseph continued lightly. “The devastating loss of Hudson, having to purge all of that old poison concerning your last boyfriend…”

Elliot felt the panic wash over her in an instant. It was the same feeling that she had gotten with Kian, but the kicker here was that she’d volunteered that information to Joseph. He’d gone digging around in her brain, but she’d given him permission to have it.

I don’t want John to know, something in her said frantically, he can’t know.

“Reconsider,” Elliot bit out venomously, “what you’re going to say next, Seed.”

A moment of silence lapsed between the three of them. John was watching her curiously, waiting, perhaps, for her to elaborate on her angry outburst. She wouldn’t. He’d be waiting until he was in his fucking grave and then some if he thought she was going to say anything about it.

“John,” Joseph said, glancing at the brunette, “I’d like a moment with our deputy.”

The brunette’s expression tightened. Something, just a tiny little something, about that statement bothered John, Elliot could tell—though he said nothing about it, and instead swallowed back whatever it was, clearing his throat.

“That’s not necessary,” she insisted, looking between the two brothers. “John, it isn’t.”

Don’t. Don’t leave me alone with him. Please. I’m so tired, I’m so tired, I don’t want to do this anymore. Not with him.

“I’ll be outside,” John said, but he said it to Elliot, not to Joseph, and it did so very little to inspire any confidence in her; that John thought he needed to explain to her that he would be close by only reminded her that there was something predatory about Joseph that John didn’t like, either.

As he went to move past her, she grabbed his wrist out of instinct—the pads of her fingers brushed the crescent marks that she’d left on him that night in the river, and the differences in the ways that she gripped him now felt monumental.

The moment lingered, suspended, between them. John reached up with his un-gripped hand and brushed some of her hair behind her ear.

“It’s only a few minutes,” Joseph offered, as though it were supposed to comfort her. It didn’t.

She dropped her hand from his wrist, and his hand drifted from her face, and he was heading back to the door before she could figure out if she wanted to pitch more of a fit or not.

When the door closed behind them and left Joseph and herself alone, in the eerie stillness of the chapel, Elliot took in a slow breath. The last time she’d been alone with Joseph, she’d been doing what she knew he wanted her to—confessing to the things that hurt, the prickly, sharp parts of her that stung the most on their way out. She’d grappled back a thread of her control that day, but what should have been a catharsis had just felt—

Dirty.

“I know that you must be tired,” Joseph murmured, closing the distance between them. “You’ve been fighting for a long time, Elliot. Longer, I can say now with certainty, than before even us. Before this.”

Fuck you, she thought hatefully. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. You took everything from me, you wretched fucking man.

“I am tired,” she relented, desperate to keep that tiny bit of Joseph’s favor if it just meant that he’d stop trying to pry her open all the time. “But that doesn’t—”

“The End is coming,” he interrupted, though with the slow, rich cadence of his voice, it often felt less like an interruption and more a gentle redirection, “whether you believe it or not. But let’s say, theoretically, that it isn’t. That I’m wrong.”

Elliot’s mouth went dry. She didn’t like hypothesizing theoretical situations, least of all with Joseph. “Okay...”

The man had closed the distance between them now; his eyes were fixed on her, the relentless, dauntless part of him that did not soften to his Fatherly persona. He lifted his hands, and it took everything in Elliot not to flinch back out of instinct—his fingers brushed where John’s had just moments ago, trailing the slope of her jaw, landing on the feverish bruise marks on her throat.

“We retrieved Kian’s body from the forest,” he murmured, his fingers not leaving her neck. He looked to be inspecting the bruises on her neck, at the corner of her mouth.

The scrutiny made her skin feel sickly-hot. “And?”

“You obliterated his face,” Joseph said plainly. “Crushed each bony structure on it, caved him in. His eyes barely stayed in his sockets by the time you were done with him.”

Do you feel guilty for what that man did to you?

Elliot felt her stomach churn, the vicious nausea rolling around inside of her head. She could still feel Kian’s bones crumbling under each impact of the shotgun cold, dark metal, taste the arterial spray in her mouth. And just like that, she could feel Joseph digging his metaphorical claws in, cracking open her rib cage so he could stick his hands right into the gore of her.

Will you feel guilty about this, too?

“It—” Elliot felt her brain swoon dizzyingly; for a second, the only thing keeping her anchored was Joseph’s feather-light touch. “It w-was—self-defense—”

“ I know that,” Joseph murmured, “and you know that, and John—even Jacob, and Faith, and the others. We all know that, Elliot. But your friends from the resistance? Mary May, Grace... Pastor Jeffries...” His voice trailed off. “Do you think they’ll understand, when they read the reports of what you did to that man? Of the trail of bodies you’ve left behind yourself?”

“H-He was going to kill me,” and the words came out barely past a whisper; anymore volume and it would have been a wail. “ They were—”

“Yes,” Joseph agreed, “and you mutilated his body well past the point of death.”

“He deserved it,” she managed out, “he deserved it, he—” He was in my home, he touched my things, he pushed his way into my head, he took my Joey from me, she was the only good thing I had left and he took her.

“I know.” Joseph’s breath fanned across her forehead. “I know, Elliot. I hope—”

He stopped himself, and then he pulled back so that their eyes could meet, his hands cradling her face. It was both an anchor and invasion, this incessant need of Joseph’s to touch her. It grounded her to reality, but it also rattled violently through her skeleton, aftershocks of an earthquake she’d been living through for the last week.

“What I mean to say is, I only hope you understand,” he continued, his voice low, “this gift that we are giving you.”

I want a home with you.

“Do you?” Joseph asked. “Understand?”

What would Pastor Jeffries think? How would Mary May look at her? Sharky, and Grace—would they still like her spark?

Or was she ruined now, too, like everything else Eden’s Gate had touched?

Are you happy, Elliot?

“Yes,” she managed out. “I do.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When the chapel door opened, John had been standing around outside for about ten minutes—enough time to hate it, enough time to look at Boomer waiting patiently at the foot of the stairs and think, fucking dog has better patience than I do.

“We’re going,” Elliot said, moving down the steps. Joseph lingered in the doorway behind her.

John balked. Faith had said Joseph wanted to speak to both of them; she’d made it sound like there had been more for him to be a part of, and yet Joseph had just collected one-on-one time with Elliot for himself and that was it?

“We’re?” he asked. Her voice sounded thick. “To where? Joseph, didn’t you—”

The blonde walked past him, and with a single gesture of her hand, Boomer was trotting off after her. John watched her, and then looked back at his older brother; he was sure the confusion was written clear on his face, but true to his nature, Joseph let it linger for a moment before he said, “She requested a car to visit someplace important to her. I said it would be fine, if you went.”

“Where?”

“It didn’t feel pertinent to ask,” Joseph replied. John paused, and as soon as he turned to start walking after Elliot—and perhaps get more information than what it seemed his brother was willing to supply him with—Joseph said, “John?”

He stopped and turned to look at his brother, and said, “Yes?”

“The opportunity is slipping.” Joseph’s head cocked to the side, his gaze hardening. “Do not let your family down.”

John felt something—anxiety, perhaps, but probably more dread —creep down his spine at Joseph’s words. He swallowed and nodded once before he started heading off again, the slow IV-drip of his older brother’s casual, cloaked venom seeping straight into the marrow of his bones.

Joseph’s voice rattled in his skull. Tell me you can do this.

You can’t have both, Elliot’s mouth against his, voice teetering on something broken.

He gritted his teeth, catching up to Elliot as she pulled herself into the driver’s seat of a truck.

I can. You’re mine, and I can have both.

“Ready?” Elliot asked, having elaborated not at all on what was going on and only expecting that he would come along blindly. Well, she was right—to some extent, anyway, because here he was, knowing only one thing more than before and that was that Joseph’s patience was enduring, but running thin.

John flashed her a smile when she glanced over his way.

“As ever.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It didn’t get any more clear where it was Elliot was taking him. Perhaps “taking him” was a bit of a stretch—he was going along because Joseph had insisted, and even if he hadn’t insisted it probably would have been his first choice of how to spend the afternoon anyway.

They were running out of time. That much had been made clear to him, either by Joseph or by Elliot’s itching to get out of the compound; pulled two ways, and only one of them was able to give—Elliot, with the proper amount of planting, guiding.

John knew that he needed to stay focused. There could be no more lingering, favoring glances; she would need to be his, and he would have to make it happen.

Fast.

The blonde turned the truck up a long, winding drive that took them further back into the wilderness of Hope County and parked in front of a house that he’d seen only once or twice before, and only in passing; he’d even considered reaping it for himself, at one point, but it was far out and small enough that it would have been more of an inconvenience than it was worth.

“So,” he said, when she put the truck in park and pulled the keys out of the ignition, “where is this?”

It was a small house, but not as small as most houses in Hope County; by all accounts, the house was probably considered upper class —the snob in him wanted to scoff audibly even as the thought considering how fucking incredible that statement alone was—but the two-story ranch house screamed Gothic South at him, even though he wasn’t entirely sure where it was where Elliot’s parents hailed from.

