#so instead of faces its posture and hair colour and your glasses and the kind of fabric u like wearing that sticks for me 🙈

[cetaceans-pls]

hi! something i've always been curious about is your hc on how jason and bruce look? i mean like do you have any specific face claims, their hair, physique, all of that stuff?

hi anon! i might've mentioned before but i'm a little bit a lot bit face blind? so face claims are a bit beyond me 😔

that said, jason Absolutely has a white floof bc i love the concept of it. when i remember to, i also love incorporating his autopsy scar :') of course, his eyes are also lazarus-y green! he's built broad and strong, it's probably a bit of a struggle to touch his toes, but uhm his core is so solid he uhm doesn't get backpain even in real long haul flights!

i primarily write middle-aged bruce, so man has grey in his hair, and i think while he's faintly taller than jason jason is a tiny bit broader. and i think he's got kinda swollen hands on account of arthritis and breaking bones and arthritis from breaking bones. to compensate for this he always touches people really lightly somewhere covered in his day-to-day life, which id like to think comes off as hysterically flirty heh heh heh

i've come to the end of my short descriptions and i just realised i didn't mention faces once 🥺 i identify people more from their vibe and auxiliary particulars than their uhm actual faces, but hopefully these descriptions give some insight into what i got set up in my head!

[writings-by-blondie]

~If The Stars Could Speak~

Soap Mactavish x F!Reader (teaspoon of Angst)

She was way too good for him and he knew that yet he couldn't forget the way her (h/c) hair fell over her shoulders, her laugh and a bit cold, but glittery look of her (e/c) eyes when their gaze met for the first time..it was like he could see universe in them.

He was in cold, gloomy, Russia, on a mission that was to be last, scribbling down words on the peace of paper, counting down hours till he get to hold her forever...

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

His most trusting man, and friend, Simon and him decided to lay back and enjoy some free time they were granted away from their ever noisy and ever busy camp.

They were at downtown, walking and talking about how tonight is their night - they will leave job at office and they will just enjoy strong alcohol and good music.

The night was a bit chilly, but nothing unusual for the late September.

That just meant that John will finally have chance to wear that nice black spitfire jacket he bought not long ago, and he looked well in it.

As the two men walked they spotted the bar they wanted to be in for the rest of the night, right outside of it, sticking out like a sore thumb was parked some expensive car that John didn't know how to indenify as. He wasn't a big car head like his friend.

"Look at this mate. Its Porsche, bet some meat heads are in this place",

said Simon chucking and eyeing the car and tilting his head slowly towards the bar.

Mactavish smirked and pushed his friend gently as he started walking in, "You have a problem with that or you're just scared of guys who drive expensive cars, eh?".

Inside of the bar you and small group of your friends were in VIP lounge. Infront of you, on small glass table was a bucket filled with ice that kept some red bulls and couple of Baltica beers cold.

You were drinking Jack Daniels, your glass half full. Being tipsy already, you fake-laughed at some perverse joke friend next to you finished telling.

Tonight, you really felt down. Truth to be told, you've been feeling under the weather last couple of months, nothing seemed to go the right way and nothing you did could change that feeling. On top of that your stupid poosh boyfriend broke up with you over text last week, and even though you understood that your friends cared for you and wanted you to forget about that fool and enjoy yourself, you still couldn't shake away the bitterness and just wanted to curl away in your bed, eat some strawberry ice cream and watch ‘Casablanca’.

But here you were, in a black dress that glittered under the light, your hair styled in lazy but not messy curls, and your over-expensive white heels. You looked like the IT girl that every man would want for them selves, to put you on pedestal and admire you.

(Y/n) leaned back in the black leather seat before she took a deep sigh that was followed by pouting and throwing down rest of the Jack that was in her glass down her throat. It burned for a bit, but the sweet flavour of alcohol made her want to drink more, so she opened the half empty bottle and poured more of the honey-coloured liquid into her glass.

She leaned in close to her friend on the left and whispered,

"I need to go and check my make up. Save a seat for me, and dont touch my bottle, I will know if you do.",

you almost groaned last words since you knew well that your friends loved to mess with you.

The (h/c) girl now stood up, taking her light coloured purse that matched with her heels, in her hands and started walking towards the washroom of the bar.

The floor was wooden, hard wood, after all the bar was made to accommodate high class people and to draw in tourists who had a lot of money to spend. Her heels making a little bit noise as her steps collided with the floor. It was a southing sound, like when rain hits the metal.

Her hips swayed as her dress didn't quite hug her whole neatly shaped figure, so it swayed with her movements, glittering under the dim light of the noisy bar.

She had to watch every step since she felt that the alcohol was indeed kicking in, but the song playing on stereos drew her attention and just for a tiny moment she forgot completely that she had heels on.

"Shit-", you muttered loudly as your purse left your hands and you could see the dark wooden floor getting close to you now, but you weren't colliding with it, instead you felt stern grip on your waist, feeling the coldness of someones hand that went straight to your skin, under the dress. You furrowed eyebrows before looking up, facing a, without any exaggeration, handsomest man you ever laid eyes upon.

His eyes, blue as the sea in mid July in the noon, almost glittering like a waves when they shine under the hot sun. His smell now invaded your nostrils touching your senses, stimulating them, wanting more of it. It was pine mixed with old brand of ‘denim’, manly but still subtle, just enough.

He smiled at you softly looking into your eyes, not breaking eye contact once.

"Careful now lass, we don’t want any broken bones yet, the night is still young eh?..", he spoke with thick and extremely attractive (for some reason) Scottish accent and she took deep breath in, as the man slowly placed the girl in front of him back on her legs, parting his hand with her waist. The girl licked her lover lip, realizing now that she was blushing way more than it was appropriate for this kind of situation and softly muttered, "Sorry.. The heels..", under her breath before she walked pass the man and disappeared into woman's washroom.

Mactavish however trailed her with his eyes, her long and subtly toned legs, and the way the subtle cutout on her dress reviled a bit of her thigh. She was clearly in distress and he couldn't help but chuckle a bit to himself as he picked up her purse from the floor and sat down in the nearby booth with Simon.

"What the hell was that?", Riley said as he took off his black leather jacket, placing it next to him.

"It was like some scene out of those old movies mate. Its like, in that one moment, universe existed to put us together.", John smiled to himself, also placing his jacket next to him, being a bit surprised at his own words, he wasn't cheesy, but romantic? He was that.

And he would never let any of his friends know that since well, it was an army and he didn't need Ghost going around the base telling everyone that their captain was softie.

"Since when are you that cheeky eh? Maybe Price doesn't make you do enough pushups at morning." Simon smirked at his friend and raised his hand to call the bartender,

"Its a quote, some of us are literate cinema vise mate", Mactavish smirked back at him leaning over the table, trying to reach for his cigars in his back pocket, "But she is bonnie, nonetheless.".

In washroom you tried to steady your breathing. You put your hand on your chest and closed eyes, but the only thing you could see was the man's eyes and his face. Girl quickly opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in big mirror that was placed on black and white tiles. (Y/n) looked at her face, noticing few spots where her make up was messed up, she pouted a bit and reached down on the sink for her purse, but her palm was met only with cold marble sink.

You quickly shot your gaze towards your hand, with your eyebrows furrowed. Eyes darting across the sink, around it and eventually around the whole washroom then the realisation hit you like a heavy boulder- you dropped your purse when you tripped, when he grabbed you.

"For fucks sake..", you muttered under the breath. It was enough humiliating that probably whole bar watched you stumble around like a new born deer and almost kiss the floor, but now you had to go retrieve your purse that was probably still on the ground and go back to washroom again looking like a lost highschool girl on the party.

You shook your head and realised that stupid anxiety attack got your judgment clouded- people fall every day, and they drop stuff everyday too.

The girl now straighten her posture, fixed her hair a bit and opened the door, exiting the cool room she was in before heading to the booth were she dropped her purse, but to her surprise the purse was not on the floor instead she heard familiar thick accent from the booth next to where she was standing,

"Looking for this lass?", the man waved with her purse smiling at her with one of his brows raised, his friend watching her, waiting for her next move.

You swallowed a big gulp, approaching the booth were the men were sitting slowly, taking your purse from the blue eyed man,

"Yes, thank you. Saving me from embarrassment.. Very noble of you.", you said with a now confident voice, not breaking eye contact with him. There was something about him, something unexplainable. It was like that with every second she looked at his face, at his slightly parted lips as a little smile formed on his face, you were losing grip on the time it was like a whole universe worked for you and him.

"Glad I could help ma'am. Those shoes do look dangerous, better watch your step.", the man spoke and she smiled at him, shyly nodding and turning around, breaking the eye contact with him, slowly walking towards her own booth where her friends were loud and drunk.

But every step you took was heavier than the last one, you didn't want to go there, you wanted to sit with him, smell that invading pine again, feel his touch again.. Was this alcohol that was in your bloodstream?

You stopped suddenly and took a deep breath, before turning on your heels and going back to the two man who were now smoking, their drinks were on their table as well.

"Oh screw it. Universe, dont make a fool out of me!", you thought internally as you approached back their booth, and both men looked up at you again.

"Do you need some help lassie? Are you feeling well?", the blue eyed man asked. You actually just now noticed that he had his hair styled as a mohawk and it suited him so nice, the scar over his eye stuck out as well.

You snapped out and shook your head in denial,

"Would you mind if I joined you for a drink?",

Ghost cleared his throat and looked away with a huge smirk over his face, avoiding John’s stern look. Mactavish moved himself to the left, leaving vacant place for the girl to sit and nodded his head down while putting out cigar that was already burned.

You sat next to him, smiling and biting inside of your cheek, leaving your purse on the edge of the table waving to the bartender to get his attention, you showed him universal sign for ‘another bottle’ and the man nod to you.

You returned your attention towards two men who were gazing at you the whole time.

"So, who wishes to start this AA meeting? How about you sir?", you pointed at men across from you. Both men cracked at your joke before the one you pointed at started talking,

"Name's Simon, that’s Soap- I mean John..", Simon barely held in his laugh looking away from the pair. You looked at men next to you and his jaw was clenched, he obviously didn't like that one.

"Y/N, nice to meet you fellas. This night needed some life in it. I was dying of boredom over at VIP's. Some fresh environment is nice..",

you smiled at John who was downing his beer, slowly he nod at the girl and the bartender finally came with your new bottle of Jack and three glasses for each of you.

"Put it on my bill, thanks.", you said and John eyed you as you opened the bottle of whiskey and poured everyone about a half of the glass, raising your own towards him as you finished. You smirked a bit, leaning towards him, unintentionally, your thigh subtly brushed against his light blue denim jeans.

"Cheers to not breaking bones and to concerned strangers.”, you said the words, slowly looking up at his eyes yet again.

John looked down at you, slowly colliding his glass with yours.

"Well, cheers to me I guess..", Simon muttered to himself and downed down the glass. You couldn't help but laugh sincerely, John joining you while rolling his eyes at Simon,

"Ghost getting ghosted, this will be the story to tell the mates back at camp for sure..".

You raised your eyebrow in confusion, leaving your glass on the table and crossing your legs, leaning back,

"Camp? What are you two like some secret agents or something?", you asked and John and Simon talked to you about their job deep into night. They explained their line or work as subtle as they could and shared some of the funniest moments from their missions with you.

John enjoyed your laugh, the way you blushed when you caught him looking at you, avoiding his gaze, how well your lips were glossed and your perfume that made him want to invade your neck and collarbone with small and soft kisses. He also noticed how soft your skin was when he "accidentally" touched your hand as you were reaching for the bottle, wanting to pour another drink.

It was about 3 in the morning when you turned around towards the bartender who was next to you, telling you and your new friends that the bar is closing in about five minutes. Your friends left long time ago, too drunk to even notice that you were gone or that you were now sitting elsewhere.

"Oh come on Gorge! Cant you see how much fun we are having here? Can’t you just lock us in or join us?", you blinked innocently at the bartender and it made man blush, ofcourse that didn't go unnoticed by Mactavish who cleared his throat subtly and put his hand around your shoulder. You turned your head, raising eyebrow at him and questioning what the hell he was doing.

"Come on lass, man has a job to do, a boss to answer to. We will get you to your hotel eh?", you chuckled at him, now relaxing into his touch, and he loved it. He softly rubbed exposed skin on your shoulder with his thumb and you inhaled sharply, smiling at him reaching for your purse and pulling out keys from your car,

"I drank a lot.. Who is driving lads?",

You closed the door of your Porsche and could hear Simon in the back seat whistle,

"It even has leather inside and tv in the back of the seat. Of course it does.. For gods sake (y/n), you could've just told us that you are rich. We would've distanced from you.", Riley made a joke and you laughed, turning around in your seat looking at Simon, as John started the car, slowly advancing towards the main street.

"I wouldn't trade time I had with you boys for nothing in this world. I haven't laughed like that in ages..",

Riley now looked at Mactavish on review mirror smirking,

"Soap, drop me off first and then take (y/n) back to her place. Base is just around the corner it will save her some gas.".

You eyed man who was driving now, waiting for his response, he groaned in response then he nodded slowly looking at you, before returning eyes to the road that was empty. The city was in deep sleep.

John parked infront of some old looking house and Simon chuckled, "Well this is my stop. I'll see ya in the morning mate, don't forget to freshen up, we will need you frosty eh?",

Simon said before he slammed the doors shut and swiftly disappeared into the house.

You looked at John and pouted a bit, he looked and you and wiggled his eyebrows playfully,

"Where to miss?", he put up his best British accent and you couldn't help but laugh at how silly he sounded.

"With you? To the stars.." you leaned on his shoulder and kicked down your heels, tucking your legs under your tights.

Mactavish took a deep breath, inhaling the sent of your perfume, before he started driving again, he reached for the radio and turned it on.

A soft tune of "Midnight" song was on it and you hummed in approval.

"You know, I feel like I should've met you long ago instead of wasting my time around, not knowing where am I going, what am I doing. I wish this night could last forever John, I wish I could be stuck in it forever.."

The man smiled and reached for one of your hands, locking his fingers with your smaller ones, his eyes never leaving the road.

"I want to show you one place, if you are not up for sleep yet lassie?"

You parted your head with his shoulder to look up at him, his face being illuminated by dim street lights, he looked so soft and like he didn't have any worry in the world.

"Aye sir, I am in your hands for the rest of this trip." you joked and he let out a huffed laugh, bringing your hand closer to his lips, kissing your knuckles, you watched him carefully, biting your lower lip as you felt the warmth spread throughout your entire body from just that tiny exchange of affection.

John parked the car, pulled the break and turned the machine off. He leaned back in the leather seat and looked at you, smile creeping around the corners of his mouth.

"Take my jacket, it can be windy up here."

He said and reached in the back seat for his jacket, handing it to you. You took it into your hands and looked around you, it was quiet and dark all around. Not single lamp post or anything was in the vicinity, only the headlights that John left on, and the soft tune of radio that still played.

"There is nothing here, and honestly it feels like a horror movie. Am I about to be murdured  and thrown from this cliff John?"

Mactavish just chuckled and opened the car doors on his side,

"Do you trust me lass?", he asked as he leaned on the car roof, peeking inside and looking at you.

"Do I trust man I just met in local bar to exit my car, my only way of escaping, and obey him to walk into my own funeral? Sure yeah, here I come.." you said with playful tone as you stepped out of your car, flinging his black jacket over your shoulders and sliding your arms into it. It smelled like him and you buried your nose into the collar of jacket, closing your eyes and getting lost in the man's perfume mixed with aftershave. You were about to close the doors of the car when John cut you off,

"Don't close the doors, we won't be able to hear the music".

He was now behind you, towering over your smaller frame and your heart skipped the beat as you turned around to face him.

He slowly reached for your hips and without any hesitation or struggle, swayed you off your bare feet and lifted you up. You instinctively warped your arms around his neck smiling at him.

"You need to stop watching that many horror movies, they will rot your pretty brain"

He smiled at you with his eyes, looking down at your parted lips. Your face being right infront of his, possibly few inches away since he could feel your breath on his skin, and you could feel his. Blush creeped around your cheeks and he put you down on the hood of the car that was still warm from the engine. Your hands left his neck, but he still remained between your legs, not letting your hips just yet. You could've swore that his eyes were shining that night, you knew it was not possible, that your brain was seeing tings the way it wanted to, but you still chose to believe that impossible was possible in that moment.

His shadow that was casted due to headlights now moved, and with deep inhale his grip left your hips and you bit your lip. You felt disappointed and empty, you wanted him to lean in closer, you wanted to taste him and to seal the deal, but he moved away, hopping on the hood with ease, next to you, and leaning down on the windshield, one hand behind his head and other stretched out across the hood. He wiggled his eyebrows at you and slowly nodded towards his hand.

You pouted but soon enough curled against him, resting your head on his arm and softly gliding your hand over his chest, feeling his heart beat under your palm.

In response he softly put his fingers in your hair, massaging your head in circular moves.

"Look up lass, the sky is beautiful tonight. No clouds, just stars blinking and shining somewhere out there, far, far away. Haven't seen this in a while."

You listened to his words and followed his gaze up towards the sky. He was right, it was indeed beautiful. Dark blue mixed with dozen blinking lights looking back at you and him. Moon was nowhere to be found however. And then it struck you, the whole moment was inscribed into your memory- his soft breathing, the glitter in his eyes, the soft music that was playing from inside the car, the murmur of water somewhere in the distance, the ruffle of the leaves and grass that were moved by soft breeze and your eyes watered a bit, you really wanted to live in this moment forever, to lie on his arm forever and to gaze at the same stars forever.

John noticed the hard breathing next to him and faced you with soft smile "Dont cry lass, I more like you smiling, it suits you better. Can't say the same for those shoes.. Those didn't work for you that well eh?" you chucked through the tears and felt his thumb on your cheek as he wiped one stray tear.

"I just want to be here forever.. Like this. With you next to me. If I had one chance to freeze the time it would be right now, right here with you so I could look at your eyes filled with thousand stars forever, counting them slowly one by one, never getting bored of you." the girl said softly pulling herself closer to him. John smiled and kissed her hair softly.

"Funny how you are telling me the words I should be telling you bonnie. Maybe this is just a dream eh? Maybe we will wake up from it feeling empty..I know that I will miss you when I am gone.. Now, tell me who broke your heart?"

John said with whisper, still gazing up at the stars, slowly closing his eyes.

"Life did. But its nothing you can't fix.." you said quietly, blushing and looking up at him. He opened the eyes and looked back at you, his eyes trailing every line of your face, trying to remember all the features of it as he leaned in and slowly kissed your forehead.

"Dance with me?" He asked and you smiled up at him.

"I dont have any shoes on." you replied as with one swift move he pulled you off the car .

"That is nothing I can't fix." he smirked a bit and lifted you up from the car, telling you to stand on his shoes.

"John no, I am heavy." you chuckled as his hands held you close to him, his hands under his jacket, one placed on small of your back and one firmly held your hip, your feet now on his shoes, and he started moving slowly in tune of "Gloria" by Midnight that was on radio station at the moment.

"Bollocks, you are light as a feather, I can't even feel you. Do you even eat something or you just drink every day?" He joked and you laughed, throwing your hands over his head, locking them behind his neck.

"Captain Mactavish, stop teasing me and kiss me. I demand that action." you ran your hand over back of his head, feeling the tingles on your palm from his fresh shaven hair cut.

He looked down at you, lingering his eyes on your lips that were smirking a bit, slowly closing distance between the two, teasingly.

He pressed his cold lips on yours and you closed your eyes, wanting to remember every single moment and every move he made.

He slowly moved his hand up and down your back, inviting you to deepen the kiss which you accepted. He kissed you slowly, with passion with every move. He was spilling all of his emotions right then and there, he held you like was afraid that you will disappear from his arms, like he wouldn't be able to touch you or feel you. Your heart feel heavy, and you swore he could hear it since it was crashing against your ribcage. 

John slowly parted with your lips, looking into your eyes, his forehead resting on yours,

"After I am done with next mission, I will steal you and take you away so we can count all of the starts together, alright?" He asked and you nodded in approval slowly.

"Promise you wont forget?" You blinked up at him and he softly leaned in and kissed your lips again, kiss that was assuring and warm.

"I will be back in two days, wait for me here and be ready for a trip.", he softly brushed his nose on yours and you smiled wide at him, the universe was on your side, fate was on your side. It gifted him to you, to keep him and to cherish him, that whole night was like a fever dream, it almost didn't feel real- but it was. He was there and you were with him, swaying to the music slowly, kissing and feeling each other praying that sun wont come up just yet..

In two days you were at the same spot, your truck filled with all your stuff you needed.

You paced around the car excited, wanting to have his arms around you again, wanting to kiss him again... But he never showed up.

You never saw him again. You visited the bar often, you went to the house where you left his friend that night but the house was not there, it was demolished not long ago.

John disappeared without the trace, just the way he came into your life, unnoticed.

You never heard from him again. It was like that whole night was just a distant dream you had, and you would believe it if it wasn't for his jacket that was in your closet, his smell still lingering on it.

Years have passed, you never quite moved on, settling for a man who was nothing like John, but he cared for you, he really did.

Treating you right, bringing you flowers for every 14th of February, never forgetting anniversary or your birthday.

He didn't have stars in his eyes, he never took you to that place, never made you fall in love with him in bare hours, but he was enough. You had a nice house in nice neighbourhood and you lived a nice life with him.

You were at kitchen, preparing a lunch for your husband and you, when you heard a bell ring of your doors. You swiftly cleaned your hands and rushed to open the door.

"Yes?" You said as handle turned and the door opened.

Man who you never met before stood before you. He had small blue eyes, his beard was a bit weird but it suited him nice. He had a brown hair, and looked like life never treated him with ease.

"Can I help you sir?" You questioned the stranger and he nodded affirmative

"You are a hard one to find (y/n). Took me long enough.. Name's John Price, I have something for you.", he said and pulled white small envelope from his pocket handing it to you

"What is this sir? How do you know my name?" He smiled sadly at you and turned around being ready to leave when he stopped in his tracks, not facing you still.

"I am sorry. Wish I did more." .

He said and you were more confused than ever, you watched as man left your property and you closed the door, looking at the envelope that was in your hand. It was a bit heavy, but only on one side of it.

You rushed to the living room, where you sat down and opened it.

Dog tags fell out from them, they were cleaned recently, but the rust on them was noticeable still.

"John Mactavish"

ARMY

Some numbers and rest were scribbled from them.

Your heart dropped and your lips parted, eyes already filled with tears that slowly left your eye, falling down your cheek.

In the envelope was also a paper, it had blood stains on it. You tried wiping your eyes and reading it.

"I want to invite you for a walk,

To a quiet place; In the moor.

When the breeze sings midnight,

One if those nights- the moon is full.

A restless pounding invades in my heart,

When I think of my confidants-

The stars.

If they could only speak ,

What would they say?

If you could hear them talk.

For they know of my fondness for you,

And that in my thoughts

There is no other one.

If only the stars could speak

They will tell you that I love you,

They would ask you,

To love me back."

You hugged the peace of paper like it was John himself and let your tears fall freely whispering to yourself and to the paper like he could hear you, like he was the one in your arms instead of this bloody peace of paper.

“I do love you John.. I never stopped.”.

A soothing closure fell over you. Now he was the star somewhere up in the sky, looking over at you every night you faced the sky, waiting for you to join him one day.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

invisible string

pairing: mob!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: violence, harassing

a/n: sequel to willow. wanda is a tarot reader and you cannot tell me otherwise. it is canon. 

WILLOW - TOLERATE IT

Time, curious time gave me no compasses, gave me no signs. Were there clues I didn't see? And isn't it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?

James was taken aback by her move, watching his black king cornered by both her white queen and king. How had he not seen it? It was right there ever since she moved her queen to lay in F7 right at the beginning of the game. How? It didn’t matter but her naughty smile, pushing at the corner of her chapstick painted lips left no doubt to who had won this game. He bit his lip leaning against the couch, full view of the glass chess board. She had less pieces left than him but she had still managed to won and as such he extended his hand towards her. She looked at his hand hesitantly, her winning grin fading and her usual insecurity returned as a shake hand came to shake his. 

     - No one has won a game against me in years. - he grabbed the glass black king from the board, handing it to her. - How’d you do it?

     - You wanted my king. You wanted it so badly you forgot about your own, so I distracted you with minor pieces. Gave you the false sense of security you had it and then struck down.

   - That’s such a dirty trick, petal. - he leaned against the velvet fabric of the armchair, eyeing her up and down. She felt naked under his gaze, almost as if he could see through her walls and clothing. She guessed a man like him needed to have such a sharp eye but it wasn’t any less intimidating, even if she had just won a chess match against him.

He rose slowly from the armchair, his feet moving slowly towards a silver cart leaning against a wall, just under an abstract painting with several glass bottles of several coloured liquids. He took the glass stone from one of them, pouring some of the dark amber liquid onto two glasses before offering one to Y/N.

  - Glenlivet. - he spoke out, noticing the confusion on her face. - You’re old enough to drink, aren’t you?

  - How old do you think I am Mr. Barnes? I thought you knew everything about your employees.

  - And I do, petal. I know where you went to school, kindergarten even, know the name of your friends and that’s all from one of my men following you for a day. - Bucky rose his glass in a small toast before starting to drink. Y/N’s colour drained from her face as she started to wonder if she’d gone to see his father in the precinct. She hadn’t. At least she thought yet her body started shaking and it became harder to breathe. - Y/N? Hey, are you okay?

  - Yeah ... I just need some fresh air. - she tried to get up from the couch but she couldn’t, her nerves getting over her. What if he’d heard her speak about the undercover job, she was dead, she was definitely flirting with death the moment she stepped into his home. 

   - Someone was following you from the bar, petal. I’m not going to kill you, if I were to kill you it wouldn’t be in the comfort of my own home. Blood is a bitch to take out of white carpets. - Bucky once again seemed to read through her. He once again got up from his couch, placing his gun on the marbled island of his kitchen before returning to her. - You’re paranoid, petal.

   - It’s not ... I don’t really like being followed. Why were you following me? 

   - That guy from the bar followed you home and since he got his head smashed against the counter and a drink thrown in his face, I thought better to send Steve after you for that night. You are awfully clumsy and if you had any real enemies, you’d be dead by now. You leave your key under the entry matt and so does your housemate and her lousy brother too. Twins?

   - Yes.

   - You’re so afraid of me but in all honesty petal, you’re the biggest danger to yourself. 

   - Has Steve followed me recently?

