#sobbing wailing. yep.

[neonovember]

Bourbon Decision’s

Steve Rogers mafia!au

summary: In light of your reappearance in New York, Steve makes a decision that begins the road to the relationship between you both. And you, begin to remember some familiar faces.

warnings; mentions of death, murder, angst and violence

a/n: so, this chapter gave us a little bit of a back story on how the reader ends ups in Brooklyn, and who her husband truly is. Your girl is a fighter! More parts coming soon…

The cursive lettering burns a hole through your chest, the edges cracked and plastered as you shove accusation down into your pocket. It almost feels poisonous, like simply touching it will make him come around the corner, reminding you that you would never be alone, that you were never going to escape him.

You’re able to hide your shaking hands from Caroline, who takes your silence as simple exhaustion, you fill ill, the bile rises from your throat and you pinch your arm to stop yourself from gagging.

You’re able to conceal your emotions well, your entire life and marriage has been holding up a mask, it was a dance that was all you knew, and all you would ever thank him for.

“You alright there sugar” Caroline looks towards you, eyes filled with concern and she takes notice of your wobbly legs. She reaches with a hand to steady you, but you ignore it, holding onto the granite counter, forcing your downturn eyes to look up at Caroline, you straighten your back.

“Yep, fine, I just need to use the restroom” You reply catatonically, a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes has Caroline looking at you even more strangely.

You turn down the hall, passing David, his auburn black bun bopping to the tunes chirping out of a beaten-up purple stereo he gaggled a 17-year-old in exchange for a pack of Marlboros.

The smells of bacon grease and butter that causes the insatiable monster taking camp in your stomach to growl now has you running into the staff bathroom, the door slamming behind you as you dry heave the entire contents of your breakfast.

Wiping the spit falling from your mouth you turn on the tap, scrubbing your face clean and running a wet hand across your hair. The reflection staring back at you looks nothing like the woman just mere hours ago, a woman who thought she had escaped the biggest tormentor in her life, a woman who thought she was finally free. This woman, the one whose eye bags now seem deeper than before, whose skin looks dull and pulled across her body like skin on bone is bound and shackled by the haunted past that never seemed to wretch its fingers off of her.

Each time she thinks she has a chance at life, the chain wrapped around her neck tightens, and it pulls her back until she's dislocated and bruised. It shakes her violently and spits in her face, laughing and cackling, staring down at her in disgust because how could she have been so stupid? So foolishly naive?

You don't escape men like her husband, you just end up dead.

An overwhelming desire engulfs you, the need to survive and flee fills you strong, and for a second you glance at the back door that leads to the alleyway hidden from the main road. You've got enough cash on you to skip town, maybe hunker down in a dingy yellow motel for a bit until you feel

But what's the point? There was no plan B for what you did, your escape itself was a fucking plan B, and your head is still pounding from the success of it. You had gotten lucky, for the first time in your life, you had gotten lucky. You wouldn't get this chance again, this was it for you. Skipping town would do nothing, but prolong the inevitable, there were no steps ahead with the men you knew, at least let you die with your dignity.

You can't help but laugh at your stupidity, it racks through your body and has you bent over, gripping your stomach, before your shoulder shudders with cracked sobs, a hand muffles your wails as you run the tap, the last you wanted was for adiora to hear you.

You were just so exhausted your body weighed down with the fatigue and stress of your escape, the bruises and injuries you've accumulated over the years that never fully healed took a toll on you. You'd never gone a day without seeing how your body would look without the yellows and purples colliding, some ragged and large while others were small and deliberate. It made you walk funny, your manager had asked if it was a limp, if you'd be able to waitress with all the walking it included, you rushed to tell her it was nothing, just a fall that didn't heal right.

You needed this job, and youd do anything to get it

Caroline had told you you could get benefits for it, to help with rent and supplies, you smiled and told her you'd look into it, you didn't think it would be appropriate to tell her it was years of abuse.

Could the government pay you for that? Or would you be met with an officer at your door ready to drag you back to your husband because of course he had the governor on speed dial and the NYPD in his front pocket?

A tiny bubble of anger begins to set place in your chest, how dare he? He didn't even want you, the nights he’d bring home countless women told you enough. Why did he so adamantly want you then? Keep you chained and locked in the palm of his hand? 

You've seen the other marriages in this line of work which were much like yours, transactional and strictly business. Except most of them had an agreement, you have yours and I have mine. Show up like you both are in love, clutching onto each other and keeping your lovers to the side.

Not him though, no, he wanted it all, you think he craved the power it gave him, to see you at his feet below him, your escape was the one time you felt like you had gotten him beat. You knew it wouldn't last long but damn did it feel good.

That man with golden hair looked at you so strangely, like he knew you from long ago, you'd shaken the sense of familiarity from your mind before it even began. This was New York, not Washington, no one knew you here. You were just a face, like any other, so why did he look at you like the sight of you broke him? 

The fact of the matter was, your husband was an unstable lunatic who fed off the fear of others, he’d probably shot a few women who even slightly resembled you during the time since your escape, so why didn't that man drag you out of the diner and into one of your husband-marked vehicles? 

There was only one explanation, one you couldn't bring yourself to entertain, but it still remained in the back of your mind, next to the hopes and dreams you had for yourself at 13. 

The sounds of your name being screeched from the counter can be heard echoing towards you, the diner was horribly understaffed and don’t doubt that there is a mountain of things that needed to be completed since your meltdown.

You need this job, you were not about to lose it.

So just like the years you have been trained, you shove the impending emotions down your stomach, straighten your back, and practice your smile before slamming the staff door behind you.

It’s well past 11 when you finally finish cleaning up after the last of the patrons that exited the diner, the moon was cloaked behind deep grey clouds, providing little light to your walk home. David had offered you a ride, but you had declined quickly, the thoughts circling your mind would be too loud for a car ride. You didn't like walking home, especially this late at night, but you had no choice. You would not want to incapacitate someone else's day, especially now with a target on your back.

The flickering street lights provide a tiny sliver of direction to the beaten path cracked with concrete and dirt. A loud truck filled with men slowed as they neared you, you kept your head down, fingers pressed into your palm as you tried to avoid any confrontation. They screamed obscenities, before zooming past you, the smell of burnt tire lingering behind them.

There was a shortcut to your apartment complex, though the back alleyways were hidden from the main street, and you made a sharp turn to follow the insecure path through the suburban houses. It doesn't take long before you notice the unmarked car following shortly behind you, just a few streets back, enough to not look conspicuous but still get a clear view of you.

You tense, unsure of what to do, you push your house keys between your fingers, silently praying to god that it wasn't him. And it seems that god is on your side today, as the car pulls into a dark street, leaving you breathless and releasing your grip on your keys.

You don't waste any time running the rest of the way until the dingy apartment complex comes into view, your neighbour, a sweet middle-aged lady whose smile never quite reached her eyes and who let you use her gas was screaming at her son, a cigarette hanging from his mouth in open shock.

You smiled to yourself as you passed them, he looked towards you with raised eyebrows, pleading for some support. You weren't about to tell her how to raise her kid, she looked even more exhausted than you.

Jimming the door handle a couple times, you finally shoulder your way into the safety of your small but safe apartment. The soft caramel walls were chipped away at the edges, and the wallpaper was peeling but it was home. It was the closest thing to something that was yours, and only yours. 

You quickly made yourself some time, to help calm the storm beginning to write inside your mind again, you hated coffee, it left you jittering and cold and you just wanted to sleep at this point.

After jumping into the shower, your waitressing clothes left sweaty and seeped with oil in the basket you finally found the solace of your cold bed. You invested good money into a solid mattress and covers, and it payed of by the softness and ease that engulfed you. 

