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20forty9 · 2 months

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I Didn't Mean To Haunt You

Chapter VI - Smiling At The Ground

Summary : Maheas is getting irritated from his lack of progress, meanwhile Venick is a natural at whatever she picks up in her hands. This time, he pushes things too far. A new player joins the game in your life! You find yourself getting attached to him very quickly. You share a moment of tenderness with Nanami and Haibara. Meanwhile, Gojo is haunted by nightmares.

Word Count : 7.8k

Contains : Vague representations/allusions of sexual abuse, disturbing imagery (?), gross scenes (descriptive vomiting), etc. Let me know if I missed anything

Pairings : Gojo Satoru/Reader, Geto Suguru/Reader, Nanami Kento/Reader, Yu Haibara/Reader, Everyone/Reader (Reverse Harem)

Cross-posted on Ao3

A/N : Vomiting will become more of a theme throughout the story, sorry LMFAO. Thanks Ethel Cain and Elita for that I guess. Also, good golly gee a quote that isn’t inherently about curiousity?? Fourty are you feeling alright???? Also I’m not a swordmaster so I apologize for any inaccuracies on my uh. sword swinging or whatchamacallit. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, I put sweat and tears into this chapter. Sorry it's a bit late! I had planned to post it Friday or yesterday but half the chapter got suddenly deleted out of nowhere so I had to rewrite it from my memory and notes.

All bleeding eventually stops. ~ Jeffrey M. Goller M.D.

More time passes by for the spirit, Maheas and Venick without much excitement. Days seem to blur into one, the repetitive schedule rarely being interrupted ever since the rumours about defectors turned out to be true. Security around the area became more tight, and the ever watchful eye of Suliman never truly disappeared; to avoid punishment, the spirit continued the training of the two kids without any delay.

It notices that they’re both improving their fighting capabilities quite well for such a short period of time – Venick especially. She has a natural aptitude for it, nearly immediately adapting to whatever weapon is given to her. Whether it can be attributed to her sheer will or the possibility of a technique, the spirit must admit she is talented. Though, even throughout all of this, her beloved bow is still her favourite weapon of choice. She doesn’t use it nearly as much as before, but it always lays in the grass with the rest of their belongings, not too far away from where they train.

However, Maheas is slower to adjust to different weapons and scenarios. And ever since he was able to land that blow on the spirit that particular night, he hasn’t been able to do it since then.

And unfortunately, he’s too aware of this fact. When he can’t get the weapon or scenario down correctly within the first hour, he considers it to be a complete failure, and gets incredibly irritated, then moves onto something else. Inevitably, the cycle continues, and the spirit notices that Maheas is stuck in a constant loop of anger and irritability.

It all comes to a breaking point on a sunny day – one of the last overbearingly warm days that fall has to offer before the refreshing cool permanently sets in for the upcoming months. The spirit is sweating profusely from having both kids attack it at once; an exercise for them to learn how to work together as a team instead of individually.

Venick and Maheas are both using a weapon neither of them have ever tried, but of course Venick is an absolute natural at using the katana, however the latter struggles to hold it properly. As Maheas brings his arms down to swing his weapon down, his grip on the handle wavers slightly, making it slip out of his hands and drop on the ground pathetically. The spirit notices, immediately moving out of the way to dodge the rest of his failed attack, quickly taking him by the arm and twisting it behind his back, pressing a knee against it and sending him into the ground face-first.

Dust and dirt kick up around them from the impact, but before either of them can catch their breath, Venick runs up from behind and tries to land a blow behind the spirit’s back. With ease, it rolls out of the way and watches as the young girl’s eyes widen, the katana still held high as it now targets Maheas. Her mouth opens widely in exclamation, her lips forming his name, and thankfully, his reaction time is fast enough for him to move his head by an inch right as the blade pierces into the grass, right next to his ear.

Both of them exhale in relief before Maheas suddenly kicks Venick in the stomach, making her drop down breathlessly on the ground next to him. He shouts obscenities, face going red with rage, raising his fists to punch her repeatedly like a madman. The spirit’s eyes widen, and it moves swiftly, arms wrapping around Maheas’ biceps and pulling him away from the poor girl. He kicks and flails around, going as far as to bite its right arm until his canines puncture its skin, drops of blood pooling and smearing across his lips and teeth.

Suliman’s men rush over to control the situation, one of them pulling Venick away from the spirit and Maheas as the others try to calm the young boy down.

“That’s enough!” One of them says, firmly grabbing him by the cheeks to make him look them in their cold eyes. “What are you doing?!”

Two other men pull the spirit away from the boy, each of them holding him by his arms as he continues thrashing against them.

“I’m so sick of this! Why can’t this fucking work?!” He cries, tears of indignation running down his cheeks. “I can’t get anywhere like this!”

He’s obsessed, the spirit thinks to itself. Nobody can learn so many different strategies in such a short span of time, Venick is just simply blessed – or cursed, depending on how someone views it. If anything, Maheas is still learning quickly; just not as quickly as he would like to.

Its thought process is interrupted by the familiar deep, royal colours of Suliman’s favourite robes appearing in the peripheral of its sight. Turning its head to look at her, she approaches the group with a frown donned on her face. Her cold, calculating eyes take in the scene before her, and the spirit ponders if this is the most emotion it has seen from her since it got here.

“What is going on here?” She asks them, her gaze locking onto Maheas, who instantly collects himself, straightening his back as he notices her attention on him. He can’t exactly meet her eyes, the look on his face bashful as he looks down at his feet.

“...I got angry, Madame,” he admits. With a wave of her hand, the two men holding his arms back let go, taking a step back as she walks over to the young boy. “And I took it out on Venick.”

“Dear boy, why would you do that?” Suliman scolds him lightly, the look on her face not quite replicating anger, but trying to. “Look at her, the poor girl is terrified.”

Admittedly, Venick is scared. She presses herself closer to the man who pulled her away, but as the spirit approaches her to offer some semblance of comfort, she launches herself into its arms.

Maheas’ eyes become slits as he glares at the girl, feeling the hot rage boil underneath his skin all over again. He clenches his fists, trying to keep his temperament under wraps. A snap of Suliman’s fingers brings his attention back to her.

“Answer me, why are you so angry?” She asks him once more.

“I– I’m not improving fast enough,” he replies, looking regretful. “But– but Venick just has to be perfect and everything! It’s so annoying! I hate her!”

He must be so used to getting everything handed to him on a silver platter, because no boy of his age should be acting that way or throwing a tantrum like this. And like always, Suliman gently places her hands down on his shoulders, her thumb rubbing comforting circles into his skin through the fabric of his shirt. Like always, she’ll comfort him with her sugar-sweet words in that motherly way she does.

“I know, Maheas. You’re a failure,” she says. The spirit’s eyes widen slightly – it didn’t expect that. That crosses the line from being passive-aggressively disappointed into being genuinely cruel. “I’m truly disheartened by this.”

“Madame…?” The boy’s face becomes crestfallen, eyes glossy with unshed tears, skin becoming sickeningly pale. His lips press tightly together, chin trembling.

“But I can shape you into becoming something truly marvellous,” she continues, a small smile spreading across her painted lips. “Something people will fear. But for that, you have to work hard every second of the day.”

He looks at her hesitantly, but manages to muster a weak grin of his own. “...I– I won’t let you down.”

“No, you won’t,” Suliman says, her face immediately dropping to a neutral, far-away stare as she releases her hold on him, walking over to the spirit.

“Come with me,” she completely disregards the young girl still clinging to it. “We need to discuss some things.”

The spirit gives one last pat to Venick’s back, ushering her towards the man who had initially pulled her away from the scene earlier before walking away with the shaman. She walks it down along the gardens until they are a fair distance away from anyone who could listen in to their conversation.

“You’re not pushing him hard enough,” she starts as soon as they’re out of earshot. “Are you trying to make a fool of me?”

The spirit immediately shakes its head. Of course not.

“Then, tell me why you have had no success in making him use his abilities?”

“ Because that’s not the focus of their training. They have to learn how to work together and learn how to handle different weapons, ” it signs back. The sign language book that Suliman had given it had, unfortunately , proven to be incredibly useful. “If they want to get any further, that is how they will grow stronger.”

“I’m telling you now to change it. If I don’t see an improvement within the next week, I’m putting you back in that room,” she threatens, subtle glare hardening. The thought of being put back between those four white walls makes the spirit stiffen up. “You’re weak, you’re too afraid to push him any further. Don’t hold back. He needs to learn somehow.”

“ If we push him too far and too quickly, it could kill him. He’s still young.”

“He’s more resilient than you give him credit for, spirit,” Suliman’s eyes drift to where the two of them came from, in Maheas’ direction. “I’ve changed my mind. If I don’t see any changes within the next three days, I’ll put you back there.”

With that last warning, she shoos it away to go back to the kids, leaving her in the garden.

The spirit takes heed, a constant frown pulling at its face the following day as Venick and Maheas approach it with their things in tow. The girl keeps a fair distance away from the latter, anxiously looking over at him every five seconds. As soon as they put their belongings down on the grass, they hear a quick snap followed by a bright flicker of light as cyan flames approach them at rapid speeds. With quick thinking, Maheas and Venick dodge the attack by jumping in opposite directions, rolling down on the ground before getting back up and staring at the spirit, baffled.

“What the hell was that for?!” Maheas exclaims, raising his katana up.

“ Train, hard, ” the spirit signs back simply, knowing that both of the kids are just starting to learn sign language in their other classes.

“At least give us a warning!” Venick says, also raising her matching weapon in her arms.

Usually, the spirit would use its polearm so that the fighting could be more balanced, but Suliman’s threat nags away at the back of its mind — it refuses to go back into that room, no matter what. With another fast flick of its hands, more fire spews from its fingertips, targeting both of the kids. They have to evade the attack again, unused to being on defence.

“How are we supposed to fight against fire with swords ? ” Venick asks Maheas, bringing the blade up as a guise of protection.

“I don’t know…” Maheas’ anxious eyes are locked on the spirit, who stares back at them emotionlessly. “We just have to keep fighting.”

They prepare themselves to pounce, both of them launching at it at the same time, and the spirit easily sidesteps them, a wave of fire gusting around them all, throwing Venick and Maheas back without the flames touching them – just enough to feel the heat biting at their skin.

“ You have to synchronize together, or else I’ll be able to kick you back at the same time,” it signs to them. “ Get back up. ”

Maheas gets back up first, the frown on his face deepening. His chest puffs out, spreading his feet apart as he clenches his jaw so hard that a vein bulges in his neck. His eyes are wide and gaze unwavering as he rushes forward, the grip on his katana tight. He slashes at the spirit, sending it staggering backwards from the shock. He swings again, blade continuing to cut into the air haphazardly until it catches on the skin of the spirit, who suddenly feels hesitant to fight back. However, Maheas continues to attack it.

“Come on, fight back! Give me your all!” He says, and as the spirit’s eyes focus on his mouth to lip-read, that distracts it long enough for Maheas to bring out his katana’s blade down onto the arm of the spirit, imbedding itself into the meat of its forearm.

The only reason why its arm doesn’t end up completely chopped off is because he doesn’t put an incredible amount of strength into the blow, but out of instinct, the spirit rears back its other arm, harshly snapping its fingers to unleash a powerful blow straight at Maheas, violently throwing him backwards and rolling onto the ground, his body hiding behind a thick veil of steam.

Oh, fuck.

It immediately runs over to his crumpled form, waving the steam away to look at the damage. A large burn bubbles along the entirety of Maheas’ left forearm and neck, the skin red and raw. He clenches his teeth, and as the spirit gathers the young boy into its arms to check over any other damage, it feels him vibrate underneath its palms – it realizes he’s screaming in pain through his clenched teeth. Maheas clutches his arm in agony, foot stomping on the ground aggressively to distract himself from the pain.

Completely focused on tending to the injured boy, the spirit completely forgets about Venick, who had been disregarded when Maheas tried to attack it. It isn’t until it feels a large slash against its back, so utterly excruciating that it immediately lets go of Maheas from the shock, feeling slash after intense slash against its back. It presses a foot against the ground, launching itself out of the way before another attack can hit it.

Weakly looking back, its eyes lock onto an enraged Venick – a long whip made of pure cursed energy held tightly in her hand, knuckles turning white from her grip around the handle.

“Get away from him!” She exclaims, preparing to rear the weapon back once more.

The spirit raises its arms, hands splayed out in front of it to show it wasn’t going to hurt him. The commotion attracts the men standing guard near the greenhouse, one of them followed by Suliman.

Her eyes actually widen as they land on the young girl, then move onto the injured boy until she locks eyes with the spirit, whose arms wrap around itself tightly to let its hands grasp at its back, trying to relieve the pain.

“You did it…” Suliman mutters as she looks at Venick. The second the raven-haired girl realizes all focus is on her, the whip dissipates into nothing as she seems to retreat in on herself. “Girl, you’ve done it.”

“D– done what? Did I do something wrong?” She stutters, hands coming up to her chest to curl in further.

“No, not at all, dear girl,” the platinum blonde replies, the smile on her face reaching the tip of her ears.

Suliman walks over to her, a hand coming up to delicately stroke her hair. The spirit feels disgusted seeing the sickly-sweet affection in the older woman’s eyes.

“You’ve just discovered your curse technique, darling.”

As Suliman continues doting on Venick, the spirit’s eyes drift over to Maheas, who looks at the two from his spot on the ground, still clutching at his arm, with pure hatred in his glare.

If looks could kill, Venick would be a dead girl standing.

You're woken up by your phone buzzing underneath your pillow, violently vibrating against the sheets. The skin of your arms is uncomfortably itchy, having forgotten to take off your bandages the previous night before you passed out in bed. Soundlessly grumbling to yourself, you squint your eyes as you flip the phone open, staring back at the screen. It’s a Saturday, who the hell is waking you up at the ungodly hour of…

Oh. One in the afternoon.

Not so ungodly, after all.

Yaga’s name greets you on the screen, followed by a sunglasses emoji.

- Are you busy tosda [Sent 12:47pm] - *Today [Sent 12:48pm] - ? [Sent 12:49pm]

[One missed call from Yaga.] [1:03pm]

Your fingers move lazily across the small keyboard, the sleep in your eyes still clouding your vision.

- No :P Why

It only takes a few minutes until your door suddenly swings open – you’re certain you locked that last night, by the way – revealing Yaga in his usual workout clothes, minus his sunglasses.

“ Good, you’re up, ” he signs, hands going to his hips.

You don't bother signing in return, simply waving him off and shoving your face back into the pillow. You feel the floor shake as heavy stomps cross the floorboards until the bright afternoon sunlight hits your eyes again, the pillow held high above the teacher’s head as he holds it out of your reach.

“ Nooo…” you mouth, trying to give your best puppy eyes to Yaga.

“I have someone I want to introduce you to.”

“ Can’t this wait? ” You sign, hands moving slowly from how tired you are as you squint at him.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” he chastises you. He then proceeds to wrap the duvet around you, effectively cocooning you, before he grabs your legs and drags you out of bed.

Your reaction is instantaneous – you claw at the ground, trying to thrash your body back and forth, but all you look like is a dying worm on the pavement when the sun finally hits after a long rainstorm. You try slapping at Yaga’s hands but can’t even manage to reach them, and you try one last ditch effort to escape which proves to be fruitless.

“Nothing you do will make me let go,” Yaga turns his head to address you, mirth swirling in his eyes.

Exasperated, you sigh out deeply and completely let your body go slack as the teacher continues to drag you outside of your dorm room and down the hall. As you walk past the communal kitchen, you feel dread run through your body as you realize there are people already in there.

“Good morning, sen–” Nanami and Haibara’s mouths both close shut as they look at the scene in front of them. The blonde has a cup of coffee held in his hand, halfway up to his mouth but his body is frozen as his lips subtly quirk up. Haibara is sitting at the table with a bowl of oatmeal and fruit, a shocked look on his face.

You look back at them in disdain as Yaga greets them normally, as if he doesn’t have a person wrapped in a duvet-burrito.

“Um, w– what’s going on there?” Haibara asks, tilting his head quizzically, but he looks one step away from blowing up into laughter.

“ S.O.S, S.O.S ,” you sign repeatedly, eyes wide as you give them a terrified expression.

“Ignore them,” is all Yaga says.

“ I’m being K.I.D.N.A.P.P.E.D,” you continue to look at them desperately, going as far as to mouth the words.

“They’re a drama queen, did I forget to mention?”

Yaga is about to continue trudging forward but is met with the doorway being blocked by three familiar bodies. You cringe, jaw clenching tightly as you bang your head against the floor to try and end your misery.

Shoko leans to the side, peering past her sensei and giving you a good once-over before she bursts out laughing, immediately pulling out her phone to snap a picture while her shoulders violently shake from laughter. Gojo and Geto both follow along, looking incredibly amused.

“ That counts as blackmail! Put that fucking phone down,” you glare at her halfheartedly, signing aggressively even though you know she can’t understand you.

“Language, please,” the teacher speaks up.

“ Are you guys seriously going to let him kidnap me like this in broad daylight?”

“I really wish I knew sign language right now,” Geto admits, a wide grin spread across his face.

“They’re saying how much they love this, it’s their favourite pastime, they aren't being kidnapped and this is all of their own volition. Also, they think you’re my most annoying students,” Yaga says, before slowly dragging you away as he walks backwards.

“ I’ll remember this. I’ll remember this betrayal for the rest of my life,” you flip the group of students off, who watch and continue to laugh at you, except for Haibara who dramatically reaches out, fake tears streaming down his face.

“Don’t worry!” He exclaims your name. “I’ll find you when you’re back!”

You continue to glare at them until you and Yaga turn a corner, finally disappearing from view. The teacher continues to drag you until you arrive at the front door of the dormitories, finally letting you go. You quickly scramble to your feet, dusting yourself off and watching as the teacher lets your duvet drop to the ground pathetically.

“ Was that really necessary?” You sign to him, not bothering to pick it up – you’ll wash it when you come back from wherever Yaga is taking you to.

“ Absolutely . ” He nods in reply. “You would’ve taken an entire hour to get ready, and I want you to meet him as soon as possible.”

You relent, sighing dramatically as you follow behind Yaga as you both walk through campus until you go down the large flight of stairs, the teacher’s car waiting for you at the bottom.

“ Oh my god, you really are kidnapping me, aren’t you?” You tease him, comically widening your eyes.

“Put those hands down and get in the car, will you?” He replies, arching an eyebrow.

Raising your hands up in surrender, you get in the passenger seat while Yaga gets in the driver's seat. The car starts up not long after, and you set off, weaving through the streets of the city. Eventually, the car pulls up to a familiar building.

“ Why are we at your house?”

Yaga doesn’t reply, simply turning the engine off before stepping out to unlock the front door. You follow obediently, going on your tiptoes to peer over the taller man’s shoulder curiously, trying to take a peek at whoever he wants you to meet. Yaga ushers you inside quickly, locking the door behind you. You take your shoes off, leaving them on the rack near the doorway.

Once upon a time, with a fresh slash across your face and matted hair, this was where you stayed until he moved you to campus.

He doesn’t bother turning the lights on, instead leading you to another room. The door is shut, and there are colourful stickers randomly littered near the bottom of it, making you wonder why they were stuck on there, of all places. Your questions are soon answered as Yaga swings the door open, revealing a brightly-lit room with its blinds drawn back.

A… baby panda?

Said animal turns to look at you both, tilting its head in curiosity. It wears a baby diaper, with a toy train held in its paws. Upon further inspection, there are multiple toys scattered around the room with a comfortable-looking twin bed pressed in the corner.

The cub speaks. You can clearly see it move its lips, but its fur is so thick it’s hard to read its lips. Your eyes widen, but you can feel a smile spreading across your face before you can stop it. It’s so cute!

“Panda, this is…” Yaga slowly introduces your name to the panda. Then, he addresses you. “This is Panda, he’s…” he hesitates, but looks between the both of you and at the starry expression on your face. “Well, to put it simply, an Abrupt-Mutation Cursed Corpse.”

Your eyebrows raise up in surprise, pointing to Panda. “ You created a mutated corpse? ”

Yaga’s hands immediately go to grasp your shoulders, looking you dead in the eye.

“I’m begging you, please don’t tell anyone. If word gets out, I could be killed for this.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “Who would I even tell? The higher-ups? I’m sure they would definitely trust me.”

“Good point. Sorry– I’m just so worried about this. I only want to give him the best, he’s my first successful mutation.”

You nod your head in understanding. “I promise, your secret is safe with me.”

Yaga’s attention is back on the baby animal, and they talk amongst themselves. You look over the teacher’s shoulder, waving at Panda with a smile. The latter raises his paw and mimics you in reply. Oh god, cuteness aggression is real, you think to yourself, having to turn away before you let the urge to squeeze the cub in your arms take over.

A hand to your shoulder makes you turn back, and Yaga makes you crouch next to him to face the panda properly.

“Would you mind introducing yourself to him in sign language?” He asks, telling Panda to pay close attention.

“ It’s nice to meet you, Panda, ” you sign slowly, followed by spelling your name, fingers carefully shaping the words, repeating both Panda’s name and your own.

“That is sign language,” Yaga explains to the young one. “You’ll be learning it.”

Panda’s mouth moves again as he nods his head before giving you a full grin, shiny white fangs on display and all.

“Eventually, I want to train him properly, but for now he has to remain here. If the higher-ups discover him, my career is over – and my life too, most likely,” the teacher turns to face you as he speaks. “But I’m worried he’s lonely when I’m not here, even with the babysitter. I’ve already attached a new set of keys to your keychain, so if you have the chance… would you mind dropping by sometime?”

You nod your head enthusiastically, which makes Yaga quickly pat your shoulder appreciatively.

You both look back at Panda, who continues playing with his toys. You feel a sense of calm wash over you, and you situate yourself on the floor more comfortably, raising one of the toys to make playful chomping gestures at Panda’s cheeks, who’s shoulders shake as he laughs in glee.

Unbeknownst to you, Yaga takes a quick picture of the two of you in your own world, a real smile playing upon his lips.

You walk all the way back to the school, still dressed in your pyjamas. People send you odd looks as you stuff your hands into your sweatpants, a frown and pout on your face. Yaga sent you back on your own, claiming that you needed more fresh air and to enjoy the sunny day outside. All you really wanted to do was lay in bed all day and let your sore body recuperate for the upcoming week.

As you trudge your body up the unending flight of stairs that lead back to the school, you are greeted with the sight of Nanami and Haibara talking amongst themselves, sitting across from each other at a picnic table with a bunch of snacks set up on the surface. The trees above them provide a nice canopy of shade, protecting them from the harsh glare of the sun.

Haibara’s brown eyes suddenly lock onto your own, and they light up upon seeing you. He enthusiastically waves you over, apparently yelling your name so loudly that Nanami grabs his arm, making a shushing motion at him.

“Hi!” He greets you with a wide smile upon his lips. “You made it back alive!”

“ No thanks to you, ” you sign in return, though it’s all meant lightheartedly.

The brunette immediately pouts. “Sorry, I don’t really know what you said besides ‘ no’ and ‘ you ’.”

You give him a light smile. “ It’s okay.”

Haibara proceeds to pat the empty seat on the bench next to him, motioning at you to sit down. “You should join us! We’re having lunch now.” Nanami looks like he’s about to contradict him, a small blush forming on the tips of his ears, but he concedes, nodding along.

Apprehensive, you take a seat next to the brunette, signing a quick thank you in reply. Your bed is calling you right now, but there’s no harm in hanging out with the two men, either.

“What did sensei want with you, anyway?” Haibara asks before taking a bite out of one of the small triangle sandwiches.

Keep Panda a secret, Yaga’s words pop up in your head. Keep Panda safe.

“ Nothing important,” you reply.

“I think that’s… ‘ nothing’, right?” Nanami asks, immediately turning to rummage through his bag, pulling out a sign language dictionary. Your eyes widen slightly in delight, a small quiet laugh bursting past your lips. The blonde replicates the motion you made previously, palms facing you and Haibara before turning them to himself. You nod in reply, smiling.

“He’s learning pretty quickly,” the brunette says, offering a sandwich to you, who takes it from his hand, proceeding to munch away on it gratefully. “I have to admit it’s a lot for me to learn. I’m still stuck on finger-spelling.”

“To be honest, me too,” Nanami admits, flitting through the pages of the dictionary. “Would you mind telling me if I’m signing my name right?”

You shake your head back and forth, eyes locked onto his hands as he moves them to sign his name as accurately as possible. He stumbles over the motions slightly, but it is still understandable for you, albeit a bit awkward to follow along. You give the blonde an ‘ok’ sign before you wipe your hands on your pants, proceeding to lean over the table to gently grasp Nanami’s hands into your own and moving his fingers into the correct position.

“ There, ” You mouth to him as you move them back and forth to help him memorize. “ Na-na-mi.”

“I… see,” he replies, whole face flushing light pink. You quickly sit back down properly, grabbing a cookie, completely oblivious to the other man’s embarrassment.

You see Gojo and Geto approaching the table before they can greet your group properly. You wave at them with a smile on your face, and the raven-haired man returns it with a tired one of his own.

“What’s going on over here?” Gojo asks as he reaches you all, leaning over Nanami’s shoulder. The latter is already frowning in disdain, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else but there. “ Ooh, sign language, huh?”

“They’re just showing us how to sign Nanamin’s name,” Haibara says, eyes starry as his eyes are locked on Geto.

“Cool. Anyways, we were wonderi–”

“Ohh, wait, show me how to sign my name!” Haibara interrupts him, shaking your shoulder back and forth to grab your attention. He completely ignores Gojo’s glare sent his way, attentively watching as you happily demonstrate it to him. The two of you go back and forth for a few minutes until he finally grasps it well enough.

After your small lesson, the brunette turns back to his peers. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“Uh,” Gojo looks awkward as he looks at the ground for a split-second before he gazes at you through his sunglasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose absentmindedly. “We were wondering if you were going to… train with us today.”

You look at them quizzically, eyebrows furrowed. Since when did you train together on weekends?

Not that you’re against it, but–

You look at the snacks on the table, then to Haibara and Nanami, who look at you almost expectantly. Well, you were already here, and they seemed to want to learn more sign language, so…

You shrug your shoulders in reply, shaking your head back and forth.

“Are you sure?” Geto asks – he seems disappointed.

You sign an apology, sending him a nervous smile. “They offered me food. Plus, I would feel bad if I left them now because they want to learn sign language.”

“Alright. See you on Monday, then,” Gojo says rather abruptly, lips pressed tightly together. “C’mon, Suguru.”

You wave goodbye to them, which only Geto returns. It takes a moment for Gojo’s words to finally register in your mind. Wait, did he–?

“That was weird,” Haibara says after an awkward pause. “Gojo was acting strange.”

“When is he not?” Nanami asks rhetorically, still looking bothered. “He has a talent at butting his head into our business.”

“Yeah, but not like that. Eh, whatever, it’s not that important,” the brunette eventually goes back to his food. After finishing off his own plate, he seems to pause halfway while brushing the crumbs away from his mouth with his thumb. He turns to you, who still continues to stare at where the men were once standing. He gently taps your shoulder which makes you snap your head to look at him.

You tilt your head to the side in question, shaking your index finger back and forth. “ What is it? ”

“Say, I forgot to ask. When’s your birthday?” Haibara asks. “I hope we haven’t missed it…”

You look at him blankly for a moment before giving him a shrug. Honestly, you don't remember the moment you appeared into existence. You were just… created, simply put. One second, you weren't, then you were. There were no big explosions or festivities, unless you counted the people who used to worship you, although that was centuries ago.

Haibara looks utterly offended on your behalf. “Are you telling me you don’t know or you don’t have one?”

“The second one. ”

“Nanami, we can’t have this!” He turns to the blonde, who doesn’t seem too surprised himself. “We’ll give you a birthday then.”

“Are you sure that’s appropriate?” Nanami asks, looking over at you, unsure.

“ I’m sure it’s fine.”