All of the lights in the house wereoff; the wisteria climbing the trellis that arched over the pathway had just finished blooming, and some of its perfume still lingered; ivy climbed up the elaborate railing of the top front porch, and the garden had clearly been meticulously well-kept.

“My mom’s,” she replied after a moment, sliding out of the driver’s side and closing the door. She sounded more put-together now; whatever had transpired between herself and Joseph had shaken her, but only temporarily. She’d stuffed it down, locked it away somewhere far away from him.

Oh, John thought, feeling that little thrill of delight he got every time he thought Elliot might be about to let him in and under and through. Mom’s house, hm? Interesting.

Boomer leaped from the back without waiting for the tailgate to get dropped and raced excited circles around Elliot as she made her way up the bricked path. He barked once, twice, and then Elliot lifted her hand and he quieted just before she gestured for him to go and he took off running.

“I drove past this place when I first came back,” John said as he followed. “Your mom likes gardening, huh?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Elliot sighed, lifting one of the flower pots by the front door to fish a key out from underneath. There was something bitter and a little humorous as she added, “Scarlet Honeysett would never lift a hand to garden, except —” And here the blonde lifted a finger quite dutifully, that little Southern twang peeking through. “For her rose bushes. Nobody goes around touchin’ her rose bushes.”

John glanced around the front porch. The steps up were lined with the aforementioned bushes, tiny scalloped fencing keeping them from being in the way of foot traffic while still on perfect display. Ah, he thought absently, the neuroses.

Elliot unlocked the door, nudging the front door open with her foot and stuffing the key into her pocket. John followed her inside, glancing around in the late-afternoon light; the polished dark wood floors, the carefully placed decorations, plush foyer rug, elegant painting on the far wall leading past the stairs.

It was luxe, to say the least. A portrait hung on the wall closest to the door, a photo of a young woman and her blonde look-alike toddler. John thought that it was the kind of thing that you only saw in the home of a woman who put her daughter into pageants and drank martinis at ten in the morning.

“Elliot Honeysett,” he began, with no shortage of needling glee, “are you rich?”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “ I certainly am not,” she told him. “My mother, however, is a trust fund baby, likely has not worked a single day in her life. Papa Graves was a retired jockey—made a lot of money, real quick, invested it, retired...”

Her voice trailed off and she walked past him to the room on the right, fiddling around with something past his line of sight. He picked up a frame on one of the side tables; it was a young blonde girl, grinning ear to ear, sitting atop a buckskin horse, her fingers tangled into its dark mane,

“You like horses?” John called.

As if to clarify, she replied, “Animals.”

Something in the next room clicked. For a second, John’s brain panicked; a gun, he thought, a brief second of considering that Elliot had brought him here to—

And then the music started to play. It was older music that didn’t quite suit his picture of Elliot—the same girl that had blasted Guns’N’Roses on their way out from the ranch—but dreamy. Hazy. The perfect kind of music to suit the golden light of the late afternoon slanting through the gauzy curtains framing French windows. For a second, John thought he could forget himself: she had let him in, to the most vulnerable part of her, this place littered with photos and monuments to Elliot as a child, Elliot as a girl, Elliot before any of this.

Joseph hadn’t gotten this. Nobody had gotten this—not Joseph, and not her ex-boyfriend, and not anyone. Not anyone except for him.

See the pyramids along the Nile; watch the sun rise on a tropic isle.

Next was a gentle clink. It sounded like ice cubes in a glass. John moved down the hallway, picking up another frame—what he could only presume to be young Elliot, perched atop the shoulders of a red-haired man, grinning like a scoundrel at the camera.

He could hear the sound of liquid pouring a room over. As he walked, he realized the table—and the walls—were covered with photos of this man, this red-haired stranger, freckles covering his face. He was handsome. His eyes looked familiar, too.

Just remember, darling, all the while, you belong to me.

“John,” Elliot said from the sitting room—what an absurd thought; Elliot Honeysett, in a sitting room , and that’s what it was, a sitting room, “what are you doing?”

“Learning about you,” John replied. “Your parents left with the resistance?”

There was a pause. He thought that he knew the answer—the only pictures of the man whose eyes were mirrored by Elliot’s own were from when she was quite young. Maybe too young to even remember?

“Mama did, yeah,” Elliot replied. He heard a match striking in the room next to him. She didn’t elaborate on her father; everything in John was itching to pry, to slide just under her skin and figure out what was going on in that brain of hers. Per usual, her decision to remain tight-lipped concerning just about everything that held any emotional bearing on her proved the biggest obstacle.

I'll be so alone without you.

John rounded the corner back into the living room. Elliot had started a fire in the fireplace, kicked off her shoes, and in her hand was a drink; she looked tired , neck still mottled with bruises, but more relaxed than he thought he had seen her in a long time. Even more relaxed than when she was sleeping.

“Didn’t even make me a drink,” he tsked, walking behind the couch to the bar cart. “Just pulled me out here for a little vacation, did you? We could visit.” His gaze slid to her, still perched on the couch with her back to him. “About whatever you’d like.”

“Just wanted to get out of the compound. Felt like I couldn’t breathe in there.” She waved her empty hand in a vague gesture, as if to indicate he was welcome to help himself. “You really don’t stop talking, do you?”

“It’s my job,” John replied, “and you’ve forbidden me from using my mouth otherwise.”

“Oh,” Elliot drawled as he idled around the back of the couch, taking in every meticulous detail of her mother’s living room, “so all I had to do was forbid you and you’d stop doing shit?”

A short laugh billowed out of him. It was so strange to have Elliot like this—was this how she had been with Joey? With the other deputies, with her friends? What she was like before that pesky ex-boyfriend of hers?

Maybe you'll be lonesome too, and blue.

John walked around the side of the couch and sat next to her, regarding her amusedly. She side-eyed him like she didn’t want to exert the effort of turning her head all the way to look at him; when he reached up to brush his fingers along her jaw, she only tilted her head out of his reach for a moment before relenting.

“Might not have worked before,” he suggested. “You’ve definitely gotten more persuasive.”

“Ah.” She arched a brow at him loftily, letting him tilt her face so that she was facing him, and took a sip of her drink. “Maybe your brother is rubbing off on me. After all, romantic coercion isn’t really your style , is it, John?”

He felt his mouth sour at the words. Dropping his fingers from her chin, he instead lifted the drink from her hand; though she relinquished the glass readily, he did see her eyes narrow, just a little. “You just can’t resist, can you?”

He waited for the bite; a part of him anticipated it now, sat patiently, eagerly for the quick-strike of venom. It had become so intrinsic to their day-to-day that he couldn’t tell if he liked it more when she was prickly and headstrong or if he liked it when she was sighing his name like a prayer.

Probably the latter.

The blonde feigned innocence. “Resist what?”

John took a sip of the drink. It was a vodka soda—strong, burning on its way down. Maybe her drink of choice? Or someone else’s. “Picking a fight with me.”

“You do have an exceptionally punchable face,” Elliot acquiesced. And then, as though to soften the blow: “But you have lovely long eyelashes.” She smiled, angelic. “Like a lamb.”

“Fuck you,” John snapped.

“You can,” she replied idly, “if you beg. ”

John felt a flare of something—maybe delight, maybe shame —red-hot and searing in his chest at her nonchalant words. He wanted to stay focused; this was the perfect opportunity to pry more out of her, to really know her and figure out exactly what it was that made her tick, what got those little draconian gears in her head churning.

And they were draconian—after that little show she’d put on with Joseph, he thought maybe Elliot was just a bit more wicked than she liked to let on.

Regarding her for a moment, John set the glass back in her hand, the burn of the alcohol still lingering in the back of his throat. She looked comfortable, draped against the couch; before, being in the same room as him put her on edge, teeth grinding and eyes wild.

“Liked that?” he asked, forcing his voice to lightness, digging. “Having me beg for you?”

“Well,” Elliot said demurely, “who wouldn’t like to hear you begging for something, you smug fucker?”

He bit back his knee-jerk retort and instead willed his words out. “You really are filthy then, aren’t you, Deputy Honeysett?”

Elliot took a swallow of the drink and looked as though she were measuring something, weighing the pros and cons of it in her head. In a fluid motion that must have cost her quite a bit of labor considering the current state of her skeleton, she swung one leg over his lap and settled herself there; straddling him, one hand flattened and smooth against the fabric of his shirt, the other holding the glass and draped over the back of the couch.

“I suppose,” she said, her eyes flickering over his face, “that you’re going to offer to cleanse me of my sins?”

“You’re a quicker study than you let on,” he replied, grinning. “You’ve confessed, but you’re hardly clean. ”

“You should hear yourself.” Elliot’s voice was clipped coming out of her mouth, even as John’s hands came to her hips and tugged her down more firmly against his lap. Her fingers undid one of the buttons on his shirt. “ ‘You’re hardly clean’. You sound so fucking stupid—”

“Let me baptize you,” John insisted. He tried to stuff away his irritation at her words, but it was hard to—even when the sharpness of her words was punctuated by a kiss, her lips parting silkily against his as she sighed, the sharp bite of the vodka chasing the warmth of her mouth. Joseph’s low, murmured threat sat heavy in his chest. “Let me—”

“Drown me?” she said with no absence of venom, even when she said it against his mouth. “Or was that just a one-timer?”