You reached for the book left on the side table, its spine broken in and countless stains and markings left on its pages. You had never gotten the chance to read, you'd been told it was a useless waste of time that could instead be used for more important things.

Now though, with the threat of your safety looming around the corner, you felt you needed to finish every book you started, in fear you mightn't ever again.

Your mind, however, was running 50 miles an hour and it so happened to find him, golden boy, again. He looked so different from the henchmen of your husband. They were all short and stoic, egregious muscles bursting through tight shirts, fingers dirty with blood and sin. They all had that hungry insatiable expression, like rapid dogs, they salivated every time they were given a task, to murder, to steal, to torture. 

One particular night, when you left down the hall to the section of the house you weren't permitted to enter, the blood-curdling screams and moans followed by their laughter had you bolting out, they heard you anyway, and your husband had forced you to watch.

You just needed scissors.

This man though, his eyes shone with a different kind of darkness. One possibly more intricate and deeper than the sleazy men near your husband, and, it should have scared you. But it didn't, it pulled you closer like you wanted to dip your foot in and see how far it went. The sense of familiar you'd refused to feel filled you once again, a part of your mind was screaming at you, itching and shoving its fingers between bordered wood to get you to see.

Shaking your head you flicked to the dog-eared page, one thing you knew about the world you were married into, was all the men were obsessed with one thing, power and money, and they'd do anything to get it.

All of them.

The brown liquid sloshes against the ice as steve raises it to his lips, finishing it with one gulp. The familiar burn of liquor eases the tension in his shoulder, as he leans against the mahogany desk, hands folded against his chest.

“All I’m saying is that we have to act fast and we have to act now, every day that passes is another risk to the dominion, he's getting more and more erratic by the day” Sam murmurs, sitting on the plush velvet coach situated to the left of the expansive office, the high ceiling lights cast a glow across the room that does little to ease the tension.

Steve rubs his jaw, scratching at the stubble that has begun to grow, he's gotten so busy that he'd forgotten to shave. Steve’s mind is scattered, bits and pieces here and there, Sam was right, Matthews was getting even more unstable than he ever was, killing mercilessly without a second thought, leaving finger prints and blood and bodies. Sooner or later, he’d get the entire underworld exposed if he kept up with this.

“I know, I know, I just- I need to think” Steve begins, before Bucky interrupts quickly, his eyes roam Steve, squinting as he notices something off.

“It’s different this time, Matthews, it’s more than just his greed and psychotic tendencies, he’s lost something. And I have a feeling you know exactly what it is”. Bucky replies, eyebrows raising and he looks towards Steve.

Sam looks up rapidly, a grim look on his features as he takes in Steves silence

“Steve…what is it?” Sam replies, Steve was apprehensive to reply, eyes shutting for a few minutes, mind racking over the moments before, when he found you. Selfishly, in a way, he wanted to keep you hidden, a secret only he knew, but Sam and Bucky knew him long enough where they’d eventually find out.

“You know Matthews wife” Steve begins, Sam and Bucky lean in closer as they take in Steves tighten jaw and deep seated anger behind his eyes. Steve was a man of decorum, he’d rarely show his true anger, always hidden behind canine smiles and wolf like hunger, he was precise and meticulous with his rage. It’s what made him so powerful.

“The girl from your home town?, The quite one right?” Sam replies, confusion covering his features as he tries to connect the picture Steve was sewing in front of them.

His cracks as he remembers you, before Matthews and before he stamped out the light that always shone through your eyes, the oblivious innocence you carried that seemed to suck him in and ruin him for anybody else.

“Yeah, yeah, that one” Steve coughs before straightening his back 

“Poor girl, I heard she didn’t even get a say, just woke up one morning with his claws in her. I haven't seen her in any of the charity fundraisers in a long time” Bucky says, hands running through his jet black hair as he recalls your frequent absence. It was strange, most men would flaunt their wives anytime they’d get the chance, especially one as gorgeous as you. Not Matthews though, he acted as if you were invisible, a burden, like a mother running after her petulant child. As if he wasn't the one that gave you no choice but to marry him.

“She's gone” Steve spits out, his golden locks fall to his face as he quickly pushes them behind his ear, no one else knew of your absence, besides your husband and him, you were still behind the shadows of his wrath. Now the shoe had dropped and it was real, you’d really gone and done it, you’d escaped him.

“What do you mean Steve, your telling me that girl escaped one of the ruthless mob bosses in Northern America? The one with all the guns and men and fucked up morality? The one who’s murdered teenagers?” Sam emphasis in open shock, moving to get up from the sofa and walk closer to Steve.

“I dont know when, I don’t even know how, but she got out” Steve says, a sudden urge to see you again fills him, he shakes it away quickly before it consumes him whole and ruins him.

“Holy shit, she really did it. She’s got some fucking balls” Bucky says, eyes widening as he comes to terms with the fact that you may not have been as innocent as they once thought.

“But, if shes out...she knows what will happen to her now? As much as I hate Matthews, he brought her immunity and protection, especially one from a family like hers, now-, now she’s a walking target.” Sam says it was inevitable, the mafia world wouldnt allow for such treachery, for such betrayal.

“Open fucking season” Bucky continues, eyes strained behind Steve towards the frosted window of the office. The planes of concrete fields stretch endlessly, the smoke of vehicles and Nee Yorks smoking problem floating through the deep grey clouds.

What was your endgame?

The question circles Bucky’s mind, he was always searching for an answer, a causation, and right now you had him stumped. Funny.

Steve nods, nocking his leather dress shoes against each other, loyalty ran thicker than blood in this world of theirs, and what you had committed was worse their murder.

“She disappears I know, trust me I do, probably ends up at the bottom of the Hudson at best, and at worst..” Steve says

He didn’t need to continue for them both to understand. Eyes failing to wince as they had grown use to the brutality of the mafia.

“But, I talked to her, earlier today, down by Brooklyn” Steve begins to say before both Bucky and Steve interrupt him quickly

“You talked to her?! Jesus, Steve, this has got to be a fucking joke, because I know the man infront of me. And he would be as insane as to talk to a mafia’s wife, let alone the king of the dominion. Hell, even being near her would count as a death wish” Bucky replies, eyebrows furrowed as the shock of Steve’s recklessness hung in the air.

“We can’t afford an attack right now, especially one from someone as psychotic as him and his lunatics” Sam reiterates, unsure what had gotten into their usually calculated and cunning friend.

“Listen dammit”, Steve grumbles, hands flying around him

“If I get her to share some information about Matthews in return for safety, we’ll be able to get ahead, plan an attack before he even registers she’s back in New York”

“Back, she was here before?” Sam questions, confusion filling his usual stoic features

“She was here a couple years back, something happened, bad, and since it’s Matthews you know it had to have been some extraordinarily catastrophic shit” Steve murmurs, eyes far away as if he’s mind was back all those years. His fist tighten involuntarily, and he quickly reminds himself to relax before they take notice of his sudden anger.

“No one knows what happened, not Santiago, not even Brock. All we know is that he changed after that, became way worse. Before, at least he could keep a handle on it, after what happened though, it’s like he’s wishing for a reason to rage”. Steve continues, Bucky and Sam nod following him, they had all noticed the shift in Matthews behaviour, even more drastic then, the entire underworld whispered behind masks and glistens of pistols about the mafia don and his mental breakdown.

“Your asking her to commit treason then?” Sam quakes, hand pressing into the deep wood of the chair.

“She already did when she walked out that door, you don’t just make a decision like that, no, not for someone like her. She probably stayed in that decision for days, if not weeks. She knows the risks she took.” Steve informs, arms crossing against his chest, he knew you weren’t as stupid as people thought you were, in fact he knew you better than most people ever would.