Haibara catches his chin between his forefinger and thumb, looking dead ahead of him, eyes becoming unfocused. Wow, he’s seriously thinking hard about this. You and Nanami share a look, the latter shaking his head back and forth, exasperated. It takes a few moments until Haibara snaps out of it suddenly, looking as if he’s been illuminated.

“I got it!” He says, eyes sparkling from how excited he is. “October thirty-first!”

“Okay, that definitely can’t be appropriate.”

You just stare at them, absolutely confused. “Why not?”

“Because you’re a curse, right? Those cursed energy levels coming from you are off the charts, more than any normal human being. Either that, or you’re cursed,” oh, so close, you wince. “But a curse is technically a spirit, right? And spirits are technically ghosts! It’s fitting, isn’t it?”

In any other world, you would love to jump in joy – Haibara was so close to actually understanding what you are. You wish they could understand sign language or that you had your notebook to write in so you could actually explain the situation. However, decades of being dismissed and treated as less than others render you exhausted. There’s no point trying to justify yourself if Haibara is dead set on believing that you are a curse. If that’s how he sees you, then so be it.

Instead, you steels your nerves, simply giving him a curt nod of your head. That’s perfect.

Haibara and Nanami smile warmly at you.

“October thirty-first it is,” the blonde says, going back to flipping through his book, the smile still plastered on his lips.

As you all finish your food in silence, you let your gaze wander up, peering at the sun through the leaves of the trees that create a canopy above your group. You grin to yourself, feeling a sense of satisfaction bloom within you.

The kindest gift that you have received. A day of celebration for you.

A celebration of life for a dead man walking.

Lately, Satoru dreams of you.

When he off-handedly told Suguru about it the first time it happened, the latter barked out a sharp laugh and asked him, “What, like a wet dream?”

He finds himself wishing it were.

At this point, Satoru would take that over whatever has actually been happening when he falls asleep.

It starts off inconspicuously enough – when he drifts off, the next thing he knows, he’s standing in the middle of a road out in the countryside. He can’t actually pinpoint whether it’s a real location that he’s seen before or not, but the endless amount of wheat fields that lay to his right seem properly tended to. To his left, there’s a forest that goes on endlessly, thick fog permeating from it. It’s always pitch-black outside, and he’d like to assume it’s the witching hour, but something at the back of his mind tells him that’s not right. The shadows unnaturally stretch for miles across the road.

There’s always a certain itch crawling along his skin, as if he’s being observed. But every time he looks over his shoulder, he is utterly alone. There are no other signs of life – no birds chirping, no cars driving down the gravel road, no farmers tending to the fields or horses gallivanting around behind the wooden fence. He can’t even hear the gravel crunching underneath his shoes. He doesn’t feel safe here.

Satoru desperately wants to wake up, but something isn’t letting him.

Eventually, his alarm clock will shock him awake, pulling him from the impossibly deep sleep he was in. And every time, the day starts then comes to an end, and after a long day of hard work and training, he has to let his mind and body rest, so he goes to sleep. And every time, he is always greeted with that same dream.

As the weeks pass by, the recurring dream becomes more and more specific.

This time, after standing in the same place for what feels like an eternity, his feet absentmindedly carry him forwards down the road, eyes snapping to every dark corner as the sense of unease grows and grows and grows. He feels a shiver run down his spine when he hears deep, breathless breathing right in his ear, as if someone is overexerting themselves next to him, body desperately pressed up against his own. His head snaps to the side, but there’s nobody there.

Every muscle of his body tenses up, the hair on his arms raising. He feels his eyes sinking into their eye sockets, wide with fear. The Gojo clan does not fear anything , he hears the voice of his father tell his younger self after a thunderstorm that left him shaking like a leaf.

The breathing is not his own, Satoru knows this for a fact. His hands are pressed up against his mouth and nose as he tries to take deep, quiet breaths, his heart clenching and making nausea tumble around in his stomach.

The scenery stays exactly the same as usual – not a single thing changes, except for the varying height of the wheat fields. After another indiscernible amount of time, there’s a break in between the fields; a small church, made of old wood with its white paint chipping off, slightly elevated from the road. It almost resembles a backyard shack. The windows and front door are boarded up with thick panels, with weeds and vines growing along some cracks. It’s obviously been unoccupied for years, if not decades.

Satoru’s blood runs cold as his eyes adjust to the dark even further, noticing a body laying on the cement steps leading up to the front door of the small building. The person is surrounded by small asphodels growing from the cracks in the cement, the small white petals a stark contrast to the darkness that envelops this dream. He keeps his eyes down– down, so he can at least pretend that the person is sleeping.

The dark liquid surrounding them seems to scream otherwise.

The stranger’s body resting on the stairs is positioned on their knees, stomach down, their head resting against the hard concrete and facing his way.

He stays a fair distance away, but Satoru feels even more sick once he realizes that the body isn't just a stranger, after all.

It's you .

The unmistakable colour of your hair is splayed along the steps, mismatched eyes looking more faded and dead than ever before. Suddenly, the smell hits Satoru’s nostrils, making him gag. The stench of rot fills the air around him, unescapable. Not even the sweet, honeysuckle scent of the asphodels can cover it up. The fragrances mix together, producing something that just smells wrong.

Against his better judgement, his feet stay firmly planted in place; something tells him that he can’t leave your body here.

The sound of flies buzzing around your dead body becomes more obvious once he takes a few steps forward, but he halts immediately once he sees a shadow spreading, moving from the darkness that it casts along the cracks in the road, moving unnaturally; detached from reality. It stretches up, up, up , becoming more human-like until Satoru’s eyes can see the individual pair of arms and legs standing over your body. The rest of its features are muted – it’s just a shadow, after all.

It’s just a shadow, right?

Right?

Its hands reach out to brush the hair away from your face, and Satoru feels his body fill with disgust, but he doesn’t know why. His six eyes seem to tune into something that his mind refuses to process. His mouth opens to tell it off, to get it away from you, but nothing comes out; the words get stuck in his throat, as if it is impossible for him to make any noise.

The shadow fades in and out as it hunches over you, getting closer and closer to your ear, and the heavy breathing in Satoru’s ear only grows in volume. This feels wrong on so many levels. It feels like an imaginary hand is wrapping around his throat, cutting off his ability to breathe in properly as his eyes are completely fixated on the scene before him. His heart pounds against his ribcage, and it feels like it’s about to leap out of his body.

The shadow’s fading hand gently strokes your cheek in a comforting manner, its head brushing right against your ear. At that exact moment, uncontrollable warped words play backwards in Satoru’s head, putting the devil’s tongue to shame. He can’t tell anything apart, as if his brain is melting. None of the sentences make sense, the voice sounding anything but human, layered over itself, and the words meld together in a messy tangle.

“ You… poor thing…” The single sentence that is finally managed to be unravelled, making his body run ice cold.

The buzzing of the flies is suddenly so overwhelming, becoming the only noise that Satoru can hear – he finds himself thankful for a moment, finally being spared of the voice that sounds like iron dragging against concrete, but he realizes that it’s him waking up. His body becomes weightless, but his arms immediately reach out, hands grasping at nothing as he tries to claw through the air to your body.

“ WAIT! ” He finally manages to shout, followed by desperately screaming your name, feeling his throat go raw. The flies are starting to surround his body, trying to take him away from his dead body lying along the stairs – but then his dream finally allows his eyes to focus on them, and they’re not flies.

It’s hundreds of paper birds, ones that he used to see when he read children’s fairytale books. They’re semi-humanoid paper creatures, off-white in colour with a round circle as their head, with rectangular wings sticking out, and the rest of their figure angling inwards, turning into a sharp, acute point, forming a pointed tail. A representation of the body and mind of something that shouldn’t exist.

“Wait, WAIT! Please!” He shouts your name again in distress.

He’s not sure what he’s begging for, but he manages to push through the paper birds just enough to put his entire strength to take a few steps forward. I’m the strongest, he repeats to himself over and over again. I should be able to rip these things apart. Just when his hands brush against your shoulder, the birds seem to multiply in numbers, the buzzing turning into intense static ringing through his head. I’m the strongest , he thinks again. I’m the strongest.

“ Let me go !” He screams over the sound of the buzzing, swatting a paper bird away from his face, but it doesn’t stop others from flying into his ears, up his nostrils and into his mouth, making him gag and choke. He feels them move violently under his skin, making his cheeks burn as he feels them slash and break it, blood drip- dripping down his chin slowly and smearing across his face from the chaos.

Satoru’s hand manages to clasp around your bicep, but it’s too late. The swarm manages to break his hold on you as they take the white-haired man’s breath away, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he feels his grip on the nightmare slipping. The imagery fades, the looming shadow being the last thing he can clearly make out as the overwhelming sound of paper birds turns into the familiar one of his alarm clock going off.

Satoru’s body jolts away, cold sweating spread all across his body, his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably. His hand immediately slams down on the alarm so violently that it smashes into pieces, but the urge to purge the contents of his stomach overshadows the dull pain throbbing in his hand.

He runs to the washroom, nearly tripping over his legs before spewing everything up into the toilet. The nausea hits him more intensely as he feels the chunks of food creep up his throat, the acidic taste of bile overwhelming his taste buds and the intense smell invading his nostrils. His back heaves from the force of it, muscles tensing up tightly. His sweaty forehead presses against the porcelain seat as he tries to catch his breath, thick spit pooling from his lips and onto the cold bathroom floor. Once he feels stable enough, he raises himself on shaky legs, going to the small sink to rinse his mouth. As he bends down to drink the water pooling in his hands and swish it around in his mouth, his mind can’t help but remind him of the intense buzzing of the swarm of paper birds, almost as if they’re really there with him in the waking world.

He reassures himself that it was just an incredibly vivid dream, that absolutely nothing can go wrong in the waking world. He is safe, and you are alive and well, probably already waiting with Shoko for him and Suguru to show up to class. It was simply a nightmare , nothing more, and nothing less.

After rinsing his mouth properly, he raises his head, his muscles becoming impossibly stiff.

The buzzing returns tenfold.

The hand around his neck is back.

The voice speaking in tongues is distant, but definitely there.

And a familiar shadow looms behind him.

#jjk x reader #cross posted on ao3 #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x y/n #geto suguru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #haibara yu x y/n #haibara yu x you #haibara yu x reader #jjk x female reader #jjk x male reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n

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fayes-fics · 2 years

Text

Tattoo

Pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Modern AU, Benedict goes for his first tattoo.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, vaginal sex. Mentions of tattooing, needles but detail is intentionally vague.

Word Count: 4.8k (oops…)

Authors Note: This is for @amillcitygirl who sent the image above as a fic idea. Enjoy lady! <3 Thanks as ever to @makaylan for a beta read. Full disclosure - I don’t have any tattoos. I did a little research into rules/licensing for tattoos in UK and chatted briefly to a friend who is heavily inked, to gather info. But still l don’t claim accuracy about the process - she was also tattooed in France, which may be different to UK/US. Please forgive any inaccuracies and the latitude as, well, this is just a silly fic.

It’s another warm summer afternoon in Brighton, and if you have to turn away one more giggling teenager tumbling into your shop and asking for some hideous cartoon character, you might scream. You sit listlessly in front of a fan, and as you hear the bell signalling the door opening, you almost wish you were closed for the day.

“How can I help you?” Your words almost die in your mouth at the man before you. He’s beautiful.

“I’m umm looking to get a tattoo,” he frowns, realising he’s stating the obvious.

“Well, you’re in the right place,” you chime with a smile. His responding grin does strange things to your insides. “Do you have an idea of what you might like? We have books of designs and on the walls,” you gesture.

“I was hoping for something more original, actually,” he admits and reaches into his pocket, unfolding a piece of paper and placing it on the glass counter between you.

You look at the design and are captured by the beautiful sweeping lines. It’s abstract art but also looks like an ancient language symbol.

“This is stunning,” you confess, “where did you find this?”

“Umm, it’s an original; I drew it,” he answers bashful.

You look up at him, surprised, “You’re an artist?”

“I… dabble,” he demures.

Oh, he’s just lovely.

You smile at him. “I’m sure this is possible; it might take a couple of hours. Are you around for a little while?”

“I can be,” he smiles.

“Then when do you want to start? I can fit you in now, or you can come back when convenient?”

“You? I thought you might just be the….”

“Receptionist?” You supply with a pointed eyebrow raise.

“I’m so sorry. It wasn’t meant as an insult; I’m just surprised. I’ve never seen a tattoo artist without tattoos themselves,” he rushes out as an apology; it’s sincere and sweet.

You can’t help but smile. “That’s okay; it’s an honest mistake. And you’re wrong.”

He furrows his brow with a slight head tilt, questioning.

“I am inked. Just not anywhere you can see,” your voice unintentionally husky.

You watch as his gaze slips over your body briefly as if trying to guess where then back to your face. Oh, that was hot. The temptation to rejoinder with ‘would you like to see it?’ burns on your tongue. Dear god, what is it about this man?

“Will this be your first tattoo, or do you have others?” You ask, trying to focus.

“My first,” he admits, “will… will it hurt?”

“Difficult to say. It all depends on location and your pain threshold; it’s different for everyone. Where are you thinking of for this?”

He pulls aside the neckline of his t-shirt slightly. “Sort of here,” he gestures at his upper pectoral muscle, “with the sweeping point going up my neck slightly.”

“That area could be slightly painful, but I’m sure you are brave,” you have no idea why, but you wink. Momentarily horrified by your lack of professionalism, you go to apologise until you see his reaction.

He bites his lip, looks down briefly, and then looks up at you between his lashes with a shy smile. “I’m sure I can take it. From you.”

Something slides down your spine, and your mind flashes an image of you riding him as he lays in your tattoo chair, his fingers tracing the lines of your private inkwork.

Fucking hell.

“Uh. You’ll need to sign this consent form before I can start,” you say, shaking your head lightly to rid yourself of that image and handing him the form and pen.

He doesn’t even bother to read; he just signs quickly and slides it back to you, looking expectant.

“Ok... Please come through,” you gesture towards the door to your tattoo studio, wanting desperately to tamp down your errant thoughts.

He rounds the counter and follows you.

“Please take a seat,” you gesture to the tattoo chair, closing the door as he sits down.

“I will leave the room while you remove your t-shirt”, you offer as you wash your hands. There are towels over there should you wish to cover up anywhere that isn’t the tattoo site,” you gesture.

“No need,” he breezes and whips off his t-shirt before you’ve had the chance to turn away.

You’ve tattooed plenty of fit bodies in your time without blinking an eye, but somehow, this one undoes you. From your vantage point above his head, you can see down the plains of his lean and sculpted body, and your fingers twitch, wanting so bad to trace the defined lines of his musculature. He is very much your type of thing.

“All ok?” He asks, tilting his head back slightly to look at you. There’s a little smirk on his face.

“Yes, sorry,” you shake your head and open the paper design.

“Is this the actual size you want or just a representation?” You query, grabbing a pair of gloves and a marker to start outlining.

“Actual size,” he confirms as you wheel your stool over.

“Do you mind if I…?” You rest the piece of paper on his chest as a reference.

“Not at all,” he says genially as you draw closer, your knees under the chair and hunching over his shoulder.

He closes his eyes and breathes gently as you start to draw freehand lines to match his work. It takes a few moments, but you enter your zen space where the rest of the world melts away. As you go to draw the section that traces up his neck, you watch his Adam's apple bob slightly as he moves his jaw away from you. He has beautiful lines; you want to nuzzle his neck and trace over his cheek and nose.

Dear god, get it together, woman.

“I never asked your name,” you say quietly, realising you didn’t even glance at the form he signed, “I should probably add your information into our system before you leave today. Phone number, name etc., so we can trace you if any follow-up is needed.”

His eyes open, and you are struck by the hazy colour - they are captivating up close.

“I'm Ben,” he replies, “and if you tell me your number, I can text you mine right now.” He says, fishing his phone out of his jeans pocket without looking. The tone is not particularly flirtatious, more friendly than anything, but you’re still taken aback.

“I'm not in the habit of giving my personal mobile to people,” you respond cautiously, “the shop has a number you can call”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. Most people seem to do business via their mobiles these days, so I just…. It was presumptuous of me, my apologies,” he mumbles and places his phone on his bare stomach.

You find yourself staring at his phone briefly and chewing your lip before you go back to tracing the shape onto his skin.

You lean over to concentrate on one particular intricate section, and now you can smell his skin. He's not wearing cologne, but it's a clean soap smell and, well, just a human male scent you haven't been around for ages. Your tongue swells in your mouth, and you have to fight the urge to lean a few more inches over and just lick a line across his collarbone.

You hear him inhale slightly, then turn his head towards you. “Why do I smell mangoes?” he asks, almost absent-minded.

“Sorry, that's my hair conditioner,” you brush a strand behind your ear and move away slightly on instinct.

“I wasn't complaining,” he murmurs.

Your eyes meet for a moment, and you stop tracing. You feel your pulse on your lips; it's an odd sensation, so you have to break the eye contact.

“If you don't mind me asking, how many tattoos do you have?” he asks after a pause as you go back to work.

“One. But it wraps around my body,” you answer honestly.

“Oh wow,” he exhales, “where?”

“Around my hips and goes down my thigh,” you respond, not thinking much about it until he inhales at your description.

“That sounds…. unique,” he opines quietly, but it's not a judgement, more curiosity.

“It is. It's a vine. It's for my family. We own a vineyard in France. I grew up tending the vines, and I miss it so much when I'm not there. I wanted a physical reminder on my body where I come from, my literal roots. So it doesn't matter where I am in the world; I am always home.” You have no idea why you are suddenly confessing this to a stranger.

He is staring at you now, close up, his face moved, so it's almost under yours. “May I see it?” he requests, his voice soft.

For some reason, you want to show him. So wordlessly, you wheel back your stool and stand up near the middle of the chair, unbuttoning the top of your jeans so you can pull down the waistband and show a section over your hipbone.

“That is beautiful,” he whispers, and suddenly light fingertips are tracing over your skin. It's a tingling fire that shoots straight down into your underwear. The sensation makes you lose grip on the marker pen, and the clatter of it hitting the floor breaks the spell. “Oh gosh, I am so sorry,” he mumbles and withdraws his hand suddenly, his cheeks colouring.

You pick up the marker, rebutton your jeans and sit down, wheeling back into place. “I'm not sure why I did that,” you mutter, as much to yourself as him.

“I'm sorry if I overstepped; it's just that it was wonderfully drawn,” he apologises.

“I drew it,” you admit quietly “my friend then tattooed it.”

“You are an artist?” his face lights up with enthusiasm.

“I dabble….” you respond with a skewed pout, echoing his words back to him.

He huffs a laugh, and you find yourself giggling back.

“I umm think I'm done recreating the design. Would you like to check it?” you reach for a wheeled mirror and angle it so he can see the design. “You can check here or..” You wordlessly point at the ceiling.

“Oh wow,” he huffs a laugh looking straight up, “I didn't notice you had a mirror on the ceiling.”

“Not my idea,” you rush to assert. “The owner seems to like the idea that clients can watch the work as it's happening,” you shrug.

“It's certainly novel,” he laughs. Then his focus falls to the markings you have made over his skin. “Oh wow, that's... Better than I thought it would be,” he admits.

“It's just the outline,” you offer, “so I know where to needle. The final design will be much closer to yours.”

“What do you think?” he asks, suddenly apprehensive.

“I think it looks amazing,” you disclose, “it suits you.”

He blushes again, and you watch with fascination as it creeps down his neck a little. “Thank you.”

“So are we doing this?” you request, leaning in to double-check the lines.

“What?” he questions suddenly, his face jerking over and your cheekbones brush.

“The tattoo,” you whisper slowly but not moving your face. “Are you sure you want it? There's no going back after this.” Somehow it feels like your words have a double meaning—a subtext of burning tension.

“I want it”, he breathes, the gust moving the tendrils of hair around your ear.

You swallow hard.

You pull over the tray with the inking and gun supplies, methodically prepping. Then you wipe down his skin with alcoholic wipes, ensuring the area is completely sanitised. The whir of the machine firing up surprises him a little, so you place a calming pressure on his shoulder.

“Tell me if you need me to stop; we can go as slow as you want,” you say close to his ear so he can hear you clearly.

He just nods; you see his tendons in his neck standing up in relief.

“Relax,” you instruct, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze, “it will hurt less if you don't tense.”

You watch as he takes a breath and loosens up.

Then you begin. When the needle touches his skin, he flinches slightly but not excessively.

“Is that okay?” you check

“It feels strange,” he admits.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he closes his eyes and moves his head to look away from you.

Time seems to speed up as you trace the outlines of the design. He is still, just the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Again you are into your zone where this could be anyone anytime; it's about the effort and the artistry of the work. Thoughts of your strong attraction to him melt away as your focus is purely on the task at hand. It's probably been about a half hour when he clears his throat, so you stop and look at him expectantly.

“Still okay?” you check-in.

“Yep, just a tickle in my throat,” he responds, a little dry.

“How about a drink? We can take a break here, actually,” you put down the gun and peel off the gloves you are wearing.

“Yes, please”

“Water? Coke?” you offer

“You don't have anything stronger, do you?” he asks cheekily.

You laugh. “I do, but it's not supposed to be for customers.”

“I won't tell if you won't,” he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes a little, “Wait here,” and leave for the supply cupboard outside, where you keep the birthday whiskey your boss gave you. You grab two glasses and some ice from the kitchenette.

“Whisky on the rocks?” you announce as you reenter the room.

He’s sitting up now, taking what appears to be a selfie with his phone.

“Not vain honest,” he says sheepish, “just sending to my brother. He never believed I'd have the courage to do this. Yes, please to whiskey.”

You put down the glasses and hand him the whiskey bottle. “Here you do the honours. I will take a photo for you if you like. So you can send it?”

“Deal,” he grins, unlocking his phone and handing it to you. He cracks open the bottle seal as you snap a few shots that best show the design so far. Then you flick to another screen, type in a number and your name, and then hit send. You quickly lock the phone and hand it back.

In your pocket, your phone buzzes.

“Did you just give me your number?” he queries, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he hands you a glass with a very generous pour. Oh, that smile is dangerous.

“Maybe…” you shoot back, hiding yours behind the glass as you raise it to your lips.

“Wait, we have to toast,” he frowns playfully as you go to take a sip.

“What to?”

“To beautiful art, whatever the canvas may be,” he says, his voice somehow more silky than before, as he clinks his glass against yours.

“That's an interesting one,” you murmur before you take a sizeable fortifying sip, enjoying the burn of the amber liquid. “You know I can’t in all good conscience continue tattooing you now I've had a drink,” you confess.

“Oh,” his face sinks slightly, “I hadn't thought about that.”

“We can continue tomorrow if you have time,” you suggest, “I can book you in.”

“Tomorrow works,” he nods, “what time do you open?”

“Usually 11am, but I can open earlier if you wish,” you offer, taking another swig of drink.

“That's very generous, but no 11am is fine. How much longer will it take?” he asks.

“Hmm, probably another hour,” you speculate. “Give or take,” as you drain your glass.

“So by lunchtime tomorrow, I will have my first finished tattoo?” he raises his eyebrows.

“Indeed,” you smile.

“Thank you,” he says, suddenly quite earnest. “I'm not sure I would have been brave enough to go through with this if it wasn't for you,” it's a quiet confession, and he looks down, then up again through his eyelashes.

It makes you want to pick up his chin and kiss the crap out of him.

“You are welcome,” you reply quietly, hugging your empty glass curled against your shoulder, enjoying its coolness seeping against your heated skin, unsure what else to say.

“You need a refill,” he states, gesturing for you to hand your glass over. The brush of fingers as you do so makes you want to gasp. There is silence as you watch him refill both glasses.

“No music?” he asks idly, “probably a stereotype, but I figured a tattoo parlour would have loud rock music playing all day.”

“Haha,” you deadpan, “I prefer classical or jazz when working. More zen. I can put some on if you’d like?”

“Sure, jazz sounds nice,” he says as you flick the remote and the music starts. You forget that it also programs the lights dimmer; he doesn't comment, so you let it pass.

“Ahh, Miles Davis,” he smiles, instantly recognising the track.

“Well done,” you nod, impressed and lean against the arm of the tattoo chair, enjoying the music, and the softer light in the room.

“Can I ask you a question?” It's so quiet you almost don't hear him as he puts down his drink.

You turn slightly to face him. “Sure,” you whisper back, placing yours aside too.

“Would you have any objections if I kissed you right now?” he closes his eyes, almost pained that he is asking.

It's the most adorable proposition you've ever received. So instead of answering, you just lean forward and press your lips to his before he even opens his eyes again.

His response is instant and surprising. For a demure proposal, the kiss that follows is anything but—a hand snakes around your waist and pulls you against his warm naked torso, his lips hungry, his tongue snaking into your mouth and stealing your breathe as he teases yours. He kisses hungry, passionate, sensual.

God, I want to push you down and climb on top of you right now; your mind cries at him.

“Yes, please,” he gasps as you belatedly realise you spoke the words into his mouth. Out loud.

Before you can be embarrassed, he twists and starts to recline in the chair, his arm around you, pulling you over him. So you hop up and straddle him instantly, lowering yourself over him as your lips meet again.

You know, without a doubt, you will be fucking him right in this chair. A hot slide of feeling inside, heat and moisture pooling between your legs.

As you come up for air, you reach into your pocket and unlock your phone, quickly opening an app and tapping in a code.

“That bad, huh?” he jests, a little brittle.

“Oh god, no,” you murmur, “I'm locking the fucking shop door.”

“Oh…” he smiles, “wow, it's hot when you swear.”

“Oh really,” you tilt your head and run a finger over his lips, “then I’ll say what I thought the minute you walked into my shop.” You toss your phone aside.

“What?” it’s a little breathless.

“I hope he fucks me in my tattoo chair,” you confess.

He growls and pulls your hips down against him, surging up so you feel him rigid and insistent between your legs. You are desperate for this right now; it's been what feels like hours of tension and teasing, and you are beyond ready.

“Can we just fuck?” you suggest, “I know it's like a first, but please, I just want to go fast and hard.” You've never confessed that to anyone, even when you have felt it in the past.

“Oh god, yes,” he affirms and paws at your clothing. You rip off your top, and he helps you unhook your bra, his hands instantly grabbing your breasts as soon as they are free.

You hum approvingly as you grind against him, unfastening your jeans and his at the same time, one hand on each.

“Wow, that's efficient,” he breathes, impressed.

“Yeah, I have talents,” you laugh, pushing his jeans down his thighs.

“I can tell,” he agrees, as you hop off him, strip off your jeans and underwear to the floor and are back on him in a flash. He stutters as you grind your naked, soaked cunt against his grey boxer briefs, the moisture seeping through the cotton. “Fast and hard, you mean it?”

“Yes, I do,” it's your turn to growl.

His expression melts into something else entirely, and he surges up and forces you down on top of him. Strong arms lock you against his body as he kisses you with a ferocity you didn't think him capable of. You feel a hand next to your leg tugging down his underwear; then, he grabs himself and, without warning, surges his cock into your body.

“Oh FUCK” you scream against his lips, eyes rolling from the sheer invasion.

“You asked for it,” he gloats.

“Yes, yes, I did,” you stutter and pant as he just holds there, allowing you to adjust to the sensation.

“Is that what you wanted?” he whispers darkly.

“Oh god, yes,” you reply and tilt downwards so his pelvis is flat on the chair. You rise, careful not to put your hand anywhere near the fresh tattoo as you place your hands on his body and start gyrating in little circles, dragging his cock against all your walls, stretching yourself out, revelling in the feeling of being so viscerally filled and violated. “Damn, you feel good,” you moan.

“So do you,” he groans, “please, please fuck me.”

You've never had a man beg like that before, and god, it does so many things to you. You want to pull his hair and push him down, licking a hot stripe up his neck, biting his chin. Realising there’s nothing to stop you, you do it - his responding noise is music to your ears. You pull up and slam down onto him, stuttering a yes through clenched teeth. Knowing you will do this for hours until your thighs are trembling if he’ll let you.