   - No. I’ve been driving you home ever since, park a bit outside campus to ensure you get in. It’s an ugly world out there, petal.

   - I know. Trust me, I do ...

After her mother died, the home she had once learned to love lost its homey feeling. Suddenly, the home that always smelled like fresh lemon tarts and gardenias was now dark. His father left his case files all over the kitchen and would sit at the table smoking his cigars with a glass of port as he read through the cases. Her father loved her, he did, just in his own way. 

She still remembered peaking by the door, holding onto a blanket her mother had quilted for her with her name embroidered in aqua blue, and seeing the photos scattered around the table of murders, abusers, robberies. She knew there was darkness, she just preferred to ignore it.

   - You live inside your head very often don’t you? - he eyed her as she took a sip of the drink he had offered her. Scotch was never her drink of choice, she preferred not to drink at all seeing how it had soured her father. Yet, she guessed a centenary drink was no joke.

   - That’s called being an only child, Mr. Barnes. Besides, my ideas are rarely worth listening.

   - Hm, I see ... Perhaps you’d like to see your room? - he changed the conversation, offering a hand to her so she could get up. 

Her soft fingers wrapped around his cold hand, a stark contrast to her warm hand. Bucky finger lingered over the top of her palm, feeling the softness and plumpness of her skin compared to his scarred, rough one. She didn’t mind, she followed him happily through the halls of his way too big house. 

Steve had told him when he bought it that it was too big for himself alone but for Bucky buying a big flat meant he made it, he could now tell everyone else who doubted him to fuck off yet it was hard to come back to it at the end of the day. Always clean and always empty. The staff didn’t stay behind for much longer, having heard all sorts of rumours and he believed if Y/N wasn’t so afraid of him, she would’ve probably left. Yet, he couldn’t find himself to sell the flat so he just slept in hotel rooms. Smaller roomers where it didn’t feel like the emptiness surrounded him constantly. 

He led her to one of the guest rooms he had decorated in soft pinks, whites and greys. Bucky guessed it’d make her comfortable, it matched her cardigans and little embroidered dresses she would bring around to the bar despite most of his waitresses constantly berating her on it, saying it would get her no tips. 

Y/N peaked through the door crack as he opened it. The room was rather soft with a large king sized bed with white and blush pink bedding along with a grey rug nearby. With so many bedrooms, he probably had enough time to decorate each one with a different colour palette. 

    - There should be some pyjamas in the wardrobe. Might be a bit big but it’s better than sleeping with your clothes on. 

   - You seem prepared. Is this where you bring your mistresses?

   - My mistresses don’t sleep in my house. - why would you say that, Y/N? Are you trying to get yourself killed? - I’ll drive you home tomorrow at 8AM so you should go to sleep. Goodnight, petal.

  - Thank you. Goodnight, Mr. Barnes. - he closed the door behind her and she was left with herself in the bedroom.

She padded around the linoleum floors, phone in hand as she photographed the horizon so maybe her father could locate the house and search for evidence. Y/N couldn’t. She couldn’t find herself to go investigating his house as he was kind enough to offer her a place to stay. Instead she just investigated the room which was so much better. It was a suite with its own bathroom decorated with monogramed fluffy white towels and white marbled surfaces. She wondered why he wouldn’t bring someone here, it was clearly a work of architectural art but yet again, maybe don’t show strangers where you sleep. Maybe he shouldn’t have shown it to her. 

At least she was doing something right. At least he didn’t hate her enough not to allow her to listen to his conversations, to the talks of deals that would surely provide her father’s precinct with the clues that they were not insane to think that there were tradings happening under their noses. She was doing good but she felt dirty nonetheless. She didn’t like lying but she also wanted to graduate, to be something other than the Capitan’s daughter.

She ignored her mind and got dressed in the steamed and washed pyjamas that were hanging on the silk hanger of the closet and got inside the bed. She was okay, she was going to be okay. 

The daylight ruptured through the night and she was the first one up to get dressed and make the bed as well as put the pyjamas back on their place. Bucky didn’t take long to knock on her door and as she opened it there he was again, polished suit and hair as if looking casual destroyed the whole appearance. It didn’t, he was a handsome man and she was absolutely certain he would look handsome in anything. 

    - Did you sleep well? - he questioned as she stepped out the room, holding onto her worn out faux leather brown satchel. 

   - Yes, it’s a very comfortable bed. What about you? 

   - I don’t have time to sleep, petal. I was thinking about having some breakfast before I dropped you off, if that’s okay with you.

   - I just want to get back home. My flatmate might worry. 

Bucky didn’t force her. She was like any other staff and he guessed having breakfast with the mob boss wasn’t her idea of a good spent morning, besides, she probably still needed to go to class. He drove her back to her small, unsafe which she saw as safe flat, keeping an eye on her every once in a while. Her posture was rigid or even one that a manner teacher wouldn’t correct, it was slouched over his window, hand under her chin as she observed the early morning light illuminate the city. 

Getting to campus during early mornings were always funny to her as she never knew what she would find; some students would be still returning from nights out while some would exit the library with piles and piles of books and notes. Either way, it was always a fun game. He stopped in front of her flat, putting the car on stop, engine slowly lowering its sounds. 

   - Thank you for bringing me, Mr. Barnes. - she held her satchel against her chest. 

   - You got an evening dress? Cocktail party maybe? 

   - So not a black dress? - she teased, biting the skin of inner lip. 

   - Definitely not. 

   - I think I might have something.

   - You’re not working tonight, you’re coming with me to an auction. I’ll pay you double the salary of a nightshift if you say yes.

   - Plus night wages?

   - Everything you’d get paid a night, I’ll double it. 

   - I’ll get to work finding that dress then. - she opened the door of his car, exiting before waving him goodbye.

Getting inside her flat, she could definitely sense the difference between worlds she was living in. Spend time with James Barnes, her father told her. Besides, how bad could an action be? There were several people there and if she knew what he was buying maybe it would prove useful in the future.

She climbed the stairs up to her door which was slightly open. She would’ve questioned why had it not been for Pietro’s voice echoing through the whole hall. Of course. None of them really close the door whenever the other one is around. 

    - Wanda, I’m telling you, that’s bullshit. - he told his sister who merely rolled her eyes at him. - Shuffle it again.

    - It says you’re a fuckboy deal with it. - she crossed her arms, before noticing Y/N had come in. - Hey you, you’re here early. I thought you were gonna appreciate your motel stay for a little while. 

   - Well, I ... I was just homesick. - she lied. Wanda clearly wouldn’t like to know where she had spent the night. - What are you guys doing?

   - Pietro asked me to do a reading on him and he’s upset at the result. As per usual.

   - I’m telling you the deck is broken. Do Y/N. - he pointed at the captain’s daughter who sat down by the coffee table where the two were. Wanda shrugged and asked Y/N to touch the deck before she started to shuffle it, three cards falling onto the table as soon as she did.

The Lovers, the Devil and Death. Y/N knew those cards all too well, she loved roaming through Wanda’s deck and marvel at the beautiful pictures and Wanda normally told her that the Death card was not as bad as everyone made it look like as well as the Devil. However, this time, all the colour drained from the brunette’s face as the stared at the cards fallen on the table. She shuffled the deck again, hoping for more cards, this time getting the Six and Nine of Swords. 

   - Everything okay, Wan? - she asked her friend who was intensely staring at the cards in front of her. 

   - Yeah ... I guess Pietro is right, the deck is broken.

   - See? I told you so. You never listen to me. 

   - I think I should be getting to class now. - she interrupted the two sibling’s bickering. - I’ll see you later. 

She spent most of her classes thinking about the auction. It was harmless enough and her father was over the moon, telling her she should be proud that she was now part of the “inner circle”, whatever that meant. Nevertheless, she was getting paid double which would always help with rent and utilities. The last module took hours of a lecturer going through yet another generic powerpoint followed by a class of over a hundred students rushing out the door the moment it was over. 

She took to her bedroom before Wanda arrived to search for the only evening dress she had which barely saw the light of day, mostly living inside the black box over her wardrobe. It was her mother’s, something she had left behind that Y/N had taken a particular liking to once she grew up. It was a baby pink slip dress with the hem in matching lace and she guessed it would be appropriate for an auction. 

   - Where are you going? - Wanda asked as Y/N stepped out of the room. Shit. Of all the days for her to be home early, it just had to be today. - What are you doing wearing your mum’s dress?

   - It’s fancy dress day at the bar. 

   - Fancy dress day at a mob bar?

   - Clearly. 

   - What are you hid ... - Wanda was interrupted by Y/N’s phone. Mr. Barnes had texted her he was outside just at the right time. 

   - I’ll see you later, Wan. Have fun but not too much fun.

Before the brunette could question her, Y/N was already out the door, bag in hand. She went down the stairs and outside where Mr. Barnes was leaning against his car, dressed in a navy blue suit which made him look like a model gracing the cover’s of fashion magazines. 

    - You’re supposed to make me wait, petal. 

    - I like being on time. - she walked up to him, standing less than an arm’s distance from the posh dressed mob boss. 

    - I should start by warning you not to go by your real name today. Safety purposes. 

   - What should I call myself then? Your date? - she asked as he helped her inside the car. 

   - You can call yourself whatever you’d like, petal. As long as it’s not your real name and I know what name you’re going by. 

   - Uhm ... I wanna go by Betty. 

   - Betty?

   - Like Betty Draper from Mad Men. She sounds like the type of woman who would go to an auction.

  - So you wanna be Betty Drapper? - Bucky hide a small smile as he drove through the dark night. 

  - No, I wanna be called Betty for tonight. - she leaned against the comfortable seatings of his car. 

“You’re part of the inner circle now, darling. Do something about it”, her father’s words echoed in her mind through the faint sound of the radio playing Doris Day. Yet again she had no idea how going to an auction would be a break in the case unless Mr. Barnes was buying weapons or drugs. The fact she was going by a different name didn’t calm her nerves but he wouldn’t kill her in a public setting. She watched the trees pass by from the window of his car  until they reached a big white house which could be certainly considered a mansion.

Mr. Barnes got off his car while the engine was still roaring, handing the key to the valet before opening her door. She looked up at him, blinded by the fairy lights all around the mansion and suddenly she got nervous, very nervous. Nevertheless, she took his help in getting off the car, walking to his left as the valet drove away with his car. 

    - We’re sticking with Betty? - he asked as they climbed up the stairs to the entry of the mansion. 

    - We are. - she nodded as he knocked on the door. A poshly dressed man opened the door allowing for her to peak inside. The room was full of people chatting to each other, champagne flutes in hand of roaring laughter. This was definitely different from the environment she was used to back at the club. 

Without noticing, she clung to his side as he moved through the seas of people drinking and admiring art work which she guessed was what was being auctioned until they got stopped by a slightly shorter than him man dressed in a black tuxedo. 

    - Barnes, you made it. I saved some of your favourite pieces for you. - he was happily talking until he noticed Y/N by the mob boss’ side. - Who is this lovely lady?

    - This is Betty. - he was an excellent liar, even she would’ve believed her name was Betty.

    - Pleasure to meet you, miss. - he curtsied which greatly confused her. - Do you want to come see them? I told my Miriam that the Proserpina paintings would be for Mr. Barnes when we started picking pieces. 

The mob boss was sweet on art? She curiously followed them into a badly light room in shades of burgundy and dark browns where several paintings. She observed them with an innocent look as Bucky heard about the prices and its overall worth. Of course they were not going into auction, they had been saved for him and him alone. He was important, stupidly important when compared to these other people. She could hear whispering from other people as he passed by, away from the room through other people.

The man, whose name Y/N still hadn’t really heard, left them in the entrance with everyone else, two champagne flutes immediately making their way to them. Yet, she still didn’t know exactly what to do. What would this be of use to her father? Someone liking art was common, something very common. Once again useless. 

   - Why did you bring me here if you don’t even need to attend the auction?

   - It’s a bad look to appear unaccompanied. Besides, I’d like to see the auction tonight.

   - I didn’t know you liked art. 

   - You thought I’d only like to see people dying, petal? - he spoke in a soft, calm manner but she could see his smirk through his strong facade. 

   - Look who it is. - Bucky’s face switched into an heavy expression, something Y/N barely saw and didn’t like to see. His arm pulled her behind him as someone dressed in what looked like a taffeta black suit walked up to him accompanied by a black haired woman in a skin tight burgundy dress much more sensual than Y/N’s blush pink flared dress. - James Buchanan Barnes, I thought you didn’t visit this part of town.

   - Rumlow, I visit whatever part I want. 

   - You remember my wife Rachel. - he pointed at the woman nearby him. - I don’t think I remember your friend. Care to introduce us?

   - This is Betty. She’s Sharon’s niece. 

   - Pleasure. There sure are lovely jewellery pieces tonight at auction, aren’t there?

   - And I believe I should care about those since I’m a woman. - Y/N gave him a forced smile, earning a scoff from Bucky who was trying not to laugh at her quick wit. 

    - I’m here to bid on the Elizabeth earrings. They’re a brilliant piece, don’t you think?

    - Yes, well ... we should be getting to our seats. - Bucky ignored the request for continuing the conversation, instead holding Y/N’s hand and leading her towards the auction room.

That was an odd conversation, one with underlying feelings of animosity. Maybe coming here was worth it, maybe that name “Rumlow” would be of use to her father. However, it didn’t matter as she was rather exciting to be in her very first auction. Sitting down in gold painted chairs she could see the paddles with several numbers and even the odd gentleman with a monocle. 

Bucky looked at her with a faint smile, observing how his world seemed to still entice her as for him it had long its spark a long, long time ago. People kept sitting down and soon enough the auctioneer was on the stage presenting pieces and shouting values of high amounts of money. High enough to pay for the rest of her degree, a masters and a few PhDs but she guessed this was how high society lived.

    - Finally, one of tonight’s most special pieces. - the man pointed at a pair of earrings on a glass box. - The Elizabeth earrings are made of white gold with two diamonds taken from The Cullinan diamond, one of the most precious in the world whose siblings belong to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth. Let’s start at 5 thousand.

Brock raised his paddle.

   - 5 thousand, does anyone says 6 thousand?

James rose his own paddle, surprising Y/N. She thought he was only here for the painting. 

   - 6 thousand, 7 thousand? - Brock once again rose his paddle. - 7 thousand, 8 thousand? 

Bucky once again rose his paddle, smirk on his face. He always enjoyed the chase and an auction chase was no exception. Besides, he would love to win those earrings just to piss off Brock Rumlow. 

   - 8 thousand, 9 thousand? - Brock rose his paddle again. - 9 thousand, 10 thousand?

   - 5 hundred thousand. - Bucky spoke out loud and clear for everyone to hear.

   - 5 hundred thousand, any higher? - Y/N’s gaze moved over to Brock who kept his paddle neatly in the middle of his lap, an upset expression gracing his face. His face moved to look at Barnes but he didn’t care, holding a winning smile on his lips. - Going once, going twice, going thrice ... Sold to Mr. Barnes. Congratulations.

Bucky didn’t low himself down to look at Rumlow instead getting up once the auction was over. Y/N followed him, curiosity once again getting hold of her and every fibre of hers. She had never seen diamonds in person, much less as precious as these ones were so once she went into the back and saw the woman place them into a red velvet box, she was done for. They placed the box on a nice black matte bag and handed it over to Mr. Barnes along with the certification of authenticity. 

The auction after party become boring afterwards, with Rumlow giving Barnes a look no one would like to receive and him having little to no care about it. At around 11PM, the time she would end her shift today, he started to walk away, tipping the valet some money to fetch his car while both of them waited outside. It was a cold night, the wind moaning in slow blows and suddenly she regretted not bringing a jacket. 

   - You should’ve brought a jacket. - before she could roll her eyes at this comment, she felt something fall onto her shoulders. Looking to the right shoulder, she recognised the navy blue fabric of his suit’s jacket. - Did you enjoy being someone else for the evening?

   - I didn’t envision my alter ego being Steve’s girlfriend’s family but I’ll accept it. It was nice, thank you for bringing me. 

   - My pleasure, Betty. - he joked. - I do prefer your name over Betty.

The valet brought back his beloved car and handed back the keys. It had been a rather fun night, one that surely went above and beyond her expectations. At least she had a name to give to her father, one of a contact that would be willing to speak about Barnes. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but feel absolutely dirty about it. He hadn’t done anything bad to her, anything that would consider her betrayal. He’d hurt people, or at least that’s what her father said. He’d hurt people, but she’d only seen him doing it to those who actually deserved it. It was wrong, it was wrong but she had too. 

These thoughts kept her quiet, with eyes on the road. This was bad, this was bad, how was she going to betray him but that was the job. Feel nothing, her father had told her before, feel nothing and don’t get hurt. She didn’t want him to get locked up yet again maybe she was too innocent to see what was really happening. 

    - We’re here, Y/N. - he killed the engine, stopping in front of the building. - You don’t look alright. Do you want me to drive you to the hospital?

   - Oh, no, no. I’m just tired. - she lied. Once again lying. 

   - I’m sorry for keeping you up this late. I’ll double your night pay too.

   - It’s not necessary, Mr. Barnes.

   - Bucky.

   - Pardon?

   - Call me Bucky. - he corrected her. - From now on, you can call me Bucky.

   - Bucky. - she repeated, a silly smile forming on her face. - Well, goodnight Bucky.

   - Goodnight, petal. Don’t forget your bag. - he handed her bag to the young girl before waving his last goodbye.

She stood in the sidewalk, watching his car leave with a silly smile on her face. Why was she even smiling? She should be feeling guilty, not smiley. Yet she was stuck in the middle of those two emotions. She needed to go back to bed, that’s what she needed. She needed to go back to her bed and sleep it through so like every single night, she climbed the stairs up to her flat. Once in front of her old student flat door, she opened her wallet to search for her keys.

Damned keys, always seemed to disappear in the darkness of her bag and as she rummaged through the contents she had been throwing inside her bag over the years. As she kept searching for her keys, something fell from her bag onto the bag. 

   - Shit. - she mumbled to herself, squatting down to grab what had fallen. Her mouth opened agape as she saw the same velvet blue box from the auction. Looking around and seeing no one around, she opened the box and there they were, the same earrings she had seen on the auction glass along with a note. Maybe Betty will like them. JBB. - I can’t believe it.

Once again, smiling like a fool. She couldn’t believe it, it couldn’t be, it had to be some sort of mistake. These were 5 hundred thousand dollar pair of earrings for a woman who was wearing a hand me down dress from her mother. Before someone else could see them she shoved them back inside her purse, opening the door to her flat.

   - We need to talk. 

taglist: @lookiamtrying @mariamermaid @sebastianstansqueen @unmagically @buckybarnes1982 @mela-noche @lowercasegenius @randomweirdooo @projectcampbell @sebbystanlover-vk @jevans2 @hollarious @itsallyscorner​ 

[willowaudreykeyes]

Prompt: myths and chaos with Logan with the line “so apparently microwaving this ancient manuscript isn’t a good way to find out its secrets.”

Remus’ Puzzle Temple Of Friendship And Chaos

Warnings: Baby eldritch thing, tentacles, one eye, vague sexual reference that’s from a song

Platonic Logince, brotherly-and-on-good-terms Creativitwins and Intrulogical of whatever relationship interpretation that you want.

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Roman

“Remind me to thank your brother at dinner tonight.”

“That’s if we make it to dinner. And you all call me extra; he made an entire temple for us to explore within a week!” He spent a lot of energy on it too. I still remember the shaky finger he pointed at me after the second day of working on this Incan-like temple; slurring tiredly about not going into the space between our Kingdoms and ruining the surprise. He also forced me to carry him to his room as he dangerously swayed on his feet. I’ll have to thank him by working just as hard for his and Logan’s adventure after the two of us finish this one.

“I know; yet I’ve yet to thank him for doing so. And I must ask how long it took to make this language.” Taking my first glance at said language, I recognise it immediately as the first language that Remus and I had known. We had known it better than English at one point, until Patton insisted that we make English our main language so that we wouldn’t confuse Thomas. 

“Oh, we’ve always known it. We used to speak it in front of Patton as kids to confuse him and we still use it occasionally whenever we send a letter, or in his case a slab of mysterious leather, between our Kingdoms.”

“So you can translate this?”

“Of course!” I hold the slightly chipped black and red tablet out at arms length, quickly noticing that everything on the tablet makes no sense. No wonder he was so tired after every day in the Imagination; he even made us a puzzle. “It’s encrypted though, so we have to figure out what the cypher is first. And knowing Remus, it could be anything.”

He takes it from my hands and adjusts his glasses for the fiftieth time today before tapping his chin. I doubt Logan realises that he has so many visual tells when he becomes passionate and interested. “He would leave a clue somewhere where we could find it. He’s chaotic, not unfair.”

“Aha!” In a spark of inspiration, I rough up my hair and gain a huff of defeat from the neighbourhood nerd as I do the same to his own. It had dust from the temple in it anyway. “We just have to think like Remus! Now what’s the most logical place to put a cypher for this thing?”

“Where we found it.”

“Okay. Now what’s the opposite of that?”

His eyebrows do that cute thing where they pinch down a bit when he’s confused. I don’t bother hiding my smile as his eyes shift around, taking in invisible words as he tries to find my line of thinking. “I’m… not following. The opposite of where we found it is every room that we didn’t find it in, and we went through forty-three rooms and eight hallways; perhaps half or less of the entire temple judging by the size and spacing between each room.”

“And only twelve not-too-tough traps, which is less then his usual quota…” Probably because of the exhaustion, but I should have figured that out earlier. I’ll up the level of hazards in his next one as a double thank you for his hard work. “Anyway, we must think chaotically if we are to beat the chaotic one!”

With a silent nod, he attempts to fix his hair as I take in our camp and the temple before us. It’s very reminiscent of an Incan temple in design yet is mainly made out of pitch black obsidian; with intricate wall carvings engraved with pure ruby, emerald, moonstone and diamond; and a whole lot of animal and human skulls that are packed tightly into every ceiling. And I must say, adding the creatures from both of our Kingdoms as the wall carvings is a nice touch. 

Except I won’t say it out loud because the majority of them are of naked people, naked cannibals and of naked murders. 

At least our camp has some more class to it! Logan wished for something realistic, but was soon swayed by my enchanted Harry Potter tent that’s magically large enough to have a working bathroom and still look like a ‘regular’ camping tent from the outside. I do like regular camping, but I prefer to have a shower after a tub of Thomas-knows-what is dropped over us and getting into every uncomfortable crevasse. Just thinking about that disgusting concoction makes me shudder.

“... Perhaps our microwave?”

I snap my gaze back to him, beaming at his rather shy sounding remark. He always sounds shy when he says something that deviates from his path of logic. At least he’s opening up a little more. “Perfect! I knew you’d think of something!”

“It was the first usable thing that I saw. Were you daydreaming again?”

“Nope- Using the microwave to solve a cypher sounds like something Remus’ mind would think up. He did mix sardines, lettuce and one of your ties in the blender before drinking it once.” I mumble the last half -I probably shouldn’t out Remus just yet for drinking Logan’s tie a few months ago- and put the tablet in the microwave and set it to three minutes. Three is the magic number after all.

“Did you say something?” 

“Mumbling ideas to myself is all!”

The microwave suddenly glows a bright purple and I manage to drag Logan in close before blocking something from hitting the both of us with my summoned shield. With a pop, crackle, fizz and several loud noises that sound like tearing metal; I risk peeking over it in perfect sync with Logan. The sight of three large tentacles wiggling out of the new holes in the camp's microwave brings out a sigh from me. A very loud sigh. Remus could probably hear it and currently giggling to himself from the comfort of his bedroom.

“It may be best not to touch those. Or the microwave.”

“But the tablet!” Logan pushes by my shield and barely escapes my reach before I am able to pull him away. With a straight posture and a quick slick back of his hair, he opens it and nearly jumps into my arms Scooby-Doo style from the loud pop that occurs. I’m in front of him again within a moment, but the usual feeling of hostility that Remus puts on his dangerous creatures as a warning is lacking. At least this thing won’t try and face-hug me like that faceless chicken that guarded the temple did.

Inside was a brown-black-blue ball of tentacles, with three longer than the others that retract out of the newly-made holes in the microwave. My heart stutters as a singular, goat-like, boysenberry coloured eye opens from one of the many seams in the creature; just to quickly dart it’s vision between the two of us before landing it’s creepy gaze on Logan. “Huh. So apparently, microwaving the ancient manuscript isn’t a good way to find it’s secrets- but a great way to hatch an eldritch abomination.”

“If you’d hand me a blanket, perhaps bringing it with us would be advantageous in future explorations.” Of course he wants to bring the nightmare creature; he always does. I hand him the nearby dish towel instead as I don’t feel like leaving this thing alone with Logan would end nicely.

“As long as you're carrying it.”

“Of course; you’re the one with the sword and shield.” I’m rather sure that that means that he would make me carry the disgusting creature if I wasn’t the one with our only ways of defending ourselves; and I don’t know if I should dramatically put my hand to my chest in horror or just pout.

I go for the pout.

Only for it to be rather rudely ignored as he cradles the little beast in its new home, wrapping it’s longer tentacles around Logan’s hands and attempting to remove his watch for a moment before I manage to grab it before they do. Logan’s too busy holding it in one hand and going through his cue cards to notice though. “And I shall name it as randomly as I can; since Remus seems to name all of his creations.” 

“Why?”

“It’s only polite to follow custom; and the custom for Remus is to name his creatures.” I hate everything about this -plus the tablet is just full on missing or destroyed now too- but Logan seems enraptured by the little thing. I roll my eyes and put on my backpack as Logan already begins walking up the temple steps. We just had lunch, so we have a chance of leaving before dinner, but I highly doubt it.

Despite not being able to see, the creature manages to grab out one of the cue cards from Logan’s hand before letting him snatch it back. With a quick smile after reading it, he pockets them all again before getting a better hold of the thing before it runs away and eats a whole deer or something. “It’s name shall be Anaconda-Do-Not.”

God-fucking-dammit Remus. I frown at the thing as we enter the fire-lit entrance, glad that its eye is hidden under the dish towel. Sheep eyes have always kind of creeped me out; especially on things that aren’t sheep. “You’re not allowed to hang out with Remus, Virgil or Janus anymore if they keep giving you those weirder cue cards.”

“This one’s from Remus. It’s a metaphor about-”

“I KNOW WHAT IT IS!” A light pain follows my facepalm, but I ignore it and march onwards. Hoping to get rid of this thing as quickly as possible. “Let’s just… go shove it into a keyhole or something already.”

