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steppin-on-the-last-train · 2 years

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I Lost a Friend

Summary: HYDRA is the newest player in the game, and they are determined to recreate the weapon that is the Winter Soldier.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x gn!reader

Warning(s): Violence, torture, brainwashing

Word Count: 6.3k

a/n: It’s going to be awhile until they’re reunited, so hold on, it’s going to be a long, angsty ride. Also, I might’ve stolen the powers from a different character shhhh. Also also, I want to let you know that I know zero Russian, so I used Google Translate and we all know how accurate that is. So sorry for the bad translations.

ask: Would any of you be interested in my making a tag list for this fic? If so, leave a comment and I’ll make one.

Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3

Circa 1955

You swear that your final walk through the building was the slowest, most dread-filling few minutes, each step you take increasing the distance between you and her.

You try to bring to the forefront of your mind the girl who you had left behind, no, who they had taken you from. The mesmerizing jade irises that you could’ve gazed into for hours if ever given the opportunity, but they had told you not to, that connection like that only brings weakness and pain. You still managed to steal fleeting glances though, and that had to be enough.

You wonder if she’s thinking of you now, the same way you’re thinking of her. If she’ll miss you even as the inevitable days, weeks, years will come to pass. Or if she’ll forget, either by choice or by force.

What does it even matter?

It did matter though, it mattered to you; if she held on to your memory for as long as she could before it faded away. It would mean that she had cared, that she might still even after your departure and the only thing that you cared about was her.

Your eyes flit from the floor, to the walls, to the numerous doors you pass, many of which separate the halls from the unspeakable acts being committed behind them.

This leads you down another train of thought, still regarding a certain redhead that, you were hoping, was still in a room on the floor above you. What would happen to her now that you were going to be gone? You knew how much she relied on you, as did you on her, but this place had a knack for shutting people down, for hollowing them out until they were merely a shell of the soul they used to be. You had always had each other to go back to, using the other as a lifeline to tie yourselves to humanity, to the light, but if she looked for a savior now she’d only be met with your ghost.

There was no doubt in your mind that she was dealing with the fallout of your actions now, vulnerable to the hands of one angry handler, or multiple if they were feeling extra spiteful. You bite down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood at the thought of her going through the beatings and conditioning alone. You had a pretty good idea of exactly how they were going to punish her for showing emotion, for loving you. It made you sick.

You didn’t have much time to let your mind conjure up any of those awful images though because you had made it to the waiting vehicle outside, the man escorting you motioning for you to get in the driver’s seat as he walked around to the passenger side.

You comply, not really having much of an option here, sliding into the seat behind the wheel. He was going to make you drive yourself to your own doomed fate, his willingness to let you control a vehicle with him inside telling to how much faith he placed in Petrovitch’s training. It’s disappointing to admit to yourself that it held fast, that the ideals instilled deep within your being were unbreakable.

You had been raised to have no opinion, to always please your superiors, to be a weapon and a machine, and despite the occasional reprieve that Natalia gave you from this mindset, it was still your default mode of operation. This was made apparent as he barked out a set of directions, you moving to follow them as you sped away from the academy.

The drive isn’t far, just out to the middle of a plain that appeared as if it had gone untouched by man until your arrival; nature evident in the surrounding landscape. Fitting how the first people to mark this place, to disrupt the peace for the first time in a long while would be liars and killers. Sitting in the clearing was a jet, one that would complete your journey and take you to your final destination.

Seeing it made you wonder just how far these people would go in letting your leash loosen a bit before they inevitably yanked it tighter and closer. Even if you weren’t going to make a run for it or move against them, letting you stay awake and alert was dangerous enough. At some point they were going to have to knock you down, you were just left in the dark as to when that was.

You didn’t have to wait long to find out as you felt a telltale prick in the side of your neck and the drowsiness that followed soon after. You were being moved far enough to warrant a jet, yet you doubt that you’ll ever find out exactly where; and that’s the last thought you have before slipping into the land of the unconscious.

———————

She opens the door to her room, bloody and bruised from the beating she had just taken. She was hoping that you would be in there, waiting to help her with her wounds like always, that losing you had just been a nightmare, but the empty room and the stripped cot are harsh reminders that you are gone. And you aren’t coming back.

She drops a number of medical supplies onto her bed, gingerly lowering herself down next to them. As she cleans the plethora of cuts littering her body and stitches up the deeper ones, she realizes how much harder life was about to get now that you wouldn’t be around. And she wasn’t just thinking of manual tasks like the ones she is performing now. Simply getting through the day was going to get exponentially harder without your presence, or even just the thought of the next time she’d get to see you. Because now she’d never get to see your face again. The face that she had loved so much.

To her, you are, were a pillar of strength, a beacon of light and hope guiding her through this era of darkness. They had taken you though, extinguishing said light in the process, leaving her without a guide to the right path. She worries that she’ll lose her heart, that without you by her side she’ll finally fully become part of the shadows that she had spent all of her life pushing away.

That’s when she vows, sitting hurt and alone in the bare little dorm, that she’ll keep her head up, that she won't succumb to the darkness, that she’d keep fighting until she finds a way out.

For you.

———————

You wake to complete darkness, it seeming as if all of the light had been sucked out of whatever room you were in now. You allow your other senses to take over, to reach out in hopes of mapping out your current surroundings. It was damp here, the floor and walls feeling as if they hadn’t been tended to in years. This was a stark contrast to the academy, it had always been impossibly clean, to the point where it felt unnatural. It was also cold, very cold. The cement around doing nothing to insulate the room and only chilling your body where it made contact. This wasn’t new, they had never bothered to provide such comforts as adequate temperature control, but you knew the building to have at least some heat to prevent literally everyone from freezing to death. Given a few days in here, hypothermia was sure to set in, even with your enhanced durability provided by whatever serum had been pumped into you as soon as you had turned of age.

Next you check yourself, running through a mental checklist to make sure no damage had been done physically. You stretch your limbs, moving to a squat before fully standing up. Nothing seemed to be wrong besides a little stiffness in your back and shoulders and a small headache that you assumed was from being drugged, and from the lack of food and water.

Satisfied, you case the room, keeping in contact with the wall until you had lapped the perimeter, noting a door near one corner, otherwise the room was quite literally an empty box. Next, you walk across both the room’s length and width, estimating the room to be about 60 square feet, the size of a typical jail cell.

Now you had nothing to do but wait. There were no clues as to where you were or who you were with and that frustrated you. There were an infinite number of unknown variables now and that left you feeling powerless, something that being a world class assassin allowed you to avoid when you were out working.

Because that’s what you stubbornly believed you were here for. Work. Maybe this was a test or a mission that someone back at the Red Room had concocted, you’d complete the job and be back in a few months at most. You knew this wasn’t the case though, thinking it was was just a stupid way to try and allow yourself some sense of control still. You chide yourself for being so weak, for having such childish thoughts, for seeking comfort. It didn’t matter what you wanted, just what they did; but they had given you up, so now it was whatever this new party wanted, and that’s all you needed to know.

So you shut off your mind, prevent your thoughts from going back there, back to her. Because such thoughts stem from love, and love is for children, and you are not a child. She had enabled you into thinking that you had a place in the world, separating you from her was just a reminder that you didn’t.

You sit on the cold, hard ground for what you clock to be around six hours, trying to let your mind and body rest as much as possible without falling asleep, you were damned if you were to let something take you by surprise now. Yet somehow the screams still did.

Snapping your head up from its position atop your knees, you listen intently to the first sounds you’ve heard since waking. It was not welcome though, the cries of a tortured man penetrating the walls and invading your eardrums. It was enough to make you physically shiver as chills ran down your spine. This was an entirely new beast from anything you had ever encountered with the KGB. Not the torture, that had been a constant throughout your entire time there, which also conviently happened to be as far back as your memories went. It was the reaction that triggered your fight or flight response. They had always taught you to be quiet, to grit your teeth and take the pain without making a fuss, any form of crying much less gut-wrenching screams would warrant a bullet in your head.

But this. This had you truly scared because whatever they were doing, they knew it would push way past the human threshold for pain, and they didn’t care. Now you knew, as you sat there listening to his screams, why you were here. You were to be a test subject, with a death date set to within a couple of weeks you were sure. Maybe they wanted someone with the Red Room’s enhancements, to see how much they’d be able to handle before giving out. It didn’t matter why you, you just knew that your world was about to become one of pure pain before leaving it behind.

Death would be a sweet reward after what was ahead of you.

You think you should cry, or yell, or react to your incoming fate, but you can’t. Big emotional reactions hadn’t been in your capability since you were practically a baby. And besides, maybe this is what you deserve after all the lives you’ve taken and all the secrets you’ve stolen. At least the world would be free from your wrath, be safe.

The door opening jolts you out of your spiraling, your eyes unused to the light provided, even if it was just a slight amount from out in the hall. You stand to attention, your eyes leveled at the man who had come for you, but making sure to avoid direct eye contact in an effort to make clear he was in charge, not you. The man was middle-aged, blonde hair, 5’10”, dressed in light combat gear, probably a guard of some sort. You also note that his person lacks any identification, no name badge or organizational insignia, still leaving you clueless as to whose hands you were at the mercy of.

“Come with me,” he orders before turning around, allowing you to clock a sidearm strapped to his waist, and a pocket knife tucked into his right boot. You’re not sure if that information will ever be useful to you, but you store it away just in case.

You move to walk behind him a few paces, keeping in stride with his clipped walk. You internally curse at how empty the hall is, absolutely nothing but unmarked doors on either side, no people, and no signs letting you know where a possible exit might be. You did need to know how to get out of here, because escaping was exactly what you had in mind right now.

The increased anxiety from waiting in that room, subject to the wails of the unknown man, combined with your lack of sleep, food, and water was enough to convince you that running was the best plan, or at least to die trying.

Now they have left you alone with one poorly armed, overall unintimidating excuse for a guard. This was one hell of an opportunity if you had ever seen one. Yea you had no idea how to get out, or even where to go if you did, but desperate people take chances, and you were more desperate than you had ever been in your entire life.

You increase your stride, gaining on the man a little with each step, until you are close enough to lunge forward and grab his pistol, knocking him in the head with it hard enough to render him unconscious. A gunshot would definitely alert anyone nearby of your mutiny, and besides, you might need the bullets later. Carefully, you lower him to the ground, deciding that leaving him in the hall was risky but also your only option, sliding the knife out of his boot and slashing his throat before taking off at a full sprint down the hall.

You have no idea where you are going, the place was a maze, but you had to run into a way out somewhere, right? You could cover a lot of distance in a short amount of time, and the picture you create in your mind along the way prevents you from retracing steps already taken, maximizing your time before someone was to inevitably catch you.

What you don’t know though, is that they were watching you at this moment, had been ever since you’d woken up. The cameras were undetectable, placed in the upper corners of the facility, only noticeable if you knew what to look for, which you didn’t, so you had unwisely assumed there were none in this wing.

“We’ve got a spirited one.”

“Perfect.”

Shit, this hall was a box, meaning that the route to freedom was through one of the dozens of doors you had breezed by, probably down more winding halls, an impossible feat from your position.

It dawned on you then that perhaps you had played right into their hands and only made it worse for yourself. If that was the case though, why give you the illusion of escape, why waste the time and life on allowing you to run instead of immediately using you? It made absolutely no sense and you couldn’t push away the dread that crept up from the back of your mind; maybe they wanted more with you than you had originally believed.

You double back now, trying all the doors, and banging your fist against one when you realize they’re all definitely locked. They were toying with you, a little mouse in its maze, you had played their game.

Anger fuels your veins now as you hear footsteps from somewhere down the hall. There is no cover besides the wall so you press your back up against it, waiting around the corner for the guards to run by. You are determined to play the cat for a while, to kill as many as you can before you’re overwhelmed.

You check the clip in your stolen pistol to see it was half empty, only eight bullets remained in the cartridge. Eight bullets for eight bodies plus the knife, which had already been battle tested, the blood from the first guard still covering the blade.

Just as the first guy comes running around the corner you grab the back of his neck and slash his throat open before throwing the leaking body into the rest of the unit. That had somehow taken the remaining soldiers by surprise, apparently this place was filled with duds and that gave you some hope for your little crusade.

To anyone with an untrained eye you moved at inhuman speed, using two of your precious bullets to put holes into exactly two more guards, precisely in the middle of their foreheads. Three to go, you totally had this. The remaining men finally find their senses and flick on their batons, electricity fueling the weapons. Non-lethal, they definitely wanted you for something more than a lab rat.

At some point you had realized that there had to be cameras planted throughout the base, that’s the only way they could’ve sent reinforcements to your location so fast. They obviously wanted a show, so a show you were going to give them.

You shove the gun in your waistband and brandish the small knife, twirling it for extra flourish as you advance on your opponents, a dangerous gleam littering your eyes.

The first guy moves to jab you in the side, but you easily sidestep it, kicking him in the ribs and sending him flying down the hall. The other two rush at the same time, so you slide between them, hooking your arm around the ankle of the guard on your left, bringing him down. You quickly bounce back up and stomp as hard as you can on the back of his head, it was safe to say he wouldn’t be getting back up.

The time it took you to take him down allowed the first one to get back up behind your back, shocking you in the side while the other guy sweeps your feet. You grunt as you hit the floor, the electricity causing you to drop your weapon. The loss of your knife and the closing proximity of the guards forces you to expend two more bullets, their bodies thumping against the ground.

You get up then, shaking off the remaining buzz from the baton and quickly sweep up the knife. You barely have time to recover before more guards come barreling down the hall, a dozen this time instead of just six. And you are down to four bullets.

The guards are really poorly armed you notice, lacking any sort of ranged weapon, each equipped with only a baton. You take advantage of that fact though, quickly discharging your last four bullets and then throwing the gun in the face of another man hard enough to break his nose. You fly forward, plunging the knife into the chest of your target and deliver a swift kick to his stomach. You watch as he flies back and hits the wall, the crack of his spine echoing in your ears.

Unfortunately you’d been surrounded by the remaining men and you couldn’t take out seven more people by yourself and with a weapon not ideal for carrying you through a fight on its own. You spin as the one directly in front of you tries to hit you, only to end up taking the force of a different baton. You power through it though, the super soldier copycat serum running through your veins giving you the strength to snap the guy’s arm, causing him to drop the weapon. At the compromise of this one agent, two more take his place and each one brings his baton up to taze your backside.

They must have the setting on a level that could kill a normal human, you think as you fall to your knees; another jab sending you onto your hands as well. You manage to gain enough control of your arm to flip the knife up and into one of the faces of your attackers, feeling slight satisfaction as he goes down before all you can focus on is the immense amount of electricity being unloaded into your body from six different points. Yea, you are definitely going to be sore the next time you wake up.

———————

“This better work or you’re going to be the next one on that table, do you understand? We’ve gone through too many failed subjects to warrant the continuation of your little project; the Soldier will have to be enough.”

“Did you see? They took out 13 of our men with nothing but a little knife and a half-cracked pistol, they have the potential to be an even bigger success than him.”

“Yes, I saw them rip through half of our top squadron. I wasted good agents for what, target practice?”

“No, I needed you to see, when I finish with them they will be worth ten times more than all of the men they killed today. Have some faith.”

You blink away the bleariness that clouds your vision as you wake slowly, the soreness in your body leaving you wondering if you would be able to move at all. A blinding light obscures your sight now, but you can make out two figures, one appearing to angrily jab the other in the chest before leaving the room, slamming the door behind them.

The remaining man, a scientist, you deduce from the lab coat and the glasses sighs, muttering to himself as he turns, making eye contact with you.

“Ah you’re awake, perfect timing.” He claps his hands together, moving closer to you as he did. “Together, we are going to show him what you are capable of. You are going to help me prove that I am not just some madman.”

It disturbed deeply, how he kept referring to the two of you as if you were on a team, as if you were a willing participant in this game. You weren’t, the leather restraints securing you to the table are indication of that. You also notice now that your shirt has been removed, exposing your muscled torso and shoulders to the frigid atmosphere.

The scientist fiddles with an IV bag directly to your right, and sensing what’s coming you strain against the straps, your body automatically moving to try and evade the threat. He tuts at you, shaking his head as he ties a tourniquet around your bicep in order to make your dehydrated veins pop.

“Hold still, and this will be a lot easier for both of us,” he warns, brandishing a needle to insert into your arm. You comply and will your muscles to relax as you try to mentally prepare for whatever havoc the mystery liquid is about to wreck on your body.