His hands grab your hips as you begin a steady rhythm. “Your tattoo is the sexiest thing I have ever seen,” he asserts, his fingertips trailing the vines just as you'd fantasised. Little fires of heat follow wherever he touches, bringing goosebumps to your thighs and arms. It makes you ride keener, sitting up, back arched, using just your thighs as leverage. As he reaches the vine that twists and wraps around your thigh, you moan, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “I want to trace it with my tongue,” he declares.

“Yessss,” you hiss, “ I want that.” He feels divine sliding in and out of your cunt, just the right dimension to make it invasive as you push down, the kind of slight ache you chase from every new sexual partner but rarely receive. You keep a steady pace, lingering on the downstroke, revelling in the stretch, then a snap up. You throw your head back and close your eyes, enjoying the intoxicating moment.

“Open your eyes,” he murmurs, his voice deep, “watch yourself”.

You do so and see your reflection in the ceiling mirror—it's an arresting sight. He looks gorgeous laid out beneath you, and you look close to a goddess as you rise and fall onto him.

You make eye contact with him in the reflection, which charges the atmosphere. This is so wrong, but so right - fucking this stranger in your place of work. Hypnotised by the tableau you see above you, you grab his hands from your thighs and push them onto your breasts, leaning forward into his hold and changing the angle of your hips. You shudder as his cock nudges just right, deep inside.

“Oh, there it is,” he smirks and tweaks your nipples as you start to pant open-mouthed and fuck yourself roughly, using him, “that's it, how does that feel?” his voice velvety.

“So… fucking… good,” you groan a word with each stroke, tearing your eyes away from the ceiling to look down at him, the chair starting to squeak a little in protest as you go faster. Plunging without thought for anything but chasing the spiralling feeling coiled tight in your belly.

“I- I can’t last like this,” he warns at your onslaught, moving his hands to grasp your hipbones, his thumbs pushing into the flesh of your belly like a band over your tattoo.

“Just hold on, please; I just need a little more. Fuck, your cock feels so good,” you babble through gritted teeth, mindlessly close to something amazing.

“What you need is this,” he growls and flicks a fingernail at your distended clit as you rise. You scream at the sensation, and your cunt clenches forcefully onto him. “Fucking hell,” he cries at the pressure.

“Do that again,” you order through gritted teeth, and he obeys, a whole pulse running up your spine this time, causing you to buck hard against him.

You lean over and kiss him hungrily, moaning into his mouth, running your hands over his face, into his hair. As you go to pull away, he grabs your jaw and holds you in place, kissing over and over until your lips feel sore and your lungs burn for more air. All the while, you push insistently down onto him, unable to stop yourself from chasing the feeling so hard.

“Cum with me,” you whisper against his lips, looking down at him as you push yourself closer and closer.

“In-inside you?” he stumbles, his pupils blown wide, surprise written across his features as if it never occurred to him that you would allow it.

“Yes, give it to me,” you respond gustily. You belatedly realise in your mindless haste that you are riskily bareback fucking a stranger; it’s just not like you. “I'm protected,” you shorthand.

“Okay,” he whispers, a touch reverential.

You rise back to a sitting position, and then his finger slips against your clit, circling with the necessary pressure, and you feel hurtling straight towards oblivion, wound so tight.

“Don't stop,” you chant, closing your eyes as you ride so fiercely the chair rocks on its moorings. He groans loudly now and is surging up strongly into you, meeting you on your downward thrust, fucking himself so deep you know you will feel it tomorrow. Opening your eyes, you see him staring up at you desperately, a bead of sweat forming on his brow that you ache to lick off. “Ben,” you cry as you snap.

You know he is groaning and calling your name and a litany of other things as you convulse around him, sunk deep, your thighs trembling, but it sounds far away as blood rushes in your ears—the vibrations coursing through your body from a tingle in your scalp to spasms in your hands. Then he sinks his fingers into the flesh of your thighs, cumming deep inside you, the warmth coating your walls.

You slump on top of him, uncaring of how inelegant it may be, the bone-deep satisfaction causing your muscles to feel languid and weak. You pant against his neck from the exertion, glad you collapsed on the side away from his tattoo.

“That was….” he begins but pauses to exhale heavily, “fuck, that was amazing,” he concludes, his hands running up and down your back in soothing, swirling patterns. “I… just… fuck, I honestly can't talk,” he gusts, embarrassed.

You giggle and lift your head to look at him. “It was wonderful,” you opine and run a finger over his lips. He busses against it, and a lazy breathtaking smile breaks across his face.

“So umm, may I see you again?” he asks, the sweet bashful man back again.

“Yes, 11am tomorrow bright and early,” you say pointedly with a smile.

“Oh fuck, I almost forgot,” he gusts a laugh attempting a glance at his shoulder.

“But umm, if you want to hang out after that, I'm amenable,” you offer with what you hope is a nonchalant tone; inside, you are yelling, please, please.

“How about before then?” he asks, “What are you doing this evening? And overnight? And in the morning?” his voice teasing and sweet.

Oh.

“I can be available,” you respond lightly, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Good,” he sighs, “because I’m probably going to need help tending this tattoo” he tilts towards his fresh ink. “And I’m definitely going to need time to tend to this tattoo,” his voice suddenly husky as he traces his fingers lightly over your vines.

Well, that's an offer you are not going to refuse.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enchantedbytomandhenry

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton

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nanamikeento · 3 years

Text

people throw rocks at things that shine

***gif is not a visual representation of the reader***

Pairing: Ezra x female!reader

Summary: During a ball your parents were throwing, you meet a charming gentleman and discover new feelings you thought it didn’t exist.

a/n: Requested by anynomous! i tried to make this as vague as possible and tried to focus only on Ezra and you. 😬😬, this is uuuuuh something… i tried. also, my brain isn’t capable of writing perfect regency dialogue, so please bear with me.

warnings: REGENCY ERA INACCURACIES!!!!! (don’t read it if you're going to be offended by the lack of accuracy, istg, this is just fanfiction, i’m just having fun pls don’t come at me). slut shaming from a side character, period drama shenanigans, age gap (reader is of age), i gave Ezra a last name sorry! use of the word “flustered”

word count: 9.2k (told you it was long)

masterlist

The room is full of people and it’s hard to breathe with the stuffy air. The smell of sweat lingers in the room, but you’ve grown used to it. People dance to the ballad and talk over the music and over each other, making your ears ring with the sound. You fan yourself, trying to find some relief in the hot room. It’s a way to distract yourself from the fact no gentleman has invited you to dance yet. And it’s almost the middle of the night.

Balls aren’t really your thing anyway. You prefer quiet nights under the moonlight as you watch the stars, or read in the candlelight. Your favorite nights are the ones that rain and you have to stay inside, all wrapped up in blankets by the fireplace to warm yourself. Not hot summer nights, inside other people’s ballrooms, watching everyone being bewitched by your sister.

You’re not jealous of her, no, you’re not. You love her with your heart and soul, she’s your best friend. But she’s the prettiest. The most beautiful. Your parents are so proud of her and the suitors who seek to marry her. She’s not of age yet, though, not like you. No, you’re past your twenties and, in society’s eyes, you’re already a lost cause. No husband, no suitor, no nothing.

You almost roll your eyes at the thought. All of them are so old-fashioned. But you’d be lying if you say you don’t care. Deep down, you wouldn’t mind if one gentleman asked you to dance.

“She’s captivating, isn’t she? The most beautiful girl in the room.” A voice with a different accent interrupts your thoughts and you almost jump, startled by it.

A man stands beside you, golden skin, dark hair – save by a blonde patch, a birthmark, you assume – and brown eyes. His eyes never leave the crowd of people dancing and laughing, not even when you stare at him. When you return your eyes to the people, you see your sister, laughing and dancing and your heart sinks. Of course, he’s talking about your sister.

“Yes,” you respond when you notice you didn’t give him an answer. Your mother always told you it’s impolite to leave people talking by themselves, “Yes, she–”

“So, you agree?” He turns to face you, his eyes piercing your soul, “You agree you’re the most beautiful girl in this ball?”

Your eyes widen and you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Looking away quickly, you swallow hard, trying to think of something to say. He still stares at you as the silence stretches for a moment until you clear your throat and gather the courage to look back at him.

“Forgive me,” you say with a trembling voice, “I thought you were speaking about–”

“Your sister?” He interrupts again with a smirk and a wink, “No, she’s too young. Too young and too naive, isn’t she? Not like you.”

The last statement catches you by surprise and you feel your face burning again. He laughs softly and bows slightly at you as a soft melody starts to be played by the musicians hired by your parents. Your name falls from his lips and you wonder how he knows it. Because you’ve never seen him in your life.

“Perhaps, you will do me the honor.” He offers his hand, still slightly curving his body.

“Of course.” Without thinking, you take his hand and let him guide you to the middle of the ballroom, where the other people are dancing to a soft waltz.

Contrary to his words, the man is polite while he dances with you, keeping his distance and never letting his hands wander on you. You can still feel your cheeks burning and even more when you realize everyone in the room is looking at you. You keep your eyes to the floor, watching as his feet lead yours through the room.

“You’re shy for someone from your family, little bird,” he murmurs, “Keep your eyes on mine. Forget about anyone else.”

And so you do. Somehow, his piercing brown eyes catch yours and you’re unable to look away. Suddenly, it feels like you and he are the only ones in the ballroom, dancing to a secret melody.

“You seem to know everything about my family, Mister,” you say when you finally find your voice again, “But I know nothing about you.”

He smiles then, his eyes dancing between yours, “What do you wish to know, precious gem?”

“Well, to start, I’d love to know your name.” You smile at last when he spins you, then catches you in his arms again.

“Ezra,” he whispers so low, you almost don’t hear it.

“Mister Ezra,” you repeat, tasting the name in your tongue, “How do you know so much about my family?”

“Everyone knows about your family.” He laughs, flickering his eyes to your lips for a second.

“I suppose.” Your voice sounds sad for a moment, but it is true.

Your family is one of the wealthiest in the town, which is why your parents always insisted on giving balls and private parties, to keep relevance in the small society. This is also why most men tried to court you before you rejected all of them. They were all gentlemen, nice men, not all of them were bad people, but… You couldn’t help but notice they were only doing it because they were supposed to. None of these men actually liked you, you knew that. And you aren’t a bad person for rejecting them.

You just want someone who actually likes you.

“Everyone also knows you’ve rejected every suitor in this room,” he says as if he’s reading your mind. Ezra smiles at your discomfort as he spins you around once more, “There’s only so many gentlemen you can dismiss, birdie.”

“I understand now,” you tell him, avoiding his eyes and becoming aware of everyone in the room again, “The motive of your request to dance with me.” You don’t see as the smile falls from his face, “So you can mock me.”

“Little bird, that was not my intention at all.” He tries to explain himself, “I–”

“Then why say such a thing?” You don’t let him speak further as the song fades to an end, “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Ezra, but– I think I’m done for the night.”

Without looking at him, you turn your back and walk away, towards your mother who’s been staring at you from across the room since you started to dance with Ezra. Your intention was to go outside to clear your head, but she stops you before you can head out.

“You need to stay away from that man, child.” She warns you, “If he’s the only one who wants to court you, then our lineage is doomed.”

You pull your eyebrows together, confused, “Whatever you mean, mother?”

“Ezra Waley is no gentleman. He takes innocent girls like you and makes them into desperate dishonored whores.”

I’m not innocent, you fight the urge to tell her, but stay quiet and just nod in obedience.

“May I be an excuse for a breath of fresh air, mother?” you ask, avoiding her eyes.

“You may.” She doesn’t look at you either as she speaks.

With a sigh, you finally leave the room, heading to the private gardens. Your favorite place is actually the maze, where you know the way like the back of your hand. You go there when you’re feeling suffocated by your family, but right now, knowing there are guests all over the place, you choose the most private place you can go.

You take a seat on a stone bench and start to remove your silk gloves, sighing with the relief of the cold breeze that blows on your cheeks. The music from the party is muffled but the thick walls of the mansion you live at, but it’s better than the loud noise from the inside. Leaning back, you bask in the moonlight and close your eyes, longing for a sense of peace.

“May I take a seat?” Ezra’s voice interrupts your moment.

“These are private gardens,” you say harshly, as you look up at him, “and if you came here to ridicule me once more, please spare your time and leave.”

Ezra laughs softly, but doesn't move, “I came to apologize,” he says, tugging at the lapels of his tailcoat, “Sometimes my mouth moves quicker than my head can process. I had no intention to insult you, my lady. I offer you my most sincere apologies.”

It's the first time he treats you with the respect a guest should to a hostess of a party. It catches you by surprise and you look back at the bush of flowers in front of you.

“You may take a seat,” you finally respond to his question, but don't look at him when he sits beside you, keeping his distance as he did when dancing to you. You don’t speak and neither does he for a moment. Then, you both speak at the same time, over each other.

“Do you know–”

“Do you–”

The both of you pause and then laugh for a moment. Ezra’s laugh is beautiful, you notice. Suddenly, it’s like the dance all over again. As soon as you look into his eyes, it’s like everything disappears and it’s just the two of you in the entire world.

“Forgive me,” he says, motioning with his hand to you, “Ladies first.”

You smile softly at him but hesitate to speak.

“The gentlemen I’ve rejected,” you start, unsure he’ll understand you, “they never really... It-it always felt… insincere.”

“Insincere?”

“Yes.” You can feel your eyes watering as you look away, “None of them were found of me. You told me that… I’m not naive like my sister, but perhaps I am. I wish to marry for love, true love. Not just convenience.”

Your fingers play with the hem of your gloves, tracing the delicate stitches.

“Why would that be naive, little bird?”

A silence falls on the both of you as you let the tears roll down your cheeks, your eyes set on the big bright moon.

“There’s no such thing as true love.”

Ezra pauses and furrows his eyebrows, “What makes you think that?”

It’s your turn to pause as you hadn’t thought about it. You’ve never experienced it and you’ve never seen it between your parents. For you, true love is something that happens in books, in the stories you read when you’re bored. While you don’t respond to Ezra’s question, he understands. As he said, everyone in this town knows your family, everyone knows your parents’ marriage happened for mere convenience.

“I advise you not to lose hope, little bird,” Ezra says, all of a sudden. In a bold move, he places his hand on top of yours, “There is true love. You just have to look closely.”

“Have you found it?” You ask, looking at him with teary eyes. He smiles at you.

“No, not yet.”

The two of you share a knowing look and it’s like you’ve known him for years. It’s like this isn’t the first time you met, like he’s an old friend. The connection you make with him is remarkable and, as he tells you about himself and his life, you can’t help but wish you’d known him in a different way.

The night goes by as Ezra tells you he’s planning on expanding his business here with a famous jewelry company. When you ask what his business does, he tells you about the time where he used to explore new lands and found a large number of precious gems that he plans on transforming into jewelry for women. You smile at that, although you don’t really know why.

It’s only when the sun is starting to rise that you realize how long you’ve spent by his side, listening to his stories and laughing at his jokes. The best part is that you don’t have a drop of alcohol in your bloodstream. It’s easy to talk to him, you noticed. You don’t need champagne or wine to listen to him, in fact, he could talk for days and you’d still listen to his beautiful voice every second of it.

“I want to show you something,” you tell him, standing up from your place at the bench. The idea rushes into you like a sea breeze and you can’t let it go.

“What is it, little bird?” Ezra stands up to follow you as you enter a secret passage between two pillars of grass.

It’s a narrow trail and he has to walk faster to keep up with you, the branches and leaves getting in his way. The passage ends right at the maze. In the light of dawn, there are only a few people left, and most of them are leaving the place, tired and drunk from the fun night they had.

“Do you know your way to the middle?” Ezra asks as you start walking towards it.

“Yes. It’s my favorite place outdoors. I go there often.”

You stop at the entrance of the grass labyrinth and look back at him.

“Here.” Your voice is soft as you offer your hand to him, “Take my hand so you won’t go astray.”

Ezra allows himself to be pulled by you as you guide him through the maze. Your soft hands send tingles through his skin and it makes his heart warm with the touch. He watches you, not paying attention to the way or where you’re taking him. You glance at him over your shoulder once, through hooded eyes and a soft smile on your lips.

Eventually, you get to the middle of the maze, where a statue of a beautiful woman is. Your hand is still holding his and you don’t say a word as you bring him to the middle, releasing his hand as soon as you realize you’re still holding it.

“Her name is Aphrodite,” you tell him, voice soft, “She’s the–”

“Goddess of love.” He completes the sentence for you. A beautiful smile spreads your features and you nod, leaning your head towards him and whispering conspiratorially,

“When I was a child, I used to think she would grant wishes. I would come here every day for a wish.”

Ezra laughs softly and looks at you. Your eyes shine in the dawn light, and he fights the urge to lean in and press his lips against yours. How delightful it would be to feel your soft lips on his. To feel your hand on his face, his arms around you. To hug you close to him and never let go.

“Did she grant you your wish?” He asks, instead.

You pause for a moment and look back at the statue, “Perhaps. I don’t know yet.”

He smiles at you, a familiar feeling setting on his gut. His heart told him he knew exactly what you were talking about.

…

“Stupid, insolent child!” Your mother’s voice echoes in the dining room, "The only man I tell you to stay away from! And do you do? Disobey me! Should I really be surprised?!"

Her voice booms in the room, but you're not listening. Shortly after you brought Ezra to the maze, he had to leave, claiming it was past his bedtime. You laughed at his joke and thought about touching him. You thought about holding his hand, cupping his cheek, and kissing him. And you haven't stopped thinking about it, even now. Even after retreating home and changing your garments. Even after having breakfast and even now, as your mother screams at you.

“We just talked,” you say when you realized your mom asked you a question. You weren't listening, “Nothing happened, mother.”

“People saw you taking his hand!”

“So he wouldn't get lost in the maze!” You hide a smile by taking a bite of your toast.

“Do you know what people say about him?” Goodness, she won't drop the subject, “They say bad things about the women who cross his path–”

“That's enough.” Your father saves the day, interrupting your mother, “We all understand your worries, my dear, but Ezra is not that bad of a character after all.”

At that, your ears perk and your attention is turned to your father.

“He might be… A bit unorthodox,” he continues, “but he is a good man. From what I heard.”

“‘From what you heard’?” Your mother has a skeptical look on her face, “This is not about rumors! This is about our daughter’s reputation!”

“And what can be worse than the one she already has?”

The statement should upset you, but it doesn’t. Instead, you bite down a smile and hold your laughter, carefully taking a sip from your hot tea. The tension in the room is visible, you can see in the way your mother’s eyes twitch as she looks intensely at your father.

You clear your throat, setting the teacup down and interrupting the silence, “Well, this is a lovely conversation, but I’m afraid I must retire. I am feeling worn out from the party, so I’ll try to rest before starting my day.”

Your parents don’t look at you as you stand up and leave the room. You weren’t lying, you are feeling a bit drained from standing in a room full of people you don’t like most of the night. But when you lay your back on the soft mattress, in your bedroom, you can’t stop thinking about him.

The back of your right hand still tingles from the hairs on his mustache when he kissed your skin. You feel an unfamiliar sensation inside your stomach, something you don’t quite recognize. Something you don’t want to recognize, out of fear it might not be real.

The next few days go by painfully slowly, as you stay up late most nights, reminiscing the night you met Ezra. Going over what you said and what he said over and over again, wishing you could see him again.

Then, one morning, as you retreat to the library to find a book you still haven't read, your wish becomes reality. As you take the book from a high shelf, it slips from your hand and it falls to the floor. But before you can bend over to take it, a hand is faster than yours and grabs the book.

“You ought to be more careful, little bird,” the familiar voice echoes in the library and your heart skips a beat. When you turn around, Ezra is there, handing you the book. You can’t ignore the way your breath hitches when your fingertips brush on his. It’s like you’re back at the maze, with his hand in yours, guiding him through the walls of grass.

“And you ought to be quieter in a library,” you say softly. Ezra smiles, a beautiful smile spreading his features. You try to bite down a smile, but you can’t. Not when he’s right here again, not when you thought you wouldn’t see him again. To hide your face, you start a slow walk parallel to the bookshelf and you can hear him behind you, “What brings you back here, Mr. Waley?”

“A friend of mine told me the manor was open to visitors,” he says, following you close, “He wanted to see it. I’m just accompanying him.”

You pause for a moment, looking over your shoulder. And in a bold move, that leaves your heart pounding inside your chest, you say,

“So you’re not here to see me?”

It brings a wide smile to Ezra’s lips as he looks away from you, laughing softly. Then, he leans in, caging you with his body.

“You’re such a naive little bird,” he tells you, voice low and raspy, “Why else do you think I would come back here?”

A moment of silence hangs between you two, a moment where you lean back on the bookshelf, the hardwood digging on your back. He looks at you through eyelashes and the sight makes your heart palpitate as you lean towards him, slowly closing the distance between you two. Ezra leans in too, his breath fanning on your face and his nose touching yours. Your lips barely brush against his when a voice interrupts the both of you.

The governess speaks, telling Ezra the library is closed to visitors. She completely ignores the way you and he jump, taking a step away from each other. You feel your cheeks grow warm and look away from him as he nods to the governess.

“My apologies.” He clears his throat, then bows his head to you, “If you’ll excuse me, miss.”

You want to tell him to stay, but no sound comes out of your mouth when you open it; your heart still beats strongly inside your ribcage as you watch him leave, a disappointed sigh escaping your lips.

…

But it seems like your Aphrodite started granting wishes after all. For a fortnight after you saw Ezra for a second time, he shows up at the manor with a friend once more. You find him as you walk into the family room, a complaint about your sister dying on your lips when you see him; Ezra immediately stands up and greets you, mumbling your name and bowing before you. The gentleman with him does the same but your eyes never leave Ezra.

“My dear daughter,” your father says when you burst the door open, “I suppose you know Mr. Waley.” He gestures to the men before you. You feel your cheeks burn and you look down, nodding and giving them a small curtsey, “And this is Mr. Lawrence. They’re in town for business and they’ll join us for dinner this evening.” Your father ignores the way your eyes keep returning their gaze to Ezra, “Would you fetch your sister for me? I want her to have a proper introduction to Mr. Lawrence.”

With a curt nod and no words, you leave the room quickly, but not before sparing a glance at Ezra once more. Your heart beats so heavily inside your chest that you have to pause at your sister’s room’s door and take a deep breath. Swallowing your laugh and biting down the smile that tugs your lips, you knock on the door.

“Come in.” The young innocent voice of your sister echoes inside the room and you open the door to see her painting on a canvas, red and blue paint smeared on her cheek as she looks at the bowl of fruits on a small table in front of her. Your sister is a girl with many talents and painting is just one of them. Sometimes you get jealous of her abilities, even when you’re not supposed to.

“Father wants to see you in the family room,” you tell her with a weak, trembling voice. She looks at you with a frown between her brows and immediately puts her art supplies down.

“What’s happened?” She asks, reaching behind her to untie the apron on her body.

“Nothing’s happened,” you lie, your brows softly furrowed.

“I’ve never seen you so agitated,” she comments as she walks past you, “Has mother been yelling at you again?”

Unfortunately, one of your sister’s talents is knowing you too well. While you both aren’t best friends, you still are sisters and, sometimes, she would surprise you with how observant she was. Your stomach twists as you walk with her back to the family room, the mere sight of Ezra has made you all flustered and you don’t like it at all.

“Wait.” You grab her arm and turn her towards you as you both stop at the door of the room where your father and the other gentlemen are. You lick your thumb, then presses on her cheek, cleaning the paint smudge from her skin. Ignoring as she grimaces, you huff softly, “You can’t appear in front of Mr. Waley and Mr. Lawrence with a dirty face.”

“Mr. Waley?” She smiles, giving you a knowing look, “The man you danced with at the ball, you mean?”

Freezing your movements, you look sternly at her, “Not a word about it.”

She just laughs as you knock on the door and opens it again, meeting the same men you met before. As your father introduces your sister, your eyes are glued on Ezra again. Does he remember the almost kiss in your library? Does he regret it? Does he want more?

The questions keep hammering in your head the entire evening, even when you sit across him at the dinner table, quietly slurping your soup. The tension in the air is palpable, even with your mother’s glares and your father’s soothing voice as he tries to entertain the guests. You find out that Ezra is staying in town for another month or two, depending on how he’ll close the deal with the new company. Ezra is not paying attention to one word as he’s immersed in the sight of you. You had changed your clothing to your dinner gown and he didn’t think you’d look more beautiful than you already are. But you keep surprising him each time. He hasn’t spoken a word directed to you yet, only stolen shy smiles from you, but it is you who speaks with him first, surprising everyone in the table, including yourself.

“Did you have a good tour of the manor, Mr. Waley?”

Ezra is taken aback for a moment but then clears his throat and nods, flashing a bright smile at you.

“Yes, I did.” He fights the urge to call you little bird in front of your family, something he never thought would make him physically squirm on his seat. All you do is nod at him and smile shyly again and no other word is spoken between you two during dinner.

…

The condensation of your breath is a contrast in the darkness of the night as you make your way towards the middle of the maze, the walls of grass looking taller than they are in daylight. You hold the skirts of your thin nightgown, trembling with the cold and cursing at yourself for forgetting to bring a coat with you. The excitement of dining with Ezra is still running in your veins.

When the dinner was over and Ezra and his friends were getting ready to leave, you excused yourself for a moment, only to return out of breath, just in time to have Ezra kiss the back of your hand. What he wasn’t expecting was the small piece of paper you had dropped in his hand while he held yours and the message written on it.

Meet me at the center of the maze when the moon is high.

The message was an invitation, a plea for him to come. It was a bold move, but the fear of your mother finding out was clouded by the desire of seeing him again soon. You certainly didn’t want to spend another day without seeing him.

You breathe hard when you reach Aphrodite, the statue looking more intimidating in the light of the moon, and so the fear of rejection starts to overrun your heart. What if you read him wrongly? What if he didn’t want to come? What if your mother was right about him?

The thoughts in your head are interrupted when a twig snaps loudly in the dark of night and you whip your head, trying to find the source of the sound. For a second, your heart thumps inside your chest. Would it be him? Or maybe someone found out about your little plan and is coming to drag you back home…

But when Ezra’s figure emerges from the darkness, a sigh escapes from your lips, relief flooding your body. He takes long steps towards you and smiles as he cups your cheeks with both hands.

“Little bird,” he whispers in the dark, “I cannot express my happiness when I read your message. I had been holding myself the entire evening– The entire week I wished to see you...”

“Ezra.” His name falls from your lips as you melt in his touch, “I could not stop thinking about you.” You confess, “When I saw you in the family room, I– I felt as if my heart would explode and I don’t know why, I don’t– I don’t know what’s wrong with me…”

Ezra smiles as you hesitantly reach for him and touch his face with delicate fingers, “I have been the same, sweet bird. Your face never leaves my mind, especially when I sleep. I dreamed of you countless times since we first met.”

His words warm your chest and you feel your stomach churn with happiness; Ezra feels himself leaning his face towards you and gently pressing his lips on yours. The touch is so light weighted as if he’s testing the waters with you, giving you space to pull back if you wanted. But you don’t. As soon as he pulls back, you lean in and kiss him again. His thumbs brush on your cheeks as your fingertips travel through his facial hair.

The feeling is almost overwhelming. It takes over your entire body and it makes your legs shake a bit, but you don’t mind. All you care about is the feeling of being in Ezra’s arms, his lips on yours, the warmth of his body on yours…

Ezra whispers your name when he pulls away again, and you beam at him, your delicate fingers gently holding his wrists. When he lets go of your face, you feel the chill of the night air.

“My mother will not like this.” You laugh softly, still not believing you're here with him.

He furrows his brows and looks around, as if he's searching for something.

“I don't see her around,” he tells you, playfully shrugging. The laugh you let out is a little louder this time and you quickly quiet yourself, bringing a hand to your mouth. Ezra gently pulls your hand away and brushes a thumb on your lower lip. An unfamiliar feeling bubbles in your core, making your head spin and your heart beat furiously.