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

By the way, I really hate that stupid Anaconda song and so I know that it’d be perfect for Remus. Hopefully the ending is alright because it was the only bit I really had issues with ^^’

Oh and Remus definitely fell in love with the new Eldritch creatures name.

@ladyedwina @5am-the-foxing-hour @sparrowofsong

[rhyswhitethorn]

Steel and Fire (NESSIAN)

A Court of Silver Flames in another half year—damn right your girl had to write some Nessian before it did.

Not quite sure if I should make this a continuous chaptered series or keep this as a short story, do share your thoughts :)

AO3 if you prefer it here.

Nesta was in one of her moods again.

The one where she was easily irritated at every single being that breathes in her sight of vision, where a stray strand of hair would cause her to tug everything back harshly, and where she would hold her breath when someone speaks, as if the world reeks of rotten eggs.

It was written in her stormy eyes, where the azure hues once laid were drowned by the thunderclouds that rested before a treacherous sea, taking all life with it.

If the first thing that scared the shit out of Cassian was seeing Bryaxis, then this was a close second. He watched quietly as she stabbed her scrambled eggs and dug into them, still maintaining her straight posture and chewing like a proper lady. Well, at least her etiquette remained the same, shitty mood or no.

His pancakes sat in front of him, the butter already melting with the maple syrup. If it were up to Cassian, he would have picked his plate up and moved to eat in the sitting room, preferably with hard liquor, no matter that it was still morning. You can’t say you drank all day if you don’t start early, Mor had insisted time to time.

Alas, his High Lady had forced him to have this conversation. Cass had ran off to Illyria for a good two weeks, knowing that it was unavoidable. Nothing had happened between Cassian and Nesta when he had to bring her to the Illyrian Camps. Not when the High Lord had called them both to come back to Velaris to celebrate Starfall together, not until that night. It came to a point where Feyre, who couldn’t talk some sense into him, had to beg Rhysand and Azriel to haul Cassian’s ass back. And here he was, in the townhouse against his wishes.

The night was filled with spirits migrating, and bottles were opened to celebrate. Laughter and joy brimmed the brisk air in the House of Wind, Feyre and Rhysand swirling around, dancing together. His head was dazed from the drinks that he guzzled down before dinner on an empty stomach, added on with the ones after dinner. Elain and Azriel were trading shy looks, blushing once in a while as they drank on the balcony, the falling stars behind them. They remained unaware as they were lost in each other’s eyes.

Truly the Shadowsinger and the Fawn.

Cassian blinked out the memory from a fortnight ago, and beheld the eye of storms staring right into him. 

He grinned at a Nesta, knowing it’ll piss her off more, before cutting up his pancakes to eat them. He had gone through three bites before she spoke.

“What are you doing here.” Not a question, by the sound of it. Never a question with Nesta, no. It was always an order.

Cassian stayed quiet for a few mouthfuls, aware that she was watching every bite he was taking. “You should ask your dear High Lady sister about that.” Cassian simply said after he was done with his breakfast. He really didn’t want to do this now. A headache was beginning to spike up at the back of his head.

Cassian was lounging on the loveseat with Mor. Amren had already vanished with Varian, no doubt heading back to her apartment. He drank straight from the bottle of wine, as if it would wash away his burdens. Mor got up and ruffled Cassian’s hair, pulling some of it from his man bun.

“I’m leaving now,” she had said, glancing at Rhysand and Azriel, both occupied. “Take care of yourself, you Illyrian prick.” Cassian had grunted at that, shooting her a smile. He heard as she walked out of the sitting room, careful not to disturb the remaining members of the Inner Circle.

“Nesta.” At the name of the person Mor greeted, Cassian sat up. A door shut, and he was hoping, praying, that Mor walked in—but the Cauldron must have decided to punish him for his sins there and then, because it was Nesta, clad in a lavender gown trimmed with blue hems, her hair in its usual updo, who entered.

Cassian was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard plates clattering in the sink. Nesta had gotten up and strode past him without him realizing, and he hated her for that. Hated that the walls he had raised up and the defense mechanism he built for the last 500 years melted when Nesta Archeron was in his vicinity. He turned his head, facing her back, and said, “We need to talk.” Even from behind, he knew her face had gotten slack. Her body stiffened.

She washed her plates too slowly, but he waited until she was done. Nesta wiped her hands dry and walked to the table, choosing the furthest possible seat from Cassian. Across him. Not the usual one they had adopted during her time at the camp with him; on his left hand side.

He rubbed his hands against his thighs underneath the table, trying to get rid of the sweat on his palms. “About Starfall,” he started, but her sharp tongue had cut him short. “What about it?” Fuck. The venom in her words had returned. Seems like his efforts during the year at the camp, getting Nesta to stop speaking to him like an animal and more like an actual being were gone to waste.

“You and I both know what happened between us was not.. normal,” Cassian managed to grit out. Fuck, there was definitely a migraine coming, not your everyday headache. He looked into those eyes again, the ones he was so scared of when his pancakes were still on the table. He shouldn’t be scared. Not when Starfall had changed things between them.

Before he knew what he was doing, he placed the wine bottle on the table at his side. He stood up and walked towards Nesta, towering over her. She looked up, and her High Fae features softened, the face she hid from everyone, the face Cassian would only see when she’s beneath his shadows. Feyre and Rhysand were heading towards the kitchen, to find something to snack on, Cassian assumed, as they had wasted their energy on dancing. Azriel and Elain were still on the balcony, both now watching the falling spirits, talking about what the history of each spirit may be.

He didn’t even realize his lips were forming a sentence until it was out of his mouth. “Care to dance with me, sweetheart?”

And Nesta Archeron, who, a year ago, would’ve spat on his face and called him a stupid ass for even thinking he was deemed worthy to ask for a dance with her, simply allowing her soft hands be enveloped into his large ones. He brushed his thumb on her palms, feeling the small calluses that had formed when she finally had the guts to ask him to train her at the camps. Their year together, far from the City of Starlight, had brought change into the human-turned-Fae.

Nesta didn’t look like she was breathing as she stayed still. In fact, if Cassian had painted her a dark marble colour and placed her in the Court of Nightmares, no one would realize that there was a living being between the statues that littered the courtyard. He let her collect her thoughts together, expecting her to spit poison itself, yet hoping her soft words and rich vocabulary came out instead.

His head pounded as minutes passed by, and he was half-tempted to walk over to Nesta and shake her, as if that would get her to spill her thoughts. But that was what Cassian would do a year ago. Now, after things had changed from time spent together and he had learnt Nesta’s tells, shutting the fuck up and waiting patiently was the best way to play this out.

He could feel the curves on her waist as he held her close, one of her hands gripping his shoulder softly, the other on his chest. It wasn’t as smooth as the ballroom dance that Feyre and Rhys had shared. This was the intimate kind where two Faes wanted to be close enough to each other, no care for the world. The hand on his shoulder slowly made its way to the base of his neck, tugging his hair, fingers twirling in it. He leaned in and rested his chin on her head, breathing in her scent. Florals and mint filled his nose. Mint for the icy fire that burnt within her.

“Nesta, we don’t have all day, sweetheart,” Cassian said. Each time the memories resurfaced, the pounding increased tenfold. He knew where exactly that pounding was coming from. But he’ll handle it, he’ll do it for Nesta’s sake. “What..,” she begun, but closed her mouth. As if her side of what happened is flashing through her mind.

Her scent was intoxicating. Cassian didn’t want this to end, not as he felt more alive than he had in all his years. They had slept in the same bed at the camp, nothing more, and her scent was always pleasant for him. But it was different now. It was as if it called to his very soul, trying to devour him.

Must be the alcohol, he thought to himself.

They danced slowly, holding on to each other for a few minutes. Feyre was already sleeping on Rhysand’s lap on the couch, Elain and Azriel joining them for their last glass of wine. Cassian thought he would be able to sneak in a kiss on Nesta’s forehead, had been yearning to taste her again ever since that day in the Mortal Lands, when her mortal blood still ran true. Grateful that his brothers paid no heed, he lifted her chin up and pressed his lips right beneath her hairline.

Something had snapped in Cassian, so loud in his ears, his head, that he was disoriented. Nesta’s fingers dug into his chest and pushed him away with such force, Cassian had almost tripped over his feet. She was clutching her chest, Feyre and Elain already running to her side. His brothers stopped short before Cassian. He watched as the two younger Archerons held Nesta up, his eyes shooting to Nesta’s. Rhysand, Feyre and Azriel stiffened, as they finally understood what had happened.

Before Nesta could understand what was happening and truly murder his ass, Cassian ran and jumped out of the House of Wind, evading the migrating spirits, and flew into the night skies.

“What happened that night?” Nesta asked, softly. Her eyes were roaming his face, searching for the right words. All the venom from before had evaporated, and sitting before him was the quiet, smut reading lover whose company he had come to enjoy in Rhys’ mother’s cabin for a whole year.

Cassian gulped. He had ran off on Starfall to avoid death at her hands, but he may very well face it now, even if her mood had lightened up over breakfast. With Nesta Archeron, there was no telling. But he would not run from her, not again. Never again.

“Nes.. we’re mates Nesta. Mates.”

[secondhand-trash]

The Last Petal Falls

A/N: this is my part of the bnharem may flower collab (and also my comeback fic? If that’s a thing?)! Special thanks to our girl @jojosmilktea​ for making the masterlist which you can find over here uwu 

Big shoutout to @redbeanteax​ too because I thought this was a hot mess at some point and she calmed me down aha-

Pairing: Todoroki Natsuo x reader

Description: “I think I’m dying.”

Warning: hospital setting, unknown disease (it’s a plot device that I have no research direction in please forgive me), mentions of death

Word count: 5191

-

“Natsuo?”

“Yes?” He looked up from the foot of your bed where he was checking the clip board that held all your information. 

You stared mindlessly ahead as if you were looking past him. Everything in the room was white. The sheets, your gown, his hair, the lights that made your head hurt, the pot by your bed that held the only bits of colour in your life at this point. It had been a while since there was more colour to your life than just the daffodils in the pot. You slowly lifted your hand up until it was right at your eyes.

Had your skin always be this lifeless?

“I think I’m dying.”

Natsuo froze at the spot when he heard what you just said, blood retreating from his face as your words made his heart shake. Your eyes were hollow as you slowly put your palms down again. You said with a such casual tone, one so nonchalant that it probably shouldn’t be used to announce something that held as much weight your own death.

He was shocked, but you didn’t look away. In fact, it wasn’t a prediction, you knew your end was near no matter what other people kept trying to say to you.

Natsuo blinked before regaining his posture, a stiff smile and forced chuckle finding its way to his lips. “Don’t be silly, of course you aren’t.”

You tilted your head and hummed, eyes not once leaving his broad frame when he sighed and ran his hand through that well-groomed hair.

Todoroki Natsuo. Friend first, doctor second. 

Just as you couldn’t remember how long it had been since you arrived at this ward, you couldn’t quite put a number on how long you had known the kind doctor as well. It must had been quite some time though, that you were certain of. Because you did have a distinct memory of laughing with him on the grass field of your old campus, the one with wild daffodils all around. It was when there was still a lingering boyishness to his laugh, one that you didn’t think you had heard in some time. You remembered the sun warming up the tip of your finger to which you were thankful for, because there was no way the uncomfortably pale lights above your head could compare to that.

Had it really been that long? You thought to yourself, subconsciously wrapping one hand around the other, and shivered when you felt how icy your fingers were. 

“Do you need me to get you a thicker blanket?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing as he watched your every move. 

“No,” you smiled, and somehow the slight lift of your lips that didn’t reach your eyes hurt him even more than it would if you had frowned, “I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head, slipping the clip board back into the holder by the side. “Wait for me here.”

Natsuo stopped on his tracks the moment he took a turn at the corridor and reached a corner where he knew was out of his sight. He let out a heavy sigh, his breath trembled as his shoulder dropped. Had you expected him to just carry on like nothing happened? You just told him that you were dying for the love of god. Running his hand down his face in a desperate attempt to keep himself together, his mind was in pieces as he thought of you.

You. Patient first, crush second. 

He could remember the exact moment he met you. He had just got into college, finally away from the things that had kept him trapped for so long. He was young, ambitious, full of aspirations and anger. He had made a promise to himself that these coming years would be about him. For the first time in his life, he could finally had the privilege of having something that was all for him. 

Until he met you, and his entire world was flipped upside down.

He couldn’t pin point what it was that made him gravitates towards you. But the moment he heard your laugh from across the end of the hall, he knew he wanted to know you. You were walking with your friends, laptop in hand and pen behind your ear. Your eyes twinkling as you walked past him, completely unaware of how you had changed his entire life from that moment on. Natsuo didn’t even notice that you were gone like a flash until he finally regained his sense seconds after you walked past, cursing himself for acting like a dazed creep and just stood there instead of doing something useful. 

But thankfully, luck was on his side for once. When he opened the glass door to the nearest canteen, he had to physically restrain himself from gasping out loud. There you were, with an apron on and standing right in front of the cashier, bright smile on your face as if you were doing something more exciting than handing people change. He started showing up to that exact canteen every day in hope of being there during your shift, and he could not forget the joy that erupted in his chest the time you talked to him for longer than usual with no one else behind him in the line.

Short exchanges turned into paragraph long text messages into being near inseparable. For a long while, Natsuo told himself that he was content with being your friend. That was way more than he had expected when he stubbornly tried to get you to talk to him more by eating at the same canteen consecutively for months anyways. But the more time he spent with you, the more he realised that he could never truly wave away the lingering thought in his head that he wanted more. That if he had a choice and you wanted to give him a chance, he would not mind being the reason behind your smile every single day. 

It had been an awful long time since he saw you smile.

There were multiple times when he was very close to letting the bubbling feelings inside his chest took over the better part of him and every time he had caught it at the tip of his tongue just as it was about to slip. When you turned to him and asked him if there was anything wrong, he would always smile back and brushed it off, trying to fight the lasso around his heart that was pulling tighter and tighter until it became hard for him to even breath. 

It was almost shameful in a way, but he was scared. Every time just as he made a promise to himself that it would be the time he tell you how he truly felt, it was the same smile that attracted him to your side making him swallow his own words back into the pit of his stomach. It was precious, you were precious, what if he lost it in just mere seconds because of his own impulsiveness? He was scared of the idea that one day your eyes would dim when you see him, that you would turn away nd try your best to end the conversation when there was a time when times flew by as you talked and talked and talked. He loved you badly, but he was afraid of losing you even worse. So he hid it, tried his best to soothe the pounding in his chest in exchange to keep what he had right now for longer.

Todoroki Natsuo spent years being your friend, and in all honesty, with all the sincerity in his heart, he was grateful for it. Really, but it did not stop him from imagining the way your hand would feel fitting into his and the thought of waking up to your every morning. It was a shock to him even, that even after so long, he still failed to convince himself that he was content with being your friend.

It was a warm, summer afternoon. He remembered very clearly, because it was supposed to be the day he stopped running away. He had planned to tell you that he loved you, in a way far beyond what you expected him to. For real this time, he had told himself when he got a text from you asking if he was free to come meet up at the spot that used to be your favourite when you were at school, this time he would not back away no matter what the result might be. 

That was what he had told himself, but when he saw your lips pursed together and your hands fidgeting from the far corner of the field among the yellow dots of wild daffodils with a sorrow he had never seen in your eyes before, he knew that he might have to betray his own promise for once more. 

You had planned to be calm when you eventually tell him the news, but all of your composure was shattered the moment Natsuo kneeled down beside you and asked you if everything was alright before you even saying anything. There was something about being treated with tenderness at a time of vulnerability that touched your soul to the depth of its core and it did not even take you to open your mouth for him to know that you were putting up a front you could not carry on with. 

He panicked when the first drop of tears rolled down your chin, his frame towering over yours as he tried to comfort you by shielding you from the rest of the world.

He was gonna tell you how much he loved you, he was certain that this was the day his years of yearning finally ends. But as the world melted away and all he could focus on was your muffled cries as you told him, struggling and pain dripping from your cheeks, that your body was being slowly decayed away by a sickness no one could manage to name, he came to the realisation that whatever he had to say, it could wait.

He had loved you silently for years and he decided that could do it for as long as you were around. For now, you needed him as your friend, and so that was what he would do.

He stayed by your side through each step you took further down the road, even as his heart shattered at the sight of you growing weaker and weaker. It wasn’t your shaky hands or the hollow of your face that pained him, it was the dullness in your eyes that he could not ignore as much as he tried. He took his field of study for a reason, but there wasn’t a time when he had prayed to all the gods he could name that there was a cure somewhere hidden within the stacks and stacks of reports he drilled into his head as much as he did when he saw you sitting by the window, staring outside at the hospital courtyard almost lifelessly.

He fell in love in an instance the first time he caught a glimpse of the stars in your eyes, but he wasn’t sure what he would do if the day when there was no more light in the sky descends.

“I think I’m dying.”

Your voice echoed through the void in his head that he tried to fill with happy memories of the past and brought him back to the present, when he could hear the ac of the hospital and the beeping of machines. Natsuo shook off the terror that loomed at the back of his head as he clutched the blanket in his hand. 

He was overthinking, he thought to himself as he spun on his heels. His steps heavy and more rapid, nearly as messy as the million of thoughts that was screaming in his head right now. 

(How could he live thinking you couldn’t?)

They were overthinking, the forced voice of rationality repeated as he took a deep breath at your door. It would be alright, they would be alright.

He didn’t eve notice how natural it was for the corner of his lips to lift up the moment he pushed open the door. As if he could pretend the weight pulling his heart all the way down to the pit of his stomach wasn’t there if you didn’t see past the smile on his face.

“I got you a blanket.”

“Thank you.” You smiled softly as he laid the soft fabric on top of you.

“I think I’ll have to go, my shift is about to start.” He said as he tucked down the corners. He didn’t even work in the wing of the hospital you were staying in but yet he was here every day, no exceptions. You had tried to tell him that there was no need to check up on your every day, guilt lumping at your throat when you caught him yawing when he thought you weren’t looking. It was no use, of course, Todoroki Natsuo was a rather stubborn one if he had already made up his mind. “I’ll come check back on you before I leave today, yeah?”

“Of course,” you replied, pushing down the urge to tell him to rest a little, that you would rather have him spend that time on himself than on you. He would argue that he did it because he wanted to and you could already imagine the look of hurt and disapproval when you eventually let slip that you thought there was no hope for you. You weren’t even sure if he truly believed that there was hope in your recovery or that it was for the mere purpose of cheering you up at this point, but he had always held more hope for you than you did yourself. 

You paused as he was about to turn away.

“Natsuo?”

“Hm?”

“Can you help me water the flowers before you go?”

The ceramic pot sitting by your bed was no fancy item and neither was the small flowers standing up soundly inside. Natsuo got you the small plant when you first moved into the ward and he beamed when he saw how fond you were of the buds of chamomile. They reminded you of happier times, you had told him as you traced one of the petals with your finger. Even though you did not even dare to think of the possibility of ever seeing the daffodiles fields again, at least the faint smell of the flowers could bring your mind a bit of peace.

You took great care of the plant and it was the little bit of leisure you could steal from the dullness of having no where to go. It had barely blossomed when he bought the plant but it had grown so much taller now that he paid attention to it. 

If only some of its vitality could be spared to you... 

“Sure.”

As he carefully wet the soil, he was almost shocked when he saw that one of the flowers had wilted. It was dried out, lifeless as it curled at the roots. You were always so attentive to the pot of flowers that any browned leaves would be plucked away before anyone could notice, how come one of the flowers had died and you didn’t do anything about it?

“I’ve decided to leave it there,” you were quick to noticing his silence, “I woke up this morning to see that one of the flowers died. I was going to pick it out but not doing that. There isn’t much point denying a natural process anyways.” 

He could almost hear the hollow of your words in his head again as he looked at the dying flower.  

(”I think I’m dying.”)

“Maybe it’s only this one,” he said, trying to ignore how odd your calmness was to him, “I’m sure the rest will keep growing strong.”

You sighed, and he wasn’t sure what to do with how defeated that sound was. “I hope so.”

-

“Do you think the flowers are dying because it has been trapped here for too long?”

You didn’t look away from the pot as you talked, your brows furrowing together as you spotted more and more of the stems showing signs of yellowing. It had only been days since the first flower wilted but there seemed to be no sign of slowing down for the decay of the plant. What went wrong? You wondered, remembering clearly that you had taken care of it just the same way you did all along. 

Perhaps it really was a signal.

“Maybe it’s the lack of sun light?” Natsuo said, containing the urge to just snatch the pot out of your hand as he pick up the visible downturn of your mood the longer you look at it. “Should we put it somewhere near the window?”

You stared at him for a while as he extended his hands to you before gingerly handing the pot over. 

Could it be that the stuffy room had sped up the years? Or did you water it too much? Not enough? You could push it to the back of your head at first. You could try to pretend it didn’t bother you at all for as much as you tried but it would be a lie to say you had already accepted it. You didn’t look away when they showed you the black and white cast on the film that was supposed to be your body, you did not even budged when they pointed out where it went wrong. You nodded without a hint of grimace when they later told you that they didn’t know what exactly went wrong, only that it was slowly reaping you away.

At first it was regular check ups, and then at some point the doctor advised that it was best for you to stay in the hospital all together. You only cried once. Not when you knew that all your plans were shattered by this unknown illness that was eating at you, not when you realised it would be a long time until you could see the fields you loved again. The only time you cried was when you told him that maybe nothing in your life would stay the same anymore. You weren’t sure what it was about Todoroki Natsuo that made you feel so strong and so small all at once. Perhaps it was the knowing that even for just the split second you stood with him among the dandelion, you were safe. 

You couldn’t fathom what your world would be like if you didn’t have at least someone to look forward to each day in this plain ward, you could imagine that it must be lonely.

Todoroki Natsuo. Friend first and foremost, even though sometimes you wonder if you deserve it.

He had so kindly bought you those flowers as a way to make the four walls a bit less cold, putting bits and pieces of life back into you for as much as your weakening hands can grab onto. But now they were dying, and it seemed like nothing you do could stop life from slipping away.

“There,” Natsuo said as he placed the pot on the windowsill, “I’m sure it’ll be better now.”

You did not have the heart to say that you were almost sure that there was no turning back at this point. 

“Should I help you water it before I go?” he asked, rolling up the sleeve of his coat as he said so. Tilting his head as he saw that your mind was elsewhere, he took one step closer to you. “(y/n)?”

“Hm?” You snapped up to look at him. Pausing to think about what he had just said, you tried to brush off all the thoughts and doubts in your head with a smile. “Yeah, that would be nice. Thank you.”

“It’ll be growing again in no time,” He said, trying to sound as convincing as he could be, “don’t worry about it.”

You could only force yourself to nod.

-

It seemed like nature was not on his side after all.

Natsuo nearly gasped when he saw the pot of daffodil, no, the tangling weed on your window. There was only one left, one last yellow flower standing among the dried out leaves that surrounded it. 

“I don’t think it will last till tomorrow.” you said. You were leaning against the headboard, it was starting to get harder and harder for you to sit up without any help now. You had no idea why, you had barely done anything but you were always tired. You couldn’t even water the flowers yourself if you try, you always get Natsuo or the nurse who checks in on your every once in a while to do it for you. “It is still watered regularly and all that, I have no idea what went wrong.”

“Would it be that we water it too much?”

You shook your head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. You even asked the florist for directions, remember?”

“The pot is not big enough?”

You let out a weak laugh, one that sounded more like a cough instead and he winced at how you almost sounded hoarse. “But it was fine for weeks after the flowers grew out?”

“Maybe it’s ventilation-”

“Natsuo,” you cut him off, your head dropping as his face softens at your calling of his name, “it’s fine.”

Running his head through his hair, he sighed before swinging it down in defeat. “I’m sorry”

“What are you apologising for? It’s not your fault.” You chuckled, your head tilting as you fidgeted with your hands. You could barely feel the temperature of your own skin. “All things have an end, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

It wasn’t, but deep down he still had a feeling that he had failed the one role he tried so hard to keep up with. He wanted to make it less painful for you, whether it was possible or not. He felt a horrible stir in his stomach upon the instinct that you were not talking about the flowers. He wanted to stop you, but you didn’t let him as you carried on.

“Daffodils are the prettiest when it’s out in the wild, with the sun and the wind blowing through,” you looked almost enamored by the sight you were conjuring in your head, a dream-like trance draping over your eyes, “you can only keep it in a room for so long until it eventually gets sick of the lights and the walls.”

You wished you could see the daffodil fields one more time.

He didn’t even realise how his nails were dug into his palm until the ache turned dull. Natsuo sighed, “Do you want me to water it anyways? Maybe we can keep the last flower.”

“No need,” you shrugged a little, your breath almost shaky as you exhaled, “I say we let it be, maybe it’s better that way.”

And there it was, the same acceptance in your tone as if it didn’t bother you at all. But he knew you better, acceptance only came after you give up on the possibility that you would be given a chance not to accept fate. 

("I think I’m dying.”)

“But-”

“It’s fine, Natsu, really,” you said, shaking your head a little as if to wave away whatever it was lingering in your mind before looking up at him with a smile. You smile, but there was no twinkle in your eyes anymore. “You should go get some rest, you have a long shift today.”

“It’s ok, I-”

“I’m feeling tired anyways,” you laughed when you saw that he didn’t even budge, your eyebrows raising a little to the best of your ability, “go!”

Despite your persistence, Natsuo could not bring himself to leave without taking one secretive glance at the last standing daffodil at the window. Maybe you were right, maybe it would not last till tomorrow. HIs heart sank at the thought and how even though you sounded like it was all set in stone for you, he knew that stripping away this last memory of the life you had before falling ill would be the final stone to your desperation. 

He wouldn’t pretend that he was going through all the turmoil for nothing but his care for you. Perhaps it was a bit selfish too, but he secretly wished that there would be a day when he could finally told you those words he buried deep within time after time. 

He was hoping, praying that you could see the day it happens. But for now, as he stared at the lone yellow flower under the golden hour sunlight from outside the door, this plan that seemed near impossible would just have to make do.

-

Your head was heavy when you wake up again.

You dreamt of home last night only to open your eyes to face the harsh reality of the white ceiling. It had been so long, honestly it was more surprising that it could still faze you. In your dream, everything was so real, so real that the disappointment when you broke out of it hurt even more.

You thought you had accepted that this was all there was left to your life already.

“Morning (y/n).”