It starts out as just a tingle at first, like your cells are vibrating, making you feel fuzzy. Then that small, odd sensation rockets exponentially into raw, unbridled pain. It feels like liquid metal or molten lava or something of the equivalent is being injected into your bloodstream and you are unable to contain your screams of agony. Sweat beads up along your forehead as your heart rate increases, the monitor starting to beep out of control; the sound however, failing to register in your aching mind. You clench your fists as tight as possible, your teeth grinding against each other as your whole body spasms. It feels as if your very being is splitting apart; like someone has taken a scraper to your insides, and was intent on mutating every part before attempting to piece it all back together. You fight to keep conscious, worried that if you were to pass out you’d never wake up again. The leather rubs uncomfortably against your wrists and ankles, your shouts finding a crescendo as the mad doctor watches with morbid fascination.

It was finally working; it seemed as if he had finally found a subject strong enough to handle his serum, his masterpiece. You were already leagues ahead of anyone else he had injected it into, they normally died within a few seconds, their bodies being overwhelmed with the extreme changes it forced. He made sure to watch the heart monitor though as its rhythm was still dangerously high and as your sweaty figure writhed on the operating table.

The pain finally started to edge out over your will to stay lucid, and your mind closed down just as your body came to a still. He approached you cautiously, afraid that you might shoot up at any moment and attack him. But your person lay completely still, the only indication that you were alive was the slight rise and fall of your chest. He smiles to himself then, moving to show his superior that he had indeed been correct in his assumptions about your strength. Now if the serum had worked as he intended it to, well he’d have to wait and see.

———————

For the third time now in a short span of time you wake up with a sore body and a splitting headache in an unfamiliar location. This time you’re in what appears to be a training room, complete with a viewing balcony about a dozen feet above you where you see the scientist and another man. You clench your jaw, the agonizing memory of what he had done to you earlier was very, very fresh in your mind, and for that, you wanted to kill him. There was no way to get to him and slap those stupid glasses off of his face though as he stood smugly behind glass panels a whole floor above you.

You were too busy focusing on him and what would be the best method for slowly draining the life out of him to notice what was happening to your body. The people watching you did, one feeling proud of his accomplishment and the other impressed and somewhat confused at what he was seeing. Noticing the looks on their faces and where their eyes were trained you look down at your arms, your eyes widening in surprise at what was going on.

What. The. Hell.

Your arms, and the rest of your body for that matter, seem to be glitching, slowly fading in and out of view. You take a few steps, wondering if it would impact your movement and you’re relieved to see it hadn’t, only that a sort of trail had been left behind in your wake; wavering versions of you jumping in and out of sight along the same path you had traveled.

Clapping from the room above startled you from your stunned state, causing you to look up at the source as it spoke.

“Go and strike that bag.” The small scientist instructed.

You just stood there, glaring at him. Your haywire emotions being reflected in your ever-shifting form. You weren’t going to do shit for him, not now that you no longer had control over your body.

He holds up a bottle of water and motions to the punching bag. Seeing the liquid made you realize it had possibly been days since you’d had any and all of a sudden your parched throat and dehydration-induced headache were all you could think about. You stand there for a moment longer, contemplating flipping him off as you continue to stare at him before begrudgingly walking over to the bag.

Watching you move again the men noticed how it was hard to pinpoint exactly where you were while in motion, your phasing in and out of sight and the formation of the glitchy trail of yourself that you left wherever you went making it rather difficult.

You approach the bag, determined to show them your raw strength, and hopefully intimidate them in the process. You knew that if given a few minutes, you could knock the bag to the ground. Throwing an uppercut followed by a jab with your other hand, you stumble forward when your body passes right through your target. Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment, how had you failed a task you’d spent perfecting every day since you could walk?

You try again, the bag practically taunting you as your fists phase harmlessly through it. Were they laughing at you now? You could just imagine how pathetic you looked, dancing around a target without managing to hit it once. Growing frustrated, you try to kick it this time only for the momentum to carry your entire body through the bag. Looking up towards the balcony now, you see that yes indeed they were finding this amusing.

Rage at yourself for the lack of control you possess over your own body, at the men above you for causing this change, at whoever had orchestrated your life to end up this way threatens to cloud your judgment, but you force it back down. You had to show them you weren’t weak, that you could control it, that you were worthy. So you still your body and reach your hand out to try and stabilize the molecules enough to at least graze the bag.

You watch it fail to solidify and try again, closing your eyes and concentrating. Except you had no idea what to concentrate on. How were you supposed to control something that you didn’t understand? You flex your fingers, watching as they fail to materialize fully, still stuck in that fritzing state. Watching your hand pass through the bag for the tenth time you glance back up at the men watching you to see that they are no longer entertained at your failures, and instead look down on you disapprovingly.

You will yourself to calm down, thinking about how you had first learned how to work a gun or properly throw a punch. You find that the answer is in a certain girl, one who had always been by your side, silently encouraging you whenever you grew frustrated. So you close your eyes and imagine she is there with you, telling you that you are strong enough to overcome this challenge, and that you have to succeed if you want to survive.

With your new found confidence you once again attempt to hit the bag, and this time you’re rewarded with the gratifying thump of your fist against the leather, the training unit rocking a bit. Refusing to believe that you had done it, you check the rest of your body to see that yes, it had managed to stabilize. The scientist throws you the water bottle and you quickly empty its contents, the liquid providing you with much needed relief.

You continue to train until you feel as if you’re about to collapse from tiredness, having significantly improved your control, but being nowhere near proficient enough for it to be deemed useful. As you had completed various tasks though, such as turning it off and on on command, and even using it to become completely invisible for short bursts of time, you had received various rewards in the form of food and water from your overseers. This left you feeling much better than when you had woken up, even if you desperately needed sleep.

Apparently, rest was going to have to wait as a swarm of guards walked into the training room, guns aimed at your head and chest. You take this as a sign to put your hands up and sink to your knees, allowing them to get closer to you, one in particular armed with a syringe.

Great, I wonder where I’m going to wake up next, you think to yourself as the needle is inserted into your neck. The telltale drowsiness of a sedative never kicks in though, and two guards move to cuff your hands behind your back as you’re escorted out of the room. You think they’re just taking you back to your cell to let you finally sleep, but you pass right by it, instead being pushed into a much less friendly space.

There’s a chair in the middle of the room, one that screams torture contraption, along with a desk. The room is otherwise lacking in furnishing. You tense up as you realize that they meant to put you in the chair, and remembering your newfound power, attempt to phase through the cuffs holding you hostage. Your body stubbornly stays solid though, and you only now grasp what the syringe from earlier had contained. It must have been some sort of anti-serum, something meant to deactivate your powers for a short period of time so they could control you easier.

If you hadn’t been screwed before, you certainly were now. The guards shove you into the chair after uncuffing you, a new set of arm restraints quickly snapping into place, trapping you down. One of the agents brings out a book, the cover is blue with the HYDRA insignia in black etched into the middle. So that’s where you are. He flashes a wicked grin, but it wasn’t necessarily aimed at you, he just seemed excited for what was about to happen, which makes your fear double.

He moves closer, grabbing a mouth guard off of the desk and motioning for you to let him put it in. You think about refusing it, but then take it begrudgingly; whatever was in store for you, it was going to hurt, and you’d really rather not shatter any teeth today.

You hear the whir of a machine starting up and the frightening sound of electricity crackling somewhere above your head. No amount of preparation could ever prepare you for what comes next. Paddles clamp down on either side of your head, delivering a massive amount of electricity straight into your brain. You instantly scream as loud as you can with your jaw locked, every single muscle in your body going taut from the shocks. Your mind briefly flickers back to a memory of a man’s tortured cries, and you wonder if yours sound anything like his did.

Fire courses through every single neuron in your body, its one goal to destroy and leave you a mess. The pain is excruciating and every second feels slowed, the process making you lose your mind. You breathe heavily as it continues on its warpath, your brain quite literally melting as your mental pathways are fried.

The device is set to target the subject’s hippocampus and frontal lobe, turning their memories and ability to make thoughts and decisions for themselves into mush. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t think clearly, or maybe it was just the pain.

You’re vaguely aware of someone spewing off a list of words, but are otherwise too preoccupied with your agony to comprehend them. And just like that everything stops. The machine deactivates, and with it so do your screams, the man’s talking, and your mind.

You shake your head, blinking rapidly as you try and get your bearings. Where are you, who are you, what is happening, god you’re just so confused. A man that you hadn’t even noticed was there speaks, breaking your scramble to make sense out of, well anything.

“Призрак?”

Your attention snaps to him. Was he talking to you? He was looking at you so he must be, but you had no memory of being called such, of being called anything at all. Your frustration mounts and you stand up, grabbing the man by the throat and slamming him onto the desk behind him; some part of you remembers your training and what you are capable of, even if you weren’t fully aware of it. The man’s face goes red as he scrabbles at your arm, but that just causes you to squeeze harder, your confusion has turned into pure rage. Before you can finish crushing his trachea, you feel a pinch in the back of your neck and drop to the floor.

In your dreams you see flashes of memories, your mind struggling to sort itself back out after getting completely fucked over. A pair of green eyes that you can’t pair with a face, but bring comfort anyway, cold nights spent with a girl with red hair. The distinct stench of blood, death, and gunpowder, a thousand triggers being pulled. Those eyes again except this time they held an infinite amount of sadness, they were begging you to stay.

You were left with no time to decipher what any of those visions could mean before you’re back in the room with the chair, being forced to go through the process again. At some point you lose the ability to track the time, and the memory flashes at night become more abstract and less in number. The last one being just a sea of green.

You’re back for another round of conditioning, although you possess no recollection of any of the other times you had gone through it. The method had worked the same with you as it had the Soldier, and they were so close to having a new weapon in their arsenal. Just once more and you would be theirs.

You sit up, panting, unable to wonder, to think in any capacity. You are a blank slate, a machine ready to listen and to kill. The harsh artificial lighting sharpens your features and pales your skin, making you look even less human. This was fitting as everything that had ever given you your humanity, your ability to feel compassion and empathy had been obliterated. You are a unit solely capable of destruction and brutality, the man in front of you holding complete control over what would become the deadliest assassin on the planet.

At this very moment the old you had ceased to exist, your former conscious shattering under the weight of the repeated torture and that little list of words. You would mourn the loss if you could, but it was you who had reached the end, and saying the dead could grieve themselves would be a lie. But to the one person who had ever given two shits about you, who had loved you in the purest form of the word, you were sorry.

Today was the day you died, and in your place, the Spectre was born.

“Призрак?”

“готов выполнить.”

#marvel fanfiction #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #marvel x gender neutral reader #natasha romanoff x gender neutral reader

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passable-talent · 3 years

Text

VADER X GN!READER

cryst am I writing a fic? what is that. who does that anymore akfkvjsb

dedicated to @sunsetkenobi bc she deserves it and I probably wouldn’t be writing this otherwise

okay so if you’ve seen how to train your dragon 2, this is that one scene. ya you know the one. I decided I wanted to break my own heart and here I am to do that so. ergo I do not own the song nor the original concept nor httyd akckcja

also I find writing vader exceedingly difficult thank u send tweet

my apologies for reappearing just to drop a mediocre fic

The stormtroopers took your saber when they captured you.

You had tears in your eyes as they ripped the blade from your grip, but you couldn’t do much about it, with force blockers around your wrists. You just had to watch as they carried away the last remaining piece of your husband.

You hadn’t seen Anakin since he left for Mustafar, intent on ending the Clone Wars. The last time you’d seen Obi-Wan, he told you that Anakin had been killed there, when a sith named Darth Vader struck him down.

Ever since, you’ve been hiding out. Hoping to escape the Jedi hunter who killed your husband. He was ruthless, and powerful, but you did your best to stay among the crowds, unseen, unnoticed.

Unnoticed was a word for it- you weren’t in Jedi robes, and you no longer had your saber. Being dragged through the bowels of an empire ship, stormtroopers flanking you on all sides, you looked like any other prisoner.

You got a cell far, far in the corners of the ship, like they were trying to bury you away. You took the steps down and into the cell and stood amongst it as the troopers left.

Your saber... who knows what they’d do with it. You’d made it with a piece of metal that Anakin had given you, a piece of scrap he’d found on one of his Padawan journeys with Obi-Wan. Nothing else... you had nothing else. You had nothing else of him. And now, your saber was gone, too.

So, your final few hours. You were caught as a Jedi, labeled a traitor to the empire. You were in the ship of Darth Vader, Jedi hunter. You were facing execution now, you knew it. You’d been caught.

So there was no need to hide anymore.

The cell was cold, but it wasn’t too bad. Your fingers would get chilly after a while, but for now, it was a good enough place to meditate. You hadn’t been able to take that risk in so long.

You sat down in the center of the cell, opening yourself to the force for the first time in years.

It was painful, at first. You felt great grief, all around you, surrounding you. It was familiar, too familiar, it brought you right back to the moment that Obi-Wan told you Anakin was dead.

But this was different.

It was a universal grief, one much bigger than one man. It was like a mourning of the force itself, mourning her lost Jedi, mourning each of the thousands of them.

You closed your eyes, feeling like you were leaving the cold cell, becoming bigger than it. You reached out to the ship, to the troopers who wouldn’t know the difference, the millions of miles of wiring working through the cruiser. You felt the metal, the heat, the drone-like worksmanship from the pilots and the sanitation crew.

And then you felt the anger. Rage, the likes of which you hadn’t felt in quite a while. It startled you, tossing you out of your meditation. You opened your eyes and fell backwards, catching yourself with your palms on the floor. And then the door opened.

You jumped to your feet, staring up at the imposing figure in the doorway. A black cape, a saber at his waist, and a menacing helmet.

He took a step into the room, and you took a step back. The door closed behind him.

“(Y/N) (L/N), Jedi scum,” Vader said, his voice deep and scratchy, even through the vocoder of his helmet.

“Lord Vader,” you answered, pressing your back against the wall. There was something to the area around him, the force felt so... unsettled. It was like he both channeled and reflected it, pulling it toward him and pushing it away. Like he was fighting it.

And yet... there was something familiar about him. Your gaze slipped back to his saber, which seemed so oddly familiar. His presence, as well. It made something in your mind ring, as though your own body felt him familiar, too.

How could that be?

“Keep your eyes from my saber,” Vader growled after a few moments of silence, “you won’t be taking it. You cannot escape.”

“I’m not thinking of taking it,” you assured him, hoping not to anger him. “It just... it reminds me of my husband’s saber.”

“Husband?” Vader echoed, his body unmoving. You wished he could at least take off the helmet so you could see his facial expression. “Jedi aren’t meant to marry.”

“I know,” you breathed out, trying to keep eye contact with the disturbingly familiar man, even through his helmet. “But I did.”

There was a moment in which the only thing you could hear was the humming of the ship. And then he turned, his cape spinning behind him, and made his way to the door.

Your husband- you would marry him again, if you could. He was the love of your life, and that was never going to change.

Your wedding, the most beautiful day of your life. Padme’s villa on Naboo, a gorgeous lakeside view, a beautiful ceremony, even if the both of you were still tainted with your padawan hairstyles. But then, later that night, sitting around a fire with a song you would go on to sing together every night you had to yourselves amidst the war. A song you’d develop a dance to, a song you could still hear in his voice, if you listened hard enough.

As Vader approached the door and began punching in a code, you turned your head to the side, closing your eyes.

“I’ll swim and sail on savage seas,” you began, whispering it under your voice, barely even melodic. You hadn’t intended for Vader to even hear you.

“With ne’er a fear of drowning, and gladly ride the waves of life, if you would marry me.” You glanced back up, seeing Vader frozen at the door. When you didn’t continue, he turned his head back toward you with the slowest movement.

“No scorching sun, nor freezing cold, will stop me on my journey...” Your nerves got the best of you and you trailed away, no longer having the bravery to continue, the strength. You couldn’t cry in front of Darth Vader.

“...if you will promise me your heart...” came that rasping voice, and you snapped your head up. A shuddering breath escaped the vocoder of his helmet as he lifted his hands to its sides, lifting it from his head.

He turned his gaze to you, and your heart pounded harder with every feature you recognized. His face was scarred over from burns, his neck crossed on each side of his throat with thin surgery scars. His eyes were yellow and red, but that much was expected from Darth Vader. His hairline was mottled with scars where the scalp hadn’t healed enough to grow hair, and the rest was unkept, but still it was a familiar gold.

“And love me for eternity...”

Your eyes widened and your hands lifted up, reaching forward to his face, tears already welling in your eyes. Anakin, Anakin was alive, he’s right here. Your husband is alive. You cupped his face, rubbing your thumbs over his cheekbones. His voice was different, rougher, deeper, but still you heard him. His eyes closed slowly, his face lowering into your palms.

“My dearest one, my darling dear, your mighty words astound me...” You took a deep breath to steady your voice, overwhelmed with relief, emotion, surprise. “But I've no need for mighty deeds when I feel your arms around me.”

