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engie-ivy · 3 years

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Remus is the uptight, swotty Prefect who's always getting the popular and beloved troublemakers Black and Potter in detention. Remus doesn't care what people say of him, and he absolutely doesn't care about Black's blinding smile.

A Book By Its Cover

Remus pulls his jumper closer around himself against the draught in the large, empty halls. The corridor is dimly lit and he hears nothing but the sound of his own footsteps. Everything is quiet. Too quite.

A loud clang suddenly sounds from behind one of the tapestries. Remus almost smiles to himself. Bingo. In a swift motion, he pulls away the tapestry.

Startled, Black whirls around. He’s surrounded by what appear to be paint cans and rope. His shock only last a moment, though.

“Lupin!” He exclaims, a beaming smile appearing on his face. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Remus crosses his arms over his chest. He makes an effort to keep a firm expression on his face, to show he’s not affected by Black’s notorious, blinding smile, like everyone else is. “Only pleasant if you like detention. And as for a surprise, I am a Prefect. I am supposed to be here making my rounds. So what are you doing here?”

“Preparing a prank,” Black says simply.

Remus doesn’t know whether he should be insulted Black doesn’t seem to take his authority very seriously, or glad that he doesn’t insult his intelligence by coming up with an excuse.

“Right,” Remus says, before taking out his notebook and pen. “Out of bed after curfew and engaging in illegal activity,” he scribbles down. “And where’s Potter?”

“Aw, am I not enough for you, Lupin?” Black pouts.

“I figured you could use some company in detention,” Remus replies smoothly.

Black clicks his tongue. “So thoughtful.”

“If you’re here setting up some prank, then it’s a given Potter is setting up that prank somewhere else in the school as well. So, where is he?”

Black shakes his head. “For you’re own good, Lupin, you don’t wanna put James in detention right now. People won’t be too pleased with you if the school’s football star misses the upcoming match against Slytherin thanks to you.”

“So thoughtful,” Remus repeats Black’s words, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But please, don’t concern yourself over me. I’ve never cared what others think of me, and I don’t plan on starting now. And you basically just admitted Potter is currently doing something that would warrant me giving him detention, so you might as well tell me where he is.”

Black sighs. “This is why people call you uptight.”

Remus’ expression hardens. “If people care so much, they should be mad at Potter for risking the football match in the first place by playing some stupid prank.”

Black gasps dramatically and clutches his chest. “Stupid? Our pranks are not stupid! They’re works of art! Jumping out of a cake on miss McGonagall’s birthday? Hilarious! Making a zip line to go from one floor to the other? Brilliant! Filling the gym with stray cats, many of whom were eventually adopted? Genius! People love our pranks. They make people laugh and bring some excitement in their lives. Much needed excitement, because let’s face it, school is boring. Sitting there, listening to old people tell you things you already know.”

“For you maybe,” Remus mutters.

Black scoffs. “Don’t pretend you’re not one of the smartest people in our class, Lupin.”

Remus just glares harder at Black, to show that no, he doesn’t care that Sirius Black, whom people are always falling over themselves for to get even a bit of his attention, has apparently noticed Remus’ academic achievements. No, he doesn’t care at all.

“Even the teachers love our pranks,” Black continues. “They put some life into this place!”

“We’ll see what miss McGonagall has to say about it when I report you tomorrow,” Remus says calmly. “I’ll go finish my rounds, and when I get back, you better have cleaned up this mess.”

As he turns around to leave, Black suddenly grabs his wrist. “Join us!”

“Wha...” Remus turns back, and his traitorous stomach flutters at how close Black is suddenly standing.

“Join us for one prank,” Black says.

Remus blinks at him. “Why in earth would I do that?”

“Because it’s fun! And honestly, Lupin, to me you always look like you can use a bit of fun.”

That catches Remus off guard. It’s true. Between struggling to get top marks, doing everything he can for extra credit, making sure he has a spotless record, excelling at his Prefect duties, and worrying about his sick mother, lately he often feels like just throwing his hands in the air and say ‘screw it all!’, and just do something crazy, something dumb or irresponsible. But he definitely never wanted for Black to notice that.

“Come on, Lupin,” Black says, as Remus stays silent. “Be part of the fun for once, instead of putting a damper on it.”

“Your childish pranks aren’t my idea of fun,” Remus bites back, feeling himself getting defensive.

Black just grins. “You won’t know that unless you join us for just one prank!”

“Why would you even want me to join you?” Many people would be lining up to be a part of one of Black and Potter’s infamous pranks. It’s beyond Remus why Black would ask that one stuffy guy who puts them in detention almost every week.

“Because I like you,” Black shrugs. “I like how hard you work for everything and how you don’t care what anyone thinks of you. And I think you secretly have a talent for it,” he adds with a wink, that absolutely does not make Remus’ knees go weak. “I bet you have a wicked side to you underneath all that swotty stuff.”

“But I’m a Prefect!” Remus argues. “I’m supposed to discipline rule-breakers, not break them myself!”

Black rolls his eyes. “You shouldn’t take that job so serious.”

This rubs Remus the wrong way. “Not everyone can afford to treat everything in life as a joke,” he says coolly.

Black folds his arms over his chest and stares. “A fancy title and a badge and suddenly you’re better than us?”

“It’s nothing like that!”

Black huffs. “Then why is that bogus job so important to you?”

“Because some of us can’t afford to have even one note on their record if they ever want to get anywhere in life!” Remus snaps. “Because some of us need perfect scores and every bit of extra credit they can get if they want universities not to immediately bin their applications! Because some of us don’t have a last name they can flaunt, a daddy who can make a phone call, a mommy who can throw some money around, and suddenly you’re top of the list! Because some of us can’t just look at their rich parents and rely on them to always give them everything they want!”

The change in Black is instant. He takes a step back, and instead of his usual easy smile and bright eyes sparkling with mischief, his face becomes an ice-cold mask. “Fuck you, Lupin,” he hisses. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

He pushes past Remus as he storms off, leaving him behind feeling very confused. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Yes, the system is unfair and Black is privileged, but Remus supposes that isn’t really Black’s fault. He knows Black isn’t actually a bad person. His heart is in the right place, and he’s usually kind, only ever mean to people who, quite frankly, deserve it.

Remus just wishes Black would stop with those bloody pranks.

Remus just wishes Black would continue with those bloody pranks.

Or do anything really that makes him seem more like his old self. Remus never thought he’d miss that loud, barking laugh, that infuriating smirk, those lame puns so much.

Ever since everyone returned from Christmas break, Black has completely withdrawn. He hardly talks to anyone, he just sits silently, his eyes staring off in the distance and his expression blank. Potter is always by his side, softly talking to him or just throwing him worried glances.

Since then, it has been the talk of the school, and even in the papers and on the news: Sirius Black has been removed from his parents’ custody. It was a messy affair, the police has even been involved. Black’s father was arrested on grounds of child abuse. Apparently, Orion Black, the noble and well-respected patriarch of the prestigious Black family, has a habit of beating his son. It must’ve been going on for a while, but over the break it escalated. People just can’t get over how Sirius Black’s life wasn’t as perfect as it always seemed to be.

Remus feels bad for Black, and especially feels like an idiot, having said the things he said. He knows he owes Black an apology. It has been a couple of weeks since the break ended, and the apology is beginning to be long overdue. Though he also knows that Black has probably not been waiting for an apology from the uptight twat that always gets him detention.

Maybe it’s more to ease his own consciousness that he hesitantly approaches the table where Black is sitting. Potter glares at him the moment he sees him, and half gets out of his seat, probably to tell him to piss off, and rightfully so. However, after a quick glance at Black’s face, who’s looking up at Remus, he sits back down, as if he sees something on his friend’s face that makes him chance his mind.

“Bla- Sirius,” Remus says, realising a tad late that Sirius might nor want to be reminded of his family name right now. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I said some shitty things to you, and I shouldn’t have. You were right, I didn’t know anything about you.”

“It’s okay,” Sirius says softly. “You had good reason to be angry, it’s a rather fucked up system. And you didn’t know. Didn’t know that I would’ve gladly given up all that privilege to just have parents who... who love me...”

Sirius’ voice falters and he trails off. Potter is staring at him wide-eyed, and also Remus is surprised. He knows Sirius hasn’t talked about it to anyone, and he feels almost guilty he’s saying it to him of all people. He’s also surprised at the overwhelming urge he has to pull Sirius into a hug, hold him and tell him they never deserved him anyway. He has to leave before he does anything stupid.

“I should go,” Remus says quickly. “If there’s ever anything I can do...”

As he turns around to leave, Black suddenly grabs his wrist. “Join us!”

Remus turns back to look at him.

“Join us for one prank.”

“Why would you want me to join you?” Remus asks, much like the first time.

“Because I like you,” Sirius replies, much like the first time, only where he had then sounded nonchalant and slightly amused, he now sounds pleading and vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Remus says hoarsely, because his Prefect duties suddenly don’t seem so important compared to helping Sirius come back to his old self. “Yeah, I’ll join you for one prank.”

And then the most amazing thing happens: for the first time in weeks, Sirius Black smiles. It’s only a small smile, but the room already seems a bit brighter. In a moment of vivid clarity, Remus knows that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to make that boy smile.

#my tumblr writing #wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius #james potter #boarding school au #prefect remus lupin

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waitimcomingtoo · 5 years

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heeeey, in love with you, your writing and your blog 💖 Tbh I have read everything you have and I really in love with your writing. And I know that your request are close, but if you want could you write a Tom x reader where they have a fight and Tom has to leave a few days to promote his new movie and when he's back he sees like some of the reader's stuff are missing and thinks she left but in reality she's in another room couse she's awfully sick and doesn't want to get Tom sick too

Thank you so much anon!

Give Me a Minute to Hold My Girl

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Synopsis: Tom can’t find you after a bad fight

Masterlist

Tom was away a lot.

You knew traveling was a big part of his job, so you never did complain. That being said, it wasn’t easy having a boyfriend who was never around. All the missed birthdays, events, and art shows weighed on you after a while. You were more than proud of him, but you were growing lonely. He had a saying, something he said every time before he left you:

“Wherever I am, and wherever you are, we’re always looking at the same moon.”

And it used to assuage you. You’d go outside on nights he was away and stare at the moon, wishing he was looking at it where’ve he was. You knew it was never true though. He was rarely in the same time zone as you and was definitely not spending his precious time staring at the moon.

You couldn’t help it. You were miserable.

On a night where Tom came home three hours later than he said he would after being away for a week. He sent a short text alerting you that he’d be home late, therefore missing the art show he promised he’d be at after missing the last three. Upon reading the text just mere moments before your show, you decided your quota was filled. You couldn’t handle the lonely nights anymore. If he didn’t start shaping up, you were gonna have to start considering looking elsewhere for love. You loved Tom, but you had to love yourself more.

“Hi, babygirl.” Tom came behind you that night and wrapped his arms around your waist as you rinsed your brushes. He smelled like he had been using a new cologne, one you didn’t recognize. You stiffened a little in his embrace as you wiped off a brush.

“I thought you were gonna be home at 2.” You said quietly.

“Plans changed. Sorry I didn’t call.” He kissed the back of your neck with strangers lips.

“Do you remember what today was?” You asked for your own amusement.

“Oh uh…” Tom scratched the back of his head as he raked his brain. “Not your birthday.”

“No.” You confirmed with half hearted humor.

“Not our anniversary.” He continued.

“No.” You shook your head.

“Um…” he trailed off until his eyes landing on your paint brushes next to you. “Your art show. I totally forgot.” He rubbed his eyes. “It was today?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, never meeting his eyes.

“I knew it. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Tom took your hands and looked at you apologetically. “I got pulled into a meeting about Spider-Man 3 and it just slipped my mind.”

“It’s all right. I didn’t place or anything.” You shrugged, not wanting a fight. “You can come to the next one.”

“This was the one where you paint on the spot right? Can you paint me a new one while I get changed?” Tom suggested as he brushed some hair out of your face.

“Sure. Anything specific?” You asked, warming up to him now that he was showing an interest in you again. The fire you felt for him was burning once again.

“Paint how you feel. I’ll be back soon.” Tom kissed your forehead before leaving the room.

You put a blank canvas on your easel and squirt some dark paint on your palette. As you painted, you heard Tom shouting and cheering from the other room. You decided it wasn’t worth it to get angry at him for playing a video game, after all he did have a long day. You kept the painting simple and void of color so you could get back to spending time with your boyfriend. When you finished and felt happy with your work, you called him back.

“I’m done, Tom.” You called out to him.

“Just a second. I’m in the middle of a game.” He called back. After ten minutes had gone by and he still hadn’t come into the room, you decided to add another small detail to the background of the painting. Tom walked in shortly after with a different outfit and freshly showered. You gave him a small smile.

“I can clean up and we can grab some dinner.” You said as you collected the used brushes.

“I actually gotta go soon, honey. I have meeting in Manchester tonight.” Tom told you timidly. You stopped collecting your brushes and looked at him.

“But you just got home.” You said, not bothering to hide your disappointment.

“I thought I’d come back for an hour to see you.” He said as if was no big deal.

“And then you spent that hour playing video games with Tuwaine.” You pointed out in anger. You felt the fire fizzle out.

“He’s never on, I didn’t want to miss him.” Tom said light heartedly in an attempt to cheer you up. “He’s the best at 2K.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t really he was the best at 2k.” You said sarcastically. “How stupid of me to try to pull my boyfriend away from making virtual half court shots after I haven’t seen him in a week.”

“I haven’t seen him either.” Tom reminded you, only fueling your anger.

“But you gave your only free hour to him. When am I gonna get to see you, Tom? When you’re dead?” You questioned.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” He held out his arms.

“Until your car pulls up.” You shot a look at his phone which you knew would be buzzing any minute.

“What do you want me to say?” Tom asked. “I work. I’m a working actor. People need me.”

“I need you.” You threw a sheet over your canvas and finished collecting your brushes, not wanting to look at him.

“I don’t know what to tell you, darling. I’m sorry. I can’t be everywhere at once.” He apologized. You shook your head before turning to face him.

“You spent last week in Mexico, Berlin, and Scotland. You’ve been to LA, Germany, and Vancouver this week. And now you’re off to Manchester? Do you mean you can’t be everywhere at once, or do you mean you can’t be anywhere I am?” You accused.

“I don’t pick where I go. If I have a meeting, I go. If I have a premier, I go. If I have to film, I go. It’s part of the job.” Tom defended himself.

“Chris wasn’t at the London premier.” You said quietly. You weren’t going to bring it up, but it felt warranted.

“What?” Tom asked at the random claim.

“Chris Pratt. He wasn’t at the London premier for Onward.” You told him.

“Okay?” Tom said in confusion.

“Do you know why?” You tested him.

“No.” Tom said after a minute of thinking.

“He was home with his family. He said his son started crying as he was leaving for his flight so he stayed. It was all over the news.” You told him. “Traveling is part of his job too, and yet he knows how to be there for his family. Why can’t you do the same?”

“Harry and Sam were there.” Tom pointed out.

“I don’t care about Harry and Sam!” You raised your voice. “I care about how the only time I get to see my boyfriend is when I’m scrolling through Instagram. Girls all over the world get to see you but the girl you swore you loved is lying at home in an empty bed. You can make time for millions of strangers but you can’t make time for me? Do you know how it feels every time you don’t answer my FaceTime calls but then you go on Instagram live? Do you have any idea how unhappy I’ve been?” You asked desperately.

“I have to tend to my fans, it’s a part-“ Tom began.

“Of the job, I know.” You cut him off as you stormed out of the room.

“What do you want me to do? Quit?” He laughed bitterly as he followed you into the living room.

“Would you?” You spun around.

“What?” Tom faltered.

“Would you give it all up for me?” You repeated lowly. “If I asked, and I wouldn’t, but it I did? Would you give up the money and stardom and power for me?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Tom sighed.

“Because I think I know the answer.” You said tearfully. You and Tom stared at each other for a long time. He could see how hurt you were and prepared to make amends.

“I love you.” He said meekly.

“Don’t give me that.” You shook your head and looked up at the ceiling.

“I do.” He said firmly but you didn’t answer. “What do you want me to give you, then?”

“A reason to stay, maybe?” You shrugged sadly as tears fell down your cheeks. “I’m seeing nothing but a lifetime of loneliness ahead of me because of your beloved job.”

“We love each other. Isn’t that enough of a reason?” Tom stepped closer to you but you backed away. His face fell at your indifference.

“I always thought it would be but…” you shrugged and pulled your sweater tighter around you.

“You wouldn’t leave.” Tom said starkly.

“I would if I had nothing to come back to.” You looked him in the eye. His eyes were red now too.

“I’m here. I’m what you have to come back to.” His voice wavered as he got to the point of tears.

“Tom, when are you ever here?” You laughed at the absurdity of his statement. “When have I ever had you to come back to you?”

“You think I like the traveling anymore than you do? I hate leaving you. I miss you like crazy when I’m away. It kills me to be apart.” He defended himself as he raised his voice.

“Oh, is that why you don’t answer my texts? Because being away from me killed you?” You asked sarcastically. “That makes total sense now. Although, I never really got the feeling you “missed me like crazy” when you were dodging my calls.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Tom apologized, knowing this wasn’t an argument he was going to win. “I’ll start coming home more, I promise.”

“Like you promised you’d come to my show?” You shot back, not yet ready to let him off easy.

“I just forgot! Am I not allowed to forget things?” Tom shouted.

“You have ten thousand assistants who revolve around you like you’re the sun and not one of them was there to remind you about my show?” You yelled. Tom quoted down when he realized you were right.

“Darling, I cannot deal with this right now.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “Can we please talk about this tomorr-” he cut himself off with a sigh.

“What?” You asked bitterly.

“I won’t be here tomorrow. I have press in New York. I have a flight out of Manchester after the meeting tonight.” He told you with dad eyes. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot to tell you.”

“How convenient.” Your voice cracked. It was at the point where you were plenty used to the goodbyes, but this one felt final.

“I was gonna tell you, I swear. It just slipped my mind.” Tom apologized.

“That’s been happening a lot, hasn’t it?” You snapped.

“You know this is part of the job.” He said weakly, hating himself for having to give you such a lame excuse.

“I do know that.” You nodded. “What I didn’t know is that I was gonna live my life freezing to death in the shadow of your career!” You shouted.

“Then get a new life!” He shouted back, eyes immediately displaying regret. You tilted your head as tears streamed down your face.

“Do you mean that?” You asked quietly.

“Maybe I do.” Tom shrugged as he stared you coldly in the eye. His phone buzzed and he glanced down at it. “I have to go.”

“Good. Go.” You snapped. He went to the door but stopped and looked at you.

“You’re gonna be here when I get back, right?” He asked timidly.

“Would you even notice if I wasn’t?” You responded as you went to retreat into the bedroom.

“Darling, wait-“ Tom began to follow you but you stopped in your tracks.

“I don’t have anything left here to wait for.” You told him and you watched his heart break.

Tom opened his mouth to speak but his phone buzzed again. He looked at it and sighed as you wiped a tear.

“Go. Your car is waiting.” You said.

“I can’t leave you like this.” He mumbled as he typed something into his phone.

“Just leave. You know how.” You said bitterly. Tom looked up at you at your words. He was in a bad way. His nose was running and his eyes were bloodshot.

“I can cancel on the press. I can stay home-“ he said desperately.

“This is not a home! This is a prison!” You yelled. “I am chained to this one man cult we call a relationship. Please, just go! You have people waiting on you, people you clearly find more important than me. You need to leave, because I will never kick you out. Go on your press tour. Go to New York. Go do your precious “job” and meet your fans. Go stare at the fucking moon. I don’t care. Just leave.” You yelled until your voice was ragged.

“You’ll never find someone like me.” Tom warned, saying anything he could to get you to stay.

“I hope to God that’s true!” You screamed.

Tom took a step towards you, but his phone buzzed again. He wiped a tear off his cheek and nodded.

“I’ll be back in a week.” He swallowed.

“Good for you.” You said dismissively as you walked into the bedroom and slammed the door. He stared at the door for a long time, about to knock when he got yet another text telling him his car was there. He swallowed thickly, pressed a kiss to the outside of the door, and left without another word.

“I’m home.” Tom called into his home a week later.

He immediately felt the chill of your fight hitting him. When he didn’t hear a response from you, he shivered in his jacket, suddenly feeling like he was wearing somebody else’s clothes. He set his bag down timidly in the ground and looked around. The first thing he noticed was the lack of dishes in the sink. You weren’t one for cleaning up after yourself and Tom had grown accustomed to coming home to a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. You’d usually wash and dry them together before settling down on the couch to watch a movie. Tom felt fear prickle the back of his neck at the empty sink. There was no way you’d actually left, Tom told himself. You wouldn’t just up and go without a note or a call or a text. Not that Tom was very good at answering your calls and texts. Tom took another step into the house and glanced around the living room. Your favorite blanket was missing and the room looked like it hadn’t been touched since Tom left a week ago. Your pile of movies was no longer next to the TV and Tom began to feel sick.

“Y/n? I’m home.” He called out again. His voice bounced off the walls but didn’t get a reply. His palms began to sweat as he walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet. All of your coffee mugs were gone. There was an empty space in the middle of the cabinet where they used to be.

“Princess? Are you here?” Tom called out, desperately this time. When he was met with silence, he rushed into the bathroom. Tom washed his face with cold water and noticed your toothbrush was missing from the holder. He started at the vacant spot for a long tome before rushing into your shared bedroom. Upon entrance, he noticed your pillow missing. The bed looked like it hadn’t been slept in all week, and Tom feared it hadn’t. He flung open your closet doors and noticed a large gap in your clothing. All your favorite T-shirts were gone. After rummaging through the drawers, Tom found that your leggings, bras, underwear and socks were all missing too. Tom sat on the bed and out a hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs.

You’d done it. You’d left him.

While he spent the week with friends and fans, you spent the week packing up your life. Tom snapped his head up when he heard the doorbell ring.

“Babygirl?” He asked as he rushed to the front door. He swung it open, only to find his next door neighbor.

“Oh, hey Tom. Glad to see you’re back.” His elderly neighbor smiled at him.

“Hi Shane.” Tom said weakly.

“I wanted to see how Y/n was doing. She left kinda late Thursday’s night and I haven’t seen her since. Been about a week I think.” Shane informed Tom. He perked up at the mention of you.

“You saw her leaving?” Tom asked. “When was this again?”

“Thursday. Sped off in such a hurry, you’d think she was in a race.“ Shane laughed. Tom looked past Shane and noticed your car wasn’t in the driveway.

“Did she say where she was going?” Tom inquired.

“Oh, no. My wife and I only saw her leave. We were visiting our son all weekend and got worried when we got back and saw her car was still missing. I rang the doorbell a few times this week but there was never an answer.” Shane said and Tom felt like crying all over again. “When I saw that you had come back if figured I’d ask you. Is she okay?”

“I’m sorry Shane, I don’t know.” Tom answered honestly.

“She’s not home?” Shane asked.

“Uh, no.” Tom looked back in the house and then back at Shane. “Shes not home.”

“Do you think it’s serious? Has she ever done this before?” Shane wondered.

“No. Never.” Tom shook his head.

“Have you tried calling her? You two are always so cute, I thought for sure you’d know where she was.” Shane said worriedly. Tom bit his tongue to keep from crying.

“We had a fight before I left last week.” He admitted, feeling like he needed to tell anyone who would listen.

“Oh, did you?” Shane said sympathetically.

“A really bad one.” Tom continued as his voice weighed heavy with guilt.

“That’s okay. Every couple fights. My wife and I have been fighting for 52 years.” Shane tried to cheer him up.

“Shane,” Tom sniffled as he gathered his thoughts, “I don’t think Y/n is coming home anytime soon.”

“No?” Shane asked sadly.

“I think she might’ve left.” Tom said with a shaking voice. “Left me.”

“Oh, Thomas.” Shane nodded in understanding. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“I’m so sorry, will you excuse me?” Tom closed the door quickly before his neighbor could see his tears. He leaned against the door and slid down it as tears poured from his eyes. He sobbed into his hands for a moment until he noticed something. Your easel was standing in the middle of the living room with a sheet covering it. Tom got to his feet and carefully approached the easel. He soon reached it and pulled the sheet off. The canvas was a mirage of gray and white with a portrait of a woman crying. She was holding half of her own broken heart and cradling it to her chest. In the background, a faint silhouette of a man walking away with the other half of her broken heart trailing on a string behind him.

Toms words echoed in his mind from that night: “Paint how you feel.”

That’s how you felt. Heartbroken, abandoned, and tethered, all because of Tom. Tom ran his fingertips over the painting as if were a piece of you. He tilted his head and smiled at it fondly, always blown away at how talented you were, even when painting your lament.

He noticed another canvas leaning against the back wall, also covered in a sheet. He walked briskly to it and ripped the sheet off.

Underneath the off white sheet was a portrait of Tom himself sitting on the world. He had a crown on his head and a bright smile on his face. There were tiny, detailed fans and billboards with his name on either side of him. He was in a suit and had his hand clamped firmly around a the sun. You had painted with bright colors, colors of the sunset and the sky. Your words from the fight came back to him:

“You have ten thousand assistants who revolve around you like you’re the sun and not one of them was there to remind you about my show?”