You twisted your head to the side to see the nurse in charge of your ward fixing the curtains. She was very nice, and you always enjoyed seeing her every morning. You wondered if she had seen you stirring awake just then.

“Morning,”

Gripping the bar of your bed, you tried your best to sit yourself up. Your eyes fell onto the pot when she moved. It was a gut feeling when you said you knew it wasn’t going to live past today, and you were almost said to say that you were right. It was just dried out leaves laying lifelessly on the soil now, who would have known how beautiful it once was if they had seen it now?

“It’s so sad that the flowers wilted,” the nurse pitied, “they make the room so much nicer.”

You sighed, letting out a mindless mumble of agreement.

“You have been so out of your element lately,” she said, “maybe we should open the curtains in here, sunlight would be good for your spirit, no?”

Seeing as you did not object, she held both curtain in hand and pulled it apart. The morning sun immediately shined into the room through the window, you could almost imagine the warmth on your skin.

But the moment she looked out, she gasped.

“Oh my...”  she clasped her hand around her mouth in shock, “(y/n) you need to see this!”

Your brows locked together in confusion. You had seen the court before, you used to sit by the window all day long when you felt better. What was it that made her reacted like that? 

Your eyes squinted from the light as she helped you to the window. Putting a hand on your forehead to block the sun, you looked out as you pondered what could possibly be out there that she insisted that you must see it yourself.

Your breath stopped when you finally saw what was in the court.

That was not real. You could not believe your own eyes, how was it even possible?

You did not look away even once when the hand supporting your arms slowly retreated away, replaced by a pair of larger palms.

You could feel your eyes welling up when you heard his voice.

“So,” you did not need to look at him to know that Natsuo was smiling, “thoughts?”

“Did you do this?”

He chuckled, “Do what?”

Your gripped his arm as you turned to look at him. He was grinning ear to ear, and that was the answer you needed.

All you saw was an ocean of yellow flowers. Down in the hospital courtyard, every inch of the ground was covered with daffodils. They were blooming, every single one of them as the sun shined onto each bud. It was almost like the petals were emitting a golden glow. It was still the same grey walls, but for the first time since you got here, you found yourself not wanting to look away.

You never thought you would ever get to see this sight again, but somehow he managed to bring the fields to you.

You didn’t even know you were laughing as the tears roll down your face until his swept away the drop with his thumb. It was the same smile that pulled him to you and never left. He didn’t even know how much he had missed the sight of it until butterflies erupted in his chest as you looked up at him.

He would give you all the flowers in the world just to keep that smile.

“How did you do that?” you were at awe as you looked between the sea of flowers and back at him.

“Well,” he scratched the back of his neck, “I called in every single florist in town to see if they have daffodils. It was probably the universe helping that I could get that many, really.”

You sucked in a deep breath at the thought of him going from store to store even when he was probably already exhausted from work just to make you happy. “You really shouldn’t-”

“But do you like it?” He asked, eyebrows raising like he knew he could win you over any argument you were trying to raise.

You paused, biting your lips before replying. “Yeah?”

“Then it means I should do it.” He said, and you felt like you could get lost in his eyes as he stared right into the depths of your soul, “I’ll do anything for you, you know that.”

It was not a question, he had always supposed you should know that he meant every word and as much as you knew that he was the best thing to have ever happened to you, there was so little things you could think of that was more precious than someone believing in a future for you more than you did yourself.

You never deserved him, although he would be the one to protest against that thought.

Todoroki Natsuo. Friend, now and always would be, but maybe something more too.

“You’re gonna get into so much trouble for that...”

“I could get it here in one night, I’m sure I can get it out in just as little time too.” You laughed as he poked his tongue out and winked. 

His hand was so warm against your back.

“When I’m finally out of here,” you said and he nearly beamed, “let’s go see the daffodils again.”

Natsuo had waited years to tell you that he loved you. But at that moment, he was starting to believe that there was never a need for that.

“Of course.”

[violet-knox]

Prove Me Wrong

Year 7 - Chapter 60

Summary: Tired of the way he hunches over when he reads, you take it upon yourself to help him correct his posture. 

Word count: 2335

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1 

(Y/E/C)  = Your eye colour

~

“Shh!” There was no point in trying, Severus knew that. The second you set your mind to something, he knew you wouldn’t let up until you got your way, especially when it involved him. Yet that small feeling of hope for compliance still pushed him to shush you as he sat there in the depths of the library, doing his best to ignore your consistent annoyance and focus on the words in front of him instead. 

“Severus come on!” you said, trying your best not to raise your voice too high, knowing the attention you’d get in the library with everyone studying for their mid-year exams. Scouting your chair closer to him, you reached over to try and pull the book attached to his nose away from him. He had a death like grasp on it, as if letting it go would bring about the end of days, but that wasn’t about to stop you from trying. Raising yourself off the seat enough to gain a little more strength, you held onto the book tightly and slid into his lap, surprising him with a soft kiss on the cheek. Your unexpected move had the exact effect you were looking for and you finally felt his grip falter enough to let you snatch away that damn book. The moment you’d thrown it off to the side of the table, you’d crashed your lips into his, smiling as you surprised the urge to laugh. 

“(Y/N)!” Severus had shifted that death grip from his book to your arms, pulling you away as soon as he felt your lips against his. “Are you mad?!”

He felt his cheeks burn red as he looked down the hall, praying no one would turn the corner and invade his time with you. Over the years, Potter had gifted him the compulsive need to hold onto what he loves as well as the agonizing desire to constantly look over his shoulder, so naturally, he was at times overly protective of you, hoping that limiting your public displays of affection would guard and protect your love. It was bad enough you had to endure secondhand harassment when you became friends and he could only imagine how much worse it would get if you got caught by Potter or one of his friends snogging in public. 

“Try them on and I’ll stop!” you said, offering him the pair of reading glasses you’d picked up during your stay at Diagon Alley despite him urging you against it. Denial was all it was, but as soon as he took your advice, he’d know you were right and use them as he should. 

Severus eyed you as he weighed his options, though judging by that smile on your face, he could tell that stubborn side of you wasn’t going to let this go until he gave in. His choices were quite limited and even he could admit when he was defeated. Slowly letting his wrist drop, he opened up his palm and motioned for you to hand him those vile things, already dreading how ridiculous he’d look wearing them.     

“I try them on, and you never bring it up again, right? You’ll stop this... foolishness?” He asked, gesturing to your current sitting position, as he held the right arm of the glasses between his thumb and index finger. The way he looked at the glasses in his hands, the tone in his voice, it was as if he was about to risk his life by trying them on. Smiling, you subtly nodded your head in encouragement, holding his gaze for a moment before watching him slowly slide the glasses on. 

You bit your lip in excitement, unable to hold back your growing smile as you waited for those curtains he always kept in his face to pull back. Time taunted you as the moment slowed enough to test your patience. But you did your best to stay composed though it took all your willpower not to lift up his chin yourself and ask him if the glasses helped his sight as you’d intended it to.  

Finally, after what seemed like forever, his eyes met yours and you could hardly keep yourself from jumping in glee. The thin black frames complimented his eyes and the square like shape fit so well with his narrow face. Considering his lack of cooperation when you’d dragged him into that shop at Diagon Alley, you’d done a rather good job picking something out for him. 

“Well?” You asked with elation spilling out of your throat. “Do they help?”

You dragged over the book you’d previously thrown on the table and opened it to a random page, practically shoving it into his chest for him to read. Severus let out a small huff of air when the hard edges of the book hit his ribcage. Shaking his head at your inability to contain that growing ball of pure enjoyment inside of you, he looked down at the book in the hopes of getting this over with sooner rather than later. He was counting on your promise to drop this subject the second he proved you wrong. But as he looked down at the pages, the words suddenly became too blurry to read as he held it close to his face, he realized there was just one flaw in his plan; those atrocious spectacles you’d handed him actually bloody worked. In disbelief, he slowly started pushing the book back, the words becoming clearer the further they got.

Clearing his throat, he looked away, feeling a little embarrassed at all the push back he gave you over those damn things. They actually worked, just like you’d claimed yet he had to put his own pride fist and reject your persistence, brushing it off as insolence instead. But what was he supposed to do? Wear glasses and give Potter more reasons to make fun of him? Surely these bloody things looked ridiculous on him. Everything he wore always did. 

“They do don’t they!” You said, ecstatic to see the look on his face when he pushed the book back and straightened his back. Severus turned back towards you and squinted. Your features seemed sharper somehow. The (Y/E/C) in your eyes brighter than usual. Removing those wretched glasses, he looked down at them, trying to imagine what he’d looked like with them on.

“Yes,” he mumbled through gritted teeth, giving you the victory you knew you’d earned. Giggling, you tossed your arms around his neck, resting them on his shoulder and hugged him in delight. 

“I told you didn’t I! At least now you can read without completely wrecking your posture,” you said joyously. There were no words to describe the joy you felt to hear you’d managed to help Severus with a problem you knew he’d been denying for a while now. No matter how hard you tried, or how much you insisted, he could never seem to even consider the mere possibility that he may need reading glasses. 

But through your delightfulness, lay a small bit of worry when you saw the way he was looking at the pair you’d picked up for him; like they’d been a curse forced on him to endure for the rest of his life. Your heart began to sink as you hooked a finger under his chin and lifted it to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes, worried he wasn’t a fan of the style you’d picked out. 

“(Y/N), I can’t wear these,” he whispered, his tone carrying nothing more than utter disappointment. He knew all you wanted was to help him, that you could look past the hideous clothing he’d previously worn, the pants that were too short for his long legs, the stringy hair he could never seem to keep clean for more than three hours. But he still couldn't help but think that one of these days, it would all be too much for you and he’d find you abandoning him, pushing him away just like everyone else he'd surrounded himself with. 

“Why not?” you asked. He could hear the drop in your spirit form the tone in your voice. He hesitated, his eyes avoiding yours out of something that felt like a cross between guilt, shame and regret. Whatever it was, it had Severus holding back. He didn’t want to disappoint you further when he’d already brought down your mood. In fact, the longer he sat here in his own sorrow, the more he realized how absolutely absurd his excuse really was. 

“Because I look ridiculous with them on,” he whispered before meeting your gaze once again, waiting for whatever reaction you were about to give him. In actuality, what was truly ridiculous was his lack of trust in you. How long have you both known each other, yet he still doubted your support for him and against better judgment, his mind had led him down thoughts of nonexistent humiliation and laughter. 

“How in Merlin’s name would you know that Severus?” And of course, your true response had proven him completely wrong. You didn’t laugh at him, you weren’t upset with him. You were simply sympathetic for his concerns as you always were. Severus felt the light brush of your fingers against his palms and looked down to see your fingers gently taking the glasses from him and slowly placing them back on. He closed his eyes as they settled into place over his hooked nose, your fingers lingering in his hair before he felt them running along his hairline. He opened his eyes to see your bright smile and admired eyes. “I think you look dashing.”

Severus didn’t fight the smirk that made its way across his face. He was proud of the love he had for you and wanted to cherish every flutter he could get when you spoke to him like that to remind himself of how lucky he was to have you in his life. But when you leaned in closer, your hands resting on his chest, your head tilted, he couldn’t help the compulsive need to hide your love from those who could destroy it rise in his chest, his hands instinctively grabbing your arms and pushing you back. 

“You promised you’d stop!” 

“Fine,” you said casually and removed yourself from his lap, sitting yourself back in your own chair. You never understood why Severus was so adamant on keeping your relationship a secret, unable to even risk a small kiss in the corner of the library. Still, you respected his wishes and, in all honesty, you kind of enjoyed that protective side of his. But would it kill him to let you help him for once? That’s all you’d wanted to do when you bought those glasses and now that you knew they actually helped, how could you just stand by and let some silly insecurity he’d suddenly made up stand in his way? “Sev, please wear them. Just when you’re reading, that’s all I ask.”

“You realize I spend most of my time reading if I’m not with you.” Severus said as he removed his glasses and went to take your hand in his. He let his thumb gently run over your knuckles, smiling to himself as he thought about your adamancy. No one had ever cared for him as much as you had, not his mother, not any of his Professors and certainly not Lily. Merlin only knew what he’d done to deserve your care though it clearly didn’t come without certain repercussions. The moment he’d looked back up at you, that sweet pleading look on your face, your wide eyes, slightly pouted lower lips and furrowed brows, he felt his heart melt as it always had when you looked at him like that. “Fine.”

Your lips immediately stretched into a content smile as you watched him put the glasses back on.

“Happy?” He asked. You rolled your eyes at that sarcastic tone in his voice and watched him settle back into place, flipping through the pages to find the spot he’d left off. You knew how much he hated being stared at, but you couldn’t help your eyes linger. He was finally reading with the book away from his face, his back straightened against his chair and his hair resting on his shoulders as it should be. Peeling your gaze away from him, you went back to your own textbook, dragging over your scrolls and quill to continue working on your paper. 

Change wasn’t always easy for Severus, especially when it came to his own persona, so you were not only grateful for the willingness you saw him give today, you were completely and utterly touched by his faith in you. Your heart fluttered at the thought of him stepping out of his comfort zone for you and as much as you loved him for that, you just couldn’t help the joy at the thought of him finally keeping his books levelled at a reasonable position when you read in his arms. As much as you enjoyed reading with him, it got a little tedious each time he’d bring the book up to his nose when he was having a particularly hard time reading. 

“Hello,” said a familiar smooth voice. You looked up to see Connor placing his bag on your table, Severus seemingly just as startled as you. His hair had fallen over his face, his hands shooting up to remove his glasses as he turned away from your Ravenclaw friend. 

“Hello Connor,” you said, greeting him as he settled into a seat across from you. Your eyes turned back to Severus and you saw a small glimpse of his flushed face behind his black curtains. He was embarrassed! Even after he’d agreed to wear those glasses, he still couldn’t get over the ludicrous idea of their hideousness. At least you’d made some sort of progress today and perhaps, with time, Severus would come to see the beauty hidden behind his insecurities as you did.

~

Next Chapter

~

@dusk-realm @a-slytherin-sin @trashandshook @gbatesx @sneezy-s @emsdroid @leah-halliwell92 @dellightfullydeceitful @sparklingkeylimepie @nameless-sovereign @soft-slytherin-sweetie @youtube4life10 @scarletmoon83 @fluffymadamina @sleepysnapesnake @mitchiesdungeon @retroillistrations @armouredteddybear @dracos-mudblood @marvelschriss @bush-viper-cutie @ahsfan23

[lvlyhao]

「PART THREE: FAMILIARITY」

HUMANITY SERIES; Q.K

A/N: guess who forgot to update lol they’re whipped i just— also two surprise appearances hehfjfhsjh

important: i can’t think of anything??? the general warnings are in the masterlist if you wanna be sure none of them is a trigger for you!

word count: 2.8K

pairing: qian kun x reader

disclaimer: the characters in the story below do not reflect real people or present real facts. this is purely fictional, and you may not copy, change, translate or repost my work in any way. all rights reserved © cherry-hyejin 2021.

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Cussing like a sailor, you trudge towards the man, who's catching his breath by the sidewalk. His glance instantly darts to your face, about to say something. You cut him short, though, too disturbed by the fear that still clouds your every action.

“We have to leave while we can. Like right now.”

“H-how do you know I’m not infected?”, he asks, abruptly realizing something even more critical. "How do I know you are not infected?"

He backs away, then, gorgeous features closing off in hesitance. While he stares at you, you think his voice is much, much more angelic than you thought. It drips with uncertainty but is beautiful enough to make you forget how to speak for a minute.

"Uhm”, you clear your throat, now looking for your weapons. It's a good attempt at escaping his piercing eyes, but it dawns on you. He has quite literally no reasons to agree with what you were planning.

"I'm immune, actually. My DNA has some mutation that I honestly cannot explain that well. You", you pause, scanning his defensive form before going back to putting away your knives. "You are definitely clean. It's been over 15 minutes since I arrived: no walker bit you or you would have, at least, screamed. If by some chance it happened and I was not aware of it, I would have seen it in your eyes by now. It's the first part of the process", you grimace.

The guy stays silent while you speak, taking everything you say into consideration. You find it makes sense to him if his relaxed posture is anything to go by.

Finishing up with your arrows, you promptly head back to where you came from, assuming your companion is close behind.

“Wait!”, he trots, halting in front of you. “I… I don’t think I can go with you.”

You could say it's the dumbest thing you have ever heard, but your yell from earlier begs to differ.

“I can see you don't trust me, and you have no reasons to, but this is how rescue missions go. I see someone in danger, I do my best to get them away, and we go to my settlement, where we can hopefully be stronger by numbers. We can get there if we run." Your voice is borderline dull, almost like you have made that same speech 500 times in the past few days. It would have made him laugh, under different circumstances. Yet, he plainly breathes, running a grimy hand through his hair. 

“It’s not that”, he peers around, lost. “I came to the pharmacy for medical supplies for one boy in my own settlement. He needs them as soon as possible, or I’m not sure I’ll be able to help him at all. Besides”, he tentatively lifts your dominant arm by the sleeve of your jacket, careful not to touch you. “We should clean that and put some bandages around it, even if I don’t have the time to stitch it up.”

You are not sure what part of his speech you should pay attention to first.

“You have a settlement?” The question bursts its way out of your mouth before you can think better, but he doesn't seem to mind. Lips curling into a proud smile, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Yeah, I’m currently the father of 6 children from the college I used to attend”, he snorts.

“That’s amazing! I’ve been mapping this area for some weeks now, and I never found anyone”, you smile. “I’m currently the parent of”, stopping, you count the names in your not-chewed fingers. “16 children? Around that. I swear there's a new name every time we make the roll call."

Studying his kind expression, warm under the red sunlight, you feel as if you could talk to him for hours. I'd never get bored. Your situation seems small, squeezed all the way in the back of your mind. It's clearly much less important than your attractive stranger.

Gasping quietly in realization, he sobers up. He pulls you by your jacket once more, just as delicately, and keeps you close.

“Listen, I understand you have people to take care of, but you said you could get there in time if you run. My boys are not too far from here. I think it would be safer for you to come with me for now, at least wait until morning. Otherwise", he gulps, "we will both be in more danger."

You reflect his words guardedly. You are painfully aware that the clock is ticking and each second spent here makes it a bit worse. When the sun goes down is when things get seriously nasty. The night would swallow you whole before you could get to the campus, and then your eyes would be useless. You wouldn't be able to see any walkers or even traps you came across. You'd be a sitting duck. 

Sighing, you know your decision has been made.

I can only hope Taeyong forgives me for this.

With a curt nod, your free hand gestures for him to lead the way. He seems awed by how fast you agreed but decides against mentioning it. Instead, he gives you a gracious smile and goes on. He stands just past the crushed glass, where you can now see a coffee-coloured messenger bag on the once-white floor. Something seems to be fidgeting inside of it, and you stiffen.

Before you can ask about it, he drops your wrist. Picking up the bag gently, he cradles it to his chest and looks at the inside softly. He coos, speaking in a language you know to be Mandarin. That’s when it pushes out—the little, furry snout of a puppy, licking his hand and whimpering. 

It's like your systems just crashed.

“You have a dog in your bag?”

Laughing briefly, he turns to you again. Cosy inside of the leather is a tiny Beagle, looking at you with bright eyes. You can't help but think it's ridiculously adorable.

“Well, not at all times. I found her wandering around here, but one of her ears was bleeding and she’s limping”, his voice lowers to a whisper, watching her with concern. “One of my boys is a vet student. I thought maybe we could help her.”

Choosing not to question it, you simply nod. The bleeding ear would explain why she stayed here even with the noise. Her hearing must be quite damaged.

“And I’m assuming the medicine or whatever you needed is also in there?”

He's serious once again, reminded of the primary reason for his trip.

“Yes, I placed it in separate pockets and smaller bags. We are good to go.”

A breeze swiftly races inside the barely lit building. It’s a warning of how fast the twilight is coming, and he takes it. His quick steps sound first, light on the ground, and he checks to see if you are coming. Understanding of his rush, you jog along.

“I didn’t forget about your hand, by the way. I know a safe spot close to here where we can stop for me to treat it.”

Staring at his broad shoulders, your breathing hitches as the throbbing in your fingers come back. Treatment would be useful before you have to amputate it, but...

“Do you know how to do that? Not to doubt your capacities or anything, but I can just clean it with some water later.”

Running to come up to his side, he playfully eyes you. He is moving so naturally along the streets you imagine he must know this route well.

“I am a med student. Uh, was, I guess.”

His striking traits are highlighted by the blue hour, hues of periwinkle ghosting over his nose, forehead, cheekbones and lips. He chuckles airily, and you are conscious of how surprised you must look.

“A med student. That’s pretty helpful, huh? I’m sure you care very well for your friends."

From the corner of your eye, you see pink spread over his face. He glances up to the sky, lost in his own head.

“I try to. Our youngest has just turned 20. I can’t imagine what it must be like to go through this at that age.”

You hum.

“I know how you feel. I’m watching over an 18-year-old”, sighing, you think back to the freshman dance student at the settlement. You pray he doesn't feel your absence so strongly, familiar to his tendency to cry.

Comfort sparks in the way your companion bumps his shoulders into yours, drawing you out of foggy thoughts. When your heart suddenly tries to break free from your ribcage, you swallow dry. Could I not find a worse moment to develop a crush?

Beating yourself over your feelings, you travel silently, sometimes admiring the starry skies. It feels nice to be like this, almost… at peace. Funny how you can feel that way around someone you barely know while touring a town full of bloodthirsty beasts.

“Ah”, he breaks the silence awkwardly. “I still don’t know your name.”

You wince at that, realizing you were forgetting about it. It's like I've known him for ages.

“Sorry. I’m Y/N”, your voice is soft, rivalling the autumn winds.

“Y/N... That’s a beautiful name”, he compliments, eyes finding yours. “You can call me Kun.”

You say his name out loud, testing it, and giggle. It feels nice in your lips.

---

The trip to the first hiding spot was fast, just a matter of minutes cruising under the starlight. The place is a dainty, small wooden cabin, right at the foot of the mountains that surround the city. All around you are bushes and fireflies, that blink over stray pieces of cars. How they got to here, in the forest, is a mystery to you, but then again, a lot of things do not make sense anymore. It's simpler to overlook it and get inside, plopping down on a rusty chair as Kun grabs a flashlight from a corner.

His hands work quickly, and with confidence, like medicine is in his blood. It's impressive, but, most of all, painless. His touch is even gentler than Tyong’s and feels warm against your cool skin. A tiny smile plays on your lips the entire time, watching him and the sleeping puppy discreetly.

After that, your wounded hand is snug against the white bandages and the sting lessened. You feel like you could go on for miles, but Kun only laughs and tells you to calm down. No way you two are running uphill to his house.

“Wait, you mean you guys live… up there?”, you point, and he follows your finger, contemplating the towering trees of the forest nonchalantly.

Seeing your dubious expression makes his heart crack a little. He understands how intimidating it is: the dark, unknown forest. Who could guess what lurks between the twigs, spying on the few, brave souls that dare cross their territory?

“I know hiding from zombies in the woods sounds a bit weird, but I promise it’s safe. They have a hard time traversing the trees because they’re so closely set. Also”, he studies the grass beneath his feet, feeling a mix of shame and hesitance himself. “We might have planted a few landmines around the perimeter.”

The sound you make then is something between a wheeze and a gasp.

“How did you…?”

“I preferred to not question when Yukhei showed up with them”, he breathes, sounding like a tired father. “There’s a protected path we’ll follow, though!” He makes a face at how he saved the most important detail for last. I have no idea what is wrong with me today.

But, Kun thinks, secretly relishing on the way you shine under the moon, if you’re scared, I’ll hold your hand.

---

The journey to his house is more serene than you guessed. There are no walkers you perceive. It's almost like this place is completely cut off from the world, far away from real danger. Although maybe that is just Kun's effect on you. You have not failed to notice how tranquillity seems to flow out of him in waves, wordlessly comforting your wild heart. It's nothing like you have ever felt.

I met him two hours ago.

Once again shaking off your feelings, you try to focus on the other things that surround you. The crickets, the faint crunch of the grass and fallen leaves, an owl, how smooth his skin could feel under your fingertips...

Oh my god, you cringe.

As you steady yourself against the trunk of an oak, your shoulders finally loosen. Not too far ahead, you can see something that resembles a ski cabin, surrounded by barbed wire, and with orange light pouring from the windows. The path you walk on is surrounded by sharp wooden stakes from both sides, but the place still feels homier than the campus. 

You don't notice your grin until he smiles back, taking your hand in his and continuing the walk. You remain quiet until the ground changes from grass, pebbles and mud to beaten earth, and you stand right outside the fence. It's far taller than you, with the metal glittering intimidatingly. If the landmines had not made you feel safe, this definitely has. 

Kun, still grasping your hand delicately, surrounds the house with an attentive look. He searches for something and stops a few meters from where you were. It’s always simple to find—the crossing point—and he spins to face you.

“If you don’t mind holding the bag, I can cross over first and then help you. Is that okay?”, he asks, looking for approval in your eyes.

Warmth takes over your heart at his caring nature, knowing he could have just gotten in and expected you to not hurt yourself.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” 

With no other words, you reach for the bag, and hug it against your chest, observing the sleeping dog in your arms. While you are distracted, Kun steps on the lower row of wire and carefully places his hands on the upper one, creating a space he can shimmy through. 

He pays close attention to where the barbs were, but does it calmly, and gets to the other side with a small sigh. He then gestures to the bag, stepping on the wire once again, and passing it over with even more care than he had for himself. 

The moment he takes the bag from you, you feel your fingers brushing. While you both pretend not to notice, the heat rushing to your cheeks speaks for itself. Neither one of you mention it.

Then, it's time for you to get in. You can admit you are a bit apprehensive. Kun’s frame is sturdier than yours, in general, and he was just fine, but the idea of sneaking through sharp thorns is not exactly exciting.

Kun seems to know what you feel, and gives you a sweet smile, hoping to calm your nerves. He places the bag on the ground gently, trying to keep the puppy asleep. The process, then, starts over. 

One foot over the first wire, a hand on the upper one and the other stretched out for you to grab. The wind picks up abruptly, and you can't tell if you shiver from it or from the grip of his fingers on yours.

“No need to hurry”, Kun whispers, eyes trained on where your body is concerning the barbs. He, time or another, tells you to bend a little lower or higher, and pulls more at the cable. To your relief, though, all is well. After a minute of wiggling, you touch the other side of the fence and allow yourself to rest. 