You were similar to him in that way, cunning in ways people didn’t realise, always hidden beneath false naivety.

“Well, you sure he’s still out looking for her? How do you know he isn’t pointing a fucking laser at your head right now?” Bucky begins eyes strained to the window again as if looking out for any incoming steel bullets.

Steve remains silent as he hums to himself, a pen between his fingers as he jots down your address on a haphazard note pad.

“Because she would have already been dead by now” He says finally, underlining the street name twice, before clicking it back into the desk drawer. Sam laughs, a hand coming to rest at his chest, the under suit creases at his ministrations and it reminds Steve that he needs to buy one that actually looks good on him.

“You’re one insane mother fucker Steve, I’ll give you that” Sam chuckles at the casualness of the blond’s demeanour.

Steve shoots a smile, a real one, his canines glint and for a second, it’s as if a wolf has taken it’s place over his features. The rosy reds of his cheeks contrast against the sand gold of his hair and suddenly Steve looks younger. Like the cruelty and immorality of the world around him hasn’t taken his soul and left a gaping black hole.

“That’s how we win, it starts with her” Steve replies with finality, his voice refusing any negotiation or persuasion.

It was final, Steve set his eyes on you, and he wouldn’t stop until he got exactly what he wanted.

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[corpsebasil]

Hii, could you write a nikolai x healer reader where she is nikolai's personal healer ever since kirigan gave her to the royal family. They got veryyyyyyy close almost too close. Because of this, she was also his protecter and if he did anything wrong she would get the repercussions and when he when of to be sturmhond and left her behind she was almost killed. Then he comes back and she doesn't talk to him and tries to avoid him at all cost then he corners her and asks what's wrong.

YEP COMING RIGHT UP

(This may be more sadistic than what you had requested but my imagination went off the rails)

Blood Bender

in which a girl who loved the prince was given the darkest power of them all.

The room that was held in the lowest cell of the Little Palace’s dungeon was freezing, even on the warmest of days in Ravkan.

The girl had been close once, to the prince. Had been in love with him. Had shared his own quarters on his insistence that he could be stabbed in the night and needed his favorite healer with him. But she was property of Kirigan, had been since he’d practically raised her, and the general didn’t take kindly to what belonged to him. And he’d noticed her affections, as much as he’d noticed the prince’s feelings for her.

So when he’d left, the prince, her Nikolai, even though she’d been ordered to keep him there so she could spy on him, she hadn’t protested. She’d wanted him out—wanted him away from Kirigan’s clutches, especially when her dark master had begun brewing up monstrosities in the hidden dungeons under the palace.

She could picture Nikolai’s face, even then, as she laid on the cold, hard ground. The healer had long since given up on her life, but not on his. The Darkling’s strange minions tortured her daily, and every punishment was some new form of Hell. First came the voices. It was fellow Grisha, their tortured screams echoing around her, the sound so close they could’ve been in the next cell. But then it was Nikolai, Nikolai who she heard screaming for help, for her, Nikolai whose bones were being broken, skin marred, and she could do nothing but sob at the bars or cover her ears and wail against the floor.

Next was the altar. That stone altar that had chained her up as his minions sliced into her, burned her, broke her, reconstructing and bending her power to its greatest limits. Her voice broke from strain and she couldn’t speak for days after those long, horrific hours on the table, where she begged Saints that did not answer for death.

Then came the experimenting. Kirigan attempted new ways for her to use her power, trying to mold her into a demon of a Grisha. He insisted there were secrets the Grisha hid from the healers, ways to bend and burn and turn people inside out. But she had refused, all up until the day that one of her fellow healers was dragged down there, and Kirigan threatened to strap her to that disgusting altar and torture her until Y/N agreed to submit.

So she did.

And a piece of herself left every time he brought a new criminal to practice on. Every time she bent the very blood in a person’s body, until she watched that blood creep out from every exit point, until the sight of the red leaking from her victims didn’t inspire horror from her but a strange, blank, hollowness.

It had been three years.

Three years since she’d been hauled down here as punishment, and the prince was back. She was instructed to kill him as soon as possible, told that she could leave her cell when she wanted, but Y/N only laid there, soul completely gone, and stared at the walls until her eyelids could not hold themselves up any longer.

Kirigan was beginning to panic. The girl—his prized weapon—was fading away. No amount of torture would persuade her now; he knew she had passed her breaking point, and she’d likely kill herself before allowing his minions to lay hands on her ever again. So he tried a different direction. He bought her gifts, had her transported to lavish, comfortable chambers. He offered her riches beyond imaginable—books he knew she loved, music to be played, invitations to parties and plays and concert halls.

But she just laid in bed, refusing to eat. All she could see when she opened her eyes was blood. And all she could hear whenever people neared her was the rush of it inside their veins. It was its own kind of torture. Especially when Nikolai, Saints bless him, somehow found out where she was staying. And when he came to her rooms, her heart began to beat so fast in her chest she was almost sick.

“What the—for fucks sake, Y/N.” He gasped, lurching towards her side, taking her gaunt face in his hands. She recoiled from his touch, almost gagging when she felt every pulse of his heart, could hear and sense every artery, every single capillary, every vein…

Her magic thrummed beneath her skin. Her magic, her power, had become a monster of its own, tortured alongside her. But where she was broken, it was fixed. Where she was tired, it was starving. So it took everything in her to say the words she spoke, voice hoarse from disuse.

“I don’t want to see you ever again.” She told him, heart breaking at the hurt expression on his face.

“Its been—it’s been three years, Y/N. I’ve written you at least a hundred letters—where have you been? I was so worried for you. No one seemed to be able to find out what happened to you until a week ago when a servant reported you alive.” His hands grasped her face again, ignoring the disgust on her face because it was breaking his own heart, as well. “I thought you loved me. I thought we—”

“We’ll you’re wrong.” She hissed, jolting up, forcing herself away from him. Her face had drained of color and—no. It wasn’t that. It was that she had grown almost ten shades paler. Like she hadn’t been in the sun for years. His stomach lurched. What had they— “I do not love you. I could never love such an arrogant, prissy—”

He held up a hand to stop her foul words, his chest aching as he took in a trembling breath. All this time. Every night he had longed for her, had written to her, had craved her touch and her scent and her lips against his, and she…she…

“You must truly hate me,” he started, voice low. “if you would pretend to love me and then treat me this way.”

She was quiet, and when he looked at her, he saw that she was shaking. Her eyes were tear filled and she turned away, looking out towards the window. Saints, she was thin. And—and there were scars on her small arms. Scars and—and were those burn marks?

Nikolai’s stomach roiled with nausea as he reached for her, hesitating for half a second before touching her hand that was curled into a fist against the bed.

“Please do not touch me.” She whispered, all trace of malice gone from her voice, and so he didn’t.

Tears of his own were beginning to fill as he watched her, watched her thin shoulders shake as she shoved down her emotions. When he finally spoke, barely able to push back that knot in his throat, he told her about the Sun Summoner. About the Darkling’s betrayal and the war on the horizon. About the sea whip and the adventures he’d been on. About how he loved her, and had missed her, and how he’d doing anything for her to just…smile at him again.

But she was quiet, and after a full minute had passed, he wiped the wetness from his face and stood, headed towards the door.

“Do not come to me again.” Her voice was so quiet he hardly heard it and he turned, pained and stunned. “I—I don’t think I can…” her throat cleared. “The things he—I don’t know if I can stop myself if you..” she couldn’t finish her sentence, couldn’t finish the thought, and his mind raced as he tried to understand what exactly she was saying to him.

“Kirigan?” He asked, brows furrowed, and she stilled. “Kirigan? Tell me, Y/N, and I’ll fix this. You’ll come home with me, tonight, and we’ll—”

“This cannot be fixed.” She said, so slowly it sounded as if there was a period in between each word. “I have been…I cannot see you.”