Ezra kisses your lips one more time and the word is on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite tell what it is.

…

The next three weeks are summed up with clandestine meetings, stolen kisses, and quiet laughter. You feel like you know Ezra more than anyone else, which is something new to you. You've never felt like this about anyone ever and it excites you and scares you at the same time.

Then, one night, the sun hasn’t risen yet as you return to the manor, after your time in the maze with him, you run into one of the maids on your way to your room.

"Forgive me, Miss,” she says, offering you a curtsey, “I didn't think you'd be awake.”

“It's alright,” you assure her with a soft smile, and nodding at her as you walk away.

“Miss?” The maid's voice makes you stop your tracks and look back at her. Her pale cheeks were red and her hands fidget with the hem of her apron. You frown, approaching her, ready to ask her what was wrong when she speaks again, “You should be more careful with that man.”

You feel your heart skip a beat and your hands tremble. How does she know? Have you not been careful?

"I-I– You–” You stutter, feeling heat creeping on her face, “W-what man?"

“Mr. Waley. He's not a good suitor, from what I heard.”

“Mr. Wal–” You swallow hard, feeling like a young child who was caught disobeying the governess orders, “I wasn't– I was at the library,” you quickly lie, “I haven't been able to sleep lately, so…”

That's when the pink shade of her cheeks turns to red, “Miss… The gardens are not that private as they seem.”

Your breath gets caught on your throat, you feel like your face is on fire, “Please don't tell anyone…”

“I won't. But I have to warn you… The majority of the staff already know. Gossip runs fast here.” She laughs awkwardly, a sympathetic look on her face. You bring a hand to your face and widen your eyes. You don't blame the staff for gossiping, it’s only natural that they talk about the people they work for, “Miss, I may not be in the position to tell you this, but… As soon as word gets to the governess, she'll…”

She didn't have to finish the sentence, because you know. You know what will happen if the governess learns about you and Ezra. She'll tell your mother.

“Yes,” you say, straightening your back and giving her an assuring look, “Thank you for telling me. Now, please get some sleep, it is too early to start the day.”

“Thank you, miss.”

You know you still have some hours to sleep before you have to get up to do your duties, but you can’t sleep after what the maid told you. Somehow, you’ve always known your furtive meetings with Ezra wouldn’t last long. The past week has been like paradise, his nocturnal affirmations only fueled the feeling inside you and the more you spent time with him, the more you wanted to spend time with him.

And you’ve never wanted to spend time with anyone. The certainty that being alone was what you liked the most is slowly being dissolved by Ezra, like sugar in a cup of water.

But now, you have a weird feeling knowing that your mother might find out about it. It’s not like she’ll forbid you to see him, but you’ll never hear the end of it. And keeping the secrecy of your relationship with him has been so calm and quiet. You’re not sure you’re ready to let that go.

A sigh escapes your lips as you turn on your bed one more time, closing your eyes and trying to get some sleep.

…

That same night, you meet Ezra in the middle of the maze again, trying not to think about what the staff will think. You don’t mind. You’re certain you care about Ezra, those few encounters you had with him felt magical. As long as you’re with him, nothing else matters. Let them talk.

The look on Ezra’s face is different when he finds you, but he beams when he looks at you.

“My sweet little bird,” he murmurs, taking your hand and pressing his lips on the back of it, “You are balm for my soul.”

“Ezra,” you whisper, forcing a smile. You try to keep appearances, but you’ve never been a good actress. Besides, Ezra already knows you enough to distinguish your emotions, even if you try to fake it.

“Something’s happened.” It isn’t a question, he already knows something is up.

You remain in silence as you take his hand and guide him out of the maze, through the other way out. Ezra has a confused look on his face, but he complies as you take him to another of your private gardens, where you hope no one would see the both of you.

“All of them know about us,” you tell him when you’re certain you’re alone with him.

“All of them?” Ezra brushes his knuckles on your cheek gently, trying to soothe your nerves.

“All of the staff,” you explain, “We can’t meet at the maze anymore.”

He looks at you in silence for a moment and you think something is wrong, but the question has been on your mind all day long and when you see it, you’re already speaking before he could say anything.

“A maiden advised me to stay away from you.” You barely recognize your voice, “She’s not the first one to do so.”

Ezra looks away and releases the grip on your face, taking a step back. His semblance looks defeated as if you touched on a sensitive topic.

“I have done many things I regret in the past,” he says, eyes still on the ground, “I believe what they say about me is true. Back then, I was filled with rage and greed and– All I can tell you is that I’m a changed man now. And I– I can only wish you, in such grace, will still have me, little bird.”

A beat of silence hangs in the air. You look at him and feel the urge to touch him, to comfort him.

“My father says you’re a good man, though.”

At that, Ezra looks up at you, eyes gleaming with hope.

“And I chose to believe him. Ezra, I do not care what you’ve done in the past. Who we were does not matter anymore. And I–”

You stop yourself, unsure of the feeling you want to express. It’s unfamiliar but pleasant and it makes you feel light on your feet, wishing you could see him every day of your life. Then, the penny drops and by the time you realize you’re in love with him, Ezra approaches you quickly and crashes his lips on yours and an urgent feeling takes over you.

Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, kiss him, be with him in every way possible. Your head spins as Ezra backs you up to the nearest tree, pressing you against the bark and trailing kisses on your jawline and neck. You feel a strange sensation growing in your lower belly, making your core pulse with need and desire. The hands seem to have a life on their own as they make their way to the back of his neck, your delicate fingers tangling on his dark locks.

“Ezra!” You gasp, the air leaving your lungs when his teeth make contact with your skin.

Then, Ezra stops and touches his forehead on yours, letting out a quiet sigh as you both catch your breaths, chests rising and falling as they touch.

“Forgive me, little bird,” he whispers, eyes closed as if he’s holding himself back.

“What for?” Worry is explicit in your expression, your hand touching a cheek of his.

He hesitates for a moment, opening his eyes and looking right into yours. His hand covers yours, the one touching his face, and he brings your knuckles to his lips before pressing it against his chest. When he speaks, you feel his chest rumbling with his voice.

“I’m leaving in three days.”

The statement takes the breath out of your lungs. You open your mouth to say something, but your head is still processing the news. It’s as if something broke inside you and it hurts, making your stomach twist in a strange pain.

“So soon?” Your voice is the tiniest whisper ever. Although you’ve spent weeks meeting each other, it still feels like the time spent together was a mere day.

“I was in town in business. And business is done,” he says as you look away, tears already watering your eyes.

“Oh.”

For a second, you’re tempted to think your mother and everyone else were right. The heartbreak of his departure blinds you from the man you claim to know so well, but you choose to not let it affect you. Ezra is a good man, you don’t care what other people say. They don’t know him as you do.

Your thoughts are interrupted when Ezra gently places something on the palm of your hand. It’s a simple chain, with a small green rock in a pendant.

“This is an emerald,” he says, voice soft as you look at the necklace through tears, “It is known as a symbol of truth and love and it’s said to be the gemstone of the goddess–”

“Aphrodite,” you whisper quietly, eyes still on the beautiful green gemstone.

“Yes.” Ezra takes the necklace from your hands and helps you put it on. Your eyes don’t leave his as he clasps the piece of jewelry behind your neck, his large hands brushing the skin there.

“It’s beautiful,” you say when you remember to thank him for the gift. But the tears are still there, threatening to fall from your eyes, “Ezra… Please, don’t go.”

The request leaves your lips softly, a pleading look on your face makes Ezra’s smile fall from his face. Holding your hands tightly in his, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Little bird, I need to ask you a question that might be unfair to you, but it has been distressing my mind since I’ve learned of my departure.”

Suddenly, your heart starts hammering inside your chest with the suspense Ezra creates between you too. You squeeze his hands, silently encouraging him to keep talking.

“Before I do, however, I want you to think before giving me an answer. Please, don’t say anything you might regret later.”

“Ezra.” You choke out, “Why are you being so cryptic? Say what you mean already.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at Ezra’s lips before he says it.

“Come with me. I know it might be too soon but…”

Your eyes light up instantly at the proposal. You want to say yes immediately, you don’t have to think twice to give him an answer. You’d go with him in a heartbeat. Still, you bite down a smile which gets impossible at his next words.

“I-I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m rapidly falling in love with you. There’s not a day where I don’t think about you, about us and I– I know this feeling all too well.”

A pause hangs between you two as you process again what he said. Ezra is full of surprises tonight, and he doesn’t expect you to accept his love or his proposal, but when you lunge yourself forwards, wrapping your arms around him and planting a kiss on his lips, he knows your feelings are reciprocated.

“I-I feel the same, Ezra, I–” A breath escaped your lips, “I have been trying to put a name on it, but for some reason, I could not… But now I know.”

The smile that brightens his face makes you smile too and, for a moment, there’s nothing in the world you care about besides this moment. You and him, in each other’s arms, forgetting about the world around you for just one night. If it were up to you, you’d leave with him right now, in the middle of the night, barefoot in your nightgown. You’d go anywhere, as long as he’s with you.

“Will you think about my proposition?” He asks once you’ve both pulled away.

You smile at him, “I already know the answer. I would go anywhere with you, Ezra.”

Ezra was quiet for a moment, holding back his excitement from you, “Would you leave your family, and everything you have here, just to be with me?”

Standing on the tip of your toes, you press a light kiss on his lips, then another on his cheek.

“I have nothing here,” you whisper in his ear and brush your lips on his earlobe, “Not without you.”

“Little bird.” He shudders under your touch, the breath he exhales comes out shaky and nervous, but he puts his hands on your shoulders and looks right into your eyes, “You have your family here. Your home. You can not just give everything up for me. Did you forget about what people say about me?”

A silent pause hangs between the two of you as you think about what he said. You know he wants you to go with him, but he also has his insecurities and the lack of faith in himself makes you want him even more.

“Do you want to know what I wished Aphrodite when I was little?” You say, breaking the excruciating silence. Ezra looks up at you, waiting for your answer, “Someone who loved me. For who I am, not– Not for my name or not for my parents or the money they have. I wished for someone who truly loved me.” You can see Ezra’s misty eyes in the moonlight as you speak, “I know it’s stupid and childish, but I–” You shake your head, then smile, cupping his cheeks with your hands, “But then I met you and, although you did not make the best first impression, I still fell for you. Ezra, I love you.”

Ezra exhales softly, closing his eyes and leaning to your touch.

“I love you too, little bird.”

“Then, let’s run away.” You smile at him, brushing your thumbs on your cheeks. Ezra smiles back and suddenly hugs your waist and brings you close to him, wrapping you in a tight hug that makes the air in your lungs escape.

“Let’s run away, little bird.”

…

The plan was simple. By midnight of the next day, you’d dress up and meet Ezra in the back of the house, where a carriage would be waiting. He instructed you not to bring much with you, only the essentials, so you pulled an old, smaller chest that you used to use when traveling as a little kid from the closet and chose some clothing you’ll need for the trip. Ezra told you he’d buy you a thousand dresses when you get home.

Home. The thought of having a home with Ezra warms your heart and it makes your stomach bubble with excitement.

You spend the entire day trembling with anxiety, trying to hide your secret as best as you can, and abstaining to socialize with your family. Maybe it is insensitive, you realize at lunch, to avoid them when you’re leaving to probably never see them again, but keeping secrets is not one of your talents.

In the afternoon, you write a letter to your sister, explaining why you’d leave and that you’d write whenever you can. You hope she understands. Despite what people might think, you are not enemies with her, she’s your sister after all and you love her dearly.

When the time comes, you bid goodnight to your parents, taking a moment to look at them one last time. Your mother, mad about something your father told her, dismisses you easily, but your father gives you a smile and nods. Tears water your eyes as you walk away from them, straight to your bedroom.

Before going to your room to play the waiting game, however, you give a pouch of coins to two guards to help you carry the chest outside when it's time to go and an extra pouch to keep their mouth shut. After that, you go to your room and sit on your bed, waiting.

There’s something about leaving a place that you’ve lived your entire life that makes your heart clench with homesickness – and you haven’t even left yet. Things like your room and your belongings you plan on leaving behind make your heart clench.

With a sigh, you close your eyes and let yourself fall on the mattress of your bed for one last night before leaving for good.

When the time comes, you hear a soft knock on your door from the two guards you paid to carry your things. You let them in, to take the chest, but before you leave, you give them instructions, saying you have something to do first. Clutching the letter in your hand, you walk to your sister’s room and shove the envelope under the door, pressing a palm on the wooden material and exhaling softly.

You wish you could knock on the door and kiss her goodbye. But you don’t have time. For now, a letter will do. You’ll write to her once you’re settled in your new home.

When you turn around to leave, you collide with someone, though. Your father.

Oh, no.

“Father–” You mumble, hands trembling, “I–”

“Save your lies, girl.” He interrupts you with a stern voice that makes you tremble, “My office. Now.”

You don’t have time for this, you have to meet Ezra in the back gardens soon. But you obey your father, following him to his office, the place where you’re sure he’ll give you a lecture and stop you from running with Ezra. You wonder how he found out. Maybe the money wasn’t enough to buy the guards’ silence.

But you’re taken off guard when you see Ezra standing in the room. Your eyes widen and your breath gets caught in your throat. Did your father find him in the gardens? Did someone tell him he was waiting for you?

“Little bird,” he mumbles quietly as you enter the room with a confused look. You can see that he wants to say more, but your father starts speaking.

“I was ready for a perfect night of sleep, after a long day in the offices, after all, it’s all a working man wishes, but imagine my luck when none other than Mr. Ezra Waley showed up at the manor telling me about a plan to elope with my eldest daughter.”

Your eyes widen and your gaze turns to Ezra, a confused look in your eyes. It couldn’t be. Ezra wouldn’t betray you like this, he couldn’t. But as the guilty look falls on his face you realize it’s true. Ezra told you off. Your heart clenches at the thought of it.

What changed? He told you he loved you… Was it a lie or he simply just changed his mind? Maybe your mother was right after all.

“Tell me, daughter, is this true?” Your father asks and it takes a minute for you to return your gaze to him, eyes filled with tears.

“Yes.” A weak sound you don’t recognize as your voice leaves your lips, “Yes, it is.”

A silence hangs in the room as your father leans back on his chair, watching your eyes glimmering with tears. He knows you well, he knows you have things to say, so he’ll sit and wait until you say what’s in your mind. Ezra risks taking a look at you, pain written across his face as he sees the tears rolling down your face.

“Little bi–”

“Shut your mouth.” The words drip like venom from your lips, “How could you?” Your voice trembles, but you still refuse to look at him, “How could you lead me to believe you reciprocated my feelings and then betray me like this?! Break my heart into a million little pieces and stand here as nothing has happened?!”

When you finally look at him, you see the hurt in his expression. The face you adore so much scrunched in pain, eyes glossy with unshed tears.

“I–” He hesitates, aware of the authority in the room, your father, “I couldn’t let you come with me, little bird, not if it’d bring dishonor to your family.”

You feel your face fall and a frown resurges between your brows, a confused look taking over.

“While I was waiting for you at the carriage, a feeling took over me.” Ezra continues, “I couldn’t snatch from your house, from your family, not without a warning. I am true to my feelings, though. I know I love you like I’ve never loved anyone, but I must do the right thing. So I came to ask your father for his blessing. To beg for it.”

The confession makes your heart warm and a feeling of shame takes over you. You shouldn’t have doubted him or his love, you shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Your face feels warm as you look away and meet your father’s gaze once more. The look he gives you is one you know.

In the end, it wasn’t your mother who was right. It was your father.

“Ezra…” You whisper softly.

“I would never betray you, my love.” He approaches you, reluctantly taking your hands in his, “Still, if your feeling towards me had changed in the last few minutes, I’ll understand. I’ll leave and you’ll never hear of me again.”

You feel his grip on your hands loosen and you grab them tightly, holding them in place, “No. No, Ezra, they haven’t.”

Then, you look at your father again, eyes begging in your silence, knowing he’ll understand it. The older man sighs, leaning over his wooden desk with his elbows.

“Are you sure you love him, my dear?” He asks in a soft voice, the voice he used to read you bedtime stories when you were little.

“Yes, father. As sure as I’m standing here.”

He sighs again, leaning back on the chair and lacing his hands over his stomach, “Your mother will never approve of this.”

With a pout, you make a show of looking around the room, “Well, I don’t see her around.”

Ezra’s eyes widen before he laughs softly at the stolen comeback. Even your father smiles as you say it, bold and confident. A few seconds of tension pass in silence as the oldest man in the room eyes you two, but takes a little longer staring at Ezra. It’s like they have a silent conversation with just one look before your father speaks.

“Then go.”

Your heart bursts with happiness as you show him the brightest smile you’ve ever smiled. Throwing yourself over the table, you give him a quick hug, along with a thank you and a promise that you’ll write. Ezra gives him a nod in gratitude before you grab his hand and leave the room, running and leaving your life behind.

…

The cold breeze from the night gives you shivers on your skin as you sit down on the porch stairs to appreciate the night sky. The lanterns from the wooden porch are the only source of light in the backyard of Ezra’s house – your home. You close the cloak around you tightly, trying to stop the gelid breeze to infiltrate the fabric of your clothes. Not long after you sit down, you hear footsteps behind you and, soon enough, a warm chest touching your back, long legs on the side of yours, and strong arms snaking around you.

Ezra leans his chin on your shoulder as he speaks, “And what is my lovely wife doing out here in the cold, all by herself?”

It brings a smile to your face as you lean the back of your head on his shoulder, “Just appreciating the darkness. It was a night just like this when we met.”

“Was it, now? I wouldn’t remember. Someone kept my eyes busy that night.” He teases, fingers squeezing the sides of your torso. You squeal lightly and giggle, biting your bottom lip as you look at his warm brown eyes.

“It’s been a year already,” you whisper, touching his face. The scruff on his skin tickles the palm of your hand as usual.

“Yeah?”

You nod in silence, taking in every detail of his face. A year since you met the love of your life. And several months since you ran away with him. You couldn’t be happier to wake beside the best man in the world every morning. To get to see him every day, not only in the dark, hidden from everyone. You’re truly living the dream.

“I love you, Ezra,” you tell him, sighing and closing your eyes. You clutch the little green emerald on the chain around your neck, smiling as he responds.

“I love you too, little bird.”

And you thank Aphrodite for finally granting your wish.

............

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spideymarvelws · 3 years

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It Was Fun While It Lasted

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A/n : this is kind of an alternate ending to endgame ig? a version where your a long lost child of thanos and Peter lost the gauntlet only to find it at the same time as you and plot ensues. Kind of the same thing with Clint and nebula but way further down in the movie. I just really wanted to write a villain reader okay leave me alone idk what im doing. also sorry for any inaccuracies i havent watched endgame is so long😭im just going off what i remember.

Summary : Despite your life on earth, your life with the avengers, you’ve always felt like something was missing. You never felt that longing to save the people of the world, their wide smiles and thanks never satisfied you like it did everyone else. That was until Thanos told you about your true past, your true purpose.

To destroy the universe.

Warnings : cursing, betrayal, (ik we should just give Peter a break, but its for the plot im sorry) just pretty angsty so you’ve been warned

Word Count : 2.8k

Heavily inspired by this and this playlist on youtube

Peter Parker x GN!Villian!Reader

...

“It’s under all that ruckus,” Sam yelled through coms, flying over the fallen building he once called the avenger’s compound, “Can anyone reach?”

Peter webbed one of the aliens, using the makeshift leash to pull himself over the creature, knocking it into another one of his kind. His new spider legs retracted from his suit, helping him land gracefully on the floor quick enough to see the domino effect he just caused.

He quickly caught Sam’s words, looking up to see he was right outside the fallen building.

“I can!” he quickly said, flicking his wrist to catch on to a random flying alien, pulling it down to the floor as he took flight, landing on the top of one of the cracked walls. He swiftly searched for an opening under the rubble with the help of Karen tracking where he looked.

Suddenly a red light flashed from a cave like opening, giving him a small cheer at victory. As he crawled into the gap, some static came through his ear piece signalling that someone was about to talk.

“Good luck Kid,” Tony muttered into his ear followed by a loud blast as the comms cut off. Even with the rough cut, he could still feel the small smile making its way to his face.

Though there was a full fledged war going on that might decide whether everyone lived or not, all his young brain could think about was how cool it was to be fighting alongside every superhero he’s ever known, and more. If only he could go back to when he first got bitten, to tell his past self that at some point in the future he would be fighting alongside the avengers.

That he himself was an avenger.

It was crazy to think about. To think about how far he’s come that he was able to save the world and not just help some old lady cross the street. As thoughts continued to bloom in his head, he carefully crawled through all the debris, taking care that he didn't stick to parts that might take down the small opening.

Soon enough he found a clearing, what looked like a living room area judging from the couch covered in dust and the familiar stone pillars and plants. He detached himself from the ceiling, landing softly on the floor as he looked around the dirty room, moving away from the flickering wires that hung from the slanted ceiling.

He soon caught sight of something shiny and gold from underneath a fallen pillar. He punched his arm in the air, running to the object and carefully pulling the gauntlet out of its snug position.

“Found it,” he said into his comms, grunting as it finally released, sending him back slightly, “Coming out now,”

“I’ll meet you outside,” Tony said before cutting off once again.

Peter looked back at the opening determined, strutting towards the exit, his confidence growing with each step. A crunch of debris shook him out of his pride, making him stop in his tracks. He quickly ducked behind a piller, looking at the shadows shown on the wall opposite him with his hand ready to web whatever it was making its way into the cavern.

But as soon as he caught your silhouette standing in the shadows, he let out a deep breath, his shoulders sagging as his muscles lost the sudden tension. He stepped out from his hiding spot to greet you.

“Oh thank god it’s you,” Peter chuckled, his hand falling to his side as he adjusting the gauntlet in his hand, “I thought it was another one of those alien thingies,”

You stayed silent, standing ominously with your arms to the side, twirling your gun slowly. He couldn't see your face hidden in the shadows, only the red glow of the necklace around your neck, illuminating details of your suit on your chest. He noticed how your body shook lightly, like a bomb about to go off.

Peter chuckled nervously, tightening his hold on the glove.

“Is- is everything alright?” He said, taking careful steps towards you.

He didn't listen to the voices in his head telling him to run, to get away as fast as he could. You were his friend, his partner in crime he liked to say.

You would never hurt him.

You stayed silent a few seconds longer, the only thing proving to him that you weren't a lifeless manikin were your movements as you shifted from leg to leg. But he didn't think much of it, it was a scary time for everyone. Maybe you were just glad that he got the gauntlet and not someone from Thanos’ army. Maybe you were just glad to know he was okay after being separated.

“I’m sorry Peter,” you finally spoke up, your voice dangerously low, something he wasn't use to, “But I’m going to need you to give me that glove,”

Peter was taken back by your words, mostly still confused but also slightly worried at your words and sudden presence, “What! Why?”

“I can’t-,” you let out a harsh breath, “I can’t tell you why Peter, just give me the damn glove,”

“No, I-,” he let out a gasp when you raised your gun, aiming it directly at his chest, “Woah, woah, woah!” he held his empty hand up in defence, “What are you doing!”

“I’m getting that glove one way or another Parker,” you said harshly, your tone slashing at his heart, “So either you give it to me or i’m prying it off your dead corpse, you decide,”

Peter stayed silent, trying to process your sudden change in, well, you.

Only minutes ago, you were fighting alongside him, well what felt like minutes ago. He lost all concept of time when the army charged towards him, his main focus was getting that gauntlet away from Thanos and doing his job as an avenger.

But you were there, using the same gun pointing at him now to blast the same aliens attacking him. That was until the land beneath you detached itself, creating a small floating piece of dirt that took you up in the air, taking you away from him.

He didn't have time to follow you when he got tackled to the floor, losing sight of you as you moved to the direction of Thanos.

That's when it clicked in his head.

But before he could question anything, his senses went off as he narrowly dodged the blast of your gun. With the distraction, you took the opportunity to lunge at him, knocking him to the floor.

“What did he do to you!” he grunted, throwing up the gauntlet and webbing it to the ceiling. Before you could jump for it, he tackled you to the floor, webbing one of your hands to the ground.

“He told me the truth!” you screamed, punching him in the nose with your other hand. He webbed that hand to the floor as it tried to reach out to your gun. He kicked away the weapon, webbing the rest of your body, making sure that you were secure, unable to escape.

He didn't want to, but you were unstable, not yourself. Whatever Thanos did to you, fucked up the person he knew, the person he loved and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He was determined to get you back.

“What do you mean ‘truth’? Do you hear yourself right now!” he said in vain, his chest heaving with every breath.

You stopped struggling in the webs, making Peter question if you ever were. You only laid with a wide smile on your face that soon turned into hysterical laughter. Tears flowed freely from your eyes as you tried to catch your breath making Peter’s breath hitch.

“loud and clear Peter,” you managed to get out, your laughs calming down to little giggles.

“Then why are you doing this? Why did you attack me!”

You rolled your eyes, “You refused to give the what i wanted that’s why,”

“But why do you want it?” he said desperately, growing annoyed with your vague words.

“Why do you want to save the world?” you countered, “Because it feels good right? You feel accomplished? You feel needed, you feel useful,” you shook your head, “You feel like aching pain in your chest to do the right thing, to do what you think is right for the world” you paused, “So what’s so wrong in wanting to destroy it,”

“I save the world because it's the right thing to do Y/n,” he said seriously, disgusted that you would think of the possibility of destroying the universe, “You’re killing innocent people! You lived through those five years, you knew how devastating it was for everyone,”

“But i enjoyed it,” you cut him off, “I enjoyed watching them suffer, because- because i knew it was the right thing, what Thanos did- it was destiny. It was fate! But you fail to see that, you all fail to fucking see it!”

“See what! See what!” he shouted, trying his best to understand what you were saying because none of it was processing in his head.

“People don’t appear out of thin air Peter! I didn’t have a family or friends! I woke up in the middle of nowhere! Knowing nothing about myself and you people fucking took me in and USED me because of my skil!” you spat, “When i asked to find my real family you all denied it, you denied everything i ever said, i asked, you people did nothing for me!”

He started to back away when he noticed your hands begin to glow red, the webs around your body melting off your skin. Suddenly his hands became heavy, something cold clicking around his wrists, pulling him to his knees. He struggled, his muscles strained as he tried to break free but it was futile.

He let himself get trapped, he let himself get distracted.

What confused him more was your sudden power. You were known for your slick fighting skills and use of your guns and various weapons. Not powers that made chains burst out of the ground strong enough to withhold him even with his super strength.

Did Thanos do this to you? Is this why you turned to his side, because he gave you special abilities?

“But now, I know my true self, I know my purpose,” you continued, “I’m not a superhero Peter, maybe not by your definition. Saving all those people, using my powers for ‘good’ means nothing to me,” you stood tall over him, power surging through your veins, “cause guess what! It’s repetitive! People will always find a way to get hurt, to use people for their gain! Humans! Humans are a fucking waste of time but you all never saw that. You just saw the good not the evil,”

“Because that’s our j-”

“Because that’s our job, yes I know, but it's not,” you cut him off once more, “Who ever said that we need to protect people who can’t even help themselves? Who ever said we needed to have this responsibilities on our shoulders for something we can’t even control,” you pointed at him, “You never asked to be spiderman, sure the same can’t be the same for iron man or captain america but they choose that, we didn’t,” you sighed, “But none of you understand that, only-” you paused, “only Thanos does,”

“Is that why you're doing this? Because of something our enemy said,”

“Your enemy, not mine,” you smiled weakly, “He’s made more sense to me that any of you have, he showed me my true powers, my true self in the matter of minutes, something you all couldn't do in years,” your hands dropped to your side, “because he’s my family, he knows my true destiny the real reason why I was given my gift,” you gestured to the gauntlet, “And that’s to complete what he started, that’s why he put me on earth Peter, and I can’t let you or anyone ruin that for me,”

That’s when it clicked, “You’re his child,”

You smiled softly at his words, “I’m not a hero Peter,” your shoulder shook as you let out a tired laugh, “I’ve tried telling you this so many times but you-,” you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, “You just never fucking listened!”