On the other side of the globe sat a girl. Tom turned the portrait around and saw you. You were sitting alone, literally on the other aide of the world. Tom felt his heart break when he noticed you were staring off mournfully at the moon. On the top corner of the painting was a blue “first prize” ribbon. Tom distinctly remembered you telling him you didn’t place, despite you winning the entire competition.

That was enough for Tom. The tingling sensation started in his nose and he found himself able to see less and less of your painting as tears well up in his eyes. Body shaking sobs ripped through him as it finally sunk in that you had left him. He cried into his hands until he heard something coming from the guest bedroom.

A cough.

Tom almost thought he imagined it until he heard it again. Someone was coughing in the house. Tom scrambled to his feet and pressed an ear against the door. He heard silence for a while, then a sniffle. His heart pounded in his ears as he twisted the doorknob.

Tom opened the door slowly and heard a clanking from the floor. He looked down and saw a pile of your favorite coffee mugs, a few plates, and some bowls on the ground. He pushed them aside and fully stepped into the room. Sitting in the guest bed was a very pink-nosed and red-eyed you. You were lazily scrolling through your phone as you dabbed at your nose with a tissue. There was a bottle of bills and a bottle of cough medicine on the nightstand, as well as a sea of mugs. There was a garbage can next tot he bed with a mountain of tissues coming out as well as surrounding it. Tom felt like he was seeing a ghost and suddenly felt like a stranger in his own home. He looked around the room and saw all your missing clothes strewn around. You were wrapped in your favorite blanket and your pile of movies was next to a tub of ice cream by the TV. Tom blinked a few times in shock.

“Oh, you’re home.” You spoke and Tom snapped out of his daze. You didn’t sound angry, just congested.

“Y/n?” Tom whispered as if he spoke to loudly, you might disappear.

“Hi, Tommy.” You said sleepily as you rubbed your eyes. “Did you just get home?”

Tom watched your every movement as you scratched your head and reached for the cup of water next to the bed. He quickly got it before you did and handed it to you, taking a careful seat next to you on the bed. You gave him a grateful smile before downing the glass. You licked your dry lips a few times and sighed.

“Yeah. I just got in.” He said, never taking his eyes off you.

“I didn’t hear it. I’m on this medication that completely knocks me out. Oh, I’m sick, if you haven’t noticed.” You laughed sleepily. “I got the flu from one of my friends.”

“You’re sick? That’s why you’re in here?” Tom asked as hope burbled in his chest.

“I didn’t want to contaminate all your stuff.” You told him. “Can’t have you getting sick before Uncharted starts filming.” His heart warmed at the thought of you looking out for him even after the fight you had.

“Thank you, princess. I appreciate you looking out for me.” He told you sincerely.

“Uh oh.” You looked at him with a half smile. “You only call me “princess” when you’re really upset. What’s going on?”

Toms lip began to tremble at your words and you looked worried.

“Your toothbrush isn’t in the bathroom.” Was all he could find the strength to say.

“Yeah, because it was disgusting. I had to throw it out this morning.” You assured him.

“All your stuff is missing. Your clothes, movies, mugs.” Tom continued.

“Look around you.” You laughed again, gesturing to all your previously “missing” stuff.

“Shane is worried about you. He said you left Thursday and never came back.” Tom told you.

“Aw, is he? I drove to the hospital Thursday night because my fever was so high and the doctor made me stay overnight. I took an Uber back on Friday because I got sick in my car. Its at the shop getting cleaned until tomorrow. Would you tell him I’m okay?” You asked.

“Of course.” Tom nodded, feeling himself relax a little.

“Thank you.” You said. The room fell into an awkward silence. Tom toyed with what he needed to say in his head.

“I saw your paintings.” Tom spoke up.

“Oh.” You said causally, knowing the content of the paintings.

“You didn’t tell me you got first place.” He said softly.

“I didn’t want you to feel bad for missing it.” You admitted.

“Princess” ,Tom laughed sadly, “I feel terrible. I feel terrible about every thing. Every word I said to you, I regret it. I thought about you and our fight the entire time I was gone. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I was miserable without you. And when I came home today and all your stuff was gone…” Tom trailed off as he got emotional again. You pulled him to you chest and let him cry it out. “I thought you left. I thought you left me.”

“I would never leave you.” You promised.

“But our fight.” He cried.

“All couples fight. The ill-timing and stress didn’t help. But I’m not someone who just walks away. Especially not from something like this.” You assured him as you stroked his hair.

“I hurt you. I missed your show, I didn’t talk to you when I was home.” Tom listed off his mistakes. “I abandoned you.”

“It’s the job.” You laughed sadly.

“No. I’m not gonna let that be an excuse anymore.” Tom pulled his head off your chest and you wiped his eyes. “You deserve better. So, so much better. I’m sorry it took you almost leaving for me to realize how much I need you to stay.”

“I’m sorry about the fight.” You told him weakly. “I said some things I didn’t mean.”

“What didn’t you mean?” Tom asked as he gathered your hands in his and kissed them.

“I know I said there wasn’t nothing here for me to wait for, but there is. Of course you’re worth waiting for. You’re away a lot, and it sucks, but nothing compares to when you’re here. A few days with you is better than a lifetime with somebody else, I know it. It’s just hard to remember the good times when I’m sleeping alone every night.” You finally told him your feelings in a much calmer manner.

“Princess, I’m so sorry. This ends today. If someone needs a meeting with me, they can come to Kingston. I’m not gonna fly all over the globe to talk about movies for an a hour anymore when I could be at home with my beautiful girlfriend. You are so much more important than any job.” Tom promised you. “I didn’t answer you that night, and I honestly didn’t even know the answer, but now I do. I’d give it all up in a heartbeat for you, love. All the money and fame is nothing to me if I don’t have you.”

“Do you really mean that?” You asked him.

“I do. And I’m gonna prove it.” He swore. “I want you to come with me when I shoot Uncharted. And I want you there for the rest of my press tour. You can bring your easel and your brushes and paint all over the world.”

“Really?” You asked happily.

“Yes. People are gonna stop coming to see me and start coming to see you because you’re gonna be the most famous painter in the world.” Tom painted you a picture. “You have more talent than people could even dream of achieving. The world needs to see your work.”

“I’d love to come with you.” You told him with a smile.

“Then do it. We don’t ever have to be apart again. I can’t sleep if it’s not next to you anyway. We won’t have to look at the same moon anymore. I can just roll over and see you instead.” Tom cupped your face. “We’re gonna go to Berlin and Italy and Mexico, all the places you’ve wanted to see. You’re gonna see the prettiest sights and eat the greatest food and live the most wonderful life by my side. And we can go anywhere else you want to go too. Fuck it, baby, we’re going to the moon. Or mars. Wherever. It doesn’t matter as long as we’re together. That’s all I need.”

“That’s all I ever wanted to hear.” You told him as a happy tear rolled down your cheek. “I don’t want someone like you. I just want you.”

“I just want you, too.” He grinned as happy tears welled in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, baby.” You apologized for the fight.

“I’m sorry too.” Tom nodded tearfully as he reached forward to kiss you.

“I’m sick.” You reminded him as you pulled away slightly to dodge his kiss.

“I don’t care.” Tom shook his head as he pressed his lips to yours before pulling you into a tight embrace. “I’m never leaving you again. Just give me a minute to hold my girl.”

Tag List 🏷

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#tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fluff #tom holland angst #tom holland imagine #tom holland insert #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #iron man #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #onward

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neonponders · 3 years

Text

*sigh* catch me projecting on a Saturday.

I read this post ( @lazybakerart you wizard - ALSO IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY?????? HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹) and am now thinking about a sugardaddy!Billy with an ace!Steve. (*emphasis on grey ace*)

* Please nobody attack me for writing about leather fashion. I’m vegetarian and it’s fiction. Live a little. *

Read on ao3 ~

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹

Steve just kind of stared at the box on the restaurant table. It wasn’t a ring box, but it was velvet. Goodness knew how many of these he’d seen in his life.

Steve knew wealth. He knew money, and all of the material variations therein.

He’d gotten pedicures with his mother before his father declared such a thing unfit for a boy coming into puberty. If you look like a man, act like a man. As if men didn’t have feet, or something.

Then he went to the salon. That wasn’t so easy to take away. Ventures with her son seemed to be the only things keeping Mrs. Harrington from being connected to her husband’s hip, so Mr. Harrington let them both have this one. Steve, fresh out of graduation, being given a hairdresser’s chair to accomplish summer-fresh highlights.

Mrs. Harrington was also the type of woman to enjoy shoes. Everyone has a thing. For some, they had bags. Others, jewelry. Vintage furniture. Designer wallpaper. Mrs. Harrington enjoyed shoes. It was where Steve learned to carry a woman’s bags, but he didn’t stay outside of the store. He learned how to clean suede, the difference between a 130 So Kate and an ordinary heel. What fetish meant in terms of fashion. He can convert heels sizes in millimeters to inches faster than a cashier calculating change.

Tommy and Carol had joked about Steve’s father having a different kind of fetish. Nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do with sex. Steve had foolishly let them into his mother’s bedroom and they were having a field day with a shoe closet that cost more than both of their houses combined. Still smelling of Nancy and pool chlorine, Steve as good as ended that friendship right there.

Because they didn’t get it.

Mr. Harrington certainly didn’t get it. Could never have such a sexual inclination because he didn’t understand pampering or indulgent interests.

He understood favors. Material apologies.

Mrs. Harrington had a collection of pearls and diamonds that she never wore.

Steve knew she liked opals and pink, pink rubies, because Steve liked opals too. Because he used his father’s money to buy ruby studs his mother actually wore. Because he gets her oldest, broken bracelet with green amber fixed, and she wears it until it breaks again. And then she presented Steve with a thin, gold chain to go around his ankle. With a gleaming, green amber stone flanked by two opals.

The green goes with our eyes, she said. Someone special will see the green in all that brown. It’s why we look good in reds.

Steve was still looking at the box on the table.

“It’s not going to catch fire, the longer you glare at it.”

His dark hazel, creek water eyes slanted up to the man sitting opposite him.

Billy Hargrove.

Stubborn to a fault. Gorgeous as Lucifer with wings freshly burnt off. And just as dangerous.

“I thought I said no more gifts.”

“And I ignored you. Open it.”

Steve went about it like ripping off a bandaid. He sighed at the window beside their booth, wrenching the thing open to see -

Diamonds.

He shut it with a loud clap and set it on Billy’s placemat. “No, thanks.”

The man’s features froze in tolerant stoicism, but he eased the box inside his suit jacket pocket. “You’re a hard one to shop for.”

Steve’s eyes widened dramatically over his wine glass of water. Not because he was sober - he’d willingly pay for an overpriced red, himself, if the handsome asshole weren’t trying to wave his wallet everywhere. “You can stop trying to buy your way into my pants any time you want.”

“If that’s all I wanted, I would’ve stopped three months ago.”

Three months ago,

When Billy breezed into Steve’s life as easily as he had senior year of high school. The two of them certainly deserved some kind of award for having a bizarre history.

Within a handful of months, Billy had arrived upon a turbulent time in Steve’s life, and then left nearly as quickly. Billy witnessed Steve and Nancy’s break-up, Steve’s fall from Hawkins High grace, and even beat his face a little bit. Because that’s what teenage men with bad emotional processing and even worse communication skills do.

Now, almost ten years later, Billy had some kind of empire behind him and Steve, well, didn’t. He had no idea what Billy’s job consisted of, but he got little hints. Mostly the negative space from Billy’s lack of discussing his job told Steve a whole lot.

Steve, who worked two jobs and occasional gigs wherever he was needed. During one such time, while Steve managed the cables and sound boards for Robin’s band, Billy Hargrove sauntered up to him with just as much charm mixed with hauteur as he’d ever displayed.

It wasn’t like meeting an old friend, because they had never been more than acquaintances, and roughly ten years was enough time for a personality to evolve ten different ways.

Steve couldn’t say how much he and Billy had evolved, really, but there was a point in there somewhere.

Maybe it lived in the, “I never expected to see you in a dyke club, pretty boy,” since it was all the coming out either of them needed.

Or the wanton kisses and fervent hands underneath the neon rainbow on the venue’s wall.

Maybe the point sat in the things Billy wanted, and what Steve was reticent to provide. Because Billy was a king who knew what he liked, and seemed particularly talented at walking into Steve’s personal crises like an anniversary.

Steve craved.

But he didn’t know what he craved. What he yearned for. He knew Billy’s kisses made his brain go molten and fuzzy. He knew Billy’s smell brought him just as much comfort, excitement, and anxiety. He knew finally being outside of sex-crazed high school had deflated something in him. The expectations to perform. He knew losing Robin’s stupid game of You Rule / You Suck gave him a secret gift of relief.

But he still craved. He wanted touch but he wanted to be alone. He wanted companionship but he didn’t want sex. But he did enjoy sex, except he didn’t want the expectation of it.

Well.

That was it, wasn’t it?

Billy Hargrove, who could have anyone he wanted plastered to his stupid, unbuttoned chest, had sought out Steve. Steve, king of mixed signals, Harrington. It was only a matter of time before he got his face beaten again. For wasting Billy’s time. For refusing Billy’s advances even though Steve clearly enjoyed Billy’s lips on his neck, and Billy’s hand on his inner thigh. For wanting Billy’s company and flirtation without the rules that finished in the bedroom.

So Steve refused the gifts. The material favors he could’ve sold for a better apartment. Fucked his way to owning a house that his mom would feel comfortable visiting. Be an unfeeling toy who could pay for his mother’s shoes and his own pedicures.

“Steve?”

He turned away from the window and the city’s electric constellations. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go?”

The back of Steve’s throat ached. He looked down at their appetizer plates and decided, “I think I’m going home.” After a second of them both hearing it out loud, Steve said with more conviction, “I need to be home right now. I’m sorry. Thanks for dinner.”

He almost reached for his wallet to pay for his half of the artichoke dip, but reconsidered. He took his old prom tuxedo jacket off on the way to the elevator, waiting for the doors to close before he pressed his face into the old fibers.

It would be easier if Steve didn’t know money. If wealth were a foreign pillow he had never slept on; could be spoiled into never giving it up again.

Like a true mother with a sixth sense, Steve withdrew a package from his mailbox when he returned to his apartment building. Mrs. Harrington’s versions of care packages were fashion magazines, a subscription to The New Yorker, polaroids of her latest closet pieces, and Steve’s favorite candy.

He loved it all. He didn’t need laminated recipes, bags of rice, or resupplied hair products. He went up to his bedroom, stripped down to nothing, and fell into bed with the hefty parcel. Fruity hard candies fell out like confetti, and he stuck a green apple square inside his cheek while he looked through her baggie of polaroids.

Peach suede 130s. Steve felt a warm tickle in his belly at that. She only wore 130s if she was pissed at his father. A woman in 130s walked with the force of a storm, mostly because the damn things were nearly intolerable to wear without a platform.

Another pair of diamond earrings. One of these days, people were going to realize how boring clear rocks were.

Dark, amethyst Miu Mius with the heel and toe encrusted with pearls. Steve’s dad must’ve really pissed her off to warrant that apology.

The magazine subscription had piled up, so he had three New Yorkers to read, but he opened the tome of Vogue first. His mother dog-earred her favorite articles, scent samples, and spreads. She often favored the androgynous and male fragrances. Steve liked that a whole lot. He wasn’t sure if she did that for him because he liked them, or if he liked them because she did that.

He held the magazine to his face as he went to the kitchen, smelling the first fragrance sample while he reached for his cache of boxed cake mix. It was a funfetti kind of night. He rattled the package of sprinkles in his hand while reading about some summer collection where the runway happened in a Greek ampitheatre. Sounded fun. Sounded like a great vacation. Beach, wine, and then modern art fusing with ancient architecture.

Steve didn’t excel in chemistry, but he knew a different kind of magic.

Which didn’t actually include baking. The cake emerged a little dark, but he cut off the burnt top, iced it to glorious, sugar perfection, and took a slice to bed with him. He turned the parcel upside-down for the last of the candy to come out so he could throw the envelope away -

Two bottles of nail polish landed heavily on the bed. Steve lifted the darker bottle to see a purple so ebony he thought it was black until he opened it to see the paint up close.

Purple and peach. To match his mother’s shoes.

Not many people understood his parents’ methods of producing or avoiding affection. But Steve did. He shook up the poison violet and painted his toenails in between forkfuls of cake.

He didn’t hear from Billy the next day.

Or the next.

As bad as Steve felt, he couldn’t say he minded. Nor would he be surprised if Billy never called him again. The idea brought a lonely peace during the commute to work, reading his magazines on the train before keeping them safe in a folder that he stuffed inside his backpack. Even if Steve’s chest felt like a cold balloon, with its latex worn thin and tired, he had his little things to keep him warm.

Then a knock on his apartment door.

Steve answered it with a cheek full of cake, interrupted from making his grocery list of actual nutritional value -

Billy had never visited before. Steve stared at him long enough for him to ask, “Are you going to let me in?”

Steve glanced at the box under his arm and turned into his apartment with a sigh. Billy closed the door behind him as he remarked, “You don’t know what’s in it yet.”

There wasn’t exactly anywhere for Steve to theatrically storm off to. His kitchen was also his living room, and a half-wall partitioned the bedroom off to the side. His apartment was one long rectangle, and Steve remained stuck in the middle of it.

“Billy, I don’t know what you want from me that you think you can get from expensive things.”

“I don’t recall asking for anything in return,” he drawled while removing his coat.

“Don’t take that off,” Steve retorted.

“I’m taking it off.”

“This isn’t going to be a long visit.”

“Would you at least open the damn thing first?” Billy presented the box on the flat of his hand like a waiter’s tray.

Steve knew a shoe box when he saw one. He swatted the lid off the box before he even meant to. He was so tired of this game. Of these rules. He doesn’t want to see some snotty designer sneaker that isn’t to his taste. Some item the rules would dictate he accept without complaint. Or some chunky, foamy plastic, glorified tennis shoe that is over hyped . . .

He sees the red first.

It’s not a sneaker.

Hot Chick heels. 100mm. Black suede on top, red bottom. The leather around the heel scallop-cut like minimalist flower petals.

Steve’s breath has stopped in his chest. The pad of his thumb moved across the soft, matte leather before he stops himself. He tries to look stern when he dares to peek up at Billy, but those water-turquoise eyes are steady on him, absorbing his every reaction.

“These don’t exist in suede.”

Because they didn’t. Hot Chicks came in patent leather only.

“They do now.”

“Louboutin sizes down.”

“Then we’ll have them stretched.”

Steve is losing. Billy knows he’s losing. Billy - he -

“How - ?” Steve begins but stops. He closed his eyes and swallowed, only to flinch a little when Billy grasped his chin, holding him in place as he leaned in to lick the corner of his mouth free of icing.

“Will you try them on for me?”

Steve feels a mixture of defeat mixed in with petulance and vulnerable glee as he warily takes the box to his humble couch. Billy looked at his bed, and then to the kitchen on the other side of the apartment. He strolled into it and lifted the knife for a slice.

Steve, meanwhile, took his time. He opened the paper from where it had floated back over the shoes. He lifted the box to inhale the leather. He took one shoe out just to...see it. Look at it. Read the number stamped on the red arch.

Steve had to remove his socks, revealing his lacquered toes as Billy sat next to him with a plate. He eased the coffee table out of the way, giving Steve room to wiggle his foot into the severe 100mm heel.

They were hardly glamorous under his old, cut-off sweats.

But.

He’d never actually seen his feet in heels before. Never bothered to try to find his size.

Billy handed him the other shoe, and stood up with a ready hand. Steve wiggled into it and accepted his hold as he stood up.

How do you walk in those? he’d once asked his mother.

Trust the heel, my love, she’d answered, strolling around her bedroom in her 130s. If you’ve paid enough for it, it better hold up your entire form, and your dating baggage.

Steve had laughed, but listened to her every word. Move like a wheel barrow. You pivot on your toes, like the wheel, and rest on the heels.

“I’ve got you,” Billy purred when Steve teetered. Just a little.

“Why did you get me these?” Steve had to ask while he began to ease his arm off of Billy’s shoulders.

“Might’ve had a look inside your mail,” he admitted shamelessly. “I thought you might’ve ordered something and I could finally see what you liked. Instead, it’s the one thing I’ve seen you accept.”

“You’re a creep,” Steve declared, but he couldn’t look away from his feet as he strolled around the coffee table.

Billy laughed and sat down to his cake. “This is good.”

“It’s from a box.”

“It’s still good.”

Things . . . changed, after that. Billy came over just to come over. And he pestered Steve with endless questions.

“Do you like these?” he asked with his nose against the magazine pages.

Steve towered over him in his heels, but he’d wash dishes in whatever he wanted, thanks very much. And leather needed to be worn, as his mother taught him. Plastic is trash. If it comes from a living creature, it lives on a creature.

Steve snorted beside him. “My mom crimps those pages.”

“But do you like them?”

“They’re fun in magazines, but perfumes were never really my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“Right now? You, elbows deep in here.”

Billy perked right out of the magazine only to lock onto the sink. “Because you’re having trouble reaching it now?”

Steve meant to have a witty come-back, but he got caught up in his own giggles. “Yeah.”

Then,

“Can I stay the night?”

Something must have flashed across his face, because Billy added, “Not for sex. I’ve taken the hint, all right?”

Steve slowly unfolded his socks where he sat on the foot of the bed. “Why do you want to?”

Billy wiped his hands on the dish towel and padded across the room to sit beside him. “Because I want to taste you before I sleep. And I wanna taste you when I wake up. I want your snark in my ears all the time - ”

“All the time?” Steve repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah, all the time. I can’t believe it either.”

Billy’s features were warm, unbelievably warm as he watched Steve laugh. “Of course I want to have sex with you. But I miss you when... I miss you all the time. It’s embarrassing.”

Steve rolled his eyes onto him, to which Billy defended, “I have things to do.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re the big man in town,” Steve babied, pushing his chest so he toppled backward.

“I am, actually,” he crooned, his hands finding Steve’s legs easily when he straddled him. “I’d work better with you on my desk.”

“My hairy legs and scraped up heels?” Steve threatened breathily, holding Billy’s cheek and jaw in one hand while he leaned over him so all Billy could see was Steve.

“All of it,” he exhaled, and pulled Steve’s head the last inch for a kiss.

Billy’s next gift was a pair of slippers. Plush, soft, and perfect after an afternoon in 100s.

Then he gave Steve a massage. Steve could accept those with ease. The balls of his feet hurt and even blushed a faint indigo from being so unused to heels. The warm attention of Billy’s hands on the arches of his feet, heels, and ankles; as well as the cold tennis balls he stored in Steve’s freezer to roll along his feet.

By then, he’d seen Steve’s anklet. So the next shoe box Steve opened were dark green suede, as poisonously dark as his mother’s violet heels. The toe was bare, but the heel was encrusted with opals. The milky stones flashed green and orange as Steve walked in the 120mm heel.

“How do they feel?”

Steve, with far more mastery over heels now, pivoted on his toes and planted one on the couch in between Billy’s thighs. His warm hand cradled Steve’s ankle immediately.

“What if I shaved for these?”

“Then I’d never take my hands off you.”

“So nothing would change,” Steve giggled, teasing gone as he landed on Billy’s lap. The man underneath him hummed his mirth into Steve’s mouth, his other hand burying in Steve’s hair while he let Steve control the kiss, explore his mouth.

“I thought they’d go with your eyes,” he said when the kiss petered off and Steve kissed his nose. Billy touched the pad of his thumb high on Steve’s cheek. “There’s a little bit of green there.”

Steve let Billy fuck him in those shoes.

Because he finally craved all the way, beyond fear of rules. Beyond the existence of toys. He craved Billy deeper than skin, and Billy gave it to him.

And when Billy got him a pair of 130s . . . blood red and spiked with tiny, crimson points, he let Steve fuck him.

#everything i know about shoes i learned from Violet Chachki #harringrove #ficlet #asexual!steve #sugardaddy!billy #sugarbaby!steve #neonponders #pondermoniums #lazybakerart #happy birthday love!!!#no i don't know billy's job #cover a plot hole with an unreliable narrator~

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blanxkey · 4 years

Text

they’ll hang us in the louvre || 5.8k

it starts in a bar, or in an alleyway, or maybe in a thousand different glances and words and kisses. and it keeps on growing with every moment that follows.

but it isn’t that simple. nothing is, really.

(— or, a friends with benefits au.)

read on ao3

///

He wakes to no light breathing around the room, the taste of slumber too prominent on his tongue. The world is on the verge of summer. It’s the scent that gives it away; it lingers between his sheets, on his pillow, fresh grass and clean air and a faint undercurrent of honey and someone else, someone who’s been here most night. It’s a stubborn thing, never really going away, no matter how many times he tries to wash it. Strangely enough, it all reminds him of winter, an inexorable longing for the cold filling his lungs, for a beginning which is still blurry inside his mind.

Lately, Lucas doesn’t know if there even was a beginning.

He doesn’t know if it really matters.

///

Maybe, possibly, it starts five months ago. The beginning doesn’t come like that though, a bit unclear beneath a thousand moments lining the trail like seeds, each one blooming to complete a pattern reserved only for him to see. The lines stood clandestine; just friends, they’d say. But the night brings with itself a shift, a novelty to their interaction, vivid and unnerving. It starts in a bar; five shots of vodka consumed, Lucas spends his time on the dance floor, under the neons that flash about too fast, fluorescents dripping all around. It does something to his senses, the way everything fades to a static hum in his ear, like being submerged underwater, like he’s drowning, only he doesn’t want to come up.