“Just look at me.” He insisted, frustration and pain and fear rising when she didn’t. “Please. Just look at me and acknowledge that I love you, that I’ll fight for you, and we can fix this.”

He watched her shoulders droop as she turned, fixing him with a look full of hope and sadness. He almost dropped to his knees but managed to stand, holding his shoulders back the way a prince would.

“I’m taking you with me.” He told her, voice firm. “You’re not staying in this—this place. I swear to take care of you, for the rest of my life, if need be.” When he didn’t respond, he added, “I love you. Please believe me.”

So the girl swallowed, blinking at her prince, and moved, standing on shaking, too skinny legs. And she followed him wordlessly out, neither of them touching, as they left for his carriage towards the grand palace.

***

The war had been bloody and horrific. The other Grisha—the ones working for Kirigan, had power like nothing the others had ever seen. But it was the figure in a black dress, flimsy and ridiculously thin, that strode across the quiet feel towards Kirigan’s army. That was the figure that struck everyone dumb, staring at her determined face and gaunt body.

Nikolai and his friends froze, watching her emerge from the fort, expression so blank it was like looking at a ghost. She stared back at the enemy Grisha that looked at her, confusion in their eyes at her weaponless state.

“You,” the brunette in the front, the one that threw ice at her prince, started, voice trembling a fraction. “You’re um—you’re General Kirigan’s prize, right? The one he uh,” she looked at the others; shame had coated some of their faces, and she wondered how much they truly knew of her torture. Nikolai had gone deathly pale at the sight of her. “we won’t hurt you. Just—just come over here, and we’ll shield you, okay? You’ll be safe, Y/N.”

All fighting had ceased, watching the exchange with interest and tension, and the fire bearing Grisha beside the brunette spoke up.

“Come on, Y/N. You’re safe with us.”

And as Nikolai watched her, heart climbing in his throat, a small, sinister smile began to pull at the healer’s mouth.

“I’d like you to tell Kirigan something for me, if you don’t mind.” She whispered, her low voice quiet enough that everyone stopped moving, stopped breathing, in order to hear her. “Tell him I love him for what he did to me.” She said, and her hands moved.

The Grisha didn’t have a chance.

They dropped the ground, almost as one, all of them; they clutched their throats and gasped, unable to use their power if they tried. But Y/N simply tilted her head to the side, watching with a hungry, hateful stare.

When blood seeped from their eyes, their noses, their mouths, Nikolai turned and vomited onto the ground, the sight something of a nightmare made reality. The Grisha were dead within seconds, every single one of them, and Y/N sank onto the ground, her eyes finding Tolya’s. He was closest, his sword in hand, and the only one not shaking with fear.

“Kill me, please.” She whispered, still feeling utterly numb at what she’d just done.

“If you touch her,” Nikolai panted, shoving himself to his feet. “I will kill you where you stand.”

Her gaze snapped to the prince’s as he approached, then dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around her. He breathed in her scent, ignoring the whispers around them, not when her pale hand moved hesitantly up to touch his back.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered, piecing together her behavior—her appearance—what the Grisha had said—and then her power. Her dark power that was unnatural, that was nothing he’d ever seen before. “I won’t leave you again. I’m sorry.”

He pressed a kiss against her brow and she sighed, leaning into him. The power in her had been satisfied by the multitude of quick deaths, and his blood didn’t roar in her ears the way it sometimes did when he’d brought her to the palace, had brought her to his rooms, had fed her soup and clothed her and jabbered away even if she didn’t respond.

And on the days she refused to get out of bed, her expression haunted, he stayed beside her, refusing to leave the woman he loved. Not when he knew, somehow, that she’d been tortured ever since he had left. And though she still refused to tell him what had happened…well, they had time for that later.

“I do—” she swallowed, trying to bring the words out of her. “I do—love…you.” She said, her throat practically searing against the phrase, as the power inside her growled its disapproval. But Nikolai only kissed her forehead again, utterly unafraid of her.

She pulled back to look at him, touching his face with a tiredness that was bone deep, and forced her eyes not to linger on the gash on his head. If she did, she might feel the urge to see just how much it could bleed.

“I’m…” she swallowed again. She’d hardly spoken a word in months; it felt strange to communicate in more than nods or shakes of her head. “I’m going to…kill..”

He saw the look in her eyes and helped her up, his friends backing away from the girl as if she had the Black Plague. But her eyes simply swept over the clearing, meeting every gaze she saw, and spoke. For the first time in three years, she felt a sense of strength.

“Kirigan is mine.” She said, glaring around at them once more, before striding off into the distance, stepping over the bodies of her fallen Grisha on the way out of the fortress.

***

Kirigan had died begging.

She was laughing as she tugged his blood from his body, his eyes pleading with her. She had even mocked him, mocked him, miming choking on something as he gurgled and gagged on his own life’s blood. And when he was dead, good and truly dead, a strange weight whooshed out of her and she collapsed, panting.

Nikolai was at her side in seconds, Alina having had cleared the Fold, and when his hand touched her shoulder she felt, for the first time in a long time, no thrum of heartbeat. No hint of blood. She turned to look at him, eyes wide; Kirigan’s death had somehow reversed the damage. She raised her hands, healing the gash on his head, and sobbed in relief when his skin stitched together instead of tearing apart.

“Darling,” he sighed, gathering her into him, holding her close. “darling you’re safe. You’re free, now.”

“My—” she choked as she gasped for air, hardly able to breathe past the ache of relief in her chest. “Nikolai, I need you. I need you beside me.”

“I am yours.” He said simply, holding her close, and wondered, for the first time in a while, if a future with the woman he loved was truly possible.

And later, after months of healing, after hesitant attempts at stitching wounds, of curing illnesses, of gaining her color and gorgeous figure back, she finally told him of the horrors she had endured. When he had wept for her, she’d promised she loved him, and had endured it for him. For they would do anything for each other—anything.

And damn them if Kirigan would ever interfere again.

don’t ask where or why I came up with this but it’s gnarly to me to imagine someone with that kind of power xx

#shadow and bone #six of crows #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov x reader #shadow and bone imagine #nikolai x reader #wattpad #aleksander kirigan #general kirigan #the darkling #blood bender #Grisha

[sweetpascal]

" never would have thought "

summary: having been friends for a few years, you never would have thought you'd lower your standards to fill that void in your life. no matter how many times könig has tried to prove your worth, you're too blinded.

warnings: !! ANGST !! (grab the tissues), könig tries his best, heartbreak, toxic situationships, rejection, no happy ending

wc: 2.2k

notes: i remembered about all of my horrible situationships and it somehow included könig in the thoughts ?? also, könig is NOT gonna act how you think he's gonna act. trust me. !! THIS WILL HURT !!

.・゜゜・.・゜゜・.・゜゜・.・゜゜・.・゜゜・.・゜゜・.・゜゜・

for the third time this week, you got blown off. it was confusing to say the least. you were doing everything right; not making too many jokes, being quiet when it's necessary, wearing clothes you wouldn't normally wear to keep him attracted. but it all is continuously one note. you keep giving, but have never received once. you knew how stupid you were being. you saw the red flags clear as day. the only thing that scared you if you ended whatever it was between you two is that you wouldn't find another person to fill in that lonely gap. you reread the texts back and forth, eyes swollen from the tears you've wept.

him: can't do it 2nite. reschedule ?

you: oh.. yep ! that's fine with me ! maybe tomorrow ?

him: idk y/n, i told you we'll see. i'll talk to you later 👍🏼

a fucking thumbs up emoji. you were better than a thumbs up emoji, but you didn't care. you threw your phone down and sobbed harder in your pillow. you two weren't even exclusive. it was mainly talking, the occasional hang out and hookup, and that's it. a hand rubbing your back made you cry harder.