“It’s different,” he snapped. His hands slid beneath the hem of her long-sleeved shirt, tracing the dips and curves of her before splaying against her spine. “It’s different when you choose .”

She sighed; for a moment, John thought she was going to slide off of him, but she stayed, shifting idly on his lap and making the temperature of his body spike. Wicked, wretched viper, he thought, but it was affection blooming in his chest. Wicked and wretched, but mine. Legally bound to me, and all mine.

Besides; where was she going to go, after all of this? She didn’t seriously think she was walking out of Hope County like nothing had happened.

“You gave Joseph what he wanted,” he continued, feeling a little spiteful even as he kept his hands in the slope of her hips. “How’s it feel, knowing that?”

Elliot’s mouth twisted in a grimace. His words had sucked the wind right out of her sails; he saw the impact on her face, meteoric in its destruction.

She said, “John, don’t—”

“I will ,” he insisted, watching her take another dutiful swallow of the alcohol in her glass, “and you did. You gave him exactly what he wanted, after spending all this time insisting you were going to kill him the second you got a chance to. You’ve had a chance. We all know what you did to Kian; all it would take is what, ten minutes alone with him? So, I’ll say it again, how—”

“Worse,” the blonde interrupted, her voice thick with an emotion that John couldn’t quite pin down, “than giving you what you want.”

Yes yes yes, the monster inside of him chanted. He could feel it writhing just beneath his proverbial fingers; so close to sticking the wings of her little butterfly, that special thing that she didn’t want him to have or know. Yes, all mine, give it to me, I deserve it.

The air felt thick, molten-hot and bubbling between them until he thought he was going to be dizzy from trying to breathe something so oxygen-thin. He could feel the flutter of Elliot’s pulse, unsteady and hammering, against his chest: not the heartbeat of an apex predator, but that of prey, snagged and caught and his.

John pressed his mouth to the slope of her neck, tightening his grip on her; his tongue traced the marks left there just below her jaw, and then he murmured, “Tell me how it feels to give me what I want, El.”

Elliot’s free hand had tangled into his hair, knotting there and gripping just a little tighter at his words.

“Good,” she managed out. Her voice barely broke the sound barrier of a whisper; that single word alone gave John a vibrant surge of triumph in his chest, billowed the breath right out of him. But when he pulled back to look at her, she finished off the rest of the vodka and set the glass on the side table before she plunged on, “I had a dream the other night.”

A brief pause dragged the silence on, with only the music playing absently in the background as she righted herself on his lap.

“It was after my walk with Faith,” Elliot continued. “You were there, and—it was just a stupid dream, but—”

“Dreams can be prophetic,” John said, because whatever she was unraveling was making her upset, and he wanted it; that little tremble in her voice, so sweet so sweet, the same kind of sweetness he’d wanted to taste that night he’d first gotten his hands on her.

When he opened his mouth to continue to encourage her, she slapped her palm over it and said, “Shut up or I’m going to lose my train of thought.”

John made a muffled noise of acquiescence. Elliot dropped her hand from his mouth and took in a short, sharp little breath.

“You were there, and you kept saying things like… That you wanted to be—mine,” she explained, and this whole time she hadn’t been looking at him, but she did now. “That you wanted a home with me, that we would—after Kian, we would leave Hope County and for a second—I fucking—everyone, and everything, it’s all gone to shit and for one fucking second when you were saying that I didn’t—I didn’t feel—”

So close, John thought, watching her try to work around the words that she wanted to say but that fought against her entire being to come out. I just need to hear it. That’s all I need.

“Alone,” Elliot finished softly.

It was the perfect opportunity; Joseph had made it clear that they weren’t going to be waiting to finish off the Family to retreat for the End, and that meant that John only had so much time to bring Elliot around. This was the moment that he had to take advantage of, to tell her about their marriage and hope for the best.

“It wasn’t,” John said after a moment. “A dream, I mean.”

The blonde stared at him for a moment. Her expression was guarded. “What wasn’t?”

“That night that you came back from your walk with Faith,” he began, “you weren’t feeling well, and I walked you back to the bunkhouse—”

“Uh-huh.”

“—and I told you that I didn’t want you to be alone anymore—”

“John.”

It’s fine, he thought, even when Elliot’s expression flattened and emptied out, it’s fine, it’s fine.

“—and that after all this was done, I would leave with you, and I wanted a home. With you.”

Elliot blinked. A few moments passed. Surprisingly, there was no fury radiating off of her; she looked blank, like she was still processing and taking in all of this information. Like maybe it hadn’t quite hit her yet.

John opened his mouth, very deliberately, to proceed and inform her of the next part—the completely fine and totally normal agreement to get married when Elliot said, “So you lied to me?”

His mouth closed. “Sorry?”

“I asked you about it,” she began, and now she was biting the words out, “the next morning. In the chapel. Jacob was there, and I asked you if something happened—”

“—less like it happened—”

“—and you said, John, that I walked myself to the bunkhouse and went to sleep.” Her fingers had fisted into the front of his shirt now, gripping, as if she were preparing for him to try and squirm out from underneath her. “I fucking knew you weren’t telling me the truth, I fucking knew it because my gun was on the table and I’d never fucking put it there to go to sleep, you stupid fuckhead—”

“El,” John said, lifting a hand, though he didn’t know why; maybe in an effort to soothe her, maybe to block any incoming blows, but Elliot smacked his hand out of the way.

“You fucking weasel—”

“Elliot, listen to me!”

Bad, John thought, and he hadn’t even told her about the part of this that was the most legally binding, the part of this that didn’t make her a Honeysett at all anymore but a Seed. All of that softness from before had evaporated in the heat of her rage. Bad, so fucking bad, fuck I’m fucked fuck.

“I’m gonna fucking dig the decay out of your teeth with a hunting knife, you lying piece of shit,” Elliot snapped. “You saw what I did to Kian, huh? I let you fuck me, and you lied to me—”

“I was—”

“—fucking rotten through and through—”

“Elliot,” John managed out, scrambling for something as he ducked an otherwise well-timed blow; he snagged her wrists, both of them, to stop her from landing any kind of hit. “I was embarrassed, okay? When you came in the next day and you didn’t remember, I—freaked out. Jacob was there, and I thought you’d kill me if I didn’t tell you, and also that you’d kill me if I said it front of Jacob, and I didn’t want to say it in front of him anyway because it was about how I was going to leave with you rather than stay with them!”

Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. It was a lie —a big fucking lie, in a lot of ways, but most importantly a big lie-by-omission, but though he knew it John thought certainly there was no fucking way in Hell he was going to bring that part up to Elliot now, too.

She’s clearly emotionally fragile, he reasoned, I should wait until a better moment.

“Why’d you want me to get baptized then?” she snapped. “If you were planning on leaving with me?”

“Because,” John said slowly, come on come on come on, “Joseph—knows about us, and it would be suspicious. If you didn’t.”

Elliot stared at him. “And?”

“ And,” he insisted, “I planned on telling you in the car on the way out of the compound that night, and then we got hit, and we went on Kian’s fun little nightmare carnival ride, and—”

“Shut up.” Elliot yanked her wrists out of his grip and passed a hand over her face exhaustedly. John wanted to keep talking—it was instinct to want to weave the most elaborate tale that he could in the face of Elliot’s fury—but he did as she said, keeping his mouth shut as she processed whatever it was she had taken in.

Her hand dropped from her face, and she stared at a spot on the wall over his head for a minute before she sucked her teeth and said, “You don’t fucking lie to me, John.”

“I—”

“You don’t fucking lie to me,” Elliot reiterated again, “because if you do, I will find out, and I will make you fucking suffer.”

John regarded her warily. He knew that he needed to tell her. He knew that he should, because if this was any indication to how she was going to handle it, the full truth would be astronomically worse. It would be best to get it out of the way, let her process it, and maybe by the end she’d have come around to the picture he’d paint of them, together, as the End crept in; safe and in the bunker and—

“Okay,” he replied, “no lying.”

“No fucking lying.”

“Got it.”

“And if you do—”

“Skeleton pulled out of my body,” John supplied, lowering his hands hesitantly back to her hips. She eyed him through her lashes for a moment before she seemed to relax a little, sucking her teeth and crossing her arms over her chest. As each second ticked by that she didn’t make good on her violent promises of emergency tooth surgery, John felt more and more confident that he had assuaged the monster and reached up to gently unlace her arms. She balked at first, and then relented after another few heartbeats; when she allowed him to pull her arms around his neck, Elliot let out a soft little exhale, like she’d been holding her breath.

He said, trying for lightness, “I like when you get scary.”

“Did you mean it?” she asked, ignoring his little playful remark. When John looked at her expectantly, looking for some elaboration, she took in a breath and said, “About... leaving?” And then, with concerted effort: “With me?”

Soft —she was so soft, right then and there, and only for him. It was in moments like this when John wanted to drag her down into him, kiss her until his lungs ached, until their breath mixed and intermingled; to capture something like this and keep it his and his alone, forever.