“You did good”, he praises, patting your hair kindly. You sort of feel like a kid, but maybe not in an unpleasant way. 

Tardily letting the tiredness from the day catch up to you, your brain slows down, and your limbs ache. You had not noticed Kun was already up on his feet with the bag until a hand shows up before your eyes, a silent offer. You take it without a second thought, letting him pull you up. 

From then on, your mind gave up on processing a lot of what you did. You were nearly sure you went up a row of stairs to a wooden deck, the floor squeaking under your boots. Your new friend still holds your hand securely, which you are thankful for when you trip on a loose board. His eyes examine you for a second, making sure you're alright before he turns to the door.

It is also made of wood but painted red and unyielding. Letting go of your fingers, he knocks 3 times, waits a couple seconds, and then 4 others. The house, so far still, erupts into hushed cheers and shouts. Kun can only shake his head, holding in a smile, and look up when the door flies open, candlelight spilling out. The slim figure that appears nearly throws himself in Kun’s arms, but freezes when he sees you and the bag.

“Y/N?!”

“Hendery?!”

“...You two know each other?”

---

final notes: don’t question the way the virus works. just don’t, ok

[marueonmain]

WINDFLOWER

part one ~ caught sight of her ~

(part one)

A/N: I wanted to write this for awhile. It’s the first fanfic I’ve ever written so it might not be amazing, but I hope it’s good and that you enjoy it! I will be getting some of the English aspects wrong (sorry).

Summary: Alex is not the kind of man (if given the chance) to steal another man's girlfriend. Or is he? 

Pairing: imallexx x reader

Warning: Set in 2020. Mentions of the Budweiser Bug. (Sam is an OC)

Word Count: 2.5k

It was a warm and late afternoon.

There was a short break in the clouds and the sunlight streamed through to bounce off his sunglasses, as he walked the pavement.

It was a warm and late afternoon – teetering on hot.

Alex wore his white Gucci button-up which was fantastic for not attracting heat. Still there were noticeable wet spots under his arms. For each street closer he was to his apartment building he quickened his pace and rolled his shoulders back. Adjusting – so that the cloth might peel off from his skin without him having to directly pinch it out from his armpits. Alex did not like being sweaty – but who did?

Despite how he might have felt about crowds or said crowds looking at him, he more often than not enjoyed the loudness of his expensive shirts, his california twink shorts, even his odd hair colours (if applicable). What these preferences said for his personality was anyone's guess.

Maybe he was secure enough in his identity to enjoy things that are deemed as classically feminine. Maybe he was making a statement on the gender binary, or the expectations of traditional masculinity.

Maybe he had stared into the darkness inside long enough that he could not bear having to see it outside as well. Or maybe he liked pink – thought it complimented his cool skin tone or his lip colour.

Which it did.

One street from his building, Alex picked up his feet and sped up. He reached the front entrance; his hand went for the door handle and – WHAM!

Alex grasped at his nose, which had connected first with the glass of the door as it swung out. There was no red on his hands as he drew them back to check, but there was a general throbbing radiating out from the middle of his face.

From above him, a man asked, "Shit, you alright there?" His voice was rich like a slice of peanut butter cheesecake drizzled in a chocolate sauce of genuine concern. While he spoke, the man dropped the large cardboard box he was holding – it hit the ground like it weighed well over seven stone – and sidestepped out from the other side of the door.

"No. Yeah. Fuck, give me a moment."

"I could get you ice or something, maybe?" The man held his hand out in the air at an odd distance from Alex’s left shoulder, hesitant it seemed to touch him.

"It's fine." His eyes spotted the hand, then the discarded box. It was wrapped tight in tape, across the top was written STORAGE in permanent marker. Alex gestured to the building and asked, "You moving out?"

"Moving in actually, I just grabbed the wrong box by accident. Maybe one of these days I'll learn how to read." He bent over and picked the box up.

"Well, I'm Alex. 205"

"Sam. 305." (a floor above) "Everyone calls me Sammy."

How to describe Sammy. Picture an elk – a blond elk. A majestic beast for sure. Picture that and then make it stand on its hind legs and also be a person. He had a naturally muscular build and an evident dedication to a workout regimen – not too intense like three or four times a week.

Everything about him appeared likeable, charming. Certainly, it was his voice. As well as the goofy smile, how he carried himself ~the confidence~ and how he held a comfortable amount of eye contact.

Alex gave a polite smile. In the pit of his stomach something was building – he had not eaten in at least ten hours – a feeling like optimism. Surely, if he were courteous and pleasant now, perhaps this new neighbor might be less willing to lodge noise complaints against him later on.

"You look strong." Sammy cleared his throat before continuing, "There's a couple-three more boxes left I got to bring up. And a sofa. I'll never be able to get that thing up myself. You're heading up, right? You wouldn't mind helping, would you?"

"No. No—I mean, yes. I will help you." It was a class rendition of George's commentary stutter.

"Great! I got to get the truck unloaded before the game. You're really doing me a solid." Sammy's smile widened to be a bit open-mouthed �� like that of a dog after being told it was a good boy. He led Alex to the other end of the car park, to the truck, the sofa, and the boxes.

Alex stood waiting – as Sammy crawled into the truck bed – to help ease the sofa out. He tried to get a good hold around the back of it as it sprung out at him. Sammy pushed on his end, putting a lot of unjustified faith into a stranger.

He did not hear a complaint from Alex, just a string of strained grunts.

Sammy hopped out – boots hit the ground, and he took over the lifting part of moving furniture while Alex acted more as a guiding hand.

Walking toward the building, Alex shouted across the sofa, "Who you cheering for tonight?"

"Newcastle! Who else? Best there is in the whole sport far as I can tell."

A bark of a laugh shot from Alex's mouth. "I've got someone you have to meet."

Hanging around Sammy – for the time it took to maneuver the sofa in/out of the lift and to retrieve the remaining boxes and haul them up – was not not enjoyable. It was comfortable.

Alex did not think about the manual labor he had been tricked into doing; instead, he was preoccupied with chattering on and on as both rode the lift up. He answered all Sammy's questions – about the building, the people, the area.

He rinsed the other man for his team preferences and his truck – despite Alex himself not being able to drive. And while there was a lot of damning material for Sammy to 'fire back' with, he did not.

With arms shaking slightly under the weight of the last medium-large sized box, Alex went on with his lighthearted ribbing. And Sammy just laughed along. Even snorting once.

"Not even joking – are you a comedian or something?"

Alex beamed. "Or something."

Both men had a chance to rattle off some horror stories of the absolute shitholes they had rented in the past.

DING of the lift doors opening interrupted a rant on neighbors who complained about the littlest of noises, which Alex continued after stepping into the hall.

Then, it was done. The last boxes were set on the floor of the bare-walled apartment. What was Alex meant to do now? Leave? Hang around? Ask for a drink?

It was not like he was desperate for friends, just that Sammy was genuine, and it never hurt to have someone to ring up to accompany him on a night out or if Alex ever got evicted again.

Sammy dragged out a dramatic sigh as he straightened up, leaving the last box he had carried up – labeled DISHWARE – next to the sofa. Raising his arms above his head, he stretched out his back. Alex might have done the same, but he was conscious of the absurdly damp state of his underarms.

"I'm having friends over for drinks and to watch the game," Alex began. "Maybe a few rounds of FIFA afterwards. You should come – if you want, or not. There'll be money on it, and I tend to lose a lot."

"You just helped me move a sofa up three floors, shouldn't I be the one offering you something?" Sammy slapped Alex on the shoulder perhaps harder than he meant, perhaps not taking into consideration the size difference.

"There's nothing I need."

"Well, it sounds fun. I'll be sure to come round! And I'll—"

KNOCK. KNOCK.

A young woman stepped through the apartment door while her gaze held an intense focus on her wristwatch for too long. Like it does not take anyone who knows how to read a manual clock that long to figure out the time. She was looking at it just to look at it – to look preoccupied.

Shoulders a bit rolled in and posture a bit poor, she took five steps in and closed the door before even looking up. She pulled her head up from her wristwatch.

Upon seeing the space, her eyes brightened and shined. She gasped a small (not surprised but delighted) gasp, smiling big. And—and—oh.

OH.

OOOHhoho. Oh.

Oh, no.

Alex caught sight of her, and he was gone.

And it was not that she was perfect. No, she was not the airbrushed model of the advertisements on the tube. No. She was her, and it was ~ugh~ it was almost indescribable. It was the fit of her clothes and her hair and the cute ears. It was all of those separately and all of those at once, at the same time.

Seeing her was like living in a significant moment in history. Like attending a World's Fair, holding a piece of the Berlin Wall as it was being torn down, or standing on the frontline of a revolution.

It was having an inkling – a fervent gut feeling – knowing that what was happening was momentous and would leave an everlasting impact. But, for the time being, he was just in it: living it. Experiencing everything with the understanding that millions of different pieces had to have fallen into place for this one thing to happen and he. was. there.

"Hi, Red." Sammy caught her in a tight vice-like embrace.

"Hello." It was muffled a smidge from having her face buried in his shirt. She broke apart from him first.

"Alex, this is my girlfriend. Y/N. We call her Red." He said, keeping her close with an arm snaked around her middle while she gazed up at him.

In their brief time hanging out together, Alex had not considered that Sammy might have a girlfriend, nor did he consider that Sammy might not have a girlfriend.

He had not thought about it at all. Not in the slightest.

"Nice to meet you." Alex reached out his hand.

Y/N tore her gaze from Sammy and stared at the hand in front of her; she pondered it. Not moving. Her face flushed like she was going to be ill.

"Um...I..." He retracted his hand, shoving it deep into the pocket of his shorts.

"She won't shake your hand, mate, nothing against you – just a germaphobe. That's on me for not telling you beforehand."

"That's alright. I guess we're not meant to be shaking hands anyway." An awkward chuckle drippled off his tongue to which he did not receive a reaction. "With the Budweiser Bug and all."

"Oh, I'm not scared of that. People overreact." Sammy switched gears and moved to stand at Alex’s side.

Alex continued smiling as he considered how that might have been the most ignorant thing he had heard all month. But not everyone had the opportunities to take higher education courses as he had.

Y/N kept quiet during their exchange and after looking over Alex once more (avoiding his face), she flickered her gaze to Sammy.

It was like standing in the same room with someone on the phone and getting one half of the conversation. Alex was left guessing based on how confused and uncomfortable Y/N appeared to be as to what expression Sammy was using to respond to her questioning gaze.

Whatever he must have signaled or mouthed, it worked.

"Hello," Y/N addressed him simply as she set sail those dazzling eyes of hers into the peaceful seas of Alex's blue set, "It's nice to meet you as well."

It was a voice to tune-in to over the general hum of a group of speakers. A voice that might be complimented as being good for radio. A voice clear and crisp like water (from anywhere but London tap).

Alex wanted to keep her talking – to hear her mind and her thoughts. Hear her present a speech, putter a nervous ramble, or just word vomit. Hear how she pronounces each consonant and vowel. And if there were specific words that carried a different accent than the rest. Where did those come from? Where did she come from?

Notwithstanding his questionable reputation in a few corners of the internet, Alex was not a complete and utter irrational weirdo. He did have a brain which he would use part of the time.

It was not unlike him to be struck with crushes on young women and men he met in passing—he was human; it happens. If he was feeling extra alone, that crush might linger longer.

Might stumble into his dreams.

That is all it was—a crush. Right? Then why did it feel different? Not like that of a sudden burst of flames but of a washing-over sense of relief – an unquestionable assuredness in something new.

New or not, Alex was determined not to be weird about it.

"Why go by Red?" ...when Y/N is so fitting, so beautiful. Mission: Don't Be Weird Status: Failed

"What do you mean?" she asked with her head cocked to the left.

"Come on." With a clear sense of boredom in the direction of the conversation, Sammy strolled to the sofa and sat on it. He ripped into the cardboard box labeled DISHWARE and began emptying plates and mugs onto the cushion next to him. Speaking a bit louder to be heard over the tearing of tape, he offered, "Isn't it obvious?"

"Guess not. Or I might just be a little thick."

Everyone ignored his comment.

"You know, if you want to stick around some, Red's making quiche."

"Quiche?" Alex walked toward the back of the sofa – stopping a few meters short. "More of a breakfast food, don't you think?"

Bringing a hand to his chest in mock shock and offence, Sammy declared, "Food does not have curfews!"

"Except at hotels...and McDonald's."

"No. No, not McDonald's. Not for a while now; where have you been?"

Alex rolled his eyes; while searching for some support in the conversation, he turned to find Y/N had disappeared in the single second she was out of his sights.

A disappointed frown formed on his pink lips.

Perhaps it was a cue for him to leave as well. "I got to run. I'll be seeing you then?"

"Right," said Sammy. "Go Newcastle! Yeah?"

Alex thumped his closed fist twice against his chest in an odd gesture (which meant nothing) and smiled a closed mouth smile as he stepped backwards out the apartment door to the carpeted hall.

Sammy chuckled and shook his head, "You're a funny guy, Alex."

[daredevile]

In The Streets Lies The Dark

Summary: No one wonders about the horrors that prey in the darkness, all the horrors that he witnesses so others don't have the burden of crime haunting their nightmares. [Police AU]

Warnings: None - [Steve Approved]

A/N: This one is for @buckthegrump for @bucky-smiles' Secret Santa writing challenge, I’m so terribly sorry for being late! I’ve re-written this at least three times and ended up here - hope you like it!

It's the feeling of familiarity that calms his racing thoughts; the cool air caressing his face, the peaceful hum of some melody teasing his ears, the alluring fragrance of home. It dissolves the touch of all the horrors he endures and lives through daily. There's a sense of peace and tranquillity that he finds nowhere else but here - all alone in the corner, away from innocent eyes.

A sigh escapes his lips when the stack of paper-filled case files leaves his tired grip and cascades onto the table, sharp edges of crime scene photos and evidence peaking out of their place. The files reveal nothing less than unsettling descriptions of sinister crimes and damages to victims, all tainted by the lurid strokes of a murderous red. His eyes glide over the words, subconsciously painting the reality onto his recurrent nightmares that embrace him to his slumber.

The abrupt presence of a marble coffee mug diverts his attention to the apologetic barista. Like some primal reflex, his arms subtly shield the contents of the files from curious eyes - purity doesn't need to be scarred by the unfortunate truth, he thinks.

"Long day, Sergeant?"

He laughs. Smiling at the sheer touch of simplicity lingering behind her words, she joins in and he recalls a time when he too was this youthful, this unaware of all malice and prejudice lurking amongst the good. He almost misses it. Going about his day, not regularly looking over his shoulder for suspicious activity, not instinctively reaching for the gun strapped to his side - not caring about anyone or anything but himself.

"Always."

It seems selfish now. Filling his mind with such thoughts after seeing, with his own eyes, all kinds of darkness plaguing the streets of New York. Constantly reminding himself that 'someone should be responsible for the safety of the people' whenever he reconsiders ever accepting this uneven trail of life.

As she turns to retreat to the coffee machine, a mere flash of white grasps his concentration. He studies as you chat with the barista, switching the stack of patient records over to your other hand, a simple dance of friendly smiles when you catch him staring. The buzzing of his phone shreds any chance of introducing himself; he groans, managing to glimpse at the message before rubbing his temple in defeat. And when he realizes you are already gone, the pace of his footsteps begins to fade along with the distant possibility of ever seeing you again.

---------

Breathing in the fresh, crisp breeze in the AM on an early jog is a part of the job cherishes most; the desolate alleys, the streaks of the morning glow across the soaring skies, the sounds of oblivion. Across miles of barren streets, he hears the delicate hustling of the city awakening another day.

The aroma of caffeine hones his senses as he pushes the door, welcome by the array of beaming baristas already preparing his order - another part of the job he admires. The dark creamy liquid swirls around, melting into a cup of sugary bliss, it's naturally routine when he continues to his corner, but realizes it's occupied by you.

Stepping behind the bookshelves, he runs his free hand through his sweaty hair in a pathetic attempt to tame it down. A short breath escapes him before he moves into your line of sight, indicating his presence by clearing his throat.

The quirk of your eyebrows stills his breathing, his eyes flicker to the seat opposite yours, silently asking for permission. And when you respond with a smile, the coffee nearly spills atop the pristine files on the table. There's no conversation, his mind is blank, anxious even as he sips on the scorching hot liquid.

A chuckle escapes your lips, his eyes shift to yours in surprise. The reddening of his cheeks becomes more apparent as you gaze at his reaction and for a moment, he forgets the burning sensation on his tongue.

"Here." You say, nudging a bottle of water in his direction.

He mumbles a 'thank you', grateful for the rush of cool water simmering the sizzle of fire down his throat. Though the feeling of elation disappears as swiftly as it came when you begin to gather your belongings. His arm grasps yours - halting your movements. The soft warmth of your skin beneath his calloused hands jumbles the well-rehearsed line pausing at the tip of his tongue.

"Sergeant?"

"I- would you like to have coffee sometime? With me?" He stutters, noticing your eyes flick to his arm holding yours - he releases it in an instant.

"I'd love to, my shift ends at seven. Is that alright?" Your question goes unheard to his ears and you know it based on the boyish grin he attempts to bite back.

"Yeah - yeah, that's great!" He says, bouncing his foot underneath the table. As you walk past him, the fragrance of your perfume tickles his nose and he takes a deep breath before snapping his head towards the door, "Wait! I don't know your name."

"Y/N." And that's the only thing he hears despite the loud sounds of the city outside.

The blanket of darkness settles over the daylight, the luminous glow of the moon casting a glistening spotlight over the row of buildings. The tiny lamps dispersed across the cafe flicker on and the room is lightened by a faint golden hue. A glance at your phone and the time reads 7:02 pm. He's probably running late, you think, shoving other thoughts away from your stream of consciousness.

Ever so often, your attention focuses on the door as it opens, straightening your posture before realizing it's another stranger that strolls in. Your thumbs fiddle with your phone, lighting up the screen and the time now reads 7:12 pm. 'Doctors end up with doctors for a reason', some relative's words circles in your mind.

He nudges the door with the good shoulder, wincing when a sharp jolt of pain shoots up the left arm. He catches his reflection on the glass pane; dark strands of hair falling out of place, little wounds and gashes scattering his body - he doesn't look too good nor does he feel too good. He stumbles onto the couch, leaning his head back against the velvet and locks eyes with you from across the room.

Wasting no more time, you make your way towards him. He doesn't miss the faint gasp that leaves your lips when you take in his injured state. Your hand reaches out, grabbing the side of his face as you lean forward to examine the cuts on his cheeks. He stares at your features, the deep colour of your eyes, the curl of your eyelashes, the way you bite your lips.

"What's wrong, Doc?" He asks, lightening the mood. But when the distance between your bodies decreases, he holds his breath because he's convinced you can hear the rushing beat of his heart.

"You're late." You say, taking in the rich musk of his cologne. The honeyed tone of his laughter reaches your ears and you forget how long you were waiting in the first place. "And, it's Doc-in-training."

He shrugs in response, "Was a little occupied." The deep timbre of his voice has your stomach twisting for more.

---------

There's a spring in his step as he speeds up the stairs to your apartment. Grace, the barista, had told him you didn't come in for your morning coffee as soon as he had wandered in and examined the room. It's been nearly a week since he last kissed you goodbye before leaving for a case - and he just couldn't wait for another second longer.

With a quick knock against the wood, he waits for the shuffling of your footsteps, the creaking of the door - yet he hears nothing, just pure silence. It reminds him of his morning jogs, but this was nowhere near comforting. He shakes the doorknob in a furious effort to force the lock open. There's a brief pause before he kicks the door, all familiar memories of breaking into houses flooding into his mind - not yours, not you.

He prepares himself to see the worst, to see red all over. Unfortunately or fortunately - he can't decide - the place is as clean as it ever was. Everything placed in its precise spot. He scans through the apartment, with a heaviness in his chest and the blood in his face drains as he walks into your room.

A knife.

On the wall.

A piece of paper.

And he knows exactly where you are.

He's impatient. Eyes flicking to the watch resting on his wrist. Just wishing for all this to disappear and have you safe in his arms, away from all darkness only he sees lying in the streets amongst the good. He ignores the muffling of police commands from the walkie-talkie, darting out the car as the tires screech to a stop. The gun sneaks back into its position, the agony of fear never seeps through his thoughts - but this time, his weakness is you.

The alleys are lit up by the dark and he doesn't notice two guards sneak up from behind and beat him to his knees. He doesn't register the shocks of anguish all over his body as he's brought to the main room and forced on the cold, hard gravel.

He hears whimpers from the side and he recognizes that voice in a heartbeat. No amount of pain he had ever felt in his life matches what trembles its path into his soul. With a glimpse at your frightened form, he longs to erase this memory from your mind, gladly accepting the worst if it meant you could escape from this reality, 'purity doesn't need to be scarred by the unfortunate truth’, he thinks.

"Take me instead." He spits out, immediately feeling a burning sensation as the guards kick him in the sides.

"Bucky! Let me help him, please!" You shout, fighting against the tightness of the ropes.

The sound of devilish laughter follows, hollow footsteps pausing right in front of you. The man forces a gun into your tied up hands, pushing you forward - into Bucky's line of sight.

"You shoot him, or I'll kill you both." He smirks, releasing his hand from your shoulder. You turn at the sound of Bucky's groans, he sends you the same smile he did the first time you met and the gun threatens to speak. He gives you a nod, glancing at his watch once more.

"I'm gonna need your help, Doc." The words float in the air like a magic spell, an unknown strength within you arises and you slam the spine of the gun towards the man behind you.

Heavy footsteps roar from across the shadowy room, you hear the rattling of bullets, the enraged shouts as Bucky rushes to you. He signals the rest of the officers with different instructions and tears the rope's grip on your innocence. Strong arms draw you to an embrace before evacuating the area and you notice the blood streaming out his abdomen. Guiding his hand with yours, you firmly push against the wound, the pressure ceases the blood flow, he flinches from the tension on the cut. Your other hand rests on his shoulder as you stand on tip-toes, sealing the gap between your lips.

---------

He's running. He feels the lack of oxygen in his lungs as his feet hit the cement in a hurry. The watch glares at him with a dull 5:55 am when the cool air surrounds him again, he feels secure. Grace motions to the corner and his signature million-dollar grin makes an appearance when he sees you reading. The feeling of familiarity swirls in his mind, and all the darkness fades into the past.

[the-prince-of-professors]

💖🎉 Happy Birthday @tremendousdetectivetheorist !!

I’ve written something silly for you, and... I started this yesterday, and at first I only intended to write that part that we have been talking about for ages; but somehow it turned into something more so, uh... you will get the second part tomorrow! (Also, I really need to go to bed now because I have work tomorrow, so I’m sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes or typos etc. If you want to, I’ll post it to AO3 later when it’s edited! I just wanted you to get it today 😄) 

It was half-past four, and the sun was already beginning to set, when a carriage stopped in front of the London townhouse. It was a townhouse like so many others you have seen before—the luxurious, elegant kind, with the meticulously planted garden in front, the polished brass clap on the polished black door, and the crystal chandelier hinting through the large bay windows of the ground floor; the kind of house you might stop to admire, or otherwise pass without a second thought. From the carriage stepped two men: and if I say now, that we are in the London of the 1890s, and that one of the gentlemen is carrying a notebook in his breast pocket, and the other is in the habit of carrying a magnifying glass, and that there is some urgent business in the form of crime prevention that has called the two to this particular house, I hardly think I need to introduce them by name.

Holmes swiftly walked up the gravel path, took the stairs in three steps—but stopped with his walking-stick raised for a knock, and instead touched the door gently with his long fingers. As Watson came up behind him, he was looking the door up and down, with a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Holmes?”

“Ah, sorry Watson,” he said, still with the same expression. “I lost myself in memories for a moment—it’s been so long, still looks the same…”

“You’ve been here before?” It was the first the doctor had heard of it.

But Holmes only smiled, and finally gave the door a rapid knock. It opened almost instantly, and they were welcomed by a man in servant’s clothes, with dark hair and stern brown eyes. He must have been in his twenties—early thirties, perhaps—but his stone-set features and his unyielding posture gave the impression of a mature and respectable mind.

“My master is in the morning room,” he said.

He showed them the way to a delicately furnished room, where the last rays of daylight streamed in between lavender coloured curtains over a grand piano, by which a young man sat tapping aimlessly on the keys. He looked up as they entered.

“Mr Holmes and Dr Watson,” the valet announced, and left the room.

The young man rose immediately.

“Lord Webster, I presume,” said Holmes.

“Mr Holmes!” he exclaimed, walking up to him and clasping his hand. “You don’t know how grateful I am that you have come. Dr Watson, most obliged.”

“We came as soon as we could,” said Watson. “Your message sounded most urgent.”

“Oh it is—it is!” exclaimed the man.

He was a fair fellow, medium build and soft in complexion, with freckles on his cheeks and strawberry blonde locks falling around his face. His eyes were a gentle, pale blue, though constantly sparkling with whatever emotion dominated him at the current moment. Now he threw his slender hands in the air, and sank down upon a red velvety chair.

“I hope you will understand, gentlemen,” he said pleadingly, “that I have done nothing wrong here. It is vengence, pure vengence, for something that I never promised, and something that could never be.”

“I am sure we will understand,” said Holmes, “once you have explained the problem to us. I am afraid your message did not reveal much.”

“I could not!” exclaimed Webster. “It is a most delicate problem, and I hope no one has been made aware of you coming here. Mr Holmes…” the young man straightened his back, took a deep breath, and continued in a tone of importance, “I am being blackmailed.”

“I see,” said Holmes after a short silence. “That is most unfortunate.”

“Can you help me?”

“My dear Webster, until I have heard the details of this affair, I can promise nothing but that I will try my very best.”

“That is all I ask.”

“In that case—”

Holmes fell silent as the dark-haired valet entered with a bouquet of flowers, which he proceeded to place in a vase upon the piano. Holmes looked questionably on Webster; but the young Lord only smiled and waved dismissively.

“Oh, you may discuss anything in front of Stevens. I trust him like the back of my hand.”

Stevens looked up for a brief moment, uttered a well placed “Sir,” then continued with the arrangement.

“Very well,” Holmes continued, with some carefully concealed amusement. “Then pray, tell us—to begin with—to whom you owe this… inconvenience.”

“Why, to HER of course,” Webster exclaimed, rising to his feet in indignancy.

Holmes looked with some confusion upon his angry countenance—his eyes wide, and the delicate nostrils flaring like a horse’s—and asked:

“Her?”

“Yes, of course—HER!”