He dances between a cluster of celestial bodies and doesn’t care about anything else; except, maybe, for the way Eliott Demaury looks at him under these lights, his eyes mercury-bright as he shuffles closer, and Lucas takes his hand and pulls him into the tight knot of people all huddled together. The music plays on, pulsing in a rhythm synchronous to his own heartbeat, but they keep on dancing anyway.

Later when the haze settles, they find themselves outside, standing too close, heavy breaths exhaled into the still of the air. Lucas hides the staccato of his heart over the joint he’s sharing with Eliott, tries to, at least, and the lines, they feel tainted, somehow. Lungs too choked up on smoke and dirty, dirty feelings. The cars go by too fast to count, December air a little cold to the touch. Eliott says something that falls flat in the night. Hazy. It’s all vivid now: the glow of moonlight against the obsidian of Eliott Demaury’s hair, eyes too sharp in the dark, the buttons of his shirt undone to the middle of his chest, revealing a smooth, pale expanse of skin, glowing silver beneath the moon.

It makes Lucas wonder, then, how it would feel to press his lips against the hinge of Eliott’s jaw.

It’s certainly not the beginning, but it feels significant, somehow, plucks the string that has always stretched taut between them. Something that hums through him, beautiful, endless. Echoing. It leaves Lucas with feelings too intense to carry, strong and fervent, cutting through the blues of the night. And the sense that they had settled a long time ago, and they’ve just now come close to realizing it.

It’s certainly not the beginning, but it’s what sets them in motion, he thinks.

///

The thing is, it wasn’t that simple.

The thing is that nothing was, really. It was slow and full of holes and complex feelings they couldn’t quite hold in their bodies. Something about Eliott kept pulling him in, frighteningly, intoxicating, it settled behind the hollow of his ribs, staining and consuming there, until holding back became too tiring, until Lucas gave up, gave in, he did it all. The mess in his chest throbbing with a rhythm of its own, it was too much, too much, too much.

And Eliott — his eyes were a thing of the ocean, colors striking, sharp features and the softness hidden within. Eliott had kissed him, first with a gentleness in his hands as though he was scared of breaking him, and then more surely, fiercely, tasting faintly of cigarette smoke and not much else. Fear, desire, want, flooding Lucas' insides with warmth, their bodies like two ends of the same miracle.

An explosion, like a star going supernova —

And, maybe, possibly, this is where it all began.

(Eternal, until it ended. Just this once was all they said. It wasn’t enough.)

///

Eliott lets out a high-pitched whine as Lucas’ mouth closes over the edge of his ear. He kisses his cheekbone and Eliott chases his lips, running a hand through his hair, pulling, hard and unyielding and just on the right side of painful, rendering him breathless. He moves below, sharp teeth against the dip of Eliott’s collarbone; the tattoo just above his heart; over the hollow of his pulse, where the light illuminates a patch of skin dusted in bright red. Lucas wonders, in his daze, if Eliott knows how quick he blushes; every part of him flushed and warm under Lucas’ attention.

He supposes it’s a good thing.

Two a.m. drips with longing around the air they share, intense and treacle thick as Lucas presses him further into the mattress. He puts his hands under Eliott’s head and presses their lips together, the kiss turning messy, needy, a bit of teeth, everything tinged a silver hue. Miraculous. His tongue is hot, urgent, and Lucas tastes the bitter undertones of cigarette smoke and hunger, and that warm, intimate sweetness of another person’s mouth. He chases it all, Eliott’s body pliant and giving underneath him, and Lucas takes, and he wants. He thinks that he would never get tired of wanting.

“Please, Lucas,” Eliott chokes out the name — his name, frantic, in desperate undertones—and it sets his every nerve ending on fire. His hand crawls up Lucas’ neck, thumb brushing against the hollow of his clavicle, and the touch lights Lucas up from inside. A sharp swirl of heat low in his belly, this thing that Eliott does to him, the sounds that leave his vocal cords. He kisses Lucas hard and almost frantic, tugging onto his hair, it’s a sweet, sharp pull. His lungs burn.

“Look at you,” Lucas murmurs against his mouth, breathless, a little awed at the intensity reflected in Eliott’s eyes, like pools of darkened silver. “So eager. So ready.”

Eliott lets out a huff as he moves away. “Fuck off.” The words catch on the side of his neck where Eliott’s lips are now pressing, scorching and damp, and then, sharp, and almost carnal: “fuck me.”

///

(— just this once, they’d said.)

Eliott was still recovering from his breakup with Lucille, the first time it had happened. He was hurt, he said, and so incredibly tired that it warranted a long break. That he deserved it, even. And Lucas. He could pull through, he thought he could, after all, Eliott was just an itch he badly needed to scratch, under his skin (and in his head, his lungs, behind brittle ribs, it stayed, it did). A cruel sort of want in his bones, too obvious, much like the sharp pull between them.

After that, though, they’d lasted only a week.

A week of stolen glances and tight smiles whenever they crossed paths on the university grounds, going out to meet in their free time like friends did, each interaction filled with a flicker of attraction, and maybe something more, something Eliott couldn’t offer back in the same way Lucas did.

It broke like a storm when they were hanging out at Eliott’s. When one moment they were watching another one of his favorite movies, an oscar fiasco that Lucas couldn’t quite pay attention to, and the next Eliott’s mouth was on his, and Eliott’s shirt was gone and their jeans were unzipped and then. And then Eliott was pressing him back against the couch, panting, shivering, his hand wrapping around them both, all skin against skin against the calluses on his palm, and Lucas tasted stardust when he pressed his lips to the smooth plane of Eliott’s neck and came first, galaxies unraveling behind his eyelids.

Later, with Eliott’s hand touching the ends of Lucas’ hair, he’d huffed, “We’re so fucking stupid, aren’t we?”

“Regretting it already?” A heaviness clung onto Eliott’s voice.

“Fuck, no. I just think we complicated everything even more.”

“I’m sorry, Lucas,” he said softly. Lucas liked the way he said his name, rounded syllables and its raspy hues, the warmth it seemed to carry. “I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

It didn’t hurt much, just a dull ache blooming between his lungs, smothering, much like what desire did. Eliott’s knee was jittery where he sat pressed to his side, and Lucas put his hand out to squeeze it lightly. “I understand,” and he did, but he was just a human, and human beings were weak, fallible creatures, aching for the things they couldn’t really have.

And then it happened again, and again, and again, until it became a countless affair. Until Eliott was taking him home every other night and marking up every inch of his skin, but he still wouldn’t call him his.

///

Eliott’s apartment feels strangely warm, alight, as though the sun spills through his windows at all hours of the day, washing over the walls in a perpetually soft glow. It shades over the furniture, specks of dust swirling in the shivery light. His books and his vinyl’s and art supplies stacked into a shelf by the corner, sheet music lying around somewhere, everything cluttered in a way that is eerily characteristic of him. There are drawings everywhere. Stark white pages against the grayscales and charcoal smudges, paintings and half-finished sketches spread over the living room floor, taped to the walls. There are some in his bedroom too, albeit a bit different, all in haunting blacks; long silhouettes and lines and forlorn shades that Lucas takes too long to understand, fingertips uncertain as they follow the lines from afar, not quite touching. They never do.

It’s affection he feels for this place and the boy it homes, affection, but not quite. It's an all-consuming thing, twisting into a helix of something deeper, and it brings love, then, too ruinous of a thing in its syllables and its noise, and in everything else it does.

(It bleeds and it chokes, is what it does — but no, it’s not love).

But there’s light filling in all corners of Eliott’s kitchen, artificial, pale over the sharp contours of his face. It smells of rain, from this evening, and, under it, there’s a faint layer of springtime. Eliott would probably taste like a thunderstorm, if Lucas’ lips were to find his and lingered there, the world quick to fall away beneath his fingertips, quiet. In simple present, though, it isn’t, and he doesn’t, and he just lets it hurt in a melancholic sort of way, in the way longing often does.

Instead they have Chinese takeout at the kitchen table, sitting close, knees almost touching, and it’s mostly become a routine now, this. Reasons seemed too flimsy of a thing to have, but they always made for complicated actions, later. Lucas tries not to think too much of it.

“I’m still thinking of yours,” Eliott tells him after a couple of mouthfuls. “I’ve narrowed it down to a few options, but I’m still not sure.”

“You do know that you’re not diagnosing me, right?” Lucas says on an exhale. For some reason, the food tastes like ash in his mouth. “It’s just an animal, Eliott. It shouldn’t take time.”

A crooked smile is turned towards him. “Art always takes time, Lucas.”

His name is soft, always so careful in its inflexions. Lucas huffs, rolls his eyes, says: “Okay, then.” Says, “It’s a relief, honestly.”

“Why?” Eliott stares, perplexed, knee bumping slightly with his, warm at the point of contact.

“Because — because it would be extremely awkward to know you were thinking of an animal when you fucked—”

“Lucas!” Eliott’s laughing already, bright and loud, before he’s reached the end of the sentence. He’s alluring like this, a boy spun out of yellows and golds, and a certain softness hidden behind all his sharp angles — alluring in a way that blinds, makes his heart skip too many beats.

“Well. You asked for it,” he whispers, mirth too evident in the cadence of his voice, words falling into the void between them, and Lucas thinks it’s not just the spirit animal he’s talking about. The universe — it contracts into just the space around them when Eliott leans in closer, when he presses his mouth to Lucas’, laughter still tucked into the corner of his mouth, when he cups his face with both hands and kisses him slowly, deeply, like what the sun does to her flowers. The air turns thick, heat simmering underneath; a shiver crawls up his spine, skin going all shades of red, and then it’s just warm lips and slick tongues and Eliott’s smell getting everywhere.

He takes Lucas right there, against the kitchen table, gentle and too sweet, mouthing at the soft skin low on his belly, only touches him with his hands at the very end and it’s — soft, intimate, and Lucas gasps, shuddering when Eliott grips him too tight. But it’s good, so good, this moments in its breathless wonder, the wild pace to his heart, and the feeling of Eliott’s mouth on him, the cloying heat — it’s exquisite.

Lucas chokes on the feelings inside his lungs, and the ache that blooms is sweet, saccharine.

///

He’d come home most nights, tired, a flailing heart cradled in the palm of his hand, wanting out, and he’d come home to Yann on their couch, blinds drawn open to pull moonlight into the living room. He’d be holding a cup of coffee, or a controller, or just his notes, brows furrowed like he thought the universe had it out for him specifically, but he’d let Lucas sit and lean into him with a half-smile and a jut of his chin. The smell of Eliott would be all over his senses, all over his clothes, impervious to everything else, and Yann would know, but he never asked, and Lucas never really had to explain.

One night, the boys had come over, and they had brought so much beer that he’d found cans under his bed, even. It had been a silly night, drunken jokes and karaoke’s sung to the music from Arthur’s machine, at some point, Yann had said: “Do you guys remember how Baz chased Daphne all through high school?”

There was laughter, a moment of complete hilarity while Basile spluttered out some non-words, and Arthur snorted, “Do you remember how hopeless he was?”

“You were so whipped, Jesus Christ.” It was funny, agreeably, friends goofing around like friends did. They’d moved to Truth and Dare, and Lucas had leaned back against the couch and wondered about it for a nanosecond, but something stuck, though. It always did. An inescapable yearning filling his insides at the memory.

Later, when they went around cleaning whatever they could, Lucas asked:

“Hey, Yann, do you — did you ever think that Baz was willing to do it forever?”

Yann turned to him, frowning in the soft way he did. “What?”

“You know,” he said, flailing his hand, suddenly lost for words. “That he planned to ‘chase’ Daphy forever, if she hadn’t come around?”

“Maybe he did, Lu,” Yann had said. “Or maybe he didn’t, but I don’t know. It’s like…asking the flame to burn you twice. Nobody would like that.”

“Yeah,” he spoke to the walls, voice too quiet, like the atmosphere was drowning out the sounds, and the conversation sloshed around confusingly. Or maybe it was just the booze, they had been drinking after all. “No one would.”

Yann didn’t say anything, but his face went soft, gray understanding was all there was as they went about in the drunken buzz. “Coffee?” he asked after a while.

Lucas didn’t think he could keep anything down, his ribs starting to bruise, hurt, but he’d nodded anyway. It was Yann’s answer to everything for a reason.

///

Lucas gets out of work when it is still light out, wind carrying all sorts of sounds. It rattles about in a sort of rhythm, everything does. And Eliott meets him soon after, hands in his pocket, eyes twinkling. There’s a strange familiarity in the way he stands, his art supplies in the canvas bag he’s carrying, the impossible shade of red to his lips; all nervous energy.

It was terribly busy today, Mondays usually are, from the high afternoon rush in this café he works at, the hiss of coffee machines and the cacophony of conversation played around gratingly. Lucas was left to the almost comfort of the smell of fresh coffee. The number of times he’d sighed from behind the counter was a countless affair, and then phone in his pocket had stirred with a simple text (pick you up at 4?). People came and went, rarely anyone stayed for long, there was small talk, a comment or two about the weather, Lucas didn’t know what to say.

“Where to?” he asks.

Eliott takes him to an old diner, colors all faded but it still has a charm. “I thought we could eat together,” he mumbles. Together, the word is messy, disconcerting, its implications far too dangerous to even consider. Lucas bites his lip, flustered for some reason. They sit at a booth by the windows, and he watches as frazzled daylight still breathes around them, breathing in the same way as he orders some fries. Opposite him, Eliott does too, along with a disgustingly sweet drink, his bag tucked behind him, their knees touching just the slightest under the table. Lucas stares, curious, not used to the mundanity of it all, not commenting on the mismatched scene they make, stares until their food arrives, and then he has to look away.

Eliott drums his fingers against the table, looking down at the greasy fries before catching Lucas’ eyes. “Well, not too bad for dinner, I suppose,” he laughs, it’s a charming sound.

“It’s barely evening, Eliott.”

Eliott just rolls his eyes. “Late lunch, then.”

“Listen,” he begins again when they’re almost finished, fingertips tracing over his bottom lip. “Are you free this Friday?”

Lucas nods. “Why?”

“There’s an art exhibition.” His hands flail. “It’s gonna have my art —”

“— wait, wait. Your art?” Lucas cuts in, voice tinged with surprise. “Eliott, that’s. That’s incredible.”

Averted eyes trail the end of his sentence. “It’s, umm, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” Lucas scoffs lightly. “It’s huge.”

Silence is all that follows as he stares, Eliott’s cheeks are a pretty shade of pink. It is strangely endearing. He shrugs, “I guess, yeah,” and after a moment that lasts longer than a minute, he tilts his head to the side and, with eyes that feel calculating, says, “So?”

“So what?”

“— will you come?”

The words are said in earnest, hopeful, and Lucas coughs on the feelings blooming inside of him, the possibility. It’s bittersweet in a way that gets caught in his throat, that can choke if he isn’t careful. Lucas tries not thinking too much of it. This isn’t a date, of course, it never is, and the truth of it stings. But the truth also is that he wants it to be terribly, selfishly, so badly it hurts. This thing that doesn’t even have a name — people have names, and storms do, too, chaos usually does — and he thinks it’s because they’re scared of ruining it, too.

But he knows better, he does, still he finds himself nodding. “Yes,” he whispers, the word almost shy on his tongue.

Eliott gives him a bright smile, one that lights up his entire face, one he does when he is genuinely pleased by something. Nothing much is said after.

They part when the sun has lowered behind the seedy architecture, colors tangling against a fiery sky, and Eliott beneath it with sunset shades playing over his face, in his eyes, his smile. He kisses Lucas’ cheek under a bus stand, touches light fingers to his cheekbone, and Lucas smiles, warmth filling the insides of his lungs. Then, with a see you whispered into the space between them, Eliott turns the other way.

Wind murmurs with the dead leaves, cars going by at odd intervals, Lucas remains standing there for a long time, cotton candy colors on the back of his hand. He watches them stay between the gaps of his fingers, and he brings them home, kept safe and warm between the hollow of his ribs. They drip out and cover the walls of his room in faded pinks and reds, like dried blood on cloth.

Like love would, if he allowed it to bloom.

///

“It’s me,” Eliott had said, the first time Lucas stayed over, colors rendered dull in the afternoon light pouring through his windows. Lucas looked up from where he’d been staring at a sketch of a racoon on the wall. A glass was placed on the shelf. He hadn’t heard him come from the kitchen. “They’re cool, the racoons. My spirit animal.”

Lucas didn’t see it, though, couldn’t, not in those sharp pencil strokes and the contrasting grays and whites, drawing color out of everything else with its contrived shades. But he supposed Eliott must like that, this apparent connection, however unclear. Eliott, who noticed the smallest of things and understood.

“They wear a mask,” he said, a brittle thing his mind had caught, repeated. “Most people do.”

He could feel Eliott looking at him, and when he turned all he could see was Eliott’s face above him: in perfect symmetries, the gray of his eyes and the soft curve of his smile. His hand rose up to ruffle Lucas’ hair.

“Not for long. Hiding can’t be done forever, you know,” he replied, in an entirely honest, artless way he sometimes had. It was difficult not to blanch at the quiet conviction in his voice, and there had been a part of Lucas that didn’t believe him. “Feelings don’t work like that,” Eliott had continued, it sounded like a poem, or a song. “Push something down it turns on you, and it grows, too. In your lungs and in your airways. Coped up behind your ribs, it doesn’t let you breathe.”

There was a heaviness in Lucas’ heart, he’d realized, the words like shards under his skin. They hung around them in a way that stung, thorny around the edges. It was too real, the almost truth of it all, the loss of control over things that felt like choices once. And choices weren’t built to wound, to end just like that. He’d wondered then, how Eliott knew all of this, how he’d sounded like he was speaking to that hard, cold part buried deep inside Lucas, still in hiding.

“It sounds cruel,” was all he could say. Eliott simply shrugged, timid, a faint smile curving along his mouth. It felt like lost hope.

“What about me?” he asked, a change of subject, while his ribs pressed in with a dull sort of ache. “What would I be?”

Eliott had ran his eyes over his appearance, briefly, far too quickly, as though on purpose. “I don’t know,” he said at length. “I’d have to think about it.”

///

Neon colours everything. There are paintings in deep shades, blues and purples and reds, even, and he drinks cheap wine out of a flute and watches these colours surround Eliott like a halo, carefully softening out the lines of him. Unsurprisingly enough, he looks like he belongs.

He takes Lucas through the wide room with artworks hanged on its walls, explaining each stroke, the cadence of his voice a careful hum, expression wistful, almost. They stop at a corner, and three canvases look back at them with contrasting shades of grays and cyans and oranges, a calmness within a chaos, like the heart of a fire. And admittedly Lucas doesn’t know much about art or its intricacies, but he thinks that they’re—

“They’re beautiful.”

Eliott smiles, then: a small, frail, shivery thing, but it breaks the violets dripping all around them. “They’re mine.”

Lucas turns, eyes tracing the shapes on the canvas. “What do you call them?” he asks into the open space. Eliott’s voice, when it comes, is sweet, warm.

“Polaris,” he answers, “It’s a small series I’d been working on for a while.”

Polaris, north star, the way home. They’re different words for the same thing.

“They’re wonderful, Eliott. And brave.” The words stumble out before he can stop them. “I don’t know how you do it. This. It must take a lot of courage.”

His heart flutters when Eliott looks at him, just looks, and maybe it falls, too. “Thank you, Lucas,” he says, blinking slowly, wondering, “for coming here, and for everything you said. You made me so happy.”

Lucas smiles, you’re welcome. Still Eliott keeps on looking, and Lucas looks back. Fingers fall to the back of his hand, brush over his knuckles fleetingly, lovingly, and Lucas’ skin sparks underneath them. And then they circle around his hand in a soft grasp, squeeze it once, twice, three times. There are maybe a million hues written into the creases of Eliott face. He’s pretty like this — breathtaking, Lucas thinks, with dusty red cheeks and boyish charm and eyes that glimmer in the light. Lucas knows he’s pretty in every way, but somehow, with heart beating awfully out of pace, Lucas just—

He just knows that he’s fallen in love.

It’s a devastating sort of realization.

It feels ruinous, too, in the way his heart just about tips over his ribcage. Because, you see, this thing with Eliott, it’s all watery, built to break apart, end. All this time he’s been half-heartedly trying to run away, convincing himself to leave before he inevitably burns, and breaks, and bleeds.

“Lucas?” Eliott’s face appears in his line of vision, face furrowed with concern.

“I—I’m sorry,” he speaks when he trusts his voice, clearing his throat afterwards. “What were you saying?”

“I was just asking if you were ready to leave?”

Eliott brings him home down a familiar path, stopping under the mercury vapor to kiss him, but beyond that it is dark, darker even, shadows flickering, shifting. Lucas tries to soothe the voice in his head when Eliott unlocks his door, heart beating unevenly as he carries him to bed, and everything is tinged soft and quiet. Shirts are removed, other bits of clothing follow soon after, Eliott’s mouth over his chest and ribs, slow and deliberate. The mattress huffs when Eliott presses in, foreheads pressing together, his hands everywhere, and Lucas groans when he picks up speed. Lips bitten, warmth everywhere, it’s unrelenting, unyielding, different.

Gods, does it feel different.

Eyelids growing heavy, he lets Eliott pull him close, after. Lets himself be tucked into his chest, soothed by the thump, thump, thump of Eliott’s heart. Nothing sweet is said, and Lucas thinks that he’ll tell him soon, maybe in the morning, when the world wouldn’t be exhausted and a bit hazy around the edges.

Eliott kisses his forehead while he falls into slumber, waking up too many hours later to sunlight in his eyes, washing over the walls in bright golds. The space beside him is empty, cold to touch, still smelling of all the sweet things Eliott is made of. Sheets tangle around his neck as he gets up, something on Eliott’s pillow catching the glint of the light. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, it’s —

It’s a brass key.

And lying under it, a hedgehog drawn over a post-it note, captioned:

so you can let yourself in any time. p.s. you’re beautiful when you sleep.

///

(“Don’t let it hurt you, Lucas,” Yann said. The words sounded almost grieving, like they were scratching past his throat.)

///

It scares him, sometimes, how easy it is to hope.

It’s easy when Eliott smiles at him like it’s the easiest thing to do, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

When he takes him places and always, always brings him home afterwards.

When he gives him a fucking key.

So, standing on the edge, it’s easy to want, to feel, to hope, and to just take the fall and let it hurt.

///

(

had to pick a shift at work

i’m ☹ sorry

what are you doing this evening???

theres a movie you have to watch

spoiler alert! it’s v v cute

i think you’d like it!!!

lucas?

)

///

Lucas is drinking stale beer, left alone and a bit tipsy in the middle of Idriss’ living room on a warm Saturday night, when he catches Eliott’s eyes and realizes that fate is a fickle, fickle thing.

It’s funny, the way time slows and speeds up in a sudden moment, the way it seems to move in a circle, so slowly that it’s unnoticeable, and then all at once, until you end up at the point where it all started. A cruel mockery fate makes out of you, all those things you could’ve stopped, all those ways you could’ve run the other way.

And Eliott does. He turns around and then he’s walking away, moving through the throng of bodies, head ducked low on his shoulders and face creased, frowning, maybe, though Lucas can’t tell. He just stands for a moment, unblinking, watching him go, and —

It aches.

In a split second, he’s moving too, following Eliott as he heads for the door, and they step out into the clear night silently. The distance between them feels large and looming, Lucas doesn’t try to close it, instead finding focus on the hunched shape of Eliott’s shoulder and the way he’s taking short, measured steps, as though he doesn’t really want to get away. Hope rears its ugly head again, the knowledge that Eliott Demaury holds Lucas’ heart in the hollow of his palm wrecking a chaos inside of him. The silence gets too much when they near Eliott’s neighborhood, and Lucas opens his mouth to speak.

“We need to stop leaving like this,” is what comes out.

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Eliott takes too long to turn around, face hardened, affronted. Their eyes meet over the asphalt.

“It’s been a week, Lucas,” he comments, sounding distant, and he looks tired under the streetlights glimmering against the contours, the shadows under his eyes. “You didn’t call, you didn’t text me back. And now you’re here, you’re — why didn’t you text me back?”

His heart sinks. “Because. Because I—”

“Because what?”

“Because I was going to end things with you!” he says, the words stumble out in an angry drawl. Eliott didn’t get to ask questions, to get angry, when it was Lucas who had been hurting all along. He watches as all color leaves Eliott’s face, something like hurt flashing in his eyes, but he can’t stop now. “Because I wasn’t being fair to myself, to you. Because I can’t do this anymore. Whatever we have, it’s lopsided and fucking messy and it’s been months and, and —” he swallows, lungs burning. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“It’s not! Lucas, it’s not lopsided,” Eliott speaks, taking a step forward, voice shaking, tremors running through his tone.

A bitter laugh escapes his throat. “It isn’t anything, Eliott,” he spits out. “It isn’t anything.”

“You don’t — you can’t say that, you can’t!”

“Why can’t I? It’s true, after all.”

Eliott looks stricken, small, faded like smoke and clouds in a sky the color of a propane flame. The sight causes a sick lurch in his stomach. “Fuck, no, Lucas,” Eliott says, reaching out a hand between them, but then it drops to his side. He seems to shrink even further into himself. “You can’t, not now, because I…never mind, it doesn’t even matter anymore.”