He’d tell her. He’d tell her when things were better—when she wasn’t so emotionally raw, when she hadn’t lost so much so quickly, and when she’d have a more level head about it. She’d feel safer, more secure, with this little white lie; and then he’d tell her about the End again, once things had quieted down for a few days, and explain the importance of having her by his side. As his wife.

“Yeah, El,” he replied. “I meant it.” And then, because she was staring at him with those eyes—wary, cautious, guarded—he took her face in his hands and said, “I’m yours.”

“Don’t,” she managed out, and now her voice was really wobbling, “don’t fucking lie to me again, John Seed.”

She’ll see that I did this for us.

“I won’t.” And technically, sort of, it was true—he wasn’t going to tell her another lie now that she’d just said not to do it again. Unless she asked again. But she wouldn’t. So it was sort of like he was doing exactly what she wanted, wasn’t it?

Elliot’s forehead brushed his. She let out a sharp exhale. “I don’t have anything left,” she said after a second, “anymore.”

He pressed his mouth to hers in a kiss—luxuriated in, drenched himself in it, indulged in the feeling of her leaned into his touch.

“You have me,” he said against her mouth. “You know that.”

“Yes.” Elliot’s voice was an exhausted murmur; her eyes fluttered shut. Got you, John thought, dragging his thumb along the slope of her cheekbone, and she said, “I know.”

Got you, hellcat.

#john seed x deputy #john seed x original female character #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #fic: ancient names #my writing #ch: joseph seed #i'm really not out here trying to be like i hated writing this but we're pretty close to that #i finally hit some kind of stride with it which was cool #anyway #it does ALL feel important #so that's what matters #next chapter can be full of actual drama and steam to make up for the downer <3 #thank you everyone for reading!!!#far cry 5 #fc5 #this whole chapter is john going #this is fine

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pollylynn · 4 years

Photo

Title: Roughshod

WC: 900

“No harm, no foul, right?” — Kay Cappuccio, An Embarrassment of Bitches (4 x 13)

“I think we were the mean kids today,” he says. He frowns and thinks about it a moment. “More yesterday and the day before that.” He frowns again. “Wait. Was there a day before yesterday? How many days have we been Keeping Up With Cappuccio? Because it kind of feels like forever. But still . . . those were some mean kid shenanigans.”

He turns to look at her, eyes streaming from the cold and the punishing wind. They’re on their way to drown their sorrows over their mutually Royal-less existence. They decided to walk. Or they are walking, and it might have something to do with the punishing wind. It might have something to do with the unspoken mutual suspicion that they might deserve a little punishment.

“Mean kids?” she scoffs, even though she’s writhing a little inside. “Who’s a mean kid?”

His head swivels toward her again. The fact that he’s hunched deep into the turned up collar of his coat, paired with the aforementioned streaming eyes, somewhat spoils the effect of the glare that she suspects would have been Martha worthy under normal circumstances. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel judged.”

She literally can’t tell him that at the moment. They turn the corner and somehow the wind they have been walking directly into for blocks is howling at them head on from this direction, too. The wall of cold steals her breath.

Less literally, she can’t tell him she doesn’t feel judged. She had braced herself for Royal inevitably running to him—he of the ribeye and the dedicated fetch hallway. He of the hour-long hunt for Mr. Squeaky and terrible movies with talking chihuahuas on demand. Naturally, she had assumed she couldn’t compete with any of that.

But Royal had run, without hesitation, to Kay Cappuccio and her nightmare of an attack chihuahua, and that stings worse than the wind that’s currently trying to flay the skin from her cheekbones.

“Cold, Castle,” she gasps. “I feel cold.” She stumbles into a run, grateful that she knows the way to the Old Haunt better than well enough to find it through eyes she’s squeezed closed to mere slits in the hopes that her eyeballs will not actually freeze and shatter in their sockets. He runs beside her, elbow mostly against hers. They barrel down the steps, bickering as they bump together trying to get through the door and into the warmth of the tavern’s interior.

They make their way to the usual booth they take when it’s just the two of them. It’s just the two of them a lot lately. They call out breathless greetings along the way. She slides into her side of the booth and wraps her arms around herself. She wages war against the goosebumps.

“Hot toddy?” He stands and peels off his coat. He shivers and looks like he wishes he hadn’t. She nods and he heads off to the bar.

She stamps her feet to get the feeling back. She peels off her gloves and blows fruitlessly on her hands. Her breath has somehow held on to the bitter cold of the long January night. She’s not enjoying the metaphor. She’s not enjoying the fact that her mind seems intent on confronting the Mean Kid accusation and the Royal Rejection.

She’s grumpy with him for linking the two things in her mind, for putting so fine a point on it and calling them both out. On top of freezing to death, courtesy of some stupid, unspoken agreement about punishment, she’s grumpy with him. But he has a hot toddy with her name on it, so she sets the grumpiness aside.

“She was a suspect,” she blurts, so maybe not quite aside.

“A really annoying suspect,” he says in the agreeable tone he reserves for when he is definitely trying to egg her on. “And not the brightest bulb in the criminally tacky chandelier.”

“Mean is overstatement,” she tells her hot toddy. “I was just . . . direct. And persistent when the evidence pointed to her. I wasn’t mean.”

It’s true and it’s not true. Kay Cappuccio’s multiple interrogations definitely raised the question, If a snark falls in the forest and the person on the receiving end has no apparent snark receiver, does it still make a sick burn?

But the answer to that question is irrelevant in this scenario. Kay Cappuccio’s money, her obliviousness, her honest-to-god entourage are no real excuse for her own enhanced zingers and internal judgements. Kay Cappuccio’s lonely-in-a-crowd existence deserves some kind of empathy from her, but she feels unequipped to reconcile the gap between what she knows she should feel, and what she does feel. And it’s not as though getting needled slightly by one cop is going to leave a mark on someone like that. “We were kind of.”

He seems relieved to have an official partner in crime. He smiles at her over the top of his oversized mug. They’re silent. They are mirror images, contemplating the better selves they haven’t been in a long while.

“Still,” he says at long last. He traces the rim of his mug with one finger. “Royal went pretty over the top with the punishment."

“Right?” She clicks her tongue. She rolls her eyes to the ceiling and channels Becks, grade eleven. She takes a theatrical sip of her toddy. “So over the top.”

A/N: Kay Cappuccio: There was no there there. So there is no there here. There is no thing.

images via homeofthenutty

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 4 #Castle: An Embarrassment of Bitches #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing #Interrogatives?

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craziestxabnormal · 4 years

Note

📖 + Titan!AU !!

Send 📖+ an AU scenario to get a glance at what my muse would be like in that universe

@monsterkiisses & @kiissesmonsters

Finally, years of research and sacrifice were about to pay off. A dream they had ever since they first held a real titan limb in their hands was about to come to fruition, and it was all because of a small syringe in their hands.

Standing in the middle of an enclave of towering trees, Hange stood opposite Commader Erwin as he explained the retrieval plan for the Cart Titan. Hange was fully aware of the unit of green cloaked soldiers waiting in the branches, prepared to move on Erwin's orders should the plan fail.

"It will work," they said, not sure which one of them Hange was trying to convince. "I'll be fine, sir. Trust me."

Icy blue eyes bore into hazel brown, and Hange held their breath as Erwin's stare penetrated them, his usual stoicm giving nothing away. Then, his hand enclosed around the fist holding the syringe, warm fingers squeezingly reassuringly and easing the tremors in Hange's hand that they weren't even aware of they were doing.

Trepidation.

"It will work," he repeated, and for some reason, Hange believed him. "Have faith in yourself, and have faith in Levi and myself. Have faith in our soldiers."

Hange had faith in them, it was why they would not allow anyone else to inherit the Cart Titan power. Not out of power or some misplaced glory, but because this was Hange's experiment and they would not force this transformation on an unwilling volunteer. A true leader does not ask for anything of their subordinates that they themselves are unwilling to do.

"The area is secured from humans and Titans alike, and while I may not be capable of Shifting if something manages to veer from the plans.. we will keep you on course." Erwin continued and his attention was caught by their unconcious prisoner tied to the base of a tree.

Peck Finger had not been in their custody for very long, they captured her when she and the Beast Titan came to retrieve their comrades. Levi was still beating himself up over losing the Beast Titan, and even though Pieck was the enemy, Hange still felt guilty over taking a human life in such a cruel way.

But they had a job to do, and progress usually involved sacrifice.

"Your mission is only one objective: Obtain the Cart Titan," Erwim smile deepens. "It is the simplest order you will ever receive under my command, Hange."

Erwin shoots off into the tree line where Levi obediently waits with the rest of his squad. Hange can't see his face but knows Levi's blades are already drawn as he steels himself for the task given to him. Confident that neither men would let Hange kill any of their comrades, their resolve strengthens. They did believe in themselves and their friends, and it was time to pay back their trust in kind.

Rolling up their sleeve, the needle of the syringe hovers over the prominant vein inside their elbow, with Hange's thumb rests over the plunger as the milky liquid inside the glass tube sloshed about under the afternoon sunlight.