Peter stayed silent, looking down at the floor in defeat. You knelt down in front of him, talking his jaw in your fingers to pull his face up, forcing him to look into your eyes.

“I never wanted to hurt you Peter,” you whispered, your eyes softening as you looked directly into his now dull, dirty browns.

“You already did,” he sneered, feeling no remorse for his words, “You did when you took his side, when you betrayed us, after everything we’ve fucking been through your side with a purple fucking raisin,”

You only sighed, your head dropping as you stood back up, stretching your back, “You’ll understand Peter, one day you will,” you began to walk back to the gauntlet, flicking your fingers to get rid of the webs, “To bad I won’t be there for that to happen,”

The shiny piece of metal fell softly into your hands, laying snugly in your palms. Peter watched with dread as your eyes glimmered with glee, reflecting all the colours of the stones, glowing dimly when it landed on the red one.

“How do you think it’s going to feel?” you said out loud, staring in awe at the gauntlet, “I mean I’ve felt the wrath of one stone but six?!” you chuckled, “I could only imagine what that must feel like,”

Peter only grumbled at your words, looking around for something, anything that might spark a light in his mind. That might help him to escape but he found nothing. You had the power of a fucking infinity stone running through your body, if he were to try anything you were sure to break him back down despite which stone you got your powers from. It didn't matter, you were still stronger than him in every way.

“Question is, should I put the glove on, then the stones? Or maybe the other way around? Should I do them all at once or individually,” you looked back at him with a mad grin, “The options huh?”

“You really are his child,” Peter grumbled, looking off to the side, “Sick and twisted, just like him,”

“See! You finally get it!” you said excitedly, throwing your arms in the air, “Glad to know we’re finally on the same page,” you giggled right after.

Normally it would make his heart flutter, but now it only made him sick to his stomach.

“God, It’s just-” you took a deep breath, “I’ve haven't used my powers in fear of hurting others that- that I never even cared about! I just acted like i cared cause- cause that was my job right? That’s what everyone said!” you flicked your hands at the glove, morphing it into the perfect size to fit your arm right in front of his eyes, “Now, I could explore its limits, its full power without being thrown into some tacky jail in the middle of nowhere,” You grinned, “Isn't that exciting?”

You began to take out each individual stone, keeping them floating by your ideas, your eyes flickering from each one to judge it like it was a beauty pageant.

Peter looked at you ridiculously, “No, it isn't,” he took a deep breath, “Y/n, this isn’t you,”

You chuckled, fitting the glove on your hand snuggly as you raised the six individual stones further in the air, spinning them around you, “On the contrary,” you moved the space stone to one of the slots, groaning as its power seeping into your body, “I think this is most i’ve felt like myself in a while!”

He watched in horror as you put each stone in its individual departments, your smile growing wider and wider with each one. Your body began to float off the floor, the light emitted almost blinding him at how bright it grew.

“You don’t have to do this Y/n!” Peter shouted desperately, grunting as he pulled on the chains keeping him locked to the floor, “God dammit Y/n! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

You ignored his pleas, his words void of anything to your ears.

“I’m sorry Peter,” you whispered, turning back to look at him with red glowing eyes, “But the villains just have more fun,” you cackled, breath heavy as the power of all the stones surged through your veins, making them pop with colour, “And I’m about to have the time of my life,”

With that, a bright white light filled Peter’s eyes, knocking him back against the debris, taking him out cold on the floor.

...

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deascheck · 3 years

Text

Finding Prince Charming

Summary: Reader is captured by a werewolf and then rescued by Sam and Dean, who she’d never met before.

Word Count: 3495

Pairings: developing Sam x Reader

Warnings: decent amount of angst, violence, a death, description of injuries… I think that’s it? AND FLUFF

A/N: Would love feedback.. Please let me know what you think. I don’t write often, so however I can make my writing better, I’d love to try! Also, I didn’t really research any medical stuff, so if there are inaccuracies, I apologize! This is also un-beta'ed, so sorry for any mistakes!

You were running. You didn’t know how far you’d gone or how long you’d been going, but you were too scared to stop. Over your labored breaths, you could hear hoarse growls coming from behind you.

As your feet pounded the ground, your arms pumping, you risked a glance behind you. As you turned your head, your hair flopped across your face. Panicked, you brushed at it with your hand. The thing you were running from was several yards behind you, but, unfortunately, was still there.

You didn’t know exactly what it was, but you knew it had started out looking like a ridiculously attractive man. The man had approached you at the bar and offered to buy you a drink. He’d introduced himself as Tristan. Tall, tan, white teeth, hair that was ruffled as if it was sex hair, and a broad chest just made for cuddling against. Of course you didn’t say no. Being single and looking for a fun night, you’d commenced your usual flirtations.

You didn’t realize he wasn’t a human until you had headed for the car with him, and you saw his reflection in the side-view mirror. Tristan heard your gasp and had apparently decided to hell with it, because he lunged as a fanged, clawed non-human. So you did the first thing you could think of, which was to pepper spray him and run. You mentally thanked the Lord that you’d worn flat boots.

The pepper spray had given you a big enough lead that he hadn’t caught you yet – apparently he wasn’t very fast – but you didn’t know how to get rid of him. He was too close for you to ditch.

You ran past a closed Starbucks, and then realized where you were. There was a 24/7 Walgreens store just a block away. If you could get that far, you’d be safe. Energy renewed, you pumped your arms faster, spurring your deadening legs to move more quickly.

The buildings on the block blurred as your speed and desperation increased. You hadn’t heard a growl since you’d checked over your shoulder, and you didn’t dare check again. The Walgreens came into view and you almost cried with relief.

As you closed the distance between you and the door to a few yards, you felt something massive grip your bicep tightly from behind, and yank you backwards. Before you could scream for help, you felt a searing pain in the back of your head and all went black.

When you came to, you were tied to a chair in a dank, dark room. It smelled like dead fish, and you couldn’t help but gag at the initial smell. You hear a chuckle come from across the room. Your eyes weren’t adjusting fast enough, so you squinted, trying to get a better look at thing that chuckled. It was the Tristan-monster.

“Tristan? What are you? Cause dude, you fugly.*” You did your best not to draw back into the chair when he stood up abruptly and stalked towards you. Thrusting your chin forward defiantly, you said rudely, “Why am I here? Cause if you kill me, I’m gonna be pissed. And then I’ll come back and haunt your ass.”

Tristan sank to his knees in front of you, allowing you to look straight at him instead of straight up. He spoke for the first time with his fangs and claws out, and said, “Y/N, why did you run? You made things so much more complicated for yourself.” Tristan’s voice was gravelly and deep, and held a hint of frustration and disappointment.

“Why did I run?! Oh let me think for a second.. Maybe because I saw a massive, sharp-toothed monster in my car’s mirror? It’s called self-preservation, genius.” You rolled your eyes at him, wondering if he was genuinely surprised or just being a tool.

Tristan growled when you called him a monster, and his claws elongated as he stared angrily at you. Your eyes widened and you could do nothing but watch as he pulled his arm back to rip you a new one – quite literally.

You couldn’t help the scream that ripped itself from your throat as he swung at your shoulder. His claws tore through your muscle like it was water. All you could think about was the pain; the white hot, searing pain that raged in your shoulder.

Tears streamed down your face as you tried to curl yourself around your wound. But Tristan’s attack wasn’t finished. He swung at you again, his claws raking down your side leaving deep oozing gashes. Your macho attitude officially snuffed out, you screamed again, shaking with pain.

The third hit left you fearing your ribs were laid bare. Your torso was in shreds. Tristan’s claws had rent from your collarbone all the way down to your shorts. Vaguely, you realized you were soaked in your own blood. Even as you tried to lean away from Tristan, you started to lose consciousness as the pain and blood loss began to take their toll.

However, no swing came. You heard three gunshots, and Tristan’s growls stopped. Moving your eyes to him, you saw him on the floor, blood spreading from his body. As darkness overtook you, you made out two tall shapes running towards you.

When you came to, all you saw was white. Were you in heaven? You raised your head an inch and looked around. You saw monitors and tubes, and then you heard bleeping. Nope. Not heaven. The hospital. In a chair next to your bed, you saw a man slumped, asleep. You had no idea who he was, so you took a moment to study him. He had long hair, for a guy. He had a bit of scruff, and was most certainly not hard to look at. He was in a red flannel shirt and dirty, ripped jeans. The circles under his eyes were dark, and you wondered how much he actually got to sleep.

As if he felt your eyes on him, he stirred and opened his eyes. You made eye contact and he immediately shifted to lean forward. He cleared his throat, and said, “Hey! Glad you’re awake. Doctors weren’t sure when you would wake up. How are you feeling?” His green eyes were gentle and inquisitive, and you found yourself getting lost in them.

Realizing you hadn’t answered the question, you quickly did a self-assessment and responded, “I’m fine, actually… I don’t feel much right now. Must be the pain meds. How did I get here? And sorry, who are you?” Your curiosity was eating you up.

“Oh! Sorry, I’m Sam. Me and my brother, Dean, we found you in the warehouse. We brought you here.” Sam blushed slightly, which you found surprisingly adorable.

“Hi Sam, I’m Y/N. I, uh… I don’t remember much after the Tristan-monster attacked me,- ” you stopped and closed your eyes briefly. You’d said Tristan-monster out loud. Sam was smiling widely when you opened your eyes, and through your embarrassment, you found it a very attractive smile. He had the cutest dimples you’d ever seen. You leaned your head back and groaned, “I can’t believe I actually said that.”

Sam’s smile turned into a laugh, but he took pity and said, “Hey, I’m not judging. It seems like an accurate assessment if Tristan was his name.”

His comment made you think of something. You tilted your head at him. “What on earth were you doing in that warehouse to begin with? No one in their right mind would go to a place that stank that badly of dead fish.”

Sam chuckled, managing to look slightly uncomfortable at the same time. He looked at you for a few seconds, chewing his bottom lip, as if he was internally debating what he should say. You decided to help him out, and said softly, “The truth would be nice, if that helps at all.”

He huffed quietly and cleared his throat again. “Well, Dean and I were looking for your Tristan-monster. He was a werewolf. We’d tracked him to the warehouse, when we heard you were in there too.” At this point, he looked away guiltily. “Nothing seemed out of control, so we didn’t want to rush in with our guns half cocked. But… turns out you were there, and that cost you. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

Your sympathy swelling, you reached out for his hand. Sam put his hand in yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand gently.

“It’s ok, Sam. Really. I got myself into that mess. Should have known someone that good looking and charming was too good to be true...” You trailed off bitterly.

Sam squeezed your hand. “Hey. Y/N. Look at me.” He waited until you dragged your eyes to him before continuing. “It’s not your fault. This happens to the best people for no good reason. It’s awful that Tristan picked you, but think about it this way. You made it. You survived. If you can get through that hell, you’ll make it through whatever life throws at you. And after shit like that, I hope life throws you everything good you could possibly want. Maybe you’ll even have your Prince Charming thrown at you.” Sam looked at you with soft eyes and you couldn’t help but melt a little.

You loved how sincere he was. You gave him a small smile. “Well, once I get out of here, maybe my good life will start with dinner with you.” You glanced at him shyly, not really regretting your inquiry.

Sam leaned forward slightly and said softly, “I think I’d like that. But you’ve got a long recovery ahead, Y/N. You had a real one over done on you.” His smile faded slightly as he thought about the extent of your injuries.

Before he could say anything, though, your stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard halfway across the world. You blushed deeply and quipped, “Before we talk about how much I got screwed up, is there any way I could have something to eat? I think my stomach wants to eat itself, it's so hungry.”

Your comment surprised a laugh out of Sam, and he let go of your hand and got to his feet. “Of course. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Still chuckling, he strode out of the room quickly.

A couple minutes after Sam left, a nurse bustled in. She was beautiful and young, but looked comfortable in her role; she’d been here a while.

She smiled warmly at you and said, “Hi honey, good to see you awake. I’m Laura, and I’m gonna check your bandages, ok?”

Something was warning you about her, but you shrugged it off, blaming your lack of trust on your trauma. “Ok, thanks Laura.”

She pulled some clean bandages out from a cabinet near your bed and started trying to make conversation. “You know, whoever gave you those lacerations really worked you over. We were worried we were going to lose you for a while there.”

You narrowed your eyes in confusion. “A while there? How long have I been here?”

Laura looked at you in surprise. “No one’s told you? You’ve been here for three days. Two men who found you brought you in. You have a severe concussion, your shoulder muscle was ripped to shreds, and sweetheart, I won’t even go into how bad the wound on your chest and stomach was. Let’s just say after surgery and a lot of stitches later, you were stabilized.”

You weren’t sure how to react. You knew Tristan had practically killed you, but hearing it voiced was scary. And three days? Holy hell. He must have hit you upside the head a lot harder than you thought. Laura’s hands moving to your bandages brought you back to reality. You almost didn’t want to look while she prepared to change them.

As she pulled the bandages back, you hissed through your teeth. Thank God you were on serious pain medication, because the wounds looked like they would hurt like a mother. Stitches and staples were all over your torso. Your left shoulder had so many staples you were surprised there was still skin showing. The gashes from your collarbone to your hips were stitched and stapled, but they were terrifying. You knew they were all going to scar.

A sharp prick redirected your attention to Laura. She was no longer smiling, and she stared down at you with a mixture of disgust and smugness on her face. You looked at her, confusion all over your face. “What did you just inject me with?” you asked, trying not to panic. Laura tossed away the syringe, and sneered at you. “You think you can get away with killing my mate? His stench is all over you. Did you honestly think he was alone? He was my world and you took him from me!” Her lip curled in anger as her eyes filled with hate.

“I just injected you with poison,” Laura continued, hate in her voice. “An injection of this particular type will give you a nice, long, slow death. I didn’t do enough to kill you, though. Oh no. I’m going to drag this out. You’re going to suffer for taking Tristan from me!” Laura’s hair had started to fall out of its bun from the angry shakes that racked her body.

As she watched you, you felt a pain in your chest. You gasped at the sharpness of it. You started to curl, but found it hurt more because of your injuries. The pain centered on your heart, and you arched your back slightly. You were too weak to do anything more than moan in agony.

As it faded, Laura shot you with the syringe again. You shook your head, desperate for the pain to stop. “Please, stop…” you gasp. “Please. I didn’t kill Tristan!” Tears rolled down your cheeks as your clenched your eyes shut in pain.

Suddenly, a familiar voice yelled, “Hey! Drop the syringe!”

Your red-rimmed eyes snapped open and you saw Sam drop a bag of food as he launched himself at Laura.

It was clear Sam knew how to fight. He easily overpowered Laura and as he knelt on her back, he pulled a knife from his boot. But Laura was too angry for Sam to hold for long. With a chilling growl, she morphed into a female version of the Tristan-monster - the werewolf- with the claws and fangs. Sam was thrown across the room against a wall of cabinets. Through your pain-hazed eyes, you saw his head snap back and contact the wall with a sharp crack.

Laura stalked toward him, her claws slowly extending. Sam, slumped on the ground, looked around for something to fight her off with. Panicked, your eyes swept the room, trying to help from your bed. You stop your sweep when you see the syringe on the floor not two feet from your bedside table.

Rolling your eyes, you knew you would regret what you were about to do. With a grunt, you let yourself fall out of bed. You made sure to land on your right side, but the impact still jarred you to your core. Your vision went dark for a second as you fought to stay conscious. You shook your head. Sam needed help. Grabbing the syringe, you hauled yourself to your feet and yelled weakly, “Sam!” and tossed the syringe.

His head spun in your direction and he caught the syringe right as Laura let loose a terrifying snarl and lunged at him. You screamed despite yourself as your view of Sam was blocked by Laura’s attack.

You heard Sam grunt and then Laura was shoved away from him. She staggered away, clutching her heart. Sam staggered to his feet, the syringe clutched tightly in his hand. He’d injected her in the heart. A full dose. Both of you watched warily as she yelled in pain, and then collapsed.

Sam felt for her pulse, and when he found none, he stumbled to you. He was bleeding from a shallow cut to his cheek, but he paid it no attention as he grabbed you. His hands ghosted over you, checking for further injury. You sobbed, losing any semblance of composure you had left.

“She injected me in the arm with that stuff,” you cried. “Twice! I’m so scared. It hurts so bad,” you moaned as you started to drop to the floor. Sam immediately called for a doctor as he caught you. A doctor must’ve been close, because one hurried into the room at Sam’s yell. Sam explained the nurse had injected you with poison, to which the doctor’s jaw dropped. He hurried out and returned a couple minutes later with a generic antidote and security. Dropping to his knees, he gently injected you and sat back, waiting to see what would happen. While he attended to you, security grabbed the nurse from the floor and carried her to another room, where she was placed in handcuffs and inspected. You later heard she was pronounced dead almost immediately.

Still holding you, Sam wrapped his arms around you, low enough so that he wouldn’t mess up your injuries further and pulled you onto the bed. Once there, you leaned against his chest and turned your head into the crook of his neck, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes no matter how hard you tried to stop. The pain was slowing, a feeling of warmth chasing the pain through your body.

“It’s going away,” you mumbled. The doctor nodded and said, “I need to check your vitals to make sure you’re stable after that poison was injected. Let me have your good arm.” He wrapped a blood pressure cuff around your arm and took your blood pressure. It was a little high, but considering the trauma you’d been through, he accepted it. Grabbing a thermometer he ran it over your forehead and behind your ear. Your temperature was ok, coming down as the poison left your body. The doctor nodded to himself. “You seem stable. I’m going to let you two be for a while. I’ll be back to check on you in a little bit.”

The two of you stayed like that for a long time, and you eventually cried yourself to sleep. You woke to voices talking quietly. You could feel Sam’s voice rumbling deep in his chest and you found yourself thinking you could get used to feeling that.

Then the reality of your situation sank in, and your eyes flew open. You immediately saw a man sitting in the chair next to the bed. He was also in a flannel shirt and jeans. He had incredibly green eyes and he was deep in conversation with Sam. You flashed back to your conversation with Sam earlier. This must be Dean.

Dean’s eyes flickered to you as he talked and he realized you were awake. “Y/N!” he exclaimed. “Sam, she’s awake.” Dean held his hand out, “Hi, I’m Dean. I understand you helped save my little brother. Thank you!” He smiled at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

You took his hand shyly, smiling back. “I think you guys saved my ass first, and Sam here saved it again earlier… So I think tossing him a syringe is the least I could do.” You looked up at Sam and then again back at Dean. “Thank YOU. And thank you for getting me here. I would have died if not for you two.”

As you spoke, you snuggled deeper into Sam’s arms. Maybe you’d only met him that day, but you knew that you felt safe around him. Sam squeezed you gently in response, and you felt your hair move as he spoke next to your head.

“So, Y/N. You’re patched up enough that you can check out if you want to. And,” Sam hesitated briefly before he continued. “Well, we were wondering if you wanted to come with us. We have a place a couple hours from here where you can recuperate and get back to full strength.” You smiled as he talked, already knowing your answer. “Call us overprotective, but after that nurse went loco, we want to be able to keep an eye on you while you finish healing.”

You craned your head as far as you could and beamed up at him. “Sam, when you told me life would throw me my Prince Charming, I didn’t realize he’d already shown up.”

Sam gave you a big smile and pressed his lips to your forehead in a lingering kiss, giving you an unspoken vow that he would always be there. “I’m here for you, always.”

Your moment was interrupted by Dean clearing his throat. “Um, guys? Yeah, still here. Get a room. But first… Y/N. You don’t happen to have a sister do you?”

#supernatural fan fic #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #readerinsert #supernaturalfandom #supernatural #deascheck #sam winchester

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ineloqueent · 4 years

Text

Starstruck: Part 9

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 9 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 8 / Part 10

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.

Warnings: swearing

Historical Inaccuracies:

Only Freddie and Brian went to see Zandra Rhodes on that first evening. Also, this event occurred in 1974 and not in 1975, as I’m writing it :)

Word Count: 4.2k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Zandra bloody Rhodes?!” Roger cried for the hundredth time. “And she took your call?”

“Pretty fucking fantastic, isn’t it?” said Freddie excitedly.

The meeting had lasted hours, from morning until lunch— in which Roger and John had gone to pick up Indian takeaway— and into late afternoon. Freddie had a multitude of different ideas, and the others had passionate opinions on these ideas, so the morning meeting had quickly turned into an all-day event. Reid had left early on, claiming he had another meeting, this time with Elton— Elton bloody John— but you suspected he was just tired of you and Freddie and Brian and Roger and Deacy yelling ideas back-and-forth at the speed of derby commentators.

Now evening was rapidly approaching, the last sunlight of the day slipping slowly from the sky. The five of you were walking down the road to the flat of the one and only Zandra Rhodes.

Zandra Rhodes. You could hardly believe it. Sure, Freddie was brilliant, and persuasive too, but you hadn’t imagined that even he would be able to win an audience with one of the world’s most promising designers.

Freddie led the parade with you and John at his side, and Roger and Brian followed behind. Freddie glanced back at you, flashing a giddy smile. Roger stuck him a cigarette and the two of them sparked up in the amber glow of the streetlights. Deacy made a face, and you and he fell back to walk apart from the two smokers.

Brian was deep in conversation with Rog and remained that way, talking animatedly about something, a song, maybe, that you only caught snatches of because of the way the wind blew.

Just then, Roger made Brian laugh. Not quietly or shyly, but properly laugh, where Brian threw his head back and his shoulders shook and his smile spread across his face, broad and beautiful. You’d made Brian laugh like that once— when you’d sat on the wall outside of the Union Pub, months ago. Months ago.

It felt an age ago, it felt like yesterday, and how those two ideas could coexist was beyond you, and yet, exist they did. Brian was familiar, like the stars that wheeled above, like the soft sheets of your bed against your skin, like the strings of your guitar that were and would always be in E-A-D-G-B-E form. He was reliable, he was always there. If six point six seven times ten to the negative eleventh was the gravitational constant, then Brian was yours.

John’s voice startled you from your thoughts. “I see the way you look at him.”

You felt yourself flush, heat rushing through you in the same way that happened when you missed a step on the stairs and only just managed to catch yourself in time.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, don’t play silly with me, Y/N,” Deacy looped his arm through yours. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. You’re always looking at him when he’s not looking at you, and you look quite besotted.”

You opened your mouth to speak, then realised you had nothing to say. You watched your shoes hit the pavement instead. “It’s nothing,” you said finally, lowering your voice. “I’m just a little...” you bit your lip, searching for a word. You gave up. “I mean, look at him,” you gestured vaguely in Brian’s direction. His elegant silhouette seemed to shimmer in the darkness, as though he were made of dark matter, effervescently gorgeous in the shroud of mystery.

Deacy raised his eyebrows. “I do, quite often, and most of the time, it’s to snap at him for being too obstinate with his guitar solos. I don’t,” he pointed to you, “look like that.”

“It’s nothing,” you repeated, shaking your head. “And even if it was something, it would be one-sided, anyway.”

John scoffed. “Ridiculous, Y/N, you’re being ridiculous. You’re all moony, and he goes all starry-eyed—”

The need to justify yourself was suddenly overwhelming. “Okay, so maybe I’m a little starstruck, but that’s all it is!” Your tone had gone shrill, and the heads of the others in front of you turned, wide-eyes and questioning expressions abundant.

“Deacy darling, what did you say to her?” Freddie piped.

“Not a thing,” Deacy raised his hands in surrender and Roger laughed.

Brian slowed until you and John caught up with him. He smiled at you, and you melted a little. “Deacy’s talking your head off, is he?”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re one to talk, Mister Back-Chat.”

“Oh, leave us, John,” said Brian, and Deacy winked at you, jogging a bit to catch up with the others.

“Put those out, I’m here now,” you heard him say, and Freddie and Roger dutifully crushed their cigarettes.

“Oi!” said Brian. “In the rubbish bin, not on the ground!”

Freddie and Roger exchanged a look of ugh, mum, then once again proceeded to do as they were told.

Brian shook his head at them while you laughed.

“So, that rascal John Deacon bothering you?” he asked.

“I heard that!”

“Oh, he could never,” you said fondly.

“Does his hair make him more likable?”

You blinked, surprised that Brian remembered your conversations as well as you did. “No,” you said. “That’s your privilege and yours alone.”

Brian looked positively chuffed, and squaring his shoulders, he tugged the lapels of his jacket and pretended to fix a tie he wasn’t wearing.

“You’re secretly just as obsessed with your hair as everyone else, aren’t you?”

“No…”

“Yes,” you pushed him, “you are.”

“Okay,” he pushed back, “perhaps just a bit. But I used to hate it, you know.”

This surprised you. “Really?”

He nodded, tugging absently on a curl. “Brushed it out. Every day.”

“I’ll need to see those photographs,” you told him, admiring the way a ringlet framed his face in the dim light of the street.

“Ha!” said Brian. “Not if I have my way.”

“No?”

“They’re hideous,” he declared. “Can’t possibly let you see me like that. You’d never want to look at me again.”

Then, as though he really were afraid of you never looking at him again, his eyes fixed firmly upon yours, his gaze almost plaintive. The flecks of green amongst the hazel of his irises glittered, trimmed by dark, pretty lashes. The amount of sway he held with a single gaze would have been enough to disintegrate anyone.

“I think you underestimate the power of your presently curly hair,” you murmured, unable to look away from him.

Brian laughed.

Properly.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Freddie rang the haphazardly hung doorbell to Zandra Rhodes’ small attic studio, and the sound of high heels against wood reached you through the door.

You and the others exchanged glances of anticipation. Freddie looked about ready to burst with excitement. You couldn’t blame him.

The door swung open.

A broad-shouldered yet petite woman, perhaps about five years older than you, held open the door. Her denim trousers were decorated in gems and assorted swatches of fabric, and her top was flowing, stitched of a fabric that looked to be African influenced. Wooden beads hung around her neck, and her boots were a white leather. Her bright eyes twinkled.

“Hallo! Come in. You must be Freddie Mercury,” Zandra ushered you all inside, then shook Freddie’s hand.

“Oh, I’m delighted to finally meet you, darling,” Freddie beamed.

“Likewise! I’ve been listening to your records everyday,” said Zandra. “You really ought to make another one. Roger Taylor?”

“I am,” Roger shook her hand with a grin.

“And you must be Brian, the studious one,” Zandra quirked an eyebrow at Brian.

“Sometimes,” he said with a friendly smile, and she laughed.

“That leaves John Deacon— or is it Deacy?”

Deacy shrugged. “Either one works, hello.”

Zandra nodded, “Noted.” Then she saw you. “And who might you be, my dear?”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Y/N,” you said, shaking her hand.

“Ah,” she smiled, “you must be… Brian’s wife?”

Freddie sputtered, then elbowed Roger who was looking like he wanted to laugh.

Brian’s cheeks had turned the same colour as Betelguse, the red star of Orion. You imagined your pallor was something similar.

“I’m sorry,” Zandra apologised, “Freddie mentioned someone in the group was married, and I just assumed, since—” she gestured at how you and Brian had come to stand side by side.

“No harm done,” John swooped in to save the day. “I’m the only one who’s married, but my lovely wife is at work, currently.”

“Y/N’s a friend,” Brian added. “Practically family, she’s been with us so long.” He had regained his composure and now had the gall to wink at you, so that your own composure crumbled further.

You managed a tight smile at Zandra, who above all seemed amused by the whole thing.

“Well, thanks for tagging along, Y/N. I could always use another set of eyes and another pair of hands to help me do fittings. Come on through,” she waved you all down a hallway.

Sorry, Freddie mouthed to you as you followed Zandra.

It’s okay, you mouthed back.

“Secret language?” said Brian from behind you, and his soft exhale tickled your ear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you replied over your shoulder, and Brian chuckled.

