#like its been teetering on the edge of a cliff for months now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mrpenguinpants · 3 years

Text

Venti: First Meeting and Friendship HCs

First Meeting HCs

————————————————————

The god of freedom certainly lived up to the title. A truly free spirit who only wished the same for others. He shaped the many hills and cliffs of Mondstadt with his own hand, and graciously bestowed his powers unto those he deemed worthy. And yet…there he sat - teetering on the edge of a barstool, completely and utterly intoxicated.

The red-head manning the bar rolls his eyes at the sorry display the archon was creating, and resumes cleaning the glass in his hand. However as a bell rings out - signaling a new patron - he looks up.

You enter the famed “Angels Share”, the best tavern in Mondstadt - or so you’ve been told. Really, you’ll decide that for yourself - is what you think as you slide into an empty seat at the bar. Eager to unwind after a long day of adventuring, you order your drink and attempt to relax.

But really, your night didn’t end how you’d hoped at all. You ended up with a loud and incredibly clingy bard hanging off of your shoulder spouting barely comprehensible rhymes and poems. You would’ve found amusement in the spectacle if you weren’t so tired. Shrugging him off did no good, as he was surprisingly strong for someone so small.

Thankfully, you got your sweet freedom as the bartender cut him off for the night, presenting the smaller boy with the shockingly large bill. A wave of pity washes over you as his face drops at the number.

He laughs awkwardly, attempting to convince the bartender that he could pay by other means, but the stoic man only sighs, trying to explain to the drop-dead drunk bard that he cannot keep the tavern open with “songs and sonnets”.

Really you were quite done with your failed attempt at relaxation - wanting to go home and just sleep the night away. Sliding a bag of Mora across the counter you state that it should be enough to cover both of your tabs. That was essentially all you’d earned via commission today, though, you can’t really find a reason to be mad about the extra expenditure. Helping people out - that’s just what you do. You don’t look twice as you exit the bar, though you feel a pair of eyes on your hooded figure as the door swings shut.

And that was that - you never saw the drunken bard again. Or so you thought. As the very next day you spotted him out of the corner of your eye while scouting around a Hilichurl camp, but as soon as you looked he was gone. And then that very same evening as you sat down for dinner at Good Hunter. Then several times over the next few days.

It was ticking you off, not just the fact that you had pretty much obtained a stalker, but the extra stress he brought with him as you now had to worry about his well being on top of yours during battle. You even started taking less dangerous commissions to further guarantee his safety. You didn’t really know or like the guy, but you certainly didn’t want him hurt, or worse; dead.

And by that point he wasn’t even trying to hide or disguise himself - trailing a few feet behind you nearly everywhere you went, drawing perplexed gazes from the townsfolk as you wandered from store to store for supplies. You were trying your best to keep your composure - to pretend he wasn’t even there in the first place - but the longer the charade went on the more cracks that appeared in your mask.

You didn’t mean to snap at him, honestly, but you were tired of putting up with a complete stranger following you around for no good reason - so you yelled at him. Right there in the middle of the market, the bard stood stunned - taken aback by your sudden outburst. He recovered quickly of course, smiling up/down at you like he hadn’t just been shouted at in clear view of the publics eye.

He hastily explains his actions, identifying himself as Venti - a travelling bard seeking inspiration for his next story. That night in the bar, he had been there lamenting - drowning his sorrows in wine over his recent pieces. They were all lacking ingenuity - a certain bit of flair that makes a story truly unforgettable. And that’s where you came in. You had caught his attention with your selfless act of generosity, so much so that it had given him that spark he he had been searching for. So naturally, he followed that spark - hoping it would continue to present him with the same creativity as before.

As you listen to his reasoning, the initial anger you felt mellows. You’re more than relieved that he’s not actually a creepy stalker, just a bard looking for inspiration.

Apologizing sheepishly for your actions, you scratch the back of your head. In that moment it was impossible to look into the boys eyes. You felt bad, truly. You had misread the situation entirely - thought it wasn’t all your fault. If the bard had simply approached you in the first place this whole fiasco could’ve all been avoided.

As you voice these thoughts to Venti he hums in understanding. He returns your apology with one of his own - bowing deeply with his beret in hand - shocking you and the few random townsfolk still paying attention to the scene.

Deeply embarrassed by the confused gazes the bard was drawing to them, you hastily accept his apology, tugging your hood further down to hide your hot face. Honestly the idea of just running away from the situation sounded quite appealing, but instead you restrain the urge - opting to walk past the boy as quick as possible.

Just as your shoulders brush, a hand latches onto your wrist - stopping your escape in its tracks. This time it’s Ventis turn to look sheepish, as he officially asks to accompany you on your exploits. He offers you entertainment and conversation, as well as any other skills he may or may not have - the latter only serving to confuse rather than convince you.

“Your journey would be far more enjoyable with a skilled bard such as myself by your side. Perhaps you would even allow me to write a ballad of your conquests?”

It’s not entirely uncommon for a bard to travel with an adventurer for inspiration, you suppose to yourself. Though you’re still more than a bit apprehensive on the matter. It’s not that you don’t want his company - really it does get quite lonely alone out on the road - it’s simply his safety that concerns you. But upon voicing this Venti simply chuckles, exclaiming that he’s much stronger than his appearance lets on.

Now - with no real reason to refuse - you accept his offer, earning a cheer from the bard. And so your joint journey began - you and Venti against whatever tasks or monsters needed tackling.

Friendship HC

————————————————————

It goes without saying that if you didn’t have a vision before, you certainly have one now. Within the first week in fact. Waking up in the early hours of the day to a soft blue glowing vision beside your head was not something you ever thought you’d experience - but of course you’re not complaining.

Upon shaking the bard awake to show him your discovery he only gives a rather tame reaction - as if he already knew you had it.

“Hmm? You woke up to a vision by your side? My, my - what luck you seem to possess! Perhaps now you may go into battle with less distress.”

Travelling with Venti is never dull, as he fills the silence with stories of old - tales of the long deserted original city of Mondstadt, the creation of the seven nations themselves and other obscurities that you don’t remember hearing about in any history book. Often times he interrupts his own story to spill his own hot take on a major historical figure or deity - hearing him call Andrius a “mother hen in denial” had you spit out your drink. His storytimes often end with you wondering how exactly someone so young would have knowledge of times long gone. He always shrugs it off, quickly changing the subject with a smile filled with secrets. For a boy so young he talks as if he’s been around for centuries.

Any looming worries over his well being are quickly dismissed once you see him fight. His nimble fingers and sharp eyes shoot down all matter of foes in rapid succession, and his skills at utilizing anemo are completely unparalleled. Really, you’re left wondering how he’s not the adventurer here.

You will absolutely fall victim to his pranks there’s nothing you can do about it. Whether it’s the wind blowing your cloak around in your face, extra jueyun chilies in your food or a slime condensate down the back of your shirt - you cannot escape the impish bards mischievous side. It’s when he suddenly falls quiet that you have to worry. A silent Venti is a scheming Venti.

However this is not a one-sided deal at all, he welcomes - no, insists - that you prank him back. He doesn’t want you to be left out of the fun after all! So get him back for that frog he put in your pack, or the time he kept pushing air currents in your direction so you couldn’t land your glider. Really; the more creative the better. If you’re able to prank him successfully he’ll laugh with you as you celebrate, praising you for your victory. But be warned that his next scheme will be twice as good as yours.

If you ever need a break from his shenanigans, go hang out with a cat. He won’t approach you while the animal is around, however he will be pouting up a storm from a distance.

You’ve gotten to discover many quirks of the bard clad in green over time, like how the tips of his hair seem to glow brighter when he’s in a good mood - especially when he laughs, and that he’s completely repulsed by cheese. If he ever bothers you too much you can get him back by chasing him while holding the stuff. Some of that nasty, stinky stuff Sara has at Good Hunter should do the trick. Mind you that the boy is incredibly spry - so good luck keeping up.

Eventually, he ends up revealing his true identity to you after the guilt of lying begins to eat away at his heart - making it harder to keep up his persona. Really he’d wanted to tell you for months at that point, but a lingering feeling of apprehension - a worry that you may no longer see him the same way - kept holding him back.

“Y/N, I wish to tell you a truth I’ve been hiding. You see…in reality, I am Lord Barbatos.”

“…”

“That…actually explains so much…”

He’s relieved to find that nothing has changed between the two of you after his revelation. You still treat him like Venti the bard, just as you always have. It’s a weight off his shoulders to be sure, and you can tell his overall mood has improved too.

It’s still kind of shocking when he switches to “Barbatos mode”, as you’ve taken to calling it. Spouting bars of philosophical gibberish at the most random of times leaves you blinking in utter confusion and often times just hurts your brain.

At the end of the day, the God of freedom is incredibly lonely. The best way to describe it is that he’s detached - he’s out of touch with his ever-changing homeland and the people that reside in it. Only ever appearing to handle a major problem or calamity at hand and then sending himself into a deep slumber for hundreds of years.

Waking up each time is like mental whiplash for the poor god, as he sees towns rise and fall, people come and go and things change again just he’s beginning to get used them. It takes a toll on him - though he won’t let anyone see that.

He craves companionship and the feeling of belonging that comes with it more than anything. Placing unconditional trust in someone else, backing them up when the goings get tough and having them do the same in return. Providing a shoulder to lean on in moments of weakness and being so comfortable that breathing easy becomes the simplest thing in the world. That’s what he wants. Barbatos may not be human but his vessel is.

That’s why Barbatos cherishes his friendship with you so much. He knows you - like all other humans - have a finite amount of time in this world. In time, wrinkles will adorn your face, and strands of silvery gray will appear in your hair. You bones will ache as age seeps into your body. And yet he will experience no such afflictions - forever wearing the face of a young boy from another time. Ever ageless, frozen in time.

The dull ache that spreads through his chest at the thought of watching the one who he considers his closest friend wither away in front of him is…crushing. Even though he knows your time alive is brief, and that your death would only cause him more pain - he can’t stop himself.

He’ll spend nearly every day by your side, telling you tales of yore, pulling pranks and practical jokes, covering your back in battle and being there when you need it most. He wants you to experience the land and all its freedoms. He wants you to get the most out of what little time you have in such a vast and expansive world.

You’re the closest friend he’s had since the real Venti - and he sees bits of him in you too. You help fill the gaping hole of loneliness in his chest - one stemming from a millennia of duty and repressed guilt.

He knows you’ll eventually leave him, and one day hopefully he’ll come to terms with that. But for now, he’s content with you by his side, racing off into whatever dangers lie ahead.

————————————————————

This turned out so much longer that I thought it would I’m so sorry ;-;

I know you said all you wanted were headcannons but I think I went a lil too far…ok ALOT too far

I had fun though…so thanks for giving me something to work on!

—

No need to feel sorry! I loved it so much. Headcanons, fics, whatever you want^^ I stan talent and you have it 💕💕

I don’t know if you lads remember but when I was struggling over Venti HCs, this was the friend I asked for crumbs of inspiration that ended up giving me an entire fic. I went absolutely feral over it and wanted to share it with you all.

So thank you to @fulltimeventisimp [alt account] for your beautiful work and feeding us all Venti crumbs. I swear to god, if there is a Venti re-run and you don’t get 6 venti’s in one 10 roll it’s time to riot.

[No worries about tags]

Also, I know this isn’t my work but I’m going to tag you all in this

@mikeysbike @unionwitch @musekala @sunnshiii @stanzastic @akaasea @xoneaboveallx @adoring-ghost @asheseiler @childelover @dilucsz @dai-tsukki-desu @thicmitten @nonniechan @htnicayh @genshins1mpact @morthecreator @aanne2601 @aklxojjk @hanniejji

341 notes · View notes

galaxysgal · 3 years

Text

No Hard Feelings, Right? || Frankie Morales

Pairing: Frankie Morales x gn!reader

Summary: You and Frankie are sharing a tent on a mission. This leads to classic cuddling for warmth, and a small confession in the form of a kiss.

Warnings: swearing, typos probablu

A/N: hi i would just like to say that im in love with francisco morales. big thanks to jim for encouraging me to write this :)) the gif makes this look like its angst lol, i promise its pure fluff, I just picked that gif bc of the rain

Wordcount: 1.334

gif by @pascalplease

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx

You've never been one for dramatics, but as you endure the last half hour of your shift on watch for the boys you're pretty sure that your fingers and toes have all frozen beyond repair. You watch the rain drip down the edge of your makeshift shelter, pulling your windbreaker tighter around you. Well, not your windbreaker. It's Frankie's, he had handed it off to you with a smile when you came to relieve him of his position on watch.

"Here," he says, stripping off his coat and handing it to you.

"No, Frankie I can't-"

"Take it," he insists, going so far as to drape it around your shoulders.

Every second that passes it gets harder for you to say no. "You'll be cold," your protest is weak, but you don't want him freezing to death in that tent with Santi before you can come join him.

"I'll be fine, Santi's a human heater." He chuckles and squeezes your arm, "you need it more than I do."

His smile was gentle and genuine, and deep down you know you could never say no to him. So you give in.

Now you're wearing Frankie's windbreaker. It smells ever so faintly of the cologne he often wears, this mission not yet having covered it up with the stink of mud and sweat. You're immensely grateful that you'll be sharing a tent with Frankie when this shift is finally over. Sure, Santi was a human heater, but with him it was sterile. You had laid back to back, huddled under the one thin blanket you had. And of course a bit of your gratitude is due to your long time crush on the sweet, scruffy pilot. You can't help it, really. Who wouldn't fall for him?

The sound of footsteps draws you attention and your hand gravitates to your gun as you listen closer. You know the boys' walking patterns by heart, a trick you've learned after months of working together. You recognize the footsteps to be Santi's and you let your guard back down with a sigh.

"You good?" he asks, eyes flitting down to where your hand has just drawn away from your gun.

You nod, scooting aside in the shelter so he can get out of the rain. "Yeah, just thought you were cartel for a second."

"Alright, you're dismissed kid," he claps you on the shoulder before sitting down on the rock the lean-to was built around. "Get some sleep, we set out at dawn."

"Aye aye, Garcia," you respond with a grin.

"Hey," he calls out after you. "And no funny business in that tent, you hear me?"

You turn bright red, grateful for the darkness to hide it. Santi knows about your feelings, you had stupidly confided in him one night a few weeks ago when you were drunk off your ass. You don't exactly regret it, though. Santi's a good listener, and he knows Frankie better than just about anyone else. You flip him the bird before turning on your heel and popping up the hood of Frankie's coat, hurrying back to the tent.

When you duck inside you see by dim light that Frankie's up, leaning back on his palms with the blanket pooled around his waist. You can just barely see the glint of his dog tags outside his shirt, resting against his sturdy chest. Fuck, the things this man does to your heart.

"Santi woke me up," he tells you, but you can't find even the slightest hint of sleep in his warm voice.

"What'd he do, step on you?" you ask with a playful smile.

He shrugs in return as you crouch down beside him, rubbing your hands together. "Yeah, something like that."

You can feel his eyes on you as you pull off your mud drenched shoes. Your hands are shaking and the laces are giving you hell. "You're shivering," he observes, his tone gentle.

"No shit, 'Cisco," you reply, no real malice in your tone. You can never be mad at Frankie, he's too sweet. Even when he's done something to legitimately puss you off like steal your sandwich, when he throws that goddamn smile your way, you melt.

You finally get your boots off with a triumphant yelp and Frankie chuckles. You hear him shuffling around as you lay down, leaving a good few inches of space between you and him. But before you can even close your eyes, Frankie protests.

"Oh hell no, we are not doing this like Santi did. Come on, scooch closer." Your stomach flips when you move closer, your hand brushing his wrist. "Jesus! Your hands are like ice!"

"Sorry," you apologize, tucking your arm up against your body. It had only been an instant, but when your fingers had brushed his skin you could have cried at how warm he was.

"No, no, c'mere," he murmurs, his hand reaching over and landing on your waist. "I can't have you freezing to death."

Before you can protest, his strong hands have flipped you over so you're laying halfway on top of him. His chest is warm and sturdy underneath you, the smell of his cologne faint but present, and intoxicating as hell. You can't help but tense up as he finishes fixing the blanket over you.

His arms wrap around your back, holding you in place. "Relax," he murmurs, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "We're professionals-" "Professionals?" you echo with a small laugh.

"Yeah, professionals." You can hear the smile in his voice. "We can cuddle for warmth without any hard feelings, right?"

"Right…" you answer, but your voice is small. You're scared of how close he is, how easy it would be to get used to this.

"Sleep well," Frankie murmurs.

As nervous as you are, exhaustion begins to tug at your eyelids. You're slipping closer and closer to sleep with every passing second. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you is so comforting, the embrace of his arms so warm. The effort to stay awake is nearly dizzying, and finally you give in.

Then, teetering on the edge of the cliff of unconsciousness, you feel it. Frankie's lips press against your forehead, gentle but firm. "I don't know what I'm gonna do with you sweetheart." You tense, and so does Frankie. "Fuck- I thought you were asleep."

You push yourself up onto your forearms, looking into his eyes in the dim light. He looks so small underneath you, so nervous. Nothing like the Frankie you know. Those deep brown eyes are wide, unblinking. They lock with yours. Neither of you are able to look away.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" he starts, but you shush him.

"Shut up Francisco, I liked it."

"You-" he's shocked, sitting up and leaning back on his palms. "You did? I didn't fuck things up?"

You sit up too, knees on either side of his thighs. Your hands come to rest on his chest and you can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. "Yeah, I liked it."

"And… would you want me to do it again?" he raises an eyebrow, still clearly nervous. That's what you love so much about him. He's sweet, a true gentleman. That's what sets him apart. Any of the other boys would've already gone in for the kiss, no questions asked. But Frankie… he's different. He's a little quiet, a little reserved.

You reach out to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. "Yeah, I'd like that," you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "And do it for real this time," you add with a smile.

"As you wish."

His lips meet yours, velvet soft and warm just like the rest of him. Your eyes close instantly and you bring your hand to the back of his neck, fingers playing with the hairs at his nape. The kiss is unlike any you could have ever imagined, gentle and sweet. You feel like, to him, you are precious.

End.

Tagging: @tinyphantomsalad

#francisco morales x reader #frankie 'catfish' morales x reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier #mags writes

99 notes · View notes

fiddlepickdouglas · 3 years

Text

Viva Las Vegas, Pt. 17 - With Him

Summary: Sunset Curve Alive AU, Willex, how will it go in the end?, 4.8k

@trevor-wilson-covington is the bestie who makes these lovely edits, we stan supportive friends

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16

One finger tapped on the strap of his fanny pack as Alex listened for the right bus stop to be called. If all those months since he’d seen Willie had been long, this past week had been longer. Especially since the news about Caleb had hit hard and every minute in the studio now felt like the band was precariously teetering on the edge of a cliff. He was going to try not to let any of that get in his way today, though. He’d made it to Saturday and Willie was only a few streets away, and he didn’t care what happened for the rest of the day - it was going to be good.

Finally he heard the next stop announced for where he needed to get off and he pulled the cord that told the driver to make a stop. Stepping onto the sidewalk, his heart bounced around in its chamber like the Tazmanian devil from Looney Tunes. He was glad that Willie lived in the basement of the apartment building he occupied because it would’ve been the worst if Alex forgot which room he was in and spent hours frantically knocking doors.

It was hard to tell if he was moving quickly or if his mind was just racing, but in either case, he eventually found himself at the door. For a second, he simply took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair, trying to get a visual of Willie immediately pouncing on him the moment the door opened out of his head. It wouldn’t exactly be unwelcome, but Alex was realizing how desperate he was to be with him and was amazed at how it affected his imagination.

Lifting a hand, he made sure he knocked loudly. Soon after, the door opened, and Alex was greeted with shining brown eyes, silky, gorgeous brown hair styled into two braids, and a smile he could make home in. Willie.

“Hey, come on in!” Willie was saying, standing to the side and gesturing for him to enter. Crossing the threshold, Alex gazed at the humble space, taking in the details with heightened interest. “This is mi casa!” He began showing Alex around. “We’ve got the main living space, very cozy. The kitchen to your left, but no dining room so it’s all criss-cross applesauce on the floor - makes it extra chill. Bathroom through the back. The sink and shower handles will sometimes shock you, so don’t mind all the electrical tape.”