"i'm so fucking stupid!" you wailed and pounded your fist into the mattress. you lift your head up to face your best friend who has been by your side through literally everything. könig. the quiet giant who chose you as his friend.

"don't say that, bohne," he tuts. "he's just.. immature and navigating his way through life by taking advantage of women like you."

"women like me? y-you mean gullible, stupid, lonely, sensitive, insecure women?" you sniffled and sat up in your bed. "god, it's just.. why can't i find the one person that makes me feel good about myself. like romantically and sexually and emotionally."

könig pulls his hand away and repositions himself against your headboard. it pained him that you thought of yourself as those horrid, negative words. he never saw that in you, ever. he sighs deeply through his nose and gives you a small shrug. "what i think.. and i'm saying this as your friend.. but what i think, bohne, is that you never learned how to enjoy life alone."

you squint at him. "what.. what do you mean?"

he shrugs again and plays with the ring on his middle finger. you have a matching one that you wear on your thumb. "you're so scared of being alone that you'll take whatever you can get and that's not a good mindset. you know. i know it."

what he says rings true, but it didn't feel good hearing them, especially from him. it was embarrassing having him see the texts and hear your cries. könig has met your situationship twice in a social gathering. the first time, he immediately told you of his dislike for the guy. the second time, he didn't bother to look, let alone speak to him. and if a guy friend says another guy isn't good for you, that's your cue to cut ties and believe your friend. but you didn't want to do that. there was something so invigorating about him that you couldn't pull away from.

it's been about a week since könig has witnessed your unnecessary heartache. and ever since then, you've been texting him updates between you and your situationship. you called könig one night and he hears your breathless giggles and slurring words. you had been so excited to tell him about your date. it was at a bar. you bought your own drinks. you bought your own food. and the guy invited his own friends. and for some reason, you didn't see a problem with that as long as you were within his proximity. it hurt your friend, very deeply. he knows in his heart that you didn't deserve this treatment, especially from someone you're not even dating. your priorities should've been on better things and not someone who only calls you for a quickie and a half assed hangout.

there was a knock on his front door. könig stopped doing pull-ups in his bedroom door and planted his feet onto the ground. he combed a hand through his sweaty, messy hair and fixed his backwards hat. when he opened the door, he was immediately taken aback and in awe of your appearance. you were wearing a pretty sundress - one of his favorite's actually. the color accentuated your skin tone and brought out the color of your eyes too. speaking of your eyes, they were puffy and rimmed red. when you let out a weak whimper, könig said nothing else and instead gently grabbed your wrist, pulled you inside, and gave you a bear hug as he shut the door with his foot and leaned against it.

you sobbed and wailed and gripped his shirt so tightly in your hands that he was sure you were going to cut through the fabric with your nails.

"he.. he has a girl-girlfriend now," you sobbed and shook your head, the hammering of your heart not stopping and the butterflies in the pit of your stomach never going away. "he p-posted her! on.. on his in-instagram!"

with shaking hands, you showed könig his account. and there he was, arm wrapped around a tanned blonde girl wearing a hockey jersey and jean booty shorts. the caption was simply a kissy face emoji. könig tuts and continues to hold you in his thick arms, his eyes clenching shut as you kept crying in his chest. his heart cracked every single time a whimper spilled from your lips. this needed to stop, now.

"y/n," he whispered when your crying turned into painful hiccuping and sniffles. "you.. you need to stop doing this to yourself. and doing this to me, bohne." since the situationship finally cut ties with you, he guessed now was the time to clear the air.

your brows furrowed as you stared up at him. "what do you mean? doing.. doing what to you?"

könig felt bitter. bitter at the fact that you never saw him as a person and only a form of comfort. he lets out a small scoff and drops his arms to his sides, staring down at you with heartbreak in his eyes.

"you know when we first met, the first thing that drew me to you was how strong a head you had on your shoulders. i always told myself that you could do anything. and even if you failed, you would still brush it off like it was nothing and keep going," he tells you with a grimace on his face, one that he specifically reserved for people who have done him wrong. seeing that look on his face had you feeling nervous. "and then.. verdammte hölle.. you get mixed up in these messes and i'm always the one to pick up the pieces."

you were stunned. there no words to describe what you were feeling right now. how dare he try to put the blame on you? how dare he try to make this about him?

"you are my friend, könig. my best friend. that's what best friends are supposed to do-"

he laughs. he actually laughs in your face. "supposed to do? supposed to do? i am not supposed to do anything. it is not an obligation of mine as your friend to only be seen as a person of comfort. that is not who i am, verdammt noch mal!"

one thing about könig is when he's pissed, he'll slip into german. and by the looks and sound of it, you can tell that this man in front of you has reached his breaking point. did you really cause this?

"you're.. you're the only friend i have, k! there's nobody else whose been there for me like you have!" you're starting to get pissed too. why is he so upset over something you chose to do? it shouldn't have effected him, right? why is it effecting him? what's going on?

"that's exactly it!" his voice raises an octave higher. "this is what i have told you from the beginning, ja? you couldn't stand being alone, so you felt the need to-to, what? hurt yourself even more by going out with these stücke scheiße to forget about just how lonely and sad you are?"

now that one stung. you blinked back tears and shook your head at him. "how dare you?" your voice was cold and quiet.

"how dare me?" könig lets out a humorless laugh and crosses his arms. you try to ignore the fact that the action of him doing so has increased the size of his biceps. "how dare you, y/n? you have used me for your own emotional comfort over and over without even realizing how much it has pained me. you have been so blinded from these-these sad excuses for men from really seeing what was in front of you."

your eyes widened and you swallowed down a gasp. without being told anymore details, you knew where this confession was going. you shook your head at him again and pressed your hands to your forehead. "oh, no, no, no," you whispered to yourself. "this was not supposed to happen."

könig looks away from you and instead stares at his feet. "no.. it wasn't," he replies quietly. he didn't know what else to say. here he was, heart out in the open, as vulnerable as they come. it's either a make or break type of situation. his heart grew heavy.

you really didn't want to do this right now, but there was no other choice. after all of these harsh words have been exchanged, you might as well bite the bullet. you took a step forward towards him, and then another, and soon you're standing just in his line of sight.

"könig," you whispered and laid a hand on his tense forearm. your bottom lip trembled and your eyes got all glossy with tears. "you are my best friend, but.."

"yeah.. there it is," he muttered to himself with a sad chuckle. "but you only see me as such, ja?"

there was a tense silence now between you two. könig moved away from you, letting your hand fall from his arm. you sniffled and swallowed down the pitiful whimper that threatened to leave your lips.

"you don't see it, do you?" he looks at you now, and you burn under his gaze. "with every cry, every heartbreak, every episode, i have been there. but where were you for me?"

that was the question that finally made you break. you covered your face with your hands and turned away from him. you couldn't even lie to yourself anymore. everything he had said was true. the ache in your chest only worsened at the thought of losing the one good person in your life. when you turned around again, könig was holding the front door open. you didn't even hear him do that.

"bear," you whispered brokenly, tears freely sliding down your cheeks as you stood before him again, desperate for a reaction or for him to tell you that he was just kidding. "remember me? it's your bohne?"

bear and bohne, or bean, as he loved to call you. those were your nicknames for each other due to your height and size differences. the names stuck for years and even then, you two would refer to each other as such.

könig shakes his head at you, opening the door wider when you tried touching his arm again. "no," he mutters. "you were never mine to begin with."

and that was the final crack in your heart before it shattered into a million pieces. who would have thought that your dumb decisions could cause one of the worst heartbreaks you could ever imagine? you whispered his name again, so broken and pitiful. but he didn't bother to look at you. he instead closes his eyes.