One of two things was going to happen next, either the serum worked and Hange awoke as the Cart Titan, or they wouldn't wake up at all. There was something strangely comforting about that.

I will wake up because my comrades' sacrifices will not be vain.

Closing their eyes, Hange takes a deep breath and exhales.

It's time for humanity to strike back.

Thumb pressing down on the plunger, a cold chill runs through Hange's veins as the white substance disappeared into their arm and mixed with their blood.

And then lightning.

Everything after that was a blur. Like trying to recall a dream but the more you try focus on it the more it seems to drift just out of reach.

"They're going off course!"

Something was calling out to them, a primal instinct that urged them to follow, as an unquenchable thirst that could not be sated clouded their senses.

"Engage but do not kill!"

It was torture. The thirst was driving them insane, but they had no means of relieving the tension in their throat. Only one thing was going to stop the hunger but they couldnt find whatever it was they were looking for.

"This way Shitty Glasses!"

A blur. Then a face. A woman. Tied and gagged. That. That was what they were searching for. The call strengthened the closer they got to the woman. There were tears in her eyes. She was struggling. Fighting for her very life even as her spine was bring crushed. Then something warm was flowing down their throat, almost like ecstasy. They gorged on it. The taste. The crunch. The texture. Numbness over took them as the pain finally subsided.

"Retrieve!"

And then they were torn from their cocoon of warmth and safety, like a babe escaping the womb. Hange fought, wanted to stay in that dark blanket of security but could do nothing as they were forcefully pulled out, into the cold and blinding light.

"...nge...Squa...n L...der...Hange."

Returning to consciousness, Hange groaned and blinked lazily up at the sunlight trickling through the canopy of leaves as sensation slowly returned to their limbs, feeling the roughness of bark under their fingers. Taking stock of themselves, the first thing that came to Hange's attention was that their shirt was missing and the jacket they were wearing was a couple of sizes too big. The explosion must have obliterated their uniform.

"Finally awake are we?"

Feeling their pillow shift, Hange tilted their head further back and came face to face with a familiar set of beady black eyes glaring down at them. Levi had Hange's head resting in his lap, and his blood soaked cloak was already evaporating into steam. Did Levi drag them out of the nape?

“I got blood on you,” they croak, groggily poking at Levi’s now stained cravat. “Sorry about that.”

The slight crease around the eyes and a soft curl of the lips told Hange, Levi was happy.

"Looks like I get to call you shitty four-eyes again," he smirked.

Four-eyes?

"My eye," Hange gasped. Sitting up straight they ran their fingers over the newly regenerated eyeball. "It's back."

How Hange missed having depth perception again! Did their newly acquired Titan powers mean they could heal from just about any injury? How fast could they regenerate a whole arm?

"Levi, quickly cut off one of my limbs! I need to see how far my regenerating abilities extend."

"Pull a stunt like that again and I just might," he growled, knocking them on the head with his fist.

"No one is cutting off anyone's limbs," said Erwin, ignoring Hange's disappointed pout as he dropped down from a higher branch. Judging by his appearance it was Erwin's jacket Hange was currently wearing. "It’s not over yet. We still need to see if you can control the Cart Titan's powers on demand with a clear head.”

Erwin offered his hand out and Hange eagerly took it. Pulling the squad leader up both Erwin and Levi lowered their friend to the ground again where a noticeable patch of burnt grass sizzles under their feet, and the steaming remains of a titan was kneeling next to the base of one of the trees.

"That was me?" Hange grinned, wishing they could have seen themselves as a pure titan. "How tall was I? Was I a variant or a normal?"

"15 metres and as if you need to ask," Levi rolled his eyes. "Even in human form you're a variant."

Erwin distracted Hange from asking anymore questions about their titan biology by focusing on the task at hand. All it took was one quick injury to trigger the transformation process. The Leonhart girl seemed to favour cutting her finger with a blade concealed in a ring, while the Yeager boy was more inclined to just bite himself on the hand.

"Here," said Levi already holding out a blade segment. "No point in making it more painful that it needs to be."

"Thanks." Hange smiled and took the segment.

Levi nodded and shot off into the air again, quickly getting out of the blast zone. Erwin moved to follow so Hange quickly started undoing the buttons of the jacket they were wearing. "Your jacket, sir."

"Keep it," Erwin said, handing resting over theirs before they could unbuttoned it any further. "I'll give you my cloak when you turn back."

That seemed like a waste of clothing, but considering how many soldiers were currently watching Hange's every movement, they appreciated Erwin protecting their modesty.

"Thank you."

There was no room for hesitation this time. Hange far too excited to see the results of the seeds they sowed and the smile on their face did not falter when they slashed their palm open. Another explosion, but this time Hange was fully aware of the changes their body underwent as they grew in size and the bones and muscles twisted.

When the transformation was complete, the first thing that came to Hange's attention was the slight dissimilarities between themselves and the form Pieck took. Hange’s spine and legs still adapted to the quadrupedal stance of the cart titan, but it was not quite an identical copy either. Apparently, the appearance of the Titan alters from person to person. That was a relief. Hange liked knowing they put their own personal stamp on their work.

"Hange, how do you feel?"

The cart titan turned to address Erwin. Their mouth curled upwards and a set of grinning teeth greeted him as the back of the Cart Titan's neck slit open and the upper half of the brunette burst out, sinew and muscle still clinging to their face and chest.

"Mission accomplished, Commander!"

#monsterkiisses #I was going to include Mike and Moblit #but i wasn't sure if they still die in this au #so they're mysteriously absence #shame really. originally everyone was comforting Hange ;-;#long post #;meme (au)

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Text

Haven

Chapter 4 - The Blessed Dark.

There haven't been many instances in your life where you've stopped and taken a few moments to really appreciate just how much of a blessing the darkness can be. As a child, the pieces of literature you'd hungrily consumed had all taught you that the dark is a frightening thing, a mysterious, encroaching force that hides monsters and brings nightmares to life.

Now though, having cautiously stolen through a city in the wake of a world-wide, apocalyptic event, you couldn't be more grateful for the darkness and its penchant for hiding things you don't want to see.

The maker – Ulthane – had insisted upon walking behind you as soon as your feet touched the black, crumbling tarmac, explaining that he’d feel a hell of a lot better with you in his sights at all times. Though you weren’t sure whether this was to ensure you didn’t run off again or to keep you out of danger. Either way, you had little choice but to reluctantly comply.

Having him at your back the whole way to the museum set your nerves on edge, not only because your trust in the strange, otherworldly giant is flimsy at best, but also because you wish you could have had something to focus your eyes on. The straps of his boots, the pebbles that bounced up off the ground with every step he took. Anything to keep your attention away from the eerie, indistinct lumps that laid scattered all over the streets you passed through.

Night had obscured most of their features, and if it weren't for the moon that shone overhead, you could have quite easily pretended they were no more than piles of fallen debris, perhaps some upskittled rubble. But every now and then, you crept around a corner or through an alley, and in searching the area for any signs of danger, your eyes would happen to pass over one of those lumps and the moonlight would glint off a glassy eyeball, a mouth gaped open and frozen in place, sometimes a pale hand, reaching, stretching out to grasp for help that never came.

Each time, you reeled back and threw a hand over your eyes, assuring yourself that you hadn't just seen what you thought you saw. “Just a pile of rubble,” you whimpered through gritted teeth, “Or mannequins... a trick of the light...”

If you started seeing them as humans, you feared your heart might just cease to beat.

But there were hundreds of them. Thousands perhaps. And it quickly became harder and harder to pretend.

“This is where I found you.”

The sudden intrusion of Ulthane's rumbling bass rips you out of a foggy haze and you leap out of your skin, suddenly aware that you’ve made it all the way back to the museum carpark. Swearing under your breath, you berate yourself for drifting off. You've no recollection of getting here, your body seemed to know where it was going, even if your mind didn't. At least Ulthane had his wits about him. You shudder to think what might have happened if he wasn't following close behind you, his head on a constant swivel, senses primed and ready to intercept any demon that tried to get too close.

The carpark you've stumbled back into is wildly different than it had been during the day because suddenly, the silhouettes of all those construction vehicles parked nearby look more like abysmal, eldritch horrors, all jagged and sharp and twisted out of shape in the dark. While the museum, you find, craning your neck back to gulp at the imposing structure, is no less daunting.

What had once been a place to learn and preserve aspects of history now stands as a silent monument to a terrible memory. You will always remember you were here the day the world ended.

“Cold?”

Jolting, you glance up at the maker and manage to squeak out an eloquent, “Huh?”

In response, he wordlessly points down at your arms and it takes you a moment to realise you’ve wrapped them around yourself.

“O-oh, no!” Hastily, you whip your hands back down. “Not cold...Just-”

“-Scared?”

There’s little point in trying to lie, especially when he’s giving you such a knowing look. “A...A bit,” you mutter eventually. It isn’t a total lie, at least.