Anakin’s eyes opened, and they were blue, that blue you hadn’t seen in so long, that blue you adored. A low smile pulled at his lips, one you never thought you’d see again, and he took his arms around your waist. There was a laugh to his voice as he sang.

“But I would bring you rings of gold, I'd even sing you poetry-“ You took slow steps, the cell smaller than your usual dance space, but you made do. His hands spread along your lower back, yours on his shoulders.

“And I would keep you from all harm, if you would stay beside me!”

You pulled away, taking his hand, stepping into the familiar pattern. He didn’t step as nimbly as he did when you’d last seen him, but still he tried.

“I have no use for rings of gold,” you sang, falling into the familiar patterns, his smile, the way he looked at you, “I care not for your poetry, I only want your hand to hold-“ Finally his smile brightened to what you remembered, and you took his leather-covered hand between both of yours as you sang your last line, your voice no longer timid, now loud and happy.

“I only want you near me.”

You joined his voice, finally twirling in the circles you never thought you’d have again, holding the man you thought you’d lost.

“To love and kiss, to sweetly hold, for the dancing and the dreaming-“ His leather glove, after all this time, hadn’t changed. Did he wear the same one?

“Through all life's sorrows and delights, I'll keep your laugh inside me.” His voice wasn’t exactly the way it’d been when you’d seen him last, but still, it blended perfectly with yours. Six years... it had been six years.

“I'll swim and sail on savage seas, with ne’er a fear of drowning,” You took a spin, like walking on air. He stepped around you, never letting go of your hand.

“I'd gladly ride the waves of life, if you will marry me!” With the last word, he lifted you up by the waist, pulling you against his body, your knees only just on either side of his hips. Mostly, he held you up on his own, your forehead pressed to his. You’d missed that smile so much.

Your husband is alive. Anakin Skywalker is alive. You couldn’t help your breathy laugh as you settled your weight against his chest, cupping his cheeks.

“Oh, Anakin...” you breathed, closing your eyes, and for one blissful moment, all was perfect.

He dropped you.

You looked up, startled, into yellow eyes. His expression was blank, his glaze flitting over you. He turned with a whip of the cape that forced you to step back, and before you could say a word, he clipped the helmet back over his head.

He only gave you one more look before he disappeared out the door, shutting it behind him.

And now the cell felt so much colder.

-🦌 Roe

#anakin x reader insert #anakin x jedi reader #anakin skywalker x jedi reader #star wars anakin #anakin imagine #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker imagine #darth vader #suitless vader #vader x reader #vader reader insert #gn reader

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blackroseraven · 2 years

Photo

I got squashed a lot today, and not once during the times I probably should have gotten squished.

We got there early, and Other Teacherlady was already putting out the horses. So we helped: I actually got Stella to halt in the doorway properly, and then bitchy grumpy Marky decided she didn’t want to wait and started shoving her forwards, so I ended up squished against the doorframe as Stella was shoved past.

Fun times.

Other than that it was by and large fine. Andre did try and eat my head and we went slippy-sliding down the hill but we survived.

I got Quattro first, and got my partner to help me out, because I got my hands on a pop gun for shooty training. Quattro was surprised by the first shot, but he didn’t spook away; same with once I got on him. I set up some cones as ‘stop’ points in the arena, to help guide him and give him a sense of what he was supposed to do while I did whatever I was doing, and it helped a huge amount.

By the end of it he was able to walk and paso a little even while I shot, with minimal warning from me. He did an excellent job and I was super proud of him.

He was also extremely happy that we were able to run today; didn’t even have to worry much about him getting sweaty, as the temperature is going up to freaking 50 degrees. Just for today, though; tomorrow it gets colder and slurries so it’s going to be awful. But today, at least, we were able to run lots, and work on our brain stuff.

Also trying to work on proper pirouettes. Guess what, they’re very hard.

Partner rode Zara; he almost tried shooting on her but uh. We had a bunch of duds in a row and she got really confused and mad by him yelling ‘bang’ to give her some warning and. Yes.

She got to run, though. Amazing how much that old mare loves to run, and how fast she goes.

I went and got Q. He was looking better today. A bit lame, but... you know, that’s basically what he is. It just... kind of sucks to think about what he’s going through and what the eventual prognosis might be. They’re concerned on top of his likely COPD he’s going to flounder in the spring, and who knows what his owners will do then, because they aren’t trying to treat anything that’s wrong with him. I mean... I provide food, blankets, whatever I can but... at the end of the day he’s also not my horse.

It sucks.

But trying not to think about Maybes. Instead focusing on the now, and I was able to sit on him and we had a really wonderful little walk ride around the arena, with Quattro and Zara free and following him around. Both of them rolled, and uh. Q almost rolled with me on him but thankfully stopped.

I spent some time grooming the boys once we were done, and found the medium weight blanket I apparently got Quattro at some point? He and Zara have matching ones. I have zero idea where they came from.

Anyway, that meant Q could be in the sheet and Quattro in the medium. Make sure they don’t overheat today and aren’t miserable in the rain tomorrow.

I finished with Jaeger. Who crushed me in the doorway and then ran out through the open barn doors. I grumbled after him in the slowest chase ever, until he was distracted by a flake of hay, and I dragged him back inside to groom him.

I brought him up to the arena and we just did ground work today; he did a really good job with what we practiced. Like, he’s so smart; I can teach him a pattern and he’ll get it after one or two attempts, whereas there are horses that don’t get things five, ten times you do it.

Poor boy. I am surrounded by broken horses.

But ultimately that makes it mean so much more when they give me their very best, and I just want to make sure I enjoy the time I have with them while I can.

#horse #quattro #q #jaeger #zara #life

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chipsfics · 4 years

Text

Part 1 - Introduction/Invitation

Part one of my currently-unnamed Inanimate Insanity fanfiction :)! Feat. Tissues and Yinyang. Some shipping but not a whole lot ;)

Rated: PG (A few heavy themes)

Hope you enjoy and much more to come !! :D

~~~~

Unlike Tissues, Yinyang knew he was going to be eliminated. Yin did, at least. He figured after a certain amount of time, the viewers just saw him as... Annoying. He had used up his entertainment value- Inanimate Insanity had packaged and squeezed dry his "quirks" of any and all comedy until they were just problems again. He was sure his other half knew elimination was at least a possibility- He was probably too preoccupied with his own thoughts, which sometimes blended together with Yin's. A lot of... "Everyone here hates me," and "I hate everyone here." Seemed like the situation was stressing them both out.

Weeks later, After they were all freed from the closet, Yinyang watched the episode where he was eliminated. Yinyang cried, not because he lost, but something kind of got tangled in his brain watching the way he acted. He was grinding his teeth watching the playback, Yang holding back tears and Yin letting them flow freely. If only, if only, if only. Needless to say, he didn't really remember a lot about what happened cooped up in that tiny closet. He mostly hid in the corner and tried not to grind his teeth down to his gums. Tissues, on the other hand, barely knew what was going on. One place to another, off a plane, rushing from iceberg to dodgeball court, grass field to bleachers- Next thing he knew he sneezed himself through a portal and ended up cooped up in a closet. Once the dizzy feeling cleared and he ended up face down, alone, in an empty closet with a locked door- One thing was abundantly clear: He lost. As usual. When another contestant stepped through the portal, the relief he felt was overwhelming- and as the closet filled up with eliminated contestants, the sense of relief he felt was replaced by self loathing and shame- Everyone else pretty much all hated him. As usual.

When they finally got a breath of fresh air, space to move around, personal rooms and even a breakfast juice bar- After everyone who came in contact with him was thoroughly sprayed down by Soap, nobody hated him anymore. They just didn't talk to him. Although, when he walked in the hallway, Soap would follow a safe distance behind him and clean where he last stepped with disinfectant. That didn't really help his self-esteem.

One quiet afternoon, everyone was still trying to settle into their new (but much nicer) living situations, Tissues got paired with the roommate who hated him the most. One Trophy horseplay, who was the one who stomped his face in more than a couple times while stuck in the closet. Of course, due to the technological advancements of melife, Mephone brought him back immediately after he got the death notification- bzz-ding, Tissues died again, to Trophy's frustration. Living with Trophy, he tried to keep all of his stuff in one corner- And he was kind of being shoved over by Trophy's ever-growing collection of sports equipment. Apparently he had nowhere to put it except for cluttering up their shared bedroom. He didn't have much things anyway- and he spent most of his time in the front game room. Tissues, Yinyang, and a few wanderers in and out every day in that same room, that same dinky game system, the same 4 outdated platforming games. He didn't remember the names of those old things, and he wasn't great at them anyway- It'd surprise you, but he didn't have the best hand-eye-coordination.

Yinyang was also bad at them. He'd argue and curse and throw the controller and tug at the wires, Tissues would follow slowly behind him in co-op play. It was fun to play with someone who had the same skill level as he did, and it seemed like Yinyang had mellowed out a little from his appearance on the show- Having a bit more freedom and alone time seemed to make Yang calm down and Yin become cheerier and more friendly. If Tissues could say one Inanimate Insanity contestant was his friend- It was Yinyang. They had something big and terrifying in common- They were both freaks. The unlovable tend to find a way to love each other.

~~~~

Yaaaawn. Tissues stretched and looked at the clock- 11:30, about 3 hours earlier than when he usually woke up. He wiped the drool off his face, got up and feverishly brushed his teeth. He realized the breakfast bar was still open for another 30 minutes- More like 25 now that he'd dragged himself out of bed. OJ wasn't the world's most attentive hotel owner, but the breakfast bar seemed like something he was passionate about. There were rumors that he refilled the cereal dispensers by himself and doesn't let anyone else do it. Soap always threw a fit when someone else did the chores for her, although she seemed to have a quiet respect for OJ's breakfast bar. Tissues took the elevator down- He didn't trust himself to go down the stairs because of his vertigo. Lo and behold, someone else bumped into his hand reaching for the down arrow. It was Yinyang!

"O-oh, go ahead, you first," Tissues said bashfully.

"No, you first!" Yin chirped. "I assume we're both going down?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna try and catch the last wave of breakfast, guyse. I'm not usually up this... SNIFF. Early," Tissues said, and jammed his finger into the down button, which started to glow a faint yellow.

"Wait, is the free breakfast thing still open?" Yinyang said, "The one where you can make waffles with the little do-it-yourself waffle iron?"

"Is that what that is? I thought it was just a weird smoothie dispenser. I thought the stuff that came out of it tasted like waffle batter," He sniffed.

Yinyang laughed. Tissues would have been peeved, but it didn't seem like Yinyang was laughing AT him. That, or just the fact that his laugh was crisp and clear as a ringing bell. Tissues didn't think he heard him genuinely laugh a whole ton of times. It was nice.

As they waited for the elevator to come up, Tissues noticed one of Yinyang's eyes blinking and drooping. Yang's side seemed to be sleepier than Yin's- His body lagging to one side until he had to jerk back into a standing position. Was it possible for one half to fall asleep and the other half to stay awake? DING. Tissues' train of thoughts was interrupted by the elevator door sliding open. They stepped in, and for the entire ride down Tissues fought as hard as he could not to sneeze- In a closed place like an elevator, that could be very annoying. More annoying than usual. The elevator ride was mostly silent and awkward- It seemed that Yang almost tried to fight on what button to press, but he was too tired and hungry to cause any trouble this early. It was a Saturday after all, the slowest days in the hotel, and once they made it downstairs to the breakfast bar, there didn't seem to be many contestants looking for something to eat so late. Tissues grabbed a paper plate and put a blueberry muffin on it, and got a small paper cup of orange juice. He noticed Yin and Yang were having some sort of quiet argument about what to get for a drink. Tissues couldn't help but overhear-

"Coffee." Yang spoke in a harsh whisper. "Not today, Water." Yin replied. "Coffee." "Juice, then." "Ok, Fine." "Apple juice." "I want orange." "Not today. Apple Juice feels more..." "Pure?" "Yeah." "Bull." "Let's just get our food, I'm too tired to argue." "..." "..." "Me too."

Tissues seemed distracted, until Yinyang moved down the line and bumped him further down. He looked away, face flushed, and moved to the couch, flicking on the TV- He felt like he had just intruded on Yinyang's privacy, but Yinyang didn't seem to care. He'd grabbed apple juice and a pastry of some kind, filled with cream cheese. Yinyang and Tissues ate together, Tissues sitting on the carpet and Yinyang on the couch close by, both staring at the gameshow program that was playing on TV- something that aired often, it was starting to get old. That and the fact that the episodes are hard to tell apart. Same host every time, same backdrop, same formula. Because of this, Tissues' mind couldn't help but wander, and so did his eyes. Yinyang was focused intently on the tv, one hand, Yin's, tapping the sides of the paper cup and the other, Yang's, lifting the pastry to his mouth and taking a bite. They seemed to have figured out a good way to eat without arguing.

"So," Tissues said, breaking the silence.

"Yes?" Yin said politely.

"Can i sit next to you guyse?" Tissues asked. Yinyang looked a bit puzzled.

"Sure. Why not?" Yinyang said, "Just try not to get any of your germs on me." Yang grumbled. Yin pinched his arm. "Don't be rude," Yang growled, but once Tissues got up and hopped up onto the couch cushion next to him, Yang seemed to have forgotten about it. Tissues was so short he had to put in a lot of effort to get onto the couch- It was almost comical. Because of that, he preferred to sit on the ground. People seemed to prefer him down there anyway. It was kind of nice, up there, though, and honestly the only thing he felt different was... More comfortable, and taller. It was nice. He hadn't even noticed the TV program changing from the game show to an ad break- some kind of infomercial on chairs.

"Sooo.... Do you want to go and check out the pool today? I've heard that there's like, complimentary towels. I haven't actually been there yet," Tissues said.

"Are you... asking us to hang out with you?" Yinyang said curiously.

"Well sure," Tissues smiled. "We're friends, right?"

"Umm..." Yinyang's face flushed a bright red. "Of course!" Yin chimed.

"Whatever." Yang added, clenching his jaw and slightly baring his sharp teeth.

"I just didn't wanna show up alone. Can you swim?" He asked. Yinyang looked away.

"Not really," He said, embarrassed. "It takes a lot of coordination, and Yin hates listening." Yang said aggresively. Yin glared at his other half.

"Ohhh thats cool. I can't either," Tissues replied. "I was just planning on sitting by the side. Maybe putting my feet in- Its just nice to have like... uhh. SNIFF. Change of scenery... I like the chlorine smell."

"Well that sounds nice!" Yinyang said. "But we need to go back to our room first, Right?" Yang sounded like he was directing the question less towards Tissues and more towards Yin.