It was surprisingly accommodating for a dingy basement, and Willie had already made little additions that spoke volumes about him without words. A king size mattress sat in the corner of the ‘main living space’ on the floor with a small bookshelf beside it. The bookshelf only had a handful of cassette tapes and a Walkman lying on top, with a few sketchbooks on the middle shelf. Next to that, the dresser had a small collection of vintage soda bottles and a camera sitting on its surface. Glow-in-the-dark star stickers covered the ceiling above the bed. Even a couple cat toys could be spotted on the floor. Immediately, Alex approached the area where Willie’s desk sat surrounded by sketches hung on the wall.

“So these are your drawings?” he asked, although the answer was obvious. They were so good. Willie followed him over, the squinty smile still in his eyes.

“Yeah. Some are new. Most of them are attempts to recover what Caleb tore up.”

Alex looked at Willie apologetically, even though the loss of Willie’s previous work wasn’t his fault. Without warning, a pressure on his leg and the sound of loud purring announced Sheldon’s presence. The cat looked up at him and blinked slowly, already begging for attention. Heart melting, Alex bent down to pet him.

“Hey, Sheldon,” he said. “I forgot how cute you were!” He smiled as Sheldon rubbed his head against his hand with more affection that he’d likely seen from any other creature on the planet. Well...maybe there was one other that matched it. Alex had heard about how pets could take on the temperament of their owners, and suspected this was a clear example. “He’s gotten so big since I last saw him.”

“Yeah, he’s supposed to be almost two years old, if Escobar guessed his age right.”

Standing again as Sheldon pattered off, Alex returned his attention to the wall of art, looking at the pieces more closely.

“So which one is your dad?” he mused.

Willie untacked one of them and held it out for Alex to examine. “This one.”

Holding the edges carefully, Alex gazed in amazement at the detail Willie had caught. The edges were certainly less defined, but the scene inside the truck was so easy to visualize that Alex could almost feel the leather of the seats and the windchill from the window. He wasn’t sure what began burning in his chest as he peered down at the image, but it was profound and complex.

“I’ve thought about seeing if I could find him, but I think with my memory it’s kind of impossible,” Willie told him.

“He looks so happy here. I don’t get why you would end up as a foster kid.”

“Yeah, I wondered that too. Maybe he didn’t have a choice?”

Alex looked at Willie’s face, and he could tell half of him was lost in a world of what-ifs and other questions. He was always trying to seem so easy-going, and to an extent he truly was, but he couldn’t hide the constant sense of upheaval that rested on his shoulders. At least, Alex was picking up on it more, now that he knew the things he did. He may have been biased, but he couldn’t imagine anyone not fighting their hardest to keep Willie.

Suddenly his gaze was drawn to the unfinished work on the desk, and recognized it as a portrait of himself.

“Wow.” The word fell out of his mouth.

“Oh,” Willie started with a hint of shyness. “Obviously that one isn’t done, so…” He reached to put it away.

“You got that far off of memory, though,” Alex said. “I’m impressed. And you make me look good.” He offered an encouraging smile. “Maybe some time today I could be a model for you?”

Willie cocked his eyebrow, surprise and playfulness making an adorable combination on his face. It made Alex’s smile grow wider.

“Well, we’ve got a whole day ahead,” Willie said. “Your wish is my command.”

“Okay,” Alex said, leaning onto his back foot casually, one side of his lip curling with intrigue. “Well, I wanna see where you go around here. You seem to have a knack for finding the best spots. We can play it by ear.”

“What’s that one song with the one phrase?” Willie asked. “‘Any way the wind blows?’” He sang shyly, clearly playing down what Alex could tell was a nice voice.

“Bohemian Rhapsody,” Alex smiled. Willie’s job at the record store was at least giving him a good taste in music. “Don’t worry, you’ll know everything about the classics once you hang out with me enough.”

An emotion flashed in Willie’s eyes and after a moment Alex realized what those words were actually saying. He held his gaze, hoping he could communicate his intentions clearly, unlike the last time they’d seen each other. Willie swallowed, and his expression remained excited as he loaded his backpack and led them out the door, board in hand. Alex followed him, deciding not to question which direction they were going.

First, they made a stop to buy a bunch of apples. In classic Willie fashion, he went to a bodega, and this time he communicated with the cashier in rough Spanish. Alex knew he was showing off, and smirked at the notion that Willie enjoyed impressing him.

“So what do we need these for?” Alex wondered as they left the bodega. “Besides a ton of apples for lunch.”

Willie’s secretive smile made Alex raise an eyebrow.

“It’s a surprise.”

A little while later, they stood before the most unlikely place in all of Los Angeles: a horse barn. Staring at the building as if it loomed fifty feet above him, hands in his pockets, Alex gulped and a lump of dread landed in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh no,” he muttered apprehensively.

“Oh yeah,” Willie said, turning to him with a thrilled grin on his face.

Alex wasn’t exactly afraid of horses...he just had no idea what to do around them and therefore was not sure what to expect from them. Also, he would’ve worn different pants if he’d known this was on the agenda.

“I promise, they’ve got some really chill horses,” Willie tried to ease his nerves. “I’ve gone on this trail enough times. Don’t worry, you’ll know everything about riding once you hang out with me enough.” He winked as he threw back Alex’s line with a sly smile.

Unable to argue, Alex shook his head and used the hand in his pocket to gesture forward, signaling to Willie he was up to the challenge. He watched him practically skip inside and he had to jog to keep up after him. They signed in and then were led to two stalls.

Willie immediately gravitated toward a tall golden-colored mustang stallion with a dark mane, apparently both already familiar and happy to see each other. Alex watched him gently greet and essentially coo at it while comfortably stroking its nose and then feeding it an apple. He longed to have that sort of talent with other creatures, and simultaneously realized that he yearned to receive that same tenderness.

Once the horses were tacked up and one of the instructors had given Alex some brief pointers on how to ride, he found himself following Willie on a trail while mounted on a painted mare. The only philosophy he could adopt out here was to be gentle and not get lost.

“Not so bad, your majesty,” Willie called over to him.

An extremely nervous laugh elicited from Alex’s throat involuntarily, only making Willie laugh in return. Alex rode a little closer so they were nearly side by side on the trail.

“I’ve been here once,” he said. “I think I was about twelve? My mom thought that it would make me change my mind about taking ballet classes. We rode for maybe fifteen minutes before I got so nervous we had to turn back around and go home. Never made it through the full trail.”

“Man, that sucks,” Willie commented. “I didn’t know you did ballet.”

“Yeah, that and a few other types of dance. I was forced to quit a little couple years ago. That’s about when we got serious as a band, so I just found something else to bother my parents with.”

He could see the gears click into place as Willie came to a few conclusions about his parents and gave an emphatic nod.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to learn how to dance. That was the one thing Caleb had promised to teach me. He’s the worst, but he definitely knows how to dance.”

Suddenly, Alex remembered watching Caleb’s movements when he’d served him and the boys at the diner. Of course he could dance; everything had been fluid and smooth. All he could say to that thought was “huh,” at first. Then after a few moments: “I’ll have to teach you one of these days then.”

Willie’s eyes crinkled at the corners, happy at the prospect.

“Yeah, okay! Add that to our to-do list.”

Alex chuckled. They had a to-do list now. He bit his lip as he continued following Willie along the trail. It was a gorgeous day and in this area the sky was so clear compared to further inside the city. Greatly contrasting his experience from years ago, Alex felt himself become much more at ease and felt confident enough to take greater control of his horse. Willie pulled out his camera and snapped a few scenic photos every once in a while.

Eventually, they stopped at an outlook and Alex had to take in an awed breath. The view was clear for miles all around them. Green hills spanned the landscape in every direction with patches of city speckled in between. Even the ocean line was visible from there. How did Willie know how to find these?

“Hey, Alex!” Willie called, lifting his camera. “Say cheese!”

Turning to face him, Alex flashed a genuine smile as Willie captured him atop his horse against the scenery. He was usually pretty camera shy, but this time he really didn’t mind. Keeping memories like this actually felt important to him, unlike the many times he’d been forced to pose with his family at functions he’d also been made to attend. Those occasions had always felt so insincere - less about enjoying the memory and more about trying to prove their status as the polished, functional family everyone aspired to.

He saw Willie dismount for a moment and stretch his legs. Gripping the reins and looking around in uncertainty, Alex realized he’d gotten on before ensuring he could properly get off. Thankfully, Willie noticed and came up to him, hands raised.

“Okay, so just...carefully lift your foot out of the stirrup and swing your leg over toward me,” he instructed. Sucking in a breath hesitantly, Alex did as he said. “Alright, then...here.” Willie offered a hand for Alex to grab so he could slide off with ease. Landing on the ground, he leaned into Willie to gain his balance, and felt a congratulatory pat on his back. It took more restraint than Alex anticipated to not simply wrap his arms around him and sit like that for an indefinite amount of time. They had all day ahead of them; he didn’t need the sudden fear of losing him to derail things out of nowhere.

“Sorry if I look like a wimp about all this,” he said, letting go of his hand.

“Nah, don’t sweat it,” Willie assured him, shaking his head. “This is...this is new.”

His eyes seemed to take Alex in from head to toe and Alex could’ve sworn the charge in the air between them would buzz if they got closer, spark if they made contact. It was almost like that moment in front of Willie’s door the week before. For a few seconds they remained locked in that trance before Willie took hold of the horse’s reins and handed them to Alex.

“Technically this trail could take hours, but I’m guessing this isn’t all you’re interested in today,” he said. “What do you say we stretch our legs a bit and then ride back?”

Looking from the reins in his hand back to Willie, Alex nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Opening his backpack, Willie handed him an apple and then bit down into one of his own. Taking a bite, it was one of the most refreshing apples Alex ever eaten. They walked the horses a little ways and tried to get good pictures of the different views around them. Alex asked to try his hand with the camera and get a few good shots of Willie. He didn’t consider himself a photographer, but he doubted when the photos got developed that they would turn out badly. The way Willie smiled made him seem like he was made of sunlight from the inside out.

As they rode back to the barn, Alex kept replaying those moments where he’d refrained from making a move over in his head. This had been strike two. If he continued on like this, he was going to hate himself for the rest of eternity, he was pretty sure. Was it some weird kind of side effect of the whole ‘Willie come back to life’ thing? Watching him affectionately say goodbye to his horse once they were ready to leave, Alex looked at his own horse and raised a tentative hand up to her nose.

The mare gazed back, patience gleaming in her eyes. He finally set his hand down on her nose and gently rubbed it up and down, smiling a little to himself. This wasn’t so bad. He could do this - it was just a matter of getting through all the barriers he made for himself in his head. Moving his hands from the horse’s nose, he stroked along her neck, and caught Willie smiling at him from the corner of his eye.

“You wanna try feeding her an apple?” he asked.

Thinking for a few seconds, Alex nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Pulling one out of his backpack, Willie placed it in Alex’s palm.

“Alright, so hold it out in front of you like this…” He positioned Alex to offer the apple. “And keep your palm flat.”

Alex uncurled his fingers and after sniffing at it a little the mare ate it out of his hand. He could ignore the sensation of her mouth touching him because Willie still had his arm around his shoulder to hold him steady. They looked at each other, and Alex wished he could get a proper shot at Willie’s face at that angle with the camera.

“Looks like you’re gonna get the hang of this,” Willie commended.

Alex looked back up at the horse, a little bit of pride swelling in his chest. “Yeah, I think I will.”

Later, they went to the beach at Alex’s suggestion. He was perched on the surface of a picnic table, posed as if he were looking off into the distance. Willie sketched with great concentration, having taken his hair out of his braids so he could run his hand through it. The late afternoon sun brought out all the best color contrasts in their surroundings - one of the things Alex loved about coming to the beach at this time of day.

“So I have a question,” Alex started, trying not to move too much. His tendency to talk with his hands kept getting him in trouble.

“Shoot,” Willie prompted him, not looking up.

“Did Caleb let you go to school or anything? Or did he provide any sort of education at all?”

Squinting, Willie looked thoughtful for a moment.

“So, after the accident, he told me that I’d had to be taken out of school,” he began, continuing to sketch. “Which makes sense, I guess, if I forgot everything. I remember some basic things, like math wasn’t hard to pick up again. Once I was recovered enough to go places, he just let me go to the public library and find whatever I wanted to read. But he always insisted on not having reminders of who I was before and said it was supposed to be helping me ‘become my own person’. He got rid of things like my school yearbooks and old journals and things. I didn’t think anything of it at first because he’d just called it useless clutter and I believed him. As soon as he decided I was fit enough to work in the diner and help out at the hotel, he told me to forget about school. Anything else I picked up was from watching TV, or listening to the radio, or something. Sometimes I’ll just remember I know something after hearing about it and it’s like it was just always there.”

Listening intently, Alex marveled at the whole thing. The fact that Caleb was not only negligent, but actively discouraging Willie from knowing anything, made him wish he could take down the man’s whole career. However, he figured Willie probably had a lot of his intelligence still untapped. If he’d been able to get away from Caleb and somehow create a life for himself in the span of a few months, Alex wondered what else he was capable of.

“What’s something you remember?” he wondered.

“I guess I used to be really obsessed with space. Just planets and stars and all that. I can spout off facts about Jupiter’s moons and stuff like that. Did you know that the moon Europa has a saltwater ocean under a layer of ice?”

Alex shook his head. “No, I didn’t. That sounds really cool though.” He thought of the stickers on Willie’s ceiling and smirked a little before reassuming his pose.

“I sort of wish I could remember being in school,” Willie was saying. “Everyone else seems to just share all of those memories and understand each other that way.”

Alex saw his brow furrow, and could tell he felt left out. He pondered on his own experience growing up in public school. There was almost no other way he would’ve met Luke, Bobby and Reggie if they hadn’t all attended the same schools. While he could easily critique and complain about it to no end, he knew it was a privilege.

“School is definitely hard,” he told Willie. “But I did get my friends out of it, and I guess that makes up for it. If it’s any consolation, you could just complain about Caleb like he was your horrible English teacher who thought he knew more about the subject of your essay, but you cited all of your sources and they proved him completely wrong.”

Willie laughed. “Why? Did that happen to you?”

Alex bobbed his head from side to side and feigned looking thoughtful . “Maybe.”

“I kind of like reducing him to a loser English teacher. He just sounds petty and sad.”

“That’s high school,” Alex confirmed.

Leaning back from his work for a minute to take it all in, Willie brushed a hand through his hair.

“Here, you wanna take a look at it?” he said. Alex hopped off the table and went to stand over Willie’s shoulder at the drawing and was immediately rendered speechless. The detail was impeccable, but Alex was more impressed by the feeling he got looking at it. Willie had managed to make him appear...handsome, and pensive, and fascinating, like anyone else could look at him and create a million unique ideas of who he was. However, it wasn’t anyone else looking at him, it was Willie, and what he’d captured felt like the truth. Alex couldn’t really explain what that meant, only that it was an honest representation.

“Okay, I know I said the one back at your place made me look good, but this is...this is unreal.”

He could see Willie trying to be modest, but the corners of his lips couldn’t stay down. Funny enough, he appeared even more unable to find words, and simply beamed as he looked back and forth between his sketch and Alex’s face.

A sudden impulse came over Alex, and he kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it on top of Willie’s skateboard and backpack. Willie sat looking flustered for a moment.

“Wanna swim?” Alex nodded toward the waves, bidding Willie to follow. He didn’t wait for him to catch up as he immediately began running into the waves up to his knees. Alex knew his pants would be even more ruined the second he hit the salty water, but he didn’t care. Now the sun was beginning to set and the chill of the waves was refreshing, and he couldn’t express what he felt just then in any other way.

Willie tackled him from behind, climbing onto his back and nearly knocking him over into the shallow tide. Clambering back to his feet, Alex splashed water at him. They began a playful water fight back and forth, until they were both drenched. Eventually, Alex tried to catch hold of both Willie’s hands in an attempt to prevent being splashed anymore. He had the advantage of longer arms, but before he could get a tight hold of the second arm Willie’s leg swept under his and they both fell just as a large wave washed over them.

As the water pulled back, they sat in the sand in a tangle, laughing. All Alex could think of was how pretty Willie was in this light, hair swept back off his face with tendrils resting over his shoulders, sun gleaming in his eyes and constantly shining from the inside out. The laughter died between them and he caught a look in Willie’s eye that made him wonder if he appeared to him to be just as perfect in that moment.

This time his mind and body worked in sync as he lifted a hand and gently pulled Willie into a short, tender kiss. All the self-flagellation from earlier was washed away in one pure moment, and exhilaration moved into its place. It felt soft and sweet, just the way he expected it should. Just as quickly as he’d let go, Willie went in for another one, a little longer and a little deeper. One hand remained caressing his cheek while the other wrapped around his upper back. Alex couldn’t help smiling into another kiss; he was too happy to care about anything else. Hardly a week ago, this had been impossible.

As they let go, their hands came together and they looked into each other's eyes, both releasing a relieved chuckle. Willie looked at the rest of the beach behind them and Alex’s eyes followed, but at this hour there were too few people around and no one paying attention to them. Turning back to Alex, Willie sighed and shook his head with a smile.

“Wow,” was all he said, biting his lip.

“Yeah, I’d definitely do that again,” Alex smirked, until the joy in his chest converted it into a full grin.

A wave washed over them again and they both stood, shaking out their hair and trying to wipe off whatever sand they could. Heading back up the beach, Willie grabbed Alex’s hand so they could make their way up together. The sun was nearly set but Alex was sure it had just gone into his chest, bursting with excitement. Once they reached the picnic table, they gathered their things and Willie offered to carry Alex’s shirt inside his backpack on the way home. Thank goodness there were a few patches of grass so Alex could try to get a little more sand off his feet before putting his shoes back on.

“So how long have you been sitting on that?” Willie teased as he slung his backpack over his shoulder and they left the beach.

“Shut up,” Alex laughed, knowing he was being called out.

“No, really!” Willie bumped his side jokingly. “I want to know!”

Tilting his head back to try to remember, it didn’t take Alex long to give him the answer.

“Since day one,” he told him.

Surprise swept over Willie’s face as he looked at Alex.

“Seriously?” he asked.

Alex nodded.

“Me too.”

It was Alex’s turn to look surprised. Without saying another word, he took Willie’s hand in his and then kissed it before continuing back toward his place. The whole way they talked about all the different things they needed to do together in the future. Riding on more horse trails, dancing lessons, skating lessons, art modeling sessions, going to band practices and gigs, visiting the record store while Willie wasn’t working, etc. They both agreed that the entire day technically counted as a date, and all further plans would as well. Alex was reminded once again that he didn’t have a notebook to write things down in, and vowed to have one for the next time he saw Willie. Once they reached Willie’s door, they had already put their shirts back on and it was completely dark outside.

“Are you free any time next week?” Willie asked, still holding onto Alex’s hand.

“I wish I could say yes, but probably not. And as much as I’d love to give you my number, it’s really not the best idea.”

“Well, I could give you mine,” Willie said.

Alex shot him a confused look. Holding up a finger, Willie dug into his backpack until he found his sketchbook and tore off the corner of a page, quickly scribbling one down and handing it to Alex.

“It’s actually the one for work,” he said. “But if it’s what we can do for now, I’ll do it. Kyle won’t care.”

Looking at it for a minute and then stashing it in his now-dry pocket, Alex took hold of Willie’s chin and went to kiss him again. It was really hard to stop, but they soon broke apart.

“I gotta go,” Alex murmured.

Willie only nodded, squeezing his hand before letting go and slipping his own into his pocket.

“I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

“Goodnight.”

Once again heading up the short set of stairs to the sidewalk, Alex rubbed his lips together, relishing in the taste of what he and Willie had just done. He couldn’t imagine anything sweeter.

#julie and the phantoms #jatp #fanfic #jatp fanfic #sunset curve #alive au #willex #willie #alex mercer #luke patterson #reggie peters #bobby wilson #julie molina #caleb covington #viva las vegas #with him #fiddlepickdouglas

17 notes · View notes

octalove · 4 years

Text

X: The Bottom

(Batgirl/Red Hood)

Description: One way or another, it all catches up. Previous.