A single brow slides smoothly up the giant’s forehead and remains poised there, dubiousness thick and blatant in his resounding hum. After a few seconds of subjecting you to his unwavering scrutiny, Ulthane draws himself up tall and grabs his belt, hoisting it a little higher on his hips. “You know, you’ve got nothin’ to worry about with me around, lass,” he declares matter-of-factly.

It’s all very well him saying that, it’s another thing entirely for you to feel it. Still, all the same, you flash him a smile and offer a noncommittal, “Mmhmm,” before taking your first, tentative steps towards the museum. With your eyes kept peeled for anything that could be lurking behind upturned cars or in the still smouldering craters left by demons, you pick your way over loose rebar and head for the museum's south side.

Along the way however, your eyes are drawn to a familiar sight.

The mouth of a concrete pipe stands several feet away, its concrete surface flecked with blood and covered in long, shallow scratches.

Behind you, your staunch sentinel catches you looking and he follows your gaze, pushing a low hum up his throat when he sees what you've spotted. “Sorry if I frightened you before,” he mutters, carefully considering the side of your face, though you're quick to turn away from him and march rigidly onwards.

“What was that thing?” you ask softly.

Ulthane decides to let your deflection slide for now.

Scratching at the underside of his coarse beard, he waits for you to clamber through the gaping hole in the museum's wall before he replies. “S'what's called a Sufferin'. Horrible beast. Takes what's dead n' brings 'em back. Just not in any way that's good.”

“Wait-” You pause to get your bearings, squinting into the darkness of the cavernous room. “It can....what? Bring people back to life?” A semblance of hope creeps into your question and the maker's mouth screws up, hating that he'll have to be the one who stamps that little light out before it can gain traction.

“No, no, lass,” he explains softly, watching your face crumple, “It turns 'em into husks. Empty shells with nothin' in their heads but hunger.”

“...Oh...”

Ulthane sighs as you kick a loose stone and listen to it skitter beneath the monstrous skeleton he'd marvelled at earlier. Once the sound fades and you've begun to trail numbly after it, brushing your fingertips along an ancient fibula, the maker's brow creases, but rather than squeeze through with you, he hurries around the front of the skeleton, meeting you on the other side of its leg and allowing himself to be led over to a set of double doors that seem barely wide and high enough for him to fit through. Determined that he won’t be bested by a few, flimsy planks of wood though, Ulthane glares them down, his frown growing by the minute.

Oblivious to the giant's new predicament, you hastily trot through to the other side and find yourself promptly awash in the sickly green of numerous emergency lights. “We're close now,” you whisper, pointing down the hall. “The kids should be in a room just down here.”

There's no answer for several seconds, save for a grunt and then a firm thud, and finally, “Uh oh.”

“Uh oh?” Confused, you spin around and immediately have to slap a hand over your mouth to prevent a laugh from jumping out.

Somehow, the giant has managed to wedge himself halfway through the too-small doorframe. One of his legs has made it, along with his head and forearm. The problem however, lies with his broad shoulders, their bulky girth too wide for the opening and he, in all his wisdom, has obviously tried to stuff them through at the same time instead of one after the other. What results is the rather comical sight of a poor, mahogany doorframe trying its best not to buckle around Ulthane's bulging deltoids and failing miserably.

With another grunt, he gives his arms an experimental thrust, only succeeding in getting himself even more stuck and he curses, looking down at you helplessly.

You don’t know where the courage to laugh came from. “Are – ha! Ahem, are you okay?” you squeeze out through pursed lips, stepping closer.

“Oh, I'm dandy,” the maker grumbles and strains hard against his wooden bindings once more. Suddenly, the wall all around the doorframe begins to creak and moan in protest and a loud 'snap' splits the still air and makes you flinch. There, in the plaster, right where Ulthane’s shoulders press most firmly into the door, are two, fresh cracks that have spidered outwards along the wall.

“Woah, woah! Stop!” you hiss, waving your hands in front of his face, “You're going to break it!”

Halting his efforts, he tucks his chin in and slides you a flat stare down his nose.

“Oh.” You suppose it does seem somewhat odd to want to preserve a door when the rest of the world has gone completely to ruin. “Alright, well....You’re like, super strong right? Can’t you just like, bust through?”

He tries not to swell with pride at the unintended compliment. To be honest, that had been the first solution Ulthane had considered. He’s certainly strong enough to simply burst through with sheer, brute force, but after some more thought, he realises that while this building’s infrastructure is solid enough by human standards, any sudden stress to the foundations could potentially cause a wall or ceiling to collapse. And with you standing right below him, even ‘potentially’ is much too risky. “Oh, I could, easily,” he at last replies, “if I wanted to bring the whole roof down on our heads.”

“Right. Best not do that then.” Chewing on your lip, you consider the giant warily for a moment before throwing your hands up in defeat. “Oh for goodness sake. Here, let me help.”

A bemused smile replaces Ulthane's frown as you step close to him and wrap your hands around the thick chain connecting his shoulder pauldron to his belt and after testing your grip, you plant your feet and give a tremendous heave backwards.

At least, it's tremendous from your perspective.

The maker, at best, feels you give the chain a gentle tug.

Forgetting himself, his eyes soften and a fond smile sprawls out across his face. All he can do for is marvel over your sudden burst of determination and admire the way your face scrunches up with the effort as tiny, delicate knuckles turn white and your feet begin sliding across the marble floor. From this close, the dust drifting up off your hair tickles his nose when he inhales, taking up the scent of sweat and dirt that clings to your skin.

Suddenly, he blinks.

For the briefest moment, he's reminded of his realm - the sticky heat of the forge, the earth under his fingernails when he'd build with his hands, the salt he would taste on his upper lip after tussling with his brother.... Ulthane's eyes slip closed. By the Stone....You smell of home.

A short, sharp scream yanks him back into the present and his head jerks up just in time to see your feet slip out properly from underneath you after giving the chain another, hard pull.

Without thinking, without remembering that he's jammed inside a doorway, the maker jerks his arm forwards and twists his hand around, letting you fall harmlessly into an upturned palm. The chain you'd been yanking on had slipped from your grasp as you fell and now it clinks gently against Ulthane's chest as he stares down at you, his surprise mirrored by your own.

“Uh....Thanks,” you pant uncertainly, blinking a few times at the giant's abrupt closeness.

“You should be more careful,” he murmurs and you get a good view of his tusks with each word, “Don’t want to exacerbate that any further.” Just then, one of his enormous fingers curls inwards to prod ever so gently at your bruised side, although you hardly notice the responding twinge his touch produces, your attention too swept up by his smokey, grey stare. You instead find yourself wondering what makes up the biology of his eyes that causes them to glow faintly in the dark corridor. And has he always smelled so strongly of leather? It quickly dawns on you that you’re staring and you balk, tearing your eyes away to focus on the wall, only to let out a breathless laugh seconds later, jutting your chin and indicating his shoulder. “Uh, hey, check it out.”

“Hmm?” He had been so busy admiring the sculpt of your face and pondering how it could only have been carved by a skilled artist that at first, your words don’t register. “What?” Tipping his head to one side, Ulthane follows your gaze. His lips part around a soft chuckle upon discovering that his shoulders are no longer stuck. “Well, would you look at that?” In moving so suddenly to catch you, he'd managed to tear an arm free of its confines, allowing ample space for the other to follow through, all without taking the ceiling down.

A noisy exhale spews out of his nose as he places you back on solid ground and heaves the rest of his bulk into the narrow hallway. It's cramped and he has to stoop considerably to keep his head from constantly bumping against the ceiling, but it is manoeuvrable.

He raises a hand with a view to sheepishly scratch at the back of his neck, finds his elbow hits the wall, and drops it back down again. “Right,” he says, “That was...uh...”

“Kind of funny?” you dare to venture, trying to gauge his expression in the meagre lighting.

In response, the maker snorts. “I was about to say embarassin' but I reckon it's all about perspective.”

Indeed. To him, the whole ordeal of being stuck inside a doorframe while the human he rescued is present as a witness is utterly mortifying. You however, didn't just find it funny. It also came as somewhat of a relief.

To see the unassailable giant make a mistake, to blunder, to err like that....

Perhaps these makers are more like humans than you'd previously thought. Suddenly, Ulthane doesn't seem like such an unearthly stranger anymore.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you jab a thumb down the hall. “We should...probably hurry up, right?”

And just like that, the atmosphere thickens once more. Tension creeps back into your stance and Ulthane's lips tilt down at the corners, the gruff visage slipping into place as if it had never left. With a resolute nod, the maker waits for you to turn before he lumbers after you down the shadowy hallway, his eyes trained on a small, green glow at the far end.

You proceed hesitantly, jumping every time one of the emergency lights flickers and sparks, and you can't help but to notice that they aren't as bright as they'd been when you left. The fact that whoever had the wit to install battery operated ones is a minor miracle or you'd be fumbling around in pitch darkness right now, though it seems they've finally started to run out of juice.

‘Well... I know how they feel.’