"Oh. Well that's ok. I'm here all day," Tissues said, pulling his mouth into a goofy half-smile. Yinyang finished off his apple juice and got up, silently turned and smiled towards Tissues, and walked away. Tissues wondered what he was thinking about.

~~~~

#inanimate insanity #fanfiction #ii #ii2 #fanfic #yinyang #tissues #tissyang #tissuyang #yissues

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halothenthehorns · 3 years

Text

All in the Family

Chapter 73: Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

"Holy hobknockers, this place is amazing!" Sirius couldn't stop the delirious burst of happiness that possessed him to start shouting and running around the deck. Of a ship. A pirate's ship! In the middle of Hogwarts lake?!

The air was fresh in his face, streaming his hair behind him as he whooped with enough joy to possibly even tantalize the mermaids at the bottom of the lake to come above and see. He began latching onto ropes and swinging about, trying to haul himself into a crow's nest, and then taking off down below to try and see through a porthole before anyone else could even get their bearings.

"Should we, stop him?" Remus asked in mild concern. "I certainly don't want to know what's going to happen when he figures out how to work a cannon."

"Why would they even have a cannon on here?" Alice asked in extra concern behind them.

"Why is it here at all?" Lily countered prodding the massive wheel in front of her, then flinching away as if fearing the slightest breeze would send the whole thing capsizing.

"Well obviously Hogwarts is going to be attacked by pirates, can't be the arrival of the other schools," Regulus rolled his eyes as he trailed up from below, rubbing his head.

They could all still hear Sirius shouting like a loon from below decks, but they all spread out regardless to find the book with extreme curiosity, not one of them had ever had this experience, and as nothing was trying to kill them, they'd at least enjoy it while they could.

Alice found Frank happily swinging from a hammock below decks, grinning with that smile she'd missed so much lately. He invited her up into it, and the two spent another few moments giggling at the feel of it, though unable to imagine sleeping in such a thing.

Peter had landed in what must have been the galley, sending a sack of potatoes rolling around and a half-eaten sandwich upon the floor. His stomach rumbled just a bit, and after only a few moments hesitation he shrugged and began collecting the fallen spuds and washing them in the basin.

James and Remus found Sirius in the cargo hold, which also seemed to be some sort of improvised classroom of sorts. Books were lined along the lower shelves, several instruments they could identify on the top portions. Remus glanced along the nearest paper, but frowned in confusion upon finding it in Bulgarian so had not a clue what could have been going on down here. The two exchanged a look before deciding to stay regardless, and instead waited patiently for Sirius to finish inspecting a porthole and the lake life beyond rather than acknowledge them.

Lily decided to stay up on the deck, shivering a bit at a gust of wind, but smiling regardless at the stars above and admiring a view of her school she hadn't properly seen since her first night here, riding across this very lake. Hogwarts castle was as imposing as ever, she could still flashback to riding that boat with Sev, the two in awe along with the rest of the first years at the sight. Out on the grounds, Hagrid's hut could be seen, and something odd in front of it. It almost looked like a carriage, and horses perhaps, but they must be quite large to be so easily spotted from so far away. She began pacing across the deck in fascination as she looked up at the sails and the wood creaking beneath her feet, it would almost be spooky if she were here alone.

Regulus found himself in what must be the captain's quarters. There was a grand bed in the corner and an open bottle of rakia half-drunk beside a book on the desk. Upon closer inspection, it was the exact book Regulus needed for this to continue, and with a curious enough feeling he flipped it open to find his chapter did indeed live up to his assumption.

"Beauxbatons and Durmstrang," Sirius nodded without surprise, finally turning around to acknowledge the two. "Want to take a gander who brought this?"

Remus rolled his eyes, of course Sirius hadn't taken a look at any of the papers or books with the language hinting at an answer.

They hovered in slightly awkward silence as Regulus' voice echoed around them of Harry writing a note to Sirius to try and dissuade him from returning to this very castle. Sirius was wrankled slightly Harry thought it a bad idea coming back, he would think it obvious he'd want to be around his godson to help and was more than pleased at James' reassuring smile saying he fully agreed with his best mate. Remus on the other hand looked very hesitant, and Sirius decided he'd rather have Moony get it off his chest now.

"Well go on Moony," Sirius sighed and waved at him. "I know you've got the reasons I'm an idiot listed alphabetically by now."

"And laminated," Remus agreed, ignoring his confused look. "I do wish you'd be more careful, I'm not going to deny that, but it's not as if anything I've ever said dissuaded you from doing anything regardless. Either of you." He hesitated, then added softly, "any of you."

Sirius and James flinched and didn't look at each other for a moment again, but Remus cleared his throat and continued with purpose, "look, you two need to work out what your problem is, then all three of us can go and talk to Peter. It's not as if we can avoid him the rest of our life because of this."

"I don't see why not," Sirius said petulantly, but for the first time not as if he meant it, the smallest kernel of pity finally lodging in him. He could still vividly recall how alone he'd felt when all this began, because he'd made a horrible mistake he still didn't know if Remus would forgive him for. Then, under the light of that Dark Mark, he could no longer deny it hadn't been entirely Peter's fault...he was at fault for the betrayal in some way...

"Well I do," James snapped back defiantly, and Sirius took a quick step back like he expected to be hit in the face again. His nose still looked a bit swollen from that. "We never even heard his side- our Peter's," James finished when Sirius opened his mouth. "That book, yeah alright that future guy said why he did it, but you know what our friend's been doing this whole time? Exactly what I asked, giving us some breathing space, just like you were for nearly a month Sirius."

Sirius winced and didn't deny that.

"I think it's high time we let him say his peace." James concluded.

"I don't know what you're hoping he's going to say, to make it better," Remus sighed. "Even if he promises he'd never really do it, how much can it mean? Now, well, we'll always wonder-"

"Are you going to spend the rest of your life afraid Sirius is going to send Snape into your den the next full moon?" James harshly shot back.

Remus answered immediately, "no, he clearly regrets that." He bit his lip for a moment before half lying, "that's, what we talked about back in the Leaky Cauldron. I forgive him."

"And Peter doesn't deserve the same?" He gently tried to cajole. "For a crime he hasn't even done yet."

The two exchanged an uneasy look, but Sirius would be lying if he tried to say he wasn't now looking for anger rather than feeling nothing but as he responded, "it's not the same Prongs! I didn't actually get anyone killed! He did, you!"

"You almost did though," James crossed his arms, but hesitated as he wouldn't deny, "you think I'm looking forward to talking to him? You think I've forgotten any more than you? I just," he swallowed uncomfortably as he heard the news Professor Moody would be putting the kids under the Imperius Curse for extra training, the miracle that was his and Lily's future child and what all he was having to survive through. "I'm willing to try."

With that he left, he couldn't force them to do the same.

Remus stepped closer to Sirius now that James was out of sight, hesitating only a moment before rubbing a hand up and down his back and leaning down to whisper for him alone, "I hope you really heard all that."

"Every word," Sirius sighed, shoulders still slumped in defeat, pressing his forehead into Moony's shoulder rather than having to look him in the face. "Prongs is too damned forgiving though," he muttered one last-ditch reprieve for getting out of this, he already knew it had worked. He'd...try.

"That's one thing he and Evans have in common, hell, it's why he continued to put up with you after the first day," Remus say with an almost cheerful voice. He stopped in surprise and sniffed curiously at the air. "You smell that?"

Sirius dragged his face away from the warmth, but did indeed scent the air, and wouldn't deny his grumbling stomach the pleasantness of it as he grabbed his hand and squeezed for a moment before dropping it and taking off.

They found Evans, Smith, Longbottom, and Prongs already in the galley with massive bowls of a hearty stew. The two were quick to join in, but the three Marauders were the quietest and slowest to eat, all eyeing the door and ready to drop the delicious meal the moment they saw a particular someone enter. They wouldn't deny this time they'd drag him off to finally have it out...whatever it turned out to be.

"There's stew down below," Peter told Regulus as he finally found him perched comfortably in a captain's chair, feet propped up on the table and a bottle of alcohol with a third of it missing.

"No thanks," Regulus shrugged without concern as he flipped the pages, finding in Harry's story the arrival of the foreign students was indeed upon them. He knew he'd regret this later, but he only had a mild appetite for now, it certainly wasn't enough to entertain all others who would be attracted to the same.

"Thought you'd say that," Peter shrugged, before setting down one of the two bowls he'd carried around. "Don't worry, I can eat both fine."

Regulus tried, and failed to hide a smile of delight. The only person who'd ever brought him food before was Kreacher. It didn't matter how sick he was, his mother had always fussed over his table manners during dinners more. He gingerly dragged the warm bowl to him and took a tentative slurp, then dug in with gusto while still reading with just a bit more of a quick pace now. He wanted to be done eating before Sirius or his rotten friends showed up to ruin this good mood he was in.

Peter ate quietly beside him, not adding anything, though he'd been all for laughing about all sorts of things Harry got up to when he'd been hanging around Sirius and their lot. Regulus still wasn't sure what he hoped to gain from avoiding them, but he couldn't claim to be any better as he was now doing the same. It was their turn to do something about this.

The two did exchange a very curious expression as yet another instance of the twins up to something was again passed along, neither of them would deny they were abundantly curious what those two trouble makers were doing, but neither still felt much of a need to speculate on it, the two redheads reminded them too much of James and Sirius, not a duo they wanted to linger on.

Regulus did stop in mild admiration of Hermione Granger trying to keep the attention of a whole house on the acts of what house-elves do. He liked the company of his own, more than most of the people in his home some days, and could almost see her point the ones at Hogwarts should be thanked more, but Kreacher loved his life and the family he served. This little Muggleborn was merely showing her ignorance of what she was trying to pretend they needed a better life, it's no wonder his mother and father thought ones like her shouldn't be associated with real wizards, they had no idea what a real wizards home was like.

Then Sirius wrote a reply back to Harry saying he was back in the country already and safe as could be, and Regulus couldn't deny the breath of relief. He chanced a side look at Sirius' friend who wasn't bothering to hide any such thing, pushing some now soggy potatoes around the bottom of his bowl and chewing on his lip. Neither of them still wanted Sirius dead after all the rotten things he'd done recently, but could he say the same about them?

Finally the chapter was reaching its end and the other schools were really arriving, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic landing first with apparently an impressive display. He supposed it might have been in person, but all he really felt was grateful they got to enjoy this cool ship rather than some smelly old horses for this experience.

He sat up properly in his seat as he reached the final section, and read rapturously of the magnificent boat arriving, and paused for several moments to wonder dreamily if this vast vessel could really take them away, anywhere they'd like. Sailing may even be better than flying...

He heard shuffling footsteps downstairs and rummaging around the deck and scowled, realizing the minute peace the two of them had achieved themselves was about to be interrupted, and he'd rather do that on his own terms as he hurried to finish. The last little shock indeed surprising that Viktor Krum the International Quidditch player had been aboard this ship and he hadn't even the chance to see his quarters before they all vanished.

#Harry Potter #fanfiction #reading the books #Marauders #GoF #Wolfstar #Jilly #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #Peter Pettigrew #James Potter #Lily Evans #Alice Smith #Frank Longbottom

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sydneyshipsstuff · 4 years

Text

Broken Bones Chapter 2!!! Read Chapter one here

mentioned lusting

The fight may have been short, but it was the slowest minute of Peter’s life. He picked up every single scent and motion. He could feel even the breeze that had been made because of Tony’s starting position. His own heart was beating harder in his chest than when he had to give a presentation on a book he didn’t read. But the most shocking thing he could sense was the feeling of anxiety rushing off Tony in waves. Tony was never nervous, even when he had to speak in front of powerful ambassadors all over the world.

To Tony, he didn’t hear or feel much. However, he did feel something. Since Tony had called on him, which now he thought was a mistake, Peter was staring at him with a look he hadn’t seen before. Not in Pepper’s eyes, nor in his mother’s. It wasn’t a look of motherly love or lust, which it occurred to Tony then, were the only two things other than hatred or fear he had ever seen in someone’s eyes towards him. Somehow, he realized, it was a mix of all four. He already knew the boy had lust, knowing the teen he probably sought after him for years, which explained the maternal love of finally getting to meet him. As he was figuring out the fear in his eyes, that moment, he realized what he did. For his own selfish reasons, he picked on a poor boy who was just trying to get paid. And yet, he still stepped up, but maybe that was still the fear of telling Tony off. Either way, it got him entirely turned on. Then, he realized he had to fight and he suppressed all urges he had.

Once the two were ready, which in reality was only a few seconds, they started to circle each other. Noticing after two complete circles Peter wasn’t going to make the first swing, he pushed his fist out towards the boy. The intern dodged away, not even a little fear in his eyes. It made Tony a little afraid that maybe this kid was a secret wrestler, but as he had swung a hit at Tony, he realized that he was wrong. The punch was weak and fell so short, he didn’t even have to dodge.

They took turns swinging at each other before Tony decided to put the boy out of his misery and kick out his foot and land Peter straight on his back. However, when the rest of the audience started cheering, which he had evidently gotten so lost in the mysterious teen in front of him, and his face went red, he realized how messed up it was, again. The second that guilt rushed over him though, it faded away because he was Tony Stark, he shouldn’t feel bad about an intern getting embarrassed. Besides, the teen got to meet him, which many people dream of getting the chance too. So, without even looking back at Peter still splayed on the mat, he turned and walked away while Pepper apologized to the boy and swiftly followed after to scold.

Peter’s point of view was a little different. During the time he was circling, he had to think of a way to suppress his powers, which wasn’t very easy. He learned this when Tony swung at him, his senses kicked in and made him dodge quicker than he should have. He panicked for a moment before deciding to counteract his quick dodge with a sucky punch. He swung short, making sure it wouldn’t hit him at all, although when the man didn’t have to dodge at all, he decided maybe a little farther next time.

A couple hits from Tony later, which didn’t hurt him but had to act like it did, he decided to punch for the first time. He hit with as little energy as possible then immediately retracted back on the mat. This was a mistake because as he put one foot back, the other got kicked out and he didn’t have time to react, even with his senses, to do anything but fall flat on his back. He flushed in embarrassment when he realized after all, Tony had won the last couple seconds, without Peter having to fake it, though the crowd didn’t make it any better. When he had gotten a second to catch his breath, he felt someone’s hand help him up then a female voice apologizing. He opened his eyes and noticed immediately that Tony, and his scent, were out of sight. He tried not to let it upset him, but what could he do? At least a goodbye would have been nice when he had just beat him to the ground.

Thankfully, his ego would be saved as all the interns were free to leave, but he did get a few looks on his way out, some of pity, others laughing at him, and finally some looked shocked. He didn’t have time to process them though, because he didn’t want a repeat of what happened in the morning. He caught the train just in time, and spent the long ride home thinking about how he ended up in his situation. As he arrived at his stop, went inside, and made himself as proper a meal he could afford, he decided it was the butterfly effect.

Tony also could not stop thinking about the fight, but for another reason. He hated to admit it, but he just couldn’t keep his mind satisfied. He had to know who the boy was. So, sitting at his desk, he pulled up a list of all the employees working there. The boy only had Peter on his name tag (taped on), although it was mandatory to have both names, something that would be fixed after he found out just who he was, which made it a little difficult to look up. He had 300 Peter’s listed and it would take forever to cycle through each one to find Peter. He slowly started filtering. Filter by level c employees. 132 employees. Filter by intern. 57 employees. Filter by age. 57 employees sorted from youngest, 14, to oldest, 34. He scrolled through the first few, before finally finding Peter Parker, a 19 year old from Queens who had been working there for a few weeks, yet had bumped himself up to level c quickly.

The next morning as Peter pulled up to work, this time more promptly, there was a cryptic envelope with the letters t.s engraved in it. Engraved. After what happened the day before, either two things had happened. One- he was being demoted for being bad at boxing, two- Tony had found out his secret identity or three- he was being invited up to the personal suite for some alone time with Tony. Alright, the third was very unlikely. After opening the letter, he almost fainted, because one of his predictions had been right, and he didn’t know how to feel.

This chapter was a little short, next chapter will be a longer one. It will be about what the letter entailed ;). I don’t have a set time but it won’t be too long of a wait.

#broken bones starker #rafni if you see this i love you #sydney writes #starker #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker

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harryandmolly · 5 years

Text

Complicit // 14 // Final

summary: Shawn is under more pressure than he’s ever known. He craves release and comfort, the simplicity of sex. He gets more than he bargained for.

warnings: language, love, love languages

WC: 8k

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He really, really should’ve had a plan.

But, in all fairness, Shawn’s never done the whole “jump on a 12 hour flight on a whim to chase after the love of his life” thing before, so how could he have been expected to make such a plan?