His hands clench, a wave of frustration rolling in. “Fucking hell, just tell me, Eliott.”

You see, it’s fucking easy to hope, it has always been, even easier when Eliott looks at him like he’s the moon, like he’s the center of Eliott’s world, when he speaks in just a whisper, “You can’t because I’m in love with you,” and Lucas’ world completely tilts on its axis.

Eliott takes a step back, his gaze falling away. “And I want more, so much more with you, Lucas. But. It doesn’t matter,” he echoes. “Goodbye.”

And then he’s spinning away, he’s leaving, and Lucas can’t have that, not now, not when it feels right for once. Not when there’s still so much to say, Eliott’s words settling into his chest and making a mess there, tendrils of congealed blood and these stupid, stupid feelings that made it hard to breathe, once. But it’s fine now. Now, that he knows for sure.

For the second time that night he races forward and grabs Eliott’s arms, bringing him so close that their foreheads touch, and Eliott’s eyes, those eyes, they’re too wide, stunned, the gray of them covered in a watery sheen of tears. Eliott breathes out shakily, bringing his hands to Lucas’ face, tilting his head so their noses brush.

“I love you, Eliott,” Lucas breathes into the space them. The words lift a heavy weight off his chest despite how light they feel. “I’m in love with you, too.”

Eliott lets out a choked noise, and then he kisses him. He kisses Lucas, a little slowly, a little unexpectedly, but then it turns hungry, desperate, Lucas’ teeth scraping against his bottom lip and his hands in his hair, pulling, rough. Hearts in a frenzy. Eliott pulls back will a groan, pressing a thumb against the corner of his mouth.

“It’s cruel, isn’t it,” he croaks out a laugh, the sound lacking neither humor nor pain. “When something you never wanted becomes the only thing you want most.”

Lucas shakes his head. “I’ve always wanted this, you,” he says. “You, on the other hand, have always been stupid.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” Lucas asks before he has half a mind to stop himself.

Eliott gives him a smile, small, watery. “I was a coward,” he says. “I thought I would ruin this, that I would make you leave. I’m — I haven’t been completely honest with you. I need to tell you some things about me.”

“Then tell me in your own time, Eliott.” And then, a whisper, “I love you.”

Lucas watches as his lips widen into a bright grin, pressing his forehead firmer against Eliott’s, eyes boring holes in his, almost reverent. Eliott kisses him again, kisses him until the streetlamp flickers above their heads and the stars come home, soothing a thumb over his cheeks and under his eyes. He drags his lips over the side of Lucas’s neck, and says, “Lucas Lallemant, would you give me the honor of being my boyfriend?”

And Lucas watches him, still, a bit helpless, open, irrevocably in love.

#skam france #skamfr fic #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #elu #fwb to lovers #i've been working on it for so long that now it just feels like an incoherent mess #mywriting;

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featherburnt · 3 years

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skdjbfsikfd Y’all, okay, so back before I knew what I was even doing with Saryn’s character, I was super torn between making him a villain or a hero, completely forgetting that vigilante was an option and also that you can still be a hero with a complicated opinion/thought process/history, etc etc. This rant is MONTHS old, but it really helped me decide where to take his character - which is...well, not to make him a villain. Just a super angsty hero.

So, there are two potential outcomes that could result from all that’s happened in Saryn’s life and what arises from the ashes of his shattered resolve: Will he become a hero, like he always wanted to be, or will he shift the blame from himself onto pro heroes and become a villain? Will he hold fast to his desire to protect other people, be they civilians, friends, even lovers? Or, will he seek refuge among those who, in some ways, understand him, stoke the flames of his rage, corrupt him? Both are possible and equally as likely, and here’s why.

It begins and ends with his trauma - just like everyone else.

————-

His younger years (up to age 8) were spent in the care of his birth parents, Shiroma Hisato (a mid-level hero; Firebrand) and Juno Miris (an American low-level hero; Dogstar). The first five years of his childhood were altogether very normal. He was free to watch tv, play, be a kid, and get excited about heroes such as All Might, and both Hisato and Juno encouraged him to become a hero some day - just like them. They started training him early on, before his quirk ever began to reveal itself, pushing him through certain forms of endurance training and mixed martial arts in an effort to both prime him for his quirk and his future as a hero. He had to be ready for anything that came his way; The world was far more dangerous than it’d ever been and he was their only child. He had to be the best, no matter the cost, and, so, they were incredibly strict about his training. But, when he began to display aspects of his quirk, a touch later than most (age 6), their views on the matter turned on a dime. It stopped being about providing him with the tools necessary to survive, to become a hero, and entirely about controlling him. See, his quirk was an unexpected marriage of their own and instead of being proud of what they created, instead of finding an upside, all they could see was a blackmark, a wild and vicious mistake. The love they had for him had been quickly replaced by regret and disgust, seeing his aggression, making note of how easily he could be set off when he was overwhelmed. The dog in him came first, and it became a point of contention between him and the other children his age - and the worst part was, he didn’t understand why.

He wasn’t aggressive at first, still figuring things out about his quirk, excited to even have one. He wanted to share it, show everyone, boast about it, and play with all the others, but some found him a little scary despite having only seen one aspect of his quirk and it was entirely because of his increased aggression. Any hands that came near him were instinctively bitten by jaws transformed by exposed muscle and twisted fangs (beginnings of Devil Dog), and while this began as an instinctual defense mechanism, it became much more severe, often resulting in terrible injuries. Things only compounded when the other aspect of his quirk (flame) came into the mix. In the end, he was ostracized, alienated, and left to flounder on his own - Ironic, considering there are other students with aggression issues and interesting enough quirks to match that weren’t given the same treatment. His teachers chalked it up to him simply acting out and this was true, for the most part, but he had no idea how to control his instinctive impulses, let alone his quirk, on the whole.

Regardless, something had to be done about his behavior. He needed to be corrected lest he bring shame upon the family name - or kill someone. Hisato and Juno’s fears were warranted in some ways, but proved to be terribly irrational the moment they took to…disciplining him. Any outbursts, back-talk, use of his quirk for anything but his training, childishness, etc. was met with over-reaction and violence. They did not level with him. They hardly spoke to him outside of training. Every bit of love was gone, replaced only by steadily building hatred of him. Hisato took on the bulk of his punishments and often had he dragged him along for training sessions, hands overheated by agitation, and every single time did he leave a burn. Saryn was not allowed to protest, but throughout the duration of these sessions, he was terrified of his father. Again, he had no understanding as to why he was being treated this way, not by his peers at school and certainly not by his parents. So much of his time was spent crying, and even that was met with harsher treatment.

In sparring with Hisato, it was common for him to make use of his Devil Dog ability, in which his body would shift and change to allow for flexible ‘plates’ made from raw, exposed muscle to form over vital parts of his body, the most notable being his face (shite reference here). He was, of course, instructed to use it and, despite his fear, he would inevitably wind up biting the ever-loving shit out of his father. Sometimes, a chunk or two would be taken. This is what made way for the use of a muzzle, and focus was then turned onto other aspects of his quirk. It was humiliating, painful, and crushing for Saryn - because even after each training session, the muzzle would stay on. Demoralized, depressed, alienated, afraid, and gradually becoming more and more bitter, his parents would begin to see the changes they wanted; He was so lethargic and low-energy that his teachers reported no further incidents. He rarely spoke, and he wouldn’t even when he was called on to answer questions or read passages from school books. His grades slipped, too, and some of his peers started thinking he was stupid. He was teased and bullied accordingly.

The only good thing to come out of any of this was the steady gain of control over both his emotions and certain aspects of his quirk, and he’d progressed to a point Hisato and Juno deemed it necessary to soften a little, throw him a bone. He was their son, after all. Their only son. During one particularly messy training session in late autumn, Saryn asked his father to make things harder for him. He wanted to know that everything he’d suffered up to this point meant something. He wanted to know that he’d made progress. Hisato relented, and everything went about as well as you’d expect. Saryn used his anger, his pain, his sadness as fuel, pushing himself to keep going even when he didn’t have the energy, and, for a brief moment, both of his parents were proud of him. For a long time, they’d been pushing him to and beyond his limits, leading to the discovery of a handful of abilities in relation to his quirk, and he was using them intelligently for his age. Of course, this momentary sense of pride was terribly short-lived, as when Juno went to remove his muzzle, he reacted like an animal, caught by surprise and trapped in the throes of his quirk; He snapped his jaws around her hand so fast, it was ripped clean off. Hisato burned him for this, grabbing him by the arm and damn near lighting him on fire - and he couldn’t even scream.

Life after that was very different for him. While his mother was in the hospital, his father sought out the necessary avenues for putting him up for adoption. Saryn was entirely on his own from then on. Hisato never spoke to him again and Juno swore she’d never return home so long as he was there. A few short months later, he was dropped off at some adoption agency and he never saw his parents again. By this point, he is only 8-years-old.

Truthfully, he didn’t rightly know how to feel, let alone how to express his feelings. He started life well-loved, his dreams encouraged, but the moment his quirk developed, everything was turned on its head and he was punished for it. He didn’t know how to control it at first and wound up harming the people around him, be they fellow students or his parents, and it frightened him. Worse, still, were the punishments themselves. Being muzzled for hours at a time, burned or beaten into silence, pushing and pushing and pushing to be what his parents wanted him to be– It took its toll, and Saryn could not trust himself, couldn’t trust anyone else. He missed his parents, but he hated them, too. He wanted to be a hero, to use his quirk to protect others, but how could he when all he seemed capable of doing was hurting people? He felt guilt, shame, disgust in himself, and he was bitter about his life, hateful, angry– And he’d no outlet, no one to turn to at all.

A few months later, a woman by the name of Yana Ivaniuk (a Ukrainian scientist specializing in quirks and DNA, working with the Japanese government), came into the agency. She was a kindhearted woman, and she’d chosen him. The paperwork had already gone through when she visited and he was taken away with her that very same day. It was a confusing time for him, to say the least. He didn’t understand why she’d wanted him, what she hoped to achieve, and he didn’t trust her by any stretch, but some parts of him wanted to. Over the next several years (ages 9-16), his training continued and he was given a surprising amount of support and encouragement from Yana, who had come to genuinely love him as though she were of his own flesh and blood. Great effort on her part was put into repairing the damage caused by his birth parents. She included him on the not-so secret aspects of her research, teaching him all about how quirks work and more. She gave him the space he needed to train on his own and would check on him to see how he was doing. Her gentle, supportive approach had a significant impact on him, enough for him to eventually let his guard down completely. He grew to trust her and, eventually, love her. She was his mother, in his eyes. The next several years would pass without incident. Their little family unit was stable, tight-knit, and he even started to come out of his shell in other social situations.

He loved Yana. He looked up to her, valued her advice, valued their little family with all his heart. He learned so much more from her than he ever did Hisato and Juno. And he was loved in turn.

Unfortunately, however, during his first year at U.A. High, just two weeks before the sports festival, Yana would tragically lose her life to an unknown villain. Heroes did nothing. The police did nothing. And he could do nothing. There were no updates. As far as he knew, there was no further investigation. All he knew was all that would consume him: Grief. He saw the blood, her lifeless body, the state of their home. He saw the lights, all those horrible faces looking at him, camera flashes, officers collecting evidence, shattered windows, decimated floorboards. She put up a fight, at least, and he wasn’t sure if that’d made everything worse. He felt nothing but shame, guilt, like it was his fault she’d been killed. If he’d only come home sooner, he could’ve done something. He could’ve protected her. If he hadn’t gone to school at all that day, she’d still be alive. If only, if only, if only, if only– Old habits beaten into him as a child resurfaced and he withdrew once more, socially isolating himself from his classmates. He put himself on auto-pilot, focusing his energies into his studies and preparations for the festival, cutting off any who tried to converse with him. He moved into a small apartment relatively close to U.A. with his inheritence, but even that was put off and procrastinated on in favor of burying himself in busywork. He had to keep going. He had to keep pushing himself forward or he’d fall apart.

But he did anyway, when the festival came.

After the festival, he begins to really question his role as a fledgling hero, kept alone with his thoughts in hospital. He questions the lines drawn between heroes and villains, what makes someone a hero, what makes someone a villain. He questions everything he’s seen on tv, everything he’s been led to believe. He questions whether or not the ends justify the means, if becoming a hero is worth all his own suffering and loss. His resolve has all but tanked and he has next to no morale, struggling with his own preconceptions of what it means to be a hero, all the while still very much dealing with the loss of his adoptive mother. What point is there to any of this when he’s lost everything? Why should he keep pushing himself to move forward when there’s nothing left? What difference would it make if he became a hero or villain, if he lived or died? What good could he possibly do? And why should he continue looking up to any of the pro heroes when they did nothing about the villain who slaughtered his mother? How can they be role models if they don’t follow through on the promises they swore to fulfill, if they don’t catch the bad guy?

And the rest is ultimately history.

————–

So, we see his trauma here. Abuse from his birth parents and the death of his adoptive mother. We see this profound lack of support early on in his life, suddenly gaining it, and eventually losing it completely. We see him beaten, burned, muzzled, and abandoned. We see him supported and loved, only to lose that when his adoptive mother is murdered. We see him beginning to question every aspect of his life, his motivations, how things really work between heroes and villains. We see him lose his resolve. And we see him push through every bit of it anyway.

The way the rest of his life plays out is entirely dependent on his upbringing and certain events and trials faced during his time at U.A. As I said before, there are two possible directions he can go: Hero, or Villain. What it will come down to is whether or not he can hold true to what motivated him to become a hero in the first place. He hates unnecessary suffering, hates seeing people suffer, and it was his goal to protect people, keep their families together, prevent tragedy where possible, put villains behind bars. This was such a strong motivator for him even when he was facing his abuse that no matter how bad things got for him, he was still so focused on becoming a hero so he could make up for everything he’d done and protect everyone he’d ever hurt. Even Hisato and Juno. Having his resolve shaken and ideals challenged by his circumstances pushes him to a certain point where he could either rediscover his core desire to protect or head down a dark and terrible path.

Does he put his nose to the grindstone to achieve his original goals, or does he allow his anger, hatred, sadness, and grief to consume him? Does he make his concerns known to the pro heroes he’s learning from, or does he bottle them and let them fester? What would serve as the catalyst to solidify his position as a hero or villain? Would his classmates try to level with him, befriend him, and support him in what ways they could? Would he even accept it? Would some horrible person try to convince him that he is justified in his thoughts and feelings, that it’s okay to be angry and let loose, punish those who have harmed him or stood by and done nothing all the while? Would it be a mixture of both? Would he continue to be confused and torn on what he’s supposed to do with himself well into adulthood? Would he consider hunting down the villain responsible for his mother’s death, and would he attempt to kill them? Would he succeed? Would he die himself?

I’d like to say it’s clear cut for him, but it isn’t. Saryn’s always been on his own mentally and emotionally, and the resounding lack of support from people who are supposed to support him is more demoralizing than you’d think. The weekly chats with the guidance counsilor do absolutely nothing for him. Passing comments from his teachers do nothing for him. Even if there are people who understand his plight, he has been lost in the shuffle, no focus put on him for anymore than half an hour once a week. He’s already feeling like he’s been hung out to dry, forgotten, like everything that’s happened in his life is just meaningless suffering on top of more meaningless suffering, that he has no place among heroes, and he’s so angry, hurt, still grieving his loss. Will no one look at him, talk to him, anything? Is he not worth the effort?

I think, ultimately, the answer to the question of whether or not he’d become a hero or a villain is muddied and unclear. At the very least, he’d have a complicated relationship with the idea of heroism and would be the sort of hero to make the hard decisions no one else wants to make or are bound not to by law. He’d make reactive decisions, sacrifice one to save many, and I think this, too, would take a huge toll him. His career as a hero would be dramatically cut short by his decisions and he’d either be imprisoned or killed in action, which is already an occupational hazard and statistical probability. In the end, though, it’s somewhat more likely that he would give up on becoming a hero entirely. He might not side with other villains or any one organization, but he would become one if only by virtue of his desire to hunt down those responsible for his mother’s death and the resulting cover up (her research was vitally important and if word got out that it was stolen by villains, there’d be hell to pay, so all but her murder was kept from the public, and he only knew this because he had some knowledge of her research to start with). If he had any influences during this time, it’s possible he could be swayed to kill others, including heroes and other villains. His birth parents would also be victims of his wrath and for good reason.

He’s just this kid who gets lost in the shuffle and has to navigate everything on his own. No one gives a shit. No one cares. So, why fight for them at all? He’d end up parroting the same bullshit as some people in the LoV, so consumed by the pains of his life and his rage. At best, he’d be disgruntled hero with no faith in the system, and at worst, he’d become what he once aimed to protect people from, the monster he never wanted to be.

He’d just end up a killer.

#hellhound #old rants

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athenaquinn · 4 years

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Strong Hand || Frank & Athena

TIMING: Present LOCATION: Soul on the Rocks PARTIES: @frankmulloy and @athenaquinn SUMMARY: A fae and a hunter walk into a bar... and then there’s Hughie.

Frank heard the reactions, born from her entrance alone, before he even saw her. Now that he looked up it was clear from his usual view from the bar that within the dim-lit picture that spanned out in front of him, something did not belong. A head of long yellow hair, to be specific. One, she was young. Two, she looked much too clean, too put together, to properly belong in the typical crowd that Soul attracted. Of course, that wasn’t to say that they didn’t take a liking to her. Frank watched as quiet fascination graduated to bold introductions; offers to buy her a drink, or bum her a smoke. Creepy-Joe remained stationary in his usual corner, watching but doing little else otherwise. Nothing offensive enough to warrant intervention so Frank returned his attention to the tasks at hand, cleaning and filling drink orders, all while keeping his attention outward for anything unseemly--or at least, by Soul’s standards. He didn’t notice how long time had passed or how long the girl had been sitting at the bar before she had flagged his attention. She was close enough for him to get a good look at her now and his suspicions were confirmed: much too young. Frank threw his towel over his shoulder, the usual distance of 6 feet maintained, “you got an ID for that order?”

She wasn’t stupid. Athena knew full-well that Soul on the Rocks was not her crowd. She’d lived in town all her life - which was certainly long enough and knew that of all the places to sneak into, that was usually the last on her list. The Bullet was where she preferred, and even though many of the people there had known her since she was a child they were alright with turning a blind eye and letting her order a proper drink. Sometimes, at least. However, she also knew that she was stubborn and that meant taking her fake ID and borrowing a leather jacket from one of the girls in her sorority and driving over to the bar. Part of her regretted the decision the second she opened the door and she felt all eyes on her - and though she loved attention, this was not exactly in the way that she typically preferred. Especially since most people in the bar were well-over the age of twenty-one and even over twenty-five or six. However, Athena was not one to back down from any challenge and so she tossed her hair over her shoulder and rolled her eyes at the offers to drink or smoke. “You know smoking kills you, right?” She bit back at one man. Before she could register his response, she felt her body tense up. Fae. There was a fae here and she couldn’t pinpoint exactly who the fae was just yet because there were far too many people backed into the bar. Taking in a deep breath, she made her way over to the counter. There was only one man behind the bar and she felt her skin crawl. Which meant he had to be the fae. Or at the very least she was in closer proximity to whoever the fae was. She pressed her palms against her thighs for a moment, grounding herself before she responded. “I do.” She flashed him a smile. Athena found that she regretted choosing a thin layer of lipgloss over the darker lipstick that Julia had offered her. She knew that she looked young, but usually a little flirting with a bartender made them forget that. Not yet willing to hand over her ID, she twirled her hair around her fingertips and leaned onto the countertop. Her skin was crawling, but she wasn’t going to give in. She was stronger than that. “I am admittedly newly twenty-one. Well, newly as in a few months ago.” She could feel the eyes of some of the other patrons on her. “Do you really need to see my ID? What’s the harm in a little trust?”

Frank recognised the lip-glossed smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but if you tried hard enough you might be able to convince yourself that it did, artful twirling of her finger around her hair, the honey sweet tone that coated every word that came out of her mouth. Jake would have melted. Perhaps Frank would have too had he been younger, known less about what he was, what he could do. Before he had his good nature beaten out of him, not that there was any evidence on his skin as proof to the claim. The proof was ingrained in muscle memory and instinct, which manifested outwardly in carefully trained behaviour; like keeping his distance, and his hands, to himself—along with drinking himself into stupor in the hopes that it might dull the effect of any…influence that might have slipped past his guard. Which happened a lot more often than he liked to admit.

As she smiled up at him and Frank…well, his face was smoothed of any emotion to assume one of patient indifference. He was older now...and he wasn’t Jake. “Sure you are.” His arms were crossed over his chest, his finger tapping patiently against his side. While he might have let slide the little game she thought she was playing if they were at the Perfect Pint, the fact was, they weren’t. While it was of no fault of her own, Frank was also not oblivious to the eyes she attracted. “Look at where you are kid, you think this the sort of place that breeds trust?” He had half a mind to send her home now, though experience warned that- that was a sure road to a bad ending, one way or another. Then again, what did it matter? She wasn’t his responsibility, what the fuck did he care? He shouldn’t care about Ariana either but alas—he did care, and he cared now. Fuck. “Look, if you ain’t got an ID, I’m gonna send you home. Next time get a fake one or something.”

She noticed him watching her. Not that it was hard, being in such close proximity, but she felt uncomfortable regardless. Uncomfortable but necessary. Athena knew that she couldn’t very well kill this fae in the middle of a bar - though if there were a bar to do it, Soul on the Rocks seemed like just the place. Unfortunately, as unresponsive as he was to her hair-twirling, a man just down the bar was not - and he had to be at least in his late thirties. Athena rolled her eyes, adjusting her position - learning her arms further onto the bar, chin resting in the palm of her hand. She knew that she was attractive, and although the last thing she wanted was for a fae to be attracted to her (though how wonderful of an advantage would that be - what a way to get them all alone), if it got her something she needed, she could deal with it. It only further proved that she was good at masking her identity.

“I am.” She said, voice even. Her eyes narrowed at the kid remark, “well, I don't know, but can’t you just trust anyone?” Athena fought away the urge to smirk, instead letting her eyes grow wide. She was good enough at people watching to fake naïvety when the situation called for it. To fall into who she might have been if she and her brother shared more personality traits. “I do have an ID.” She slid it out of her wallet, handing it over to him. Joan Parrish, it read - not a total lie, though far from her real name - after all, she couldn’t have her parents getting in trouble, as they were upstanding members of the community. “Told you.” She tapped her nails on the countertop. “So, do I get a drink for free? I heard that sometimes if you’re lucky, that happens. I’ve already been offered that from other people here!” She could feel the cold iron of one of her knives against her hip, but she couldn’t use it. Not now. She could consider this a recon mission of some sort.

Frank answered her question with silence and a pointed look, his brows raised, as if the answer to the question seemed obvious enough that it needed no response. The word trusting and Frank could not be further opposites, anyone who knew him knew this, and even those who didn’t learned very quickly. He waited, watched, for the younger woman to produce her ID. When she does, he doesn’t take it from her hand, but waits until she puts it on the bar top. Joan Parrish. It was her face on the small card, and the date of birth proved that she was of age—if one was in the habit of trusting everything they read. Frank was not. Even if it didn’t, he seldom poured any great effort into inspecting anyone’s IDs, it was just a matter of doing his due diligence. Still doubtful of its authenticity, he returned the ID anyway (returning it to the bar top before stepping away for her retrieval). Her apparent confidence prompted an amused grin to crack over his lips, a chuckle building first in the depth of his chest which then formed the beginning of his words, “that might have worked on Jake kiddo, but I ain’t Jake. So I guess that means you ain’t so lucky tonight. Think about what you can afford and then get back to me, yeah?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth, a particularly eager patron broke through the throng and claimed an empty seat at the bar. He’ll pay for whatever the little lady wants, he said and he smiled and he turned that smile to her, and then Frank wasn’t smiling anymore. “Fuck off Jerry,” the word sliced through the noise and he said them without hesitation. “If you think she’s gonna go anywhere with you, you’ve got another thing coming, so walk on.” The man—Jerry’s mouth opened as the beginning of a retort was forming, Frank turned his gaze on him again, and wisely, he thought better of it and slinked off. Frank’s height and general aloofness afforded him an influence that was untouched by any sort of supernatural advantage, this served him tremendously in a place like Soul, while it didn’t help him back any friends he’s convinced himself that he liked that just fine. He turned back to the younger woman, Joan Parrish, a little apologetic, he did just rob her of a free drink. “I mean, do whatever the fuck you want. You can call him back if you really want that drink, he’ll be more than happy to come back if he thinks he’s got a shot.”

Athena watched the man inspect her ID. The rumors that she’d heard about Soul on The Rocks tended to imply that she wouldn’t be asked for her ID, but considering she’d accidentally walked into a place of employment of a fae, she figured that luck was not especially on her side tonight. “I don’t know who Jake is,” she responded, giving a shrug. “This is my first time here.” First and last, probably. Though she wanted to find out more about the man - find out as much as she could. Even though she knew her parents would frown upon her being in the bar, if she could learn more about the fae, then perhaps all would be forgiven. That was, if they ever even found out what she was up to. She hid very little from them, which meant that they very rarely suspected that she did anything but what exactly she told them.