After I all but fled from Jason’s, I came home to a dark house. Unsurprising- it was around midnight, and that was usual patrol time. I hadn’t bothered to patch up my face, or anything else. I didn’t have the mental capacity at the moment. Just as I was about to limp up the stairs and retreat, by phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, looking at the caller ID.

Bruce.

I answered without thinking; my whole body was on autopilot at the moment.

“H-hello?”

“You’re home.”

I didn’t bother confirming or denying. I nodded, even though he obviously didn’t know that.

“Come down to the cave.”

And that was that. The thing was, I was exhausted, covered in my own blood, scared and high-strung. I wanted to see him. I wanted someone to help me- to tell me it was gonna be okay. I wanted my father.

I stumbled down into the dark, hoping the adrenaline comedown wouldn’t send me crashing to the floor. Bruce, Damian, and Alfred were in the cave, looking over monitors and running interference with Nightwing and Oracle. My eyes sluggishly dragged over them. Not one of their faces gave anything away. They just took in my appearance and held mannequin expressions.

“Explain.” Bruce’s voice held all the tension of a migraine. It was the biggest, widest, deepest question I’d ever been asked. I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t.

“Y/N.”

“I... I’m...”

“Answer me.”

“You don’t understand.” My voice was rising with the panic that flit like a bird around my head. I knew I was unraveling, but Bruce had no idea what the past few months looked like for me. What it was like to know Penelope D’amici, and to want revenge for her- then to have it, ten fold. To watch the man responsible have his head slowly made unrecognizable, then to fight Jason Todd, who was a furious, wild thing and an icy phantom all at once.

“You don’t-“

“Enough.” It was an order so hard and sharp that I quieted. He composed himself. “Enough. You need to tell me what you’ve been doing tonight. Now.”

I shook my head, taking a couple steps back to put some safe distance in between us.

“No... I can’t handle this.”

“I know that. You’ve proven to me more than a handful of times that you can’t handle this.” I looked at him, but I couldn’t seem to register all of the stern disappointment he wore.

“You’ve completely lost grip in the last few months, and it’s become quite apparent that you’re no longer able to shoulder the responsibility of your place within our cause.”

of your place within our company. I could almost hear the words. I wanted to laugh; bitterly, sadly.

They worked for him and so do you. Only difference is they worked for Bruce and you work for Batman.

I worked for Batman. I was getting fired.

“Consider yourself barred until we can figure whether or not you truly value the safety of Gotham over your own whims and emotions.”

“But, Batgirl-“

“I don’t need Batgirl, Y/N.”

I was expecting it, but the fatalistic tone in his voice still hit me- like a book slamming shut before I got to read the end.

It was the weight of the past few months that sent me reeling thereafter. I didn’t leave time to consider a response before I turned and scaled to steps to the manor, bolting through the silent, dark house and making it back to my bedroom. The door slammed shut. I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to organize the events of the night.

Finally, an involuntary sob escaped me. One hand went over my mouth as the other gripped the sheets for some merciful steadying element. I gasped, shoulders shaking, and tears streaking through the blood on my face.

I sat there for a while, going over the night’s near-misses, Bruce’s words, and the resulting mixture of disappointment and fear.

It would’ve been better if I had just stay where I was that night in Otisburg. Just stayed gargoyle-still and watched over the peaceful streets.

But I didn’t- and now I didn’t know where to begin. At least Jason knew who to hate. I couldn’t hate any of them because it was nobody’s fault but my own. It wasn’t Bruce’s fault I was reckless, and it wasn’t Jason’s fault he was angry. Both of them were bigger and more dauntless than I was, and between them, I was nothing. My mind restlessly searched for somewhere to shift the blame, so that maybe I could feel justified in my ceaseless pity- until I’d exhausted every option and teetered on the edge of lying to myself. I disillusioned myself by turning on the shower head.

The water burned my wounds, but there was an overall comfortable warmth in the writhing steam and dancing water at my feet. Though safely enveloped in my fervid baptism, a new great chasm erupted in the space between myself and my family. A foreign distance jaggedly inserting itself into the marble of the mansion, tectonic plates shifting with the bodies in the foundations.

I had outgrown the skyscrapers. I’d surpassed the tallest spire in Gotham. And now, helplessly, gracelessly, I was falling.

When I blinked my eyes open, it was still dark. My head ached from the pressure of crying, and I could feel how swollen my eyes were. The cool sheets beneath my head were a relief. Checking my phone, I saw that it was almost 5 am. The part of the night that was only a few hours ago seemed now like a mature memory. I had several missed calls from Dick, and one from Babs. A text from Tim just a few minutes old asking if I was awake.

There was a knock on the door, and foggily, I realized that it was the sound that had woken me up the first place. I pulled myself to a sitting position, and faced the door.

“Come in.” My voice was hoarse, so it was a raspy whisper at best. Still, the door cracked open, dim light from the hall flooding into the room. My aching eyes fell on Dick’s face, changed from his uniform into sweatpants and a t-shirt. He had a new bruise on his arm, but otherwise seemed alright.

There were no words from him as he stepped into the dark, settling on the edge of my bed in a slow, tired way. I didn’t look at him. He reached for me, and I realized he had a bandage in his hand. Then, I remembered the laceration on my cheek, and as if on cue, the cold, still air of my room began to irritate it. It stung as he applied a couple of butterfly bandages to hold it together, and then a larger one to cover the expanse of my cheek. I must have looked pathetic. Too pathetic to reprimand, so he settled instead for a weighty silence.

“You’ll need stitches.” He said finally.

A silver gray light was sleeping through the blinds, the last labored breaths of an aging night disappearing with the arrival of dawn. He sighed, letting his hands fall away from my face.

“I haven’t been here.” He said quietly. “I haven’t been here for you, and I wasn’t there for him, and now...”

A siren wailed somewhere in the city.

“...and now... now it’s all happening again, and I’m making the same mistakes, aren’t I?”

“No.” I whispered. “You’re not.”

I couldn’t stop the tears, even though I was sick of crying. I felt his hand on my back, and I leaned into his shirt as I sobbed.

“I was so terrified.” I confessed, muffled by the fabric. “I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I didn’t want either of you to get hurt.”

“I know. I saw you. He didn’t hurt me, Y/N. I wasn’t going to hurt him, either.”

“I just... we were doing so much good. Cliffs- he killed that girl. He shot her in her own bed, just like my moms-“

“Shh...” He pulled his other arm around me, wrapping me up. It should have felt safe, but I only felt the guilt and grief filling my chest, like fighting a tide in a raging sea. A hopeless, uphill fight against the non-sentience of things you can’t take back. “It’s alright.” Dick said. “I know you had all the right reasons. I know.”

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter, now.”

“That’s not true. It’s not too late for him, and it’s not too late for you.”

I watched the light from my window grow stronger, a lulling, gradual transition.

“It just needs time.”

And so, I was given time. Its passage became a blur. Christmas break came, to my relief, because I wouldn’t have been able to handle to upkeep of school, even if I usually could hold myself together. I still did things like woke up, had coffee, and walked in the garden. I went to a café to get a seasonal drink I wanted to try, and went shopping at the gaudy mall in Fashion District on a Saturday. My phone was tapped of course, and I was fairly certain my car had been chipped. Just one of the side effects; reflective shards of shattered trust that pricked me, but helped me see clearly. Every night, I went to bed.

Normal things. Terrible, standard, ordinary things. It was all a rythmic reminder that I was now ordinary.

Hopelessness was no stranger to me. I had hopelessness in excess, and it kept me in bed some days, left to rot in my own sorrow and self pity, and Bruce allowed me that. I still went down to the cave and asked about unfolding cases, because the utter absence of control left me holding onto whatever was left with white knuckles.

Tim dipped gracefully around me, like when I entered the room, the wooden floors became broken glass, and if he didn’t flee within two minutes his feet would fall victim.

Dick was the opposite; overbearing in every sense of the word. Texting, calling, even bringing me gifts. It felt insultingly akin to charity.

Damian braved me. It was that stubborn little whim he often had. He probably liked it- everyone not knowing what to do with me. He initiated conversation because he reveled in the idea that everyone else was too scared to.

And as for me, starkly situated between Jason’s hate and Dick’s overbearing management and Bruce’s disappointment, Damian bringing me a bowl of peach slices or indulging me about how a case was going was nice. I never would’ve guessed Damian al Ghul Wayne would be the keeper of my sanity, but even pigs could probably fly under the right circumstances.

Not a word from Jason. Despite our final words to one another, I ached for all that came before. His jagged laugh, and dark, attentive eyes. The way he never put his head down, like he had pride under his chin. The way he watched and listened. I didn’t want to be alone anymore; the kind of alone where you’re surrounded by people but not a single one of them has any idea who or what you are. I wasn’t my mothers’ daughter. I wasn’t Batgirl. I knew that.

But what was I to him? He didn’t like me because I was Batgirl- he hated Batgirl. He liked me because-

because...

I tried to think of a reason. Any reason he would let me push away his helmet of the darkness of that alley. Why he would kiss me on the balcony of Olivier D’amici’s Luskan townhouse. Not needy, not lustful, not vengeful. Just an ordinary kiss. Ordinary.

Ding.

116 notes · View notes

aquietwritingcorner · 3 years

Text

Writers Month Day 15: Edge/Soulmate Word Count: 740 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: K/G Characters: Sheska Warning: NA Summary: Sheska can see the string of fate wrapped around her finger. She’s learned what its colors and tautness mean. But it’s never been this color before. Notes: It just seemed an interesting idea! AO3 || ff.net

_____________________________________

Edge and Soulmate

No one ever asked, and Sheska never volunteered it, but there was a reason that Sheska believed in things like aliens and ghosts and other supernatural type things. It was something that was passed down to her from her mother, something that was commonly passed down to the women in her family.

Sheska could see things.

The world, fortunately, was not as full of these things as people liked to speculate. Most of them were harmless, thankfully. But there were things that existed. Beings with an otherworldly presence definitely existed. Souls or spirits of some sort definitely existed too, although usually not for long outside of a body. Places of darkness also existed. Many small, harmless creatures that most people couldn’t see existed. And a few old tales were true or had a kernel of truth in them.

One of those was the legend of the red string that led to your soulmate. The story was mostly right, although there were a few differences. One was that the thread didn’t have to be red. It could change colors. Another was that the thread could lead to any number of things. And the other was the idea that the string was always somewhat taut, as it was connected to your soulmate. It only turned red when it was time for you to find your soulmate.

All of her life, Sheska’s thread had been various colors although it had been fairly active. The white, limp thread had turned a navy blue and gotten some tension when it led her to her job at the library. It had turned sunny yellow and respectably straight when it led her to the books or files that she needed to read. It had turned a forest green and pointed straight to Edward and Alphonse when she had met them. It had turned a smiling pink when it led her to the hospital for her mother. It had gone Navy again on the day it led her to the library to talk to the Elric brothers and she had gotten her job with Brigadier General Hughes. It had turned black one night and led her away from the place he had died. And it had turned black and trembled on the day of the eclipse. She had followed its lead then, to try to keep her and those with her out of danger as much as possible.

But never before now had it turned a true, vibrant red, and grown taut, vibrating with anticipation. Sheska had stared at it for days, not sure where it led, and not sure she wanted to know. Even now, she bit her lip, looking down at the happy but impatient string that almost no one but she and her mother could see. She knew what this meant. But at the same time, she had no idea what it meant.

Sheska worried her lip between her teeth, considering it. She knew that she needed to do something. She felt like she was teetering on an edge. It felt as if one move could send her plunging over, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to go. What if she wasn’t ready for a soulmate? What if her soulmate was someone she didn’t like? What if her soulmate was someone who didn’t like her? She realized these were all silly questions—if he was her soulmate, then they would get along, and if she wasn’t ready, then the string wouldn’t be red. But she couldn’t help but worry.

There were other considerations too. She liked how things were now. She liked her life. She liked the people she worked with, and the hospital where her mom was. She liked how things were going, and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to shake them up. If she followed this thread over the edge, then she would be. There would be no going back to the way things were now, and she knew it.

But what if she was missing out on something greater? What if this person was someone she liked and could get along with? What if he was able to help her out with her mom? What if it changed nothing, or it changed everything for the better?

Sheska took a deep breath in and made her decision. She fell off the edge of that cliff she felt like she was on, and she fell off it to go find her soulmate.

#writersmonth2021 #sheska #fma #Fullmetal Alchemist #fma fanfic #fullmetal alchemist fan fiction

6 notes · View notes

queenof-luna · 4 years

Text

Crimson

A/n: I wrote Hawks smut! 😘 I kinda wanted to base this off the manga cliffhanger between Dabi, Hawks and Twice. Hawks trying to kill Twice blowing his cover and Dabi putting him under his boot! I more imagined Reader was also an undercover and had to blow her own cover to save Hawks from Dabi and instead of taking him to a hospital for treatment she teleports him to a semi secluded island off the coast and nurses him back to health and well....Enjoy!

Warnings: Pwp, general lovemaking, no degradation, love triangle, angst at the end? Cliff hanger!

XXXXX

"H-Hawks," you moaned arching your back off the bed and deeper into his touch as his hands glided up the softness of your thighs. The hero kept pressing kisses to the delicate flesh of your collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin and admiring the way his saliva glistened in the dim light of the bedroom.

"Keigo, call me Keigo" he whispered thickly. His hands gripping the back of your thighs to pull you down the length of the bed so you were positioned perfectly underneath him.

"Y/n…" you breathed at the sensation of his clothed erection grinding against your clothed heat. "Beautiful" Keigo breathed against your neck. You weren’t sure if he was talking about your name or the way your body reacted so effectively to his touch.

Your skin felt like it was on fire with every graze of his fingers dancing across your skin. Goosebumps erupted up and down your arms and legs as Keigo continued his assault on your neck.

Leaving his trailing passionate kisses from just under your ear and along your jawline before capturing your bottom lip between his teeth. Eliciting a sinful moan from the back of your throat as he ground his hips into yours, the sweet friction of his clothed cock against your hot cunt.

"K-Kei...go p-please" you begged, slipping your hands from his shoulders down his back to the band of his sweatpants and tugged it down until his cock sprang free from its confines. The need to have him inside you, thrusting into your quivering heat was burning you from the inside out.

"I got you dovey" his hands glided down the curve of your waist to your hips to hook his fingers into the band of your lace panties; agonizingly slow he pulled the thin fabric down the spansion of your legs as he continued leaving wet kisses down your neck to your chest.

Capturing one of your hardened buds between his teeth and sucked tenderly forcing you to arch your back off the bed as another moan slipped from your kiss swollen lips.

Your toes flexed at the sensation as you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, allowing you to grind your soaking cunt into his erection.

Keigo smirked against your skin, "I want you dove, do you want me?" His voice, thick and sweet like honey. You nodded profusely. "Good girl, can you do me a favor first?" One of his hands slid down your stomach then between your shivering thighs as you patiently waited for his question.

His fingers prodded at your entrance as his thumb circled lightly over your clit. You whimpered and tightened your legs around his waist in response. His smile broadened as he watched you squirm underneath him, your sinful moans music to his ears. He was desperate to hear more.

"Cum for me" without waiting for your response he plunged two fingers deep inside your throbbing heat. "Kei-" your voice trailed at the sudden intrusion inside your tight hole.

The way his fingers curled and flexed inside you especially against the tenderness of your g-spot had stars dancing wildly in your eyes; the tension that had been building in the pit of your stomach up until now was now on the verge of snapping at any moment.

You ground yourself down on his digits, searching for the much needed release. Your symphony of moans only fueling his own desire to stuff himself inside you to feel your tight sopping pussy convulse around him. He was getting desperate to hear you scream his name as you came around him.

His cocked ached for attention, the head a dark purple as pre cum oozed from the slit. He gripped the base of his cock and gave a few pumps, thumbing the bead of pre cum from the slit to act as lubricant as he glided his hand up and down his shaft working his cock.

The months of being isolated on this damn island alone with this gorgeous creature and only ever able to steal glances at you or catch you undressing in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.

With the sexual tension between them now to the point of unbearable.

You looked so goddamn sexy writhing as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of your soaking cunt. Your pussy clenching tighter than ever as you neared your climax. You were so close and he wanted to feel you cum around his cock.

He pulled his fingers from your dripping cunt the loss causing a whine of escape past your mouth, before you could utter a word of protest, a scream ripped from your throat as he pushed cock deep inside.

The action caused your eyes to roll back as euphoria swept over like flash fire. You felt so incredibly full as your pussy contracted around him. "Keigo! Please...God!" You exclaimed, gripping the bed sheets for dear life as he slowly started thrusting into you

"Fuck! You look so beautiful! You take my cock so well baby, so damn tight" Keigo praised, quickening his thrusts so the sound wet skin to skin contact filled the room.

"Harder. Fuck me harder. I need to cum again. Please let me cum on your cock again" you mewled, digging your fingernails into his biceps tossing your head back deeper into the pillows just as he gripped your waist tightly enough to leave light marks and set his hips into a more bruising pace.

Your pussy twitched and pulsated around him as you hurdled towards your next orgasm. Your breath hitches high in your throat just as he angled his hips to have his cock pound into a spot that had more stars dancing behind your eyes, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. You teetered dangerously on the edge and all you needed was one good push to come tumbling off.

Keigo leaned down to place kisses along your neck, teeth nipping lightly at the scent gland just behind your jugular. The impression of another’s teeth marks already claimed the flesh, but it was faded and done haphazardly and carelessly placed that it showed him the one before him had cared so little for you.

He wanted to change that.

Keigo could feel you squeezing him so tightly, the ridges of your walls massaging the prominent veins that ran on the underside of his cock. The constant ache was starting to become nearly impossible to hold back any longer.

“I love you, I want you to be mine forever” before you had a chance to react he had angled his cock and slammed his hips into your cervix hard enough to have you crying his name along with a slew of biblical praises to a higher power.

Keigo bit into the soft flesh of your neck. Causing another wave of electricity to course through you as another orgasm ripped through you, your pussy constricting around his throbbing cock milking him as he came inside, filling you with his fertile seed spilling straight into your awaiting womb.

They stayed connected, catching their breath as you both slowly came down from your highs. “Sorry, I just got carried aw-“ Keigo started to say but was cut off by a pair of soft lips covering his mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck and up into this sweat drenched sandy blonde hair pulling him deeper into a sweet kiss.

You pulled away, a string of saliva connected between you both, you smiled at him “I love you too, Keigo” the winged hero smiled down at you and slicked back your hair so he could get a better look at your beautiful face and kissed you again.

Suddenly the bedroom door burst open, making both new found lovers jump in surprise. Your eyes widening in horror at the patchwork villain standing in the doorway, his eyes damn near glowing with rage at the sight before him.

His fists clenched tightly suppressing the urge to set the place on fire right then and there. “Well, well, well look what I found the no. 2 hero and my whore in bed together” Dabi seethed. “Was she a good fuck for you too?” The villain grinned.

Keigo wrapped his arms around you protectively, his hero instincts in overdrive. Dabi laughed as he raised a hand up now ignited with blue flames. “Die like the hero trash you are!” Everything happened too fast for you to react, a flurry of bright blue flames and crimson red feathers clouded your vision as intense heat filled the space.

“Keigo!”

#bnha fanfiction #bnha #bhna hawks #bnha x reader #dabi #keigo tamaki #hawks x reader #mha keigo takami #hawks smut #bnha dabi #mha x you #character x you #bnha angst #love triangle #keigo takami x reader #manga spoilers

344 notes · View notes

thepandapopo · 4 years

Text

His Star

This is my first FE fic in over ten years. The last time I wrote anything for FE was back in FE7 which, to this day, is my second favourite game of all time.

I have been on a Claudeth binge lately and since it is our favourite deer’s birthday tomorrow, I thought I would try my hand at a fic.

This is most likely going to be a multi chapter fic as I am spinning the plotline in my head as we speak, but whether or not that plot bunny makes it to paper is a different story.

Pairing: Claude x F!Byleth

In which Byleth falls sick for the first time in her entire life, but those who slither in the dark insist on making her life difficult.

The one where Claude fears he won’t make it in time.