But still, he thinks, standing against a wall under a baseball cap outside Naples International Airport, he could’ve done some more thinking before all this. Or at least could’ve made a pseudo-plan on the plane.

The most Silver could give him in terms of guidance was the address of the house and that Naples is the closest airport. She’s never been to the “Vineyard” before. When Shawn asked if the “Vineyard” was a nickname or if it meant the house is on an actual vineyard, she didn’t know that either. Not extremely helpful, but he’ll figure it out. He has to.

From what he gathers on Google Maps, sucking up international roaming data charges like nobody’s business, Ravello is about an hour and a half southeast of Naples. Not ideal. But the Amalfi Coast is a pretty big attraction, so he figures there’s probably a train. He just has to find a train station.

On the way out the door with his backpack, the only luggage he bothered to pack, he Googles a train route.

Walk half an hour to the Calata di… something something and take the N5 to… somewhere and walk 3 minutes to somewhere else to catch a bus to somewhere…

.... no fucking way.

He bites into his lip and squints around. Should he rent a car? He winces. Driving in Italy sounds terrifying. What if he gets into a crash? Who is he supposed to call?

No. He needs to hire a car to take him to Ravello. That’s the plan.

More Googling. More squinting. He’s vaguely grateful that he’s been able to stay under the radar so far. He’s not sure he could handle this and dozens of screaming Italian girls begging for selfies without snapping.

He ducks behind a large leafy fig tree when he sees what looks like a group of middle school-aged girls on a field trip scramble past, squealing and laughing. Close call.

He leans against a column and sighs. Silver also gave him Mia’s personal cell number. He could just call her and tell her he’s here and hope she wants to see him and come pick him up.

Shawn sighs heavily, pouting. He’s not going to do that. This is his only shot at being a romantic hero, like, ever. He’s not going to pansy out and call her for a ride. He’s going to show the fuck up because that’s what Mia deserves.

Whether she wants to see him is another matter and he’d rather not worry about that until about halfway up her driveway.

He sets off toward the transportation center at a quick stride, curls fluttering between the brim of his cap and his forehead. He swerves suddenly to avoid another throng of young women that look ready for a beach vacation.

He parks in front of a driving service and a tall, unnaturally beautiful blonde man who doesn’t look up at him.

“Uh, ciao?” Shawn tries.

He glances up. Shawn holds his breath for the pop star response. It doesn’t come. He exhales.

“Do you speak English?” Shawn asks, wincing at how ignorant he sounds. The man nods boredly.

“Cool. Uh. Ok. I need to go to Ravello.”

“Si, Ravello. There is a train,” the man drawls, the slowest talking Italian Shawn’s ever met.

Shawn nods, uncertain. “Yeah. Right, yeah. But… can I get a car to drive me?”

The man even blinks slowly. “There is also a bus.”

Does this guy just not want business? Shawn sighs.

“Do you not take people to Ravello?” he tries, looking to bridge whatever gap this is as quickly as possible.

Finally, the man seems to give in. “Ravello is a long drive. 125 euro. We take--”

Shawn slaps his Visa down so fast the man stops abruptly and stares at him. He sees a tinge of crazy in Shawn’s travel-weary eyes. He fights the urge to roll his own and books the trip.

Shawn had hoped he’d start to relax in the car since at least then he’d know he was heading somewhere. There was no relaxing to be done.

His driver Giorgio seems to have gotten his start in Formula One. Shawn figures he should be grateful, given that the speed they’re driving at will probably cut the travel time in half. But he can’t help but wonder about the headlines if he dies in a fiery crash against the side of an Italian coastal mountain.

Pop Superstar Shawn Mendes Dies In Search Of Love, Giorgio to Blame

Shawn Mendes Perishes At The Height Of His Career, Unrecognizably Mangled

Shawn Mendes Is An Idiot, Fatally

He’s so sure there’s no way they’ll make it between the two trucks Giorgio decides to squeeze them through, but they do. Shawn slams his eyes shut and focuses on the Cez-approved meditation breathing exercises that, by the way, do not save you from your crazy Italian driver who almost plows into the back of a Peugeot going god knows how fast on the E45.

But at least he points out Mount Vesuvius. And doesn’t crash them into it.

They lose sight of the ocean for a while, which makes Shawn panic. The guy isn’t using a GPS, claims he knows every corner of every town on the Amalfi Coast. That sounded a lot better to Shawn before he got in the car, before they were winding through something called the “Riserva Statale Valle delle Ferriere,” which seems as good a place as any to ditch a body.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

It’s a chant in his head until, by some miracle, he catches sight of the water again and it’s exactly like every Instagram travel post he’s ever seen of the Amalfi Coast. He thanks whatever god there is, and thanks Giorgio, too, who grunts.

Ravello, Shawn’s not surprised to report, is fucking beautiful. Cliffs appear out of nowhere and spill off down bleached white coastline to crystalline turquoise water. It’s a goddamn postcard. The town, from what he can see of it from above, is a scattered board of colorful post-its clinging to the side of a mountain. His hungry brain tells him he can smell fresh pasta and seafood, but he knows it’s just an illusion of a man who ate half an airplane meal and a couple stale biscotti several hours ago.

Rather than descend toward the coast, Giorgio winds him around the hills past farms of lemon trees. The sun hangs low. Shawn thanks his lucky stars that he’s not having to deal with locating this place in the dark.

Giorgio stops at the base of a dirt road sporting a sign with Mia’s address. Shawn practically flings himself out of the car, almost forgetting his backpack. He shoves his Tom Ford sunglasses on against the harsh snap of the late afternoon sun. He looks around. Along the dirt path, hardly even a road, are rows upon rows of grape vines. It seems the house name is literal after all. He’ll be sure to tell Silver if he makes it out of this alive.

He starts walking.

It’s a trudge, really, up a reasonably steep hill. He slips once or twice and puts a knee into the dust, kicking up a froth of it around him that clings to his sweaty skin and white t-shirt. By the time he finds Mia, he’s going to look like he swam and crawled all the way to her.

Good.

He crests the hill to find… more hills. There are a series of large buildings that don’t look anything like homes, more like warehouses or farmhouses. Given that it’s not yet harvest season, only a few hands are out tending the vines. He descends towards them, probably looking as ridiculous as he ever has in his life.

They seem to want to ignore him. It’s a habit of Italian men, maybe. He has to wave and walk straight up to the closest figure, an older, shorter man with only a few teeth to speak of.

“Ciao. Uh… Mia Bianchi?”

Shawn hopes if she’s the lady of the house, they’ll know to take him to her. The man stares back blankly.

“Uh… dove… Mia Bianchi?” he tries again. The man looks over his shoulder at his coworkers, who’ve stopped to stare at the tall, sunburnt Canadian idiot. Shawn sighs.

He doesn’t even have a picture to show them. She’s the love of his stupid life and he doesn’t even have a picture of her.

Except that he does. He has a lot of them. Black and white and sparkling. And completely inappropriate to be sharing with a bunch of strange farmhands. He grunts and reaches for his phone anyway, nearly dead, just like his chances of making this stupid romantic gesture work.

Shawn zooms in carefully to just her face and shows it to the smaller man. He squints and attempts to touch the screen, but Shawn nearly slaps his hand away.

“Dove Mia Bianchi?” he almost whines.

One of the younger hands strides up and glances at the picture. He exchanges a few words with the others and looks Shawn over. He sighs and nods at a golf cart a few yards away, then walks towards it.

Shawn blinks, then follows.

If nothing else, it’s a faster way to get over the hills. Plus, if he’s on the vineyard, she can’t be far, right?

“Mia?” Shawn asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

The guy shrugs. It’s not very comforting. But Shawn’s out of options, so he gets in the cart.

The hills just keep going. After about ten minutes of cruising along and over them with nothing but vines in sight, he’s suddenly incredibly grateful for the ride. He glances over at his driver, seemingly much more sane than Giorgio.

“Shawn,” Shawn says, pointing to himself with a flat smile and a little wave.

The man nods. “Maurizio.”

“Grazie, Maurizio,” Shawn grunts, sitting back as they ascend another, steeper hill. He worries for a moment about the possibilities of this golf cart skidding back down from whence it came. It becomes unimportant when they reach the peak and he sees a house.

Well, it’s not just a house. It’s practically a palace. From behind it, he can see the way it sprawls over tens of thousands of square feet. There’s a pool, he thinks, and a few different gardens, and it looks like a grove of trees, maybe olive or citrus, he’s not sure. At some point, the path turns from dirt to pebbles and the ride gets louder. It almost drowns out Shawn’s heartbeat in his ears.

Maurizio slows under the shade of two old stone pine trees and turns up a narrow path lined by lush, well-tended gardens replete with color. He takes the curve around the fountain in the center of the path slow enough for Shawn to notice the detailing. The basin of the fountain is held up by a sculpture of a renaissance-style naked woman. Curled against her, with his arm around her hips, is a man helping her hold it up. His face is tucked tenderly into her neck.

The cart stops. Maurizio clears his throat. Shawn stands and steps off.

“Uh, grazie!” he calls as Maurizio starts to gun it back down the path. Maurizio looks back at him and laughs in a way Shawn doesn’t need translated.

You’re a fucking idiot.

Shawn sighs for the millionth time that afternoon. He knows.

It’s golden hour on the coast. Behind the red tiled roof, the sun spills marigold light everywhere it touches, including the belltower on the chapel beside the main house. Green shudders flap gently in the evening breeze. The front door is wide open. The smell of fresh bread has Shawn’s mouth filling with saliva. He starts to head toward the door when he hears something.

Off to the left, down a grassy footpath, he follows it. It’s as familiar to him now as her perfume, as the feeling of her hair in his fingers, as the smile she gives him when he’s very good for her.

He’d know Ol’ Blue Eyes anywhere now.

It’s one of his Italian tracks, playing off a turntable parked in another open door on the side of the house. He drops his bag beside it, smiling when he hears pruning shears and quiet steps. The record sleeve reads “Come Back to Sorrento.”

He takes a deep breath and follows the sound of the shuffling steps. Sinatra’s voice fades as Shawn nears a small grove of olive trees. The grass below his feet is dappled with shade and the streaming sunset light. A breeze rustles a wave of red fabric out behind the trunk of a tree toward the back of the grove.

Shawn holds his breath, watching a long bronzed leg follow it, stepping backward, then another. She’s on her tiptoes, barefoot in a deeply red mid-length sundress, the cap sleeves fluttering around her arms that follow her focused eyes to the branches above her head. She hasn’t spotted him yet. He could still run. He doesn’t have to stand here until she throws her pruning shears at his head for showing up at her family home unannounced in fucking Italy.

Mia turns her head to check on another branch and he lands in her periphery. Her lips part. Her eyes blow wide like saucers. The shears fall by her feet. She lowers off her toes to face him. The wrap dress hugs her everywhere he’d like to.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, lifting a hand into her hair just as another breeze picks up around them, lifting her dress around her knees to wave at him.

“So… uh… ciao,” Shawn nearly chokes.

Mia just stares for a minute. It feels like forever since she’s seen him, even if it’s only been a couple weeks.

He’s fucking glorious even covered in dirt. His hair is a little matted and sweaty, like he was wearing a hat. His white shirt clings to him. His black jeans have patches of dirt on the knees that give her flashbacks to the day she took him to Malibu in her Aston Martin. She shivers.

“What-- I mean, how… I don’t…”

“Silver told me you quit,” he blurts.

Mia’s eyes seem to swell again, then shut as she groans. “She gave you the address.”

“Yeah. I think… I think maybe she wanted you to want to see me.”

Mia chews on the inside of her lip. Another breeze tickles through the olive branches, surrounding them with a light earthy scent. Shawn shifts anxiously on his feet.

“So you just… showed up,” Mia murmurs. It’s a statement of fact, expressionless. She doesn’t sound annoyed or surprised or, to Shawn’s slight disappointment, pleased. But he knew better than to expect that. Or he thinks he should have.

Shawn shrugs. “I think after everything you’ve done for me, you deserve the effort.”

Mia’s lips tuck in slightly at the corners. She nods down at her feet. “Effort, huh?”

Shawn fights the urge to reach for her, even though it feels right. He wants to do this delicately.

Patience. That’s what Silver told him. If there’s anyone besides Mia he should be listening to right now, it’s Silver.

“I came because I want to talk to you. About everything.” His voice sounds impressively calm to his own ears, even as he feels his hands shake.

Mia looks up and immediately past him into the kitchen. She cards a fluttering strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat.

“I have extra towels. You can clean up in the guest bath.”

She swerves around him and into the house. He stands there in the grove for a moment or two, blinking after her.

He’s not knocked out, he’s just… regrouping. That’s what Shawn decides in the shower as he scrubs the salty sweat from his hair and watches reddish dust swirl down the drain.

He was struck dumb when she led him up the stairs to one of what looks like many guest rooms. She got him a fluffy towel and showed him how to work the faucet because it’s a bit tricky. She turned and left without another word.

Shawn didn’t have a speech prepared or anything, he didn’t write a sonnet on the long trudge up to the house, but he didn’t expect her to shut down as soon as he started getting into it, whatever it was going to be. That took the wind out of his sails.

He’s not giving up. Not yet. If after a real conversation she says she does not love him and wants him out of her house, he’ll go. He’ll hold his head high and leave, knowing he put his heart on the line. And he’ll be ok.

Shawn’s breath shakes. He blinks quickly under the spew of warm water above his head. He plants a hand against the wall for stability. It’s the first time he’s let himself think about it, really consider the idea. What if he really actually made all this up in his head? What if she’s really as good as what he pays for and feels nothing for him beyond a professional sort of fondness? Or perhaps worse, what if she’s had feelings, but they’re not enough?

He closes his eyes and slowly scrubs his face with his pruny hands. He’s conspicuously been in the shower a long time. He bets she doesn’t mind -- gives her time to strategize.

Shawn lifts his head and turns off the faucet. He doesn’t want her strategies or her carefully delivered lines. He wants her.

He wants Mia as much as he wants Penny.

For once, Mia does something that would make the former owner of this home, her great grandmother, very proud. She sets aside her panic, confusion, irritation and angst and prepares for a guest.

She sets the table. She decants a bottle of Castello di Ama chianti. She hauls the record player back inside and switches over to Dean Martin’s Italian Love Songs and decides not to overthink the choice. She sets to work on a quick spaghetti alla vongole with the clams she bought at the market this morning. Her homemade loaf of ciabatta rests warm in a checkered cloth on the table.

Anything to distract herself.

But then she almost lops off a finger slicing the bread. She nicks the pad of her thumb and gasps, instinctively squeezing her fingers around the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“Hold on, I’ll get a napkin.”

She turns from the counter to see Shawn in a t-shirt and sweats at the bottom of the stairs, his hair shining wet against his neck. He swipes a paper napkin off a credenza and meets her at the counter. She watches him as he checks the cut, dabs it with the paper, wraps his hand around it to apply pressure and holds it over her head.

He looks down at her. “Does it hurt?”

“No, not really,” she murmurs, sounding sheepish.

He’s closer now to her than he was before. Holding her arm over her head seems an oddly intimate gesture between two people who’ve seen and done a lot more. It’s heightened by the way he caresses her palm with his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it.

“God, I missed you so much,” he says quietly, shaking his head.

Mia aches with the returning words and lets them rattle through her bones. She’s not going to say them back.

“I really don’t know what you were thinking coming here. Did you cancel work stuff? What about the album? And the tour?”

Shawn seems unfazed. “I’m on a break before we start working on tour promo. I actually went to your house. Got worried when I didn’t see Pammy’s leash outside.”

Mia’s eyes flash with affection. “She’s… staying with Gus for a while.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I bet you miss her.”

Mia’s eyes drop. Her other hand, gripping the counter behind her to keep from grabbing at him, squeezes tighter.

“Of course. All the time.”

After another few seconds of Shawn’s intense staring and Mia’s equally intense avoidance, he lowers her hand. The small cut has stopped bleeding. He cups her palm, kissing it gently. Mia turns away.

Shawn’s head drops. He sighs.

“So. You quit.”

Mia continues slicing bread. “Yes.”

“I’m surprised. I know how happy it made you.”

Mia’s stomach swoops. The ease with which he talks about her profession still strikes her sometimes when she least expects it. He talks about it like it’s any other job, like he never for a second thought to judge her for it.

“It got too complicated. I have other things I wanted to focus on.”

She takes the freshly sliced bread to the table. He follows with the bowls of salad and pasta.

“Like what?” he chirps.

Mia grunts, irritated. “A project. It’s a charitable thing.”

He seems to decide not to push for the moment. She tucks into her bowl of pasta, eager for something to shut him up.

He hums, bobbing his head as he slurps up a bite. “This is fucking great. I didn’t know you can cook.”

She shrugs. “I’m an Italian woman, Shawn. If I can’t cook, I shame my ancestors.”

He smiles as he swallows and reaches for his wine. He looks oddly relaxed, comfortable in her favorite surroundings. It strikes her as odd, suddenly, that he’s here. She’s never brought any non-family member here before. Not even Silver. Definitely not a client.

But Shawn brought himself. He flew 12 hours and, Mia knowing the journey well, probably took trains, buses, ferries and god knows what else to arrive on her doorstep.

She has yet to truly reckon with it. She sips at her own glass and watches him look around.

“This house is incredible. It’s a family place?” he asks.

Mia swallows and nods carefully. “For a long time. My great grandmother was the last one who lived here full time. We sold the vineyard in the 90s. The rest of the estate is still ours.”

Shawn looks around at the vaulted ceilings and the rustic stucco walls and stone floors. A glass door looks out onto a vast back patio strung with twinkle lights that overlooks the acres of vineyard land that used to belong to her family. The farmhands have packed it in for the evening. There’s no one in sight all the way to the horizon, where the sun has burst into flames of pink and gold. Shawn hasn’t felt this far away in a long time.