Zandra led you into a wide room crammed to the rafters with racks of clothing in all the colours of the rainbow, and all the glamour of Marc Bolan. Although, you supposed the glamour was Zandra’s own; she had only designed for Bolan just last year.

“Voilà, mes amis.” She swept her arms around the studio, and Freddie let out a little gasp.

“It’s stunning,” said Roger, and the others murmured in agreement.

“Thank you,” the designer said humbly. “I like to think I work hard.”

“So, now what?” asked Freddie, and Zandra shrugged.

“Go wild. Pick some things off the rails so I can get an idea of your concept.”

“Oh, be careful saying things like that,” Brian intoned. “Freddie’s like a child at a sweet shop.”

Sure enough, Freddie was already rifling through clothing pieces like he was on the clock.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t destroy anything, by accident,” said John, and followed after him.

“I could never!” Freddie cried.

“By accident,” Deacy reiterated.

Roger ambled off to the other side of the studio, and Brian turned to you.

“Where to start, then?” you asked him.

He pulled a feathery hat down from a stand and plonked it on your head.

“Right here,” he decided. You dipped the brim of the hat and lifted your chin, posing. “Gorgeous,” said Brian, “but I think it needs something more…”

“What about this?” Zandra appeared with a swath of sparkly fabric, which she handed to Brian.

“Oh I shouldn’t— we’re not here for me,” you said. But Zandra shook her head.

“No one comes to my studio without the opportunity to feel fabulous.” She grinned, then swept away in a jangle of beads and gemstones.

“I think she’s right,” Brian said, and he draped Zandra’s fabric about your shoulders, arranging it with careful fingers. He adjusted your hat so that it sat at more of an angle. “Magnificent. I must be a genius,” he sniffed in a haughty manner, and you laughed.

“Your turn, then,” you declared, ushering him down a row of racks. “Here’s the starting piece,” you reached up and threw a silky, checkered scarf around his neck.

“Hmm…” you squinted up at him. He narrowed his eyes in response. From another rack you drew a fashion piece that was something between a kaftan and a kimono, printed with little birds. Brian bent his knees slightly so that you could wrap the material around his shoulders. He placed his hands on his hips and pouted.

He looked absolutely divine. His angles were accentuated by the way the fabrics hung from his frame, and his volume of hair and the heartbreakingly gentle line of his lips rendered about him a feminine sort of beauty that looked better on him than it ever would have on you.

All that was missing from the picture of glamour was the makeup.

“I think we need Freddie to do your eyeliner,” you said, leaning against the wall.

“Oh, love,” he said, and your stomach flipped. Leaning against the wall too, folding his arms and peering down at you, “you think Fred does my makeup? I’m glam too, you know.”

He was so close to you that his curls nearly hung over your face as well as his. It was difficult to breathe when he was this close, as close as when he’d helped you to play guitar the first time. You yearned for him to touch you, or for you to muster the courage to reach out and touch him. Still, no one moved. But his proximity was startling, and the thrill of it rushed down your spine like shooting stars.

“Well, Spaceman,” you said softly, “be glamorous. It suits you.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, and you could have sworn that his fell to your lips.

Then he looked away, and your shoulders sank.

But who were you kidding, anyway? You didn’t want this. You didn’t want him. You’d meant what you’d said to Deacy, because just like your thoughts of worthlessness, this too was all in your head; anything that truly existed was one-sided, a lonely phone call with no reply. Better to bury whatever fluttery notions that surfaced in you at the thought of Brian. He hadn’t wanted to give you the wrong idea. He didn’t want you.

“We should… We should see what the others have found,” you murmured half-heartedly, deliberately not looking at him.

“Oh. Yes… Good idea.” He cleared his throat quietly, a finger brushing the side of his nose. It was a nervous tic he had— you’d noticed him do it before, when he was uncomfortable. Around you, he did it often. You made him uncomfortable. Yet another reason to get as far away from Brian May as possible.

Brian retraced his footsteps, putting the checkered scarf and the kaftan-kimono back into their rightful places. You took off your flamboyant hat and replaced it from where it had been taken earlier, but you remained cloaked in the dark sparkly fabric, because you had no idea where Zandra had picked it up from.

“There you are, darlings!” Freddie said upon spotting you and Bri. “Come see— I’ve fallen in love.”

Deacy and Roger and Zandra joined you as well, and you found Freddie holding up a lovely white top with flowing sleeves.

“Fred, that’s a wedding top,” said Roger.

“And what is a performance if not the marriage of music and fashion?” Freddie proclaimed.

Zandra bore the expression of a proud mother. “He understands,” she said. Then she urged, “Try it on.”

Freddie was in and out of the changing room in moments, which was really quite a feat, given the structure of the white top.

“Oh, I see what you mean, now,” said Roger, a faint smile appearing on his lips at the sight of Freddie, who looked like an avenging angel, with his dark eyes and hair a brilliant contrast to the paleness of the top he wore.

John looked impressed too. “Stunning, Fred.”

“Very regal,” agreed Brian.

“Very Queen,” you said as Freddie spun in view of the mirror.

“Enough room to move about in, onstage?” Zandra asked.

Freddie nodded. He stopped spinning, facing her. “Darling, I feel I could fly.”

Zandra had genuinely gone teary-eyed. “Oh, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for people to feel.” Then she sighed, composing herself. She clapped her hands, “Time to get you fitted!”

“Excellent, Zandra dear,” said Freddie with a contented air. “Have you got anything similar that the others could try on, to be fitted as well?”

Zandra shook her head. “Sorry, that’s a one-of-a-kind. I’m going to have to fit you all to the same top, then have you tell me your design preferences and replicate the model.”

Deacy exhaled, “Sounds like a lot of work.”

“It will be. So how many am I fitting?”

Roger squinted at the white top Freddie modelled. “Mm. I might have a bit of a hard time drumming in that. Think I’ll keep browsing.” He disappeared between the racks again.

“Yeah, might get a bit on the sweaty side,” Zandra mused. She turned to John. “Deacy?”

“I’ve actually got my eye on another one of your other pieces.”

“Ah, lovely! Well, point me to that one, and I’ll sort that for you as well, while we’re here.”

Deacy went to retrieve his garment of choice.

“Brian, darling?” said Freddie in dulcet tones.

You watched the exchange from a distance, perched on a chair that was more for decorative than for accommodating purposes but lifted the weight from your weary feet nonetheless.

“You’d look like that lovely White Queen you’re always waxing lyrical about…”

Something shifted in Brian’s features at the mention of this White Queen, but you couldn’t distinguish a single emotion from the plethora of those that flashed across his face.

“How did thee fare, what have thee seen, the mother of the willow green; I call her name,” Freddie recited with a flourish of his hands. When Brian said nothing, only let his jaw tighten, Freddie went on. “And ‘neath her window I have stayed—”

“Alright, yes, I’ll do it,” Brian muttered through clenched teeth.

“Oh brilliant!” Freddie clapped.

You leaned your chin on your palm, wondering at the scene before you. When Brian’s stare caught on you, his eyes were so intense that you blushed and looked away. You felt like you’d been going through his diary and he’d caught you reading.

“Right,” Zandra dragged a crate towards where you were sitting, just as Deacy reappeared with a shiny black top, and Roger with a kimono. “I’m going to need some help, I think.” She tossed you a roll of measuring tape, which you caught deftly, despite your tiredness. “Will you take some measurements, please?”

“Yeah, no problem,” you nodded. She gave you some quick instructions as to which measurements she needed, then settled a pair of thick, round framed glasses on her nose, and went to work on scavenging fabric and threads.

You took Freddie’s measurements and then John’s, proving that both tops needed quite the alterations; they had been designed for women and thus did not fit the boys quite right.

Roger’s kimono, on the other hand, fit perfectly, and so he went on to peruse Zandra’s vast collection of fancy hats.

Freddie handed the white top over to Brian before joining Roger in the scavenger hunt for hats, and Bri went to change.

When Brian returned, you couldn’t help but stare.

Softness made his being— rounded lips, delicate curls, sleepy eyes— and he seemed wrong for this world; he belonged to the stars.

You stood motionless, the world spinning gently out of time.

And dry my lips no word would make. White Queen indeed.

“Are you alright?” he asked, and his voice too was soft.

You nodded but said nothing. Tearing your gaze away, you strode toward him and wound the measuring band behind him, around his back, drawing the ends to meet at his front. You felt his chest contract as your fingers skimmed his collarbone. But you wouldn’t let yourself think about how he breathed, how his head dipped toward yours.

“There, done,” you said, short of breath and scribbling down the measurements without much thought at all. Then you slipped away quickly, weaving through racks of clothing before Brian’s gentle touch could unravel you.

In your mad rush to get away from him, you ran straight into John.

“Deacy!” you cried when you collided. “Sorry!”

Deacy took one look at you and frowned. “Y/N. Stop running.”

“I’m not running,” you said.

“Only because I literally stopped you,” he sighed. “Stop running from Brian.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” John sighed again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, he spent the entire morning with his arms wrapped around you.”

It was true. Brian had made no move to get you away from where you’d perched on his knee that morning. If anything, he’d settled farther back into the plush of the settee to make you more comfortable, arms encircling your waist lightly, as though he feared both shattering you and not holding you tightly enough.

“Look,” Deacy had both hands on your shoulders now, compelling you to meet his eyes. You did, though with heavy reluctance. “Brian… he may have his cheeky side, but he’s not a flirt like Rog. You can’t pretend that doesn’t mean anything.”

From the way your heart thrummed, anyone would have said you’d run a marathon. But the only thing that ran was thoughts of Brian, through your head.

You were breathless, “But don’t you see that I have to?”

Someone like you and someone like him. There was only an abundance of ways in which such an affair could fail.

“No,” said John firmly, but he didn’t get a chance to develop the argument further.

“There you are!” Roger exclaimed, sounding rather exasperated. “This place is a maze. Freddie says it’s time we’re off.”

Deacy frowned, still in his thoughts, but Roger roped an arm around you both in a Freddie-esque manner.

“We must be nearing Brian’s bedtime,” Roger said. “He’s awfully grumpy. Again.”

“That’s not—” Deacy began, but you glared daggers, and he backed down.

The three of you reached the door of the studio, where Freddie, Brian, and Zandra stood waiting, the former two back in their usual garb, and Zandra without spectacles once more.

You handed Zandra your list of measurements, and that was that.

The past few hours felt like they’d passed in a dream.

“So,” said Freddie when you’d bid Zandra goodnight and started down the road again, “we’ve got the costumes, the finances, and the music, more or less, sorted.”

Deacy smiled bemusedly, and Roger stifled a yawn as he nodded. Brian had sunken into silence, and there he remained, distant and inaccessible.

Freddie continued, “But what about a place to write it all? This new album? We need to get away from all of this city buzz. It’s distracting.”

“The city itself, or the people in it, Fred?” Roger chuckled.

“Aha-ha. Very funny,” Freddie elbowed Roger in the ribs. “Quite seriously though darlings, that empty lecture hall just isn’t doing it for me.”

“Don’t think it does it for anyone, excepting our two resident scientists,” Deacy joked.

You rolled your eyes good humouredly, but Brian gave no indication of having heard John’s quip.

“Any real ideas?” said Freddie.

No’s were mumbled and heads were shaken. But for you, a thought blossomed.

“Yes.”

They all— even Brian— looked to you expectantly.

“Well?” Freddie prompted.

You wrung your hands, swung them by your sides. “Well, it might be a little silly.”

Freddie shrugged. “We’ve got nothing, Y/N dear, so have a go.”

“My family owns a farm…”

“Go on.”

“My dad has a recording studio.”

It wasn’t anything fancy, but he did, and the studio was fully functioning in every sense.

“Does he really?!” Freddie exclaimed with childlike fascination.

“That’s pretty fantastic, Y/N,” Roger commented, genuinely interested and for once devoid of sarcasm. “Do you think he’d let us use it?”

Deacy wondered aloud, “Do you think we could stay at your farm?”

“At a reasonable price, of course,” added Freddie.

“Your family has a studio,” Brian repeated, as though he were only just catching on.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m sure you could use it, and stay,” you blurted.

What the hell, stop talking! your internal monologue reprimanded you.

Freddie’s face was lit up like a ferris wheel, and Roger and Deacy exchanged a glance of excitement.

You grinned back, their happiness contagious, until your eyes caught on Bri’s and your heart skipped a beat.

“When can we go?” Freddie inquired, looping one arm through yours and another through Deacy’s, who in turn linked arms with Roger, who pulled Brian into the chain.

“The summer holidays,” you said, as it was the first thing that came to mind. Apparently, the link between your brain and your mouth had been severed. “When I go home to visit anyway, and I can take some time off from studying.”

“Oh this is brilliant!” cried Freddie, pressing a delighted kiss to your cheek. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

But you couldn’t stop looking at Brian, and now you were inwardly kicking yourself; only a day ago, you had resolved to get as far away from Brian as possible, not spend an entire summer with him!

But from the way Roger cheered and Deacy literally waltzed down the deserted street with Freddie as partner, there was no backing out of this now. You would only let them down, and that was one thing you could not bear to do, no matter how selfishly your thoughts might have been inclined.

You would just have to face the dire consequences of your actions.

Even if those consequences involved Brian May.

And his damning smile.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: the ridge farm era is coming up!! fun fact— this whole fic was inspired by a dream i had about living on ridge farm when queen turned up. the prologue to starstruck is actually a transcript of my dream. wild.

taglist: @melting-obelisks @hgmercury39 @stardust-killer-queen @topsecretdeacon

Masterpost / Part 8 / Part 10

#tina’s writing #starstruck #brian may #brian may x reader #brian may x y/n #brian may x you #queen #freddie mercury #roger taylor #john deacon #queen fanfiction #1975 #1970s #fic

72 notes · View notes

mandowh0re · 4 years

Text

Devil’s Advocate

Chapter 1

Summary: After a violent breakup with her now ex-boyfriend, Liza is ready to give up on relationships. In an attempt for safety, she moves to a city across the country. That’s where she finds herself now. In her new apartment, staring into the eyes of the devil, who claims to be in love with her. Also, since when is the devil a woman?

Word Count: 2186

A/N: Wassup my lovely fucks! I am in quarantine and have decided to show myself once again! This is a story that is NOT marvel related but I’m working on stories outside of fanfiction to practice writing my own characters. This will be an 18+ story. I really like this one so far, so even if you followed me for marvel content, please give it a try?

P.S. I am not a doctor so this will be filled with medical inaccuracies, sorry.

Warnings: domestic abuse, descriptions of injury, scene with a violent fight (I will warn when the scene starts and ends)

Happy reading!

“... Twenty-four year old female… multiple….”

“... C.T. is ready…”

“... We need to…”

“... Liza? We need you to…”

(!!!)

“Where are you going?”

Liza nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Luke’s voice. He was supposed to be at work for another three hours, and she needed all the time she could to pack her things.

Slowly, Liza turned around to see Luke standing in the entryway of the living room. He looked mad. He always looked mad.

“Hey honey, you’re home early.” Liza replied, not answering his question and fighting to keep her voice even. If she showed fear this would be even worse.

“You weren’t answering my calls.”

Shit.

“I’m sorry, I was cleaning and I guess I didn’t hear my phone-“

“You’re lying. Don’t lie to me. Where are you going?”

Liza’s eyes flickered from Luke to the nearest exit. She knew in her bones this wasn’t going to end well for her.

The closest exit was past Luke, but there were multiple objects she could use as a weapon. The wine bottle at the bar seemed the best.

“I was headed to Jess’. She’s really sick and needs someone over there-“

“You see,” Luke interrupted as he stepped closer, his hands in his pockets and his eyes trained on Liza, “I gave you a chance to tell me the truth, and I warned you not to lie to me. I stopped by the hospital, Jess was there. Said you felt sick so you stayed home today.”

Liza could feel her heart in her throat. She couldn’t very well argue with him. Jess, bless her, had tried to cover for her. Because the reality of it was that she had quit. She had planned on leaving an hour before Luke got home. She needed to leave him or he would quite literally be the death of her.

In a last minute attempt to save herself, Liza bolted towards the bar, but was stopped short when Luke grabbed her wrist.

He spun her back to face him, and punched her square in the face.

“You thought you could leave me? After everything we’ve been through?” Luke asked, as he backhanded Liza and threw her against the wall, “I did everything for you. I was so good to you. I loved you! And this is how you repay me?”

Another punch, this time to her stomach. Then another. And another.

Liza coughed, and blood dripped from her mouth. She knew the only way she would get out of this alive was if she called for help now.

Luke was currently going on a rant, so while he was distracted she quickly tumbled towards the couch and grabbed her phone from her bag. She unlocked it, found the app that Jess had made her download weeks ago, and pressed the panic button multiple times before a wad of her hair was grabbed and she was tossed across the room.

“You fucking bitch! You listen when I talk to you! Are you leaving me for another guy? Huh? Is that it you slut!” He added emphasis on ‘slut’ as he reared his foot back and kicked her ribs, “I bet it’s that fucker, Dennis? The one at the coffee shop you like so much?” Another kick to the ribs, “I’ll fucking kill him!”

Luke dropped down on top of Liza, grabbed her hair and slammed her head into the floor several times before adding another punch to the face.

Liza was wheezing and coughing, trying to keep awake and from choking on her own blood. Tears stung her eyes and she felt herself slipping. She faintly heard the sound of sirens, but they were too late. She saw the metal glint in Luke’s hands.

She was dead.

Luke leaned down so that his face was right next to her head.

“I’ll kill him,” he whispered, “Right after I kill you.”

At first there was pain, and then, there was nothing.

***(!!!)

Sounds. Sounds came back first.

The first thing she heard was beeping. Then as she began to come out of her sleep she could make out the faint sounds of voices.

Next was smell.

Wherever she was, it smelled clean. And oddly familiar.

Suddenly, like a train, all of her senses crashed into her at once as she realized where she was and why she was there.

Her eyes flew open, as much as they could, and then there was a loud alarm next to her.

She knew that alarm. She needed to get her heart rate down.

But it didn’t matter. Because Luke could come find her at any time and she had to hide.

She threw the blankets off of her and went to stand, but fell to the ground, bringing her IV drip with her.

Several nurses suddenly burst in the door, as well as a security officer.

“Ma’am, you need to stay in bed,” One nurse tried telling her as the other nurses tried to get her back on her bed.

“No, he’s going to find me!” Liza shrieked, fighting against the nurses, throwing weak punches where she could. She vaguely registered someone yelling out for a sedative.

“No! No you can’t do that! He’ll find me and he’ll finish what he started and-“

“Liza,”

That voice. She knew that voice. She opened her eyes, which she hadn’t realized were closed, and saw a blurry image of her friend in front of her.

When had she started crying?

“Jess?”

“Hey girlie. I need you to calm down okay?”

Liza’s chest heaved as she forced in a breath. Jess was here. Jess always kept her safe.

“But… But Luke-“

“Is in jail.” Jess said with a certain finality to her voice, “The police found him when they got to your house. At first they thought…” Jess swallowed the lump in her throat and Liza was vaguely aware of the other nurses inserting new IVs.

“But they rushed you into the ER. They paged me saying there was a critical Jane Doe. But I knew, I knew it was you. When I saw you I- It took everything in me not to go and kill him myself.”

“So… He’s... gone?” Liza asked, her voice shaking.

Jess nodded, “Yeah. He isn’t going to hurt you again. So could you please lay your stubborn ass down so I’m not constantly on the verge of a heart attack, please?”

Liza smiled, or tried to, it probably looked like a grimace. She laid back down with the help of the other nurses.

Now that she was up and the IV had unhooked for a few minutes, her brain fog had cleared enough to let her understand the situation.

“How bad?” She asked.

Jess placed a hand on the shoulder of another nurse, who Liza recognized as Rhonda. She was always nice to her. She always looked out for Liza.

“I’ve got this,” Jess spoke quietly. Rhonda nodded and finished the IV she was placing before leaving the two friends alone.

It was quiet for a moment before Liza asked again, “Jess?”

“You won’t remember anything I tell you right now. They’ve got you on some pretty strong stuff. Go to sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up and I’ll tell you.”

She wanted to fight, but Liza felt the medication pulling her under and she just didn’t have the energy. So she let the darkness wrap around her once again.

***

Jess was sitting in a chair next to her bed. Liza was finally moved out of the ICU and demanded that her friend tell her what all Luke had done.

“... Contusions everywhere. Ruptured spleen. And a stab wound to the abdomen that pierced multiple organs,” Jess sniffled and wiped a tear off her cheek, “They lost you twice in the first surgery. They wouldn’t let me in the room, said I was too close to the case. Honestly, everyone was shocked you made it out alive.

“You were in critical care for the first several days. On a ventilator for the first four. God, when you started breathing on your own I actually threw up, you know. I was so nervous.”

It was silent for a few minutes, Liza soaking up all of the information she had just been given.

“How long was I out?” She asked.

“Almost a week and a half. After you woke up the first time they put you into a coma so it wouldn’t happen again.”

It was quiet between the two for several minutes before Jess sniffed and swiped at her tears again, “You need to rest.”

Liza nodded and leaned back onto the bed once more, and attempted another smile when Jess squeezed her hand before leaving the room.

***

“So I was thinking we could find you a new apartment, one of the fancy ones with extra security. Then when you’re feeling better you could come back to work-“

“I’m still leaving.” Liza cut off Jess’ thoughts, “I mean, I don’t want to. But I also do. I don’t feel safe here. I want to restart. Somewhere where nobody knows me.” Liza was poking at her food with her fork. Suddenly, she had no appetite.

“Oh, okay. Yeah. I get that. I just, I guess I thought it would be easier… But you’re right,”

“Jess, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no need to be sorry,” Jess sniffled and gave a watery smile, “You need to do what’s best for you. I’m just going to miss my best friend, is all.”

“I know. I’m gonna miss you too. But you’re gonna come out to visit me as soon as possible, right?”

“Duh,” Jess gently pushed Liza’s shoulder and the two of them giggled, “Jack and I are coming out as soon as I have enough vacation saved up.”

A pang of guilt hit Liza. Jess had used up most of her vacation time while Liza was in the hospital, a majority used after she had woken up the first time.

A feat that the doctors couldn’t figure out how it had happened, she learned, since she hadn't been weaned off the sedatives yet.

Liza barely remembered that. Jess had to tell her what had happened. Though she supposed it was a good thing she didn’t remember most of that incident. Apparently she had nearly gone berserk.

“Hey,” Jess’ voice stirred Liza from her train of thought, “You okay?”

Liza cleared her throat, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

“Yeah, of course. You should rest. I’ll come see you later.” Jess got up and pulled the small table Liza had been eating on to the side of the bed and pulled the blankets up to cover her.

Grabbing the food tray, Jess snuck out of the room and headed to the nursing station, dropping the food tray on the cart as she passed.

“Hey, she sleeping?” Lynne, one of Liza’s nurses, asked.

“I don’t know if she’s sleeping. But she’s resting.” Jess said as she slid into one of the empty chairs.

“That’s better than nothing,” Lynne looked back up from her paperwork, “Why do you look constipated?”

Jess shot a look at her friend before pinching the bridge of her nose, “She still wants to move. And I get it, I do, but I can’t keep her safe if she’s all the way across the country!”

Lynne sighed, “Jess. Honey, she was half way across town and was very nearly killed. I know you feel responsible. But you were doing everything you could. From what she told us, you were helping her get out,”

“I should have given her a way to defend herself.”

“You can’t dwell on the past. Not anymore. Because that’s all she’s going to do, and you need to be strong for her. You need to be that beacon of hope, even if you’re clear across the country.”

“How do I keep her from finding someone like him again?” Jess didn’t dare speak his name. It was like poison. And she didn’t want it on her tongue, “Because, Lynne, if someone lays a hand on her one more time, I might actually go to jail. No, scratch that. I definitely will go to jail. I would have that night if Doctor Tiruneh didn’t physically pull me into a supply closet and refuse to let me leave until I calmed down.”

Lynne blew out some air, running a hand down her face, “You can’t guarantee she won’t find someone like him again. In fact, it’s entirely possible she will. Some people end up in a cycle they can’t break, some people can break it after one relationship gone bad. Hopefully, this was enough for her to break that cycle. All you can do is be there for her and try to guide her.”

“I should have called the cops when I saw the bruises the first time,”

“That wasn’t your call to make,”

“Yeah, well, look where it got us.”

“She’s alive. That’s all that matters,”

Jess sat there for a few more minutes before she stood abruptly and headed out. She needed fresh air to think.

------

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#toni writes #story #devil #lgbtq fiction #lgbtq characters #devils advocate

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today-only-happens-once · 6 years

Text

Family

Title: Family

Word Count: 3675

Summary: for asofterfan’s Punk!AU. Patton is protective of his little brother, Thomas. ““Pat,” Virgil says in a low voice as he steps closer, alarm twisting his stomach. “Are you hurt?””. Platonic/familial dynamics all around.

Warnings: discussion of violence, injury (lots of bruising mostly), cursing (more than normal in my fics…Punk!Logan curses a lot okay), mention/hints at abuse and neglect, nausea mention, some angst/hurt/comfort, let me know if I forgot anything else.

Author’s Note: Long AN is long, sorry - Behold, the fic that caused me tremendous self-doubt and second-guessing. I am in love with @asofterfan’s Punk!AU. (Special thanks to them for letting me and others create within the context of this awesome AU) I tried to do as much research through their headcanons and art as I could, but I’m sure there are inaccuracies. This will also inevitably pale in comparison to the development of their AU so please check it out if you haven’t because it’s awesome. I kinda wanted to explore Patton’s relationship with Thomas a bit but also the Analogical dynamic and this is what happened. Yikes. The self-doubt and writing insecurity never really went away with this fic (can you tell from how I’ve been rambling?) but like might as well post it, yeah? No? *drops this here and then sprints far away*

Also, editing done by yours truly so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Tags: @creativenostalgiastuff, @helloisthisusernametaken, @ren-allen, @lizaelsparrow, @princelogical, @random-pianist, @ravenclawicecream, @erlenmeyertrash, @milomeepit, @at-least-seven-pretty-potatoes, @rileyfirstname, @pinkeasteregg, @sassy-in-glasses, @vigilantvirgil, @generalfandomfabulousness, @lacrimosathedark, @thepoolofthedead, @monikastec, @heir-of-the-founders, @yourworstnightmare999

…

Virgil shakes the can of spray paint as he surveys the brick wall in front of him. He has the image in his mind of the final product, but it always takes him a moment’s pause to figure out where exactly to start. A light, late afternoon breeze tugs at the loose strands of his hair. Logan sits on the ground in the alley with a book in his lap, his back against the wall and one knee propped up.

He turns the page, then glances up at Virgil. “It helps if you actually, y’know, use the spray paint.”

The corner of Virgil’s mouth twitches. “You don’t say?” he quips dryly.“You know, you said you’d keep a look out for me.” He looks at the wall a moment longer before beginning. The hiss of the canister cuts through the sound of birds chirping and tires rolling on pavement as cars passed by, oblivious to the two teens deeper in the alley.

“And I am,” Logan replies. His gaze narrows at the page for a moment before looking back at Virgil. “Although I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. Nobody around here cares much about artists painting on the walls unless they’re police, and those guys don’t really do much around here. There’s about a 99% nobody’s going to even notice us, let alone care to do anything about it. ”

“Yeah, but with my luck?” Virgil sprays another line. “I don’t love those odds.”

Logan smirks and flips the page. He brushes a strand of blue hair out of his eyes. Virgil eyes the book in his lap as he grabs a different color and resumes painting. He coats the red brick in a glistening dark black streak. “What are you even reading?”

Logan glances up, adjusting the frame of his glasses. “Judith Butler’s Bodies That Matter. It expands on the gender performativity argument she proposed in Gender Trouble.”

Virgil arcs a skeptical eyebrow at his friend. “You’re reading advanced gender theory? For fun?”

“Nothing is binary and everything is gay,” Logan replies with a lift of his shoulder. “They want proof? This book offers it, or tries to. At least, the binary part. I’m still reading.”