"it's time for you to go now," he tells you, his hand tightening around the knob behind the door that you couldn't see.

when you try to call his name again, he opens his eyes. and right there, you see the tears threatening to fall. the slight tremble in his lip and the way he furrowed his brows and clenched his jaw to prevent a single tear to roll down his cheek.

"bitte," he whispers.

that was a word you understood very well. in the early stages of your friendship, having learned that könig was of german heritage, you made it a point for him to teach you german words and phrases.

please, is what he said. he was begging you to leave. in all your years of knowing him, you have never heard that word come from that man's lips. he has never begged anyone to do anything, ever. so hearing him beg you to leave his apartment and essentially leave him alone for whoever knows how long tore you up. you stood in front of him in silence one last time and finally got the courage to exit. the second your feet touched the tiled ground of the hallway, the door slammed shut and locked behind you.

later that night, you saw that he had blocked your number when you tried sending him an apology text. who would have thought?

#OH MY GOD THIS HURT ME SO BAD TO WRITE #it takes a lot of maturing to realize who was right and who was wrong #baby könig did not deserve that 😭 #könig x reader #könig angst #könig

[pintsizemama]

Elf

Day 7

Summary: You have to do some quick thinking when there’s an elf emergency.

Pairings: Frankie Morales x You, Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Fandom: Triple Frontier

Rating: Mature

Warnings: language, fear for a child

Word Count: 817

A/N: This is part of the Single Dad Frankie series.

Day 6 Day 8 Christmas Masterlist Main Masterlist AO3 Join my taglist

A piercing scream resounded through the house. You and Frankie dropped your coffee mugs onto the table and ran towards the sound, terror slicing through your hearts.

“Baby girl?” Frankie called out as you rushed into the family room. Maria was standing in the middle of the room sobbing. “What happened? Are you hurt?” Maria didn’t answer and cried harder. Frankie knelt in front of her and gently took her shoulders in his hands.

“I need you to tell me what’s wrong, baby,” Frankie said gently. You admired his calm among the chaos. Your own heart was pounding and your hands shaking. You were worried about Maria—and you knew Frankie was too—but your husband always kept his cool in stressful situations. His military training never really went away. You glanced quickly around for Ana. You had set her in her pack-n-play before going into the kitchen to get coffee. She sat happily in the pen gurgling to her big sister.

“Christmas is ruined!” Maria wailed.

“What? How?” Frankie asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. Maria sobbed louder and pointed to Ana. You looked back and a flash of red in your daughter’s hand had you moving forward. Ah, shit. She had Lucy—Maria’s elf on the shelf—in her chubby little hands, gumming at its hat. You rubbed your forehead in frustration.

“Lucy’s magic is gone!” Maria cried harder. “She can’t go back to the North Pole, and Santa is going to think I’m naughty!”

“The elf?” Frankie’s voice was gruff with suppressed anger. “This is all about the damn elf? I thought you were injured, Maria.”

“I’d rather have a broken leg than for Lucy to lose her magic!” Maria cried dramatically. “Lucy will be in so much trouble, and I’ll never get a present from Santa!” Frankie sighed. He stood up, his knees popping loudly.

“Careful, old man,” you teased him. He just shook his head and walked over to you. You carefully extracted the elf from Ana’s hands and mouth. “Ana, Lucy isn’t a toy.” Her little lip jutted out and big fat tears filled her eyes. “It’s alright.” You handed her a teddy bear that was laying in the pack-n-play. “How about you give Teddy some hugs.” Ana took the bear and promptly tried to devour its ear. Frankie was staring at the elf with malice as Maria cried behind you.

“Maybe it’s time to tell her the truth,” Frankie suggested.

“Don’t you dare, Francisco,” you warned. “We are not ruining the magic of Christmas for her. I got this.” You turned to Maria and knelt in front of her. “Maria, it’s alright. I know exactly what to do.”

“Y-You do?” Maria asked shakily, her lower lip trembling.

“Yep,” you replied. “I’m gonna call the North Pole hospital and let them know what happened. They can send up some medicine for Lucy so she can get her magic back.”

“Really?” Maria’s face perked up. “They can do that?”

“Of course!” You assured her. “Same thing happened to my friend’s elf when we were little. Just a small dose of medicine and some rest, and she was good as new!”

“Yay!” Maria cheered excitedly. “I’m so glad she’s going to be ok.” Her smile suddenly fell. “Santa isn’t going to be mad at Ana, is he? I don’t want her to get into trouble.”

“No, Santa won’t be mad,” you said gently. “He understands that she’s just a baby and doesn’t know the rules yet.”

“Ok, good,” Maria said relieved. “Ana is such a good baby. And the best little sister. She deserves presents too.” You smiled warmly.

“Why don’t you watch a Christmas movie with Ana while I call the North Pole,” you suggested. “Then we can have some breakfast.”

“Ok!” Maria bounced over to the couch and grabbed the remote. You took the elf into your room to ‘make your call’. Frankie followed you in.

“What’s the plan?” He asked.

“I’m going to grab a box and some doll blankets,” you explained. I’ll fill one of her little baby bottles with food dye and water and write up some care instructions. Then I’ll put it all in the box and smack a label on the front to make it look like it was delivered from the North Pole. Then we put it on the front porch and act surprised.” Frankie’s eyes widened.

“How the hell did you come up with that?” He asked in awe. You shrugged.

“Just came to me,” you replied.

“You’re fucking incredible,” he said softly and kissed you. “Thank you for not letting me ruin this for Maria.”

“I got you,” you said with a smile. “Now go keep them busy so I can make a mobile elf hospital.” Frankie chuckled as he walked out of the room. You looked down at the little elf in your hand. “You really are a pain in the ass.”

Day 8

Join my taglist

If you enjoy my blog and would like to support it, you can always buy me a coffee. Not necessary, but always appreciated.

Taglist:

@alexxavicry @amneris21 @awhitewyvern @burrito-stuffs @dreedhudson @emilianamason @fatimaisabelpascal @gioispunk @greeneyedblondie44 @harperdoodle @harriedandharassed @hayley-the-comet @hnt-escape @holb32 @icedberrybubble @just-here-for-the-moment @kirsteng42 @lizette50 @loompyinaway @maxwell--lord @mendes-bae @mishasminion360 @mswarriorbabe80 @my-sweetheart1776 @peach-child @pedrostories @sherala007 @slyterinstuff @stevie75 @thevoiceinyourheadx @uwiuwi @wakaladjarin @wildmoonflower @xocalliexo @chxosunbound @christinamadsen @nandan11

#pedro pascal #christmas writing challenge #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #fluff #frankie catfish morales x you #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales x you #frankie catfish morales x reader

[alyswritings]

could i request a tom and zendaya as parents and one of the parents has to go off for a film job and the baby/toddler is really missing them and the parent with them struggles thank u !

Tom left a few days ago to start filming a new movie, Zendaya and Y/N staying back home.

Ever since Tom left, Y/N hasn't been able to sleep, the goodnights over FaceTime not doing justice to the real thing. She's been sleeping in her parents' bed every night, but still doesn't sleep. Her lack of sleep has also effected Zendaya who doesn't sleep as much since her daughter is up.

Y/N hasn't had to be away from either of her parents for too long since they both reeled back on acting to focus more on their child than their careers. This is only Tom's second project since having Y/N and the first one was filmed close to home so he didn't have to travel anywhere and came home every night.

"I want daddy!" Y/N sobs.

"I know, baby. I know. Your daddy's working." Zendaya says, trying to comfort her child.