When he looks back, Mia doesn’t bother to look away. She knows the games are over. Glancing away from his pretty face so he doesn’t catch her staring won’t work anymore. He’s not here for a game. She swallows and feels her heart in her throat.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” Shawn murmurs. He sits forward across the smooth oak table. The sunset light catches him through the window. It makes his intense gaze even more entrancing. Mia’s fingers twitch around her wineglass.

“Don’t apologize. I don’t think I’m ready to hear whatever it is you’re about to say.”

She watches something flicker in his eyes uncertainly. He wets his lips and seems determined to soldier on.

“Mia, I know this wasn’t the plan. For either of us. It was never supposed to become… this. But I think it’s been something real since at least Vegas. Maybe before. And I think it’s as real to me as it is to you.”

Mia’s heart sprints. She knew what he was going to say. She’s known since he showed up in her little olive grove. She’s not sure why being so close to hearing the words has her pulsating in her own skin. She shifts in her seat.

“Shawn, please…” she begins, shaking her head, “I don’t want to put you through this. I know you’re already here and… god, I still can’t believe you’re here. But I don’t want to make you say it.”

“Why?” he presses, “Why can’t I say it?”

Mia closes her big brown eyes. He misses them immediately.

“Because it’s not going to make a difference. It can’t.”

She opens her eyes when she hears his wooden chair creak. He’s sitting back, his jaw tight, his eyes still on hers. He swirls the wine in his glass absently.

“Tell me I’m crazy. Not for coming out here, not for wanting this with you, tell me I’m crazy and I imagined all of it. Tell me it was all for show, all for money. Tell me Rio wasn’t real, or your house, or my house. Fuck, tell me Vegas wasn’t real. Mia, tell me you don’t love me. Please. If it’s true, please tell me.”

It’s silent. They’re far enough up the mountain from the town of Ravello that there’s no sound but the breeze in the trees and Mia’s heartbeat in her ears. She feels her face going scarlet with every word. Her hand shakes in her lap where he can’t see it.

She sits up tall, channeling Silver, and thumbs at the base of her glass.

“Like I said, it doesn’t make a difference.”

“How could it not?” Shawn hisses. He sits forward again, his gaze imploring, “Mia, it’s the only thing that matters.”

Mia scoffs. It’s patronizing and ugly. Shawn flinches.

“We both know better than that. We’re not teenagers, Shawn. Actually, even if we were, we’d be in the same position. You’ve been very famous for a very long time. I was never an option for you the same way you’ve never been an option for me,” Mia explains, her voice quivering under her false calm.

“Jesus Christ, Mia, you’re not an option,” Shawn spits. His eyes seem to darken, or maybe it’s a trick of the fading sun, “You’re the one. You’re the fucking one.”

Mia’s eyes drift shut as they well up. She lifts her hands into her silky hair and releases a rocky sigh.

“You’re not thinking. You have to think, Shawn, not just feel. This is your whole life we’re talking about. You know I can’t just fit into it. I would be catastrophic for you. Anyone could tell you that. Andrew would be first in line, I bet.”

Shawn stands. He walks to the door and stares at the rolling hills strung with vines like Christmas lights, neat strands growing darker with the night. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“If I let Andrew tell me who I can and can’t be with, my life isn’t mine. I’ve experienced something close enough to that this summer. I know I agreed to it, I know I was complicit in the whole thing, but I’m not interested in that anymore. If that’s where I really am in my life and my career, none of this is worth it. And that’s not even about you, Mia, that’s about me. I won’t put up with that. I’d sooner fucking quit and never play a show again if it meant I couldn’t be with someone I love because of however it looks to some people.”

Mia’s chest shudders. “Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. I can’t live with that, please.”

He whirls on his heel and stares at her, eyes hot. “Don’t say what? That I’d give it up for you if I had to? Fuck, Mia, of course I would. What kind of fucking human being would I be if I picked being famous over the person that I love?”

“Stop, please,” Mia begs, shaking her head, pressing her face into her hands.

She hears him shuffle over the stone to her. His fingers are gentle as they pry her hands off her face. He cups her wrists, massaging them slowly.

“Hey,” he whispers, the aggression in his voice gone as quickly as it came, “It doesn’t matter. That’s not our reality, it doesn’t have to be. I don’t have to make that choice, so neither do you.”

Mia’s lower lip quivers. “Shawn, I don’t think you realize what would really happen if you stood up in front of the whole world and told them you love a whore.”

Shawn releases her hands. The corners of his lips turn down. His eyes are hard and somehow cracked.

“Don’t do that. Don’t say that. I know you don’t even believe that. You’ve never thought of yourself like that, I know you haven’t. You know you’re so much more than that.” His voice grows louder as he continues until he’s shouting.

Her brow furrows. “You don’t know! You don’t know anything! The things I’ve done, the things I’ve said, the things I’ve had done to me. Shawn, if you had an inkling of the depraved… fuck. If you had any idea at all, you wouldn’t be saying this. You probably wouldn’t come near me ever again.”

“Are you trying to scare me?” he barks back, his eyebrows lifting, “Really? Fine. I’ll call that bluff. I’ll sit here with you all night if you want. Tell me everything. Every filthy detail. Sorry, Mia, it’s not that fucking easy. I won’t love you any less.”

“You can say that now! You don’t know, Shawn! You don’t even know me. What do you know? You know my dog, you know my music taste, sure, you know my name. What if everything Penny did was a lie? What if you love a ghost?”

Shawn goes cold. He stiffens all over. She watches it from his eyes down. She freezes in place.

“Don’t try to tell me I love something that isn’t real,” he breathes. There isn’t even a hint of uncertainty in his face or voice. Mia looks down at her feet.

Shawn steps forward again. Slowly, gently, he cups his hands around her neck, his thumbs working softly into her jaw.

“We can talk about image and PR and logistics. We can talk about Andrew and the headlines and the future. But don’t insult me, honey. I know what’s in front of me. I know what I love. I love you. I love you, I love you. We can talk about the rest, but we can’t talk about that. That’s real and it’s not up for discussion.”

Mia’s eyes close, pressing the building tears down her cheeks. Her head lowers in defeat. Shawn’s hands skim down her shoulders to her upper arms. He plants his lips on top of her head and breathes. Two deep inhales, two deep exhales. Then he steps away and heads back up the stairs.

Neither of them sleeps that night. He’s in the guest room down the hall from her master suite. At around 3am, she gives up altogether and sits out on her balcony under the crescent moon wrapped in a chenille blanket. She’s convinced that inside she can hear him breathe.

Meanwhile he sits at the end of his bed, sheets half torn off from his tossing and turning, begging for words. He’s never had to beg before. His artistic, lyrical brain has handed them to him his whole life. Those aren’t the words he needs now. He needs the ones that will convince her.

When she wakes up, he’s downstairs in a t-shirt and boxers. His hair is sticking up everywhere. He’s staring hopelessly at her espresso machine. She knows he hears her come down the stairs, but he doesn’t turn around.

Silently, Mia arrives by his side. She presses a few buttons until the machine starts to whir. She reaches up to the cabinet above her and pulls down two tiny espresso cups. When she hands him one, their fingers touch. They both nearly jolt apart.

She spends the morning outside. She gets her white sundress filthy picking citrus off the trees. She hauls baskets and baskets full up to the porch. Each time she brings one up, it disappears and ends up on the counter, but she never sees Shawn move them.

At lunch, he smells more seafood. She glistens with sweat over a deep dutch oven full of hot oil, frying calamari. He slices lemons and opens the bottle of white she has on the counter, pouring them glasses. They eat silently, picking at their salads, letting Rosemary Clooney’s voice do their talking. When he finishes, Shawn looks at Mia. Mia looks up at Shawn. He takes her hand and guides it to his lips, a silent thank you. She lets him touch her for five seconds before she pulls away and heads back out to the lavender garden. When she comes back for dinner, the kitchen is clean and the fruit is stored in the butler’s pantry.

She roasts a chicken with rosemary and thyme, along with some potatoes and carrots and lets him rest his hand on her knee while they finish a bottle of wine.

“I found a guitar upstairs,” he confesses, chewing his wine-stained lower lip.

She glances over at him. “My grandfather’s. It’s old and shitty but yours to use if you want it.”

He nods appreciatively, rubbing his thumb into her warm skin. She aches to rest her fingers on his pulse, just to prove he’s really there.

That night, they clean up together. He walks her to her room and kisses her cheek. She doesn’t hear his footsteps walk away from her door for a long minute after she closes it.

His gentle plucking of the guitar from down the hall puts her to sleep.

She’s gone when Shawn wakes up. He lets himself panic for only a minute or two. All her stuff is still here, and this is her house, after all. She returns around lunch in an old pickup truck with bags from the market. Eggs, cream, cocoa, fresh mascarpone. She announces she’s making tiramisu for after their branzino dinner. She smiles a little, tentatively, and it nearly makes him fall at her feet.

Neither of them seems interested in disappearing today the way they did the day before. They hover near each other, rotating positions, swirling like opposing magnets. Shawn keeps the guitar close. Once he gets it in tune, it doesn’t sound too bad. He works on a melody. He thinks it must be good because she’s humming along in the kitchen while she prepares a batch of limoncello and rosemary gelato.

(He doesn’t know what army she’s cooking for, but he just hopes he gets to be a part of it.)

He finishes the song that afternoon, pacing around the lavender garden with a sprig of it tucked behind his ear. When he’s satisfied and turns to head inside around sunset, he clocks her on a balcony above looking very settled, like she’s been there a while. She’s far enough up that she didn’t hear it, so she must’ve just been watching him.

They eat in silence -- branzino with lemon, citrus salad, arugula with balsamic, then tiramisu for dessert. They nearly finish two bottles of wine, like they’re both preparing to get mouthy. Shawn goes first.

“I think I knew when I bought the necklace. Like, I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. I knew what it would mean to you to have that. I wanted so badly to give you something as meaningful as what you’ve given me.”

Mia stiffens at the sudden conversation after a long drought. She recovers quickly, thanks to the wine.

“What I gave you was sex, Shawn. A lot of it. Really good sex that required you to make no decisions, gave you no responsibility. I took care of you in a way you’ve never been taken care of before.”

His eyes flash and Mia regrets her words immediately.

“If you really think I don’t know the difference between sex and love by now, you must think I’m a fucking moron.”

Mia’s chest deflates as she sighs. “I don’t think you’re a moron.”

“Are you sure? Because you’re treating me like one,” he jabs, draining his wine. She misses his heavy, warm hand on her knee when he stands and starts pacing back and forth in front of the table.

Mia stares at him, tensed with every word she won’t let herself say, every feeling she’s been beating back for months. Her spine aches. Her brain swims. Her mouth is dry.

Shawn stops suddenly so that his boot skids a little on the stone floor. Mia blinks quickly.

He stands in front of her, staring. Slowly, without moving his eyes from hers, he lowers to his knees, turning her in her seat to face him. Having his hands on her again makes her want to scream. She waits, holding her breath.

“I just need you to say it. Please. I know you don’t think it’s enough, so it can’t hurt, right? Because there’s a part of me, the piece I hate, the piece I’ve always hated and that’s always hated me that still wants to convince me it’s not true. So please, please, just once, just say it. Say it if it’s true.”

Mia’s knuckles are white as she grips her chair. They feel oddly detached and wiry when she pries them up, flexes them, and sieves them into his hair. His eyes shut. He lowers his head to rest in her lap. She takes a deep breath.

“I love you, Shawn Mendes.”

Mia’s on the counter in an oversized t-shirt, swinging her feet, eating limoncello and rosemary gelato out of the freezer bowl. Shawn stops at the bottom of the stairs and smiles at her. His love for her gets so big it feels ready to explode out of his ears.

He shuffles up to lean beside her at the counter with the extra spoon she offers. They eat quietly, smacking their lips.

“So what’s the charity project?”

He catches her off guard while she puts away the rest of the ice cream. She stands upright, a little too straight, then catches herself and forces herself to relax.

“Uhm… it’s an idea I had a long time ago. A non-profit sort of thing for La Splendeur. A way to look out for the girls that are working jobs like mine but on the street. It’s always seemed so arbitrary to me, you know? The women that wind up as courtesans making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year flying all around the world doing the same thing that women standing on street corners do, constantly putting their lives in danger. Sex work is so odd that way.”

Shawn nods thoughtfully. “How can you help them?”

He watches her brighten a little, scooping hair behind her ears as she explains.

“Resources make all the difference. Women like that end up there because they don’t have resources. We can provide shelter, safety, rehabilitation if necessary. We can start a scholarship fund. We can offer career counseling and interview practice and resume building. Or we can help them organize and stay safe so they don’t end up with pimps. They just need help, and money can provide a lot of that.”

He bobs his head, clearly interested. “So where does the money come from?”

“Philanthropists and investments. Between Silver and I, our network is pretty vast. A lot of the donors will likely prefer to remain anonymous because of the nature of it, but we only need a couple powerful people that would speak up and draw attention. If they say it’s ok to care, it’s ok to care. Julia Granger and Christian Becker could be those people.”

Shawn cracks a smile. “So where are you in all this?”

Mia smiles back, infected by the pride written all over his face. “Silver and I are finalizing the paperwork for the creation of the non-profit. We’ll start approaching investors formally when I get home.”

Shawn ducks his head, turning his enormous, goofy smile down at his feet. “That’s incredible, Mia.”

His voice is gentle, touched. She tingles all over. She wants to run into his arms just to feel them around her again. She locks her own around her chest instead.

“Th-thank you. It’s been a long time coming.”

They lock eyes again. The air sizzles.

Mia smiles sadly. The silence is pregnant with potential headlines written about the Canadian golden boy loving the whore who wants to help the whores. Shawn scrabbles for words to fight them off but comes up choked and huffing breath.

He watches her disappear outside, heading for the vineyard.

The bottoms of Mia’s feet are nearly black. She takes a sick sort of pleasure in it. It makes her feel like a kid again, she guesses. Reminds her of chasing Peter around the gazebo, skinning knees, playing “scuba divers” in the pool while their family ate and drank and sang, happier in Ravello than they ever were in New Jersey.

She sits on the swing beneath the pergola, listening to him sing now. The house is so much quieter than it used to be, but no less filled with love. It’s a different kind of love. And despite their desperation to beat it away, it gets stronger every second. Shawn is the strong one, the brave one, she thinks, letting it into his heart before she could.

Because it’s not like he’s not scared. She knows he is. She can hear it in his voice and see it in the way he holds himself around her. He can’t know what would happen if they made it real -- could they last? Could they manage to see past all the bullshit the papers would surely print and hold on? If they did, would their love be worth anything after all the bulletholes and sharp words?

She hugs her knees to her chest and closes her eyes, leaning into his melody. She has the song memorized now. He keeps playing it the same way like he’s planning on changing something but never does. She already knows it’s perfect.

It’s a love song about tortured yearning, a hidden love, a love that’s bursting, searching for the sunlight. Mia thinks it’s his best ever. She considers herself biased.

After the sun sets, she heads inside. He’s not really playing anymore, just kind of plucking away. She needs to think about getting dinner ready. He’s sweet, offering to cook, since she does so much of it, but she really loves cooking Italian food with Italian ingredients in Italy and won’t think of wasting an opportunity. Plus, she still loves taking care of him.

The stairs to the wine cellar are cool, worn stone. The cellar is built into the foundation of the house, which was once part of a fortress that stood on their property in the 11th century. Now lined with shelves of hundreds of bottles of every variety of Italian wine, it’s one of Mia’s favorite spots.

His footsteps are quiet, too. He’s adopted her barefoot lifestyle. He stops at the bottom of the stairs.

Facing the wall of dolcettos from the 80s, Mia twirls a finger around a protruding bottle, covered in dust, with a foil cap.

“I used to hide down here when Peter and I played hide and seek. For some reason he never thought to look down here. I always thought it was so obvious.”

Shawn steps closer, hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders slightly hunched.

“Maybe he wanted to let you win.”

Mia smirks, looking over her shoulder at him. “Maybe.”

She turns, her arms crossed behind her back, leaning against a shelf. He fixes his eyes on hers, biting the inside of his lip.

“I’m not… I mean, I’m not saying it would be easy,” Shawn murmurs, rubbing at the back of his sunburnt neck, “I know better than anyone how it all works. I don’t want you to think I’m just ready to throw us both to the wolves. I wouldn’t do that to you or to us. I just want to talk about it, for real. I… I know we’re worth it, honey.”

Mia’s chest inflates. She tilts her eyes up at the low ceiling. Her tears start hot and fast.

“I could be the thing that ruins everything you worked so hard for. I don’t want that for either of us. I’m not sorry about who I am or what I’ve done, despite what I’ve said. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to be ripped apart publicly for it. That kind of attention puts more pressure on a relationship than either of us is really prepared for. You have to know that.”

Shawn nods slowly. “I do. I know. I don’t want that for you or for me. But I don’t think that’s the only outcome possible. I think this would take a lot of thought and discussion about what we’re both comfortable with. And it’s going to take some of both of us… letting go a little. Which I know isn’t your favorite thing.” He looks at her pointedly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

Mia chuckles for the first time in days. “Point taken.”

Shawn senses cracks in the veneer with the way she’s looking at him now, like she actually might be considering it, all of it. For him. With him.

He takes a chance, and takes her hand.

“And the most important thing is we go at our own pace. We… I mean, obviously, we’ve done and seen a lot already. And I know I have so much left to learn about you. We can focus on that first, just getting to know each other more. I know how to make a relationship really loud, but I know how to keep it quiet, too. If that’s what you want.”

She looks down at their entwined fingers. She blinks quickly and feels her heart rate pick up, like her body knows something her mind hasn’t decided yet. She swallows and looks back up at him.