“I’m sorry, Lord Webster—am I supposed to know who this woman is?”

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” Webster continued, at once abandoning every trace of anger for a posture of absolute misery. His face grew soft; his eyes searched the ceiling as if looking for an answer among the hidden stars above; and, forgetting the chair, he danced across the room the few steps necessary to reach a luxurious divan, and with a heavy sigh flung himself on it. “Is there not always such a woman, in every love story worth its name?” he concluded, touching his hand to his forehead.

“You… can surely not be talking about a woman you love?” Holmes said, consulting Watson with a quick look, who frowned in agreement.

“The woman I love?!” Webster sat up. “Of course not! Had it been the woman I love, it would not have been a HER, it would have been—”

He paused for a second, gazing into the distance; then made a gracious gesture with one hand, as if letting his fingers dance over the keys of a piano.

“—a her,” said he then, with the softest tone of voice.

“I see,” Holmes said slowly. “And this woman…”

“She wants to marry me!”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you. It would not have been so bad, only she will simply not let go of the idea.”

“I see.”

“A little intrigue never hurt anyone—a little flirtation and a bit of rejection here and there is good for moral—and for one’s health, I believe—but this has gone too far!”

“And now she has turned to blackmail, unless you agree to the proposal.”

Webster hung his head. Stevens, having finished with the flowers, swiftly stepped up to his master’s side. Without a single change of expression in his stern face, he picked up a blanket from the side of the divan and placed it carefully over Webster’s shoulders, then said:

“Shall I bring the tea now, Sir; or would your Lordship rather wait until the next mood swing?”

“Now, Stevens, would be good. Thank you,” Webster replied with a wave of the hand, and Stevens exited immediately.

Watson looked after him with some curiosity; but Holmes’ eyes were fast upon the client.

“Now, what is this woman’s name, if you may be so kind.”

Webster rubbed his eyes a little, and drew the blanket closer around him.

“Such a rock, through all of this—such a rock,” he murmured.

“Her name?” Holmes asked again, taking a step closer, and Webster looked up with a dazed expression.

“What?”

“Her name, Webster!”

“Oh! Mrs. Chaillard—might even be a Lady, now that I think about it. She has been married so many times, one has a hard time keeping up.”

“And you have known her a long time?”

“Oh, known or known… she was certainly around here a long time ago—but I was merely a boy back then. I had not seen her for ages, until she decided to appear in our part of society again.”

“She has been away, then?”

“All over Europe. Has friends all over the place. Money, art, estate in Italy, travelled here and there, married and widowed, and married again… oh, you know the type.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ve only been as far as Brighton—”

“Worthing, my Lordship,” Stevens corrected as he entered with a tray.

“Thank you, Stevens, that’s kind of you. I don’t know what she thinks we should have in common! But that’s neither here nor there.”

“Yes, I do believe it is time we get to the point,” Holmes said patiently. “We now know the who and the why, and it is now the what—what is it that she has on you, Lord Webster?”

At this the young man went quiet, acquiring a genuine glimpse of sorrow in his blue eye. He slowly rose, and walked over to the table where the arrangement of flowers stood in its crystal vase.

“It is,” he said with his back turned, “a very delicate matter, and a very bad situation, I’m afraid.”

“You will find we are very discreet.”

“A very, very, delicate matter.”

“I assure you,” Watson said gently, “that whatever you say will stay between the three of us—provided no one will come to harm due to our silence.”

“Oh, your silence is most important,” Webster shook his head, “and I swear it will do nothing but good.”

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“Alright,” he sighed, looking up at last.

He looked both gentlemen in the eye firmly before he continued:

“She has come over some… letters…”

“Letters?”

“And a photograph.”

“Photograph.”

“Yes.”

“It’s contents?”

Webster frowned, for a moment turning his eyes on the table where Stevens was in the process of laying out tea and cakes. Then he turned the other way, and let his fingers rest on the single red rose in the arrangement. He stroke its petals slowly, as if only half aware he was doing it.

“Sensitive—very sensitive,” he said.

“You really must be more specific than so, my boy.”

Picking up the rose, as if for comfort, he turned his eyes back on his consultants with the shade of a smile.

“It is a lover, is it not?” said Watson kindly, and Webster nodded.

“It is essential, I’m afraid, that you tell us who it is,” said Holmes.

Webster put the rose to his nose in contemplation, bumping it slowly against it a couple of times.

“Tea is served, my Lord,” said Stevens, in a tone one could imagine to be a little gentler than before. He stood looking at his master intentely, like a soldier waiting for orders.

“Thank you, Stevens,” Webster said again, but this time with the same warmth as if the valet had offered to carry out his last dying wish, and not simply served tea for his guests.

Stevens gave a small nod, turned on his heel, and left the room again.

“Now,” said Watson, “we really wish you would tell us—”

But Holmes interrupted.

“Ah,” he said, with a newly lit glimpse in his steel eye. “Of course… is it not so?”

Webster, who had followed Stevens with his eyes as he left, now met Holmes’ eye with a look of surprise, and then of submission. Anxiously, he put a bunch of the red petals between his teeth, and nodded. Watson looked from one to the other.

“But a photograph?” Holmes continued. “That is very indescreet of you—both of you.”

“Oh, it is all my fault!” Webster exclaimed. “It was back when it was all new, all… butterflies, and hopes for the future… I’m sure you know what it’s like, Mr Holmes? I only wanted what everyone else so openly are allowed to have; and it was only supposed to be for us, only a token, a memory of our promise to each other; and he knew better, of course, but simply did not want to let me down.”

“He?” said Watson.

“I quite understand,” said Holmes kindly.

“Stevens?” whispered Watson.

“And the letters?” Holmes continued.

“Nothing obscene,” Webster said, sinking down upon the divan again, “only words of love and devotion… but certainly enough for a conviction.”

And he buried his face in his hands. For a moment only the ticking of the clock broke the silence. Then Holmes spoke again.

“And you are absolutely certain,” he said, “that this woman is in possession of these items.”

“Certain!” Webster looked up. “She made sure I was! She showed them to me when I was there earlier today, waved them in front of my face—and then put them in her safe, impossible to get to.”

“Impossible…” Holmes murmured thoughtfully. “And when,” said he then, “does she intend to play her card and set your ruin in motion?”

“Holmes,” said Watson reproachfully, as Webster started.

“I’m sorry,” Holmes said, “but if I understand correctly, time is of the essence here. Otherwise you would not have called on us so hastily—is it not true, Webster?”

“Tomorrow,” the young man moaned. “She is to come here tomorrow morning, and if I don’t comply, she will go to the press the very same day.”

“Then we have all the facts!” Holmes exclaimed. “Unless there is something you have left out?”

“No, no, Mr Holmes, I have told you everything.”

“I thought so. Then we must begin our operation.”

Webster’s head jerked up.

“You can help me then?”

“I believe so. Or, rather, I believe I know someone who can.” Holmes smirked, giving Watson a look of confidence. “I need to send a telegram right away, and then perhaps if your Stevens will be so kind as to write down the address of the lady for me.”

“Of course.”

Holmes smiled, then turned to Watson and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Stay with him, until his valet returns.” Then, leaning closer, he whispered, “after that, meet me in the conservatory—under the second palm tree on the left.”

“Second on the left?”

“Yes, Watson,” he smiled; “the usual palm tree.”

And he left the room without further ceremony. Watson stared after him for a moment, perplexed; then he went to sit down beside the young Lord, who now had a look of perfect disbelief upon his face.

“Your Mr Holmes is certainly very peculiar,” he said, and turned to Watson. “Has he really found a solution so quickly?”

“I believe he has,” said Watson. “You may trust Mr Holmes, in any case, to do everything in his power to save your reputation.”

Webster sighed.

“It is not so much my reputation… though one is very fond of it, of course. No, Dr Watson, it is that of the man I love—yes, love! oh I don’t believe I have said that to another living soul, except to him—that I’m afraid for… and for his very life, too. I wouldn’t mind so much going to prison for love—after all, is there a nobler reason? It is romantic, albeit in a morbid sort of way… Something like the knights of old, one might imagine… Oh, but for our love to be the very reason for tearing us apart! To destroy this life of ours? To cause him harm? I could not live with it.”

His tearful eyes met Watson’s, and he continued with much affection:

“He really is the warmest of souls, you know; with the kindest of hearts. Most people don’t see him as such—I know that, but it is easy to forget once you have learnt to see that special glimpse in his eye: the one that tells you of the friend, of the lover. But, oh,” he laughed suddenly, putting his hand on Watson’s and giving it a pat, “I don’t need to tell you that, do I? I must admit I was nervous about sharing our story with you and Mr Holmes; but now that I have seen you together—”

Watson was about to answer; but at that moment, Stevens entered the room, and the young Lord’s attention was quickly diverted to matters of his own heart.

To be continued

[lupusxdei-a]

self para: melodies and desires | greed x pestilence

The pristine whiteness of the leisure salon at Vonpha's palace created a unique trick on the eyes, making the interior seem as though it stretched far and wide ad infinitum, rendering the senses of any creature on the low tiers of the great chain of being useless. Tall, ornate pillars stood at each corner of the interior, a pallid shade of beige that helped the eyes gather some orientation if said eyes chose to wonder about. The window were enormous, their frames woven with a rare material humanity would call gold, though there were thick curtains covering each, thus successfully hiding the world from the visitors inside. The only substance of colour that existed in the salon could be found in what should have been the north side of the salon, where one could find a long and heavy, rectangular wooden table that offered a great variety of fruits, vegetables, meats and drinks, the kinds the Earth would never get to taste. At each far end of the table (one may even consider it the precursor of buffets) stood a ceremoniously-clad servant - at the west end was a once-mortal-turned-demon soul, a man who could not have been older than twenty five or six when he expired on Earth, with locks of pallid honey and eyes as green as pines, his posture uncompromising, body as tense as a bow and arrow ready to shoot at the most whimsical command of the host and his mistress, and with a gaze focused somewhere beyond; at the east end was a female, a banshee, with eyes like endless pools of ink, her distorted face barely hidden away by the wild strands of gossamer-like silver hair; she too possessed the kind of tenseness in her body that did not allow her to make a single movement until it was approved by her mistress.

In the center of the stage, there were two white ottomans, one across the other, the space between them filled with a small table holding a chess board and two glasses filled with mead. On one of the sofas sat Vonpha, Wrath or Vonnie as her friends (and some siblings, those she liked, that is) called her - her long white hair had been brushed back and then clipped with golden jewelry, the shade only matching the one found in her black-and-gold eyes that were focused on the board, and she wore her favourite dress, a profound shade of iris, following the lines of her curves tastefully enough to inspire guilt in anyone who would dare fantasize about the demonarch - and on the other sofa sat Pestilence, in her usual fashion - blonde hair falling wild over her back and shoulder, eyes, like glaciers, watching the demonarch as she waited for her friend's next move, clad in a dress of a far more subtle shade of pale, icy blue. The two had been continuing a game that had been interrupted the last time they played it...about...a decade ago? Perhaps that much time had passed on Earth, but Beyond, time worked differently, didn't it? Pestilence could not calculate how long it had been, and it certainly did not feel long.

A mere moment before Vonpha moved her piece, there was a ritualistic knocking on the heavy, golden-imbued door. After that, there was a dull sound of it opening: in come a pair of guards, heads held high, eyes never meeting the two women, as they announced the unexpected visit of Crown Prince Devorare. "Huh," Vonpha, who had been leaning back against the ottoman's single arm rest, shifted from her position. "My, my. It appears I'll get to introduce the two of you sooner than I'd expected." It had been years upon years since the last War (thus far), and therefore, years since Pestilence had seen Greed for the first time. What had Vonpha told her long before that? My dear Pestilence, you’d be delighted if you met my brother. I know I’ve had the liberty to speak with you as with a closest friend, and I know that I’ve rarely said anything flattering about any one of those spoiled rodents, but, and I’m saying this only because he cannot hear me, if there is anyone who will ever crawl out of whatever pit you throw him in, anyone that will laugh in everyone’s faces, it will be my dearest, younger brother. As she recalled Greed, after the battle, his chest falling and rising heavy with exhilaration and madness, Pestilence felt her heart squeeze tight and then as it let go, ice began to spread throughout her body and spirit - she was excited, she realized, though she promptly pushed the intrusive idea away. How scandalous! What was she supposed to be excited about? He was but a child, and he was a demon, and her world would never mix with his. As the two of them rose, to soon greet the visitor, Pestilence found nervously smoothing down the wrinkles of her skirt.

When she turned around, Pestilence was holding her breath, ears perking to the reverberating click-clacking of his boots against the smooth surface of the flooring. While Pestilence remained frozen, Vonpha moved, of course, freely, walking over to greet her younger brother. "I wasn't expecting you today. Or any time soon."

"I prefer the element of surprise," Greed had responded as he took his older sister's hand and gently pressed it, in the usual tradition of their culture, against his forehead in greeting. When he spoke, the sound of it echoed through even the darkest, farthest corners of Pestilence's mind and she inhaled a silent, long breath. It was, though she was unwilling to accept it, the most beautiful melody she could hope to hear in Hell (or beyond). His voice, much like Devorare himself, dripped like honey and soothed the soul with its idiosyncratic combination of shallow tenderness and piercing depth. There was a sharp contrast, she noted, while observing the two demonarchs from her distance: the Greed she'd seen on the field and today, while emanating with the same overwhelming energy, seemed to be two different people. Today, there was such a boyish playfulness in his intonation, in the way he moved around and away from his sister, the way his body was removed from any idea of tenseness and formality, that Pestilence found herself unable to determine which Greed she preferred. Preferred? Scandalous yet again, a voice in her head told her.

"Well, how splendid because I have a guest I'd like you to formally meet," Vonpha said, turning to guide Greed towards her friend and, seeing that, Pestilence took it as a cue to move towards them, though her legs were not her own. Something else had taken over her body and, without being aware of it, she kept her gaze fixed on Greed, rather than Wrath, as the distance between them closed further. "I know the two of you...know of one another, but, Pestilence, this is my brother." Vonpha said and then looked back at her brother. "Greed, this is Pestilence."

When Greed stepped towards her, Pestilence felt her body tense again, and she swallowed thickly as she offered her hand to the Prince. "Ma'am," his mouth lopsided into a smirk. Instead of greeting her the way all demons of his rank greeted others of a similar position, Greed wrapped his burning hand around hers and brought it up towards his lips, his golden eyes peering into hers, pressing the sweetest, most delicate kiss on her cold knuckles. There was a reflex in her hand, an involuntary twitch right before her skin met his mouth, but when she felt his lukewarm flesh against her hand, Pestilence shuddered while offering the demonarch a short, small curtsy. Finally, she was able to break free from his gaze. She looked down, to the side, and said, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you." Was it though? Now that they were mere inched from one another, his soul undoubtedly, and shamelessly, called onto hers and hers was nearly pulled in; they were like magnets and she struggled to resist the pulling force. She would burn, Pestilence thought, if she gave into him.

"I'm frankly a bit offended," after letting go of her hand, Greed turned to his sister. "I thought I was your favourite brother, and yet I received no invitation to this little party of yours."

Vonpha snorted as she walked over to the table herself to fetch another glass. "I'm otherwise doomed to an existence with all of you. You'll forgive me for wanting to take a breather."

Greed clicked his tongue and walked over to the ottoman - Pestilence could not be sure, but as he brushed his arm against her shoulder, she thought he had done that by no accident, the touch of his body causing her body to break into irrational goosebumps - sitting down where his sister had previously been making herself comfortable. "You know I'm nowhere near as bad as, say, Sloth or Grudge so I'm going to expect an apology, or an actual envelope next time."

Vonpha returned and when she did, Pestilence finally mustered the courage to return to her seat. She noted that Greed had moved his sister's figurine - how he knew which move had been her last was up to gods to comprehend - but she said nothing. The rest of their time together was spent in playful back and forths between the siblings, while the Horseman struggled to focus. She was not a completely useless interlocutor, her pearls of wisdom and comedy well received especially by Greed, though she felt so weightless, so listless in his presence, that, if she ever tried to recall that day in perfect detail, she would fail at it miserably from then on. All that she would end up remembering was the way his eyes lit up with mischief when he laughed, the way his plush lips smirked whenever he was being talked back at, the way his eyes stole secret, intense glances at her, his teasing remarks and the "accidental" brushes of his hand against hers whenever he "accidentally" reached for the food at the same time as she did, and she would relive those moments in her memory, especially late at night before sleep, for the decades to come.

***

The cold but sultry, evening breeze that washed over while she was waiting for her horse to be walked over to her at the gates of Wrath's palace. It was only then, after she had bid adieu to the two demonarchs, when she was alone that she could breathe, that she could appease her heart and soothe the frenzy Greed had ignited in her soul. She filled her lungs to the brim with the wind, bringing her thoughts to a calm, though her peace was short lived. "I used to think the horse was metaphorical." She opened her eyes and looked first at the beautiful dark-eyed animal, and then at Greed standing beside her. It was the first time the two had ever been left alone; however, it was nowhere near as high-strung as Pestilence would expect it to be. She heard a nocturnal bird calling from somewhere, but the sound was silenced out by her drumming heart. For the first time, she gave Greed a genuine smile as she observed him.

“Not entirely,” she replied. When the horse was brought to her, it had, of course, been saddled and ready for her to climb, though she couldn’t move quite yet, that same magnetic pull disabling her from doing a thing at the time.

“She’s beautiful,” Greed said, though his eyes were so stubbornly locked on Pestilence that she was unsure if he had meant the animal, or her.

“She is.” And what did Pestilence mean by that? Her tone mimicked his ambiguity, and it drew a warmer smile, one that lit up the eyes, from Greed.

“You’re leaving too soon,” he said, and when she moved, he moved. She felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand up when he followed behind her, though no sooner did he move in front of her, ready to prop her up on the horse.

She looked down at his hands, then into his eyes, before accepting this chivalrous alternative and allowing her to prop her up, Pestilence straddling her animal with as much elegance and grace as one so intimately and emotionally bewitched as she was could do. “I’ll see you in the battlefront again,” she said while looking down at Greed.

He smirked again, gingerly stroking the side of the horse’s neck. “Perhaps even sooner, Pesty.”

She huffed, the newly-received nickname not one she was going to immediately accept with open arms. “Maybe,” she murmured before prompting the horse, the animal taking her away from Wrath’s residence, though Greed’s eyes, fixed on her back, felt as heavy as the world as further distance was put between them.

[textsfromtheborderline]

This article is dedicated to @shaolinfantastic, whose compassion, bravery, cleverness, and soul-to-soul conversations inspire me every day.

Please note that this article was originally published on my old WordPress blog that has since been deleted. I wrote it before I knew anything about my own BPD (which makes my unwitting descriptions of emotional contagion and blurred ego boundary even more interesting). Most of all, I wrote it as an emotional release. 

“Intimacy requires courage because risk is inescapable. We cannot know at the outset how the relationship will affect us. Like a chemical mixture, if one of us is changed, both of us will be. Will we grow in self-actualization, or will it destroy us? The one thing we can be certain of is that if we let ourselves fully into the relationship for good or evil, we will not come out unaffected.”

Rollo May

This is the story of how I spent an exhilarating evening in the company of two Narcissists.

It's a perfect case study in power. And what adds an especially poignant twist to it all is that I was entirely unaware of Narcissistic Personality Disorder at the time, and therefore granted momentary reprieve from the distinct element of danger I was in.

I really need to take a moment to appreciate how spectacularly set up everything was. How magnificently intense and beautiful the memory endures. There’s even a sly brilliance to having our encounter in the midst of a concert crowd. As an HSP/Empath, for me that means sensory overload, the aftermath of draining exhaustion, and an overall diminished focus thanks to the collective energy of so many people, among other things. My own complacency awes me. I was the dictionary definition of intoxicated (no alcohol required) and I happen not to regret it one bit because the learning experience was valuable.

It’s a sweltering summer evening in June. The air sizzles with excitement and drips in anticipation for the performers. I can feel the energy swelling in my veins. I can’t sit still. The setting sun is dispersed by the metal scaffolding of the stage, glinting off the edges of the hard seats, spilling in between the people bustling behind me, and adding a halcyon glow to everything. I have to get up and work off the emotions blistering my insides.

I wander around the various food vendors, savouring the sizzle of french fries and barbecued meats. The price for water is outrageous but I buy a bottle anyway. Then I walk over to the merchandise table and buy a band shirt, proudly admiring it before placing it reverently in the tote bag slung over my shoulder. I return to my seat, which is not far from the front row.

I decide I can’t just sit there and wait because I know she's coming.

Excitement grips me as I make my way towards the stairs that lead to the other side of the amphitheater. The floor seems to dip and sag beneath my feet. And there, appearing just at the crest of the stairs, is my Narc. She catches sight of me and immediately breaks off the conversation with the older man beside her, yells my name, and hurtles into my arms.

I missed her. I missed her intensity. I missed her body pressed against mine just like this, suspended in a moment of bliss. I missed her touch, the thrill of being in her presence. I missed her voice and her mesmerizing eyes and the way she makes me feel. Her arms tighten around me, her fingers digging into my shoulder blades, her head resting against my chest, and it's like a shot of homecoming. I am accepting her; she is accepting me. The last time we had held each other like this, three long years ago, she’d given me a few simple words that stole my breath and kickstarted my heart into overdrive.

Let me love you.

I feel my love for her in between each beat of my heart. Pouring out. People shove past us and break their paths around us, while we’re still holding each other (I could have held her forever). I reluctantly pull away and gaze at her fondly. In her face, it looks like she’s been many places, with the lives to match. Her dark eyes are more pronounced by eyeliner, her lips accentuated by a light sheen of lipstick.  

She’s painted her nails crisply white, and I’m pleased to note that the colour suits her well. In fact, black and white is the palette for everything. Such as her silk black dress, with its hem hitting mid thigh. It’s a simple cut that emphasizes her in all the right places, but I like it a lot because it bares her growing collection of tattoos. At one point in the evening, I will touch the rose tattooed on her left shoulder blade; she will strip down the right strap of the dress to reveal a white bra with black stitching, stark against her soft, smooth skin, and below that are tattooed four meaningful words I trace delicately with my fingers.

As the evening wears on, I will join her for smoke breaks. We will talk until the cigarettes are whittled away, secure in our shared, private moments, and then we will return to our seats. I will I think that her mind is filled with dark corners and obsessions most people don't want to look into. I am not like most people.

Like, for example, the older man staring both of us down from his vantage point at the top of the stairs. I’ve referred to him before as my Narc’s Ex in a post about Intimate Partner Violence and will continue to use that label here.

I know who he is before he curtly gives me his name. It’s ordinary; billions of men have it. I look at him and I’m disappointed because I was expecting someone more impressive. In my opinion, he's not particularly attractive. He’s wearing a white checkered-style shirt and jeans. Glasses. Greying hair with faint jaw stubble to match. A wristwatch. He looks so plain it’s like a mockery of what plain is.

He does evoke a sense of passing interest because his features are unusual. His face, for example, reflects a paradox: he’s obviously himself with all the bad parts driven into the aged lines of his character, but what you see is smooth and ideal, touchable, although it’s covered with disdain, as if he doesn’t want fingers or loose lips too close to the merchandise. His eyes are stone; or just hollows, empty cups of bone. When he looks at me, briefly, not quite meeting my eyes, his brain is a stopped clock. I guess he’s the kind of person you’d claim to know well, and then, with a bitter wink, discover that there’s really not much to know.

Later, I will tell my Narc that he feels weird. That he creeps me out. That I can’t take him seriously because his manner is shifty and nervous and strangely detached and supremely bored. Keep in mind that my Narc has smeared her Ex to me for years, so all I know about him comes from her. Which is why I think he deserves to be beaten like a rabid dog. That justifies the acidic hate I feel.

“He's not what I expected.”

“He's different when we’re in private,” my Narc tells me quietly.

“Oh, I’m sure he is.”

“Everyone is.”

For now, while I’m busy judging someone based on their appearance, something I don’t like doing by the way, I catch my Narc observing me out of the corner of my eye. I’m polite. I’d suspected he would be coming, as my Narc had arranged transportation together and he seemed the most likely choice anyway. But he didn't know I was coming, as he admitted to me later in a haughty mutter, otherwise he would have bought an extra ticket.

Once we break our embrace, my Narc kicks off her heels and hands them over to her Ex without looking at him, then snatches a pair of black flip flops from him.

“Come sit with us in the front row!”

“But there's not enough seats.” I protest faintly.

“Maybe I could sit in your lap,” she purrs.

“As wonderful as that would be, you’d block my view.”

She gives me a sidelong glance and, once we’re seated, proceeds to deposit herself on her Ex’s lap. I look at them, an odd pair: a middle aged man and a beautiful, alluring young woman astride him. The way his hands grip her waist makes me clench my teeth. One moment longer and I'll be drawing comparisons to Lolita. It's an uncomfortable comparison, so I dismiss it from my mind and focus instead on the heightened buzz of excitement from the crowd around us.

I play myself out that evening in servility, light and dark, comic and tragic. I’m smug because I think I know everything, and that I know where I belong. The Ex still manages to muster up a facade of smugness because he’s at such a disadvantage that’s his only option. Or something. I want to take that self-important, sickly look off his face so I say:

“She’s told me so much about you.” 

Alarm crackles in his eyes. I relish it. He’s definitely on his guard now, wary of me, hunched over with knots of worry evident in his posture. That’s what I thought, you son of a bitch. I persist with my questions until my Narc interrupts his answer.

“I have to use the washroom.”

“Do you really?”  “Yes.”

I groan inwardly. The last thing I want is to be left alone with her Ex. We both sit in silence for a few moments. Seething in our respective perceptions, not daring to look at each other. I don’t want to be rude because I want to maintain my moral high ground. I paste a thin smile on my face and I ask him a bit more about his work, where he grew up. He tells me he really wants my Narc to move back in with him just as she’s returning. 

She looks at us both. There’s the slightest tilt to her head. Then she sits and languidly crosses her legs.

“Are you telling her about your suicide attempt?” she asks with an undercurrent of mockery in her tone, indicating the long, pale scar on his left forearm.

My eyes widen. He shoots her a quick look and stammers to me, “No, it's a skating accident.”

“Skating accident?”

“Yes. I used to play hockey, more than a decade ago.” He rubs his forearm absently. “A player's skate nearly sliced it clean off. I was lucky.”

I can't imagine him playing hockey.

“Get me another beer,” my Narc commands by way of a dismissal. She does this several times. He obeys, each time.