However, as another man came over and began offering to buy her a drink, looking her up and down, she twisted her lips into something of a half-frown. Even if he wasn’t way older than her, he was entirely not her type. This might have been a mistake, Athena was starting to realize. Continuing to realize, if she were more willing to be honest with herself. If nothing else, the dim lighting and completely not her style music were signs that she probably shouldn’t have even bothered coming. He was defending her? The thought practically made Athena’s blood boil. She didn’t need defending, particularly not from a fae, but a small part of her figured that in any other scenario, she would be at least a bit grateful. It just had to be a fae, didn’t it? “Are you kidding me?” She practically spat. “No way ever. I do in fact have a solid head on my shoulders, and that means I don’t go off with strange men.” She was always deeply fascinated at how unaware fae could be when it came to who she was. Not that it was something she’d ever dare complain about, but it amused her all the same. “I think I’d like a hard cider though, and I can pay.”

“Clearly.” He said, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, closed lipped and crooked, but still with its soft edge. Despite what his appearance, and his general demeanour even, might suggest, Frank was never very good at playing condescending or deceitful. Everything about him was always painfully honest. He was private, and liked his privacy, but was always truthful. Some might suggest the latter was the unfortunate side effect of his supernatural inheritance, but that was all Frank. While anyone’s introduction to Soul was a source of amusement, especially someone inexperienced with the bar’s particular crowd, a quiet wariness always hummed beneath the surface, ready to spring to action at a moment’s notice. “Ah—yeah, don’t worry about Jake. If you’re lucky you won’t have to know him.”

The cute coy-school-girl routine dropped for a moment, and the little tiger showed her teeth. A consequence of instinct and character rather than anything so superficial. People were always infinitely more interesting than the mask they put on for others. He wasn’t sure if she thought her little flirting game would work on him—and then he wondered whether he should be more concerned if he gave her an impression that it would—but if she failed to catch his attention before, she’s certainly got it now. “Kudos to you kid. You might actually survive this shit hole.” He said as he reached for the glass and began filling it with the question. Of course it’s a fucking cider. Soul wasn’t exactly known for its extensive cider collection, most opted for any option that got them the most drunk at the lowest cost. Cider was not exactly the bar’s drink of choice. “Your hard cider, Joan Parrish.” With the practice of one who’s done it a hundred times before, Frank slid the cider across the bar, the glass coming to stop at her hand with a gentle tap. His distance rule strictly obeyed. Ducking his head into the kitchen, Frank called to one of the workers there, one hand already in his jacket pocket to produce a little white box of cigarettes as he called for someone to get their ass out here while he takes his fucking smoke break. To Joan, he said, “you can pay Hughie for that cider, Joan Parrish.” To Hughie, he said, “Joan Parrish still needs to pay for her cider,” and added in a hushed tone, “and do me a favour, keep the creeps away from her please?” And then he was out the back door, a lone cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“Not that obvious, mister.” Athena wanted to bristle. Did, internally at least. If he was so damn keen on calling her kid then she’d fire right back. That was all she could do, right now. She wondered for a moment if there were any hunters in the bar. “Why, is he so much more boring than you are?” There was a giggle that followed her words, one that was likely too light and airy - more carefree than she usually found herself. One that drew a few more eyes as she finally resorted to covering her lips with a hand, refocusing back on the man. Apparently, acting overly calm and eager could do something of a wonder to stop her skin from completely crawling, though a certain part of her wanted to pull at it, just as she did whenever there were fae around, and particularly the ones who looked human.

“Trust me, I’m good at surviving a whole lot of things.” He seemed clueless enough to what she really was that she doubted that he’d take that remark as anything beyond a perhaps overly-confident co-ed, and that worked just fine for her. She wasn’t afraid to bite back if some creep thought they had half a chance with her. Athena had to admit she was a bit impressed the bar had a cider - though she knew it was a decently popular drink, this bar seemed far more the type of place to just have mediocre beer - though she supposed the same could be said about any number of the frat parties she went to. She caught the glass easily, curiosity piqued at the fact that he was staying away from her, potentially from any possible contact. She filed that away in her mind for later examination, for later when she was away from the bar that was practically buzzing. With a certain energy that she found herself equally repulsed and intrigued by. Incredibly unlike the life she was usually a part of, and for a moment she found herself feeling naïve - at least to a certain level. I wonder if that’s what my brother feels like all the time, Athena pondered for a moment before looking back over to the man, who was now leaving. “You’ll be back, won’t you?” She called out, before focusing on whoever else the fae had sent to babysit her. “How much do I owe you?” She asked Hughie, looking him up and down before pulling out her wallet and pulling out a twenty. “This should be enough, right? When’s my friend coming back over? Can’t believe he left right in the middle of our conversation.” A small pout formed on her lips. “So, Hughie? Name or nickname?” She took a sip of her drink, not quite focusing on him, but instead on the direction where the other man had gone, as if daring him to come back.

Mister. Frank noted a hint of derision that was lent to the word, a childish retort that was probably meant to rebel against the label he had given her. It was precisely something a kid would do, and it prompted a faint smile to curve at the edge of his lips. Then she giggled, and it was an uncommon enough sound that it attracted even more curious glances, thirsting for the pretty young flesh that had so generously presented herself to them at the bar. This time however, the boldness stopped at the glances; no one seemed particularly interested in following in Jerry’s misguided footsteps, or at least as long as Frank was still working the bar. So business went on as usual, at least for now. “Nothing stopping you from finding different company,” he raised his eyebrow in a kind of challenge, leaned forward just slightly, while still keeping respect to his six feet rule, “let’s just say, you giggle enough times and you can probably get as many free drinks as you want outta him.” That alone, Frank thought, spoke volumes about his particular…character. There was a reason Frank and Jake didn’t get along. Although Frank’s insistence that he was a slimey asshole (usually to his face) probably burned any bridges they had for reconciliation, which suited him just fine.

“Are you now?” There was something about Joan Parrish that Frank had come to enjoy—almost endear. Or the very least, found to be a source of light amusement. A certain battle-hardened naivety about her that appealed. No normal person was so quick to declare that they have survived things, and it spoke to something that she did. An unknown history that Frank was not privy to, and was still debating on whether he cared enough to want to be. Or maybe she was just a kid who said things she didn’t mean. Either way, that was a little note he tucked away, to be revisited later. She was drawn to him, for whatever reason, that much was obvious, or she wouldn’t have called out to him. He was suddenly very self-conscious of his abilities, one that seemed to operate of its own volition, sometimes even without him knowing. He spared a glance back at her but didn’t answer, and found himself that much more eager to get out and get himself back together. “He’ll be back,” Hughie answered for him, “he takes a lot of those…his smoke breaks. But he works harder than anyone here, and closes up after everyone and throws the assholes out, so the boss lets him.” He was not as tall as Frank, and was a skinny looking thing that could have a few years over Joan, but was definitely younger than Frank. Not a fae, but charming enough to be, certainly a lot more forthcoming than Frank was. He took the money from her and busies himself with getting her change, “plenty, thanks—and no, Frank hasn’t got any friends. I don’t know if you’ve met the man but he doesn’t exactly scream friendly. And god forbid he comes within a mile of you, literally. The day that man actually hands you a drink, will be the day hell freezes over. Oh, name’s Hugh, but everyone calls me Hughie which I think sounds a lot more…” His eyes look between the girl and the door, and then he laughs, “that son of a bitch. A little old for you isn’t he?”

She could feel the eyes on her and she shrugged it off. Even if they tried something, and something about the fae behind the bar seemed to be keeping them away, but even if they tried something Athena had no qualms dealing with them on her own terms. If anyone asked, it was easy enough to say that she’d trained at her mother’s gym - or rather, Linda Quinn’s, since she wasn’t Athena, not right now. Soon enough she wouldn’t need the fake, but it was working overtime to her advantage right now. Both for getting her into the bar and for keeping her proper identity secret from the fae behind the bar - though her face would remain the same - but if it came to that - when it inevitably did, unless someone else got to it first - it wouldn’t matter. “Mm,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder before she refocused back on him, watching as he leaned just slightly closer to her. “Well, he seems like a skeevy kind of guy, then, though I appreciate the tip.” Her lips curved up into a smirk. “Good to know how to get free drinks if I feel a need for it.” She adjusted the jacket, a sudden chill rolling through her body, though she couldn’t tell if it was due to someone opening the door or the continued presence of a fae so very close to her.

“I am.” She replied. He didn’t reply much beyond that, didn’t ask probing questions that could have so easily come along with it. That sometimes did, if she happened to off-handedly mention it to anyone else. Which she usually didn’t, or followed it up with how tiring being pre-med was - which wasn’t a total lie. It just wasn’t as tricky to figure out as some of the creatures she’d studied. Studied and dealt with, though Athena didn’t find any of that too difficult in the end, either. She gave a small huff at his utter lack of response, but allowed herself to refocus on Hughie who was, thankfully, not fae. She let her gaze flick up and down, taking him in, letting a smile settle on her lips once again. “Well, hard work should be rewarded.” Athena had half a mind to follow him outside, because then they would be all alone - but it was too obvious, too easy to point to her, and besides, Hughie seemed certainly more willing to talk to her. She pocketed the change, not looking back behind her again - any of the other creeps in the bar were at least maintaining their distance, whatever else they were doing mattered little to her. Inconsequential, in the end. “Well,” she began, biting her lip in false shyness once again, “his tricks are something.” He didn’t like to touch people. Her mind was spinning, narrowing down to what he might be. Of course, there was always the chance of being an overly-cautious fae, but she also knew there were certain ones for whom touch played a role. “Hughie’s a nice nickname. I -” she couldn’t fight back another laugh of her own, still light and carefree, at his next remark. “Oh him?” Tongue pressed against the roof of her mouth, she weighed her options. “I mean, I guess? He seems to care so much though, and what’s not appealing about that? He is old though. Well, comparatively speaking.” She permitted her gaze to focus on the door for a few moments more - a few moments beyond what might have been typical, before refocusing on Hughie. “Nice of you to stick around and keep me company though, I do appreciate that.”

A light blush coloured his cheeks, but he never shied away from flattery. Hughie blossomed under praise and kind words, a stark contrast to his co-worker who bristled at them, and guarded himself against them with a defensive word or cold silence. A sure way to sever any ties before it had even a chance to form. That was Frank. Hughie threw his head back and laughed, and if the word honest could be attributed to any laugh, it would be his. There was nothing derisive or sarcastic, not even a waver that might suggest jealousy. “Trust me Joan, you would not be the first, or the last person, to think that—or the first or the last to try. That is if you’re into the whole tall, quiet, mysterious and stupidly good looking types.” A stroke of luck with his god-given genes, some might say. Though ‘lucky’ was not the word Frank would use, and despite being raised Catholic, Frank didn’t believe in God. “Although to his credit, I think he does care, like genuinely. He looks out for people, he breaks up fights—well, I say ‘break up fights’, but he mostly just gets his ass handed to him. And then he goes and pays for their cab so they can get home. I mean Frank can be an ass, but it’s hard to hate the guy.” Hughie noted once more her wandering gaze back to the door, for a split second too long, and a hint of pity was found in the smile that now shaped his lips. “He is old—comparatively speaking. Although I should probably also tell you that he hasn’t shown any interest in anyone. Not once, not as long as I’ve worked with him anyway.” When her focus shifted back to Hughie, he was all mush in her hands. His grin was all teeth, both stupidly sincere and shamelessly pleased. “I think you’re real sweet, Joan. I mean it’s not exactly saying much considering the types we get in here, but you’re a lot nicer to look at for sure.”

Hughie wasn’t the only one to think so. The bold gazes found new courage in Frank’s absence, and more of them were suddenly very keen for a drink at the bar, and their generosity extended to the young woman that was already there. “Come on man, she’s minding her business, leave her alone.” His warnings and protests were silent to ears that considered rejection a challenge. Hughie was kind, and to those whose language was aggression and violence, his kindness was taken as harmless. Frank was not harmless, and his return was marked with a brusque, “fuck off Jerry,” as he grabbed a towel from under the bar and threw it over his shoulder: smoke break was over. “I’ll call a fucking cab next, I won’t ask again.” Hughie, visibly relaxed by Frank’s return, dipped his head to whisper something conspiratorial to Joan, a barely concealed laugh colouring his every word, “calling them a cab is Frank’s way of a threat.” Frank, who’d heard the hushed exchange, did not find it equally amusing. “Fuck off Hughie.” If you knew him just enough, which Hughie did, you could hear a ‘thanks’ in there.

There was something certainly satisfying about knowing that she could get a reaction out of the other bartender. Athena settled into a comfortable smile again, letting her hair fall over her shoulders as her fingertips tapped against the cider glass. “Try?” She said, tilting her head. She supposed it was comforting - to a degree - that her recon was easily dismissed as a childish crush. She wondered about Hughie - wondered if he felt secondary to the other man - the one who was, apparently stupidly good looking. “Maybe I am, who knows, really?” She let one finger tract the divots on the counter stop, making eye contact with Hughie as she did so. Though she had no interest of a romantic sort in either of the bartenders, a little extra attention to the one that was quite possibly ignored for favor of a fae who could trick and manipulate those around time couldn’t hurt. Besides, there was something incredibly endearing about him. Hard to hate unless you know what he is. She shrugged. “He seems real noble, huh? Besides, I’m not that young, but I understand your point. It’s all comparative, hmm?” Hughie turned back to her and he had a similar look on his face to many of the freshman boys who she sometimes saw around campus. “I think I might be terribly offended if you thought I wasn’t nicer to look at.”

She made a face at the other men who had decided that now was the time to return to the bar. Well, the rumors about this place certainly hadn’t been exaggerated. It was sweet that Hughie was doing his best to fend them off, though Athena had half a mind to turn around and deck one of them herself. Particularly that Jerry character. Turned out that she didn’t have to, given that she felt her skin crawl again before she saw him, and watched Jerry slink away, another laugh - though a bit more biting this time - escaped her lips. She turned to Hughie, running her tongue over her teeth and raising an eyebrow at his words. “Well, hey, at least it means the general public doesn’t have to deal with them.” Athena settled back, offering a shrug. “He’s just helping me, and since his name isn’t Jake I figured it’s safe, isn’t it?” She winked at Hughie before taking another sip of her cider. “You know cigarettes can kill you, right?” A repeated remark that she’d given to one of the patrons, earlier. This time however, there was a hint of amusement that would suggest a certain playfulness. Not that I’d mind, even if you have kept these creeps away. “Will you drink with me, at least?” Her gaze flickered over to Hughie. “Either of you.”

Hughie answered her with a pursed lip and a pensive expression. He didn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve, Hughie was all heart. He had enough heart in him to give to every pretty smile and every kind word he received, and he gifted them freely and in earnest. And he needn’t bribe anyone with promises of free drinks to convince them he was charming, he just was. Perhaps it was this charm or his naivety or a combination of both that had endeared him to Frank. With the knowledge of the world that existed beneath Hughie’s mundane one and the creatures that lived within it (creatures like him), the latter had warned him of his habit, though Hughie never took much notice of it. That was just Frank being Frank, he thought and Frank’s warning had been abandoned long before Joan smiled at him. “Noble is a strong word. I mean, the guy’s still an asshole.” He grinned, and did not mind saying it aloud considering how often he’d said it to Frank’s face. Frank just grunted, which means it must be true. And it was. “Don’t be. You look very nice.”

His hand operated entirely on its own accord as Frank made drinks that he’s done a hundred times before, for patrons he’s seen just as frequently. He was still technically on the clock, and Joan wasn’t the only one at the bar. Even as his hands worked, his mind was elsewhere, he spared a glance, and an ear, at the two as they laughed to themselves (“Ew—yeah, Jake is his own brand of asshole. Definitely do not get free drinks from him,” Hughie chimed). He recognised instantly that wretched hand of envy as she grabbed his inside and twisted it, giving rise to the ugly feeling. He envied their distance, the literal closeness as Hughie lent over the bar to reach her ear. He envied that they can joke and Hughie could be charming and pleasant and have his company be enjoyed and know with complete certainty that the reciprocated amiability was a result of him, because what else could it be? The simple, magnificent, connection between two people. Truth was, Frank was all heart too, he was just always too afraid to use it. For good reason. He answered her words with a raised brow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth; this was not the first time he’s heard this. Judging by her tone, it was not the first time she’s said it. “It can try,” he said, and it was casual enough to be taken as a joke, though the downward turn of Hughie’s lips showed that only Frank thought it was funny. That was because Hughie didn’t know that cancers don’t kill Gancanaghs, though Frank certainly smoked enough to test that theory. “I don’t drink on the job.” Frank said, just as Hughie answered, “yeah, sure!” He turned to Frank, eyes silently begged for permission, and Frank hadn’t the heart to say no. Oh what the fuck. “You are paying for every fucking glass Hughie.” As if the kid had the tolerance to go for more than a couple of pints. “No one hears of this, or you’ll hear from me.”

“Eh, still seems noble to me.” Athena grinned. “I mean, I don’t think it’s best if I say anything about the second part, because he’s been nothing but more than civil to me.” She could comment, if she wished, about the fact that he wasn’t human, that his niceties could easily be a front to whoever he really was - but perhaps that was another discussion for another time. If she ever got Hughie alone, to poke and wonder just what he knew, though she knew that she’d have to be delicate in her questioning, given how entirely oblivious the vast majority of the town was. It meant she’d have to find some way to see him again that didn’t involve coming to a creepy bar that smelled far too much of tobacco. “Well, if you say so, I’ll acquiesce, I suppose I do look good and a compliment from you is better than the others out there.”

Athena kept her gaze trained halfway on Frank even as Hughie whispered in her ear. If he was one of the species that she figured he might be, she had half a mind to say that she was safe, that he couldn’t harm her. But instead she bit her lip, gaze torn between the two of them. “I’ve got no plans to get any drinks or talk with Jake, don’t you worry - but it is sweet of you to look out for me.” It was part of a game, because people usually based their opinions on how someone looked, and she knew that she didn’t exactly look tough. She let her grin turn open-mouthed, running her tongue along the bottoms of her teeth. “Well, it can, and I could tell you about the damage it does to your insides, but maybe that’s not proper bartop conversation, hmm?” Raising an eyebrow, she shrugged at Frank’s refusal to drink. She hadn’t expected either of them to agree, but she supposed that she ought to not have been very surprised when Hughie was jumping to agree. He reminded her a bit of a puppy dog, in a way that she did admittedly find a bit charming. Maybe the factor of comparison played a role, too - what with being compared with a literal fae and a much of thirty and forty-somethings who remained far too eager to steal glances at her, though a good number of them were at least somewhat ignoring her now that she was focused in on the two bartenders. Athena took another careful sip of her cider, the playful and somewhat coy grin from earlier returned. “What will you be drinking first, Hughie?” she giggled. “Will Frank at least talk with us? I know I can provide better and more enlightened conversation than, well…” she waved her hand behind her. “Them.” She let her lips form into a pout. “Please?” Even if batting her eyes proved mostly fruitless on the fae, it didn’t hurt. Provide him with the sense that she was anything but a threat.

Hughie’s smile was wide, positively brimming with a lightness that did not belong in Soul. He’d tangled himself in the vines of Joan’s apparent loveliness and seemed to be in no rush to get himself out. Such was the romanticism of youth. Frank looked at the world through the cracks of the rose coloured lens, and it warned him to keep his distance; so he does. Hughie was too trusting, incredibly so. His smile said that he would throw himself to the wolves to ‘look out’ for the young woman sitting next to him, and Frank knew that he would sooner be ripped to shreds before he got a chance to save anybody, and if Hughie knew what was good for him, he would already be on his way back into the kitchen. “Thanks doc but I know what it can do,” to most humans anyway. “Don’t mean I’m gonna stop doing it.” Hughie turned to Joan, a resigned look on his face, and simply shook his head, “don’t bother. I’ve already tried. Many, many, times.”

Before Hughie could give an order, a pint of beer had travelled the length of the bar and stopped at his hand. He took a tender sip at first—nobody came to Soul to sample their most favourite drinks and the beer that Frank handed (or more accurately, slid across the careful distance of 6 feet) to him was far from his, but it was pleasant enough that the sip became a mouthful. “House lager,” he said, and after another mouthful, added, “it’s alright.” Frank, who was not attached enough to anything, much less the drinks at his least favourite bar, was not offended enough to give a reaction and continued fussing over some glasses for some more drink orders. Joan Parrish was a picture that resembled everything exquisite and delightful about youth. She was all play, with her pout shaped mouth and batted lashes, and the glimmer of something more secret behind pretty blue eyes. It charmed both the Hughie’s and the Jerry’s of the world. It might have endeared itself to Frank too had he let it, but true to form, he remained distant and detached, and answered with a simple: “Hughie can keep you company. He loves to talk, the trick is to get him to shut up…” Hughie launched into his objection at Frank’s accusation, but the latter’s attention was already lost. He was looking past them and out toward the middle of the bar, where the root of a brawl was beginning to take shape in the form of loudly traded words that graduated into a shoving match. “Fuck me.” He muttered under his breath. Frank doesn’t miss a beat, and tossed the towel aside as he carved a path out into the storm. The first fist of the night was thrown, and it cracked across Frank’s jaw with enough force to knock his head to one side. In fairness, the target was not Frank but the man behind him whom the bartender had pulled out of the fist’s trajectory at the last possible moment. Hughie winced, but didn't move from his seat. This was not his first fight at Soul, or the first time he’s seen Frank take a punch. He calmly reached over the bar, found Frank’s phone (punched in his passcode) and dialed a number. “I guess I’ll be calling the cab then.”

“Well, can’t say I didn’t warn you then,” Athena shrugged. She held a certain sort of delight with how much Hughie was smiling. It was almost enough to distract from the fact that there was a fae in this bar who was helping her and who she couldn’t kill. Almost. “Well, it’s good he has someone like you.” She didn’t laugh this time, but instead let her smile do all the talking. It drew less attention she found, and that was for the best, at least here. She was good at keeping secrets, keeping herself toned down when need be, though she did prefer to be more the center of attention usually.

Either these two did truly know one another in a way similar to how Athena knew Amanda, or Frank was just good at guessing orders or wanted Hughie to shut up. She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, which was a bit of a source of frustration for her, but she had gotten better about dealing with her frustrations as she’d grown up. This wasn’t some chess game when she was little, when she’d get terribly annoyed every time her brother took too long choosing the next move when they were playing chess. How she’d once gone through nearly an entire box of colored pencils in kindergarten, snapping each one as she tried to color in a picture all while sensing that one of her classmates was fae, but when the feeling was still new and entirely consuming so much so that she couldn’t pinpoint it. Regardless, Hughie had his drink now and Athena didn’t drink beer, but she had half a mind to reach out and ask if she could try some. Perhaps she would, soon, but not yet. “The cider’s great, if you want to try that.” She replied instead, unable to help herself. “I don’t have any germs, I like to keep myself clean as possible.” She glanced back over to Frank, watched as he meticulously cleaned the glasses (though, Athena had to wonder, would the clientele here really care if one was a bit smudged with a questionably cloudy mark?). If this was to be counted as recon, and she had to count it that way - and learning any sort of habit was beneficial in the long run. “Well, I love to listen, so it works out just fine.” Except before she could do more listening of the man near her, she heard a fist collide with someone’s jaw and then Frank was moving over and apparently what Hughie had said was true, because he was trying to break the fight apart and Athena sat with quiet fascination, though outwardly she shifted her expression into one of concern. “I guess you will.” She said, turning back over to Hughie. Palms pressed against her thighs, she let her eyes grow wide. “Can I help you?” Tongue held between her teeth, she blinked just how she knew she was supposed to whenever something terrible was going on. “We can get drinks another time.” That much permitted a shift to a teasing smile. “I just - is Frank going to be okay?”

Frank doesn’t swing but sidestepped every throw hurled at him. For one as tall as he was he moved with remarkable grace, although it was probably very easy to look graceful when one knew what he was doing and the other two were flinging their fists around in desperate, drunken, Hail Mary attempts at hitting something…anything. To their credit some of those blind throws landed, others merely clipped him, though neither had enough force to do any real damage. Which was just as well. He has yet to have a conversation about broken bones that healed overnight that did not end terribly at worst, and very awkwardly at best. “Oh don’t worry he’ll be fine.” Or he was until one of those Hail Mary throws saw Frank’s cheek at the end of a fist. He stumbled, but recovered quickly enough before the second Hail Mary found him. “Yeah…He’ll be fine.” Said Hughie, more to himself now. “Walk it off Frankie! That’s a lad!”

It was a battle against time at this point; more energy was required to throw a punch than to avoid it, and they always tired themselves out in the end. It was a sort of dance they’d watched him do enough times that one would think they would eventually catch on. Alas, anger made for poor decision making and with intoxication at its right hand the outcome was a predictable one, although they always seemed very surprised when Frank outlasted them. And he always did. This time, he caught one by the scruff of his shirt, and the other by the arm (his hand on the sleeve of the other’s jacket), which Frank had pinned up against his back as he pushed them both forward toward the door. Moans and groans and a chorus of general dissatisfaction ushered them out; the fight was over though not many were very happy about that. Hughie who was watching the unravelling of the events very closely, Frank’s phone still held up to his ear, let out a breath of relief as he finished the last of his instructions into the receiver. “Yeah, for two people…separately. If that’s okay?…okay? Okay. Thank you.” Frank was already out of the bar at this point, he’d just caught a glimpse of him throwing the two (barely) fighters to separate ends of the curb as the door closed behind him. Hughie pocketed the phone and turned to Joan with an offer of a small apologetic smile. He’d wanted to impress her with a pleasant time, in a hopeful bid to get her to come back so he might see her again. He had liked her, and you don’t find girls like Joan Parrish in places like Soul on the Rocks. Although after what had just happened, he decided that it might just be as well. “I’m sorry, I have to go make sure he’s okay.” He had half a mind to tell Joan to stay put. The last thing Hughie wanted was to put her in the company of two men who, only moments ago, seemed bent on tearing each other, and Frank, apart—although the alternative to that option offered him little comfort. “Do you want to come with?”