"Daddy!" Y/N wails.

"I know, baby. I know. I miss him too." Zendaya says as Y/N crashes into her mom's chest, sobbing into her shirt. Zendaya frowns, placing a soft kiss to her daughter's head. "I know, sweetheart. But we can FaceTime him later."

"No!" Y/N sobs.

Zendaya sadly sighs, hugging her daughter tighter.

A few hours later, Y/N is taking a nap, having exhausted herself from crying, and Zendaya is on the phone with Tom.

"It's, like, the third meltdown this week. She's not used to one of us gone. And this past hour is the most sleep she's gotten in days." Zendaya says.

"Well, what if... what if you guys just came here?" Tom suggests.

"What?" Zendaya asks.

"Yeah. I mean, she's not old enough for school, you're not filming anything there or anything. I don't see what obstacles there really are." Tom says. "Hell, we should've just done this in the first place."

"But what if she gets homesick? Or what if I get homesick?" Zendaya asks.

"We'll use my days off and fly home. Especially cause if she's here for too long, she'll start crying for her uncles and grandparents and all that." Tom chuckles.

"Yeah." Zendaya lightly laughs. "Okay. Okay. Yeah. I will... I will buy the plane tickets, pack."

"Okay. So, I'll see you two soon, then?" Tom says.

"Yep." Zendaya asks.

"Okay. Love you. I gotta go, they're calling me." Tom says. He blows her a kiss and she blows one back. "Kiss Y/N for me."

"You got it." Zendaya softly smiles as the two hang up.

- - -

Zendaya and Y/N walk onto the set, Zendaya holding her daughter's hand.

"Whoa!" Y/N gasps, marveling at the place. Zendaya softly laughs at her reaction.

"This cool?" Zendaya asks and Y/N vehemently nods.

"Hey! There's my two favorite girls!" The familiar British accent cheers.

"Daddy!" Y/N screams, grinning, and running towards him. Tom grins, crouching down and holding his arms out. Y/N crashes into him, her arms wrapping around his neck.

Tom softly groans as he picks her up, tightly hugging her and sways back and forth.

"Oh, hi, my love." Tom greets, kissing her on the head. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you a lot." Y/N states, hugging him tighter.

"Oh, yeah? How much?" Tom asks.

"This much." Y/N holds her arms out to her sides.

"Oh, wow, that's a lot." Tom gasps. "You know how much I missed you?"

"How much?" Y/N asks.

"That much." He points to her extended arms. "And..." He puts her down before holding his arms out. "This much." Y/N giggles, tugging on his hoodie until he picks her up again. "And hello, my adult love." Tom smiles at Zendaya.

"Hi." She quietly says, kissing him, and smiling.

"So... somebody told me you haven't been sleeping lately." Tom says, looking back at his daughter.

"I just missed you." Y/N defends, showing him her puppy dog eyes that always manage to melt his heart.

"Well, then it's a good thing you have me back. Because now you can sleep as long as you're able to." Tom says.

Taglist: @glxwingrxse @venomsvl @wildieflower @aliciacat20 @allyson15 @gabbylovesreading @itsmaneskinbitch

#tom holland #zendaya #tomdaya #tomdaya x daughter reader #tomdaya x daughter!reader #tom holland x daughter reader #tom holland x daughter!reader #zendaya x daughter reader #zendaya x daughter!reader

[finniestoncrane]

Oooo! For the event: Young Justice Riddler and #3

>:3

🎀 No. 3: Up The Junction 🎀

give me a character and i'll write some headcanons on how they react when you break up with them a/n: perfect, time to be cruel >:) 1k milestone info! 🔞minors dni🔞 • kofi • tag: finnie1k

oh! you don't want to date him anymore? that's fine, totally ok!

no no no, omg don't worry, totally understandable!

you are a wonderful person, and he wishes you luck in your future relationships

these things happen, y'know? onwards and upwards

ok well bye!

and impressively, he's maintaining the kind smile until you are completely out of sight

and then he's sobbing and wailing like a man witnessing the worst tregedies of his life

the goons that come back from a three-round fight with batman don't look this traumatised

and they certainly don't cry as much

who is he supposed to rely on for emotional support now?

himself? HA! he'll crumble like an empty bag of crisps

and what if he gets sent back to arkham?

he'll never fit in with the cool criminals if no one even bothers to visit him

and let's face it, you were the only one who maybe would

so what follows is weeks of data collection and statistical analysis as he tries to figure out just what's wrong with him

or at least what could make you leave him

and then a dastardedly, but poorly executed, plan to get you back

ending with him, yep, you guessed it

beaten up by children and placed into a fashionable straitjacket

#finnie1k #finnie writes #riddler #the riddler #riddler imagine #the riddler imagine #the riddler fanfic #riddler fanfic #riddler x reader #riddler x you #young justice riddler #young justice!riddler

[just-your-average-author]

That time Patton thought Virgil was a Drug Addict

Patton was worried. He didn't like being worried and he certainly didn't like why he was worried. Patton had always considered himself the dad of the group, and like any responsible parent, it was his job to make sure everyone in his famILY was safe and happy. Patton tutted and sighed, scrolling furiously on his computer, scanning the paragraphs with his eyes. Why did science have to be so difficult to understand? Finally, he smiled having found a simplified page, that even had a built-in questionnaire! Perfect! He quickly glanced around, and upon making sure no one saw, he scribbled down a few of the questions on a post it, and cleared the history. There was no need worrying any one else.

Virgil was worried. Granted, Virgil was always worried so he wasn't too bothered by it. However, he started a new job and the stress had really gotten to him, so he sucked it up and took himself to a doctor appointment and gotten himself a fancy new prescription. Virgil read the bottle, noting he could take it up to three times a day, and shoved it in his pocket.

Over the course of a couple weeks, Virgil felt a lot better. He took his medicine whenever he felt panicked or like spiraling, and was even able to tolerate more social activities. He even accepted the other Sides' invitation to the mall, which he didn't notice Patton's look of concern at that. Yep! All was going well.

Virgil fidgeted with the pill bottle in his hand, hesitating before taking one of his pills. He was almost out, and he didn't get a refill for a couple days. "Dammit!" he muttered. Patton walked into the kitchen, glancing over at the anxious side, but trying to look inconspicuous. "Hey Virgil," Patton remarked, sounding casual. "What's wrong?"

Virgil tutted. "I'm almost out, and I can't get more until later," he nonchalantly answered, before walking past a thoroughly horrified Patton.

That was it, Patton thought to himself. Virgil obviously needed help, and he would be damned to see him struggle like this. He wondered if he should really Logan and Roman for this, but ultimately decided for the sake of Virgil, he should hold off unless it was truly needed.

The next day, Virgil was in the living room, typing on his phone when Patton strolled in. "Hey, Virgil, whatcha doing?"

Virgil shrugged. "Not much, just checking to see if my drugs are ready."

Patton sighed, "Kiddo, I think we need to talk." Virgil looked up from his phone and raised an eyebrow.

"Okay?"

"I just want you to know this is a safe space, and I'd like you to answer honestly, you aren't on trial here," he assured. Virgil just looked more puzzled.

"Okay?.."

"I know you've been taking these pills and," Patton stuttered, "I just had a few questions."

Ah, Virgil thought. Patton must be nervous to talk to a doctor about his anxiety too. "Sure, Patton. Go ahead."

Encouraged by Virgil's surprising cooperation, he recalled his questions. "Does taking this, well, drug, give you a feeling that you've escaped reality?"

Virgil cocked his eyebrow. "Uh no, not really. But, I mean that's the goal I suppose. To experience a better reality."

Patton gulped. "Interesting. Do you take the drug to make you happy?" Virgil chuckled.