I’m thinking what an idiot he is, snickering along with my Narc. While he’s away, her and I speak in eager voices. We reminisce. We both agree how wonderful and exhilarating it is to be at this concert, together. When he’s back, she drops comments for my benefit, references only the two of us would understand. She sits fully facing me, turning her back to him. Scorning him. Showering me with attention and adoration. Her piercing gaze seems to sear my soul and I want just a little more, please. I can’t get enough of her.

She makes us feel like the most important people in the crowd. All of these other people, with their own special stories, are insignificant compared to us. Who do they think they are? They’re not like us. Of course they’re not. Sitting beside my Narc, I feel elevated. The dome above us is starred like our spirit, shining with the prisoned radiance of neon-glowing hearts. The concert lights are mellow and almost ethereal. We are bathed by colour while a hauntingly beautiful voice croons songs we’ve heard many times before, but that take on a whole new, deeper meaning now that we’re hearing them together.

Years ago, my Narc and I promised each other to attend exactly this concert, and to my astonishment, we were able to keep that promise. But in the heated moments of that evening, the concert may as well have not even mattered that much.  When the guy sitting to my right frees his seat up because he’s too drunk to enjoy the concert anymore, I move over. My Narc sits between us. Close enough for me to bask in her nearness, to think about sliding my arm around her shoulders and snuggling into her. I don't do it because I think it would be inappropriate. Instead, I hold myself near but unable to bridge that final gap. I discover that I want to, need to, touch her.

There’s a lull in the music. I decide I’m brave because I place my hand on the railing in front of us. Subtly inching it towards my Narc’s personal space. Immediately, she puts her hand next to mine and hooks her little finger to my own. My heart lurches. I grin when I look at her. All of a sudden, she takes my hand off the railing and holds it.

I’m scorched with triumph. The moment seems to freeze. My heart capitulates. Her touch is an anchor. Firm, reassuring, warm. She’s laid claim to me. As we lace our fingers together, I am suffused with happiness, both ferocious and tender with my wanting.

In that moment, I don't care about her Ex. It’s as if he's stricken from my mind. He does not exist. I have eyes only for her. I want only for her to feel my devotion, to sense my passionate hunger, to take me as hers and for her to be mine. In public, no less. I crave her. I want her to give me free reign. Give me permission to do all of those things I probably shouldn't do, but ache to do just the same. With her. To her. For her. Along with all those things she would do to me. I want to experience her. 

She holds my hand, I hold hers, and it’s perfect.

I’ve been starved. This feels like a banquet. I think she’s going to let go any second now, but she continues to keep her hand in mine for a few more songs. When she does let go, I feel bereft. Her Ex is murmuring things into her ear, brushing his fingers through her hair. She shifts on his lap. My stomach is flipping over. My thoughts are screeching to a halt. I’m trying not to be that obvious with my staring. It’s hard. The music has become a sort of surreal soundtrack to what unfolds next, but the cacophonic wail ringing in my head momentarily drowns every melody out. My Narc has settled back against her Ex. One of his hands is at her waist, just shy of dipping lower between the angle of her legs. His other hand is buried in her long hair, supporting her neck. He bears down, as if looks alone could conquer. A sultry smile graces my Narc’s lips. My hand is tingling like phantom pain, as if she’s still holding it. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.  She moves. Her hand, places it on the back of his head. She’s stretched out, baring her neck, exposing herself. Then she’s kissing him. He’s kissing her. Their lips are together. Kissing.

Jealousy rips through me. If looks could kill, he’d be massacred on the spot. Entitlement flares across my skin. How dare he. It should be me kissing her. I deserve to. Me. He shouldn’t be touching her, with those hands that she said hurt her, with that mouth that she said insulted her, no no no no no not him, not him with his lying face and dead eyes.

He doesn’t deserve my Narc. That thought is my only clarity since her anchoring touch has been replaced by a feeling of being acutely alone. Excluded. My breathing is harsh and quick. I squirm in the seat. It's pointless to deny or contain the effect my Narc has on me. She could be setting an orphanage on fire and she would still be charming; she holds my heart in her hands and she knows she could toss it away with a flourish; she holds the power to give and to take. I am consumed by lust. Not being used to such raw carnality, especially at this moment in time, leaves me shaking.

I want to break his wrist for touching her. She is mine. I want her. I deserve her. I stare at them kissing, and I become her hand gripping his shoulder; the suggestive shift of her hips; her silken mouth stealing breath and presence from him; I become the hand he tilts her head back with, the calculating press of his fingers on her thigh, the slide of her dress as it tightens around her breasts, the demands of his mouth joined with hers.

When I return to myself, I want my fingernails to claw at the skin of her thigh instead. I want her to feel the heat of my touch. I want to lean over and kiss all up her neck, along her jaw, crush my mouth against hers with a moan. Hell, I want to shove my entire hand under the hem of her dress. That should teach her it’s best to play with someone her own age. Not someone like him, not him. No. How dare he touch her, kiss her, when he should be past it. How dare she want him, when I’m right here, openly dying for her affectionate attention.

I gasp, trying to stifle the sound. They eventually break their kiss. Coherent thought is obliterated by an image of myself kissing my Narc, just bearing her backwards on these stupid blue seats, kissing her and touching her and making her moan. I know I can’t just do something like that, because I have boundaries. Which are with each passing moment seeming very inconvenient and frustrating. The way I feel for her, how much I want her, especially the how, knows no boundaries. This kind of desire recognizes no master, no logic of control. To be denied her is torture, enhanced by our pulsating proximity.

Pervert, a soft voice in the back of my mind hisses. I turn my head away so my Narc doesn't have to see me scowl. But I’m not feeling particularly perverted. I’m feeling euphoric.

Calm down, I reason with myself as I tear my smouldering gaze away from them, she has to do this. They came here together. Remember he’s the one she’s going home with later.

Oh yeah.

C’mon cheer up. She has to play her part for him. Don’t you know it’s you she loves?

I glance at them again, worried. My Narc is smirking while she looks into his eyes. Does she?

Would she be here if she didn’t? Would she hold your hand if she didn’t?

I decide to stop talking to myself because that’s just weird. Instead, I focus on the concert unfolding in front of my stinging eyes. I let the swelling music wash over me. It feels like half of my mind is on fire, pounding consistently in time to the songs. Please touch me, I want to scream. I don’t care how undignified it would sound.  It’s just not fair. It’s not.

My Narc turns back around to face the stage. The Ex continues to hold her other hand, placing it very obviously on her thigh and gripping it so that his knuckles turn white. Her face is calm and collected, her posture relaxed. She screams along with the music, her hair wild and flying. It’s a release. I’m swept away with her, the knife twist of agony somehow dulled. 

Then to my surprise, she grasps my hand again, low, almost underneath our seats. My breath hitches. I immediately tighten my grip. My thumb strokes possessive circles on her skin, like I’m desperately trying to convey all of my emotions at once: relief, euphoria, panic, rage, love. I’m a storm she’s unleashed. It’s like she understands because her grip is hard, strong, unflinching. Like she’s never going to let go ever again. As if to say, It’s alright. I’m here. I’m really yours. And I am really hers. The music reaches a climax, and she raises both her hands triumphantly to the sky, showing us off to the crowd, like we’re her most prized possessions. She looks at me in a way I’ve never seen before. I partly mistake it for love, when I think it’s actually more a combination of lust, exaltation, and raw power. Looking at my Narc is like looking at the birth of a star, being captured by its pure intensity. To anyone else, her gaze would have been a withering predator’s stare, but to me it’s recognition.

When I think about this night, it was like a fever dream with malevolent undertones that didn't completely register until I collapsed into bed at home, exhausted and yet still processing it all. I knew I wasn't projecting; rather, my emotions were colouring the events and making them more visceral and real.

I couldn't keep a large part of my mind from straying into contemplating what she was doing with her Ex after the concert. It was a torrid thing to imagine. Of us three, I’m the least sexually experienced. My Narc and her Ex together would probably ravage me. I imagine he’d be forceful, harsh, but that her touch would balance it by being milder and more considerate, although no less captivating. Or the Ex and I, having our wicked way with her; his familiarity with her body would deter my clumsiness and I’m sure what I lacked in technical skill I would make up for with uncontrollable passion. More importantly, I’m sure My Narc and I would be an unstoppable force, graceful power personified. I imagine us in perfect synchrony, the connection between us throbbing and building and all consuming. We’d make him our servant, twist desire into a weapon aimed straight at his heart, and we’d make quite a beautiful, catastrophic, magnificent mess.

Maybe the extra hands and mouths would enhance the experience. But to me, hands and mouths are attached to bodies, and behind those bodies are the minds that make them attractive, lively, and enticing. I shudder. Bewilderment coils in my gut. I find my thoughts repulsive, and yet that isn't enough to keep them from crawling up and into my skull. I wish she had gone home with me. That she was in my bed right now. I’m just not sure I’d like who she’d drag into bed with her.

A Narcissist's fondness for threesomes is well documented. I don't like them; it's not entirely because of moral distaste. I'd been offered to join a threesome once before and flatly refused. It's more that I'm barely used to the idea of sharing my body with one partner I wholly trust and love and have confidence in, let alone another one (or more). I am of the opinion that threesomes diminish intimacy. Three is not a crowd, people.

Of course, people can do all sorts of things and justify them in all sorts of ways. Including disgusting and hideous things, only if it pleases them.

I find my Narc loathsome and yet that isn't enough to stop me wanting her in a way that crushes the breath from my lungs and leaves my eyes leaking and pulls my mind apart carelessly. I can't deny that she has life experience, although most of it is bad. I used to admire the command she wields over her sexuality. She does what she wants, when she wants, with whoever she chooses. That would be so inspiring if it wasn't so inconsiderate.

I'm still figuring out what makes me attractive, what I have to offer. I’m still young, after all, and at a point in my life where I haven't even begun to learn life's most important lessons. Attraction takes time. I think it's a certain mix of good mentors, good reading, and then becoming successful and confident enough that people want whatever it is I have to offer. Interestingly, my Narc and I shared a similar view regarding this. I asked her once what changes when you see someone naked, what is exchanged, what it means to be vulnerable. And she replied with a rather moving sentiment:

“It honestly depends on the situation. There's joy when you trust the person. It makes you happy to please them, to be pleased. When you give someone your body, you're truly naked. Every touch and every word, you become more vulnerable as does your partner. However some men are out to exploit this vulnerability so beware.”

Some women too, apparently. But this insight was powerful to me because I feel the same way. It’s so strange because I notice she uses the word trust and not love (even though love is a key component) and I don’t think my Narc actually knows what it truly means to be vulnerable. I thought I found comfort and strength in her arms. I thought I was safe being vulnerable with her, and I would have adored to have shared my body, to have given it to her. Freely. Honestly. Totally. To be worshiped and worship her in turn. It would have given me such joy. Yet that was not for the best; it didn’t come to pass the way I wanted it to.

And what’s more, how could I let her have me, let her touch me, kiss me, now that I know what she is? 

It’s taken me a long time to absorb that evening’s experience. I offered my Narc the initial impressions of her Ex, although obviously not all of them. It wasn't as if I could admit to my Narc that I'd indulged a threesome fantasy. Especially not when I couldn't even admit it to myself. And I didn’t realize that in describing my impressions of her Ex, I was also describing her. It hurts my heart to no end.

To be honest, upon further reflection I'm still not quite sure who exactly was exerting power over whom. Me and my Narc together, over her Ex. Her, along with her Ex, over me. Him and I together, thanks to our brief exchanges, over her. The three of us individually. Privately and publicly. Just the three of us, complementing each other in the strangest, most mind bending, insidiously sensual way.  

I'd certainly like to believe that my Narc and I had, for just one evening, joined forces. It's more probably accurate to say that my Narc was in the perfect position of extracting Supply from both her Ex and I, therefore exerting power over us both. It must have really gotten to her head. Although I have to admit, it was so perfectly executed on her part that I can’t even be angry. She's quite wicked when she wants to be. She raises manipulation to the level of art.

And perhaps, evidently, I'm a spectacular fool. There's worse things to be. But now that I've disengaged and reaffirmed my own unique worth, I do wonder if my replacement is quite as good as I am. I did gain a lot of insight about myself. I learned several important life lessons that night, including the one of self-control and that all those who gain power are afraid to lose it.

[porkchop-ao3]

Slip Stitch: PART 1/2

My first ever pure Rickcest fic, woo!

Part Two.

Please be nice, this is the first time I have written in third person for a long time! 

This story involves my British Tailor Rick OC and the hairstylist Rick that was seen doing President Morty’s hair in that one episode. The events of this fic were hinted at at the end of my RickCon’18 fic, which you can find here :)

This was getting a little long so I split it into two parts, this part being nearly 2.5k words. Its mostly SFW for now but it will be super NSFW in the next part. Contains: oral sex, frottage, public sex acts, anal fingering.

Enjoy! :D

-

“Well, that went better than I expected. When I walked out there and saw all those bloody lab coats I thought I was going to get heckled off stage.” Tailor Rick chuckled dryly as he walked back into the dressing room after being on stage for the last hour. He'd been hosting a seminar, along with a number of his other fashion-oriented alternate selves, about style tips for the average Rick. It was a relatively stripped back talk, he'd had to speak through gritted teeth when he'd talked about designer lab coats; if it was up to him, all lab coats would be burnt to ashes, but he knew he had to compromise for these Ricks.

“Yeah, but I-I-I wouldn't have outright insulted that Rick in the turtleneck. They might not be on fashion right now, b-but he didn't look that bad. Perhaps you could've softened your words a bit?” The second Rick, who had been sharing the dressing space all day, scolded. He'd been appointed as the stylist for the charity fashion auction, but had volunteered to join the seminar as a last minute guest. Most of his knowledge was in hair styling, and despite grumbling about it for a while, tailor Rick had to admit the panel could use his knowledge.

“Well, do you disagree? Do you not think he- he looked like he had no neck?”

“Ah, but that's not what you said. Y-you told him his head looked like the tip of a short, yet girthy penis.” Stylist reiterated, cocking a brow. Tailor Rick walked over to the mini bar by the dressing table and reached for the bottle of bourbon, unscrewing the cap before turning to his counterpart.

“I repeat, do you disagree?” He questioned. The stylist kept his mouth closed. “I stand by it. He did look like the head of a chode, it was just shoulders and head, shaft and bellend. Where was his neck? Honesty is always the best policy.”

“He's the guy who bid on that God-awful green suit of yours at the auction. You didn't think his fashion sense was s-so bad then, did you?”

“God-awful?” The tailor seethed, spinning around, a glass in one hand and the bottle of bourbon in the other. He poured himself a healthy amount before slamming the bottle back down behind him. “How dare you insult my brand like that. Do you- you have eyes in your skull, don't you? I suppose you're jealous, hmm? Jealous you couldn't afford something like that, so you have to bash it to make yourself feel better.”

“Oh, I could afford it. The president pays me a generous salary, not that th-that has anything to do with you. I simply wouldn't be seen dead in that much forest green. That kind of colour should only be used in an accent piece.” President Morty's stylist quipped, reaching a hand up to his hair to smooth out the eye-catching style he was wearing; all swept upwards with the tips bleached blond.

Tailor Rick's eye twitched, and for a split second, Stylist felt nervous. He quickly pushed the feeling away, nervous? Why should he feel nervous? That Rick was no better than him, he shouldn't worry about pleasing him, or being sensitive to his feelings. The tailor was a pompous asshole who'd been rubbing him up the wrong way all day. And people have the cheek to call him pompous?

“Says who? The guy dressed head to toe in fuchsia?” Tailor scoffed, taking a large swig of his drink.

“Don't try to tell me this is a fashion faux pas, you auctioned off a three piece in this exact colour. If this is bad, then you're a bad designer, bodkin.” Stylist stalled at the words coming out of his own mouth. Bodkin? What the hell, where had that come from? He wasn't even sure how that word had made it into his vocabulary, let alone slipped out now of all times, as an insult, no less. Tailor seemed just as taken aback, if not just plain confused.

“Bodkin?” Tailor mumbled in uncertainty, then shook his head dismissively. “The difference is, I designed that ensemble to be striking, to be worn under very specific circumstances. It's not every day attire, you just look like a little girl running around in her garish pink dress up clothes. That should not be y-y-your go-to look. You'd be much better suited to a powder blue, perhaps even a pale mint green.”

Now he was giving him fashion advice? The worst part was, Stylist found himself considering the advice seriously, taking a tentative glance down at his own hot pink jacket.

“Hmm, no, perhaps the pink is fine. It would just look better if this was shorter.” Tailor mused, strolling across the room towards the other man, reaching behind him to lift up the back of the jacket, holding it so it sat higher on his hips. He didn't notice the immediate tension in his counterpart’s body, nor the colour in his cheeks that could rival the jacket for vibrancy.

The stylist wondered at what point this turned from petty insults and bickering to genuine advice and contemplation over his own choice in attire. He didn't have it in him to question it out loud, he wasn't opposed to the sudden closeness of the other Rick. He smelled good; like expensive cologne.

“I could take it up for you, you know? This cut would- it'd look more flattering. Right now the shape of it a-and all this pink. It's very heavy, it brings your shoulders down and makes your posture appear lazy, even though up close I can tell that it's not.” Tailor continued, moving around to the back of his latest project, dropping the fabric of the jacket and instead sweeping a hand up the tall, gently curved line of his spine. The Stylist stayed impossibly still under the contact, not entirely sure what to say or do.

Tailor eventually dropped his hand from his back and strolled away. When he turned to look, Stylist saw that he was going for a large leather carry case that when popped open, was revealed to contain a bunch of sewing equipment.

“Wait, y-y-you’re serious? You want to alter this, right now?” He questioned, a frown creasing his forehead. Tailor stopped what he was doing and looked up, shifting his glass of bourbon from one hand to the other.

“Yes.” He said flatly, his expression bored.

“No! You aren't chopping bits off of this, this cost a lot of money.” Stylist argued. He gained an eye roll and a heavy sigh for his refusal. “I'll just buy a different jacket, if you're so concerned about the clothes on m-m-my back.”

“I'm not concerned at all. Do you think I care all that much?”

“Well you're the one offering to alter it, you obviously care a little.” He quirked a brow.

“Quite frankly, you could walk around in a bin bag, or nothing at all, it wouldn't affect me in the slightest. I was simply offering my expertise, since you helped out at the seminar. You scratched my back, so I thought I'd scratch yours.” Tailor straightened up, letting his eyes roll up and down the form of the other man as he took another sip of his drink. His eyelids were low and his expression indifferent, but there was a sort of flame flickering in his eyes that couldn't be ignored.

“Yeah?” Stylist snarked, though he didn't know how to continue from there. He suddenly felt tongue-tied, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Even more puzzling, his pants were beginning to feel tight, with this man's eyes on him. This angered him. “I don't need your help. I definitely don't need your condescending fashion advice, I'll wear whatever the hell I want.”

“Well then, be my guest. Fuck me for trying to be nice for once.” The tailor's eyes rolled so hard it was a surprise they didn't disappear into the back of his head. “You can look as frumpy as you like, just don't do it in front of me.” He waved his hand like he was swatting a fly as he kicked his sewing box away, it slammed into a nearby clothing rack, making all the empty coat hangers clatter together.

“Fuck off.” Stylist spat, marching forwards to grab his box of cigarettes from the coffee table beside the other Rick. He didn't miss the other man's eyes dropping to his crotch as he walked, and a flush of embarrassment made his palms sweaty when he realised he was very obviously sporting a semi. The white pants he was wearing practically enhanced it, screaming look at me!

Why the fuck was he getting hard at a time like this? The man was infuriating, thinking he was so far above everyone else. The truth is, he was just a Rick, just like the rest of them. He wasn't fucking special. He had no business talking to Stylist like an idiot, or meddling in his decisions and messing with his head. He certainly had no business grabbing the wrist Stylist was reaching for his cigarettes with, and pulling him upright to get a look into his eyes.

Instinctively, Stylist jerked out of the grip and gave the other man a shove. Tailor dropped his glass, it shattered on the ground, the cheap thin carpet now soaking up his bourbon doing nothing to soften the blow.

“Hey! That was good fucking bourbon!” Tailor growled, latching his hand back onto that same wrist and dragging the stylist close to him, snarling in his face. “I've about had enough of your attitude, you're a little big for your boots for a lowly fucking hairdresser.”

“I'm the president's stylist, you fucker!” Came the retort, spit flying with anger.

“So you keep saying. He's just a fucking Morty. Y-you think anyone's impressed because you help a fucking Morty comb his hair in the morning? If you ask me, I think it's just weird. Th-this is exactly why I refused to live at the citadel, bunch of deluded bloody freaks, you are.” Tailor seethed, leaning in close, physically looking down his nose at the other Rick.

He didn't stay there long, he was shoved – harder than the first time – and fell backwards over his sewing box. He landed in a heap among coat hangers, having knocked down the clothing rack behind him. It stunned him for a while, it took him a moment to work out what had happened, but when he regained his bearings he was on his feet, brushing himself off as if nothing had happened.

Stylist watched him as he so meticulously plucked a piece of lint off of his suit jacket, and brushed down his pants. He was sure the guy was gonna bite back, lunge at him, take him down, and in all honesty Stylist was in the mood for a fight. He was both shocked and disappointed that it seemed the tailor was not interested. The other man cleared his throat and raised his head to meet stylist Rick's eyes.

“Wow, I didn't take you for a brawler. You're even less refined than I thought you were, you certainly fooled me. It-it seems you're nothing but another sewer-rat of a Rick, shame.” He sighed wistfully, and it was Stylist's instinct to swing for him. Though he resisted, since it would only prove his point.

“I'm going out for a cigarette.” He muttered instead, reaching for his cigarettes a second time.

“Really? With that hard-on in your trousers? Whatever will people think?” Tailor mused lightly, his voice like a breeze, completely casual and inoffensive despite his words. It made the hairs on the back of stylist Rick's neck stand up, and he froze, bent over with his eyes on the box of cigarettes. “I can't say I'm shocked. I knew from the moment you met me that you wanted me, it's an instinct I have. Y-you may call me arrogant, I'd see it as me being in tune with others, personally.”

“I don't have a boner. My dick’s just that big.” The Stylist excused, his fingers closing around the box as he raised back up. “Don't flatter yourself, and don't be staring at my junk. An-and you call me the weirdo.” He added with a tut.

“I’m not an idiot, I know what a boner looks like.” Tailor replied, his eyes fixed on the bulge between the other man's legs. To his embarrassment, Stylist could feel it growing. There was no hiding that. “You need help with that?”

The question hit Stylist in the gut like a punch, his cock twitching in response, almost like it was answering the question for him. Who the hell gave this guy the right to make him feel this way? Stylist Rick had fucked around with alternative versions of himself before, sure, but he at least got along with them out of the bedroom too. This guy had been irritating him all day.

Still, he couldn't deny the building sexual tension between the two, even out on stage, every time Tailor butted in while he was talking, or made a passing comment about him and his style choices, to make an example of him. It had annoyed him immensely, but he could not ignore this irritating kind of admiration he had that had been building. The man had confidence, he had a certain kind of charm, he had this effect where everyone shut up and listened to him whether they agreed with him or not. He was a big presence, one that would not be ignored.

“Are you really asking that? W-what, are you gonna jack me off or something? That what you have in mind?” Stylist questioned irritably, narrowing his eyes.

“You'd like that, hm?” Tailor purred, closing the gap between them, tracing his fingertips from his chest, up to his shoulder and around his neck. “I was thinking something more mutual.”

“Won't your girlfriend have an- an issue with that?” Stylist continued to stare into the other man's eyes, searching them for a hint of insincerity. The last thing he wanted was to be made a joke of by this guy.

“Girlfriend?” Tailor questioned. “You mean my model? She's not my girlfriend. I don't- she isn't my type.” He explained, a certain edge to his voice that told the stylist all he needed to know. Tailor looked him over now that he was closer, his fingers brushed upwards to the back of his head, feeling the soft short hair of his partially shaved head. “You, however…” He purred very quietly, the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly. Stylist licked his lips.

Tbc...

[darveyfics]

We Fight Like Hell [to Protect It]

Prompt:

anonymous - Nothing really specific but I would love some protective Harvey.

--

Not sure if this is what you had in mind but I was doing a re-watch and this wouldn’t leave me alone so here we go! An AU during 4x11 Enough is Enough

Donna was staring out the expansive window of Harvey's office overlooking the late hour of bustling Midtown madness when she closed her eyes as she heard his familiar footsteps outside the hallway. It was late enough that he'd be the only one coming this way, but that still doesn't change the fact that she'd be able to pick out his steady gait out of the hundred employees at Pearson Specter.

She caught his reflection and twisted her fingers in shame.

"Harvey," she called out and watched the reflection step into his own office before she began to turn around.

"You don't need to say it," he said with a quiet rage discernable only to her ears. It isn't directed at her, but she feels like it should be. At least, partially.

"Yeah, I do," she confirmed as she turned to face him. She paused for a moment before walking towards him as he came around to stand at the corner of his desk. "Louis came looking for you, and I didn't know what to do. He was going to call Sheila and tell her everything. I'd never seen him like that before."

She shrugged her shoulders and lifted her hands and for the first time, Harvey saw the smudged mascara and tear tracks bleeding through her typically put together self.

"Donna, this is not on you," he told her honestly. Because it was him. And Mike. And they thought they were invincible. She had always been the voice of reason, but he hadn't listened to her this time.

"Yes, it is. He pressed me, and I broke," she registered a sniffle, and her eyes met his. Hers was full of shame. His were full of contempt. But still, none of it directed at her.

"It doesn't matter because he already knew," he tries as he broke his gaze and looked down at her defeated posture before returning to lock eyes with her again.

"How can you know that?" She shook her head. She's the one that reads people. Not him. Well, he can't always know as she knows. He's Harvey, not Donna.

"Because I know Louis," he begins, and she watches as he steps around his desk. "And I know you. And he couldn't have broken you unless he knew the truth already. So, this is not your fault, and I never want to hear you say that again."

He's standing in front of her and saying all these words and keeping his eyes locked on hers, knowing she'd see that he's telling her the truth.

"I should have at least warned you before you got here," she says with a flippant gesture. It's all too much and yet not enough.

"All that would have done was antagonize him even more because he would have known you did it," he says as he shakes his head. His fingers unconsciously reach out, and they press her wrist and linger before encircling them. And he does it all without breaking eye contact. "You did everything you could have done."