Virgil continues working, hesitating less between lines as the image starts to take form. Distantly, the wail of police sirens cut through the air; it’s too far away for either of the punks to even look up. For a while, the only sound between them is the hiss of Virgil’s spray paint cans and Logan turning pages. The sound of footsteps makes both boys pause, but as they glance down the alley to the street, the two girls walking by don’t even glance in their direction.

Virgil doesn’t usually tag in broad daylight. But he was trying a new design that he wanted to see in daylight, and sketching it out over and over only made him feel most antsy about finding out what it would actually look like. Before he placed it anywhere that would actually get noticed, Virgil wanted to make sure he knew what he was doing with it. And even though a part of him was more on edge due to the fact that the possibility of him getting caught was higher without the cover of dark, his shaking hands stilled as soon as he’d begun. He supposes art was funny like that sometimes.

It’s almost an hour later when Virgil takes a few steps back and surveys his own work. Logan looks up at him for a moment before marking the page and jumping to his feet to stand by Virgil.

Virgil purses his lips, his gaze narrowing. “That line isn’t straight,” he says, pointing it out to Logan. “It curves a bit to the left.”

“So? I’m never straight,” Logan replies, almost deadpan save for the slight smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips. “It looks good, Virge.”

Virgil is quiet, then reaches for the canister at his feet. “I’m just gonna fix one thing.” He steps back up to the wall, adding a few strokes of the purple to add some dimension where Virgil felt it was lacking. “Hey,” he says as he works, “Logan?” He tries to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

“Hm?”

“Mind if I maybe crash at your place tonight?” he asks without turning around. He can never look Logan in the eyes when he asks, and he hates how often he does so. But last night had been… rough, to say the least. He had a feeling that Logan had seen the bruise on his arm during lunch, even though the teen had tried to keep his sleeves pulled down.

“C’mon,” Logan says. “You know you don’t need to ask.”

…

By the time the two boys get back to Logan’s house, it’s almost five. The sun is low in the sky, just about ready to set. Logan’s driveway sits empty, as usual, as they get closer. It’s not until they’re walking up the driveway when they notice someone sitting on the front steps of his porch.

Logan and Virgil share a glance as they get closer. The familiar head of pastel blue-purple-pink hair is leaned back against the railing, his eyes closed.

“Patton?”

At the sound of his name, Patton opens his eyes.

“Hey, Logan,” he says, his voice sounding oddly strained. Virgil looks at him closer, and notices the way the pastel punk has his arm wrapped around his chest. The way he’s curled in on himself a little. Something is wrong.

“Patton, don’t take this the wrong way but what are you doing here?” Logan asks.

“I, uh…” Patton gives them a pained smile that looks a lot more like a grimace. “I need your help.”

“Pat,” Virgil says in a low voice as he steps closer, alarm twisting his stomach. “Are you hurt?”

“I… yeah.” Logan is already unlocking the door, but his gaze flashes back to them at the answer. Virgil wraps Patton’s arm around his shoulders. He winces as Virgil—who is being as gentle as he can—pulls him to his feet.

“What the hell happened?” Logan demands as Virgil helps Patton inside. His brown eyes are practically blazing with fury. It’s not that Logan isn’t used to patching people up. Usually himself or Virgil after a late night call. (They were both used to that particular arrangement, Virgil thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth.)

But Patton is an entirely different story. Everybody loved him; and if you didn’t love him, then you had done something to get on his bad side and you were afraid of him. Patton was almost a perpetually warm person, sincere and well-meaning even if his love and affection could feel like a bit… much, at times.

Logan may have the sharper temper, but Virgil can feel his own anger bubbling in his chest as the reality that someone had hurt Patton sinks into him.

“I’m sorry,” Patton is saying quietly as they make their way up the stairs. “I didn’t mean to bother you guys, I just…”

“Shut up, Pat,” Virgil tells him, but not harshly. “You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

“Take him to my room,” Logan says. “I’m gonna grab the first aid kit.” Virgil nods his understanding and leads Patton to the door at the end of the hallway.

Virgil flips the light switch as they enter Logan’s bedroom. The room admittedly helps ease some of the uneasiness in Virgil’s stomach. Logan’s room—with its dark blues and blacks on the walls and bedding—always felt safe to Virgil. The teen smiles faintly to himself at his stuffed turtle John and Logan’s octopus Tsugarensis sitting side by side amidst the pillows near the headboard. Bottles of hair dye sit on his desk.

Patton is quiet as he sits down on the edge of the bed, glancing around the room. He catches Patton’s quiet hiss as Virgil extracts himself out from under the other punk’s arm. He notices then that Patton’s hands are bruised, the knuckles split. The teen also has a dark bruise forming along his cheekbone.

Virgil shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s used to the one being hurt. It’s not often that he finds himself on the other side of the situation, and if he’s being honest, he hates it. It’s tying his stomach in knots despite the familiarity and vague sense of safety Logan’s room provided.

“I’m sorry, Virge,” Patton says softly, staring at his hands in his lap. “My mom isn’t home and I didn’t want to scare Thomas. But I needed help and I wasn’t sure where else to go, and Logan lived closer, so...”

Logan interrupts the conversation as he comes into the room with a box in his hands. “Patton, you’re gonna need to take off the vest at least.” There’s a surprising and rare gentleness in the request that Virgil has only ever hear Logan use when Virgil had been injured.

Patton nods, then hesitates. He sucks in a bit of a breath before shrugging out of the turquoise garment. Virgil bites his thumbnail, watching the way Patton clenches his jaw against a wince. Logan glances at the pastel punk out of the corner of his eye, setting the box on the bed beside Patton and kneeling in front of him.

The unasked questions hang heavy in the air of the bedroom. Virgil wants to ask what happened, but he is too well acquainted with injuries one would rather not talk about to force that kind of conversation on Patton. From the subtle glances Logan keeps tossing to him, he’s pretty sure the blue-haired teen feels the same way.

“Can you raise your shirt, Pat?”

Patton presses his lips together, not answering at first. Slowly, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and—visibly gritting his teeth—pulls it up and over his head. He averts his gaze as he sets his shirt beside him.

The sight of Patton’s chest is one Virgil is too well-acquainted with, but seeing it on Patton makes a faint nausea rise in Virgil’s throat before he swallows it down. Across his ribcage is a brilliant—painful—smattering of purple, yellow, and a very angry red. Something that looks suspiciously like a footprint marks his right side. Logan goes suddenly very still for a moment, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

Patton swallows. He offers a weak smile, even though he isn’t looking at either one of them. “Is this where I say ‘you should see the other guys’?”

Guys plural? Virgil thinks, anger sparking all over again in his chest.

“You’re damn right,” Logan replies, his voice deceptively even. “If not after you, then after me.” He looks up at Patton, who still won’t meet his eyes. “Is anything broken?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure,” Patton whispers.

Logan nods stiffly. “Then this might hurt.” Gingerly, he starts prodding around Patton’s chest. Feeling for any broken ribs. Virgil winces in sympathy as Patton sucks in a sharp hiss.

“It was because of Thomas,” Patton says after a long moment of silence, as Logan continues to press around his chest.

Virgil’s gaze flies up. “Thomas did this?” That definitely didn’t make sense. Thomas and Patton adored each other.

“No, no, no!” Patton says quickly. “I…” He sighs, some strands of his pastel hair falling into his eyes. “Thomas has been struggling with some kids in school. This morning when I went to get him up, he yelled at me. I don’t even remember what about. He’d… never yelled at me before. But I told him he had to go to school. He said I…” Patton cuts himself off suddenly, shaking his head. Virgil’s brow pulls together at the unfinished thought, but Logan cuts in before he can ask about it.

“Well, shit, Pat,” Logan replies, pulling his hands back from Patton’s torso. “You could’ve told us. We would’ve backed you up.” He pulls the wrapping off the bandage.

Patton lifts a shoulder. “I didn’t even know. He didn’t tell me what was happening. I waited for him for a while after school but when he didn’t show up, I went looking for him. Found him cornered by a few guys who had him shoved up against the locker.”

Virgil’s brow furrows together. As bubbly and warm as Patton was, one thing you did not do was mess with someone he cared about. Especially his little brother. “You and Thomas fought some guys?”

Patton shakes his head. “I got their attention, and told Thomas to get out of there. He didn’t exactly want to, but he knows I would’ve kicked his ass harder if he’d stuck around. Thomas isn’t much of a fighter.” Patton’s hands curl into fists on his knees. Virgil isn’t sure if it’s in anger or something else.

Logan secures a bandage over the pastel punk’s ribs. “No offense, Patton,” he says, “but you’re hardly the most likely one to throw a punch yourself.” He glances at the bruised and split knuckles along the other teen’s hands.

Patton looks at them too, relaxing his fists and flexing his hand before wincing. “Yeah, well. That wasn’t exactly my intention either.”

Logan takes his hand, cleaning up the abrasions along his knuckles before wrapping them. “You had your knife with you, at least?”

Patton glances up. “You know I don’t bring it with me to school.”

Virgil’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out and checks the ID. It’s a text from Roman.

Have u seen Pat?

The purple-haired teen sighs to himself and texts back. Yeah. He’s at Logans. Why?

R: Thomas just called me. He seemed worried bc Patton didn’t come home.

Thomas had recently gotten involved in theatre alongside Roman in the second half of his freshman year. Roman had given Patton’s little brother his number in case he needed a ride to rehearsal.

The phone buzzes again. U know what happened?

Long story. Just tell him Pat’s safe and with Logan, Virgil texts back quickly.

R: Thomas said he might be hurt???

Virgil hesitates a second before replying. Yeah. He is. I’ll explain later. Virgil pockets his phone and ignores it when it buzzes again. He knows Roman is already plotting revenge, and Virgil isn’t too far behind him, but he has bigger priorities at the moment.

He can see Patton’s jaw jump. He hears how shaky the pastel punk’s long inhale is, even though he tries to cover it with a cough and a smile.

“Hey, uh, Logan?” Patton asks as Logan finishes securing the bandage in place.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” Patton flexes his grip and finally locks gazes with the blue-haired teen. “You’re good at this.”

Logan and Virgil exchange a quick glance that Patton doesn’t seem to notice before the teen shrugs. “Don’t mention it.”

There’s a moment of silence before Patton sighs again, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just can’t believe Thomas didn’t tell me.”

Virgil slips his hands into his pockets. He leans back against the edge of Logan’s desk. “Maybe he thought he could take care of it himself.”

Patton runs his fingers through his pastel hair to brush it out of his face. He looks unconvinced. “It’s just… I was always supposed to look out for him, y’know?”

Logan sits back on his heels. “The kid’s not so little anymore, Patton,” he says, but not unkindly. “You’re gonna graduate in a few months, and Thomas is gonna have to know how to fight his own battles. Even when he gets in over his head.”

Virgil snorts. “Oh, he definitely will. Kid’s got a bit a rebellious streak in him, I swear. We’re rubbing off on him. In a few years I bet he gives you a run for your money, Logan.”

Logan jokingly puffs his chest out. “Good! Somebody’s gotta call the teachers out on their whitewashing of history when I leave.”

Patton groans, but a small smile is tugging at the corner of his lips. “Great. So my brother is gonna get into even more fights.” His tone is light, but the real concern leaks through regardless.

Logan pushes himself to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest. “So we’ll teach him how to defend himself before we all go our separate ways.”

Something falls in Patton’s eyes at Logan’s words. He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. Virgil’s gaze narrows as Patton clasps his hands together, seeming to rethink what he’d been about to say.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. That… That’d be great.”

Virgil frowns, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong when Patton’s phone buzzes loudly. The teen grabs it out of the back pocket of his jeans and cringes as he answers. “Hey, Thomas. I’m okay.”

Logan closes the first aid kit and steps out into the hallway. Virgil follows him, wanting to give Patton a moment alone on the phone with his brother. Logan heads straight for the bathroom, sliding the kit under the sink before turning to face the purple-haired punk.

Logan blows out a breath. The spark of fury is back in his eyes. “God damn it.”

“I know,” Virgil says. “But you know Pat got in his fair share of punches.”

Logan’s eyes glance up to the teen across from him. “C’mon, Virge. You saw the same damage I did. That wasn’t a fair fight.”

The corner of Virgil’s mouth twitches humorlessly. “When has anything in our lives ever been a fair fight, Lo?”

“They’re cowards.”

“Yeah,” Virgil agrees. “But Patton’s not.”

Logan opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of the bedroom door opening makes him close it.

“Guys?” Patton asks.

Logan steps out of the bathroom. “Yeah?”

“Thomas is kind of freaking out,” Patton says, his shirt and vest back on, waving the phone in his hands. “I should probably get home before it gets worse. But, uh,” he smiles, awkward and embarrassed. “Thanks, again. For helping me out.”

“Sure. You might want to get some ice on that,” Logan tells him, gesturing at Patton’s chest. “I don’t think anything is broken but it’s still gonna hurt for a while.”

His smile softens into something a bit more sincere, and also a bit sad. “Yeah. I will.” He’s about halfway down the stairs when he stops and looks back at the two of them. “I’ll see you guys at school?”

“Yeah,” Virgil answers for them. “We’ll be there.”

“To beat up some guys if they so much as show their faces,” Logan adds under his breath.

“We might have to wait in line once Roman finds out,” Virgil replies just as quietly. When Patton grins, Virgil can’t quite tell if he heard them or not.

“Don’t know what I’d do without all of you guys,” Patton says, and then he’s down the stairs and out the door.

Virgil smiles a little to himself as the door closes behind him. Logan leans against the wall in the hallway, his eyes still looking at the door Patton had just walked out of. “You think Thomas knows?”

Virgil lifts an eyebrow at the other teen before letting his gaze fall back to the closed door as well. “That Patton would go to hell and back for him? I’m not sure, but I’d bet so.”

The corner of the blue-haired teen’s mouth curls up in something between a smirk and a smile. “I guess Thomas and Pat are kinda like us, huh?”

Logan says it lightly, but there’s a certain weight to his words. Virgil locks gazes with him, expressing the unspoken truth that Virgil would absolutely go to hell and back for Logan. He’d go to hell and stay there for Logan.

For any of them.

And he knows, as much as he sometimes thinks it shouldn’t be true, that they all feel the same way.

Virgil shrugs a shoulder and plays it off as soon as he knows Logan understands. “What? One big happy family?”

There’s a subtle earnestness in Logan’s eyes that catches Virgil off guard. “Sure. Why not?” Logan says. “You know. You, me, Roman, Patton. Hell, even Thomas is practically all of our kid brother at this point.”

Logan pushes himself off the wall, his voice just a little quieter as he continues.

“I don’t know what it’s really like to be part of a not fucked-up family, but I’d guess this is pretty damn close.”

….

#sanders sides fanfiction #sanders sides #punk au #patton sanders #analogical #injury #violence #cursing #wow i feel wildly insecure about this particular fic #i hope it turned out okay!#kjgngfusdf #imma drop this here and go hide now #eep #let me know if any other triggers should be put in the tags

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originalhybridloverfics · 6 years

Text

Opening His Eyes to the Light

Summary:

When Oliver learns Felicity was injured in the aftermath of the Undertaking it forced him to be honest with how he felt about her and just what he was going to do about it. [Post Season One Finale]

Notes:

Okay, so this is a canon AU. It's just something I couldn't get out of my head and decided to write down. I hope you like it.

I apologize for any mistakes or grammar errors and medical inaccuracies.

Oliver paced the waiting room unable to keep still. When he managed to pull Tommy out before CNRI collapsed with nothing more than a few crack ribs and a broken leg he actually believed he wasn’t going to lose anyone he cared about. He was wrong. He returned to the Foundry only to see Diggle carrying out an unconscious Felicity, blood on his hands, blood soaking Felicity’s clothes. “What happened?” he demanded, moving forward in long quick strides. He was at her side in seconds, pressing a hand to her neck, checking her pulse. It was weak but it was there. “A part of the structure had collapsed and struck her. She had a metal rod embedded in her stomach. She’s lost a lot of blood. She was barely conscious when I found her” Digg’s steps to his car didn’t falter, reaching it in a few quick strides. Oliver kept pace with him ignoring the pain from his own injuries he sustained in his fight with Malcolm. “I’m coming with.”

Diggle nodded as Oliver yanked the back door to his car open. “There’s a duffle in the back with a change of your clothes.” Oliver climbed into the back, immediately turning and reaching for Felicity. He laid her on the seat and quickly reached for his duffle bag, changing his clothes as quickly as he could while keeping the pressure on her wound. It was difficult to do but he managed somehow. Diggle quickly got behind the wheel and sped off avoiding the wreckage with sharp turns. With his free hand, Oliver pushed Felicity’s hair from her face, his hand trailed down her neck, relief washing over him when he still felt her pulse if not a little weak but still there. She was still breathing and that was the most important thing to him. He leaned down pressing his forehead against hers, her skin felt feverish against his own. “You’re going to be fine, Felicity.” His breath left him on a shaky exhale. “You have to be. I need you to be okay. I’ll never forgive myself if you’re not.” he whispered to her so quietly that the sounds of sirens off in the distance and the roar of the car engine, Diggle pressing down harder on the gas, drowned out his words from anyone but him. Oliver remembered rushing Felicity through the chaos of Starling General Memorial Hospital’s emergency room, demanding for her to be seen. And it was so close to his hood voice that the staff jumped and rushed to Felicity’s aid bypassing others in need, seeing to her immediately and shooting him wary glances. A nurse had wanted to get him seen as well motioning to the spot bleeding on his shoulder, too close to his heart however he refused treatment, dismissing it as a minor flesh wound and told them that they needed to do their damn job and focus on Felicity. He was more than glad that the nurse had not pressed the issue. John who had mostly been silent pulled him aside, telling him he needed to bring it down a notch. He was too close to his hood persona and he needed to act more like Oliver Queen, a concerned friend and not like Starling City’s Vigilante, The Hood, who would destroy anyone who got in his way. That was nearly two hours ago, the waiting, the not knowing was driving him crazy. He needed to know that Felicity was going to be okay. He needed that like he needed air to breathe. He knew he should check on Thea and Tommy. Find out what was going on with his mom but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He couldn’t leave Felicity here not knowing if she was going to make it. “Oliver, man, you need to relax, pacing and driving yourself crazy is not going to help her.” Oliver turned to Digg, his eyes narrowing on the larger man, sitting in one of the hospitals waiting room chairs. “How can you be so calm?” “Felicity, she’s strong. She’s a fighter. She’ll pull through. There’s no way she’d leave us on our own.” Oliver wished he had Diggle’s certainty but he was so used to the good things in his life being ripped away from him. All he could think about was all the things he refused to acknowledge, all the things that went unsaid between them. Feelings he couldn’t admit to anyone. Thoughts he had refused to let himself think in the waking hours. Quiet dreams that he kept to himself. The possibility of never having the chance, to be honest with Felicity had everything he pushed down, refused to admit, rushing to the surface unable to be denied any longer. He was no longer able to keep lying to himself. “Ollie!” He looked up and barely had time to brace himself before Laurel was barreling into his chest. “Have you heard about Tommy?” Oliver subtly extracted himself from her arms. After everything that had happened, he admitted to himself that the feel of her body against his own felt wrong. “No.” Oliver shook his head. “Is he going to be okay? Do you know?” “The doctors say he’s going to make a full recovery if not a long one. He got lucky.” her brow furrowed in a look of confusion. “Why are you here if not for Tommy? Did Thea get hurt?” “No.” As far as he knew Thea was fine. He would make sure as soon as he knew Felicity would be okay. “Felicity was hurt.” “Who?” “My friend, Felicity Smoak. You met her once at Verdant, beautiful, blonde hair, glasses, she has this adorable habit of babbling.” “Oh, her,” said Laurel an odd tone to her voice. “The tech help for your club.” Diggle who was keeping quiet mostly through their entire exchange gave a long-suffering sigh. “She’s not just the tech help. She has a name. And she’s gonna be fine. Thanks for your concern.” “I barely know her. I’m sorry if it came off like I don’t care but what does it really matter? She’s just Oliver’s employee.” Oliver bristled at her words. “Felicity Smoak does not work for me. She works with me. There’s a difference and it matters. She matters to me and I won’t let you be disrespectful toward her.” Laurel’s eyes widened, her face reddening. “Ollie, I didn’t mean anything by it, I-” Oliver’s head snapped to the left when he spotted the doctor who took Felicity into surgery. He brushed past Laurel, ignoring her calls, meeting the doctor halfway. He didn’t have to look back to know Digg was right behind him. “Felicity is she…?” “She is resting now. Ms. Smoak was very fortunate. The piece of metal that impaled her abdomen narrowly missed anything vital. However, she lost a lot of blood and we had to give her a blood transfusion. However, she does have a concussion. We’d like to keep her overnight for a day or so but she should be able to go home in a few days.” “But she’s going to be fine?” Diggle wanted to double check. “She will make a full recovery. Yes.” Dr. Sawyer smiled. “Can we see her?” Oliver asked, stepping forward. If he could just see her he would know everything was going to be fine because she was. “Yes, you can. If you will just follow me.” Dr. Sawyer began walking away and Oliver and John fell into step behind him instantly. “Ollie!” he ignored Laurel’s voice calling after him and kept walking. Dr. Sawyer took them up four floors, leading them down a series of corridors until they reached a room numbered 421. He pushed the door open and Oliver’s breath caught in his throat, freezing in the doorway, his eyes locked on her sleeping form. “Oliver.” Digg propelled him forward with a hand on the back of his shoulder blade. It seemed that was all the push he needed. His feet carried him to her side, his hand cupped her cheek, taking relief in the feel of her warm skin against his hand. His breath left him in a rush. He didn’t care that there were other people in the room with him. He brushed her blonde hair from her forehead, the back of his knuckles brushing her skin, kissing her forehead, lingering for just a moment before standing up straighter and just took her in. The reassuring way her chest rose and fell with her breathing, the sound of the monitors beeping rhythmically. The way the color was slowly returning to her pale skin. “A member of my nursing staff will be by later to check on her.” Dr. Sawyer informed them. Oliver nodded vaguely as he pulled a chair up next to her bed, sinking into it and clutching her hand. He knew Dr. Sawyer left but he couldn’t remove his eyes from her to confirm it. Digg stepped forward, placing his hand on Felicity’s arm for a moment before taking the last available chair in the room. Oliver could feel the weight of John’s eyes, scrutinizing him. “How long?” John asked. “How long what?” “How long have you had feelings for Felicity? I thought you were still chasing after whatever you had with Laurel.” A beat passed before Oliver could bring himself to answer. “I don’t know when I started to feel something for Felicity. Maybe it was from the very beginning, the moment I saw her, the moment I walked into her cubicle, the moment I met her, I don’t know.” “And now?” asked Digg. Oliver finally turned his gaze from Felicity to his friend’s searching gaze. “And now I can’t imagine doing any of this without her.” “What about Laurel?” John's eyes narrowed. “Laurel is apart of my past. She’s a friend but I know that’s all we were meant to be. Anything more than that is out of the question. It just doesn’t work.” John nodded. Glad that Oliver had finally removed his Laurel blinders. Oliver’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he fished it out, Thea’s name flashing across his screen. “It’s Thea. I have to take this.” “Go. I’ve got our girl.” Oliver hesitated before nodding pushing from his seat and reluctantly leaving the room. “Hey, Speedy,” he answered. “Oh, thank God,” Thea breathed in relief. “I’m at the hospital and-” “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” he asked worriedly. “No, I’m fine but Tommy got hurt.” “I know, but he’s going to be fine.” Oliver was quick to reassure her. “They said he was lucky but he has a lot of healing to do. They're talking physical rehab.” “Tommy can handle it. He’s strong.” Oliver said, his eyes sliding shut. “Ollie, where are you?” he could hear the tears in her voice and it made his chest tighten. “You should be here with me. You should be here for Tommy.” Oliver opened his eyes and looked down, feeling a wave of guilt. He knew he should be there with them. He knew they were here in the hospital somewhere but he couldn’t leave Felicity’s side. He needed to be there when she woke up. “I want to be there but I can’t.” The silence that followed was like a crimination of everything he was doing wrong until finally, his sister broke it. “What you’re doing? Is it important?” “Yes. Very important.” Being by Felicity’s side was what he needed to be doing. “Okay,” Thea said and was surprised by how understanding she sounded. “Do what you have to do. We’ll still be here.” Oliver was surprised once again by her understanding and was grateful for it. “Thanks, Speedy.” “Call me if you need anything.” “I will,” They said their goodbyes shortly after. Oliver slid his phone back into his pocket and stepped back into Felicity’s hospital room, returning to his seat at her bedside. “Tommy’s going to be okay. Thea’s with him now.” he retook Felicity’s hand in his own. “That’s good.” Diggle clapped him on the shoulder. “Are you gonna be here? I want to check on Carly and AJ.” “I’m not going anywhere.” There were zero chances of that happening. “Go check on your family.” Digg nodded, reaching out a hand, giving Felicity’s arm a squeeze before leaving. Oliver leaned his elbows on her bed, holding her hand in his and just watched her sleep, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of her chest. She was alive. That was all that mattered. Everything else, the fall out of the Undertaking, all of it could wait.

The sound of a repetitive beeping and a burning ache in her stomach had Felicity's eyes opening, her face scrunching up. It was white everywhere, the ceiling, the walls. There was a lemon smell mixed with some chemicals. She frowned, she was in a hospital. That much was obvious. She turned her head to the sound of the incessant beeping, seeing that she was hooked up to some monitors. Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember what happened to land her in the hospital. She remembered the building structure starting to come down, she remembered something hitting her in the head, she remembered the sharp agonizing pain in her stomach. The more she tried to remember the faster the details came back to her. She remembered the blood. There had been so much of it. And John. John trying to help her, to slow down the bleeding, telling her she was going to be okay. She tried to move her hand but couldn’t. It was only then that she realized a warm hand with calloused fingers held her own. “John?” she turned her head expecting to find John but no, it was Oliver. Her eyes widened at the sight of him fast asleep his head pillowed on his forearms, resting on her bed, his hands clasping her own even in his sleep. If he was here, things couldn’t be bad. Everyone must’ve gotten out or else he wouldn’t be there. He would be with his family. Or Laurel. Not with her. Or maybe it was her. Maybe she was hurt more than she thought. The beeping of the machine increased. The second it did Oliver jolted up as if he was intuned with any change in the machine. Felicity watched as his eyes shot to the monitor alert but when they landed on her they widened and a shaky breath left his lips as they parted. “Felicity.” “Um, what are you doing here?” she asked, eyes taking him in, even though he had been resting he still looked exhausted. “You were hurt.” The way he said it was like her being hurt was the worst outcome imaginable. “Is it bad?” she worried her bottom lip. “No, you’re going to be fine. You just have some healing to do.” She was sure she imagined the way his eyes flickered down to her lips then back to her eyes. His own eyes a shade darker than before. She must have gotten hit in the head harder than she thought. “You needed a blood transfusion and you have a concussion.” That explained why she was imagining things. Like the way, Oliver was looking at her so intensely. It was like he thought if he looked away she’d be gone, out of his reach. Clearly, her mind was playing tricks on her. Oliver would never in a million years look at her like that. That look, that level of intensity coming from him was reserved for Laurel Lance. “The hospital wants to keep you overnight for a few days for observation.” Oliver continued, his thumb had started moving back and forth across the top of her hand. “But you’re going to make a full recovery.” Felicity nodded, a little unfocused. The brush of his thumb against her skin was more distracting than she was accustomed to. “You don’t have to stay. You should be with Thea.” “Thea’s fine.” She tried to pull her hand free but he only held it more tightly. “I’m exactly where I need to be.” he brought her hand up to his mouth, lips brushing her knuckles. “With you.” Felicity’s eyes widened. “Oh.” she stared at him in wonder, half believing she was asleep and fantasizing about him. It’s not like it would be the first time. He was looking at her and saying all the things she could only dream of him saying to her so this had to be a dream. She shifted trying to shuffle up the bed to sit up but pain tore at her abdomen. She gasped, closing her eyes tightly against the pain and breathed out slowly. Okay! Not a dream. That fracking hurt. “Felicity?” Oliver was up out of his seat leaning over her immediately, concern coming off him in waves. “I’m alright.” She got out through the pain. “It just hurts when I move too much.” Oliver nodded, reaching for the call button and pressing it before focusing solely on her. “Just breathe with me. You can get through it.” he cupped her jaw and Felicity leaned into his hand, his touch as his thumb brushed the apple of her cheek. The door to her room was pushed opened but she barely noticed unable to tear her eyes from Oliver. It was only with the sound of a throat clearing that she was finally able to slide her eyes away from Oliver to see Digg. “John.” she smiled. Digg stepped forward with a smile, stepping up to the other side of her bed. “You scared the crap out of us.” he reached for her hand, giving it a light squeeze. “Yeah, I’m getting that.” Felicity glanced at Oliver out of the corner of her eye. He was still watching her with the same intensity. Like she would disappear from his sights if he wasn’t looking directly at her. “Well, we would be lost without our girl,” Digg responded. “You know we can’t do any of this without you.” Felicity smiled at his words. “It’s a really good thing you don’t have to then, huh?” “Definitely,” Oliver said before Digg could respond, his hand tightening around hers. Felicity turned her smile on him, squeezing his hand back. A warm feeling filling her chest as she stared into his blue eyes unguarded for once. It was like he was letting his walls down so she could see him. The real him. The man beneath the Hood. Behind the mission. The man who felt everything more deeply, more intensely than anyone could imagine. From the moment she met him she knew he was more than what most people saw, she had seen it even when he didn’t want anyone to but she could now that he did. He wanted her to see him and she did. But more than that she liked the person she could see.