Even Athena had to wince at the fight breaking out in front of her. She was used to training, used to fights designed for the purpose of bettering oneself and not for the purpose of trying to - well, she didn’t even know what the fight had started about. Only that it now involved two drunk men and a fae who she watched more carefully - that part held in certain fascination, watching his movements and the way he held himself. Just in case, she reminded herself. It was always important to understand how others worked - their bodies and minds. Particularly people like Frank. She glanced back over to Hughie, who seemed incredibly willing to cheer on his - friend? - Athena was not quite sure, but his eagerness continued to be fascinating to observe.

She bit her lip as the other men in the bar groaned as the two drunks were ushered out. This place really was something else, though Athena found that she did not entirely regret coming, if only because she had now discovered a fae who she had never found before. There was always the chance that she would have run into him elsewhere in town, but here she got the chance to be not herself and that permitted her a certain level of power. Though she very much doubted that he thought of her as vulnerable entirely (she could read his facial expressions well enough to know otherwise), he certainly had no idea what she was properly capable of, given an opportunity. She let her gaze shift back to Hughie. She almost felt bad for how much her lips turned to pouting around him, how much of a thrill she got out of his reactions - though at the same time she wasn’t entirely opposed to them either. She listened as he ordered cars for whoever was out there, drew designs in the water that had fallen from the condensation on her cider glass, both their drinks now long forgotten. “Don’t be sorry.” She let her gaze fall to him again, all softness and caring. Besides, she’d lost track of Frank as well - though she presumed he was outside with the drunks. “Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.” She hopped off of the stool and wrapped her jacket around herself. “That is, if you’ll have me, of course.”

Frank turned at the sound of the bar’s aged hinges groaning, a sharp word taking shape on the tip of his tongue, poised to command any over-zealous spectator that followed them out to take their sorry behind right back in. Alas the words never became more than a thought long forgotten as a mop brown-curly head emerged from the bar, a smaller blonde one following close behind. Frank’s surprise was not for Hughie, whom he’d already expected to come check on him, as he usually does, but was reserved for Joan Parrish. She was apparently not the little flower that shrank from a fight but rather a woman of firmer constitution that followed it out. Perhaps she was neither of these things, and was simply another over-eager spectator with the difference of a pretty face and a more expensive outfit. Although the way she regarded them, regarded him, Frank suspected that it was the former—either way, there was more to Joan Parrish than a pretty smile and a cute glass of cider, and he filed this little piece of information away. Maybe he would see her again, maybe he won’t, either way it didn’t hurt to know. Not that it made any great difference to Hughie of course, who perhaps did not realise the same caution Frank did, or he did and simply didn’t care. Even with Frank minding the two drunks, Hughie kept himself firmly fixed between them and her. “Your phone Frankie.” Hughie took a step forward, the phone in hand, but Frank stopped him and gestured to him to throw it over instead. Unknown to Hughie, he was edging much too close to Frank’s 6 feet, but he didn't question it (although the prospect of closing the distance between himself and the two violent drunks could have something to do with it) and did as he was asked. “And don’t call me Frankie.”

“Cab should be here soon,” Hughie casted an apprehensive eye on the two shadows that sat at opposite ends on the curb, Frank standing firmly between them. “You look…good.” You could practically hear the wince that seeped from Hughie’s face and into his words. The street lamp did him little favours on his split lip, and the dark purplish shadow that sat prominently against his cheekbone. Alas, Frank wasn’t looking at Hughie but rather past him, at the woman that had not said a word in this entire exchange. She didn’t look afraid but rather fascinated, and so was Frank. “Sorry about that ugliness back there.” He said. Hughie, as if realising that Joan was still behind him, a new development as far as Frank was concerned considering he hadn’t lifted his gaze from her since it found her, said rather sheepishly, “oh, yeah. I didn’t want her to be left alone with that lot back in there so I thought—” Frank didn’t give him the chance to explain, and went on as if he had not said anything at all. “Are you leaving too?”

She could feel Frank’s eyes on her, but it did little to bother her, to knock her off balance. Athena wasn’t so easily moved, even if he could practically see his mind working, as if trying to figure out who she was. Even if she never returned to Soul on The Rocks, she fully intended to run into him again, either purposefully or on accident. There was far too much that she was curious about, so much so that her curiosity seemed to have alleviated the chills under her skin. Which was something else she filed away - if she turned everything into work for the sake of curiosity whenever she could, then perhaps she could more easily work to stop feeling on edge every time she came near anything fae-related. She focused her attention back on the matter at hand, watching Hughie as he gave Frank back his phone, and she watched to see how much he would react to being so close. She had half a mind to try it a bit herself - and perhaps she would have, but the two now rather dejected but still fairly drunk men were not something she wanted to deal with.

She continued to watch the exchange between the two of them until she felt Frank’s eyes on her again. “I mean, I guess I should’ve expected that.” She shrugged, eyes growing just slightly plaintive. Athena realized then that perhaps Hughie had been a bit too focused on the phone return to notice her. Or remember that she was there, and she offered him a smile that said thank you for caring, or at least, she hoped that it did. “He was just trying to look out for me, I think.” Pursed lips and a shrug followed that. “I might be leaving.” She let her gaze focus back on Hughie. “Unless I was given reason to stay - but I think that given the experience with the patrons,” she looked back at the door, “given all that - you two have been real kind to me,” she forced a blush onto her cheeks as she looked between them, “maybe it’s best if I do go.” She pulled out her own phone. “Though,” she turned to face Hughie, “if you wanted to hang out without creeps hitting on me and without your boss having to break up bar fights, I’d be down.” She looked back over to Frank, “you should probably get some ice for that to reduce the swelling, though you took that better than I imagine most would’ve.”

“I’m not his boss.”

“He’s not my boss.”

Their words were said at the same time. Hughie, because he liked Frank too well to ever think to form an association between him and their actual boss. Frank, because—simply, he didn’t care to be anyone’s boss. His aversion to telling people what to do could be credited as a consequence of his supernatural abilities. It was also just as likely that it was just Frank being Frank, or maybe a combination of both. He watched as Hughie positively lit up at her invitation, his heart pumping a light dusting of pink to colour his cheek. “Yeah? I mean—yeah, yes! Of course!” He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans, and with visible effort to keep it from trembling, proceeded to put his number into her phone. “Christ…” Frank’s eyes turned heavenward, desperate to look at anything else that might spare him from further witnessing Hughie’s love-sick bumbling routine. He caught Joan’s eyes, and her remark prompted his hand to absently nurse the sore on his cheek. “I’ll live,” he said and tried not to think about the pain that was emanating beneath.

Sweet relief took the form of two cab cars as they pulled up against the curb, one after the other. Frank took the first of the drunks by the arm and stuffed him into the back of one cab, deposited some cash into the driver’s window and did the same for the second offender. He tapped his hand against the roof of the cab and the last car pulled away. Just like that, the night came to a sudden stillness and all seemed quiet once more. Alas, silence was a delicate glass and in the hands of drunken idiots, it could do little else but break. In the case of Soul on the Rocks, it quite literally shattered as the sound of glass breaking could be heard from inside the bar. A reminder to both Frank and Hughie that they were still on the clock. Dutifully and without a word, Frank stepped away from the curb and headed for the bar. For a brief moment, he met Joan’s eyes, and he didn’t falter but came to a deliberate halt in front (but still distanced) of her. “Don’t take this the wrong way Joan Parrish, but I really hope I don’t see you here again.” He said and ducked back into the bar, the door creaked open, bleeding sound into the night, and then closed behind him, and then quiet. This time it was Hughie who broke it, and he did so with a grin that he turned to Joan, “I think he likes you.”

#wickedswriting #c frank #chatzy #strong hand #// jt is a gift to us all #frank is literally the best #this chatzy was one of my favorites ever #and it accidentally turned into being uhh 14.5 pages #don't @ us pls #we got carried away

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supremeuppityone · 4 years

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This was written for Klaroline Bingo @klaroline-events. Prompt: Murder. Caroline is having some growing pains learning to adjust to her new sensitivity as an Augustine vampire and needs some assistance with hiding her leftovers. Fortunately, her mysterious neighbor doesn’t seem like the squeamish sort.

Chapter 120: A Friend InDEAD

“A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.” ― Jim Morrison

“Why does every invite to your flat involve helping you hide a body?” Klaus heaved an exaggerated sigh as he stood in Caroline’s doorway, looking far too put together considering she called him in the middle of the night to come help her out. Again. If only she hadn’t taken that job at Augustine Labs. She’d been a lab assistant so incredibly entry level she didn’t even warrant a security badge when her boss’ boss randomly asked if she was interested in participating in a sleep study. She may have been a baby vampire, but she knew better than to tempt fate and run the risk of scientists discovering what she was. Unfortunately, they already knew.

“You could’ve said no,” she told him flippantly, already moving aside to let him in.

He favored her with a dimpled smirk. “Nonsense, I welcome the distraction from my shite painting.” He knelt down to study the body, a disinterested look on his handsome face as he flatly said, “I take it your date didn’t go well?”

“This was a snack — not a date.” With an aggravated groan, she distractedly pulled at her messy waves, telling him, “I thought I was getting a handle on this Augustine shit; I swear I didn’t mean to, but he just tasted so good and I tend to not run into a lot of vampires in our neighborhood.” She hated how helpless she felt. Her former employer turned her into a ripper — something she’d managed to avoid when she first transitioned. Fortunately, she’d been able to apply her iron control to her new sensitivity and was able to curb all but the most extreme aspects of her bloodlust. But sometimes it just wasn’t enough.

Suddenly, Klaus swept her into his arms, his normal smirk being replaced by uncharacteristic concern. “Shh, sweetheart. We’ll just tidy up here and set things right.”

She breathed in his familiar scent of paint, her body instantly relaxing against him. Theirs was a bizarre friendship that had been forged after she escaped from Augustine Labs (she may have had to set a fire that turned into a surprisingly large explosion). She’d been running through a hiking trail when she tripped over a very surprised (and very naked) Klaus.

With smoke still clinging to her hair and blood-soaked clothes, she somehow landed in a whole new life with an arrogant, inconveniently attractive new friend (who enjoyed naked runs). Despite how close they’d grown, she still didn’t know that much about Klaus. He was an older hybrid (and didn’t that blow her mind to learn that a person could be two different supernatural creatures) and seemed to have a complicated family.

“You hate the smell of bleach,” Caroline replied, her voice muffled against his henley.

“But I like the smell of...those honey-cinnamon cookies you make,” he quickly said, awkwardly patting her on the back as he released her.

Why was he being so weird? “Fine. I’ll make a batch tomorrow after I go to the store.” She finished tucking the ends of the old rattan rug around the body, motioning for Klaus to grab one end.

He wryly observed, “You do realize that either of us possess the strength to lift this corpse easily? Must we keep up the pretense?”

“Seriously?! It’s a corpse, Klaus. One that I created. You know, with murder? One that we’re trying to hide while we carry it up to your penthouse to dismember in your gigantic bathtub. If we run into our neighbors, we need to look normal.”

“We could just compel them,” Klaus argued, his face turning into a comical exaggeration of pain as they began their trek down the hallway to the elevator. “And murder doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. I’ve been encouraging you to get a hobby.”

“Murder is not a hobby!”

He winked at her from across the lumpy, rolled-up rug. “It is if you do it right.”

Was he flirting with her? Caroline did her best not to react; she’d never been good at reading people. (If she had, she never would’ve been in this mess in the first place.) But then she never would’ve met Klaus. Feeling a blush start to creep up her neck at that distracting thought, she instead focused intently on the elevator buttons.

She’d just begun to relax when a simpering voice called out, “Klaus! I thought I heard you out here!” Twit in 14C poked her head out, eyes going round with excitement as she spotted her prey.

Caroline subtly tried to block the rug they’d stood up on one end, awkwardly standing on her tip-toes.

“Ooh, Klaus, is that another of your magnificent art projects?”

Trading a mildly panicked look with Klaus, Caroline hurriedly said, “Yes! It’s an art installation with a sort of...um, postmodern take on um...”

“Clearly his deep-rooted angst that reflects his sensitive artistic temperament,” Twit in 14C swooned, fluttering her eyelashes at Klaus. “You’re an old soul, I can tell.”

Well, that was an understatement. While Caroline wasn’t sure exactly how old Klaus was, she assumed he was at least a century or two. Fortunately, the elevator dinged, and they were able to clumsily wave at Twit in 14C while pretending to heave the rug with a gooey corpse center over their shoulders.

“So, that’s still happening,” Caroline observed with a giggle, playfully nudging Klaus with her elbow.

“Only because you won’t let me compel her,” Klaus grumbled.

She winked, cheekily telling him, “Poor Klaus, it’s such a terrible burden to be so attractive.”

As the doors opened to his penthouse, he seemed to perk up as he asked, “You think I’m attractive?”

She rolled her eyes, not bothering to feed his ego with a response, and ducked her head behind the rug to hide the blush on her cheeks.

The first slice with the electric carving knife always made her gag reflex kick in, so she rambled as a distraction. “If only some of the Augustine scientists survived.” At his startled expression, she explained, “After the explosion, I went back to the lab looking for answers. I even tried to track down the staff who hadn’t come in that day. Stupid waste of time — they’re all missing or dead.”

“They didn’t know anything,” Klaus blurted out, hastily adding, “I mean, those in the explosion were probably killed instantly and odds are the higher ups were just the face of the organization without any useful knowledge...one would assume.”

She raised her eyebrow in surprise, but found herself considering his words. It wasn’t how she thought her life would turn out, but maybe it was time to move on. Despite her aversion to gore, her monster found the clean snap of her meal’s femur immensely satisfying. Clearly, she was a monster and that was all she’d ever be. “I can’t be fixed.”

“You aren’t broken!” Gray eyes widened in alarm at his outburst, and he quickly busied himself by bundling together some of the shorter bones, stacking them to the side of his enormous porcelain tub.

Caroline whipped her head around to stare at him, suddenly breathless. No one had ever thought much of her when she was alive — and even less after she died. But Klaus made her feel worthy. Wanted. His loyalty and friendship had been so unexpected and exactly what she needed. But maybe it could be more? Before she fully realized what she was doing, she tossed the decapitated head back into the tub and grabbed Klaus’ henley to pull him in for a kiss.

He made a surprised noise that turned into a little moan as he deepened the kiss, painting her blonde waves red with his gore-streaked fingers.

Caroline pulled away hesitantly, voice tinged with concern as she asked, “Do you know what you’re doing? I mean, getting involved with someone like me could be dangerous. Just because I haven’t nom-nomed on you yet, doesn’t mean I won’t. And this ripper virus has made me really strong and I don’t want to hurt you.”

He gave her an enigmatic smile, “I’m a bit sturdier than I look. Tell me, sweetheart, what do you know about Originals?”

#kcbingo2020 #klaroline fanfic #uppity bitch fanfic #klaroline

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thebiasrekkers · 4 years

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Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Plot: “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Heavy Language, Angst, Slow Burn, Smut

Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || Admin E’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 3,006

Tag List: @prisczero, @pinkpjmin, @btsaudge, @flowerwrites06, @unoriginal-username15432, @halussali

Chapter 39: Not Today

“Today we’ll never die. The light will pierce through the darkness.”

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

Seoul – Myeongdong; Jung District South Korea

It was the calm before the storm.

Hoseok could feel it in his bones to the point where he swore that they creaked with each step he took. He barely heard what Namjoon was telling him as they approached the large building in downtown Myeongdong. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince him to change his mind; to postpone this meeting for another day. Or if it was something else entirely. Hoseok was only vaguely aware of the noises on the streets as they passed pedestrians on the path to their destination.

There was too much simmering beneath the surface for him to focus on anything outside of reaching his destination.

When he’d received the call from Taehyung a couple of days ago, Hoseok knew it was time for him to make his move. Yoongi falling ill and being hospitalized, even for a day, should have been the metaphorical straw that broke the camel’s back. Truth be told, Hoseok was in and out of meetings for most of the days during the week and had little time to spare outside of his business practices. Things were starting to look good. Things were finally beginning to take a positive turn, just as they planned.

Even with the instances that the Jade Fangs did show up, they were minor inconveniences at most. Hoseok was made aware of the slight against Eden, Jungkook’s girlfriend. He offered to have her monitored, but at Jungkook’s behest, he didn’t follow through. Eden was apparently a woman who valued her personal life and her privacy. The last thing she wanted was anyone shadowing her unnecessarily, even if it was for her own protection. From what he was told, Eden was also a woman who could more than handle herself if it came to a rough and tumble fight.

Hoseok did not pull his eyes back from Raelyn, even if she was seeing Taehyung now. There was always the chance that something could happen and at a moment when everyone least expected it. If she were ever made aware of it, he would apologize for it later. In this case, it was better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.

Old habits die hard, as they say…

Feet shuffled to a halt as he stood in front of the large building, Namjoon at his side. The two of them looked up at the high-rise, the sun already sinking beyond the horizon and down below the tree lines. The twilight hour was upon them and the world was still just as busy buzzing with life. As it would continue to do for many days to come.

Clearing his throat, he began to move forward – approaching the sliding glass doors. “Let’s go,” he said just as the doors opened to grant them entrance.

Two security guards approached them from either side, causing the two men to stop in the main lobby. Hoseok lofted a brow at each of them and Namjoon shuffled just a little bit closer to him. His tan trench coat hung off his shoulders while he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pin-striped slacks. Lifting one hand from the pocket, he undid the button on the matching suit jacket as he slid his aviators off his face.

“Im Changkyun is expecting me,” came his even reply as he put the shades into the inner pocket of his jacket, “so be good boys and step aside.”

Hoseok didn’t bother hiding his irritation. He wanted it known that this wasn’t some pleasant little business meeting or a check-in visit. This was nothing of the sort.

This…was personal.

A phone rang at the secretary’s desk, snapping her out of her momentary trance at the small incident that was stirring in the lobby. The two security guards continued to block Hoseok’s path, but then the woman quickly stood from her seat and bowed before hanging up the phone. She clapped her hands to get the guards’ attention.

“Chairman Im said to let them through.”

The guards stood there a little while longer before finally stepping to the side, giving both Hoseok and Namjoon a clear path. They approached the desk where the young woman handed Hoseok a keycard. She bowed in apologies before pointing to the corridor off to the right.

“If you take that hallway, there are sets of elevators. The key card will give you access to the Chairman’s office on the top floor.”

Hoseok flashed her a polite grin, waving the card at her clamped between his fingers. “Thank you.”

And without so much as a second glance, he began heading toward the hallway. Namjoon followed behind him, making sure that the two security guards weren’t intent on doing something stupid. Hoseok didn’t see his friend visibly relax until they were alone in the elevator.

He slid the keycard through the card reader, waiting for the elevator to begin lifting them from the ground floor. When it jerked slightly upon its initial ascent was when Namjoon finally spoke.

“Hoseok-ah? Do you think—”

“Don’t, Namjoon-ah,” he interrupted, staring ahead at their muddied reflections on the elevator’s stainless-steel doors, “not now.”

“We didn’t even discuss this with the others.”

There was concern in Namjoon’s voice, which was well-warranted. It was rare for Hoseok to go rogue. When he did, it was usually something small. He never made moves like this without discussing it with the others first. Seokjin always made it a point to ensure that everyone was on the same page so that none of them could get blind-sided. Strategizing and prioritizing situations before others was what helped the Golden Jackals climb up the ladder of success so quickly. Impulsivity had no place in their lives back then and it shouldn’t have now.

However, this time, Hoseok wanted to be selfish. He’d earned the right to be selfish. He deserved and had every right to be as livid as he was at that moment. Anyone who tried to tell him otherwise was delusional.

“This doesn’t concern them right now.” He cast a sidelong glance to Namjoon, brows furrowing deeply. “Honestly, I don’t even like that you’re with me. You should have stayed in the car like I told you to.”

Namjoon blinked at him, clearly jarred by his words. Or that he’d suddenly grown a second head. “You thought you’d just waltz into Im Changkyun’s business office alone, huh?” He snorted. “Yeah, no. Jin Hyung would have my head and I’m a pretty big fan of it staying attached to my neck.”

Hoseok grinned. “That’s not like you, Namjoon-ah. You’re usually the first one to show your guts.”

“Yeah, well that was then. This is now.”

The elevator dinged softly as they reached their destination. The steel doors slid open slowly, revealing a long hallway with a black and red carpet leading from the elevator to a pair of double doors at the very end of the long stretch. There was someone standing just outside the door, but they were too far away to be made out easily.

Hoseok stepped out and strode forward, Namjoon matching his pace. The closer they got to the end of the hallway, the more the person’s face standing just outside the door came into view. When they were only a couple of yards away, they could now tell it was Shownu. He looked between the two of them, a satisfied smirk etching his features. Hoseok peered up at the man who was older and slightly taller than him. His image from five years ago overlapped his current one and a phantom ache throbbed at Hoseok’s side from when he’d been kicked by the man in the rainstorm.

Shownu politely stood away from the door, gesturing toward it. “He’s waiting for you, Jung Hoseok.”

He nodded, casting his gaze over toward Namjoon. “Wait here.”

Namjoon looked like he was about to protest, but then Shownu placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s get a drink, hm? I’m sure they’re going to have a lot to discuss.”

Again, Namjoon looked reticent. But Hoseok nodded, his earlier expression dissolving into a softer one. He saw his friend blink in surprise. He could only imagine what his face looked like, but it probably reflected an old version of himself he hadn’t shown in quite some time. After a moment, he watched Namjoon sigh before nodding.

“If you need anything, call me.”

Hoseok nodded again. “I will.”

He waited, watching the two men make their way back down the hall. Shownu turned off to the left, entering a room and Namjoon followed. But not before he met his gaze one more time. Hoseok took a breath, promising to apologize to Namjoon later, and opened the doors.

The interior of the office was what Hoseok would have expected. Pristine. Clean. Modern. There was the traditional name plate sitting on top of a black polished desk made of expensive and imported wood. The marbling on the floor was flawless and the furniture held a business design with sectionals surrounding a glass and metal coffee table. Elegant art pieces decorated the walls and off to the right was a large window that overlooked the entire downtown area of Myeongdong from hundreds of feet in the air. A wet bar was situated near the small nook near the back.

Hoseok wasn’t impressed, however. This was to be expected of Im Changkyun, the Wolf of the Jade Fangs. He hadn’t climbed up in the ranks and obtained his title of “leader” if he wasn’t capable of this level of eloquence and prestige. His ambition suited his taste in decorating.

Instead of stepping further inside, he remained near the entrance as the doors closed behind him. Changkyun was seated at his desk, immersed in a book of some sort. The computer monitor was situated, visually, to Hoseok’s right. When their eyes met, Hoseok didn’t smile even though Changkyun did.

“Oh, Hoseok Hyung,” he said, closing the book and sliding it just to the side of him, “welcome. I’ll admit, I was a little surprised when I received your call. It’s not often you take the time to come visit me.”

Hoseok heard the bitter edge to the statement but made no effort to acknowledge it. He gave a slight shrug, remaining where he was until he saw Changkyun slowly rising from his plush leather chair. The wheels shifted along the marble floor and it was in that moment that Hoseok reached behind him to turn the deadbolt on the door – synchronizing it to match the sound of the chair’s movements.

“Your boys have been paying mine little visits here and there,” he said, stepping away from the door, “I figured that I should return the favor.”

Changkyun flashed an open-mouthed grin. “Ah, yes. Yes, they have.” He reached up to brush his dark hair out of his eyes. “Is that the reason for this, Hyung? Are the boys getting in your way?”

Hoseok scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Hmm, well that’s no good. I was hoping that was why.”

Slowly, Hoseok made his way to the left of the sectionals in the center of the office. “Because?”

“Because I’m still trying to figure you out, Hyung. I have questions and you haven’t answered them all yet.”

Changkyun’s words didn’t match his expression. Instead of looking inquisitive, he had the look of a man who appeared to have already won the game. It was a look that Hoseok remembered from many years ago – before the Golden Jackals were formed. Before they truly began to understand what the criminal underworld really looked like.

Before Im Changkyun killed the previous leader of the Jade Fangs in cold blood.

“Then let me give them to you.”

Hoseok’s body moved in a blur – matching the speed of his youth which was fueled by his anger alone. He knew he wasn’t in his twenties anymore. He hadn’t been fighting every day like he had years ago when his brothers and he first arrived in Seoul. Their lives were harder, but they were much simpler back then. When they were happier and driven to reach a future they could all obtain together.

He tapped into that feeling and rushed Changkyun’s desk – his trench coat flying off his shoulders and landing on the ground just as he went airborne. Just like that rainy night five years ago, during the gang war on the streets of Gangnam, he watched Changkyun’s smug look melt away as sudden realization washed over him instead. Hoseok cleared the chair at the head of the coffee table and landed on Changkyun’s desk in a crouch.