Chapter List: 1 / 2 / 2.5

Masterlist

XxXxXxXxX

“Professor, you need to rest!”

For someone so demure and dainty looking, Marianne is deceptively strong. Though, Byleth thinks absently as she lets her former student push her back down onto her large 4 poster bed, she shouldn’t be so surprised since she’s seen even Raphael himself bend to the gentle bishop’s will in the odd instances that he sustains a critical enough injury to land himself in the healer’s tent.

“Don’t worry, Professor. I’m sure Seteth will be able to hold down the fort while you recover.” Leonie says from her place at the foot of the bed. Despite the fact that the war has been over for nearly 6 months, her lance is still clipped neatly to her belt, next to her sword scabbard - close enough within reach to attack on a moment’s notice.

Since the end of the war, Leonie had taken it upon herself to act as the new Queen’s Head of Royal Guard. When Byleth had questioned the orange haired girl about her decision, she was merely met with a grin and a simple “I would be a terrible apprentice to Captain Jeralt if I let anything happen to his only child.”

“I’m... sorry.” Though the words themselves are not strange on her tongue, the unfamiliar dryness of her mouth and stuffed nose make Byleth sound weaker and more hesitant than she would have liked.

Leonie snorts, “you don’t have to apologize for catching a cold, Professor. Especially one due to stress. Despite what I think of you when you’re on the battlefield, you really are just a person like anyone else - of course you’re bound to get sick every now and again.”

Still, Byleth broods silently as she watches the blue haired healer usher her other student out the bedroom door, she has never gotten sick in her entire life until now and it just seems a tad bit unfair.

Fusing with the progenitor goddess has several advantages, but unfortunately it seems like being immune to illnesses is not one of them.

As her eyelids begin to lose the fight against consciousness, Byleth cannot help but let her mind wander longingly until she falls asleep dreaming of beautiful emerald eyes and a crooked grin that shines brighter than the dawn.

----

It only takes one week of being bed ridden before everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

Byleth is finally starting to feel well enough to stand up without feeling like she has ingested a vial of Claude’s infamous dizziness poison, when the scouts return with a report that the remnants of the Imperial army have joined forces with Those who Slither in the Dark and are marching for Derdrui, the country’s new capital.

It does not take a tactical genius to figure out that they are coming for the newly appointed Queen and Archbishop of the United Land of Fodlan.

Urgent messengers are sent out to all the nearby houses, requesting any available troops they can spare without leaving themselves vulnerable. It’s almost laughable the pitiful number of men that show up to help fight, but the arrival of all her golden deer is enough to raise Byleth’s morale and hope that she can conquer this disadvantaged fight without her schemer by her side.

Despite the protests from her students - former students, she corrects herself - Byleth steels herself and leads the meager army at her disposal in a defensive formation. This is her duty, after all. Without her, troop morale would falter and that in itself can be the deciding factor in a battle. Additionally, though she has not used it in several months and truly, she does believe in all her students’ skills, Byleth cannot help the unease that creeps up her throat when she thinks about her precious deer on the battlefield without her Divine Pulse. She has fought so hard to make sure they lived to see the peaceful world Claude and her dreamed of, that it would seem like a cruel joke only for them to fall now.

Even sick, the Ashen Demon earns her reputation. Fells of enemies fall to the Sword of the Creator as it burns with power, whipping around its wielder like a snake striking with deadly precision at the enemy’s weakness. Byleth refuses to let any enemies get close to the city. Her people have already been ravaged by war. They deserve peace, not another battle at their front step.

Hilda is somewhere to her left swinging Freikugel and cleaving through enemies with all the difficulty of a hot knife slicing through butter. Byleth is tempted to relocate the pink haired girl to the back line to act as a final barrier, but she knows that those orders will fall on deaf ears.

“If you insist on going out there Professor, then I have to come and make sure you don’t die. Can you imagine what Claude would say if he came back to find you dead? He would mope for the next century!”

Ignatz and Lysithea are further back providing cover with their long ranged attacks. Arrows and black magic rain from the sky, piercing through unsuspecting enemies and carving a path for Byleth’s battalion to advance and cut through the ranks of the enemy.

Somewhere to her right, she can hear Raphael’s battle cries above the cacophony of sounds. Judging by his sheer volume, Byleth knows that he is doing well despite being far outnumbered. Besides, the brawler is accompanied by Lorenz and Bernadetta, and while Lorenz specializes in black magics, he knows enough healing spells to keep them afloat. Plus, no matter how timid she is off the battlefield, Bernadetta is a force to be reckoned with when protecting her loved ones. Especially her mountain of a husband.

Marianne, Leonie, Felix, Ingrid, Seteth and Flayn are scattered elsewhere to protect against the enemies from crushing them in from both sides, but as the battle wages on, it becomes more and more apparent that their ranks are thinning and those that still stand are beginning to feel the fatigue of being outnumbered three to one.

The battlefield has long since warped into a jigsaw of cracked earth and chasms, courtesy of some nasty earth spells from Those Who Slither In the Dark. Where there should be rolling plains leading out onto the salty water of the ocean, there are now steep cliffs of jagged rocks jutting out of the ground, and despite her best efforts, Byleth eventually finds herself cornered on the precipice of one such cliff.

It can’t end like this.

Another enemy falls to her sword and Byleth barely has time to parry an oncoming arrow before another wave of nausea assaults her body.

She knows she’s probably burning up right now. Mint green strands of hair are matted to her skin with dirt and sweat, and the pounding behind her eyes is growing increasingly difficult to ignore. Byleth is pretty sure that had it not been for her father hammering in years of battle instincts into her, she would have had her head lopped off ages ago.

Despite how much she tries to will herself to stay in that cool, collected mindset that has won her numerous battles, Byleth cannot stop the tightness in her chest that accompanies the tears of frustration accumulating at the corner of her eyes.

She wanted to see Claude again. To feel his arms around her. To fall asleep to the steady pounding of his heart that seemed to inexplicably speed up every time she let her body melt into his. To let herself drown in the scent of pine needles and spices.

She could try using the Divine Pulse, but where would she rewind to? A few minutes would not be enough to make a drastic enough decision to turn the tide in their favor.

It’s not fair.

Goddess. She is so tired. But she cannot give up. Not when she has a promise to keep.

“I love you. With everything I am. And the next time we see each other... it will be at the dawn of a whole new world. A peaceful, happy world.”

Claude...

The ground beneath her feet teeters and he sky is suddenly above her. It is a brilliant blue with fluffy white clouds and even though she knows she is falling, she cannot help but be reminded of the first time Claude invited her out on his wyvern and they spent the afternoon soaring and diving through the air on a beautiful day just like this.

Claude... I’m sorry I couldn’t keep our promise...

She thinks it is a trick of her mind, but right as Byleth feels her consciousness slipping away, she hears his voice one last time crying out her name with such fear and anguish.

Then, there was nothing.

----

“BYLETH!”

Claude feels his heart stop and clench painfully as the familiar black and green figure tumbles off the edge of a jagged cliff.

He is shooting across the battlefield on his wyvern’s back before he can even spare a thought to how absolutely reckless it is to fly so low in the range of archers.

Behind him, he vaguely registers his generals shouting at him in alarm and Nader barking out orders to support the retreating Fodlan forces.

All he can think about right now is getting to His Star in time.

Later, he will wonder to himself if perhaps he might have the power to pause time as well, because although it was probably less than 4 seconds, Claude swears that the world around him slowed as all of his senses honed in on his one goal.

Please, goddess, let me reach her in time.

---

To those who participated in the Final battle with Those Who Slither in the Dark, they would recall vividly the moment when a loud battle cry rang out from the east heralding the arrival of the Almyran army.

They would also recount the arrow of white and gold that shot across the battlefield towards the Queen whom had made her last stand on the edge of a cliff before fainting from exhaustion and tumbling down to the depths below.

Above the din of weapons clashing and cries of agony rose a single name, cried out with such fear and panic that even those who knew not whom the shout belonged to, felt their hearts clench painfully with the raw emotion.

Although not many could say for certain what happened next, all the surviving Fodlan soldiers would recall shortly thereafter seeing their former leader, Claude von Riegan, atop his white wyvern loosing arrow after arrow on the lingering enemies with such brutal efficiency that reminded everyone exactly how he had ended the war.

When the fighting ceases and casualties are tallied, fear for their Queen runs rampant through the soldiers. For those who have had the privilege of fighting under the combined leadership of Claude, the master tactician, and Byleth, the Ashen Demon, they know how strong the bond is between the two, and although they have their doubts, they allow themselves to let their worries melt away when they see Claude exit the medical tent with a look of such knee wobbling relief that he has to lean on a nearby wall to stop from collapsing.

XxXxXxXxX

Ugh. I hate how this ended. I’ll come back and fix it another day.

Anyhoo, hope you all enjoyed it!

Chapter 1

Next: Chapter 2

#FE3H #fire emblem #3 houses #Byleth #Claude #Claudeth #Byleth x Claude #Post War #S Rank Support #Continuation #fanfiction #fanfic #Claude is best husbando #Golden deer #Verdant Wind #claude von riegan #Happy Birthday Claude #claudeleth

57 notes · View notes

franzsiska · 4 years

Note

12. Kunikidazai~ If you still are taking prompts of course! ( ◜‿◝ )♡

things you said when you thought i was asleep

(prompt from this list.)

pairing: dazai osamu/kunikida doppo

Read under the cut or read on ao3.

Normally, bothering Kunikida on his off day would bring Dazai immense pleasure. He has made it his life’s mission, after all, to not let the man have a moment of peace. (Those are Kunikida’s words, not his.)

It’s different today, though. The reason he broke into Kunikida’s flat wasn’t because he wanted to bother him, although that would be a welcome by-product. He’s here because he has nowhere else to go. Or rather, he has nowhere else that he wouldn’t regret going to.

Although of immense strategic value, that meeting with the Port Mafia took more out of him than he thought it would. He had smiled at Mori Ougai, talked to him with ice in his smile and enough venom in his words to solidify the air. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t suppress the shudder that had run down his spine the moment those steely eyes had come to rest on him. It had taken every ounce of strength he had in him not to avert his eyes.

Four years later, Mori still made Dazai’s blood run cold.

In any case, after that encounter, Dazai did not know where to go. He wanted to be alone (he wanted to crawl into a hole and die, really) but he could feel an old, familiar ache rearing its ugly head inside of him and he did not want to indulge it. Not now, at least. Being alone was almost a guarantee that he would cave.

So, naturally, he followed Kunikida home.

“Why are you here, Dazai?” Kunikida grumbled as he took off his shoes at the door. He had been trying to shake Dazai off all the way back, but like a stubborn stray cat, Dazai clung to his heel and refused to let go. “Don’t you have anywhere better to be?”

“Why must you wound me so, Kunikida-kun!?” he inhaled sharply, then took off his own shoes and followed him inside. “I just thought I’d keep you company.”

“Right…” Kunikida didn’t sound convinced. “Because you’re just that good of a person.

Dazai’s grin was bright and childlike. “Yup!”

“Alright, fine,” he relented. “Just don’t… I don’t know, set anything on fire or something.”

“This is slanderous! Name one time I’ve ever set anything on fire.”

“That’s not a question you want answered, trust me.”

Dazai pouted but sprawled himself out on the threadbare couch anyway. Kunikida’s flat wasn’t overly spacious, but it was unsurprisingly neat and organized, almost minimalistically so.

Kunikida had disappeared off somewhere inside, so Dazai deemed it safe enough to stretch himself out and let out a tired sigh, draping an arm over his face to keep the light from the overhead lamp from burning his sleep-deprived eyes.

Do you remember the coat that I gave you, Dazai?

His hands clenched into fists of their own volition, and when he exhaled it came out shaky. How dare he?

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Do you take - ”

Dazai jerked up into sitting position, startled before his bleary eyes finally focused on Kunikida frowning in front of him, his hand still frozen mid-air. Miscalculation, Dazai’s brain supplied. He should have controlled his reflexes better.

“What’s the matter?” Kunikida asked, squinting at him slightly. “I was just asking if you’d like sugar in your tea… ”

Tea. Dazai blinked, then smiled. “Sorry. Yeah, some sugar would be nice.”

“Alright…” he said, sounding more than a little unsure. He looked back at Dazai twice as he returned to the kitchen. He came back carrying a tray with two steaming cups on it. “It’s chamomile. I thought it might help calm your nerves a little.”

Dazai accepted the cup before he did a double-take at the words. Kunikida had always been much more perceptive than he let on, but Dazai never thought that would extend to him too, of all people. Oh, well, he’d just have to adjust himself to make up for it. “Thank you.”

Kunikida snorted lightly as he took a seat beside him, slender fingers wrapped around his own cup of tea. “A sorry and a thank you? Is it my birthday or something?”

Dazai tilted his head slightly. “No, your birthday isn’t for another two months. Is Kunikida-kun going senile?” The myriad of expressions that crossed Kunikida’s face in the span of the next few seconds elicited bubbly laughter from Dazai. “I’m kidding, Kunikida-kun. You look like I just snatched your ice-cream or something.”

Kunikida opened his mouth to retort, but apparently thought better of it. Leaning back a little, he sighed, for once not looking as tense as he usually did—is the chamomile tea really that effective? Dazai made a note to ask for the brand later—and Dazai found himself thinking that the tendrils of steam curling up between them from their cups made a nice overlay for his view of Kunikida’s face.

The wind had picked up since the evening, and the window panes rattled lightly against its force. Even so, it was calming in its own right, to see the wind rage without actually breaking anything. Can human beings rage without breaking anything? Perhaps he’d ask one someday.

“The president introduced me to the wonders of tea,” Kunikida said. “For some reason, he thought it would be beneficial to me, specifically.”

“Yeah?” Dazai murmured, barely suppressing a yawn. “I wonder why… “

Slowly, without meaning to, he found himself sleepily leaning sideways onto Kunikida. He suppressed another yawn as his head dropped onto the other man’s shoulder, expecting to be pushed off immediately. Which is why it was surprising when Kunikida stiffened up momentarily, and even more surprising when he relaxed almost immediately afterwards. He gently took the now almost empty cup from Dazai’s hand and placed it on the table, before turning slightly sideways.

“Tired?”

“Very.”

Kunikida adjusted to make more room and Dazai took it as an open invitation to snuggle in closer. Soon enough, his head was resting on Kunikida’s chest, and it took him a while to realize that the arm resting around his shoulder belonged to Kunikida. The apprehension wouldn’t leave, however. Why haven’t you kicked me off already? He wasn’t sure why he was being allowed to have this at all, but he was so tired and Kunikida’s shampoo smelled like peaches and for once, Dazai didn’t feel like he was freezing from the inside

“There’s a storm gathering outside.” Kunikida’s voice sounded even deeper with Dazai’s ear literally resting against the man's chest. “You should stay the night.”

Dazai didn’t reply, at a loss for words for the first time in nearly as long as he could remember. What use were all his charm and feline grace if he couldn’t even answer something like that?

But he knew Kunikida well enough to know that he wasn’t expecting an answer anyway. Kunikida was considerate like that, no matter how much he didn’t want to be perceived as such, and at the moment, Dazai was particularly grateful. He sighed, then practically purred when he felt long, slender fingers slowly running through his hair.

It felt like melting, in a way. Like he was being disintegrated piece by piece and washed away right from the spot where Kunikida’s fingers touched him. And it was exhilarating. He hadn’t felt this light in years.

“Oi, Dazai. I said you could stay the night, not conk out on my lap.”

There was no actual bite to the words but there was poorly concealed amusement and Dazai mumbled out an unintelligible response before nuzzling even closer. When his head had slid down from Kunikida’s shoulder to into his lap, he had no idea, but he didn’t particularly mind. He didn’t mind anything.

“Are you asleep already?”

If he had been asked to define his life in one sentence, he would probably have chosen ‘standing at the edge of a cliff’. Teetering precariously at the end and barely an inch away from the plunge, maybe two inches on good days. He had been standing at the edge of this cliff for as long as he could remember. Except at the moment, there was no endless abyss beyond the edge. Instead, there was warmth and sleep and Kunikida and as Dazai’s eyelids began to flutter close, he swayed at the edge dangerously.

Then Kunikida sighed softly and Dazai’s brain immediately kicked into overdrive.

A number of explanations. Seven possible outcomes. Correction: five. Most likely one: Kunikida throws you off. Second most likely, he leaves you here alone—

“Fine.” Kunikida murmured, “I guess this isn’t so bad after all.”

Dazai’s brain glitched momentarily. ...What?

His fingers continued to gently card through Dazai’s hair. “I know you must be weary, who wouldn’t be after that ordeal? But you did so good today.”

Right… that’s why I’m having a pseudo-breakdown in your apartment—

“You can rest now.”

It took every ounce of willpower Dazai had in him to keep his breath from hitching. You can rest now. His heart was hammering in his chest. What does that mean? All Dazai knew was that it just made the lump in his throat even bigger and harder to swallow.

For a moment, he wished that he was actually asleep instead of just pretending to be. That way at least, he wouldn’t have to deal with all of this kindness, not one bit of which he knew what to do with.

Where do I put it? What do I do? Please stop. I don’t know what to do.

It was late now. The wind still blew outside. The windows still rattled. He blinked, heart not racing quite so frantically anymore. Kunikida should really have invested in some better window frames, but at least these ones made a good distraction for him.

With time, the caresses of the hand on his head began to grow slower and slower, and soon enough, Dazai could hear Kunikida snoring lightly.

His own eyes fluttered close once before opening again abruptly. Then he smiled. How endearing.

He didn’t know Kunikida snored.

#dazai osamu #kunikida doppo #kunikidazai #bungou stray dogs #bsd #my writing

53 notes · View notes

darlinrogue · 3 years

Note

matthew found himself getting anxious at every all elite pay-per-view. but something about this specific revolution—— this specific main event had him more worried than usual ‘exploding barbed-wire death match’… it had problems written all over it. biting nail after nail, cuticle after cuticle. “since pac’s going after the tag titles, adam’s next in line for kenny” he heard tony khan say from the headset in guerilla. matt’s heart stopped, right then and there. he had to find adam.

Matt

A few hours before the show Adam had scoped out his vantage point. A seat in the back on the ground floor at Daily’s Place. High-up, but not too far away. Even better it was an empty section. After his match with Hardy, Adam changed into street clothes, crept-out from backstage, and took his seat. While the street fight with Darby and Sting played on the big screen, the ring crew set-up for the so called, “Exploding Barbed Wire Death Match.” The crew wore thick leather gloves. They maneuvered pieces of hardware, metal, and explosives to the floor. Bryce looked like the marshmallow man from Ghostbusters. It was, without a doubt, the most elaborate, inane match idea Adam had ever seen. He never delved into that Death match shit. An occasional no DQ with chairs and table settled Adam’s need for violence, but this was next level.

And it was the exact kinda bullshit that Kenny would come up with.

The construction of a wrestling ring had always fascinated Adam. In his teenage years he shadowed production crews to shows. From them he learned how to square a ring by measuring the diagonal, how to lay down the boards, roll out the pads, and lash down the mats. Then, tightening the ropes and tying in the turnbuckles. For the cheaper productions, duct tape repaired holes torn in the apron. All the little things he didn’t have to do anymore now that he was a ‘star.’ Part of Adam missed the days on the indies when he’d show-up a day early for set-up and leave late for tear down. Get to watch a show for free that way. Somehow, watching the AEW ring crew bind explosive barbed wire around the ropes didn’t make Adam feel very nostalgic, though. Instead something cold settled in the bottom of his stomach.

Adam had brought a beer out with him and he brought the bottle to his lips. He watched the pyro tech guys rig-up the explosives with lines of electric wire. The ring crew were filtering out. The fight on the screen was winding down. Adam glanced over though as someone approached on his right. Wedging himself between the seats and coming down the row was Matt Jackson. He’d changed back into a gray, AEW jacket, his hair twisted into a quick and dirty bun. All he had for Adam was a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets and his throat bobbed, not meeting Adam’s gaze. Instead he focused on the dust laden concrete beneath his feet. Adam shifted in his seat, coming forward, elbows pressed into the arm rest. Matt chewed on his lip and then gestured at Adam’s hand.