Two days in the hospital and Felicity was anxious to leave. If the doctors needed her to rest up she could do that from the comfort of her own home, relaxing on her couch, catching up on all her favorite TV shows. She didn’t need to be here. The door to her room was pushed open by Dr. Sawyer. “Please tell me, you’ll be sending me home today,” Felicity said in greeting. Dr. Sawyer chuckled, amusement in his eyes. “Ready to leave us so soon, Ms. Smoak?” “Since yesterday,” Felicity said. “Not that you haven’t been taking great care of me. Hospitals just are not anywhere I want to be.” The door to her room was pushed open again but she kept on talking. “And I’m ready to get out of here.” “Not without me, you aren’t,” Oliver stated coming to stand at the end of the bed as Dr. Sawyer checked her vitals, writing something down on his clipboard. Felicity frowned at Oliver. “I thought you were going to visit Tommy with Thea?” “I did.” he clasped her hand in his. When she first woke up it surprised her that Oliver was at her bedside but over the past two days she gotten used to him being there and reaching out to her. In any way, he could. In any way, she would allow. “You were gone barely an hour.” she pointed out. “And it was enough time. They’re fine. Thea understands. Oh, and Tommy says to get better real soon.” Felicity snorted. She could say the same thing about Tommy but she appreciated the sentiment. Felicity turned reaching for her phone, moving slowly not wanting to strain her wound. “Here.” Oliver was already holding her phone out to her. “Thank you.” she smiled at him and sent a text out to Tommy. Get better soon. I’m glad you’re going to be okay. It would have killed Oliver to lose his best friend. “How is she today? Does everything look good? Is she healing okay?” She could hear the concern in Oliver's voice as he asked Dr. Sawyer question after question however she was distracted by an incoming text message from Tommy. Don’t underestimate your own worth Smoak. Oliver would be lost without you. “Felicity?” She looked up to see both Dr. Sawyer and Oliver looking at her in varying looks of amusement. “Hmm?” she looked between them. “What?” Oliver looked at her. “Dr. Sawyer said you’ll be able to go home later today.” Felicity smiled and her whole face lit up. “Best news I heard all day.” “I do have some conditions.” Dr. Sawyer cautioned. “You have to take it easy. No strenuous activity. And I want someone to stay with you during the first week of your recovery.” “I live alone,” Felicity informed him. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?” Dr. Sawyer inquired. “No, not rea-” “It won’t be a problem.” Oliver interrupted. “I’ll stay with her.” “I’m sorry, you’ll what?” Felicity looked at him wide-eyed “How about I give you two a moment?” Dr. Sawyer suggested, moving toward the door. “Oliver you can’t stay with me.” Felicity protested as soon as Dr. Sawyer was gone. “You have never even been to my place.” Oliver’s brow furrowed. “What does that matter?” Felicity opened her mouth but then shut it. “If the thought of me being at your place makes you uncomfortable you can stay at my place instead.” Oliver offered, moving to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.” She shook her head, trying not to show how affected she was by his sudden proximity. “Either you stay at the manor with me or I stay at your place so I can take care of you.” Felicity scowled. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I can take care of myself.” “I know that.” Oliver licked his lips and her eyes followed the movement before snapping back up. “But I would feel better if I was there in case you needed anything. Felicity tilted her head at him. "Why does it have to be you? Why do you want to be the one to help me?" Oliver lifted his hand to cup her cheek, his hand warm against her skin. "Because I care about you and I want you to be okay." "Oh." Felicity breathed in surprise. It had always seemed like Oliver only had eyes for Laurel Lance. She had thought her obvious crush on him was one-sided but maybe it wasn't as one-sided as she first thought. "Oliver." She bit down on her bottom lip. Oliver's gaze dropped down to her lips and her breath hitched as he slowly leaned forward, giving her time to pull away. But she didn't. She didn't want to. She was too caught up in the moment to care how this would change things. “Alright, have you two come to an agreement?” Dr. Sawyer asked stepping back into the room. Oliver pulled back the moment broken, his hand falling back to his side. Felicity’s eyes fell disappointment washing over her but then she felt her hand encased in Oliver’s warm one, washing the brief feeling of disappointment away, replacing it with one of reassurance and warmth. “Will you be staying with Ms. Smoak, Mr. Queen?” Dr. Sawyer asked, his eyes flitting between them and down to their clasped hands. “Yes, he will.” Felicity locked eyes with Oliver and his lips pulled up at the corners in a smile that was just for her. “Good. Glad to hear it.” Dr. Sawyer proceeded to give them instructions on how to change her bandages and reminded her repeatedly to take it easy and to be careful not to pull her stitches and reopen her wound.

Diggle pulled the car up outside of Felicity’s apartment. Oliver was seated in the backseat next to her. Diggle got out and moved to open her door before she could. “Are you okay with this?” Digg asked as Oliver got out rounding the car. “Yeah,” she nodded accepting his offered hand. “I’m good.” “I just wanted to make sure,” he replied as he assisted her out of the car. “I know and I appreciate it. You're a good friend, John Diggle.” “You make it easy,” he replied with an affectionate smile. “Remember to take it easy.” Suddenly Oliver was there, wrapping an arm around her and encouraging her to lean on him, offering to help her. “Do you got her?” Digg asked. “Yeah, I’ve got her.” Oliver nodded as he started to lead Felicity to the steps that led up to her apartment. “We got it from here, Digg,” Felicity assured when he looked at her. “I’m sure Lyla and AJ are expecting you.” “Call me if you need anything,” he told her before getting back in his vehicle. Felicity waved as he drove away before turning back around to Oliver, letting him help her up the steps to her apartment complex. She grimaced as she reached the top of the stairs feeling a pull in her abdomen. Oliver frowned concerned, seeing her face pinch together. “Are you alright? Maybe I should..” His arm moved to wrap low around her waist. Felicity could see what he wanted to do without him even having to say it. She held a finger up at him. “Don’t even try to pick me up to carry me, Oliver Queen. I can walk just fine.” Oliver sighed, tightening his arm around her waist. “At least let me take more of your weight. Let me help you.” He encouraged her to lean on him more. “Okay.” Felicity nodded, leaning more of her weight on him as they walked up the steps of her building.

They made it to her apartment and Felicity unlocked her door pushing it open and stepping inside. Oliver immediately started guiding her over to the couch, urging her to sit down and relax back against the cushions. She watched as Oliver bustled around her apartment, asking her where everything was. In a matter of minutes, he had her tucked into the couch, a blanket thrown on her lap, a glass of water on the table, the TV remote in her reach. “Can I get you something to eat? I’m sure I could whip something up.” Oliver shifted on his feet. “You cook?” asked Felicity in delighted surprise. “Raisa taught me a thing or two,” he admitted a bashful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Huh? Guess that’s another thing you can do better than me.” Felicity mused thoughtfully. “You can’t cook?” Oliver found it hard to believe that there was something Felicity couldn’t do. “That’s an understatement,” Felicity said with a wry smile. “I’m sure you can’t be that bad at it.” she was always so good at everything. “I burn water.” Felicity dead-panned with a dry look.

“That’s not possible.” Oliver shook his head.

“It is with me.” Felicity insisted. A chuckled passed Oliver's lips surprising them both. “Felicity Smoak, MIT graduate, bested by the act of cooking.” he teased. “Hey, watch it, I could ruin you,” she warned, her eyes lit with laughter, enjoying this new side to Oliver she was seeing. “Oh, I know .” Oliver murmured but he was sure he would enjoy every second of it. He knew she hadn’t meant it like that but after admitting to himself that Felicity had always been something more. It was damn near impossible to keep his mind from going there. Felicity flushed, the words came out entirely suggestive. Usually, she was the one who made the most innocent of words sound dirty. Oliver cleared his throat doing his best to ignore how far that attractive flush traveled down her neck. “Are you hungry?” “No, I’m good. I figured I just catch up on my DVR.” Felicity allowed the moment to pass. Oliver nodded casting his eyes around her apartment, noticing all the small things, the splashes of color. It was more welcoming than his own home. Felicity went through her DVR list, settling on one of her favorite shows. “Have you ever watched an episode of Game of Thrones?” Oliver’s expression clouded over with confusion. “No.” Felicity’s lips pulled down into a frown. “Not even one?” “No,” Oliver shook his head. “Not even one.” Felicity's frown deepened, her brow pinched. “That is a crime within itself but don’t worry, we’ll rectify this immediately.” she waved her hand at the other end of the couch. “Sit. I am going to educate you on all things Game of Thrones.” Oliver’s lips turned up into a smile, his eyes shining with amusement. He took the seat next to her, close enough that his arm brushed against hers. “I do have one thing to ask you first.” Felicity turned her eyes to him. “What is it?” “When your better would you like to go out with me?” Felicity froze, eyes wide, her heart pounding in her chest. Oliver had expected more of a reaction from her. Blushing, spluttering, adorable rambling, something, not her staring at him unblinking. “Felicity?” he asked in concern. She jolted at the way he said her name, sounding so unsure. “When Dr. Sawyer interrupted us I thought we were having a moment but I also thought maybe I was imagining things, seeing them differently than you were." “ Felicity. ” his hand cupped her jaw and she instinctively leaned into his touch with a quiet hum. “You weren’t imagining things.” “What about Laurel?” The last time Felicity checked he was madly in love with the woman. His other hand came up to her neck, his thumb brushing her pulse point. “After everything that has happened, I see things more clearly than I ever have before. I’m opening my eyes to the light. I don’t want Laurel. I want to be with you.” Warmth spread through Felicity’s chest, seeing the way he looked at her with so much emotion. “ Oliver. ” she murmured softly, reaching out and fisting his shirt in her hand and her other hand coming to rest over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart through his shirt beneath the palm of her hand. Oliver leaned forward slowly giving her a chance to pull away but she couldn’t, didn’t want to. She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it to be real. Oliver closed the last remaining distance between them, brushing his lips against hers tentatively at first but at the feel of her pressing back with her own, he moved his lips over hers more eagerly. Felicity sighed, the feel of his mouth on hers more real than any fantasy she had of him and there were a lot of them. Oliver's mouth moved over hers with a single-minded focus, coasting her to open to him and she gave in, feeling consumed by his intensity in the best way possible. Oliver kissed her until they were both breathless, he eased back leaning his forehead against hers. “Felicity Smoak, would you like to go to dinner with me?” Happiness bubbled up in her chest, her stomach doing somersaults. She smiled wide, her eyes shining brightly. “Yes.” she released her grip on his shirt, patting his chest. “But first we’re watching Game of Thrones.” Oliver chuckled releasing her, he settled back against the cushions, gently pulling her into his side. “Anything you want.” Felicity smiled at the feel of his lips pressing a kiss into her hair, burrowing deeper into his side mindful of her injury. Oliver wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, feeling at peace more than he had in a long time. It was everything. This moment, this feeling, this new beginning with Felicity. It was everything and so much more. She was everything.

Notes:

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#oliver queen #Felicity Smoak #oliver x felicity #Olicity #arrow fic #olicity fanfic #one-shot #olicity one shot #au fic #canon AU #canon divergence #arrow

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adorkablephil · 6 years

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Fic: The Roles We Play (2)

Title: The Roles We Play Summary: Dan Howell and Phil Lester work together as voice actors for BBC radio dramas in the late 1930s, but slowly begin to develop “inappropriate” feelings for each other Rating: G Word Count: 2,885 (this chapter) Tags: Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Historical AU, 1930s, BBC, Radio, Actors AU, Slow Burn, Eventual Romance, Love Letters, Period-Typical Homophobia, Closeted Gay Characters, Past Character Death, Grief, Angst Author’s Note: This fic was inspired by the @phanfichallenge 20k History Challenge. See note on first chapter regarding historical inaccuracies. See notes at end of this chapter for potentially helpful info about the plays mentioned. Many many many abject thanks to India for all her help with this chapter! (Not to mention all her previously unacknowledged help with "The Body Electric"!)

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[ All Chapters Masterlist ]

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28 October 1938

Philip Lester was everything Dan wished he could be, from head to toe. His hair, though, was what Dan envied most. It was black and smooth, slicked straight back with Brylcreem so that he resembled that American actor—what was his name? Clark Gable. His facial features didn't resemble Clark Gable, though, because Philip had a more aristocratic face, with his elegant forehead, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and delicate lips.

Dan’s hair never got that sleek Clark Gable look like Philip Lester’s, no matter how much Brylcreem he used. The best he could do was a sort of Danny Kaye set of waves. And, just in life in general, Dan would really prefer to be a suave Clark Gable than a slapstick Danny Kaye.

He’d seen photos of Philip Lester before, of course, but actually being in the same room with the famous radio actor was a little overwhelming. The whole BBC situation felt overwhelming, but being in the same room with a celebrity he’d listened to and admired for so long made it much more so.

So, ironically, he chose a chair close beside Philip’s, because he knew that it would give him the least opportunity to stare. If he sat immediately beside the man, he would have to turn his head sharply to look at that sleek black hair, that pale skin, those striking pale eyes behind the man’s trademark spectacles—but if he sat further away, he might possibly find himself staring without realizing it, which would be utterly humiliating.

He looked at the script in his hands: A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He had read it in college, and had even performed it once in the West End, though he’d only gotten the role of one of the “Rude Mechanicals,” rather than Puck as he’d hoped. In this radio production, he would play Lysander, while Phil—with his comparatively lower voice and better established place in the repertory group—had the role of Oberon. He had fewer lines than Lysander, but more gravitas.

Dan pouted that he still didn’t get to play Puck.

“Hello,” Philip Lester said from beside him, making Dan jump. He turned to look at the other man, and maybe sitting beside him had been a mistake, because now he had to look at that handsome face from very close up. Philip was smiling and holding out his hand. “I’m Phil. You’re Daniel Howell, right? Playing Lysander?”

Dan nodded dumbly, unable to force out a single word. This was the voice Dan had heard through the radio in his living room for the past three years, but Philip—Phil—sounded different in person. He sounded less formal, more relaxed, which only made sense. Up until a few seconds ago, Dan had only ever heard that voice in professional radio broadcasts of dramatic productions.

Apparently unperturbed by Dan’s stunned silence, Phil shook Dan’s hand warmly, and Dan noticed how delicate and smooth Phil’s hand was. Dan’s own hands were soft—he’d never had to do any serious work—but Phil’s hand was pale and silky and … why was he obsessing over the texture of the man’s hand?

Dan shook his head to try to clear it and finally spoke. “Yes. Lysander. Right. Hello.” A staccato combination of words that were vaguely appropriate to the situation. Better than he would have expected of himself if asked for a prediction, if he was honest. Then he managed to add with a bit more composure, “Please, call me Dan.”

“Welcome to the BBC’s drama repertory company, Dan,” Phil said, squeezing Dan’s hand before letting it go. Or had Dan imagined that little squeeze at the end?

This hero worship was far, far out of control. He wouldn’t be able to tell Dora anything about the day’s events if all he was able to remember was the smoothness of Philip Lester’s hair and the silken skin of his hand.

Phil seemed to still be talking. Dan tried to listen and not just stare. “I assume we’ll be working quite a bit together. I hear they’re considering doing Oedipus next … just for a bit of light comedy after this weighty content, you know?”

A joke. Right, a joke! Dan laughed, maybe a bit more than was really deserved, but the famous Philip Lester was joking with him! And yes, they would most likely be working together quite a bit as long as they were both part of the repertory, so … Dan would need to get over this hero worship as soon as possible. It would make a working relationship nearly impossible if he was tripping over himself every time his co-worker smiled or made the slightest witticism.

Dan tried to think of something to say, but hadn’t come up with anything before the director called them all to order with a loud clearing of the throat. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we start with Theseus and Hippolyta, but you young lovers be ready to enter the scene.” That meant Dan, or rather, Lysander: one of the young lovers.

Dan sat a bit straighter in his chair. He had a fair amount of experience with stage acting, but this was his first actual radio acting job. They’d liked his audition enough to make him a conditional member of the repertory company, but he still needed to prove himself, and this was his first rehearsal.

Phil patted him on the shoulder and said in a low voice, “Don’t worry. You’ll do wonderfully. And, really, Lysander is just a sap, so if you don’t mind pretending to have a lower IQ than you have in actuality, you shouldn’t have any problems.”

Dan laughed again, this time with a bit less hysteria in it and a lot more blushing. Phil Lester had just called him intelligent. Or, at least, more intelligent than Lysander. Which, to be fair, didn’t set the bar all that high. But still … a compliment from Philip Lester. Phil.

Dan smiled at him and said, “Thanks. Oberon should be fun for you.”

Phil leaned close and confided in a hushed whisper, “Just between you and me, I’d rather be playing Puck.”

That surprised a genuine laugh out of Dan, since he’d felt the same way himself. “Me too!” he whispered back, but the director had lost patience.

“Mr. Howell, I understand that you are new to our proceedings, but we really do need a bit more peace and quiet to prepare to present the best auditory theatrical experience possible to our audience, as they rely upon us for edifying entertainment.” Dan wasn’t sure how edifying A Midsummer Night’s Dream was, but he supposed any Shakespeare was good Shakespeare. Then he remembered Titus Andronicus and grimaced. But he straightened his spine, gave the play’s director a serious nod and tried to keep his attention on his task instead of on the man sitting beside him.

“Sorry,” he heard Phil murmur. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I’ll let you focus.” Dan gave him a quick smile and tried not to be dazzled by the swirling pale colors of Phil Lester’s eyes behind the spectacles. Okay, no, the colors weren’t actually swirling. His irises just contained so many colors at once that they seemed almost like the marbled endpapers of an expensive book, including that bit of gold leaf that would make it most expensive.

Dan looked away and stared fixedly at the script in his lap, paging forward to see where his first lines appeared, and they began their first read-through of the script. When Dan got to the point where he read, “You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him,” he heard Phil snort beside him and felt proud that he’d made the other man laugh with his delivery of the comedic line. In fact, Dan had quite a few lines in the first scene of the play, whereas Phil’s character would not appear to commit his jealous mischief until the second act.

The group spent a few hours going through the first two acts of the play, with much commentary and many suggestions from the play’s director, Drury. Unfortunately, Drury seemed to have taken a bit of a dislike to Dan after his earlier joking with Phil, so Dan tried to stay as sober and solemn as possible for the rest of the proceedings.

******

When the rehearsal had finished, Phil immediately apologized with what appeared to be honest regret. “I’m sorry I distracted you so much! I didn’t mean to make your first day more difficult. I just wanted to make you feel welcome, but I fear our giggling antics may have annoyed Drury.”

Dan loved that Phil made it sound like they were schoolboys caught being naughty together.

Phil clapped Dan on the shoulder in a friendly manner and said, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I need to speak to Drury before he leaves.” Phil smiled, then turned and walked to the director, who began conversing with him like an old friend. It was the first time Dan had ever seen Drury smile. Apparently he liked Phil. Who wouldn’t like Phil? It wasn’t merely Dan’s hero worship—Phil was just a likable guy.

Now that they’d been released from their duties for the day, the actors cleared the room pretty quickly, everyone bidding each other hasty goodbyes, but Dan found himself lingering conspicuously near the door while Phil spoke with Drury. Now that they were standing, Dan could see that Phil’s suit, though not particularly fashionable, was obviously expensive, very well-tailored and suited to his tall, slim frame. It made Dan aware of the comparative cheapness of his own suit. He followed current fashion trends avidly but, unfortunately, did not have the financial means to indulge his interest. It appeared that Phil Lester found himself in the opposite situation: financial means, but no taste. Dan quickly chided himself for the thought. It felt somehow disloyal, even though he’d only met the man a few hours ago.

Loitering near the door and watching surreptitiously, Dan saw Phil turn from his conversation with Drury, obvious intending to leave, but when Phil noticed Dan near the door, his expression showed first surprise, then pleasure. Dan startled, and his insides turned to jelly.

“You waited!” Phil exclaimed happily, walking to where Dan stood trying to look relaxed in his embarrassing cheap suit.

“Oh,” Dan replied, trying to sound casual, “I just … I wasn’t in a hurry, so I thought I’d wait, just to tell you what an honor it was to work with you today.”

Phil’s pale cheeks blushed, and Dan wondered how the man could still be humble enough to take such a simple compliment so much to heart. Surely he had encounters with admirers often enough, especially at BBC events. Why should Dan’s words carry so much weight?

“It was an honor to work with you, too, Dan,” Phil replied, holding out his hand to shake again.

Dan started to reach out, then shored up his confidence and suggested, “I thought perhaps we could take the lift down together.”

Phil let his hand fall and nodded with a smile. “We should be working together quite a lot in future, so it would be nice to know you as more than just the ridiculously besotted Lysander.” They began walking together toward the lift.

“You believe they’ll take me on as a permanent member of the repertory company?” Dan could hear the eagerness in his own voice, but he didn’t mind letting Phil know how high his hopes were.

Phil’s lips curved just slightly and he shook his head in disbelief. “You really don’t know how good you are, do you? I would assume after your work onstage in the West End, you would have more belief in your acting ability. Surely you appreciate your own talent?”

Dan pressed the button for the lift and avoided eye contact, hunching his shoulders slightly in embarrassment. “Well, radio differs from the stage, since we won’t have an audience’s immediate reaction to inspire and inform our performance. But also … I’m a bit of a perfectionist in my work. I study my lines obsessively, but I still never fully live up to how I want to embody a character. I perhaps set myself rather unrealistic standards, and so I just … it’s like I’m always failing myself.”

Phil put his hand on Dan’s shoulder and looked into his eyes, face serious. “You can’t go through life feeling like you’re always failing. You’ll never be happy.”

The lift arrived and they both got in, Dan regretting the need to pull away from Phil’s hand. Even through the fabric of his suit jacket, he’d been able to feel Phil’s warmth. But maybe that was just the man’s personality, and not his body temperature.

“I’m not a very cheerful or happy person, to be honest,” Dan admitted, wondering why he was opening up to Phil more than he had to anyone, even Dora.

The lift dinged when they reached the lobby, and they walked out into the evening’s sunset together. “You need to find a way to change that, Dan. You really do. You deserve to be happy.”

Dan tried to smile, but he could feel that the muscles of his face were too tense for it to possibly look natural. “I try.”

Phil looked around. “Hey, would you like to grab a drink before heading home? There’s a pub across the road.” Dan hesitated, but Phil cajoled, “Come on. Consider it part of the process of trying to be happier. Wouldn’t it cheer you to have a drink with the famous Mr. Philip Lester?” He grinned at Dan, who laughed.

“I can’t believe you just said that. Do you really think of yourself that way?” Okay, so yes, that’s the way Dan thought of him, but he’d been surprised to hear Phil say it.

Phil rolled his eyes. “Not for a second. But it’s how they parade me around at the BBC events, you know.” He shrugged dismissively. “But would you be interested in having a drink with just some guy named Phil?” He smiled and looked ridiculously charming. The sunset was glinting pink and orange off his glasses so that Dan couldn’t see his eyes. In the pub, the lighting would be better.

He knew he should go home to phone his parents and Dora to tell them how the first day’s rehearsal had gone, but instead Dan found himself nodding.

“Excellent!” Phil exclaimed, and lightly pressed a hand to Dan’s lower back to guide him across the street and into the pub.

******

“I’ll have a Pimm’s with ginger ale,” Phil told the bartender, “and my friend will have…” He glanced questioningly at Dan.

“Um,” Dan hesitated. He didn’t drink often, except tea and coffee. “I guess a gin and tonic?” The bartender nodded and got to work.

Dan and Phil seated themselves on adjoining barstools and their conversation lapsed for a moment.

“So…” Dan began, then realized with a sudden chill of panic that he had no idea what to talk about while relaxing in a pub with Philip Lester the rich, famous, well-dressed radio star. “Um … do you follow cricket?” Dan immediately wanted to bang his head against the bar.

Phil blinked in surprise. “Er, no. Not really. Are you an enthusiast of any particular team?”

“Not remotely,” Dan sighed in relief. “Thank the lord you said no, or I would have had to pretend I knew something about the sport.”

“Then why did you ask?” Phil looked at Dan with amused curiosity.

Dan shrugged and looked away, stirring the drink the bartender had just placed in front of him. “Just … trying to make conversation.” He took a sip, and found the drink bitter, which suited his personal style. He thought of himself as a rather bitter person, not easily prone to the lighter emotions. He eyed Phil’s sweet, fizzy drink and thought it appropriate, as well. “I wasn’t sure what you would want to talk about,” he admitted with chagrin.

“Well, definitely not sport!” Phil laughed. “Sport is the absolute worst! I hated it in school, so why would I want to watch other people do it now that I’m not forced to do it myself?”

“I know! Exactly!” Dan enthused. He’d never heard his own opinion stated so succinctly before.

“So what do you like to do, if you don’t enjoy watching grown men dressed in white play childhood games we both loathe?”

“I … er … I like music,” Dan offered hesitantly. “All kinds. And I play the piano a bit.”

“Really?” Phil looked suddenly very interested. “I would dearly like to play an instrument. My parents hired tutor after tutor, trying to teach me one instrument after another, but I had no talent at any of them.”

“Oh, I don’t have much talent, either,” Dan insisted. “I don’t play well at all. But I do enjoy it.”

Phil took a sip of his sweet drink and shook his head gently. “You have so little faith in yourself,” he chided Dan gently.

Dan gazed into those pale eyes and realized that Phil Lester had more faith in him than he had in himself. It was an odd feeling. But he liked it more than he should.

*******

Author’s Play Notes: In case you aren’t a literature/theater nerd, I thought I’d explain some of the references in this chapter. In particular, I thought I’d point out a few notes about A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Oberon is the powerful but jealous king of the fairies who asks his clever, mischievous fairy servant Puck to pull a prank which goes awry. As a result of this prank, four rather annoying young humans (Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena) get duped into all kinds of silly romantic hijinks in the woods. The “Rude Mechanicals” are just some low class workmen who provide some slapstick comedy. Oh, and about the other plays mentioned in the chapter: Oedipus Rex is a classic Greek tragedy (hence Phil ironically joking that it would be light fare after something like A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which is pure fluff); and Titus Andronicus was Shakespeare’s first play, which most people agree was bad (also gross), which is why Dan grimaces after thinking that all Shakespeare is good.

******

[ Continue to Chapter 3 ]

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