Jerking his right arm, the switch blade slid from the sleeve of his jacket and landed in his hand. He flicked the blade free, aiming straight for Changkyun’s neck. However, he knew that this wouldn’t be enough for the leader of the Jade Fangs. There was a reason he’d earned the nickname Wolf all those years ago. And it was because of his primal instincts.

Those very instincts came into play as he reached up to catch Hoseok’s wrist. Changkyun tried to pull his arm away from his body, attempting to keep the blade as far from his neck as possible. But just like Changkyun earned his moniker, so had Hoseok. The Death Claw didn’t back down from a fight because he’d looked The Grim Reaper in his face and spit in it.

Hoseok used his free hand to grab at his wrist, fingers locking over Changkyun’s and then pushing his weight forward. What distance was gained was soon minimized as Hoseok leaned in, the tip of the knife moving up and casting a shadow over Changkyun’s face. If he wouldn’t let him take his throat, he would jam the blade straight into his eye socket.

“H-Hyung,” growled Changkyun through clenched teeth as he glared up at Hoseok, “what do you think you’re doing?”

He could feel his arms trembling with the amount of force he was exerting. Changkyun was putting in just as much effort, causing a horrible stalemate that was on the verge of fracturing. The odds evened out as Hoseok watched him reaching up with his free hand to brace against his own wrist – mimicking each other.

“What does it look like?” Hoseok replied, his eyes narrowing darkly, “I’m answering your questions.”

He watched him blinking up at him in confusion. He was a young man Hoseok once believed to be full of potential and drive. Someone Hoseok admired years ago. Before he discovered the depth of his said ambition.

Silence stretched between them, neither of them easing off their stance or their grips. Hoseok felt a bead of sweat slip down his temple just as he saw one sliding down to drip from Changkyun’s chin. There were the occasional grunting sounds as one attempted to overpower the other, but outside of that, no words were spoken.

Changkyun finally let out a choked-out scoff, bitter disappointment evident on his features. Yet he smirked, regardless. “So, this is your answer, Hyung?”

Hoseok mirrored his gaze. “Yes, Changkyun-ah, it is.”

Something passed over the younger man’s face. But it was so brief, Hoseok couldn’t place it. At least not then.

“That’s a shame, Hoseok Hyung. A real shame.” He let out a shaky breath. “But if this is your answer, then I guess I have no choice but to continue the game without you.”

And then he moved faster than Hoseok could have anticipated. He released his hold and Hoseok felt all his weight collapsing forward. The blade nicked Changkyun’s cheek, but it was a sacrifice he willingly made. Hoseok realized this when he saw knuckles sailing toward his face. He pivoted in mid-air, changing his trajectory and his shoulder landed hard on the desk. Changkyun moved to elbow-drop him, but Hoseok whirled his legs into the air to block the assault, slamming his knee into Changkyun’s shoulder before rolling completely off the desk.

However, as he landed on the marble flooring, he felt pain exploding across his back and causing him to stumble forward. He quickly pivoted on his heels just as he saw Changkyun lowering his arm from where he’d had it extended – noting that his punch had, in fact, successfully connected. The two of them heaved, inhaling a lungful of air. Hoseok reached up to dab at the sweat on his brow with the back of his wrist.

A full minute passed before both men lowered their stances, silently agreeing that this discussion was at its conclusion. Hoseok turned to head toward the entrance, scooping up his trench coat along the way. Just as he made to unlatch the doors to the office, he heard Changkyun popping his neck before a breathy chuckle escaped.

“You’ve made yourself clear. So now I’m going to make myself clear.”

Pausing, Hoseok turned to look back at the leader of the Jade Fangs. But he chose to say nothing. Changkyun continued.

“What I do from this moment on, you no longer play a factor into it. What happens after today is a result of the answer you’ve given me. And I’m going to make good on it.”

Hoseok scoffed. “Is that right?” He rolled his eyes, unlatching the door. “We’re done playing this game with you. Do what you want.”

The grin that Changkyun gave him was the most wolfish he’d ever seen and it caused his spine to lock up uncomfortably, even for just a moment.

“Oh, I will. Trust me.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Just remember that it’s nothing personal, Jung Hoseok.”

Dropping the honorific was expected. Hoseok wasn’t surprised. So, instead of giving it credence, he simply exited the office and slammed the doors behind him. He needed to breathe. He needed air. So, for now, he would simply text Namjoon to come out when he was ready and that he’d be waiting in the car.

After he vomited his anger into a nearby bush somewhere.

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runner5ive · 4 years

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Tragic Backstory Unlocked

I’ve seen a bunch of people uploading info of their Five's and wanted to write my Five's backstory down too.

This was a lot longer than I planned so I added a before and after doodle of Five and shoved the info below the cut 😅

This has lived in my drafts for time and I was never actually going to upload this but the amount of times I've told people they shouldn't be nervous or anxious about uploading any art or writing because seeing updates from y'all gives me LIFE and I felt like I wasn't taking my own advice. So here you go!

They had changed their name exactly four times before arriving in Abel yet non of them felt quite right. It was completely coincidental that their fifth name would be Five yet it was the only one that ever actually fit.

They grew up in so many foster homes that they can’t even remember all the places they’ve lived.

They were put forward for speech therapy on numerous occasions but Five hated knowing that everyone thought they were broken that they refused to even try.

After a while everyone gave up on the the prospect of them ever speaking.

There was exactly one family they felt truly welcomed into and it destroyed them when they were taken away after two years of living there.

Their real parents were divorced and they saw them occasionally but it was always super awkward and unloving, especially as neither of them bothered learning BSL since they didn’t see Five enough to warrant it.

In the 'flight or fight' response to danger, Five was always flight first.

If they couldn't run away from danger, that's when they'd resort to fighting. Because of this, they weren't the best students as the inability to leave school during the day meant they were almost constantly in scraps.

9 times out of 10 Five would run away from various home as soon as frustrations started to grow.

Because of this they never really finished high school, and didn't even bother with the thought of college or university.

Jobs prospects were pretty poor. They turned to another kid they knew from foster homes who introduced them into a bad crowd. Five worked for them as a petty theif, believing them when they said what they were doing wasn't that bad - they thought it was a Robin Hood scenario.

When they realised it wasn't they were in too deep and couldn't escape.

They were with their biological dad on Day Z, only because they'd been arrested on suspicion of breaking an entering and burlgery, and he'd been called to pick them up from the police station.

When chaos erupted, they used that as an oppertunity to run away from him again, not realising exactly was going on.

Runner Five is like 98% certain both their biological parents survived but does not want to find them at all.

Because Five had no ID on them on Day Z they completely rewrote their identity when they arrived Mullins Military Base (name #4).

Five wasn’t considered for anything other than cleaning duties, because the people who ran Mullins base couldn’t speak BSL and believed communication is key for their soldiers.

Five was/is pretty rubbish at cleaning.

Mullins didn’t know what to do with them at all so they agreed to send them to Abel to get them out of their hair more than anything. They didn't actually think they'd amount to anything.

Five arrives at Abel as an angsty, grouchy baby hardened by life before the apocalypse even started.

They believe they couldn't rely on anyone but themself at first but then they meet everyone at Abel who are stupid, lovable goofballs willing to learn BSL and it helps Five ease up and become the happy goblin baby they truly are.

After about a month living at Abel and being welcomed into Abel's apocalypse family they have a moment of OH SHIT I’VE BEEN ADOPTED!

Really want to draw Five surrounded by their friends with a sign that reads 'Today I was adopted!' like the goofy child they are.

Rajit’s book was the first one they’d ever read and it was so WILD and UNPREDICTABLE that they LOVE IT!

The only reason they start reading more is because people hear that Five’s favourite book is Rajit’s and people are personally offended enough to give them other books to read. There are a lot of incredible books they read but nothing leaves such an impression on them as much as Rajit’s did.

When Five was missing during A Voice in the Dark, Abel had no choice but to report them Missing in Action to Mullins since they were a loan. Five elected not to correct that after they got back since it would mean they might be pulled back to Mullin’s one day and they were happy in Abel.

Five secretly prefers life after the apocalypse than before, and has recurring nightmares that the cure will be found, the need for runners will vanish, and everyone they know will forget about them.

The reason Five still collects things when they're running for their life is because they're a bit superstitious and believe that if they collect something for Abel then it means that they'll survive because now they HAVE to get it back home!

#runner five #runner 5 #zr #zombies run #reference #tragic backstory unlocked

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theateared · 4 years

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It’s Fine. I Can Wait. ❜

Summary: Certain things make Moxie a little less angry.

“You’re being moody again.”

Since Edgar had returned from hunting, Moxie hadn’t spared him a word. His place behind the bar was begrudging, back remaining to him as he scrubbed the surface with more force than necessary. Edgar briefly considered telling him to watch for scratch marks but promptly decided that it didn’t matter. To hell with it. People are drunk here anyway. They’re not going to notice an imperfection that small.

Still no response, he thought to himself as he watched his packmate busy himself with meaningless tasks. He flitted around the counter like a fly, cleaning already-washed surfaces, moving things slightly to the side, skirting around tables as if he’d kick up enough dust to warrant wiping them down for a second time. The Alpha barely held back a chuckle of amusement, tall form hunched over the counter as his cheek nestled into his palm.

“Moxie. I know you’re upset,” he tried again, voice light, almost sing-song, as if it was being carried by a breeze. “Are you going to speak on your own terms or should I pry until you snap? Because you will snap. Like an itty-bitty twig. Tck! Just like that.”

Briefly, his friend’s shoulders squared, though his back remained to him. Edgar smirked, head tilting against his palm.

“It’s fine. I can wait.”

All at once, the hunter whipped around and flung his rag in the Alpha’s direction. Edgar watched with an aloof smile as the material gathered air, fluttering to the ground some distance away from the counter. His eyes shifted from the spot it had fallen to Moxie’s face as his hands slammed against the solid oak that formed the bar-top.

“I’m PISSED OFF, Edgar--”

“Mhm.”

“-- this fuckin’ bullshit, livin’ here in Huron-- even if it’s only temporary, I feel like a goddamn CIRCUS ACT!” Although he was angry, he had the sense not to bare his teeth at the other lye. The last thing he needed was to provoke his leader. Quickly, he reared back, before he could make a mistake that he wouldn’t be able to rectify. “Don’t you feel STUPID? We’re dancin’ round these motherfuckers like fuckin’-- ballerinas, or some shit! It’s really gettin’ on my NERVES!” His arms extended high above his head as if he was about to scream, though all he did was stare at the ceiling for a few seconds before continuing on, leaning close. His voice dropped to a low, raspy rumble. “Do you know how many fights I’ve had to not have just to stay doin’ this shitty job that nobody wants to fuckin’ do? This shit’s embarrassin’, Edgar. Y’hear me? Embarrassin’. We’re fuckin’. Lyes. There’s no reason we should be pussy-footin’ like this.”

“Hm.” Though he hated to admit it, he harboured some similar frustration. However, the one thing he had above most of his kind was his brain. In general, lyes were an aggressive specie; they would rather fight to the death for something than work out an arrangement. Naturally, a lot of weight fell on an Alpha’s ability to defend their creed members from harm. The way Edgar saw it, it was better to minimise threats than it was to craft plans to combat them. With less enemies to deal with, the creed’s safety naturally increased.

Slowly, Edgar stood up straight, turning around and locating an all-too-familiar bottle of whiskey. He may as well have renamed it at this point - Moxie’s Kryptonite.

“Tell me something,” he said levelly as he began to pour his frustrated friend a drink. Despite the serving regulations, Edgar filled the glass until the liquid sat just shy of the brim. Putting it down gracefully, he turned back around to look at him. “How long have we been friends now?”

Moxie huffed, a hand wrapping unceremoniously around his drink, bringing it close to his lips. “Too fuckin’ long...” he muttered before downing the contents of his glass. Only when it was empty did he continue: “I don’t know. Centuries, probably.”

“And in all that time, how many times have I done something that has put my creed in jeopardy?”

“...” Whether one liked him or not, Edgar was a respectable leader. In fact, Moxie would hazard a guess and say that he was the best he could have wound up with. In his previous creed, his Alpha had been a flight risk. Though his strength was impressive-- he had once killed a band of six rival hunters single-handedly-- he’d been nothing short of a moron. His foolhardy ways had cost a lot of his own their lives. It didn’t help that his means of compensation was mating with those that remained in exchange for their silence. Edgar, on the other hand, was different. Not only did he possess a great deal of power, the way his mind worked was unheard of in their community. To him, he resembled a renowned chess player - a renowned chess player with a body count. “...’s not like I can say...” he finished lamely.

“Yes. I suspected as much,” Edgar replied, re-filling his glass. “And so with that in mind, I would implore you to have a little more faith in me.” His hand wrapped around the stool tucked beneath the counter, drawing it close enough to sit on. Slightly more comfortably, he once again leaned on his elbow, head cocked slightly to the side as he stared at the other. In a patient tone: “Rest assured, there is a reason for every decision I make. It pays to be CLEVER in this day and age, not a barbarian. This truce with Huron serves a practical function. While it continues to do so, these people are not our enemy.”

Less enemies, less trouble. That was the way the wild worked. He doubted many understood that, though he suspected he was only privy to such a thought because he had existed in a different way before this. Had the No-Mans been all he knew, he likely would have striven for brute strength and nothing more.

Moxie sighed softly. “I dunno, boss. What happened to all the fun we used to have? Tearin’ out throats, takin’ names later?”

“Don’t talk about the glory days as if they’ve long passed, friend,” Edgar tutted, reaching forward to pat his arm. “We’ll have our fun, just in the proper way, at the proper time. Like gentlemen. Understand?”

Sullenly, Moxie nodded his head.

“Do cheer up,” the Alpha continued, rising from his seat. “I have a surprise for you.”

He watched the other lye’s head incline, normally squinted eyes round with curiosity. After a moment of silence: “You know I hate surprises. What is it?”

“Ah-ah-ahh!” Edgar all but sang, ever-present smile splitting into a fully-fledged grin. He whipped around the bar like a falcon, taloned fingers resting atop Moxie’s shoulders and pulling him up to his feet. “This was the reason I came looking for you. It would be senseless to give it away just like that. Put on your dancing shoes.”

“My what?”

He didn’t get the chance to ask anything else as Edgar pushed him along.

_____

“... the fuck am I lookin’ at?” Moxie asked, eyes squinting hard at the foreign object. It was tall, and he wondered briefly how he had missed it. Edgar must have had it moved to the tavern that day while he’d been out hunting for food. It stood in the corner, arched shape casting an ominous shadow onto the ground. Pronounced decals lined its edges, a peculiar blend of red, yellow and green, and when Edgar shifted forwards to press one of the many buttons, it made a noise. Moxie’s ears stood straight up, as if startled.

“This, my friend, is a jukebox,” Edgar said, gesturing for the hunter to come closer. He did so hesitantly, eyes moving across the new object with distrustful fascination. “It plays music.” Gently, he pressed another button, the screen lighting up. The song selection jumped straight to titles that began with L in accordance to what Edgar had selected. “I figured we could use some ambience for this place. Nothing livens a scene up quite like music.”

Moxie watched with a hint of interest. Edgar knows which buttons to press already… I have to learn too. “So what, y’thought a bunch’a noise would help soothe my headaches?”

“Oh, come. Don’t be so sour! I know you love music!”

It was a strange truth, but a truth nonetheless. Lyes didn’t often have access to things like that. There was no such thing as ‘art’ when you came from the wild. The closest thing you could get to that was a fresh corpse. Nevertheless, he had heard guitars in the woods before. Ambitious campers or Edgar’s weird friend, he wasn’t sure, but the point was that he enjoyed the sound. Though he hadn’t been vocal about it, he knew that his Alpha was likely to notice. He often did, for reasons that escaped him.

What do you care? You’re the one with the power.

“Choose a song! Any song? Let’s dance the night away!”

“I ain’t dancin’. Especially not with you,” Moxie huffed, though a hand had already stuck out to toggle with the arrow keys. He recognised none of the titles, selecting one at random, seeming to jump slightly when the device began to make noise. Despite being told what it did, it still surprised him to be so close to something so loud. “Woah.”

“Grand, isn’t it?” Edgar exclaimed, spinning in a circle as if inviting him into his personal space. The hunter scoffed, moving away, though his tail began to sway without his say-so. While he couldn’t see him, Edgar gave him a puzzled kind of smile; the sort that expressed a deep confusion despite its contentment. Truthfully, he didn’t understand why Moxie was so standoffish. He likely had his reasons, but he had no clue what they were. He felt as if there was a tragic sort of distance between them, one filled with a daunting vacancy that lingered long after a stale goodbye.

Why do you refuse to have a good time? Why do you only let pleasure visit you in small, controlled doses? Why are your claws drawn around somebody who has sworn to protect you?

He watched as Moxie trudged back behind the bar, half expecting him to begin working again. However, all he did was slump against it, tail swinging from side to side like a macabre metronome; jagged point catching the lamp-light, glinting like an age-old dagger. This was as calm as he could get.

“... decent investment,” he allowed, hard stare fixed on the wall. The last thing he wanted to do was feed an Alpha’s ego. In his experience, the more you did that, the harder you fell when it inevitably shot to their head. They abused their power almost as easily as they fucked - without reason, without warning, and wholly in their best interests. “It’ll drown out these lousy drunkards’ voices a little.”

“That it will, my friend!” He was already busy flipping through tracks on his own accord, grin now eager, genuinely invested. If there was one thing he would always have room for, it was music. From the moment he’d decided that a tavern was the establishment that worked most in favour with his desires, he’d known at some point that he would invest in a player of some sort. Failing that, he would have talked to his talented musician friend about playing live on certain nights.

Perhaps I should still do that. Murr would probably be over the moon about it anyway. It would give him another distraction - and me a source of pleasure. Everybody wins.

So focused with the jukebox, he missed the slacken of Moxie’s jaw; the way he nuzzled his cheek into his palm, ears bent in the direction of the sound as his Alpha flitted through song previews, tail swish-swish-swishing like a reed behind his head. A rare tranquillity had befallen him, one that only visited people in their dreams.

You’re a weird Alpha, he thought to himself, watching Edgar’s face light up as he found a ragtime track that seemed to resonate with him. It’s almost as if you care about us.

#🞮 — if i could i'd trade my heart for a second brain. ❜ ( edgar. )#🞮 — i get lost in the nothingness inside of me. ❜ ( moxie. )#☆ — i never promised you your dream boy. ❜ ( main. )#☆ — i'm just here to destroy. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#/ idk dude i wanted to write about them #i need to do more dev stuff with both of them explaining how their bond changed from just packmates to friends #but for now you get this tiny thing #it's small and i'm not entirely happy with it but i don't think i can shape it up any more

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helpinghanikan · 5 years

Text

In the family

Avengers (and Matt Murdock) x Reader

Sum: Family business is good business, how you fit in is to be seen.

AN: Mob au

Steve Rogers:

A single lamp was on in the corner of your living room. Steve had tried to stay up for you again.

He’s sitting in the corner of the couch in his regular clothes. One leg up, head leaned back against the arm rest, one arm over his face, probably placed there after “shutting his eyes for a few seconds” that resulted in the nap.

A drawing pad is open on his lap, pencil fallen from his hand and onto the floor. It was the pad you had bought him awhile ago, the big expensive kind. “I saw it on my way back,” You had said. “It was on sale,” you had said to get him to accept it. It was not, actually, on sale.

He had been drawing the doorway next to your turned off TV. Door open, showing one corner of your bed and the bedroom’s wall paper. Using dark shadows on paper. Where the only outline in the door was that of the bed, everything outside the doorway was lighter, like he hadn’t focused on them as much.

His art had started to take off around the same time you started with your “social club”. Less time spent together, more time with the drawing pads. Longer you were out the better the things you brought back. New TV, bed spread from a specialty store instead of the local Walmart, and more drawing pads.

The one he used was closed gently. Placed on the coffee table without any noise.

He was a very weird sleeper. Slept like the dead but a certain sound, high pitched or too loud, would send him bolted upwards. Things like walking on soft feet, or a fan running wouldn’t wake him up. Picking up his leg and placing it next to the other, next coming the couch blanket over his body.

It’s best that he didn’t know about your little “club”. He loved you madly, enough to not ask questions, but also enough to worry. It’s best he didn’t know, it’s best that he just sleeps.

Tony Stark:

It’s easy to forget the danger that comes with your life. A lavish penthouse, drivers and constant respect from absolute strangers had a way of spoiling a person. That a gun had to be constantly strapped to your hip did little to change that.

It’s not until his hands grips yours that you are reminded of that. A whisper into his ear, a slamming phone call or just glancing at a text and his hand is somewhere on your body. Shoulder, knee, ankle, and hands were always open for his hand to hold. Your entire life becoming a human stress ball for your husband.

You only ever asked what was wrong when he comes in upset, then it’s up in the air towards the cause. His answer will always be sarcastic;

“Having a bad day?” You would ask as he walked past.

“No, it’s going great. Black mail is in now a-days, right?” That was the farthest he would explain it. Reaching for the closest part of you to him and groaning into the hand covering his face.

Thor:

You don’t know where he went, you don’t know what he was doing and, you didn’t want to know. What you do know is that he comes home late, that he is paid well, and that he loves you, no matter what.

“Shoes…” You remind him.

Thunk Thunk

You had only been asleep a few minutes ago. Still half-awake, blinking slow while approaching Thor. In the walkway past your main entrance he mostly strips on the welcome mat. Shirt, pants, tie and, of course, shoes are bundle together and put into your arms. One long blink as he leans down and kisses your cheek.

“Thank you,” He says, walking towards the shower before you yell at him about that too.

Your hand grabs around the handle of the hammer left by the door. The one thing he kept forgetting, leaving that thing head down on the tiles, smear of red left behind you’d have to clean later.

Clothes are tossed into the tub in passing. Trusty large bucket pulled from under the sink, dish soap taken out, bleach put in. A dangerous combination if they were to ever mix, but it was best to keep them together. “It’s just cleaning supplies, officer.” You would say when they’d finally appear with a warrant.

On your knees in front of the tub it fills with freezing water. Dish soap poured in and you begin scrubbing. Be it from wanting to finish quickly or that your muscles weren’t alive yet, your pajama shirt would be soaked by the end of the cleaning session.

Water is a candy-apple red by the time the stains are gone from the shirt. The pants were easier, given the black color. The shirt was the faintest pink from the water, that would be removed after a regular run through the washing machine. Where they both go after wringing them out and tossing them in.

The hammer was another story, soaked in bleached, scrubbed with a tooth brush. Left in the sink to naturally dry and then to be placed back into the tool belt in the garage. When somebody asks why only your finger prints are on it, “because it’s mine, why else?”

An alarm would sound in the wee hours of the morning for you to put it back before living hours. For now, though, you strip as Thor had. Tossing your wet clothes in with the others and starting it up. Thor had many white shirts and black pants, why were these so special?

He’s just coming out of the shower a few seconds after you return to bed. Hair damp, muscles relaxed, a thick hand lays on your side under the covers. A kiss, just as sweet as the first, is placed on your temple. He smells like rain and copper.

Not that you would know anything about that.

Bucky Barnes:

This young man before you is a dime a dozen. Although the “leader” of his little group, you wouldn’t be able to pick him out from the group as anything but a drone. He wasn’t exactly a skeleton like the other quivering street rats forced into your office. He was fatter, but still gangly none the less. Not that he was looking to you, looking over your shoulder the entire time.

“So, was it an accident? Or are you just stupid?” you ask after a few seconds.

He finally looks to you, only for a few seconds, then returning over your shoulder. “I didn’t- nothin’ was meant by it. We just- yeah, we just got drunk.”

“So, you were confused.” You finished for him.

He nods quickly as the boards creek under a walking weight somewhere behind you.

“The Winter soldier” or “the white wolf” had a bigger reputation then you did. To very few he was Bucky. A man with a bloody past and one hell of a resume. This brought him into your payroll and eventually into your arms.

“Yeah, we, uh, I’m sorry. We were drunk and, we’re so sorry.” At least now he was looking in your direction, with Bucky standing behind your chair.

“You were drunk, so drunk that you picked a fight. Went into an alley and beat a twenty-two-year-old until his jaw broke.” Picking up a file and slapping it down for effect. It was actually filled with receipts from take out for tax reasons, but he didn’t need to know that. “So drunk that you left him there and weren’t even smart enough to try and get out of my territory.”

The truth was Mikey, one of your boys with too big a mouth, had started the fight. But you’d have to deal with him later.

He incredibly quiet at this point. Unsure where he’s supposed to stare, looking between you and Bucky just behind your chair.

“I’m so sorry,” He tries again.

“He has bills, a lot of bills now and I’m not putting that on his family.” You spat, opening your receipt file. “I’m putting that on you.” The file is slammed down again, hoping not to lose any of the receipts and get yelled at by your accountant.

He’s staring right at you now.

“Get your shit together, get the money together and everything is going to get a lot easier.” He’s nodding fast before you even finished your statement. “Bill will be in the mail, get out.”

He practically runs from the room. Sam smirking as he followed him out, making sure the rat actually left your building.

Your wolf’s hands go to your shoulders. Squeezing them softly, a soft kiss to the top of your head when there is no one there.

Natasha Romanoff:

That bitch, that absolute bitch.