“You okay?” He asked, thinly. “Matt worked you over good.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine,” Adam said. “Just sore.”

He looked down at his hand. An athletic trainer had wrapped it in bandages and popped him a couple ibuprofen. There was nothing broken, just some bruising and swelling. Adam’d have to get an X-ray sooner rather than later, though. After the match high ran down though it hurt like a mother. Matt and Adam stared at each other for a second, before Adam tilted his head to the side. An indication and invitation for Matt to sit. Matt sunk into the chair beside Adam, hands rubbing over his knees. His fingers pattered over his thighs and he shifted, exuding nervous energy. When he settled back into the chair it was like he was sitting back into the barbed wire in the ring.

“Congratulations, on beating the carny though,” Matt offered with a small laugh. “You guys had a good match. What are you going to do with the money?”

“Oh, yeah, uh, well I was thinking,” Adam began, he put his beer on the floor by his feet and leaned back. “I need a new lawnmower and there’s enough to pay off the mortgage— I don’t need much else so like, I told them to just, just to give the rest to some cause. Someone mentioned the public schools in Jacksonville? I liked that, so that’s kinda what we went with.”

“Seriously?” Matt breathed. “That’s amazing, Adam.”

“Fuck, I don’t want that money anyway, makes me feel dirty,” Adam admitted. He sucked on his cheek. “Chris and MJF didn’t beat you up too much did they? Ya’ll pulled it out, but it was kinda brutal to watch.”

“Oh, so you watched our match?” Matt noted. They looked at each other and something warm sparked in Adam’s chest. “Takes more than a baseball bat to keep me down. Besides that’s nothing compared to— to all this.”

Matt’s voice rasped as he flicked his finger towards the completed ring. Adam followed his gaze and got what he meant. It wasn’t the barbed wire or the explosives. It was the anticipation of seeing Kenny in the middle of that ring. Kenny, bloodied and burned and hurting, with his life on the line. There was a long, long list of shit that could go wrong. And Adam and Matt shared in common a worry wort gene. It was in their nature to look at a set-up like that, then let their minds run to all the terrifying possibilities. It was the inner instinct of ‘older brother’ in them. The shit going on Matt’s mind had already crossed Adam’s a half-dozen times.

Injury, pain, and even death, were the risks of their sport, everyone who stepped in the ring had comes to terms with their mortality. It wasn’t often though that Adam sat down for a match and was fully level with the idea that one of his oldest friends may actually die. It was a ‘holy shit’ moment, this was how far they’d come. Well over a year ago Adam remembered the way Kenny’s voice cracked over the phone when he talked about Mox. The desperate, twisted edge in his tone, jagged as broken glass. It was obsession rolled with a fragile mental health teetering over the abyss of fear, anxiety, and depression. All Adam had done was stand back and watch as Kenny was crowded to the cliff. Then, Adam witnessed the merciless hand shove Kenny over. And now, at the bottom, body and mind broken over the rocks, Kenny challenged Mox to an Exploding Barbed Wire Death Match. The entire Elite had hit rockbottom in the past six months at least once but none of them had involved explosives.

“Kenny’s gone off the fucking deep end, man” Adam observed, like he was commenting on the weather. He picked-up his beer from the floor and took a sip. “This is batshit. You let him do this?”

“It’s not like he asked us?!” Matt protested, his hands fluttered around him. “TK approved it and you know, it’s his show. Besides, it’s not exactly like Kenny is talking to us right now.”

Adam shifted in his seat. He and Kenny hadn’t been on speaking terms since October. A long run of almost six months as they awkwardly avoided each other in the hallways. Of course, Adam had his handful of ignored, attempted phone calls and double texts from back when the tag-team broke-up. He’d kept abreast of the Elite’s crazy drama and then felt quietly grateful he wasn’t apart of it. Forsaken doors, Barbed Wire Death Matches; literally everything to do with Don Callis, Impact, and the Good Brothers— no thanks. Adam got why he was out of the loop, though. Kenny getting sick of his shit and kicking him out of his life was inevitable as it was deserved— But, Kenny wasn’t talking to the Bucks either? That was a red flag. Shit, Adam shouldn’t be worried about Kenny, grown ass man that he was but—Adam took another sip from his beer and returned it to its spot by his feet. Yeah, he was kinda worried about Kenny.

“Why are you even out here?” Matt asked, an edge of accusation in his voice.

“Shit, I dunno, figured if my old tag-partner was gonna get blown-up I should at least be here to witness it?” Adam speculated, with a shrug. The buzzing crowd indicated the end of the Street Fight that Adam had been ignoring. Whispers of anticipation floated through the arena. “Maybe— I just got some shit on my mind. Trying to figure out what comes next.”

“You’re in the rankings,” Matt blurted-out. Adam glanced at Matt and met his eyes. His face was stricken in the stark lights and his throat bobbed. Music hit, Mox’s theme, moments before Adam could even think up an answer.

Mox wasn’t a bullet point on Adam’s list of relations. He was just a guy he occasionally saw backstage or in production meetings. They’d been in a ring once before. Adam kinda saw him as this hardened badass with a devil may care attitude. A weird, enigmatic guy with a prickly attitude and a hardened reputation. The flash of a silver flask, drawn from Mox’s inner jacket pocket, spoke to Adam though in a way few else in the arena would get. He understood the motivation behind the deep drink Mox indulged. If a guy like Jon Moxley needed alcohol to steady his nerves, then shit, it was really that bad. Kenny’s entrance then, was a nail in the coffin. He dressed subdued, in jeans and a shirt instead of elaborate gear. No bullshit spiel from Justin Roberts, just his music, and the belt. Adam worked his jaw and took some solace from his own beverage. Besides him, Matt shifted and squirmed, his thumb at his mouth gnawing on his already bitten down nail.

Before Ring of Honor shipped him off to Japan, Adam was never into Japanese wrestling. His library of matches included the DVR recordings of WWF matches, the local shit you could get on the TV, and eventually, the various indie shows across the South-East he attended. It was all catch wrestling, some technical shit, and whatever the Hardys were doing. Death matches, likewise, were a joke in the schools and shows he attended. “How many commas?” Was the refrain for what it’d take to get an average wrestler to do something as stupid as involve barbed wire in a match. Therefore, a Japanese, Exploding, Barbed Wire, Death Match, was completely out of Adam’s wheel house. He had no idea what to expect. What he got when the bell rang was totally outside of the realm of his imagination.

It was the little shit: Kenny was dead serious, Mox made the sign of the cross, and the methodical, slow pace they set. It was all physical strength as they jostled, tied-up with each other, all too aware of the limitations of the ring. After a year as his tag-partner, Adam was familiar with Kenny’s style. His explosive speed, how he worked the ropes, and his overwhelming energy. This was a different Kenny, almost uncomfortable in the confines of his cage. Close calls, pushing, prodding, biting each other, trying to force the other into barbed wire they treated with the respect it deserved it. Mox beat Kenny with every instrument available and Adam knew the way Kenny writhed was genuine. When Kenny sent Mox into the far ropes and a flash of fire sent billows of smoke into the arena, Matt gripped Adam’s hand like it was an instinctive reflex. He squeezed, hard, pressing his fingers around Adam’s palm. Pain shot-up Adam’s arm like a bolt of lightning. Adam hissed and reached over to pry Matt off his injured hand.

“Jesus, Matt,” Adam hissed.

Matt murmured apologies and yet his grip just switched to Adam’s wrist instead, which wasn’t much better because Adam’s whole arm was sore. Since apparently Matt needed to cling to something, Adam hooked his whole right arm around Matt’s shoulders. Then reached his left hand over to grip Matt’s hand. It was awkward and the armrest dug into Adam’s ribs but Matt rested his head in the crook of Adam’s shoulder, so it worked. Their fingers interlaced and Adam could only imagine how fucking goofy they looked. If the cameras happened to pick them up in the crowd they would never live it down. At least, Kenny had his footing in the match, he was in control, working over Mox, looking for that pin— Adam wasn’t sure if he was rooting for Kenny or not. Or, if he just kinda wanted this to be over because it was evidently mentally ripping Matt to shreds.

Wanted this to be over, the belt out of Kenny’s hands, and somewhere else, where it couldn’t be between them anymore.

Blood and smoke, broken hardware, torn skin. Kenny in the ropes, blinded by the dust, begging for water for his burned eyes. Matt’s breath, high in his throat, turning his face into Adam’s shoulder. And Adam just watched. He watched and forgot about the beer warming to room temperature by his side. A pressure built in his jaw, and yet, he couldn’t look away. No clear thoughts surfaced, nothing solid, or real. Just ideas, images, tangled together with the scene before him like the barbed wire wrapped around Mox’s arm. He didn’t allow himself to settle. Didn’t allow himself to latch onto anything, just let it all drift, staying in the moment of the violence, pain, and brutality of two men literally trying to kill each other. The sight of Kenny’s blood, red, crimson, staining his white shirt, and marring his pale skin burned Adam’s vision.

He thought back to Full Gear. The way he could tell Kenny was in his head. Always a half-step ahead. And that whole match Adam was working his ass off just to keep-up. Trying to wiggle his way into opening, taking advantage of every opportunity like a life line. He’d watched that match back a hundred times and he could every single one of his mistakes. He found a new error to fixate on each time he hit the replay button. The truth was that physically, Kenny had no significant advantage over Adam. In fact, Adam knew he had all the benefits of superior strength, better cardio, and youth. In skill, there was nothing dividing them— After that tag-team run, Adam knew he could hang with Omega. What kept Adam back, what left him behind, in the shadow of Kenny was himself. His own tangled thoughts and anxieties, burning a hole in his heart. He had stared-up the lights, like a crashed angel, and kinda accepted that final pin.

Like, he just gave-up, after bearing the burden of a year from hell. Let it all roll off his shoulders. Atlas shrugged, and the world shattered. And in the midst of broken glass, he had rebuilt. With no end goal in mind. Just, kinda up, kinda forward, one step at a time, gazed fixated on his toes so he didn’t slip in his own blood, and not ahead, and now he was looking at the ring. Accepting the smoke and blood and tears and sweat, the desperate men swinging punch-drunk as the ten minute warning sounded. It was an observation, he could note it, and let the moment past. Adam was in the rankings, number three last Tuesday, maybe higher next Tuesday. It didn’t mean anything, it didn’t have to mean anything.

Didn’t have to do anything but just sit here and hold Matt.

When the Good Brothers rushed out to the ring Matt sighed and laughed, but it was high-pitched, shaking his head. Adam watched Mox go through the chair in a One Winged Angel but all Matt was muttering was that he ‘couldn’t take this anymore.’ He didn’t want to see the ending, but he did hear the three count, and Adam admitted that his masochist desire had puttered out. So, he pushed Matt to his feet and they slid through the rows to escape the arena. Outside, fresh air, cool and tinged with the taste of the metallic city, brushed against Adam’s heated face. Matt walked to the curb outside Daily’s place and collapsed. He sat there, breathing hard and fast, head between his knees, some, strangled, broken noise erupting from his throat. Adam shoved his hands in his jean pockets and sat down next to him. A lot of noises erupted from the arena behind them but the sounds muddled with the traffic, sirens, people, nothing distinct.

“Hey,” Adam whispered, reaching for Matt’s shoulder. He placed his hand in the crook of Matt’s neck and gathered him closer to his side. Matt was still hyperventilating and so Adam ordered firmly, but not unkindly, “dude, slow down. Take a deep breath. It’s okay, it’s over.”

Matt’s entire body trembled and Adam had half a mind to break six months of radio silence by calling Nick to tell him to come get his brother. Instead, Matt collapsed against Adam, burying his face in his chest as for the first time in probably an hour, he breathed. Every tensed muscle unraveled beneath Adam’s hand as all the fight left Matt. Tears tracked trails of dust down Matt’s cheeks and Adam hummed, low in his throat. It was something content, a pleased purr. He always liked feeling useful, needed, relied upon, and to have Matt physically leaning on him like this— felt good. It felt right. He’d been dropping the Bucks and Kenny, fumbling like an idiot, for a while now. Maybe now, when he felt a little stronger, a little more firm, he could hold them right.

Maybe—

Maybe, and the thought trailed off without conclusion.

“I hate this, why can’t it just be over,” Matt gasped into Adam’s shirt. “Why can’t we— why can’t we just, just be friends again?! We should never have left Japan. This shit wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t made this damn company. AEW was supposed to be fun, and all it did was just—just tear us apart.”

Against Adam’s thigh, Matt fisted his hand, nails biting into his palm. Adam placed his chin on top of Matt’s head. He didn’t respond to his question because he didn’t have an answer. No response that was adequate. Just a recap of all their broken dreams and failures. Matt knew the story. He didn’t need Adam to try to fix this. Adam couldn’t fix this but he could be here. He could do that.

“I want things back to how they were,” Matt admitted, and his voice was softer, but hitched with a sob.

“I don’t,” Adam said.

Matt stiffened under Adam’s arm. And Adam had a feeling the thoughts that came to his mind weren’t the most gentle thing to say to Matt as he spiraled off a panic attack— but they were maybe the things Matt needed to hear.

“I hated being in the EVP room,” Adam continued, and his voice shook. “I hated living in your shadows. I hated watching you guys go out with Kenny and be in his corner, while I always had my matches alone. I hated— I hated being the weak link. I hated never feeling like I belonged. Like, I never deserved to be your friend.”

“Hangman—” Matt pulled back to look at Adam, his eyes wet with tears.

“No, no, Matt listen,” Adam insisted. He hooked his hand around the back of Matt’s neck. “This shit, would’ve happened in Japan, or NXT, or Ring of Honor, no matter where we went. Because wherever you go, there you are, and we carried our baggage here.”

“I just had no idea we made you so miserable,” Matt confessed. “That we made you—”

“Dude, I made myself miserable,” Adam laughed, interrupting him. “All up in my head and shit, and I’m done with that. I’m done with the bullshit and the drama. Maybe, I’m not the best, but I just wanna—I wanna focus on, I don’t know, having fun? Doing what I can. Forget about the stupid title.”

“So, you’re not going to challenge Kenny?” Matt asked. He reached for Adam’s face, pressed his palm to Adam’s cheek. Adam shivered under his touch, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“I don’t know,” Adam admitted. He ducked his head but Matt smoothed his thumb over Adam’s cheekbone and forced him to look up again. Forced him to meet Matt’s dark eyes, and Adam had no choice but to think, Holy shit, I love him. So, he whispered and confided, “I don’t know if I can.”

“I think you can,” Matt said. He inched closer so they were thigh-to-thigh, he tilted Adam’s face down to knock their foreheads together. Adam could hear the smile on his lips. “Someone has to knock some sense into Kenny. I don’t want to see my best friends fight but—”

“Matt,” Adam sighed. His hand reached across to Matt’s opposite hip.

“What?” Matt asked. Adam nuzzled his nose into his cheek. “Adam?”

“Nothing,” Adam smiled.

And he couldn’t help but to wonder why Matt believed in him when no one else did. What he saw that he recognized as potential. Matt’s patience as Adam strayed and wandered— that the frustration, read more as worry now than anger. And it was Adam that Matt sought out tonight. And Matt wasn’t shoving him away as he leaned in, the ghost of his breath on Matt’s bottom lip. Then, Matt’s phone rang and he was cussing, digging into his pockets. He checked the collar ID, noted it was Nick and murmured bashful excuses to Adam before answering. Adam leaned back on his hands, scratching his boot heels against the pavement.

“Hey, man,” Matt intoned, a hand running through his hair. HIs voice was still raw and he swallowed hard, putting on a mask of cool, stoicism for his little brother. “What’s up?”

Adam heard the low rumble of Nick’s voice on the other side. Chewing out Matt for vanishing during production. TK needed them ASAP, and Matt was nodding, promising he’d show-up soon. He just needed some time to get some fresh air.

“Is everyone okay?” Matt asked, and Adam leaned forward to hear the response.

“Yeah, everyone’s okay, Kenny, Mox, and fucking, Eddie? He ran out there right before the bomb went off, the idiot,” Nick grumbled. “But it was a fucking dud. It didn’t go off at all— the fans actually boo’ed, I can’t tell if TK is furious or relieved. I mean, Kenny made it so I don’t know what we expected—”

Adam choked on a laugh, leaning his elbows on his knees. His entire shoulders shook as cackles broke out of his chest and he covered his mouth to hide the noise. Adam barely registered Nick asking Matt who he was with before Matt hung-up the phone. Matt shook his head and then he was laughing too, breaking the tide of all the bundled, nervous fear that had held them. Adam knew in his head there was way more shit to work out between them. That they weren’t out of the woods yet and his heart was too tender, too fragile, to take another break but— it felt better.

In some ways, it almost felt good, and ‘almost good’ is a state Adam hadn’t been in for a long time.

“You should uh, go do your job,” Adam suggested.

Matt pushed to his feet and Adam stood too. He felt that awkwardness, the unacknowledged weirdness of almost making out with your not-best-friend, or the fact that they’re supposed to hate each other right now. All the crap that was still between them, all the land mines of conversations not yet triggered. Maybe, they were untangling the barbed wire. Closing the distance inch-by-inch, and it was magnetic, almost inevitable— but Adam wasn’t sure if he was ready to stand beside Matt. Maybe because he was afraid of being hurt again. Maybe because he was dead terrified of the air in the EVP room when he was swallowing all his words. Maybe, because he had always walked behind, and never beside.

He asked Matt, last year, for a little more time, and apparently, he still needed a little more yet.

“Yeah, uh, talk to you later, I guess,” Matt managed. When he breathed there was a shutter, the residuals of his panic attack. Adam figured if he was with his brother, he’d be fine. Nick would take care of him. Adam worried about a lot things but he never worried about the Bucks because they always had each other.

“Yeah,” Adam nodded. “See ya.”

Matt turned back to the arena first. Adam stood there, watching him walking away and refusing to let his thoughts roll over it.

It is what it is.

#darkenedhearts #‘The Hangman’ || Adam: IC #‘Deals with God’ || Adam: Verse

3 notes · View notes

gryphonxxdemon · 3 years

Text

It’s been a year...

And I’m still having trouble finding the right words. How do you describe something so soul-shattering that I only barely escaped with my life?

I may have told you parts, or maybe this is your first time hearing about any of this. Either way I’ve been wanting to write this out for a while now. Maybe it’s more for me than anyone else.

Depression, anxiety, PTSD, it’s a hazardous cocktail. I have all the right ingredients and symptoms for the perfect disaster. I remember work was stressful in ways it shouldn’t have been. 4 or 8 hours a week is almost the same as not having a job. Barely enough to pay my bills, not to mention trying to contribute to other bills as a new wife. I don’t think I was doing anything wrong, beyond being the object of envy of a coworker. It doesn’t really matter now, but they wanted to cut my hours further.

I was barely able to sleep most nights, terror filled nightmares kept me company. A lot of them had to do with previous traumas, and I would wake up in a panic, unsure if I was safe. Which, inevitably would result in other PTSD episodes. It was absolutely exhausting.

Things in my relationship were not good. That was heartbreaking. We had been married for less than six months and we fought constantly. I couldn’t stand being touched and couldn’t even handle sleeping in the same bed as my husband. Again, living with past traumas is rough. I felt like I was failing as a wife. My husband wasn’t happy no matter what I did or tried to do for him. He just kept pushing and fighting me on any boundaries I tried to enforce. Finances were tight and that was stressful. It got to the point that I couldn’t even afford to buy myself lunch because I wasn’t making enough income. Our problems were more vast than all this but our communications were breaking down and it was taking its toll on me

Enter Winter and bitter cold and little sunlight. It’s an equation that equals more impactful depressive episodes. The kind that saps all your strength and motivation and leaves you without the desire to live. I struggled through it mostly alone. Unable to tell the one person that I should have been able to depend on for fear that it would result to pushing me closer to the edge I was teetering on. My husband and I had done this dance before and it wasn’t one I wished to repeat. It always resulted in me being the comforter instead of the comforted.

I was terrified, but also exhausted. My mental state was breaking down, no longer able to endure being constantly on guard while attempting to walk on eggshells. I desperately wanted to give up, everything felt utterly hopeless. I was in pain and I couldn’t see any way out. On the edge of a metaphorical cliff and one stumble away from falling off.