Closer and closer you creep until the vault door at last looms into view, its metal surface glowing eerily beneath the led sign nailed above it that reads ‘Caution.’ Hardly daring to breathe, you wipe your sweaty palms on your blouse and reach out, fingers stretching slowly towards the door. However, just before you can push it open, you freeze, inexplicably overcome by a sinking feeling. Darting out your tongue to nervously wet your dry lips, you stare at the tremble that's started to spread up your arm and take a bumbling step away from the vault.

“What if...What if they're-” You don't want to finish.

To your back, you hear the telltale thud of Ulthane's knee hitting the ground as he shifts. Moments later, a gentle knuckle is prodding you in the spine - perhaps as a reassurance of his presence, or perhaps to encourage you to keep going.

“Can't start thinkin' about 'what ifs' now, bonnie,” he tells you, allowing his hand to linger for a moment before pulling it away again and you can’t help but feel that it’s his way of letting you know you won’t be facing whatever lays beyond that door alone.

Swallowing past a lump, you nod, take a steadying breath and press your shaking palm flat against the door, drawing solace from the metal's cool surface.

With agonising slowness, you push yourself against the door and it swings open to reveal the darkened room beyond, where silence is the only thing to greet you, a perfect quiet so impermeable, it makes you acutely aware of the tinnitus ringing in your ears and you have to shuffle your feet just to have something else to hear.

“Kids?” you call softly, trepidation rising with every second that passes in which you don't receive an answer. “Ashleigh? Sam?”

Nothing.

The horror of what you may have condemned these children to finally begins to sink in. Behind you, the maker’s brow furrows as you raise a hand to cover your mouth and the sight instantly has him battling down the urge to put his fist through the nearest wall, enraged at himself for not checking the area more thoroughly after he found you. More children needlessly lost, all because of him.

But then, just as your knees start to wobble, there's a rustling from deeper in the vault, somewhere too far to be illuminated by the emergency lights. Ulthane's ears perk up and a voice – small and weary – calls out, “Miss?”

Your head snaps up. You hardly dare believe you'd really heard it.

"....Archie?”

To begin with nothing more is said. Then suddenly, with the gradual steps of a cautious fawn, a shape starts to emerge from the shadows.

Two feet clad in red sneakers appear first, followed eventually by pale, skinny legs with grazes covering both knees just below where a pair of black shorts cut off. Finally, Ulthane can make out the figure's face as it steps into the light. Wide, round glasses sit upon a freckled nose, the lenses dusty and marred with cracks that have splintered the glass, creating zigzagging spiderwebs across their surfaces.

Ulthane’s breath hitches in his throat.

He always imagined human younglings would be small, but this? He’s seen makers born bigger.

Silently, he remains crouched in the doorway, so far undetected by the minuscule boy, and observes, enraptured as you collapse onto your knees and release a cry fraught with relief. Hearing your distress, the boy staggers forwards blindly, his arms outstretched and his face crumpling before he can reach you.

“Archie, you-what happened to your glasses!” you exclaim, but your question is ignored. By the time he comes close enough for you to circle your arms around his scrawny waist, the dam has burst and he lets out a miserable sob, curling his hands into the front of your blouse and lowering himself down onto your lap.

And just like that, Ulthane’s heart soars as four more children melt out of the darkness.

You suddenly find yourself almost mowed down by Kitty and Lucia, both of whom are also crying and each girl fights for the space to loop their arms round your neck.

“Where were you!?” Kitty wails and beats her fists against your back. “You left us! You left us alone!”

At the same time, Lucia's fingernails dig like knives into the skin under your blouse but at this point, you honestly couldn't care less.

With two children buried into your shoulders and one actively trying to burrow his way inside your chest, you glance up to see the last few – Sam and Ashleigh – standing nearby. They, like the others, had rushed towards you, yet something has caused them to freeze in their tracks, their stares fixed on a point above your head. Haunted, exhausted expressions shift swiftly through confusion, dawning horror and finally, their eyes burst open wide and abject terror sweeps everything else away. You soon realise that they've just spotted what their classmates haven’t, but before you can tell them not to scream, Ashleigh's jaw drops open and she lets out a shriek so piercing, the others yelp and jerk away from you to look back at her.

Shaking his head with a gentle frown, Ulthane instinctively tries to extend a hand through the door, his fingers skirting past you and continuing on towards the diminutive girl, who gives off another screech and falls onto her backside in her haste to scramble further into the vault. Swallowing, the maker retracts his hand, glaring at it accusingly as if it were the sole reason for her fear.

“Guys, no! It's okay!” You reach out to try and coax Sam back towards you but he remains rooted to the spot, staring silently up at the door. It's at that point Kitty, Lucia and Archie finally whirl about and look up as well, frantic to see what has their friends so badly frightened. It doesn't take long for them to find it. Realising that this is quickly getting out of hand, you stumble to your feet and spread your hands out, fingers splayed. “Don't!-”

But it's too late.

Kitty immediately sees the enormous figure crouched in the doorway and leaps from you while Archie and Lucia grab your sleeves and begin to pull you with all their might, away from Ulthane. “Run!” Archie yells, at the same time as Lucia shrieks, “Monstruo!”

You have to wince on Ulthane's behalf at that one. Although not his native language, you're fairly certain he doesn't need a translator to figure out what he'd been called.

Ulthane Blackhammer has been hurt many a time in his exceedingly long life. He's been burnt, shot at, beaten up by his own brother, taken a blade to the back more times than he'd care to admit. Yet that right there, being called a monster by a human child somehow hurts his chest worse than any blow he's ever received. Crestfallen, the maker tries to school his face into steely indifference but ends up failing miserably.

Pulling out of the kids' grasps, you once again hold out your hands in a placating gesture. “He is not a monster, he's a...a...” Frowning, you twist your head over a shoulder to look at the giant. Even with the measly light, you can see him avert his eyes and press his lips together tightly in what you assume is an effort to hide the fearsome tusks behind them. “He's one of the good guys,” you murmur at last, prompting the maker to raise his head a little and glance at you. Maybe it's your imagination or a trick of the light, but you could swear a troubled grimace darkens his features at your words. Before you can dwell on it further though, Lucia – arguably the bravest of the gathered students – stops back-peddling and gulps instead, venturing, “Is – Is he gonna eat us!?”

“What!? No, of course not!” You suddenly hesitate, looking back at the maker again. “Are you?”

Ulthane's nostrils flare as he scowls, offended by your doubt. “No!”

At his unexpected growl, the kids gasp and retreat further, prompting the giant's frustration to evaporate like water off a scorching pavement. Heaving out a great sigh, he says, far more gently, “No, lassie, I'd never hurt any of you.” He casts his eye over each human, trying his damnedest to convey complete and utter harmlessness – a difficult task for someone so much more vast than any human who ever lived.

The children don’t seem in the least bit convinced by his sincerity.

Both the maker and yourself lock eyes for a second. Neither of you know how in the world you’re going to broach the subject of leaving. Something in the kids’ faces tells you they'd all raise a few objections about going anywhere with this strange giant, even if you say it's safe.

“Right, well. There you have it. He won’t eat you, Lucia.” Brusquely, you clap your hands together, anxious to get moving. Any longer on your feet and you may just up and die of exhaustion on the spot. 'No time for that though,' you tell yourself, somewhat bitterly, 'safety first, then sleep.'

Forcing your body to stand tall, you level a somber but weighty look at the five children, the duty you've set yourself staring right back through frightened, bleary eyes. It settles heavily on your shoulders. “Listen to me, I know you're all scared, but we can't stay here.”

“Why not!?” Kitty contests and stamps her foot. She always did try to disguise her fear with anger.

“Because we don't have any food.” Raising a hand, you start listing things off on your fingers. “There's no more water, this door – this whole building - isn't going to keep us safe for long!...But Ulthane-” Here, you pause to share a meaningful glance with the maker. “-Ulthane knows somewhere we can stay. Somewhere safer than this museum.”

Ashleigh squeaks, looking horrified at the mere suggestion. “We’re going with him!? But, he's so-”

“Big? Yeah, I know,” you chuckle humourlessly and earn a harrumph from the man behind you, though his grumbling falls silent when you continue, “But big doesn't always mean bad. He won't hurt you, I promise.” You really hope that’s a promise he doesn’t end up breaking for you.

Oblivious to your innermost concerns, Ulthane feels a weight lift off his chest, pleased that you seem to be coming around enough to finally start trusting him. He just wishes he had half of Eideard’s know-how when it comes to dealing with younglings.

For some time, none of children move or say a word. They simply glance among one another, Ashleigh clutching onto Sam's hand like he'll disappear if she lets go, Archie cowering behind Lucia and trying to make sense of the scene behind his cracked glasses whilst the latter looks torn between believing you and believing the stories she'd read as a young girl – of ferocious giants that stomp around and terrorise humans, gobbling them up whenever they get hungry. At her side, Kitty is desperately trying to jut her chin up at Ulthane in an attempt to appear brave, despite how her limbs tremble and her face is streaked with salty tears.

It occurs to you, not for the first time, that you are way out of your depth. For goodness sake, you're just the art technician! You're only supposed to tidy up after the class, wash paint brushes and mind the lessons if their teacher has to pop out to the main office! By your very nature you aren't an authority figure to these kids. Not quite their teacher, not quite their friend....