“I’m so sorry,” Were the words your ‘work friend’ had said in the office. Stepping into your space with false kindness, before dropping the bomb without a second thought.

He had supposedly seen Nat at this high-end bar he moonlights at. You had every reason to ignore his accusation; he had only met her once, in the winter when you both wore heavy coats and hats, in a passing “hey,” before moving on. A far reach from the supposed get up Nat was wearing that night. The words “she was a little whore-ish looking” were used, the glare you gave sent him running back to his cubical.

He was right though, that weekend there she was. Sitting on one of those too expensive stools, leaning against the bar with one arm. The other putting her hand on the knee of the man in front of her, she was looking at him with a Gatsby worthy look. The same she would give you, seeing it given to someone else, though. It was probably easier to be shot.

In another lifetime you might have stormed in and started a scene. Instead the wound was too much. Sending you limping home to ignore her calls and text. You’d still be too hurt to read the paper some days later. Completely missing the man’s obituary.

Bruce Banner:

They always go for the supposedly weakest member of the family. A few days the same car had been following you, more specifically he, Bruce didn’t notice. Even with your head looking back to it every few steps when you walked.

You were preceptive, not sneaky.

It wouldn’t be long before they’d try and contact him. That would come maybe a week after, when which ever branch of law enforcement on your ass figured out his schedule. He was on the street earlier then usual that day. Leaning forward into a car window that you unfortunately recognized. This slowed your walking to a complete stop; an exception were the one and two taking you between buildings. A horrible hiding spot if anyone were to actually be looking at you.

He steps away from the car with half a smile. It’s the kind he does to replace frustration, laughing at something said by the people in the car. It pulls out from curb as you start half-walking, half-trotting towards your man. Your line of questions completely ignored as his hand takes yours.

“Stark gonna help us with that vacation?” You asked over lunch.

The “opportunity” those agents had offered Bruce were laced with reminders of his past. That of the anger which went out of control, the record he had to be upfront about at the beginning of your relationship and all that could easily go away.

“He’s more then willing to, where he wants us to go may be… too much.” Bruce says, hidden behind a menu. Tony’s idea of laying low was a penthouse outside of the united state jurisdiction. “Rogers owes you a favor, though, right? Maybe he has an idea?”

“That’d be too close to home, we need a more…exotic place to relax.” He offered. “Shuri loves me, her family has a place.”

“That works, should I bring a bathing suit?” You had asked.

You would both be gone from the radar within a week.

T’Challa:

The floor is so much more comfortable then the couch for reading. Back to the cushions and legs spread out, you don’t bother looking up when he enters the house.

Call it fake or call it protection, T’challa’s personality changes depending who he is with. With outsiders he can considered cold, several are still under the impression he doesn’t even speak English. The family he was respectful, big brotherly with an unrestricted face. His inner circle and the jokes come out, more teasing to their boss and relaxed shoulders. With you, everything is gone.

The entire world a weight he drops at the doorway. Calling out to you which you don’t bother responding to as he would find you no matter what.

“How’d it go?” He sits on the couch next to you, your shoulders, naturally leaning into his legs.

“It was very long, everyone was…yelling.” He’s tired, legs stretching out under the coffee table. Chest sliding farther down the couch with a groan. “It was done, though. Of course.”

A few seconds of silence as you finish the page your on, placing book mark and closing the binding. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, even when you placed the book on the coffee table and stood up. Staying in his relaxed position, only making a small noise when your warmth leaves his legs.

He jerks slightly when you walk around the couch. Arm moving from his face to see you looking down at him. Your hands on either side of his head, scratching through his hair line, massaging his head. Humming is added when your thumbs rub over his eyebrows, gently across his eyelids and two fingers against his temples

Although “Black Panther” was just his mob name, he did tend to act like a cat. Eyes closing softly, a groan in the deep of his throat, head moving to chase your hands when they move too far from their duty. If he were any more feline like he’d be purring.

Pietro Maximoff:

A club is a stupid place for a business meeting. It’s too loud, even in the private booths, and the over priced drinks just made the guy out as being a snob. Sent as Stark’s representative you had to play the game on the guy’s terms.

It was why you were currently scanning over the banister. Looking for that little color flashing in the strobe lights.

And there it is, silver tie hung loosely around his neck. Leaning against the bar, your cute lookout taking his break from scoping out the club. He catches your eye after looking upwards, a little head tilted upwards. Not a trap, we’re good.

You give a head down, come up, need help.

He’s smiling before disappearing into the crowd of moving bodies. You turn to the “clients” you were meeting. Stark had talked about expanding for awhile now. More into the school district (that many of the families own kids attended the school was just a coincidence) hence the yahoos you were forced to talk to.

Two sons from old money sitting in the lounge chairs. A woman draping over the back of the elders brother, she not paying attention, around his neck, standing behind the chair like his cape.

“Do you like the place?” Younger brother asks as you sit down.

“It’s very bright. Nice and young, just as Boss had described the two of you.” Stark had actually used to words ‘freshly dropped from community college’ but yours were better. “A little young running this place, young to be as powerful as you both are.”

They preened like birds at the compliment.

“It wasn’t easy,” Oldest jokes and you all have a good life.

Pietro was a quick little jack rabbit. The fastest runner in the family, which was how there was suddenly a glass in your face. Weight on one arm of your chair as he leans against you, putting the arm around your shoulders after you take the glass. Your arm around his waist. A new pretty thing to show off you were just as good as they were.

The youngest twerks an eyebrow while the eldest squints.

“Pretty young yourself to be here, why?” He asks.

Tips of your fingers gently touch the small gap of skin between Pietro’s shirt and pants. “Boss wants some of your area, he’s more than willing-.”

“He wants a piece of our shit?”

“Just a piece, a small piece.” You say. “Are you even using it? Don’t you want money? Don’t you want a cut without doing any work?”

Both brothers take a long drink from their glasses. Pietro takes the chance to take the glass from your hand. The arm candy with the tendency to steal, scandalous.

“Why didn’t Stark come himself?” Oldest asks.

“He’s so old, you really think he would like this place? It’d be the same as bringing your grandpa to the club.” You explain.

“Jude,” Youngest says, gesturing for his brother to come.

“We’ll be back.” Oldest says, following his brother to the off-side office. His cape following close behind, being sure to keep hold of his arm.

Pietro gives your glass back after their gone. “So, I am just here for my looks?” He asks.

“You love it,” You state, knocking your head back for the last of the drink.

Peter Parker:

For the two years you’ve known Peter you had no idea his statues. That the “prince of the family” was the same guy holding your hand and walking you home after school. That the black car following you down the street was nothing to be concerned about. Or the dark reason bullies had suddenly stopped bothering him.

Like at most schools bullies were a problem that was “complicated” to deal with. Peter, unfortunately, was on the receiving end of quite of a bit of it. The same could be said about you, girls are more brutal then many are willing to admit. Both of you had your reasons not to tell anyone, the office was aware but what could they do? Excuses came from the secretaries about how horrible it was for the bullies and the sympathy you needed to feel for them.

Thus, the side by side walking you did together. Hands going from swinging by your sides to interlocking fingers.

Although you neve told your parents about the problems, Peter had the truth forced from him after coming home with a black eye.

Peter was a bad liar, but great at keeping secrets. Had you never asked about the car suddenly dropping him off and picking him up everyday you wouldn’t have noticed the bullies. Noticed the red and blue casts around their arms, that they were completely avoiding Peter’s eye contact and even turned around at the sight of you.

“My dads are really protective.” He said one day at lunch, that was the truth. “I don’t know what happened, though.” That was a lie.

Stephen Strange:

Following basic directions were easier then most complained about.

“More pressure, a lot of pressure.” He’d say.

“Hold this back for me.” He’d say.

“Sweetie, go wash up.” He’d order before you’d enter the room.

In the end you were little more then a glorified nurse. One without any medical training but plenty of experience holding people down and handing over medical tools. The toughest made man would grab the hell out of your hand during stitches.

Thor does this now, his face cringing into distortion. Holding your hand and focusing on you instead of the stitches being put into his leg. “Is it out yet?” he asks, with a groan.

“You don’t remove a bullet,” Stephen says form the other end of the table. “Just patch it up,”

Thor lets out a little “ah!” when the surgical needle goes through a thicker piece of his skin. Your hand pressing against his forehead to keep him from sitting up and seeing all the blood and a foreign object going through his skin several times. Doesn’t matter how tough he was, how much blood he sees on the regular, when it’s your own; there’s something different.

“Stop whining.” Stephen says, wiping the disinfectant from the wound.

After that it’s a few seconds of wrapping bandages around his calf. Pant leg pulled over and Stephen scoots over to look over his patient. Pulling the small pill bottle of golden “magic” he definitely did not create himself.

“Wait till you get home, take a quarter, a quarter, of a spoon when you get home. If you do, don’t touch the butterflies, just don’t touch anything.” He warns, holding it out to him.

“And there’s no refill, either.” You add. Stephen pointing to you for emphasis.

“Thank you, Dr. Strange,” Thor says as though he hadn’t gotten the lecture a hundred times by now. He sits up on the table, smiling at you. “And nurse.”

Neither of you had the legal license anymore. Not that it was needed to patch up bullets.

Matt Murdock:

“You been through the sports lately?” Officer something-face says on the other side of the table. He’s slouched in his chair, paper held in front of him as though hiding from the other side of the room. “I don’t read it myself all that much. Watch too much of it, I already know what they’re gonna say. It’s all gonna be wrong.”

This was the tactic they were going with: good guy, nice cop, spends the first bit talking to you. Rope into a conversation, get you comfortable and get you to spill. When that didn’t work after awhile another cop would come in storming. Yelling at nice cop for being so nice and going on a rant hoping you’d interject. After that, a ping pong game of questions from both cops until you snap and say something.

Now, the only thing you could do, was mentally prepare for it. Sitting there like a pouting toddler, arms crossed, refusing to look at him.

�� “Where’s my lawyer?” You said the magic words an hour into your interrogation.

“You know we’re not gonna be able to talk they arrive?” Nice cop says.

“Stop talking,” the door slams open and your angel walks in. Hand out, sticking to the wall so he doesn’t run into the table during his march through the room. “Is my client under arrest, Officer? Has she been

“And they arrive,” Nice cop says gathering his paper. “Mr. Murdock, where there’s blood you’re sure to follow, starting to think you might be a shark.”

“Only if the blood is my client’s. Is she under arrest?” He asks, hand leaving the wall. Going instead to your shoulder, both as comfort and to acknowledge where you were.

“There was a murder, with her MO.” Nice cop says.

“I’m sorry, I was unaware she was convicted of murder.” Sarcasm, he was at the previous trials and arrests. Nothing was ever held against you.

“You know all your clients are, Murdock.” Nice cop says, starting to become not-as nice cop. “This time, she wasn’t so careful.”

“I wasn’t even there!” You almost yelled, toddler now throwing an almost tantrum in standing quickly.

Matt’s fingers curl into your shoulder, practically slamming you back into the chair. Leaning into your space and whispering a soft, “Shut the fuck up.” Before standing straight.

“Is she under arrest?” Matt asks again.

“Not yet,” Not-as cop admits.

“Then we’ll be seeing you.” His arm is around your forearm. Pulling you up from the chair.

Matt, the man at the top of your don’s payroll, was smart enough to wait until you’re both outside to ask; “What did you do?”

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

Carol Danvers:

Her hand is a constant reminder at any small bit of exposed skin. Sliding their way to what little space was between your shirt and pants. Gently past your hair to the back of your neck for a conversation. And now, even at a formal event, her too hot fingers rest on your forearm. Standing next to you but having yet to involve herself in the conversation.

Her never leaving presence was supposed to be a threat. “Stay in your lane, do your job, pretty girl. Nothing will happen to you, Carol won’t let anything happen to you.” The big boss had said as the strong blonde stood close to you.

It’s hard to see Carol as a threat when all she’s done is protect you. More then once her hand grabbed the wrist of someone ghosting over your backside. Getting close enough her fire breath whispered in your ear to not go with somebody or to get ready to duck, even just saying “take off your heels” and you keep the smile but lose the shoes.

The smart part of you knows she a threat, but the reasonable part believes she may also be more.

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theeternalspace · 5 years

Text

walls that we repainted white 1/1

I had been in the Sanders Sides fandom for a little while before I started posting my own work. I read fanfics, I reblogged art. I even worked up the courage to speak to a few of you and made a wonderful friend in the form of @jittery-glittery

Thanks to her encouragement, a year ago today, I posted the first chapter of what would become the ongoing epic The Consequences of Sound. Without Flo, I don't think I would ever have posted a word. (Another chapter is going up later tonight)

I made more friends, I gradually started talking to other fanders and making friends like the awesome @i-will-physically-fight-you (who very kindly stepped in and let me break her heart while she checked my tenses for this ficlet) or the sweet and funny @romanticsanders. To name only a fraction of the lovely people I'm proud to know. I love you all and I wish I could list more but then this would be nothing but a list because I am so blessed.

I also want to talk to a whole lot more of you and maybe one day I'll work up the courage. Social anxiety is hard as we all know.

Anyway, I wanted to do something special to celebrate my one year anniversary writing as well as still a little stunned that it had been a year already.

So I give you angst! Terrible, terrible angst. This is part of a story I've wanted to write for a very long time now and is in fact from the middle of the plot. It would eventually have a happy ending but there isn't one here. If this gets a good response I will have to write the rest but I just needed to get this part out of my head right now.

You could also call this chapter one of a story with the history planned in flashbacks, should I continue it...

walls that we repainted white

Genre: Angst. Hurt, no comfort. Miscommunication to the max.

Word Count: 2.7k

Pairing: Virgil/Roman. Human Au.

Warnings: Past injuries, hospital mentions, miscommunication, possible brain trauma.

Story and tag list below the cut!

walls that we repainted white

The clock on the wall was ticking.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

So loud that for a moment it was all that Virgil could hear, the steady monotonous tone of tick, tick, tick. It was even louder than his own heartbeat and he tried to time his own breathing to the beat, tried to will his racing heart to calm down. He needed to be calm but the only problem was that it felt impossible to be calm right now.

Not with Roman in the room with him, the other man examining the dirty plates in his sink as though they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in his whole life. Virgil felt his skin crawl, able to imagine all the thoughts that had to be running through the redhead’s mind as he stared at the evidence of Virgil’s laziness, of his disgusting life habits. Virgil knew he should have cleaned up, housework was a good way of gently exercising without pushing himself too much because there was always a comfortable surface whenever he got tired. It was a good workout for his brain as well, something slightly more mentally taxing than a mere walk, could he remember where everything went, could he put it all away without breaking anything?

Virgil had gone for a walk instead, had ignored all the not so subtle advice of his doctors and wandered out in the middle of the day without his phone.

He could see it sitting on the counter next to the dishes. It lit up as though on command, a text from Patton flashing up on the screen. The brief moment of light was enough to show him that he had multiple texts and missed calls from various friends. There are a few from a number that had no name attached, but Virgil knew the number off by heart.

He might have deleted Roman's contact info from his phone, but he had never gotten around to actually blocking him completely. Perhaps some part of him had wanted to know if Roman would care, if he would try and contact him or if he would let the friendship wither and die now that he revealed himself as the fair weather friend Roman really was.

He should block him completely. If only it was that easy in real life, if only he could press a button and not have to deal with Roman, never have to look at his stupid smug beautiful face ever again. Never have to hear him sing or the musical way in which he said his name. In Roman’s voice, his name became almost magical, imbued with far more power than it really possessed. Virgil often felt as though he could have committed any wondrous feat with the energy of Roman saying his name.

Now Virgil never wanted to hear it again. Not his voice, not his name. He wanted to block and hide Roman from his own memory and never be confronted by the inconvenient truth of Roman ever again.

Snap him out of existence.

No, not that. Virgil didn't want Roman to stop existing. His brush with the blind fury of fate had given him a new appreciation for life in any form. No matter how spiteful he might feel towards other people - and spite still made up about eighty percent of his thoughts - he wouldn't wish even his worst enemy to go through what he had done.

None of that changed the fact that despite deleting his number and ignoring him, Roman hadn't taken the hint. Strange considering Roman had ignored him first.

Apparently Roman not only tried to call but also tracked him down. Question answered. It didn't settle him - in fact it did rather the opposite, it set him on edge, made him stand stiff and to attention, aches and pains creasing deeper into his body and soul. His body was still so broken, held together by tape, determination and spite.

Virgil was so tired. The clock was ticking. They were breathing, both of them rather heavily and Virgil knew why he was so worn out and lost for breath but he couldn't start to guess what Roman had been up to, in order to warrant such heavy breathing. It was almost as though the other man had been running around although there was no reason for him to do such a thing, especially in the middle of the day.

He shifted a little, the crutch handle feeling slick with sweat under his fingers. It had been warm in the sun, so warm and Virgil had perhaps pushed himself further than he should in his impatience to be normal again.

To be whole.

It was as though he had run a mile instead of a small walk around the block. Logan would be terribly disappointed in him, but at the same time Logan should have known better than to expect anything better from the mess of a person that Virgil was stuck being. He hated the weakness that ran through his mind and body. An invisible crack on his soul that was breaking him further and further apart to go with all the physical damage that the... incident had caused him.

All his fault. The incident, the sleep that followed, the damage that he had to carry around on his back for the foreseeable future. Possibly for the rest of his life and Virgil could at least appreciate that the doctor hadn’t beat around the bush, hadn’t tried to sugar coat the pill or wrap the truth up in lies. He had been honest, brutality so, and Virgil hadn’t told Patton about those conversations.

Or Roman, but then he had no intention of ever sharing that information with Roman. He had no intention of ever speaking to Roman again and yet - and yet here they were in his kitchen, staring at the remains of last night's meal on dirty plates that festered in his sink. Virgil wasn’t ready to tell Patton either, but that was because he knew Patton would cry, would hug him and be so supportive. He would break Virgil with his kindness and Virgil would let it happen. Anything to try and make Patton feel better, even if it ripped Virgil’s soul apart in the process.

Logan, he strongly suspected, knew. Logan who was too smart for his own good, who had seen charts and overheard snippets of conversation, who knew all the medical jargon. Logan who would never bring it up first because of all the emotions that swirled around the topic.

At least Virgil could always count on Logan to want to avoid anything with unpleasant feelings because he didn’t know how to properly express them. His friend had emotions, felt more deeply than he would ever willingly admit to, but right now, Virgil couldn’t help but feel selfishly glad that he struggled to share them because it meant he got to avoid talking about it for a little while longer. The diagnoses swam in his mind, the words thick and black behind his eyelids with every slow blink.

Possible brain damage.

Tick. Tick.

“Virgil.”

His name sounded as though it has been spoken underwater, distorted and distant. Some part of Virgil wasn’t even sure if he heard it. Maybe he had just imagined it. He imagined a lot of things lately, his brain slipping like a disconnected call, the handset just gently humming to nothing and nobody.

A low level static where all manner of things could lurk.

His whole body was aching, screaming out as if on fire and begging him to sit down, to take the weight off. Virgil didn’t move though. He couldn't, not while Roman was in the room with him, not while he had to remain strong. As soon as Roman left, Virgil could collapse, could give in to the pain. He was long overdue another dose of medication, something his body was only too keen on reminding him. Virgil didn't know how much longer he could remain on his feet. The blackness of unconsciousness was calling to him.

It wasn't fair. He had spent so much time unconscious, nothing but a body in a bed and now that he was finally awake, he wanted to do nothing but sleep. More time forever lost.

Humpty Dumpty had a big fall.

Virgil didn’t understand why Roman was here at all, why he had belatedly decided to care.

When they had first met, Virgil dismissed him as a vain, shallow excuse of a man, someone who cared only for the illusion of the moment, who was delighted by the splendour, by the fireworks and emotion but not the hard work that came with anything real. At the first sign of trouble, Virgil had expected Roman to fade into the background. To some extent, he had been confounded by his own expectations.

Once, in the early days of knowing Roman, Virgil had been ranting to Patton and described him as nothing more than a vain crack of words with no substance behind them.

Later, Virgil had been ashamed of that first opinion, at being so quick to judge him after so long of being judged himself.

Now it seemed as though he had been right all along. The moment things had gotten hard - really hard, in a way none of them could have predicted - Roman had bailed. As though he had been the one with a parachute and all of Virgil’s other friends had hit the ground in the form of an uncomfortable hospital chair.

Didn't he already know that all the king's horses and all the king's men had failed to slot him back into place? Sending the prince after they already failed seemed like a fools errand because there was nothing else to be done for either of them.

“Well? What do you want?” He snapped, feeling the rage rise so swiftly and Virgil didn't want to do this. He didn't want to stand here in his kitchen, he didn't want to pick a fight with someone he had once thought was his friend, who he had once hoped could be something more.

Then again, he hadn’t wanted to lose seven weeks of his life to a hospital bed so it seemed as if what he might want was nothing more than another dream to go with all the other lost ones.

Tick.

“Virgil,” Roman tried again, his face pinched and sharp. Idly, Virgil wondered if that was the face Roman pulled whenever he tasted citrus fruit. He had always claimed the taste of lemons or limes were too unpleasant for him, that the sharpness cut through any other flavour, overpowering and ruining it.

That should have been Virgil’s first clue that his daydreams were simply not to be.

He was nothing but sour, nothing but tart.

How could he have ever possibly thought he would fit into the sweet honeyed world that Roman inhabited?

They were two different beings and they might as well have belonged to two different races for all that they had in common. It had been a miracle, a wonder, that they had gotten along for as long as they had, that they had been able to be friends for a little while at least before the shards of what they had dared to try to be rained down on them.

Still, he always just assumed that the crash would be his fault. That Virgil would do or say something unforgivable because he was good at that after all.

He hadn't expected to be abandoned by Roman when he was at his weakest, that the moment he had opened up and risked his heart by telling him how he really felt. It hadn't been the way he had wanted to tell him or any of the various ways he had imagined finally working up the courage to confess but that still didn't explain why Roman had been so cruel about it, why he had turned coward and run when Virgil had admitted his feelings.

Maybe if he had done it in a more romantic way, Roman wouldn't have crushed his heart so casually. Virgil had never thought Roman would be the type to take an offered heart and stab it with a needle. He would have thought Roman would let him down gently if he ever told him. He had pictured Roman being sweet and charmed and flattered before regretfully telling Virgil that it was never going to work between them.

Virgil never entertained any real hope that Roman might have liked him back, he knew life was no fairy tale.

Nobody was going to fall in love with the urchin child in the corner, the scowling, angry boy who was lost. Nobody was going to rescue him from his tower, nobody was going to search a whole kingdom looking for him based on one fragment of himself that he had left behind.

And nobody was going to kiss him awake.

He was already awake, in a world he no longer understood. Awake. He needed to stay awake. Just a little longer. Virgil blinked, the world snapping back into focus. The clock on his wall was ticking.

Tick. Tick.

“-ied. I was looking all over for you.”

Roman looked at him after he finishes speaking as though he expects - as though he expects something. Exactly what, Virgil doesn’t know. An explanation? An apology? His words sounded as though he had said a lot, a whole speech and that was what Roman was good at after all. Saying all the right things to get what he wanted without worrying about the damage he left in his wake. He had smiled and said all the right things to Virgil, he had caught him hook, line and sinker.

Until eventually he was done playing with him and had tossed him back into the sea. Now the siren was back, and had Roman changed his mind? Decided he wanted to keep Virgil dancing to his tune for a little longer? Didn't he know that Virgil no longer knew how to dance?

Virgil was just so tired. Too tired to try and soften the blow for Roman, far too tired to come up with a nicer way to say what he was thinking. The words that he had heard slice into his heart and soul, cut open a wound that has never even started to heal. Virgil can't even start to piece together what Roman might have said before because all he can focus on is the hypocrisy of what little he heard.

Roman hadn't cared to find him when Virgil had been still and silent in his hospital bed. He hadn't cared when Virgil had needed him and more importantly when the others had needed him. It was one thing to abandon Virgil - he had been unconscious, blissfully oblivious to the betrayal. It was quite another to do the same to their friends, to leave Logan, Patton and Remy struggling to hold themselves together. If nothing else, Roman should have been there for them.

He lifted his head, mismatched eyes meeting Roman’s gaze, his own for once focused, sharp and boiling. The rage had to be visible because Virgil no longer cared about hiding it. There was a lot he didn't care about anymore, lost under misery and the rising pain of his injuries. Roman needed to leave, because Virgil really didn't know how much longer he could hold on and he was damned if he would pass out in front of him.

Roman flinched before he actually spoke, almost as though he could peer into all the broken pieces that made up Virgil's psyche and see the storm that was brewing there. He still looked worried, almost concerned for Virgil and that makes him want to laugh until he cried. It was far too late for Roman to be playing that role again. The clock on the wall was ticking, his life draining away in relentless little seconds.

Tick. Tick.

Tick.

“I’ve been sitting still for nearly two months Ro... how hard did you look?”

General Tag List;

Send a message if you would like to be added to my general fic tag list however, please, please be aware that I use my general tag list for snippets, abandoned ideas, deleted scenes etc as well as actual complete chapters so make sure that is what you want to see from me.

@jittery-glittery @applecannibal @cookiethedevil @i-will-physically-fight-you@jemthebookworm @4amanxiety @plaid-purple-patches

#sanders sides #fic #virgil sanders #roman sanders #human au #fiction #aca writes #a whole year #who would have thought it #walls that we repainted white #long post

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