Fortunately for me, I was able to tell someone I trusted, what I was going through, my best friend. Ultimately, they suggested I take some time away from it all. Even offered to let me visit them in Australia. It seemed like a life line when I was drowning. I couldn’t really bring myself to care about much at the time but I knew in my gut that I couldn’t go on like I was. I wasn’t going to survive much longer with everything weighing me down.

So, I took a hold of that life line. Made the decision to grasp onto life, even though I meant stepping away from everything for a bit. It might have been unconventional, even a bit extreme. However, looking back I don’t regret choosing life.

Exactly one year ago, I got on an airplane headed toward another country and some much needed respite. I had planned to tell my husband what was going on during my layover in LA. I was anxious about it, and I hadn’t even told him and he was already freaking out about it and upset at me. The 15 hour flight wrecked my nerves. Right before boarding my Mother-in-law had sent a pretty angry text message reprimanding me.

Eventually I was able to contact my husband and give him an explanation. He refused to respond to me for over a week, once he did respond he basically told me that my mental health problems were too much to deal with and because of that we shouldn’t be together anymore. His true colors came out in how he treated me in that moment and all the other moments proceeding.

Perhaps, there was a better way to deal with the situation, but I’m not certain if I would have survived long enough to figure out that solution. As I said before I don’t regret choosing to live. It sure is a whole other thing realizing that everything you thought you had after 7 years of a relationship could dissolve just like that. The first difficulty in our marriage and he couldn’t even bother trying. The heartbreak still stings, how do you come to terms with your world crumpling around you in an instant?

Relationships aren’t easy, living with mental illness isn’t easy. Add a pandemic and lockdowns at around the same time. Divorce, heartache, quarantine, just everything... Remember that bit earlier about cocktails? This one has sure as hell been a bitter drink.

It’s especially heavy right now for me, reflecting on everything and remembering how easily the most important person in my life gave me up. A lot of the same feelings and thoughts are coming up. However, I am in a lot better place to deal with those feelings than I was a year ago.

#tw: suicide #mental illness #depression #PTSD #personal #anxeity

3 notes · View notes

reciprocityfic · 4 years

Text

a slight return home, chapter nine

Title: A Slight Return Home Fandom: The Walking Dead Pairing: Rick x Michonne Rating: M Summary: Rick’s death shakes Michonne’s world to its core. With her daughter and her remaining family, she tries to navigate her changed life, and all the struggles and surprises that come with it.

Author’s Note: It's been ages since I've updated this. I'm so sorry. The motivation just wasn't there for the longest time, but good news - it seems to be back! Plus, I just finished my classes for the semester, and I'm not working right now because of the pandemic, so I should have lots of time to write!

I listened to "Mystery of Love" by Sufjan Stevens while I wrote this, and it's obviously where the title comes from. I also listened to "Wasteland, Baby!" from Hozier's album of the same name.

Read the Author's Note at the end after you're done with this chapter. There's some important stuff in there!

Here's chapter nine of A Slight Return Home!

read chapter one on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter two on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter three on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter four on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter five on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter six on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter seven on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter eight on tumblr, archive of our own or ff.net read chapter nine on archive of our own or ff.net

the mystery of love

It all changes one day, suddenly.

Spring is at its most robust in Virginia, and the day outside is nothing short of beautiful. The afternoon sun shines brilliantly upon them, the trees are in full bloom, and she can hear birds singing as they fly about.

She's in a good mood, for the first time in what seems like forever. Things have been quiet for a few months now - no new threats, no dangerous communities to fight. And she has the day "off", as they tend to call it; she's not on watch, isn't going on any runs, doesn't have any duties around Alexandria to tend to.

So she's home, and it's so warm outside that she pulled shorts and a t-shirt out of her dresser this morning. The kids just finished up lunch, and quickly scurried outside to continue playing. She can hear their voices along with the chirping of the birds, and it puts her in an even better mood. She smiles as she wipes down the counter where she made sandwiches. Her bare foot taps against the cool hardwood floor of the kitchen as she sings an old Billie Holiday song her mother used to play for her under her breath.

"Michonne?"

She jumps at the sound of her name, drops the rag she's wiping with on the floor and turns towards the noise frantically, one hand gripping the edge of the counter with all her might while the other goes to her back to grab the katana that isn't there.

But when she does turn, she finds it's Rick.

"Shit, Rick!" she breathes, bending over and placing her hands on her knees as her muscles relax. She takes a moment before she stands up again, trying to steel herself for whatever kind of conversation will come next. She tries to disguise her hesitation by reaching down and picking up the rag from the floor, and as she straightens herself, she tosses the wet thing on the counter.

Then, she looks at him.

Things with Rick have still been...difficult. More than difficult. She feels like they're swimming together in a river full of molasses, and not even in the same direction, at times. Any progress is slow and heavy on their limbs. They're sad and sticky and stuck, and making little progress. Maybe not making any progress. And there's always that underlying fear in the pit of her stomach that they'll never make any progress at all.

But she tries not to think that way, keeps telling herself that this will get better if she only gives it time. That she'll find a way to bring him back. Even if it takes twenty years, she'll find a way to bring him back.

He's here in front of her, at least. That's more than she can say on most days. And she's keenly aware that this is the first time she's heard him say her name in over two weeks.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, taking a step back and turning his head to look over his shoulder.

"It's fine," she says quickly, remembering all at once how careful she has to be. He's a skittish, abused animal, constantly hovering along the edges of her world, and if she makes one or two wrong moves, he might run from her.

"It's fine," she tells him again, but she realizes that he's still looking away from her.

"Rick," she calls, but he doesn't move.

"Rick."

She says it more forcefully this time, and he turns back around.

"I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," she assures him again, and he nods slowly, like he's hearing her words for the first time.

Silence falls over them. She waits for him to talk, but he doesn't. Instead, he stares at her, eyes slightly squinted. He used to look at her like that all the time. Before they were together, she never quite knew what it meant, and it made her stomach churn in a way she didn't understand. Afterwards, she knew exactly what it meant, and it still made her stomach churn, but in the best possible way. Because when he looked at her like that, it meant he was thinking of him and her and a bed - or a wall, a couch, a table. Anywhere private. Where they wouldn't be seen, and hopefully not heard.

It's different this time, slightly softer and less penetrating. It's like he's trying to decide something. She wants to stay quiet, to give him the time he needs, but after a minute she starts to fidget, and she can't help but say something.

"What's up?"

He bites his bottom lip, and glances away momentarily before his eyes return to her. His hands fall to his hips, and she almost smiles, because he always used to stand like that. It's a remnant of the past, of a better time. And it's nice to know that at least something about him hasn't changed.

"Can we talk?"

Her eyes widen in surprise. She hadn't been expecting that to be his answer, and resists the urge to jump for joy because maybe this is the start of it, maybe they'll finally get somewhere, instead of just fumbling around in the dark. Maybe they'll turn to face each other in that brown river.

"Yeah," she answers, trying to temper the excitement in her voice. She could still scare him away. "Yeah, of course."

He nods once, and then turns around and walks away. Confusion floods her before she realizes he's headed for the dining room. She looks out the window briefly, to take one more look at her kiddos, and then follows after him.

She finds him standing by the table, and he motions for her to take a seat before he does. Always the gentleman. She half-smiles at him, and then sits at the head of the table.

He walks to the complete opposite side of the table, and takes his seat.

Or maybe he just wanted to make sure he didn't have to sit too close to you, chimes a voice inside her head, but she pushes that thought away. Even if that is true, this is going to be a good thing. They're going to make progress.

She watches him get settled and then waits for him to say something. But again, he hesitates. She waits awhile, and then goes to speak. Prompting worked in the kitchen, after all.

"So what do you want - "

"Is there someone else?"

She doesn't react right away, blinking hard twice. She decides she must've heard him wrong.

"What?" she questions, and the word comes out whispered and half-strangled, but he hears it still, and asks her again.

"Is there someone else? Was there? Is there? I don't know. Does it matter?"

She gapes at him, mouth hanging open. He shifts nervously in his seat.

"It's just, you've been distant since we came home from the infirmary. I know I was gone for...a long time. I mean, I'd understand. Seven years is seven years. It's a long time."

She can't process what's happening, even though her thoughts are racing a mile a minute. It's as if all the gears in her brain stopped working and started up again in strange patterns.

"It's okay. If there is. It's okay. We'd have to think of something with the kids, but other than that, it would probably be pretty easy. I'm sure there are empty houses. Or if not, I could always move in with Daryl, or - "

"I still have all of your clothes?"

She doesn't mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but it does. And she knows it's kind of stupid, but she can't think of something else to say.

"You do," he concedes. "You do. But...I don't know. Things have been...not good. And I know it's my fault, but like I said, you've been distant, too. And I just want you to be happy."

"I'm trying to give you space. To give you time," she murmurs, dazed. "You need time."

"I know. But I just want you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. All I'll ever want. For you to be happy."

He shrugs.

"Seven years is a long time. And I just want you to be happy."

"Seven years is a long time," she breathes, repeating his words mechanically.

"And I just want to know. I need to know," he amends. "Is there someone else?"

"Is there someone else?" she echos again.

He stops talking, staring at her cautiously. He might be a scared animal, but she's a bomb waiting to explode, ready to go off with the slightest touch. But she's still floundering at the moment, flopping around like a fish on a hook, gasping for breath that won't come.

She looks down at her hands. They're trembling, she realizes. Her heart is beating in double time.

"Michonne," he sighs. The sorrow in his voice is palpable.

And it decides her.

Fuck it. Fuck the waiting, the hesitation, all the caginess. Fuck that constant feeling of teetering on the very edge of a cliff, desperately wondering if someone is going to grab your hand and pull you away, or shove you in the back and push you off.

She knows that there's no going back, she knows that she might scare him off, but she can't do this anymore. She can't. She's tired, so tired, more tired than she's ever been. And she can't do it anymore. She won't.

Fuck it all. She explodes.

She stands abruptly, her chair falling back and crashing to the floor. She pays it no mind. He jumps, but he doesn't get up. He doesn't run.

"Seven years is a long time. Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I didn't feel every day of those seven years?"

She's shouting. She knows she is. But she can't stop herself. She's expelling everything that's been pent up inside her, and she can't stop.

But he's not running.

"I woke up every single one of those days and missed you. Most days I didn't want to. Most days it felt like it would be easier to die than to get out of that bed, but I did it anyway. For Judith, and then for RJ. And for you. For seven years, I did everything for you. Because I knew you would want me to. That you would want me to live."

She's crying. She can feel tears running down her cheeks. And she's right in front of him now.

But he isn't running.

"And so I got up. I lived. And I kept your clothes, and your toothbrush, and every single, little fucking thing because I couldn't do it without you. Without reminding myself that it was what you wanted."

She pulls his chair out from the table, turns it so it faces her. He's still light enough that she can manage it without much effort.

And he doesn't run.

"I talked to you, I went to visit you. I raised our babies. And I loved you. More than anything else, I loved you."

She stops suddenly, her chest heaving. There's tears in his eyes now, too. And she's tired. Tired from yelling, but tired mostly from carrying the weight of everything these past few months have brought. From thinking that at any moment, her world would collapse in on her.

She's so tired. She collapses onto his lap, her head falling into his chest, over his heart.

And he doesn't run. He doesn't even tense.

"And now," she murmurs, "now you want to know if there was someone else? There wasn't anyone else. There isn't, there wasn't, there never will be."

"Michonne."

She feels his voice rumble in his chest. Her name isn't a whisper this time. He doesn't murmur it, or mutter it. He says it, with his whole voice.

She lifts her head.

"Baby," he says, tucking a loc of her hair behind her ear.

She grabs his face with both of her hands, sitting up straight. She hovers over him slightly, close enough now that she can see the light freckles on the bridge of his nose, the flecks of cerulean in his light blue eyes that shine with tears.

And he doesn't run.

"I missed you every day," she tells him. "I loved you every day. I loved - "

He leans up and kisses her.

She doesn't respond at first, because she doesn't expect it. She stills in shock as her brain sputters to make sense of what's happening and her lips don't move back against his. And by the time it registers - that he's not running, that he's kissing her - he pulls away. And the loss of him, of their contact, is so profound that she almost begins to cry harder.

Don't stop, she's about to say, but the words die in her throat as she looks at him.

He's staring up at her again, but his eyes are different. They're not squinted, and the tears in them have dried. And he isn't trying to decide anything. Instead, he looks decided.

He's looking at her like he loves her. Like he's hungry, and the only thing he wants is her.

It's how he used to look at her, almost always. Even when they weren't in the bedroom - when they went on runs, when they were out in the community doing various jobs - there would always be a hint of it, deep in his irises.

She remembers the first time he looked at her like that. That night on the couch, their hearts pounding as they kissed furiously, both of their shirts half untucked, the button of her jeans undone, hands anywhere they could find the other's bare skin. His lips left hers only to kiss across her jaw, down her neck, and settle on her collarbone, where his lips moved and his tongue danced against her skin.

His teeth nipped at her lightly, and she groaned at the pleasurable pain.

He pulled away and hovered over her. She could feel him, cooped up in his jeans, pressing incessantly against her inner thigh. She almost pouted at the sudden stop, and was about to tell him to get back down here, but then she looked into his eyes.

The first time he had pulled away, a few minutes earlier, he had smiled down at her, softly and happily. She held his face, ran her fingers over his cheekbones, and smiled back.

This time, he didn't smile. He stared at her, chest heaving, wild curls framing his face like a halo of dark light, mouth hanging open.

He looked like he wanted to devour her. And he had, that night and so many others after it, thoroughly and absolutely.

It's how he's looking at her now.

She feels a buzzing throughout her body, and a bolt of desire makes her shiver as it settles between her thighs. She wants him. She wants him.

She's never wanted him more.

She doesn't know which one of them leans in again first, but she supposes it doesn't matter, because when their lips crash together, everything flies out of her mind except for him. Him, and his lips and his body and his heart. She places one of her hands on his chest, so she can feel it beat wildly underneath her palm.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive and he's not running. he's with her. he's finally with her.)

He's already hard beneath her, and she feels herself clench around nothing, longing for him. Longing to feel him inside her, to welcome him home. She reaches for his pants while he stands with her and lays her back on the empty table. She undoes his belt and then yanks it from the loops on his pants, dropping it to the ground. The metal buckle thumps as it hits the hardwood floor, and she jumps at the noise before laughing softly at the sudden sound. He joins her, and it makes her laugh harder.

She's happy. She's so happy, and he is, too. She almost can't believe it, but she does believe it because she feels it. She feels the warmth blooming in her core and spreading into every single one of her atoms, she senses the joy rolling off of Rick in waves.

She believes it because it's real. It's radiating out of their every pore, and it's so real.

She continues laughing, covering her mouth with her hand. But he tugs on that hand, and she lets him pull it down, placing it on his shoulder instead. Then, he takes his index finger and gently runs it along her bottom lip, in the shape of her smile.

"I've missed you," he whispers.

She smiles, as tears gather in the corner of her eyes. She doesn't know if they're happy or sad, but it doesn't matter. Because either way, she knows he'll be there to catch them when they fall.

She leans up again to kiss him, wraps her legs around his waist as he trails his fingers up and down her bare thighs. Each touch of his hands on her skin leaves fire in their wake, a pleasant burn that spreads across her skin and sets her aflame, burning away her old self and making way for rebirth. Like the spring outside, she's blooming, the buds and blossoms inside her watered and nurtured by the light in his eyes, by the feel of his body against hers. Flowers grow between her ribs.

His hands creep under her t-shirt, travel up her sides and hover over her chest before moving down again. He grabs the hem of her shirt and she sits up, helping to pull it over her head. It falls to the floor along beside his belt.

He stares at her, licking his lips. She leans back on her hands. Her bra is already out of place, her breasts practically spilling out of the garment. And he keeps staring. She feels herself getting wetter. She forgot how wonderful it felt to be ogled by the man that you love. She raises her eyebrows, challenging him.

What are you waiting for?

His eyes meet hers for a split second. And then he dives in, headfirst.

He buries his face in her cleavage, inhales her. And it gives her his answer.

I'm not waiting for anything. Not anymore.

He kisses and nips and the soft flesh of her breasts, and one of his hands reaches up her back, his fingers starting to fiddle with the clasp of her bra. She closes her eyes, lets out a soft moan, before opening her eyes again.

"Wait," she says.

He shakes his head, lets out some muffled hum of protest, and she laughs.

"Rick, wait," she repeats, grabbing his head and lifting it from her chest. His bottom lip juts out in adorable pout, and her smile is so wide that her cheeks hurt.

"We shouldn't do this here," she tells him softly.

"Why?" he asks, and she can hear the slight nervous lilt in his tone. Like he's afraid she's going to reject him suddenly.

She runs her hand over his hair in an attempt to soothe him. He's been keeping it short, like he did before he was taken. The fuzz feels good under her fingers.

She doesn't want to do it here. She wants to bring him back into their room, back into their bed. Take the place she poured so many tears and so much sorrow into and drain it. Fill it up with love again.

She wants to take those final steps to bring him back to her, wholly. And there are practical reasons, too.

"Because the front door is unlocked. And because the kitchen window is open. Someone could hear us."

"You plannin' on being loud?" he asks, a wicked and aroused glint appearing in his eyes.

He's half-teasing her, she knows. But the other half of him is excited at the prospect. His eyes dart around her face, one corner of his mouth ticking up.

"You planning on making me be loud?" she counters.

He bites down on his bottom lip, and then stands, taking her hand. She laces their fingers together as he bends down to pick up their shirt and belt.

"C'mon," he drawls, the southern twang more pronounced as it always is when his voice is rough with pleasure.

He leads her up the stairs and down the hall, but stops when he comes to their room. She can sense his hesitation, but she waits for him.

Finally, he reaches out, hand shaking. He turns the knob, and the door falls open. She can see the sun shining in through the sheer white curtains, filling the room with light.

He doesn't move to go in, so she steps around him, tugs on his hand and beckoning him forward.

"Come on," she urges. And it takes him a moment, but he follows her.

She lets him walk past her, and then closes the door behind them. She watches him as he stands at the foot of the bed, back towards her, gazing around the room like he's never been there before.

"You were always here."

He turns to her, tilting his head to the side.

"What do you mean?" he questions.

"You were always here," she tells him again. "It wasn't just the clothes. I always felt you in here. Like you had left part of yourself behind the last time you went away. And when I wanted to feel close to you, and it wasn't practical to go to the bridge, I would take the kids to Aaron's, and come up here and crawl into bed. I'd lay my head on your pillow. Sometimes I would cry, other times I would talk, but a lot of times I would just, lay there. And I would feel like you were there with me."

She walks towards him, and wraps her arms around him tightly, resting her head on his chest, above his thumping heart.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)

"This is yours, Rick. This room, this bed. It's all yours. It always has been, and it always will be."

They're silent for a minute, but then she feels him nod above her.

"Okay," he whispers, before pulling back so he can look into her eyes.

"Okay," he repeats.

"Okay," she says back, nodding her head.

He leans down to kiss her.

They pick back up where they left off in the dining room, wrapping themselves around each other. He sits her down on the bed, takes off her bra, finally. He palms her breasts as he kneels down, places a long kiss on each nipple, and then moves his mouth down her stomach, stopping when he gets to the waistband of her cotton shorts. He tugs them down slowly, and then peels off her soaked underwear.

She's naked before him, for the first time in seven years. But there's no nervousness, no awkwardness, no hesitation. All she feels is anticipation. Eagerness for what she knows will come next.

He stares at her from his place on the floor, mouth hanging open, breaths labored. She wants every inch of him.

She reaches for him, begins to unbutton his shirt. He assists her. As he's shrugging it off his shoulders, she goes to start on his jeans, but she stops when she sees it.

He's gained a lot of weight since he came home, but she can still see his ribs. She can still count each one of them.

She stares. She can't help it. She stares, and it takes her back to when she found him, cowering in the corner of that cold, dark room, scared and abused and halfway to death.