“I’ve never been both Penny and Mia with one person before. Because I know I am both. Penny’s as much a part of me as Mia is. I got good at letting them share my body because they never inhabited it at the same time. I’m still trying to figure out how that’s supposed to work. How I’m going to be caretaker and businesswoman, domme and girlfriend. I don’t know how to be someone who wants to be honest and upfront about my history and also wants a big white wedding and a couple kids. So if I don’t know how to do that, be that, how can you know and love that about me?”

Shawn’s smile is cautious but warm. He scoops up her other hand and cradles them close to his chest. He’s not afraid of showing her how his heart is clanging around in his chest. She’s had a piece of it in her body for a while now.

“Because it’s you, Mi. Whether or not you’ve meant to, you’ve let me know both. I’ve loved both this whole time. I just want the chance to be there with you as you figure it out.”

Mia looks up at him. She thinks about the night they met -- watching him come completely undone, taking a sip from his glass, waking up to see him slam his eyes shut to pretend he wasn’t watching her. She sees the same look of wonder in his eyes now as he looks down at her, all of her. Mia always knew she was worth loving. Having someone else figure that out was always the part she wasn’t sure of. But she’s sure now. He is, too.

Mia pulls her hands from his, sliding them up his chest. She plucks at the curls at the back of his neck, tugging him closer as she presses back against the shelf. Shawn’s breath hitches in his chest. His hands fall to her hips.

Mia nods, no words of protest left. His lips are gentle against hers, confident and calm. She lets him take the lead this time.

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

Grazie mille 💜

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bookandcover · 3 years

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I feel I need to start this writing response with several context points, in the synergistic space among which I’ll frame my analysis of this book.

Context 1: I almost didn’t read this book. I wasn’t sure I wanted to and whether I would be comfortable reading it. This was because of limited context about the book itself, paired with reading JK Rowling’s Twitter comments from last year. I did not like nor agree with what JK Rowling said on Twitter adjacent to topics of transgender identity and experiences. Her comments made me unhappy and uncomfortable, and I’ve thought about her comments a lot because they came from someone I respected and admired. Her first comment I saw—questioning the title of an article about providing accessible products for “those who menstruate” (an area of need during the pandemic)—seemed simply ignorant to me, not intended to be cruel nor targeted. But her subsequent actions—arguing with others on Twitter, defending her original point—seemed to reveal a narrow-mindedness, self-superiority, and unwillingness to listen to others who know what they’re talking about. This approach (basically the Twitter-tantrum) is one that I feel sensitive to (it reminds me, in the worst way, of the behavior of our recent ex-President on the same platform…)

Context 2: After witnessing the Twitter-tantrum, I heard this book included a transgender serial killer. That did not seem like a good look on someone who had made ignorant and stubborn comments on Twitter about transgender identities: creating one (1) transgender character and making that character a villain. This is why I was hesitant about reading this book.

Context 3: I read a lot of books. I believe that you do not need to agree with someone to read what they have to say. If we agreed with everyone we read, we would not read in a way that expands our minds and adds nuance to our own views. Do I also fundamentally believe that we should not financially support nor enable those who are racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, and who use their platforms to spread hatred? Yes, I believe this strongly. I also believe that all of us are racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, and many other things we’ve been trained by society to be (there are, of course, significant degrees within this). Yet, I believe we are capable of growth, of learning, of compassion with each other and with ourselves. While JK Rowling’s comments and what I had heard about this book made me uncomfortable, I was still open to reading it. I recognize that this is, in big part, because I was not as hurt by her comments as others must have been.

Context 4: This book does not seem to include a transgender character. The serial killer turns out to be a relatively minor character (compared to my expectations for his role). He is not transgender. He is always masculine gendered. He occasionally dresses as a woman in order to approach women in a non-threatening way, in the process of kidnapping them. He is presented as smart, strategic, and an advanced planner, and his women’s garments are described as part of that strategy and not part of his identity (although, now I’m wondering whether JK Rowling thinks this does mean the character is transgender??) Dennis Creed also fools others beyond his victims with his occasional disguises used when kidnapping women. A bystander in the case Robin and Strike investigate does not intervene nor call the police when she sees two women struggling in the street, unlike how she might if she saw an assumed “man” struggling with an assumed “woman.” Yes, this serial killer’s attack strategy seems to connect to gender assumptions we make about others, and there’s the possibility that this portrayal of a man dressing as a woman in order to attack women could be interpreted as complaint against allowing transgender women into female safe spaces, like bathrooms (I felt like this would be a stretch based on only the text, but I definitely wonder given Rowling’s larger commentary). However, I feel that if I read this book without knowing it was written by JK Rowling, I wouldn’t have found anything particularly objectionable in it, nor would I have thought it was commenting on transgender identity and experiences.

None of this context is to say that I condone JK Rowling’s words on Twitter in any way, shape, or form; what she said was unacceptable, hurtful, and ignorant. She ought to have apologized and then promptly educated herself. But I was surprised that this book was pigeon-holed (I felt) in its tagline. I can’t imagine that the internet uproar that the book included a transgender serial killer was the conclusion of someone who actually read the book (and I find that surface-level assumption about a book concerning in its own way—the internet loves to flock to the sensationalist version of any half-truth). I didn’t come to an easy conclusion, in spite of this, about whether I ought to condone the book itself. JK Rowling’s comments made me not want to support her financially by buying the book, nor emotionally by reading it and spending my time on it.

Moving now past this larger context and my conflicting feelings about the ethics of reading this book, I did find this book a bit underwhelming. This book is LONG (927 pages) and I felt it could have benefited from stricter editing in some places. It didn’t really feel that long, as it has an, at times, nearly chatty tone—the characters move smoothly through their lives and conversations—and it’s easy reading, easy pacing, easy to go along with. This had the effect, to me, of making the book a bit flat. Not flat in a boring way, because it was easy to read and I kept just coasting through it, but flat in an emotional way. The part that got my heart racing the most was definitely the scene when Robin, in disguise, is nearly caught by Luca Ricci when he visits his gangster father in an up-scale nursing home. I clenched my hands around the book in fear throughout this scene, feeling like Luca Ricci was walking behind me, looking at me, as he loomed near Robin. It was harrowing.

The relatability of Robin is definitely the ongoing high point of this series for me. As another thirty-year-old tall blond woman who is way more ready to prioritize career than family, it’s not hard to see myself in Robin. I love her resilience and her quiet confidence. I love her increasing conviction that she is being her true self through her work. I love her struggle against the expectations of others, when she so clearly knows herself. It’s easy for me to want to emulate her. On top of her character, her job is one that’s also easy for me to romanticize. I have always loved mysteries, spies, disguises, complex human psychology, word puzzles, and piecing together hints and evidence. I loved whooping my family members’ butts in Clue as a kid. I love traveling and anything I see as an adventure (growing up, I was a huge dare devil—throwing myself off high dives, picking the scariest rides at amusement parks—until I got hurt a lot as a teenager and mellowed out some). I was definitely driven to romanticize some of these activities because my parents and sister were all deeply afraid of heights, which I found funny. Robin’s professional driving skills is about all it took for me to gasp aloud in awe and admiration. (I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined myself as Robin when I’m driving my Toyota Corolla, which is not a glamorous car, but mine is a glamorous COLOR, which is why I picked it). Robin has an awesome job, and she tackles it with grace, and the more strength she assembles, the more self-conviction, the more I love and admire her.

Robin and Strike’s characters are going through one of the slowest slow burns I’ve ever read in a book series. And, while I love a good slow-burn romance, I definitely have some mixed feelings about this one. Item 1: Earlier on in the series, I didn’t want Robin’s character to have a romantic plot line with Strike because of all the cool other things going on with her character development. I think I’m over that, especially in this book, because it’s increasingly clear here how well Robin and Strike’s particularities complement each other. Item 2: Are they better as friends? This seems to be the big central question of this book. They’ve gotten much better at expressing how much they mean to each other. Strike tells Robin that she’s his best friend (this was a great scene) and Robin’s confidence grows through understanding how central she is to functioning of the agency. She learns more about how she needs to operate differently than Strike as a leader within this space (yay for the scene where Morris is fired!) She both emulates and admires Strike, but also increasingly carves her own path. She doesn’t need to equalize their relationship, but she does need to equalize them in the eyes of others, and we see that characters from Morris to the unbearable C.B. Oakden undermine Robin’s equality by focusing on her relative youth and her gender. Would a romance between Robin and Strike reverse some of their own productive effort to equalize their relationship? This seems to be something both characters fear, as well. I do love seeing these two characters grow together—it seems like they’re working out each other’s love languages, understanding how best to express the other’s worth and their own care for each other in a way that is understood and appreciated by them both (there’s a big growth between Strike getting Robin flowers for her 29th birthday and taking her for drinks at the Ritz for her 30th). And this growth actually seems to form the backbone of the novel.

Is this, though, a relationship growth that is inherently romantic? The line seems to be slipping closer and closer to “yes.” I find loving platonic friendships to be very rewarding and very worth examining in literature, and I love a good slow burn, but something about the inconclusive status of this relationship is starting to wear on me. I think I wish it would either settle on the platonic side clearly, so we could explore the interesting things about that space, or progress on the romantic side, which has been a long time coming. I think part of my frustration here is that the growth of this relationship is, as I’ve said, the true arc of this novel. The change in these characters IS the arc because there’s not another one, and I think this deficiency contributes to the flatness of this book for me.

My favorite of the five Cormoran Strike books was number four, so I do think part of the anticlimactic feel of this firth book was the experience of reading this following book 4. Lethal White, as explained in my post on this book from a few years back, felt like it blazed new ground to me, in terms of what a murder mystery novel could do and be, and how it could unfold. I had a lot of sympathy for that murderer. The reveal was not about cracking the case, so much as it was about understanding human experience and context. Trouble Blood, though, felt reminiscent of book 2 as a narrative arc. I wasn’t particularly engaged by the reveal of the murderer—What was new about this character as the murderer? What could this show or explore? These felt like dead end questions to me. I was also confused by this character’s acceptance of their upcoming very public trial when they had so successfully enjoyed satisfaction from the shadows for decades. Their motivations, too, seemed under-explored, put aside as the fanatic behavior of one person when it seemed there could perhaps be threads to comment on there. The emotional arc between Robin and Strike didn’t seem particularly interwoven with their systematic solving of this cold case. Therefore, the joy of this plot had to be in the reveal itself, in the unspooling of the mystery…and this one just didn’t do it for me. I know the bar is high—from The Cuckoo’s Calling onward, we knew Robert Galbraith could spin a tightly woven tale—but what’s the point if all that this is is tightly (well, no longer so tightly) woven plot?

Robin feels an emotional connection with Margot Bamborough and I think we’re asked by the book to care about her, an ambitious woman who worked toward her dreams only to have these cut short, but she just never seemed that vivid to me. Less vivid than say Pat, the opinionated office secretary who I liked a lot. The best of the book was in the subtleties—Pat’s change of heart about Strike, Strike’s relationship with Joan as she’s dying, Strike fully letting go of his emotional ties to Charlotte (I guess that was something we really needed to see happen, him letting her go and actually changing his phone number), and Robin and Strike’s conversation where they affirm their best friend status (very wholesome). Overall, I wanted more from this book. It felt very realistic, very “slice of life,” but I’m not sure we come to the murder mystery genre for realism (more drama please!) But the book was nevertheless enjoyable, in a smooth way, like a story a friend tells you—easy to hear and to internalize, with two main characters you want to root for, but more out of familiarity and habit than because of what’s at stake for them in Troubled Blood.

#troubled blood #robert galbraith #jk rowling #TW: transphobia is mentioned/discussed #book reviews #cormoran strike #robin ellacott #robin ellacott: the reason I'm still reading these books #sixth book of 2021

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sapphicsylvari · 4 years

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The Rise of the Dread Fleet Pt. 5 - Rage

ON AO3

I’m participating in Camp NaNo this month!

@tyrias-library Also tagging my readers: @skrittilicious, @omnivoroustree thank you guys for supporting me <3

The room is quiet when Vaixx enters. Heads turn to face him as he strides to the opposite end of the space and takes his seat. He's assembled his new fleet in one of the high-end taverns Quincy owns, and reserved for him. The scent of alcohol and seawater hangs in the air and Vaixx lets his gaze sweep the room. Sylvari. Charr. Norn. Humans. All much bigger, stronger than him, yet he keeps his head held high, steps onto the bar and crosses his arms.

“I have promised you great success, greater than you could ever hope to achieve on your own.” he opens, his voice dominating the silent room. “Today, I make good on my words.” He pauses, to observe the glint in his audience's eyes, then smiles, baring his teeth at them.

“I have received word on an Inquest supply fleet's course, from Rata Sum to their outposts near Mount Maelstrom.” he continues. “We can expect heavy resistance from them, but you all know the kind of cargo they carry.”

“Slaves.” answers the Sylvari closest to him. “They carry test subjects. Do you imply we become traffickers?” “No.” Vaixx hurries to counter. “We will liberate any live cargo they may have. I'm talking about their machinery, and fuel for machinery at their outposts. Expensive, powerful items to barter away, or perhaps... utilize.” “I don't want no magic garbage.” the Norn next to the Sylvari says. “I want... I dunno. Guns.” “Oh, they will have guns, Captain Frostbite.” Vaixx assures her. “Magical guns, even. You'll get your fill, that I can promise.”

Raxxi rolls her eyes. “Look, mates. We can speculate the yield to death if you want to, but the point is: Inquest rich. Us poor. Let's get to the specifics.” “Thanks, Raxxi.” Vaixx says. “I want you all ready to sail by sunrise next morning. They will have three cargo ships, with two smaller escort vessels each. The cargo vessels do not have any weaponry, if we disable the escorts, they will be defenseless.” “And then it's just a matter of squishing a few, tiny little bugs.” growls Captain Frostbite. “Leave that to us, Admiral.” “Excellent. Get some rest and prepare your crews. Until we take out the escorts, this will no be easy.”

–

Raya has been circling the stolen ship ever since it embarked from Lion's Arch, scouting ahead and warning Asha of dangers on her way. In doing so, she had been moving quite far from her, utilizing all of her speed underwater. This isn't anything special for Raya, nor is it in need of thanks or praise. Although only two members of this crew know of her existence, they are her new swarm. And Swarmmates look out for one another.

A disturbance in the tides draws Raya's attention. She loops in on herself to check if Asha's ship had caught up with her, but her keel is far out of sight. Focusing, Raya pinpoints the source ahead of her and dives down, further into the depths to conceal herself as she approaches.

While the waters of the ocean may become black at a certain depth for land-dwelling creatures, Raya's eyes pierce this darkness effortlessly, allowing her to lurk like a predator on those that dare leave dry land and enter her domain.

Ships. Seven of them, and large ones at that. Raya has spent enough time preying on sailors to gauge the level of danger they pose to her. They're moving fast, riding the waves with the wind in their favor, clearly with a destination in mind and Raya listens for their voices, muffled by the water, carefully rising back up, following the slowest of them.

“...Little shit got a point, you know?” she heard a masculine voice speak. “They might be tiny, but they got all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. We really shouldn't take this lightly, Captain Frostbite.” Another voice joins in, feminine, but no less rough. “I hate to admit that Vaixx's right, but he is.” the woman says. “Fine. Double lookout shifts. I wanna know what they got before we reach 'em.”

Vaixx. Raya's fingers curl into claws. She remembers that name. He is the murderer, the villain that attempted to murder Asha. The scum that threw a helpless little girl into the unforgiving, ice-cold depths on the sea. The look of panic on the girl's face flashes before Raya's eyes, and the scars on her wrists burn with a familiar phantom pain, of coarse rope biting into her skin that isn't there anymore.

The burn in her lungs. The rage she felt when the waters swallowed her up, powerful enough to create the creature she is now. Raya knows, at her core, she is just that – a vengeful spirit. But now, it is no longer herself she is avenging, oh no. Her rage has a brand new target.

Her tail whips, propelling her upward further, until her face breaks the surface. She slams her claws into the side of the ship and lets it drag her along, her glare trained upward.

The female Captain has moved away, and Raya heard her issuing order from afar, only the man that had spoken to her before remains, glancing into the distance with a woeful expression on his face. He's large and hairy, his braided beard reaching down to his navel, over his exposed chest, winding markings adorning his body. Raya has seen his kind before. Bigger and stronger than humans, but that does not deter her.