A weary sigh blows past your lips and you slowly lower yourself onto one knee, mirroring Ulthane's stance. “Do you guys trust me?” you ask out of the blue.

Caught off guard by your question, the children all recoil and glance uncertainly amongst one another, the same question entering all of their heads at once.

Do they trust you?

You who allowed Ashleigh to seek refuge in the art room during lunch where she could be left to read her books in peace. Or when Kitty had come storming in one day like a roiling tempest, itching for a fight and you'd grabbed some acrylic paint, a large canvas and told her to attack it with everything she had. The mess was hell to clean up but she'd left that class with a tranquil smile on her face and a sprinkle of blue in her hair.

And then there's Archie, who'd crumpled to nothing in your arms one afternoon and wept into your shoulder. He wouldn't tell you what had happened. He wouldn't say a word, and eventually, you gave up asking and simply held him close, telling him that it would all get better soon.

Every child in this room, for one reason or another, has had something happen that drew them down into the underbelly of the school where the art room waited and in it, they always found you.

Maybe it's because you aren't their teacher, not really. You like them, you liked most of the students and you never tried to hide that for the sake of preserving some inflated sense of pride.

After another few seconds of quiet contemplation, all five of them look back at you. The decision seems to be unanimous. Cautiously, they nod their heads.

“Then trust me now,” you breathe, on the brink of begging, “We have to get out of here. And like it or not, Ulthane is our best chance for survival.”

To the maker's surprise, that single, unassuming question appears to do the trick. Almost right away, the younglings start edging closer and you smile, stretching out a hand and offering it to Archie, who squints at it for a second before he plucks up the courage to lean forwards and grasp it in his own.

Giving the boy’s fingers a light squeeze, you turn to Ulthane. “Okay, I think we're ready. We'll follow you out.”

In seconds, the maker’s stomach twists with worry - ‘No, not worry’ - he stubbornly corrects himself, but rather, something more along the lines of anticipation as he realises that in order to get these younglings back to the Tree, they’re going to have to leave the museum and venture out into the wild and dangerous city beyond.

It has to be done, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. In truth, he fears what might happen if something goes wrong and one of the humans is injured, what will he do? Will he be able to hold it together and get the survivors back to the tree or will he be consumed by the desire to tear their attackers to pieces? That desperation, that primal instinct to protect the young is already clawing raggedly at his insides, leaving an uncomfortable, squirming sensation in his gut that won’t be shaken loose no matter how much he wills it away.

Determined not to let his agitation known, he screws one eye shut as he hoists himself back onto his feet and twists about, his proportions large and awkward in the confines of the hall. Like you though, he's eager to get the children out of that cramped room and somewhere he can actually see them and get to them if they're in danger or worse, hurt.

The second he moves, Archie’s hand clamps down around yours, though you can understand the boy’s trepidation when Ulthane’s spine is to you, leaving you with an uninterrupted view of the gigantic hammer that he's slung across his back. All you can do is turn to the kids and offer them what you hope is a reassuring grin. “Okay, here we go. Does everyone have all their things?” You can't imagine there'll be much use for sketch books and pencil cases in this situation, but you aren't about to tell them to leave their only worldly possessions behind. After having to wait for Sam and Kitty to dash back and retrieve their discarded rucksacks, you lead the gaggle of children out and into the hallway, dragging Archie by the hand with the other four following almost toe to heel.

At the set of double doors that open out into the main room, you slow everyone to a halt as Ulthane bends himself down to squeeze through.

“Try not to get stuck again, okay?” you warn him, failing to hide a smirk when he swings his massive head around and grumbles at you lowly for a second before he ducks through to the other side, this time without a hitch.

One ear trained on the footsteps pattering along behind him and one listening out for trouble, he cuts straight across the main hall, his head periscoping this way and that until he focuses in on the collapsed entrance you’d used to get inside. Dimly, he wonders if you’d be more willing to accept a lift from him this time around?

All of a sudden, a shadow skitters across the opening, moving fast and low like some insect crawling about between the bricks and rebar.

In a flash, Ulthane jerks to a halt and throws his arm out protectively, stilling you and the children in your tracks.

“What!?” you hiss, “What is it?”

There's no response from the maker at first, he's too busy raising his head to sniff at the air, nostrils twitching. Then, quite abruptly, he drops his sights to the gap in the wall and peels his lips back over formidable, gleaming teeth. “Trouble,” he growls, low and threatening, but before you can ask him to elaborate, he takes several, measured steps backwards, shuffling his enormous boots towards you until you're forced to back up with him or risk getting a nudge from his iron-plated heel.

To say you're perturbed by the sudden change is a gross understatement. “Ulthane, what are you doing!?”

Once again, he doesn't reply, and instead reaches up to wrap his fingers around the handle of his war-hammer, swinging it into both hands, the weapon's bulbous head casting a vast shadow over your little group. Behind you, several pairs of eyes widen in horror and you feel a tug on your shirt sleeve as someone latches on. “Miss? What's happening!?” It sounds like Sam. All you can do is shush the children as you're continuously herded backwards by an increasingly bristling maker.

The sound of pebbles being knocked loose snags your attention and you squint through the colossal legs in front of you, spotting movement in the gap as something stalks inside the museum. Its shape is difficult to make out, but whatever it is stands upright on two legs and the top of its spine curves over, painfully contorting the figure's stance into something misshapen and crooked. But at a glance, it could almost pass for a....

“Wait a minute,” you murmur, furrowing your brow and planting your free hand on the maker's boot, calming him down a fraction, “Wait just a minute, is that a-!?” All the breath leaves your lungs as you excitedly smack your palm against his ankle. “Ulthane! It's alright! It's just another human!” The idea that someone else could have survived this nightmare is almost too much for you, sending your head in a dizzy spin for a few seconds.

To your dismay however, Ulthane doesn't seem so pleased. “That's no human, lass,” he says out the side of his mouth.

“What? Of course they're human, look at them!”

At the sound of your voice, the figure's head snaps in your direction and it freezes, as if it were no more than a statue, no movement, no sound, just the moonlight at its back and the sickly sweet stench of rotting flesh blowing in with the night's wind.

“A-aren’t they?” Just like that, you curse yourself for praising the darkness outside. Being unable to clearly see what’s about to tear your apart is maddening.

Letting a dangerous breath hiss through his teeth, Ulthane backs you up another few metres until your backside hits something solid and you jump, twisting about to see that you and the kids have been corralled up against the circular reception desk.

“Remember what I told you about the Sufferin'?” he asks suddenly without taking his eyes off the creature, “About how they take what's dead-?”

You cast your mind back even as a cold tendril of dread winds around your chest. “-And bring them back...Oh, god.”

In poetic conjunction with your sudden realisation, the creature blocking your exit throws it head back and unleashes a howl so chilling, Archie lets go of your hand to cover his ears while the others let out startled bleats and begin to cry. The sound of their fear hardens your resolve and, without warning, you whirl about and grab the closest child – who happens to be Lucia – underneath her arms, hoisting her up on top of the ringed desk.

“Get behind there!” you bark, indicating the space inside before leaning down to get Sam.

Unbeknownst to you, the maker standing to your rear is slowly working himself into a bloodthirsty frenzy. Of course...Of course the very thing that crawled through that opening just had to be one of the swarm, an undead member of the very species he’s currently trying to save. Though small and relatively weak by themselves, when a group of them get together, they can become as deadly and tenacious as any demon. And that’s the thing about the swarm. There’s never just one. Hence the name.

Every single muscle in Ulthane’s hefty body is wound tighter than a coiled spring in anticipation of a fight, and all because behind him, there are six humans - six, innocent, petrified humans who never asked for any of this to happen, five of whom are small enough to be engulfed in the palm of his hand. This new world is unkind to small things. They can't protect themselves, so they have to be protected.

Up ahead, crawling through the rubble and dust like an oversized cockroach, is a threat - a threat to his charges. Unfortunately, it isn't the only one of its kind.

As he feared, another shadow flits along the ground and he has to tear his eyes off the first figure to see a second emerge into the museum's makeshift entrance. Then another appears, and another....and another...

Your voice cracks above the snaps of teeth and scrabbling of long fingernails on the marble floor. “Ulthane!?”

“I see ‘em,” he growls, the blood in his veins reaching boiling point.

One of the human younglings lets a sob escape their throats and it serves as kindling for the fiery rage that blazes in Ulthane's chest.

“So! You bastards want a taste of human, eh!?” he jeers suddenly, eliciting snarls and growls from the aggressors. They slither closer, their hunger for a fresh meal curtailing their wariness of his immense hammer. Teeth bared and feet planted squarely between you and the swarm, Ulthane puffs his chest out, and you can't help but to be reminded of a bird fluffing itself up to try and ward predators away from its chicks.

“Well then,” he continues and a dark smirk creeps onto his face, “You're goin' to have to go through me first.”

#Darksiders #Darksiders 3 #Ulthane #Reader #Kids #oh yes that good protective maker stuff #reader/Ulthane #fluff #angst #Ulthane scares some kids lol #gentle giant

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