The people who did that to him, they're dead now. They're dead, and they will never hurt him again. But it's not good enough. She wants to go back, to line them up and kill them all over again, one by one, watch them suffer, see their fear, their -

"Michonne," she hears, in some small part of her brain. His hands cradle her cheeks, and he tilts her face up. He's gazing down at her with the slightest frown on his face.

"Stay with me," he whispers.

Her eyes flit back to his ribs for a moment, but she takes a deep breath and looks back at him.

They're dead, she reminds herself. It doesn't matter anymore. What matters is that he's here, holding her. Loving her. He's alive.

They didn't win. He's alive. She leans into his hand, and feels the beat of his pulse against her skin.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)

He's here, and he loves her.

Stay with me.

"Always," she promises.

He brings her face to his, presses his lips against hers softly. For a moment, they're quiet, pressed against each other and swaying back and forth slightly.

She begins to pull on him, forcing onto the bed with her. He laughs as she scoots back towards the headboard, and he pushes down his jeans and boxers, throwing them on the floor before turning over and crawling on top of her.

Once he's settled in, she reaches down and holds him. They both groan as she strokes him, him shifting above her as his hips buck. He drips into her hand as she continues to stroke, and she reaches down with her other hand to cup his balls.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice strained. She can tell she's torturing him, but she can't stop. She loves it - loves making him feel like this, loves the weight of him in her hand. He feels so good, and he's not even inside of her yet.

She speeds up her strokes, and he moans again, louder this time than the last. He reaches and grabs her hands, brings them up and holds them in his, lacing their fingers together.

"I want you," he says breathlessly. "I need you."

She lays back, her hair spreading out on the pillows, all around her head.

"Then take me," she tells him, reaching out again and guiding him to her entrance.

He does.

He enters her in one movement, and neither of them can help the loud groans they let out. They don't move right away as they treasure the feeling of being connected once again, finally.

But then, she grows impatient. She swivels her hips, communicating to him without words, and he begins to thrust.

It's almost like their first time, in a way. Things aren't perfectly smooth, and there are bumps and stutters along the way. Their bodies together aren't the well-oiled machine that they used to be. Neither of them are exactly how they used to be. They have to get used to this again. To find out who the other is, now.

She couldn't be more eager to learn.

They find a steady rhythm after a few minutes, and his thrusts get faster as she moves her hips in time with his. He pauses for a moment, readjusts them so he can reach her more freely, and then trails his hand down and begins to move his fingers against her.

She feels it, that tightening in the pit of her stomach, the beginning of the tide that will take her over. He begins to move his fingers more intently, syncs them with the movement of their hips, and the feeling grows. She's standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, and she's about to jump.

She lets go of everything. Everything that's been plaguing her for so long - for seven years - and lets it fade away. All of the worry, the pain, the exhaustion, the sorrow and loneliness. All of her doubts and insecurities and responsibilities and fear. She lets them go, until there's nothing left except her and this bed and him. Him, moving above and inside her, panting in her ear, setting her nerves ablaze.

She clings to him as he continues to thrust, crying out as he kindles the fire inside of her.

And she falls.

Her muscles spasm around him as she hits the water below the cliff. The waves overtake her, and her head goes under. She's drowning, but it's okay. He's here, and she never wants to breathe again.

She relaxes all at once with a contented moan, sated and happy. He continues to move above her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, his moans still echoing throughout the room even though they're muffled by her skin. Her hands roam up and down his back, wander down to his ass and squeeze.

"Come on, baby," she murmurs in his ear.

She feels his muscles stiffen suddenly, and then the warm rush as he comes inside of her. She closes her eyes, relishing it. Relishing him.

He collapses on top of her, his face still buried in her neck. They both heave as they try to catch their breath. Their chests are pressed together, and she can feel his heart pounding.

(he's alive he's alive he's alive he's alive)

And she's home. Finally, she's home.

***

It's warm again today.

She'd opened all the windows and doors when she'd come downstairs, so the fresh air could drift in and freshen up the house. She can feel the pleasant breeze blowing against her skin now, as she folds towels in the living room.

It's quiet at home. The kids are out with Daryl and Dog. She isn't sure where Rick is right now, but she knows he's nearby.

She hears small footsteps dash up the front porch steps.

"Momma!"

She smiles. It's RJ.

She sets the laundry basket she had on her lap aside, and gets up to greet him at the door. Her bare feet pad against the hardwood floor and echo softly throughout the entryway.

"Mom-"

Her eyebrows furrow as she wonders what made him stop his second call for her. She approaches the screen door and is about to open it, when she spots her son, standing on the porch and staring cautiously at something in the corner. She frowns, but then she realizes.

Rick must be sitting on the porch.

She almost runs out to them reflexively, to insert herself into the situation and try and ease the awkwardness between them. Things with RJ and Rick still aren't quite where she'd hoped they'd be. Rick is trying, and she knows RJ is too.

They'll get there. They just need time.

She steps back a bit, decides to let them work it out on their own. She angles herself in the doorway so she won't be seen by either of them.

"Hey, RJ," Rick says carefully. She knows he's trying not to scare off their son.

It takes him a minute, but RJ finally responds.

"Hi br...Daddy."

She smiles softly. RJ forgets to call him Daddy a lot, having referred to him as the brave man for so long. But he's getting better.

"What are you up to? I thought you and your sister were with Uncle Daryl."

"We are, but I gotta pee."

She puts a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

"Hmm. Well, you better get in there."

"Yeah," RJ answers. He looks for a moment longer, then turns towards the house. He takes a step towards the door, but stops again.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, son?"

"Judy said...Judy said you used to sing to her when she was a little baby."

"I did," Rick answers.

"A song about dreams," RJ continues.

"Yeah. It's called Dream a Little Dream of Me."

"Yeah. That one."

A silence falls over them. She's about to go outside, when RJ speaks again.

"Will you sing it for me?"

"Yeah," Rick says, and she can hear a sort of strong emotion in his voice. "I'd love to. Come over here."

RJ walks over without hesitating, and her heart leaps. She hears the rocking chair Rick must be sitting in shift.

"Now, I'm not that good of a singer…"

"Momma and Judy say your voice is good."

"They're just being nice. You'll have to tell me what you think, okay?"

"Okay."

There's silence for a moment. Then, Rick starts.

Stars shining bright above you Night breezes seem to whisper, "I love you" Birds singing in the sycamore tree Dream a little dream of me

Rick starts to move on to the next verse, but RJ interrupts.

"You have a good voice!"

"Aw, thanks, buddy."

"Keep going, please," RJ insists. Rick laughs.

"Whatever you say."

Stars fading, but I linger on, dear Still craving your kiss I'm longing to linger 'til dawn, dear Just saying this

She can't see them from the angle she's at, but she still doesn't want to make herself seen. She quietly rushes to the living room, so she can look out the window.

Rick is sitting in the rocking chair, and RJ is sitting on his lap, facing his father. She can't see Rick's face, but she can see RJ. The boy's eyes are wide and bright as he watches Rick, a grin on his face.

She feels tears gather in her eyes, as she watches the two boys she loves most in the entire world.

Sweet dreams 'til sunbeams find you Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you But in your dreams, whatever they be Dream a little dream of me

She smiles.

But in your dreams, whatever they be Dream a little dream

"RJ! What's taking you so long?"

Judith runs up the path to their house, Dog and Daryl trailing behind her. RJ wiggles off of Rick's lap as his sister jogs up the stairs.

"Daddy sang to me. The dreams song! Just like you said."

"I thought you had to pee," Judith questions.

"Oh yeah!" RJ exclaims, like he'd just remembered his reason for coming home in the first place. "Momma!"

He runs towards the door, and she wipes at her eyes and walks to the door, arriving just as RJ flings it open.

"Momma, I have to pee!"

"Then go to the bathroom, silly!" she tells her son, placing her hand on his back and gently pushing him in the direction of the bathroom as he scurries past her. She waits until she hears the door slam shut, and then she ventures outside.

Judith is at the rocking chair talking to Rick, in voices too low for her to hear them. Instead, she waves at Daryl, who's still in the yard, throwing a tennis ball around for Dog.

"Hi, Mom," she hears suddenly, and looks down to see Judith walking past her and into the house.

"Hey, Judy."

Daryl walks up the steps to the porch. He throws the tennis ball once more, and then turns towards Rick and Michonne.

"What's up?" he asks.

"Nothing," she answers. " Just hanging around. Did some laundry."

"That's not what I mean. You're all smiley."

"Smiley?" she questions.

"Yeah. Judith was telling me how y'all had this nice breakfast this morning, and the two of you were all happy. And I can tell now. You look...lighter or some shit."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, trying to play dumb. But there's a slight thrill that runs through her, at the fact that the past twenty-four hours have changed her so much that other people can tell.

Daryl doesn't answer her. Instead, he looks between her and Rick. Rick, who's sitting outside, whistling some made-up song.

Daryl grins. And she feels like it's the first time her and Rick slept together all over again, when their whole family barged in on them when they were half-dressed.

"Nevermind," Daryl mutters, and moves towards the house. Before he opens the door, he turns towards Rick.

"Hey, me and Aaron are going out tomorrow, s'long as it don't rain. You coming?"

"Uh...sure. Yeah."

It's not the first time Daryl's asked him to go on a run since he's been back, but it's the first time Rick's agreed. He always had excuses - something about being too weak, or fearing he'd be a liability instead of an asset.

She smiles at his answer. Daryl grins again, too, and then starts into the house. He calls out, just loud enough for them to hear it.

"Yeah, y'all are smiley for sure."

She looks at Rick, and he looks back at her. They burst into laughter.

She walks over to him, leans against the porch railing as she stands in front of the rocking chair.

"Why do I feel like a kid who just got caught having sex at summer camp?"

He laughs again, and then pats his lap, signaling for her to sit down.

"I'm not as little as RJ," she warns.

"I'll manage."

She smiles, and then sits down, leaning back into him. He wraps his arms around her, resting his hands on her stomach. She places her hands over his, and closes her eyes.

"So, you were spying on us?"

"I was," she admits freely. "I love seeing the two of you together. I couldn't help it. Plus, I'll never pass up a chance to hear you sing."

He presses a kiss to her bare shoulder, next to the strap of her tank top.

"What did our little bird want?" she wonders.

"Apparently, she doesn't want to pass up a chance to hear me sing, either. She asked if I would sing that song for her tonight before bed."

It's been years since she's sang Judith to sleep. She smiles gently.

"She's missed you, too. More than you know."

"Yeah," he whispers. "I kind of...got that. When she was talking to me."

She nods. They're quiet for a few moments, listening to the sound of the soft breeze blowing around them.

"Michonne?"

She shifts, turning so she can see his face. He stares at her, bringing his hand up to trail along her cheekbone.

"I love you," he breathes.

It's the first time she's heard him say that in seven years.

"I love you, too," she tells him, and places a kiss on his forehead before wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her cheek on top of his head.

She knows things won't be perfect from here on out. Sex isn't a magic spell that will fix everything, as much as she wishes it was. There will be obstacles in their continued journey back together. He'll still have bad days. She will, too. There will still be nightmares, still be pain. And they'll never be the same as they were.

Instead, they'll be something new. Something that's suffered, but come out on the other side. And they'll be stronger for it. She knows they will.

They love each other. And their love is strong enough to weather any storm, to survive any fire. It's gotten them this far in the new world, and it will continue to sustain them. That's all that matters.

They love each other.

She closes her eyes, tightens her arms around him.

"I'm so glad you came home to me," she whispers.

"Always," he answers gently.

She hears the kids running around inside through the open window. Daryl shouts after them, something she can't make out, but Rick laughs. The sun shines on her skin. She hears the sound of the town thriving and bustling around them. The sound of her home. Their home.

And she smiles.

***

A/N: This is the first time I've ever written smut, so I hope it turned out okay and wasn't too clunky.

Alas, my dears, this is the last real chapter of this story. I have a short epilogue planned, but other than that, this is where I will leave this version of Rick and Michonne - at the start of a new beginning, finally on the same page and together with their family like they're always meant to be.

ALSO - the absolutely lovely @mdgart has agreed to create some of her wonderful art in honor of this chapter! It’ll most likely be posted somewhere on tumblr - I’ll be sure to reblog it here - but also keep your eyes open and on our twitters (mine is @hawthornegrimes and hers is @ms_doomandgloom) for that some time in the near future. I'm so excited for you all to see her beautiful work!

Thanks for reading! I hope this chapter was worth the wait. (Props to anyone who can come up with the other fictional couple I referenced in this chapter.)

xoxo, rebekah

#richonne #the walking dead #richonnejustdesserts #richonne writing network #richonne fic #richonne fanfiction #twd fanfiction #asrh

41 notes · View notes

aegiseterna · 4 years

Text

Say something I’m giving up on you

A/N So this is the first fan fic i’ve ever written and came to mind when I was listening to the Pentatonix cover of Say Something.

Tsukishima x f!reader (i wrote it with a F reader in mind but there aren’t any gender implications so could also be GN!reader).

Warning: angst

You weren’t sure when it happened…

If it was the first time he forgot to send a good morning message, or when you forgot the date of his next game.

Maybe it was when he stopped asking you to come to watch every game.

Or when you didn’t say I love you back at the end of a call.

Maybe it was all of it.

But you remember the first time you felt alone.

The dim light of your screen was the only thing illuminating your room. Your eyes fixed onto its screen, waiting for the message to come through. Some how knowing that your waiting for for nothing.

Today had been a small but significant milestone for you, something you’d mentioned in passing to your boyfriend of almost three years. Although you’d down played it’s significance you’d now received messages of support from your parents and your best friend. But you’d yet to hear anything from your boyfriend.

It didn’t surprise you, and you weren’t sure if that made it worse. Tsukishima Kei wasn’t known for being overly affectionate, but you knew he was proud of you and had always celebrated your achievements no matter how small.

He was just busy with practice you said to the empty room. The light of your phone began to dim from inactivity. The shadows growing darker and bigger with every second.

There was no reason to fear the dark, but as the glow of your phone finally shut it felt like the shadow permeated your entire being, gripping you tightly and draining every last touch of warmth from your body.

The only sounds filling the room were the gentle rise and fall of your chest. That was the first time you’d ever felt alone, forgotten in the shadows.

The next time was two months later.

You were standing in the cold, rubbing your hands against the material of your jeans trying to regain the feeling in your fingertips. Only yesterday, you’d agreed to meet Kei out in front of the University for a date to catch up.

You’d both been too busy for each other recently, between his volleyball practice and looming coursework deadlines, and your exams you felt like you’d barely had a moment to catch your breath. This date had been an attempt to take a break, hold each other close and forget about the realities of life. If only for a moment.

But as the minutes ticked by, you felt the shadows creeping closer to you once more. You braced yourself against the cold wind, your chest tightening as it tried to hold on to its warmth.

The university campus was truly beautiful at night, bathed in the soft golden glow of its street lamps the buildings took on an almost regal elegance. But none of it seemed to touch you.

Students mulled around with scarves wrapped up around their faces, running from building to building attempting to escape the cold. A few cast you casual glances, some of which you recognised and smiled politely in return.

It was hard to feel alone when you were surrounded by constant movement, but it was easy to notice within the buzzing of the environment around you, that you seemed to be the only stationary object. Stranded in the dark, without a lifeline to drag you back towards the light.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, distracting you from your thoughts. The name on the screen that once caused your body to flush, that now only made you purse your cracking lips.

Kei

Practice is going to over run, I’ll call you when I get home.

Your chest relaxed as you let your arm drop to your side. A warm puff of air left your mouth, turning into smoke before being swept away into the darkness, taking with it the quiet whisper that left your mouth.

The last time was when you were right beside him

Kei was sitting on the sofa beside you, the rest of your friends and his teammates surrounding you. Their laughter ringing in your ears.

Ever since that night two months ago, you felt like you’d never been able to escape the cold. Your fingers still tingled as you rubbed them together. You briefly wondered if this was what it would feel like to be invisible, a casual observer in someone else’s story. But that didn’t explain why it felt like the world was resting on your shoulders.

No.

You were still visible.

But you wished you weren’t

That would be less painful than realising it was because your presence was simply unacknowledged.

Your eyes drifted across the room, taking in the movements of those around you until your eyes settled on him. The man sat next to you.

You noticed Kei hand rubbing against the fabric of the cushion beside him.

You noticed the small bruises on his long fingers, evidence of his dedication to volleyball.

You noticed how from where you were sitting you could see both of his eyes from under his glasses, how they crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

And you noticed how they seemed to take in the presence of everyone in the room, except for you.

That was the moment you felt the world constrict around you.

You reached out and wrapped your fingers around Kei’s. When you first started dating you remembered feeling as though your connected fingers were what tethered you to this existence. He’d been your whole world, you would have followed him anywhere.

In your mind it was the type of love you’d read about in fairy tales. But you realised how naïve you had been. Just as quickly as love appeared, it could just as quickly disappear.

Some break-ups are loud.

Words swung as weapons.

The final slam of a door.

But others happen quietly, in the middle of the night, with barely a whisper.

Right now, you knew what was left of your love was hanging in between your joined finger tips.

As his face turned to yours, you could see the dim lights of the room reflected in them. You tried to remember the how breathless his stares used to make you feel.

How he would stare at you like you were the center of his universe.

How his gaze would linger on yours.

But now his glances wouldn’t even last a heartbeat.

By the time you had both stood and headed wordlessly into the darkness of the street, you felt the strain of your connected fingers.

Quietly you walked back to your apartment, it wasn’t far, and before you knew it you were stood in front of your door.

In another life, Kei would have already wrapped his arms around your waist hurrying you to open the door for you to collapse in a giggling heap on the welcome mat as the door swung open.

But now, in this life, he stood back his foot brushing against the pavement.

You didn’t want to pull out your keys, you wanted to stay in this moment. It was like you were standing on the precipice of a great cliff, teetering just over the edge, but hadn’t tipped enough to fall.

You didn’t want to fall.

You wanted to be pulled back to safety.

You turned towards the door. Feeling his eyes as they watched you move away.

Time seemed to slow, there wasn’t more than five steps to your front door.

But it felt like a mile.

Say something…

First step.

Your heartbeat loudly in your chest.

Second Step.

A heavy weight settled on your chest.

Third step.

Your throat started to constrict, but you weren’t even sure if you were breathing at this point.

Fourth step.

The keys were in your hand now. You could make out the small nicks and scuffs on the lock of your door.

The final step.

The key slid into the lock. The air seemed to still, and the silence was deafening. Even without turning around you knew he’d made no move towards you.

I’m giving up on you…

You turned back to look at him, his eyes already on yours.

“You’re the one that I love.” His words were barely audible, but you heard it as clear as day.

It felt like the last breath you’d ever take. Standing a few steps away from the man you’d promised your life to.

“I’m saying goodbye…”

#tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei #tsukishima angst #tsukishima oneshot #hq tsukishima #haikyuu tsukishima #haikyuu!!#haikyuu imagines #tsukishima scenarios #haikyu x reader

5 notes · View notes

insanityclause · 4 years

Link

Britain’s beleaguered arts and heritage sectors have been promised £1.57bn of help in a long-awaited rescue package described by the government as the biggest one-off investment in UK culture.

After weeks of desperate warnings that the UK was facing an irreversible cultural catastrophe without targeted support, ministers announced a package that it said would protect the future of the country’s museums, galleries, theatres and music venues.

The playwright James Graham, who has spoken passionately about the urgent need for investment, said the money appeared to be more than most people in the arts had dared dream of.

“Let’s drill down into the detail but my first reaction is absolute relief and gratitude,” he said. “I think it is a surprisingly ambitious package, especially when you compare it to some of our European neighbours.

“If this package is as ambitious as it looks, then conversations within our sector will now need to turn to what our recovery might look like in terms of protecting any gains made in recent years over inclusion, representation and diversity, and how this support can reach who need it most, particularly outside of London.”

Boris Johnson said arts and culture were the soul of the nation. “They make our country great and are the lynchpin of our world-beating and fast-growing creative industries,” the prime minister said.

“I understand the grave challenges the arts face and we must protect and preserve all we can for future generations, ensuring arts groups and venues across the UK can stay afloat and support their staff whilst their doors remain closed and curtains remain down.”

The package includes:

A £1.15bn support pot for cultural organisations in England, consisting of £270m in loans and £880m in grants.