"Okay," she gets out, and her shoulders shrug a little and his hold slips. Their fingers brush for the briefest of moments. Its a staring contest between them as they continue a wordless conversation to finalize their roles in this new hellscape they've just made.

"We have to tell Mike," she notes with as much care as possible.

"No we don't," he shakes his head and drops his hands back to his side. "Not now."

"Harvey," she whispers.

He watches her lips rather than her eyes now.

"I'll tell him in the morning. He just had a huge win, and I am not in the mood to ruin his night," he notes as he shakes his head.

A single tear falls as she nods her head. She understands but she's also one hundred percent certain this isn't going to be a favour to anyone come tomorrow.

He takes another look at her and reaches deep into his pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a brilliant white pocket square that's been hidden in the suit jacket all day. He hands it to her with a quiet sort of acceptance that they're now here of all places.

She swallows the lump in her throat and unfolds the square once, blotting at the trail of tears before moving to where she knows she looks like a bit of a sad, mangy raccoon.

He has the decency to look away for a moment to let her clean up before he turns back to look at her.

"Come on," he says after she's a little more put together. He can still see how defeated and sorry she is by her eyes and her posture. "Let's go home. There's nothing more we can do tonight."

There's a quiet moment once again as he helps her into her coat and they make it out to the car Harvey's parked at the curb. He opens the passenger door for her, and after she buckles in, she takes hold of her hair, so it doesn't fly all over the place when he does eventually get to pick up speed. When he turns the block three times to head to the Upper East Side, she hums and resigns herself to an evening in his company.

He means his home and not separate homes, and for once, she doesn't give a shit how it looks. He's done this a handful of times in the last year if she's really honest with herself. Plus, she's mentally and physically exhausted from the past two hours and doesn't have the energy to protest.

She doesn't have an appetite, and he doesn't force the issue. He promises to make waffles and berries in the morning since he’s pretty sure Mike had eaten all the good cereal she likes when he had been avoiding Rachel. He's kind of glad the kid is at some other place tonight.

He gives her a spare undershirt and a pair of clean gym shorts. She digs through a washroom drawer to find a new head for his Sonicare and makes sure that her brush head’s coloured ring was not the same as his that already sits atop the brush base. She pulls an extra washcloth and uses his facewash to remove her makeup, and when she comes out of the washroom, he's already turned down his bed and dressed in sweatpants and a similar undershirt.

She lets him slink past her, sticks her clothes on his dresser by the mirror, and then she moves around to the right side of the bed and slips in and rests her head on one of the soft feathered pillows. He's also pulled the blanket out. The one from his father's house that she always curled up in on their holiday or long weekend visits. When they had been dividing little things after his death, Marcus handed over the blanket without a second thought. And here he is, using it without a second thought. Shit, she thinks, she must look really fucking pitiful if Harvey's initiating so many gestures tonight without prompting. This thought causes her to sigh, and he wordlessly questions her with a raised brow as he slips in on his side. As a gesture, she shares her blanket--spreading it horizontally over their middles.

His fingers slide along bare skin on her arm as she curls up against his side, her head resting in the space between his chest and shoulder. He'll have a tingling, almost dead arm by the time she falls asleep. His rage has lessened in her presence and the quiet, gentle rhythm he's established listening to her breathing as well as his gentle touch on her skin. And its less than an hour after she slips into sleep that he finally does, too.

In the morning, he'll be on his stomach with his mouth a little open, and she'll be on her side, leaning against him, sleeping more on his side of the bed than her own. She slips out of his bed and grabs one of her spare dresses she has in the back of his closet-- like he has a few spare suits in the back of hers. She'll shower and dig through her purse to find her emergency makeup bag that has limited items but enough to not have to go home.

When she finally looks at her phone, she finds Rachel's texted her sometime in the night after she had turned the do not disturb function on and she warns Harvey as she's finishing up her waffles that Mike is most likely going to come to him.

He tells her to take the car, meaning Ray, and as soon as Ray texts that he's outside the building, Donna shrugs on her coat and Harvey's still eating waffles at the table.

She leans in and her fingers grip his arm as she presses a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, Harvey," she whispers with a small smile.

He nods through a mouthful of syrupy breakfast food and watches her leave.

Almost fifteen minutes later, Mike shows up.

There's a tap and rap rhythm on her door, and she knows it's him because no one else knocks like he's trying to do a poor man's morse code. She blows a breath out as she leaves her wine glass on the coffee table in front of her and unfolds herself from the couch to get the door.

When she opens the door, she doesn't have to force a smile because she's had a hell of a day and its only gotten worse for both of them, and his face mirrors her own.

She opens the door a little more to let him sneak past her, and she closes and locks the door.

"Rachel here?" He asks as he looks around and then back to her.

"No. I'm pretty sure they made up," she shakes her head as she watches him look at her and then he moves to her living room and sets the paper takeout bag in hand on the floor, and he sheds his suit jacket before sitting down.

"Sure, make yourself at home," she says sarcastically but moves to the kitchen and pulls out a wine glass for him.

He sits on the couch and looks at the bottle next to her own glass and pretends he knows about wine and his lips upturn in interest and he finds her looking at him with a small smile.

"Pretending you know if that's good or not?" Donna says as she taps his knees with her legs because he doesn't move and she sits down and sets the glass on the table.

Instead of letting her pour, he tops off her glass and fills his own before returning the bottle to the table.

He starts pulling food out of his paper bag and hands her a little takeout box that has three stars on the edge and she hides a smile as he takes out his own that has two stars.

"The shitty Thai place?" she asks as he gets up and moves to her kitchen to get their expensive, non-wood chopsticks she keeps in her utensil drawer. One of her better investments, he thinks, with how much Asian food they've consumed in the past fifteen years. “You must really want my company.”

He hands her a pair when he returns, and she sits criss-cross on the couch as he toes off his shoes to then sets his feet on the edge of the coffee table in front of him.

He watches her start to eat before he focuses on her own. Her television is off, and one of his dad's records quietly plays in the background, and he swallows the guilt.

"Did you and Rachel share a bed?" He jokes as he notices her couch is a little better than his own for sleeping and there aren't any blankets laying around or messily over the back of any chair.

"I told you once that how I sleep is none of your concern," she says with a laugh as she sipped her wine.

"And that still doesn't stop me from thinking about it," he points out.

"Asshole," she shakes her head. "But, no. I mean, did you and Mike share a bed?"

"He likes your side," Harvey jokes. "He did, however, eat all the cereal. I mean he even ate the Raisin Bran Crunch which I'm pretty sure was really old."

"That damn kid," Donna sighs dramatically. "That's why we had waffles this morning."

"Yep," Harvey said through a mouthful of noodles.

Donna shook her head.

Once they were finished with their food, he bags all their trash and moves into the kitchen to throw it in her bin. He sees the photo sitting at the kitchen table next to her purse and his lips form a frown. He brings the framed photo back to the couch, and he has a million questions, but he knows she gave the photo to Louis less than a month ago.

"This morning I found that face down on my desk," she says as she picks up her glass and swirls the dark red liquid around. "I told him I didn't want him to throw our friendship away over this. And he said it didn't exist in the first place."

She takes a moment to sip her wine and then traces the rim of the glass.

"He asked if I had the chance to take back all the nice things I've ever done in the name of our friendship in exchange for him not finding out, if I would do it."

He takes a mouthful of wine, and his fingers tighten on the stem.

"I didn't answer," she shrugged a shoulder. "It was a bullshit question asked to make me feel like shit. And, it worked."

"Donna," he says quietly and his fingers land on her knee.

"The worst part was when he told me I was dead to him," she said as she looked at him. She had unshed tears in her eyes, and he could tell that she was biting her lip before she hid her mouth for a moment by drinking her wine again.

Louis was going after her because he knew damn well it was the best way to get to him. The man had recently called him cold. And he'll take it every day if he has to, but as soon as someone comes after someone he cares about, especially the woman beside him, they better strap in and prepare for his overprotective nature.

He fills their glasses one last time, and he motions for her to sit by him. She curls into a different angle where her side is flush with his. His arm moves up and over her shoulder, slowly tracing the same pattern up and down on her robe-covered arm as they sit in the quiet of her apartment with the only sound his father's saxophone and the occasional sigh as the wine helps them unwind for the night.

"You want me to stay?" He asks quietly as they both finish off the last of the wine.

"Its okay," she shakes her head and moves into a seated position.

He nods and stands, shrugging on his suit jacket, and he watches as she stands.

She walks him to the door, and he promises to pick her up tomorrow because he'll be in early to meet with Jessica and she agrees.

His fingers gently grasp her forearm and slowly slide down to encircle her wrist. He leans in and presses his lips to her temple, and he catches her eye as he moves back.

"Goodnight, Donna," he says quietly.

"Night, Harvey," she echoes.

She watches him as he walks down the hall to the elevator in her building before shutting and locking the door.

Louis was slowly moving up his shit list, and it had been Harvey's and Jessica's day with the announcing of his partnership and the half-truths Harvey had to spout and pretend like he was thrilled this was happening.

And it had only gotten worse when Robert Zane called in his favour, and he had to use leverage against Scottie when all he wanted to do was keep their relationship at status quo and not have this shit hanging over their heads. Donna had offered to call and set up the meeting, but he had shaken his head. He needed to do this. She understood. 

So, she didn't question when he took his 'me' time to the coffee cart a few minutes later. And an hour later when she was finishing up setting up a few client meetings with Cline's people, he was in her space, setting down a cruller and one of her specialty drinks with extra, extra whipped cream.

For the rest of the day, he sat at the chair nearest his basketballs, and she took the couch cushion closest to him, working silently on case files.

He had been out of sorts and forgot niceties by the time seven pm rolled around. It had been a short meeting with Scottie, and when he was about to text Ray to come back and get him, a familiar individual leaned against the Lexus stopped at the curb.

"What the hell happened now?" He asks as he rubs his temples.

"He's requested a party with cake and champagne," Donna says as she stands up straight.

"Goddamn Louis," Harvey says as he clenches his jaw.

"Jessica was looking for you, so I told her I would have my guys take care of it since we know Louis and he's going to make all of us more miserable if we get it wrong," Donna says. "I told her I would tell you."

He blew out a breath and she knew without asking none of it went well despite the fact he had succeeded for Robert Zane.

"Come on," she says to him as she stands away from the door. "Let’s go get barbeque, make a pit stop, and then go home."

"Barbeque?" He asks as he opens the door and he hears Ray start the car.

"We can also blame Robert Zane for it," she shrugs before she ducks into the car.

He has a genuine smile on his face for the first time in several hours as walks to the other side, and when he gets in, he lets Ray know the agenda.

They went to Fette Sau and ordered all the barbeque thanks to Donna's conversation with Robert earlier, and Donna couldn't stop craving ribs and brisket for the rest of the day. They had Ray come in with them, and Harvey's driver tried to sit at the counter, but Donna was having none of it and told him he was their chaperone since Donna tended to be very territorial about her barbeque and Harvey tended to order something else off the menu and steal her food. Harvey countered that he ordered other things so they could share and that's why he takes things because she does it, too.

Ray agreed, if only to see Donna's forceful beauty extend to protecting a little piece of barbeque heaven from his boss.

As its an agenda item, Harvey made one last stop that night. Its why he got an extra order of ribs with extra spicy sauce, potato salad, and baked beans to go. And, a half hour later he was at the door with a bag and a case file that doesn't say Pearson Specter... now Pearson Specter Litt.

"It's done," Harvey says as he hands over a white takeout bag and the case file to Robert when he opened the front door. "We're even."

The older lawyer frowns in slight confusion as he watches as Harvey moves to the far side of the Lexus. The windows are too tinted, but as the lights turn on from the open door, he can see there's a familiar silhouette in the window that he had seen earlier that day in Harvey's office talking about the barbeque he now holds in his hand.

"Shit," he whispers to himself as he watches the Lexus drive away.

As with all meaningful confrontations, Harvey corners Louis in the Pearson Specter Litt washrooms after he had seen Donna get back to her desk to slowly sit in her chair and then run a hand through her hair, her posture showing slight defeat.

Thankfully the door is on a hinge that prevents his anger from ruining the door with the force he opens it with to find Louis looking at himself in the mirror with a grin on his face.

"You really want the pomp and circumstance, to lord it over our heads, and tell people that they're dead to you and break people? Then do it to me and do it to Mike. But don't you dare bring Donna into this," Harvey says as his fingers clench into a fist at his side. Although Jessica had made Louis sign the partnership agreement with the small addendum that he is also a co-conspirator, the message for them to start anew didn't quite reach Louis yet.

Louis turned and silently questioned Harvey, grin still apparent.

"Before this whole episode that you've made this small thing to be, Donna went to Jessica and almost got herself fired asking if you could help with Forstman and if Jessica would allow you to stay since she’s let me stay and let Donna come back," Harvey confessed. "She went to bat for you when no one else would. And, when I was supposed to fire you, she came with me to be there to support you because she knows this place is all you have."

Louis looked down in shame for the tiniest moment, but his ego was so overinflated at this point that Harvey was going to have to do a lot more confessing before it was over.

"She has only ever been your goddamn friend, Louis," Harvey says in a way that's quiet but cutting. "She gives a shit about you, Louis. Whenever you fuck up, she is always ready to defend you. And, this is how you treat her?"

"Why would I trust anything you say?" Louis spits back with just as much bite but not enough venom as Harvey’s own voice holds.

He looks at Harvey and steeples his fingers in front of himself.

"How do I know I can ever trust either of you? She may have you wrapped around her finger and be lying to you, too," he reminds the man in front of him. "I know you slept together. She just told me as a part of her penance."

Harvey worked his jaw for a moment, focusing on not beating the shit out of Louis for that comment.

"For the past three days, she's gone home and cried or felt like shit, and sometimes both," Harvey says quietly. He's unsure if Donna would want Louis knowing this, but it's all in the name of protecting the weird friendship Donna and Louis have undertaken the last thirteen years. "What was it you said to me a year and a half ago? What just happened to that beautiful woman in there, that's on you, not me. Well, this time, it is on you. It's on you because you can't goddamn see all she's ever done is defend you and the friendship she values with you. To me. To Jessica. And to any number of people who question us as a firm."

Louis's jaw twitches. He swallows a lump in his throat.

"After you left to go and lord it over Mike, Jessica told me that you threatened to go to the police," Harvey recalled as he stepped closer and used his height to intimidate the shorter man. "Of course Mike, Jessica, and I would have done time. Jessica and I would have our licenses stripped. Donna and Rachel may have also gone to prison depending who the ADA or DA was and if they had a grudge. And, you know what, the thought of Donna going to prison made me want to drop to my knees."

Louis opened his mouth to speak, but Harvey poked his chest with a finger to back him up.

"She's put me and my career first for the past fifteen years, and her loyalty to me is not to be mistaken for a fake friendship with you," Harvey reminds him. "She told you she was sorry and she meant it. It wasn't her tale to tell, you goddamn asshole."

He can see Louis's ego lessening a little. More to a manageable level. Still too much but enough to make him hold up a mirror to himself.

"I've taken your shitty attitude, and now we have you on the ropes, so you better cut the shit, Louis," Harvey reminds him.

Louis opens up his mouth to speak, and Harvey holds up a finger, wordlessly telling him that he's not finished.

"So, I swear to god, Louis, if you ever threaten her, make her cry, or do shady shit to her again, I will beat the shit out of you," Harvey warned. "And, until you figure your shit out and realize she's your friend, and apologise and mean it, stay the hell away from Donna."

Harvey works his jaw as he stands and looks at Louis, making sure the man knows he's not fucking around and Louis dips his chin, acknowledging his understanding.

She's leaning against the edge of his window where she had been three days ago, playing with the baseball he usually keeps on his desk. She's worried the stitching a million times over when she looks up and finds him leaning against the open door of his office.

"Hey," she whispers with a small smile.

"Hey," he echoes her greeting and tone.

She looks him over, and her head tilts with curiosity and knowledge despite the fact he didn't tell her what he was going to do.

"You saw Louis, didn't you?" Donna says with a knowing raise to her brows as he comes closer and takes the baseball from her hands.

"What can I say, he brings out the best in me," Harvey shrugs and his chin dips to watch his fingers move to the stitching as if he was going to pitch a fastball.

She tilts her head and leans in, catching his eyes with her own, and he brings his chin up. They have a wordless conversation where his gaze confesses what he's done.

"You're so goddamn emotional," she laughs breathily, and she steps away from her seat at the window. “While sweet, don’t do that again because we should be taking Jessica’s advice to heart.”

“What, fighting like hell to protect it?” Harvey asks as he’s heard a few things from Jessica the past few days.

She shakes her head and hides a smirk. She invades his space, her fingers run under the lapels of his jacket, and she tucks herself closer. Or, maybe she tugged him a little closer. Either way, she's up in his space, and he watches her eyes search him for a moment. And then two.

And then she's slowly leaning in and its long enough for him to either break contact or go full force, and he chooses a delicate version of the latter.

It's soft and unhurried. Donna's lips are full and sweet and bright, and he swears there's a hint of lip stain that sort of changes the entire taste of her as his teeth graze her lips in a brief exchange that's entirely too short in his opinion. He leans into her as her fingers tighten in his lapels and she leans up and into him. She stops it slowly. He's left with his eyes closed and his brows knitted in concentration and he opens his eyes slowly to find her wide brown eyes searching his own again.

"Thank you, Harvey," she whispers as her fingers loosen and drop and she smiles and drops eye contact as her chin moves downward. She licks her lips unconsciously as she feels him watching her and she steps to the side to go home for the night.

His fingers reach out and stop her as they grab her wrist and keeps her frozen to the spot.

"Come on," he gestures to the coat rack that holds both their jackets with the hand that holds the baseball. "Let's go home."

"I don't have spares at your condo," Donna reminds him.

"We're not coming into work tomorrow until later," he says as he shakes her head. "Breakfast and an excursion to get me a few new suits and you a few new dresses are in order, I think."

She laughs and he sees a genuine smile on her face for the first time in three days and he thinks they’re moving in the right direction for once.

He props the baseball back on his desk, and he helps her into her coat and then shrugs on his. He waits for her to pack her bag and as she rounds her cubicle, his fingers touch her own. She brings their palms together as they walk down the expanse of the hallway and for the first time this week as they see the Litt on the wall at the elevator, it doesn't bring a sense of dread of what's next in either of them.

[peantbutter-honeycombs]

Prologue

Title: Prologue

Word count: 1,586

Characters: John Watson and Matilda May

Warnings: Hints of abuse, unedited.

Notes: So here’s the prologue of my Sherlock story. It’s shorter compared to the next chapter I’m currently working on. If there are any triggers please tell me so I can add them to the tags. I haven’t edited it yet so take all typos and grammar mistakes with a grain of salt.

———

The waiting room was nothing like she'd imagined it being. It was small and crowded. Crowded with sick adults and sick children. It appeared each and every seat was filled by someone. Not everyone was sick but they were clearly afflicted with some sort of ailment or issue, very few appeared to only be in for a casual check up. Every now and then a nurse would come call out a name and off the patient in question went. They'd disappear behind the plain painted blue doors.

At least the waiting room had some form of entertainment for the young children. A small flat screen hanging from the wall about the children's area. She'd seen it on her way in, mutedly broadcasting Peppa Pig, that hadn't interested her in the slightest. Instead she focused her attention on the floor, head down trying to bring as little attention to herself as she possibly could.

She didn't dare touch the toys. Not only were they colourfully decorated breeding grounds for germs, they weren't hers. And she'd been rigorously taught, never touch what doesn't belong to you.

So she sat. Sat amongst the grownups in the room. Her neighbour seated to her right a complete stranger seated to her left.

A sharp acidic smell burned her nostrils. An unmistakable mixture of both cheap booze and classless cigarettes. She had a hunch the foul smelling stranger beside her engaged in the distasteful hobbies as her father.

She wanted to look, to just sneak a peek at the person beside her, but again that was something she knew better than to do. So she kept her eyes, those deep, earthy brown orbs, trained on her old trainers. They were so worn, her big toe was pushing its way through her right toe cap.

All she could do was sit and listen to the gentle repetitive tune of the wait rum music. It's soft rhythmic hum provided some comfort. It was enough to relax the poor girl's tense muscles. She didn't want to be there. She couldn't be there. But there she was and she felt utterly sick.

It was her well to do neighbour who'd made the appointment. The young woman claimed she wanted to ease some of the weight off the girl's busy father's shoulders. The child had had questions but thought it better not to ask them. She should have been more bold. Then perhaps she wouldn't be there.

Her neighbour, Cartia Hennigan, was a lovely young woman approaching her early thirties. She often meant well but had a tendency to overstep her bounds. Nonetheless, the little girl couldn't help but feel pity for the woman. Cartia, all her kindness and charity was nothing more than a façade, covering her great loneliness.

The little girl twiddles her thumbs, replaying the unfortunate event that landed her little butt in the stiff plastic chair. I have to be less of myself, she swore, this never would have happened if I had.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. Her forehead throbbed, as if her brain was protesting. Her rational analysis was fighting against her self blame. She massaged her temple with her left index and middle fingers, pressing her right arm tightly against her stomach. It didn't help.

She sat straight, mimicking the posture of a proud queen, eyes still shut, she placed her palms on her knees gripping the fabric of her pant leg. In times of great distress she often found it best to disappear. Unfortunately, unlike the deep sea pelagic octopod she couldn't actually become invisible. She could retreat to the quiet sanctity of her own mind.

Some people retreat to what they call a "happy place". Her? Well... At least she had some place all her own, where the world would slowly fade away.

"Matilda Hennigan.”

Her little head flew up, eyes snapping to the kindly nurse standing in the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the clinic.

Her eyes darted to Cartia who was already standing, walking toward the blue, aluminum trim door. Her eyes widened, pupils anxiously constricting, she quickly pushed herself out of her seat then hurriedly followed after her neighbor.

When she finally reached the door she cast one more nervous glance up at her neighbor. "Shall we?" the nurse smiles warmly and holds the door open wider for the two to enter.

JWJWJW

Matilda sat on at the practice table hands folded like so, neatly rested on her lap. She had to admit this wasn't going as terrible as she'd originally envisioned it going. From what her father had told her, the doctors clinic was an utterly awful place reserved for terrible, no good people. And Matilda was certain she wasn't a terrible person. Or at least she tried not to be.

Her dad mustn't have done his research or had to have been thinking of another clinic. This one was adequate.

The nurse was nice enough. Mary? Yes, that was her name.

She was kind, she made the tedious tests Matilda was forced to endure more bearable. She'd commented on how cute Matilda purple pink polka dotted leggings were. And even promised the little girl a lollipop before she left.

Mary did however seem suspicious when Cartia explained the reason for her bringing Matilda to the clinic in the first place. Matilda wasn't sure why, maybe the explanation sounded weird. It was rather silly. She shouldn't have been playing so close to the stairs.

Matilda tried not to vocalise her disappointment when Mary left to retrieve the doctor, but failed accidentally letting slip a small puppy like whimper. It was unintentional and it bothered her.

Now she sat in the room, not quite alone, with her neighbour. Matilda hated the dressing gown. It left her exposed, back half vulnerable and visible.

At the very least if she moved in front of the mirror she could count how many freckles dotted her skin back there. Maybe like her forehead, nose, and cheeks they formed shapes in a connect the dots kind of way.

Matilda pushes herself up and jumps to the floor. Pain sliced upward like a swift blade through her left ankle. This unbalanced her making her landing less than perfect she ignored the feeling knowing the pain would subside momentarily. Then under the critically watchful eyes of Cartia, she pressed forward across the room toward the only thing that interested her. At least now that Mary was gone.

It was like most things in the public clinic, cheap, only standing about two Tildas tall. Matilda, standing a little less than an arms length away from the mirror, extended an arm gently resting her hand on the smooth reflective glass. It felt cool, good against her skin.

She stared at her reflection, eyes narrowing. She angled her body to one side. She didn't get why both Cartia and Mary seemed worried. She thought she looked fine.

Two rich brown eyes sparkled back at her - the colour of the earth after long torrential rains. Freckles dotted her face, like a chaotic mess of chipped marble. Matilda loved her freckles. A tumble of stringy blonde hair, with dark brown roots, messily pulled back into a low lopsided pony-tail hung between her shoulder blades. Yeah she looked fine.

Hold on. Matilda rolled her tongue across her cheek. There was a jagged cut that'd scabbed over on the right side of her temple, giving her a Harry Potter esque mark.

Matilda frowned, noticing the somewhat sickening shade of blackish blue on her skin, creeping out from beneath the neck lining of her dressing gown. Matilda pulled her collar down revealing a dark purple bruise spreading from the lower half of her neck to her shoulder.

Matilda could feel a lump form in her throat. Still... nothing to worry about. Bruises fade. She shouldn't have played so close to the stairs.

JWJWJW

Matilda heard the door open and shut, it's swift creaking noise made her arms go rigid.

The Doctor entered in a cable crew neck sweater and dark almost black jeans, his pepper salted hair was closely cropped. He had a face like some guy that'd seen much pain, and suffered much loss.

"Hello." Greeting the two, he had the posture of a soldier but after shaking hands with Cartia he visibly relaxed. "What's your name?" His voice came out like he'd just pulled a double shift the day prior, only functioning because he was running on six cups of tea.

Whilst he exchanged casual pleasantries Cartia, Matilda mindfully walked around him back to her seat at the practice table.

She knew how to keep a poker face, even in uncomfortable situations. As she went she observed the doctor carefully, eyes critically analysing every last detail of the pale man. Matilda bit her inner cheek. She'd found it was always best to keep her final findings to herself. Kept her out of trouble.

Dr. Watson gave a brief look at his clipboard before turning to Matilda. Already still, she felt a tight knot form in her chest, under his gaze. He knelt in front of Matilda, allowing her to see the stethoscope draped round his neck. Her first thought, strangulation hazard.

She leaned back sitting further in your seat. "Hey there, you must be Matilda." Her breathing stopped momentarily as the man extended his hand out for her to shake. "What a lovely name." He gave her a smile that just seemed so genuinely sweet. "I'm your doctor, Doctor Watson."

——————

I actually really enjoyed writing this story and it might be the one I chose to continue. I’ve seen stories where Sherlock has a child but none with John and so I’m writing this. Her name is Matilda in honour of my favourite reading character as a child. I hope she lives up to her namesake. She doesn’t have a last name as far as anyone thus far is aware hence her name being Matilda May. Her first name and second middle name. I do enjoy this story but am considering another for front runner of the year.