She opens her mouth and produces that dreadful melody in her throat, a wordless hum, only audible to her target, caressing his very soul and drawing his attention to her. His gaze flickers from the horizon to the waters down below. Pupils widen when he sees Raya, this frail, delicate girl clinging to his ship, her skin as white as porcelain, making her look just as fragile. He lifts one hand from the railing, not once breaking eye contact with her, mouth hanging open, entranced by her spell, as Raya reaches upward, toward him.

He cannot reach her hand that she offers to him so invitingly, so he leans in further and further, struggling to close the distance, but Raya makes no efforts to meet him halfway, instead, her song reaches its crescendo, as the Norn inches closer, getting on his toes, forgetting balance, safety, logic. Everything he sees is that pleading hand, reaching for his.

Without halting her deadly song, Raya finally jolts upward to meet the Norn's hand, her claws digging into his palm, but the pain does not phase him, as his blood drips down on that pretty face, painting crimson on her porcelain skin. Then, Raya lets herself fall, pulling the man down into the depths with her.

Once submerged, her song stops, and the Norn comes to, eyes now wide in panic as he realizes the situation he's in, flails and kicks at her, pulling uselessly against her grip, but now he's in Raya's domain.

Raya moves her grip to his shoulders and pushes him further down, making sure the flaming hatred in her eyes in the last thing he sees, before she lunges at him and buries her teeth in his throat.

Blood spills from the wound and Raya's jaw locks on her prey, the pair is clouded in red, descending deeper into the darkness. As he drowns and bleeds out in Raya's arms, the Norn's desperate attempts to free himself die down, his life force flowing into the Siren's being.

As his last heartbeat sounds, Raya lets go and watches his body sink until even she can't see him anymore.

He will be lucky if his corpse washes ashore, as Raya knows that the Sea does not release those her depth has claimed.

A life taken, Raya's rage as simmered down to a small flame, just enough to keep her warm. She decides to follow the fleet.

#my post #gw2 fanfiction #pirate saga #My writing #the rise of the dread fleet

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screensirenfic · 5 years

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Black Leather - Chapter 8

I’d had to wait an additional twenty minutes at Steve’s house, because despite his near fanatical dedication to Farah Faucett; his hair had continued to fall flat.

Lucky for him, Nancy was there, otherwise I would’ve broken down the damn bathroom door and shaved the birds nest off myself.

Eventually; he’d managed to get his hair to a reasonable level of poofiness, and we’d gotten to Tina’s just an hour after the start time on the flyer; fashionably late without it being too busy to make an entrance.

Sitting in the backseat of Steve’s thankfully spacious BMW gave me front row seats to the newfound awkwardness between Hawkins most beloved royal couple.

Despite Steve’s insistence that everything was fine between the pair and that Nancy was just still upset about Barb; I couldn’t help but feel there was a bigger void between them than that. One that was gradually getting bigger by the day, judging by the near complete lack of conversation for the entire car ride over.

He wouldn’t even let me talk to her for him; insisting he could handle it himself, but Steve really didn’t know girls like I did.

There was something big on Nancy’s mind; something that parties and corny jokes alone wasn’t gonna fix.

“That is a lot of carnage...” Steve remarked, drawing my eyes from the world’s slowest relationship train wreck, to the much more literal train wreck outside my window.

The word “carnage” was putting it lightly.

The party had already spilled out onto the street; bodies in varying stages on unconsciousness littering the front lawn like the vast amount of beer cans and bottles surrounding them. Those that were conscious were reveling in a variety of vices, from cigarettes to cheap booze to near all out sex on the AstroTurf. High school partying at its finest.

“Half the school must be here!” Remarked Nancy; eyes wide at the near renaissance painting of absolute debauchery outside.

“You got that right...” Agreed Steve as he slowed his car to park; and if Hawkins High’s keg king said that it was a rager, then she must be right.

Steve eventually found a space just outside Tina’s house; surprising considering the sheer amount of people present, however I guess most people considered a night in Hawkins PD’s cells too steep a price to pay for one night of drinking and dancing.

We got out of the car, and already the music hit our ears at full blast; someone’s parents were gonna get a lot of noise complaints in the morning.

“We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off” was the song of choice, but clearly the song’s message fell on deaf ears, as most of the boys were down to shorts and skins, and the girls in even less.

Steve led the way through the highway to hell, ringing the doorbell to Tina’s, which chimed out in an almost comedic rendition of “Messiah” considering the situation.

Moments later, the door swung open to a smiling Tina, dressed in a skimpy leotard and fishnets, in what must’ve been a cat costume considering the black velvet ears in her perm.

“Steve! Nancy! Love the costumes!” She exclaimed with such enthusiasm; it must’ve been partially forced.

“Risky Business; right?” She asked, taking note on the pair’s cute matching black and white combo.

“And Lola! You’re..?” Her ever expanding smile faltered as she struggled to work out what exactly a tartan miniskirt and a Bon Jovi tank top had to do with Halloween.

“A vampire.” I replied with a fake smile, showing off the plastic fangs glued to my canines. She wasn’t the only one who could feign enthusiasm.

“Well; you all look so great...” She spieled; that plastic smile returning even quicker than it fell.

“Why don’t you come on in and get a drink...” She beckoned us in as she led us further into her temporary den of teenage rebellion.

Costume party could be used very loosely to describe what Tina’s Halloween party was.

People wore costumes alright; ones that made them look sexier, less restrained, more depraved. Anything from a pair of sunglasses, to an oversized bedsheet counted here; and trust me, someone had tried them all. My outfit honestly looked like a nun’s in comparison to some of the other girls.

Since when did lingerie count as a Halloween costume?

“Looks like a good party.” Steve remarked, though I wondered if it was only for our host’s sake.

“Yeah. If you like cheap liquor and herpes...” I muttered, earning myself a chuckle from him; so we were on the same page.

I glanced around the room, unable to believe people had managed to get this fucked up in an hour. There had to be some pregaming, or a high amount of class C drugs involved; definitely drugs, judging by the smoke in the air.

I was definitely gonna have to do the laundry before dad got home.

My eyes glanced over to the living room where some jock was spread out on the coffee table, whilst a line of cheerleaders did body shots off his chest.

I was definitely gonna need a drink to get through tonight.

“I’m gonna go grab a drink...” I told Steve, not waiting for a response as I slipped through the crowd towards the kitchen and what would hopefully be semi drinkable booze.

—————————————————

The liquor was shitty; the punch wasn’t much better, but still better to suffer the taste and be drunk, than suffer the company sober.

God knew there was nothing worse than being the only sober one in a crowd of drunks.

Steve had long abandoned me for his princess, in yet another attempt to drown an underlying uneasiness with cheap alcohol and fake happiness. Jonathan was a no show, but there was no surprises there, and I was kinda wishing I’d done the same, even if it’d cost me my left ear to Steve’s nagging.

The only consolation was that Billy Hargrove hadn’t spoken to me once. It was quite possible he hadn’t even noticed me; he was so sucked into the superficial cloud of party popularity that seemed to circle him like a storm.

Every girl in their fake leather biker boots and discount rack leather jackets was hanging off him, in a poor attempt to act as my replacement; as if being the resident basket case was as simple as smudging on a bit of eyeliner and smoking more Camels than usual.

I don’t think Billy was convinced; his mind so preoccupied with stealing Steve’s crown that he didn’t have time to think about getting laid.

No doubt when he came back down to earth; I’d be the first person he’d have in mind to help with that little problem.

But for now; my night looked relatively sleaze free. No one had tried to hit on me since Billy had taken an interest; probably valued their molars too much for that.

It’s strange to think that despite my total disdain for Billy and the clear message that I’d rather eat my own fingernails than date him; people still acted like he had some sort of “reservation” over me, as if I was unofficially “his girl”.

Right now, the man in question was challenging the royal reign of keg king; a position previously held by Steve, before Nancy had him saddled and bridled.

Even I had to admit; Billy Hargrove made quite the Lancelot to Steve’s Arthur. Billy had Steve in term of upper body strength; his keg stand lasting twice as long as Steve’s had, without any of the signature unsteadiness.

The keg court already loved him, counting down with unrivalled enthusiasm and chanting Billy’s name as if he’d just won a championship belt.

He’d even managed to steal Steve’s right hand man; Tommy H naturally taking his place behind the new alpha male, reminding me of a snappy hyena at his heels.

Billy’s keg stand finished on a impressive count of forty two; him touching ground soon after and spraying the crowd with lukewarm beer.

“That’s how you do it; Hawkins! That’s how you do it!” He yelled triumphantly, in that moment seeming more of a celebrity than the cocky asshole with a Camaro.

Even I had to admit that Billy seemed different tonight.

Maybe it was the punch talking, or the overall excitement of the crowd as they practically worshipped him like a god, but he just seemed larger than life.

He’d styled his hair different; his curls actually holding shape, rather than just falling into a dirty blonde mess. He also followed the crowd in terms of forgoing a shirt; just a leather jacket draped over his impressively built torso.

I could see why the other girls went crazy over him. Everything about him screamed dominance and raw testosterone.

Now Billy was walking my direction and I was running low on punch and confidence.

Yes; originally I’d planned to play the role of tease tonight, and drive Billy crazy with what he could see, but couldn’t touch. But he was forty two seconds of beer down and pumped up on the adoration of half the school, so I was having second thoughts.

Sober Billy was fun to tease, if not a little over persistent; drunk Billy was an unfamiliar entity that could turn out to be downright dangerous.

So I made my exit, slipping back into the crowd and relative anonymity.

—————————————

The kitchen looked like it had become the first fatality of what was sure to be a deadly night of binge drinking and bad decisions.

The tile floor now closely resembled a a swimming pool, complete with indeterminate objects that I had no intention of inspecting swimming on the surface.

The kitchen counters looked like the world’s largest game of beer pong, cups of various colours and fullness on every available inch of clear space. I didn’t even want to know what was in some of them; the smell of them strong enough to hit you from across the room.

I’d managed to find Steve and Nancy again earlier, though it was clear Nancy was well in her cups, and Steve was trying desperately to stop her from becoming any deeper.

I’d managed to convince her into trying something that didn’t have enough of an alcohol content to sedate a horse, but it seemed Tina had stockpiled just as many mixers as booze; though the former seemed vastly less popular.

I made my way back through the thick of the crowd, wanting to make sure I got Nancy something that’d actually stay down, rather than end up painted across the front of her sweater. I could already see the top of Steve’s hair, rising high above the crowd like a homing beacon; at least it wasn’t completely useless.

“Hey Nance; do you want soda or...” I began, threading through the crowd towards them, when I suddenly realised they weren’t alone.

I felt like I’d walked on set in the middle of one of those Wild West movies my dad liked to watch; the sheriff facing off against the stranger in black.

Billy stood nearly chest to chest with Steve, looking as if he was moments away from flooring him, but at the sound of my voice his focus shifted; his demeanour no less predatory.

“Lola...” He purred, with a smirk that made me feel like he was undressing me with words alone. Up close I could see the evidence of his keg stand running down his tanned chest; slick trails threading between his taught abs.

Still; I kept stony, not trusting Billy in the slightest.

“Hargrove.” I spat; arms crossed over my chest in a way hoped said back off, but may have came across as nervous.

His smirk spread across his face; eyes falling to trail over my body, stopping at all the strategic points along the way.

”Like the costume...” He commented, wetting his lips as if I was desert on a platter. “Just like I imagined.”

I could already figure out exactly what he’d imagined, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t include clothes.

“Thanks.” I forced a smile faker than Tina’s attitude; dry and bitter just like half the booze on offer at this shithole of a party.

Still; Steve wasn’t gonna just stand around whilst Billy stared at me as if I was something from his private Playboy collection; the usurped king was instead experiencing a serious case of white knight syndrome.

“Hey; why don’t you back the hell off...” Steve warned, stepping forwards between me and Billy, so Billy could no longer blatantly leer at me.

It didn’t put his successor off in the slightest; Billy stepping past Steve as if he was an inanimate object to continue to proposition me.

“Why don’t you come and have a dance with me?” He asked with one of those smiles that made Tina turn into a shivering puddle of hormones.

“I’ll pass.” I replied with another dry smile, then turned to make a swift exit before he could come up with another bullshit reason to waste my time and my patience.

“Come on; sweetheart...” He purred, and I felt his hand lock around my wrist; not painfully so, but just firm enough to tell me that I’d leave when he let me, and not a moment sooner.

I gave him a dark look, because really? He was gonna try this with me?

But before I could give him the verbal lashing of a lifetime; Steve beat me to it, ripping Billy’s hand from my wrist with more force than I thought was possible for the doe eyed brunette.

“Dude; she said no!” Steve said, and despite his gentle chastisement; his face and tone told him that he wasn’t messing around.

But neither was Billy. He turned to Steve; his former aggression returning as quickly as it left.

“I’m sorry; I wasn’t aware you were her boyfriend...” Spat Billy; already ready to open an entire new can of worms and with it, let out a whole lot of alcohol infused testosterone.

Steve wasn’t gonna take it; though sometimes I really wish he would.

I really didn’t need saving; I’m goddamn Lola Hopper. Boys like Billy Hargrove should shit themselves when I approached.

But Steve; always the hero, came at him with all the verbal reasoning that Billy had no patience for.

“Just because she’s not my girlfriend; doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you drag her around like-“

But Billy truly didn’t have the patience or the mental capacity. He was half a keg in and looking for a fight.

Steve never got to finish his argument; Billy slamming him hard against the wall like some freshman, and not the previous reigning keg king.

“Excuse me?” Billy growled; his voice low and threatening, and really doing more for me than his sleazy flirting, but I had more important things to worry about than how Billy’s temper was a turn on!

My best friend was about to become an interestingly shaped stain on Tina’s parents’ wallpaper.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Harrington?” Billy’s voice dropped another octave; his body inches away from Steve’s and although he didn’t touch him,

I knew he was seconds away from knocking the noble idiot unconscious.

Even then, Steve couldn’t take a hint. Always honourable; he was prepared to go down fighting, but I wasn’t ready to see him become a martyr.

“Billy; I’ve changed my mind...” I quickly thought on my feet, slipping between the two of them in the vain hope that the possibility of physical contact on the table was enough to shake Billy out of his rage.

“I think I want that dance...” I forced a pretty smile, grabbing his wrist softly in the hope he might unclench his fists in favour of touching me again.

It wasn’t working. Billy was far too worked up; it was if I was invisible. So I moved a bit closer; letting my body brush up against his as I slipped my hand down to grab his.

“Come on; Billy. He’s not worth it...” I whispered; my voice just husky enough to hold a little promise.

“But I might be...” I gave him an impish smile; all raw sexuality and desire, one that I’d of previously thrown up at the prospect of exchanging with Billy Hargrove.

To my great relief; he relaxed, his shoulders lowering and his jaw unclenching. His hand wrapped around my own, squeezing with just a little bit of pressure; a reluctant retreat on the condition that I upheld my end of the bargain.

I took him by the hand and pulled him away from Steve, heading towards the dance floor and hopefully putting as much distance between the two alphas as possible.

But even now; Steve wouldn’t relent, stepping forward ready to defend my honour.

“Lola; you don’t have to...” He petitioned, as if I wasn’t doing this to protect him.

“It’s fine, Steve.” I reassured him, making the words more forceful than necessary in case his dumb overprotective brain continued to reject self preservation.

But of course; my pushy prospective dance partner couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Yeah, Steve; it’s fine.” He mimicked; his smirk so full of venom, I’m surprised it didn’t melt his pretty face off.

At last, Steve relented, letting me lead my volatile pretty boy onto the dance floor without blood on his knuckles.

————————————

Surprisingly; Billy was actually a semi decent dance partner. He kept rhythm well enough and gave me enough room that I didn’t feel he was trying to hump me in front of the whole school.

We were two songs down; “Dancing With Myself” pumping through the overdriven sound system, and I hadn’t once accidentally-on-purpose tried to step on Billy’s toes.

If I was to be painfully honest, and believe me; admitting this was painful, I was actually enjoying dancing with Billy.

When he wasn’t so heavily focused on appearing the bad boy, he was actually pretty cool. He smiled more often; a genuine warm smile that was nothing like that sleazy grin he used on me all the time. He was actually cute.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked after spinning me under his arm for the third time tonight; and I’m not sure if it was the dizziness or the alcohol, but I was actually beginning to feel giddy.

“Yeah; why?” I replied with a smile; my gaze getting lost in those bright baby blues that were staring at me with something other than lust.

“It’s just; it’s been half an hour and you haven’t threatened to shiv me with a beer bottle...” He joked; yeah, actually joked, with a wide smile on his face.

And God! His face just lit up when he was being genuinely funny and not an ass; and for a split second I was hit with the almost uncontrollable urge to kiss him.

Almost uncontrollable. I reigned it in at the last minute; not trusting my tipsy brain to have that much control, at least not when it came to Billy Hargrove.

I bit my lip instead; feeling an honest to God blush spread across my cheeks.

“Shut up once in a while and it might happen more often...” I retorted, lowering my voice just enough that he could tell his joke hit right.

He just smiled, and my pulse just skipped another beat as he swept me into another spin; happy just to keep his body close to mine for the remainder of the night.

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