£100m of targeted support for England’s national cultural institutions and English Heritage.

£120m of capital investment to restart construction on cultural infrastructure and for heritage construction projects in England paused because of the pandemic.

Extra money for devolved administrations, with £97m for Scotland, £59m for Wales and £33m for Northern Ireland.

The package surprised most people in the arts, especially since the mood music from the Treasury had appeared to signal reluctance to intervene too heavily.

Vicky Featherstone, the artistic director of the Royal Court theatre in London, praised the rescue package. “It is an extraordinary amount of money and it means that they have really listened to all the incredible people who have been putting forward the arguments about what is needed and why it is needed,” she said.

“Now we must ensure that the brilliant freelancers that make our theatres are properly supported and that we all get back to making productions for our wonderful audiences as soon as possible.”

Andrew Lloyd Webber, the theatre impresario, said: “It is absolutely critical that Britain’s cultural sector is restored to health as soon as possible, and I look forward to seeing the details of the rescue package and working further with Oliver [Dowden, the culture secretary] and the government to get all of Britain’s theatres – both large and small – open as soon as possible.”

Tamara Rojo, the artistic director of English National Ballet, said: “The arts contribute so much to the social and economic fabric of our society. There was an urgent need for action and I am delighted and relieved that the government has listened and responded. This package gives our sector a fighting chance of survival.”

While hugely welcomed, it comes too late for the highest-profile arts casualty, with administrators for Nuffield Southampton Theatres last week announcing permanent closure, bringing the curtain down on six decades of theatrical history.

The shadow culture secretary, Jo Stevens, said that while the package was “a much-needed injection of cash”, it was “too little too late” for many.

“It needs to reach theatres teetering on the brink fast – especially those across the towns and small cities where venues and arts orgs are so vital to local economies providing many interdependent jobs,” she said on Twitter.

Industry experts said it was too soon to say whether the package would stave off the threat of redundancies already announced by theatres in both the commercial and subsidised sector. They include the West End producer Nimax consulting on making a third of its workforce – 130 people – redundant; Manchester Royal Exchange contemplating the loss of 65% of its staff; and Theatre Royal Plymouth warning that a third of its 340-strong workforce could go.

Decisions on awards will be made by the government working alongside bodies such as the British Film Institute, Historic England, the National Lottery Heritage Fund and Arts Council England (ACE).

ACE’s chair, Sir Nicholas Serota, said: “We greatly welcome this very significant investment by the government in the future of arts and culture in this country and look forward to working with them on next steps.

“I know our amazing artists and creative organisations will repay the faith that the government has shown by demonstrating the range of their creativity, by serving their communities and by helping the nation recover as we emerge from the pandemic.”

Those sentiments were echoed by Alex Beard, the chief executive of the Royal Opera House. “This is a vital next step on the road to recovery for the industry and will help to support and sustain the UK’s vibrant arts ecology through the crisis,” he said. “There is much to achieve over the coming months and this package will be a catalyst for unlocking the extraordinary creativity embedded in the UK’s world-renowned creative industries.”

The announcement follows what has felt like a white-knuckle ride of tension and fear over the future for the country’s arts and heritage sectors. The pandemic has brought theatre and music venues to a cliff edge at a time when they are most needed. Tom Morris, the artistic director of Bristol Old Vic, had warned of the danger of British theatre being destroyed by accident.

Industry leaders had cast jealous eyes at nations such as Germany, which promised, early in the pandemic, €1bn to a fund supporting theatres, museums and other organisations to “open their doors again as soon as possible after the forced break”.

Cultural institutions including London’s Old Vic, Shakespeare’s Globe and the Royal Albert Hall had all said they were on the brink of closure without an investment package.

Julian Bird, the chief executive of the Society of London Theatre and UK Theatre, has led industry lobbying for investment to save theatre from ruin. He said the package was “hugely welcome”.

He added: “Venues, producers and the huge workforce in the theatre sector look forward to clarity of how these funds will be allocated and invested so that artists and organisations can get back to work as soon as possible.

“Our industry’s united ambition is to be able to play its vital role in the nation’s economic and social recovery and this investment will allow us to do so.”

Performing arts venues have seen their income fall to zero and warned that they do not have the money to reopen with physically distanced audiences. The investment package will allow venues to stay afloat while the doors remain closed.

How soon they can reopen remains to be seen. Boris Johnson said on Friday that a timetable would be published in the coming week.

Dowden said the investment package was “unprecedented and world-leading. Our arts and culture are the soul of our nation. I said we would not let the arts down and this massive investment shows our level of commitment.”

While theatres and concert halls remain closed, galleries and museums in England will this week start slowly reopening. The National Gallery opens its doors to the public on Wednesday, with visitors having to book time-slots in advance. Once in, they will follow three one-way art routes, but people can take their time should they want to.

In many cases it is costing more for museums to reopen with fewer visitors than it would to remain closed. The rescue package will go some way to alleviating those concerns

#coronavirus outbreak #uk news #arts policy #theatre #art and design

14 notes · View notes

artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

who we are and who we are not [trixya] - pinkgrapefruit

There’s a hint of an ocean hidden in the back of Katya’s eyes and Trixie is so sure she’s seen it before.

It begins in Australia. (It begins in an idyllic neighbourhood both above and below and to the left of Trixie’s office.) She agrees to help this confused blonde with a rats’ nest of hair in a messy bun and the bags under her eyes that carry more secrets than Gretchen’s hair, and she cannot decide why. There is something uniquely compelling behind the river of her eyes, and Trixie just wants to spend the upcoming weekend sunbathing on its banks, drinking margarita slushies, and reading poetry.

[the good place au]

A/N - you should never have let me express my love of other fandoms because this au has been in the works for months and after the harry potter au response you’re all insane to think I’m not posting this. thank you to jazz and frey for being fantastic cheerleaders and grammar checkers and i really hope you like it because I do. i’m not at all sorry and you don’t really need knowledge of the good place to read this

There’s a hint of an ocean hidden in the back of Katya’s eyes and Trixie is so sure she’s seen it before.

It begins that first day, in her office.

It ends there too in due course, and then starts there again, so much harder and more painful than before because she thought she was finally over it, and because Katya.

There’s more to it than that, though. So much more.

So she agrees to help. And it starts off with just them, in Trixie’s office, when she’s pretending to be marking grad student essays praising Kant for ideas that Hume created, but instead, trying to figure out why a woman who decided she needed help, needed her. Katya says she watched her lectures ( What we owe to each other ), and when Trixie looks, really looks into her eyes, she sees hope and fear and something so deep she needs a ladder on hand before she goes any closer - and she swears she’s seen that look before -

They’re in the kitchen sat on the bench which should not be comfortable, save for the way Katya shoved all of their throws down the back of it to pad it out. They’re in the kitchen, looking at the television playing a VCR of them - in a bed.

Katya on the tape was smiling. She looked happy and in love. ‘I did that,’ Trixie thinks. ‘I made her look like that.’ And she feels a warmth pulsate behind her left ribcage.

“So, yeah, I guess… do you… I don’t know. Do you have any feeling like that for me… again… now?” She asks.

And then Trixie blinks and she is a stranger again.

It begins with the stark feeling that maybe this is the most important moment of her life.

Katya bullies her into asking Bob out. She’s smart, Trixie will give her that. She knows just how to trap her.

(It’s almost as if they’ve known each other for years.)

The dinner could have gone better. It’s stilted - awkward. The back and forth feels wrong and Bob - while she’s wonderful - she feels; odd. She takes too long to order and Bob snatches the menu out of her hands, and that’s how she ends up eating goats cheese. She’s a little bit allergic, but she really likes Bob. She’ll figure the rest out later.

The vase is the same blue as Katya’s eyes.

It’s a few weeks later and Katya has graduated from sitting in the back of class, bullying Australian undergrads for their pronunciation of Kant to making actual progress. Tangible progress that looks like tipping servers and clearing the lecture hall. And she’s talking about one student - a quiet one with good ideas and strong morals, Jasmine - maybe and -

“We’ll get some information, Hey Jan!” She calls, and this Trixie is sure of herself when she speaks, spoon full of froyo balanced on the edge of her cup.

A blonde comes out of nowhere. She’s dressed like a seventies air hostess, and even though she’s not breathing, she looks so human Trixie swears there’s a ghost of a rise in her chest.

That Katya jumps with a gasp. “Who the fork are you?” she asks like she needs to know.

“This is Jan - she’s like a database for all knowledge. You can ask her anything you want.”

“Hi,” Jan says. It’s robotic, but not inhuman, and the juxtaposition is unnerving.

“Jan… Was Violet in love with me in fifth grade?” Katya winks.

“Yasmine,” Trixie corrects breathlessly. “You could learn something from her - she’s good.”

“Yeah, but then why would I need you?” Katya jumps off the desk she’s been sat on and pads out of the hall, her flannel slung around her waist. Trixie pushes the glasses up her nose and leans her head on the cool wall for a moment. She needs a moment.

Katya wins eighteen thousand dollars. Monét starts dating the black sheep of West Industries. Vanessa goes to yoga for five minutes before she realises it’s not what she signed up for, but she stays for the hot ex-ballerina instructor because watching her do some of the poses means she doesn’t have to do them herself. Trixie sees the librarian and a blonde woman popping champagne and whispering in the abandoned journalism department. She leaves them to it. Life is good.

(It’s not though.)

(If there is a hell, this is it.)

Being like Katya is like teetering on the very edge of a cliff. She’s fighting not to fall forwards into the ocean blue of her eyes, but she can’t bear to fall back onto solid, safe earth either. She learns to be content with the rough-edged, precarious thing that isn’t quite love, but at the same time isn’t not, that she knows cannot last.

Eventually, she is going to fall one way or another. She will lose her either way.

She shouldn’t be thinking about her.

(She never stops)

She’s with Bob. She loves Bob. Probably-

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” she says, and Katya’s face falls and there’s a sharp ache in her chest. “I could, logistically. You’re funny, and intelligent and your face is… symmetrical.”

(Wow.)

(Symmetrical)

(They’re going to the bad place and she calls her symmetrical.)

(And she cannot save Katya, but she wants to.)

Nine months in and Bob tells her she loves her, and Trixie’s response could make E.E. Cummings cry.

“Oh, why?”

And she tells Katya the next day, who punches her arm relentlessly for fifteen minutes, all while berating her using language that would also make Cummings cry if he heard them. Katya wants her to love Bob. She doesn’t dream of the two of them walking around a lake in an idyllic neighbourhood - wrapped in blankets that smell of hope and happiness.

That’s fine. Because neither does Trixie.

“You make my head feel like a fork in the garbage disposal.”

She has to do it. She has to fall backwards onto the safe earth that feels like lecture hall carpet and smells like Bob’s perfume. But she can’t.

Not when every stolen moment feels so right. Not when Katya’s eyes knit together to form a patchwork blanket of hope and promise and intricacies Trixie wouldn’t be able to unravel with forever on the line. Not when Katya fit so perfectly in her arms - and Trixie doesn’t believe in soulmates-

“Hi, I’m Trixie Mattel, I’m your soulmate.” She waves, a little stilted, but the grin on her face that worms it’s way up to her eyes quicker than she thought possible discounts any fear she may have. And Jan stands there looking happy for them.

“Bring it in man.” Katya hugs her, and her flannels smell like hiking in summer sun and the feeling of dew between your toes.

(“We will find each other and we will help each other because we are soulmates”)-

Trixie cannot believe in soulmates.

(It would be dangerous, and she’s trying to avoid dangerous.)

It’s an awful idea.

Really terrible.

“You are very lucky I can’t send you to the Bad Idea place, because that one is a stanker.”

It’s a double date.

She’s not quite sure how that became a thing, and she’s not quite sure how it differs from the Brainy Bunch before they became the Brainy Bunch, before Monét and Vanessa, and then Brooke and Nina.

When it was just her and Katya, and she thought it was going to stay that way forever.

Bob picks the restaurant. She finds one of her friends who is free on Friday night as a date for Katya, who is almost as symmetrical as Katya (according to Bob, who may have used the word ‘handsome’, but it just doesn’t do her justice, does it? Like she’s some sort of ornamental flower pot, because have you ever seen a non-symmetrical flower pot. Don’t answer that, because Vanessa made Nina a very lopsided pink one for her birthday, that she uses to house Katya’s peace lily that she donated so it could actually survive - but that’s not the main focus right now). But apparently the man won’t get drunk and cause a riot like Katya might, which is fine. Trixie thinks Bob might have superpowers. It’s going to be fine.

She is totally fine that Katya is going on a date with a symmetrical man.

It’s fine -

“ You guys gotta scram, my soulmate has something planned for me.”

Her soulmate is Simon and he gets Katya all the time - not a precious few hours a week. He likes jazz operas and cowboy hats, and Trixie thinks he’s a poor fit for her, but she seems happy.

He has everything Trixie wants and sometimes it seems like he doesn’t even want it.

It goes south before they step foot in the restaurant.

She’s sure Bob’s friend is lovely, but he starts to talk about how he’s on this new diet where you can eat anything that’s seafood except shrimp, because shrimp is awful, and Trixie places a hand on Katya’s arm before she can leap to shrimps defence as Bob changes the subject onto something that will end with less bloodshed.

It doesn’t improve inside.

Katya, in the seat next to her, starts making an underhanded commentary about the couple across the walkway, and Trixie tries to tell her to stop, but they end up giggling like children until Bob’s foot is firmly imprinted on Trixie’s shin. Her friend looks at them like they’re insane. Maybe they are.

The waiter comes out with a cheese platter. “Hey, um, Brain,” says Katya, squinting at his ‘HI, I’M BRIAN’ name tag. Trixie’s proud of her trying, she supposes. “D’you think we could have crackers instead? Or, like, cake? Something without goat’s cheese?”

“How did you know?’ she asks her after the waiter has finished his spiel on why cake isn’t an appropriate appetizer and left (with a huffy “and it’s Brian!”) to take the orders of the couple to their right. Trixie wishes him luck, and he’s going to need it, because the couple have now progressed to full-on making out over the table, completely ignoring the waiter. Katya keeps looking over at them. There’s an odd expression on her face. In the dim light of the restaurant, she looks especially symmetrical. She can’t tear her eyes away from her, and as a result, nearly stabs herself in the nose with her fork, and – why exactly is Bob interested in her again?

(She doesn’t want to know.)

(She sort of wants to know why Katya isn’t.)

“Know what?” Katya’s voice sounds strained.

“That I can’t eat goat cheese.”

She turns away from the couple and looks at her dead-on, face crumpling into a bewildered grimace, and she feels like the air has been sucked out of his lungs. “What are you talking about, weirdo? You told me.”

She didn’t. She knows she didn’t, because most of the time he’s spent with her has been with Bob, too, and she’s been careful not to tell Bob about the goat cheese because nearly a year later it’s actually a good memory. The awkward parts have faded away. She doesn’t want to ruin it. Everything is good.

She tells her as much.

“No – dude – you were… wait… no, you’re right. Huh. Who was I thinking of?”

(Somebody else.)

(Which is really, truly fine.)

(Really.)

Unfortunately, the man on their right chooses that exact moment to say to his girlfriend “…The spaces between you and me resonate in my heart.” Katya spits out a mouthful of wine, and they’re kicked out of the restaurant by Brain – er, Brian – who must really be having a terrible night.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

They’re on the couch again. The one that looks too uncomfortable to be comfortable, but she’s never seen herself look so comfortable.

“Believe it, baby,” Katya smiles, “I’m all yours. Well, at least until something better comes along - for me. You’ve pretty much topped out.” The twinkle in Katya’s eye reminds Trixie she is lying. That Katya is hers. She shakes their intertwined fingers and relishes in the fact they do not fall apart.

Bob offers to drive her home, but she’s also taking her friend and Trixie’s had just about all the self-help book quotes she can take. She didn’t think she needed help to be fair. And she’s been on edge ever since he offered her dieting tips she really didn’t want.

They drive off and Katya walks over to her. Trixie doesn’t see her, but there’s that feeling; key in a lock, last answer to the Sunday crossword, book on a rainy morning - a sense of rightness.

(She clings to it more than she can admit.)

She turns to look at her.

“Well, I didn’t kill him, so I think I’d call it a win,” she quips, adjusting the way her white shirt shows the edge of her red lace bra. She’s a little drunk and it’s possible she’s being mean. But there was also the diet tip, so Trixie’s willing to compromise.

She rifles around in her purse. “Hold that,” she says, and Trixie finds her hands full of gum wrappers, loose change, a single cracker and, somehow, another bottle of wine. “How—” she starts, but Katya cuts her off.

“You really don’t want to know.”

She should chastise her. Make her give it back along with any semblance of dignity she stole from the waiter, but Trixie’s not exactly sober either, and the wine is good. Brian wouldn’t let them back in, anyway.

“Fork,” Katya curses under her breath because she’s trying not to swear as part of her good person promise to herself and - by extension - Trixie.

“What?” Trixie asks, still holding all of Katya’s rubbish.

“Taxi money.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh.”

Trixie looks around at the orange glow of the streetlamps and the still-warm sun setting in the distance.

“Aren’t we, like, two blocks from your motel?” She asks, because she knows they are, and Katya scrunches her face up because she doesn’t.

“I took a taxi here,” she admits. “And I’m not really sure how to get home.”

She’s not sure if it’s the wine or Katya’s presence, or that she just got kicked out of an establishment for the first time in her life, or something else entirely, but there’s a laugh bubbling up inside her chest and then she’s laughing too, and soon they’re both doubled over in hysterics on the footpath.

It doesn’t bypass Trixie that that’s the first time Katya has called Australia home.

( “I’m going to miss this stupid clown house.”)

(“It’s where we fell in love.”)

They stumble along the warm concrete of the pavement, nearly falling over thanks to the wine and the fact they fall back into laughter every couple of steps. “I feel the absence of you reverberate in my heart,” says Katya. Trixie laughs so hard she nearly falls into the path of an oncoming car.

She just has to stop Katya from doing the kind of thing she usually does when she’s drunk: sleeping with strangers and shoplifting. Occasionally throwing things. Once she cried into her shirt for an hour because she had a photo of her grandpa on her wall.

The motel has just come into view when it starts to rain. Katya grabs her hand and pulls her towards the flickering neon VACANCIES sign. She steps in a puddle, and then they’re off again, staggering along the side of the road howling with laughter. They reach the door out of breath and soaking wet.

The receptionist gives them a strange look as they walk past.

She asks her if she wants to stay.

Of course, I’ll stay , she wants to tell her. I’d stay forever, if you wanted.

But she doesn’t, and Trixie doesn’t, and she can’t. So they watch a movie, and she leans her head on Trixie’s shoulder, and she falls asleep to the sound of rain lashing the windows and the smell of Katya’s shampoo.

She’s fallen.

Not the good kind. The safe kind. She knows it as soon as she wakes up fully clothed, watching the way the sun skips on the freckles along Katya’s nose. The ocean is warmer than she thought it would be, and she’s grateful that the tide seems kind. She has never looked more symmetrical.

(She does not feel kind.)

(She feels like a monster.)

It ends after the liquidation of the Brainy Bunch. After Max and Jan and the Peep Chilli disaster of ‘19.

It ends in the dean’s office where she gets her heart crushed and her career brought to a sudden, shuddering halt.

She looks at Katya and all she sees are dreams that are being slowly rebuilt into paper boats that hold the weight of worlds. She wishes she could be more like her.

(Wishes don’t come true.)

“I need to end things with Bob.”

Maybe wishes don’t come true. She’ll never get to have Katya for herself, she knows that, she’s made peace with it. Well, no, she hasn’t, but she’s accepted it. She can never, ever tell Katya how she feels, or kiss her, or hold her in her arms at night, but she can stay by her side, make sure she’s happy and safe for always, and that just might be enough.

It’s the easiest choice she’s ever made.

“Okay -

“…but too bad, because I need to say it, because you deserve it. Because… because…” because I love you. Because I can’t lose you. Because it’s you, and you told me you loved me and I was scared you were going to take it all back, but that doesn’t matter, you matter -

They kiss.

And it ends.

And it begins.

And everything is fine.

And everything is great.

26 notes · View notes