"Yeah, that's kind of the point, Patton." he laughed.

"Oh dear," Patton whisperered. Virgil looked at him confused.

"Patton, I-"

"And do you look forward to them after a long day at work?" Patton interjected frantically.

Virgil tilted his head, "Patton they're for when I'm at work."

Patton let out a strangled sob and crumpled to the floor in tears. Alarmed, Virgil jumped up and raced over. "Patton what's the matter?"

"You're a drug addict!" he wailed, covered his eyes with his hands.

"What???"

Patton sniffled. "I know you're taking drugs, and I found this questionnaire online and rehab is expensive Virgil, but I have to help and-"

Virgil just started laughing, laughing harder then he had in a while. Patton looked mad. "This isn't funny! You need help Virgil, you're obviously dependent on these pills."

Still laughing, Vigil got up and handed Patton his pill bottle, "Patton, these are Hydroxyzine!"

"Gesundheit?" he asked, looking over the bottle.

Virgil laughed again. "It's an anti-anxiety medicine. My doctor prescribed it to me for stress." Virgil barely missed Patton's "Oh", before descending into deep laughter all over again.

Virgil quieted and watched Patton, realizing he had some explaining to do. "Patton, it's not about escaping reality or not being happy without it; it's a tool to help me function better, and avoid killing my idiotic manager," Virgil explained, trying to reassure his well-meaning friend.

Patton nodded, a mix of relief and understanding crossing his face. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure you're okay, Virgil. I care about you."

Virgil offered a small smile. "Thanks, Patton. I appreciate your concern. If you ever have questions, feel free to ask."

"Sandy is a little idiotic."

Virgil cackled. "A little? Boy let me tell you what happened Wednesday."

With that, the two continued their conversation, Patton now more informed about Virgil's perspective on anxiety medication, and Virgil grateful for Patton's caring nature, even if it sometimes led to amusing misunderstandings.

#creative writing #fanfiction #fanfic #sanders sides #virgil sanders #fic ideas #patton sanders #thomas sanders #ts virgil #ts patton #ts sides #tw drug mention #fluff #fanfic prompt #fic #fic idea #writing prompt #my writing #short story #story #@augustanon #@thatsthats24 #SUPRISE I WROTE SOMETHING

[seventiesdeadgaywizards]

forever young

Barty’s eyes begin to water, dropping to his knees in front of the prone body in front of him. A few meters away a man was staggering around clutching his eye, but Barty could care less.

He moves Evan’s golden curls aside, but they weren’t golden anymore- they were stained red with blood. “Bee!” Evan squeals, along with a hysterical laugh. “Bee’s here!” 

Barty looks down at him, tears falling from his eyes. “Yep. Bee’s here.” He says, quiet, taking Evan’s hand in his. “Hi Rosy.” He murmurs.

Evan gives him an insane-looking grin. “So many Bees! See, one, two, three…” With every number he points at different angles in the air, and at three he points at Barty. Suddenly, Evan’s face contorts in pain. “It hurts, Bee. Hurts so bad.” He whimpers out, hand pawing at Barty’s chest, as if trying to get a good hold on something.

This statement drags Barty’s attention to the thin cut across his forehead. He knows that isn’t what’s killing him, but he can’t bear to look and see what else is paining him. He wipes away the blood. “M’sorry, Rosy. Wish it didn’t hurt.” He takes Evan’s hand in his. 

Evan is consoled by this physical touch. “Bee. Bee. I-“ He cuts off his statement, letting out another pained whimper. 

“What’s wrong, Rosy?” Barty whispers. He knows knows it’s near the end now, and he’s trying and failing to hold on to his hand and be reassuring. He strokes Evan’s hand, feeling as the sticky blood transfers over. It makes him shudder slightly.

“Bee.. Bee-temius…” Evan does a weak little laugh as he combines the nickname with his real name.

“That’s me, Ev,” Barty murmurs.

“Bee, I love you…” These words are said with such conviction, unlike his recent almost hysterical manner. 

Then Barty witnessed something that will repeat on his head for the rest of his life.

His eyes go vacant.

His cheeks go pale.

Jaw slack.

Barty lets put a choked sob, “No! Rosy, no, we had to get married… and have a big house… and finally adopt a cat like you wanted… why the fuck didn’t we adopt a cat?!” Barty wails, tears trailing down his face as he shakes his unmoving body. “I love you, Rosy…” His voice trails off.

He lifts a shaking hand to close his lover’s eyelids, making him look so peaceful he could almost be asleep.

Then he gets up, head angles downward and shadow over his face apart from his mouth. he lunges at the eyeless man from before, stabbing a knife through his arm.

Clean through.

The man looks in shock with his one eye before promptly apparating away.

With one last glance at the body and the deep chest wound he hadn’t allowed himself to look at before, Barty decided he would get his revenge.

He was sure of it.

For Evan lay there.

Lifeless.

Forever young. 

#marauders era #rosekiller #evan rosier #barty crouch jr #angst #rosekiller angst

[quill-pen]

Like George

Finally got this done! Now can focus on other things that need to be done. Thanks again to @rom-e-o for the inspiration.

I way overwrote on this. I need help.

Pairings: Assorted

Rating: Rated T--minors welcome

Warnings: Feelings of all kinds and sorts, the Asshat is here--he's disgusting and terrifying, depression, lack of self-confidence and self-esteem issues, sappiness and tooth-decaying sweetness at the end, some innuendo

Summary: A comparison of the significant men in Bess' life to the first man who ever held her heart, as well as her life around them all.

Theme: Assorted

Rural Ohio--Cincinnati 10 miles--August 1829;

"Figured I'd find you here."

Bess Sullivan looked down from her spot in her favorite tree to see her stepfather standing below her. The tall, bearded, curly brown-haired man smiled warmly up at her, his hands perched on his hips. Sniffling, the nine-year-old wiped her arm across her sodden cheeks and under her drippy nose. Her midnight-blue eyes still swam with tears. "H-Hi, George," she stammered, trying to steady her voice.

George's smile fell, concern flooding into his soft brown eyes. "Hey, I don't like that shaky voice--you sound like you've been cryin'," he remarked gently. The carpenter stepped closer to the trunk and craned his neck to try and get a better look at the girl. "What's wrong, Mudpuppy?" he asked, voice so full of softness and warmth.

His tone and the usage of her pet name set the child to sobbing all over again. Plunging her face into her skirt, Bess pulled her knees closer to her chest and wailed. She cried so loud and hard that she began hyperventilating.

That alarmed the man. "Whoa! Hey! Not good!" Without hesitation, the man grabbed a large knot in the tree's trunk, placed his foot on another, and began to haul himself up the tree. In seconds he was pulling himself up to sit on the branch that jutted out directly in front of his step-daughter. Throwing a leg over to straddle the limb, he scooted as close as he could to the girl and reached out for her. "Bess. Bessie, Sweetheart, look at me." He placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them to get her attention. "Look at me, Little Darlin'." When the girl dared to peek up at him, he smiled encouragingly and nodded. "That's right, Mudpuppy." He cupped her cheek with a large, warm, weathered hand, stroking her tears away. "Look at me. And breathe--in-" he breathed deeply with her, "- and out." He exhaled with her. "In. Out. Slow, big breaths. That's my girl." George reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, and brought it to Bess' face. He gently began to dry her off.

It was a few minutes before Bess had regained control of herself. Her puffy eyes were still watery, her lashes wet and heavy, her cheeks were hot with tear stains, and her nose hadn't stopped running yet, but she wasn't sobbing anymore, and she was mostly dried off. For the moment anyway.

"There now," George crooned. He shifted around on the branch to get more comfortable as he settled in for a conversation. "That's better, yeah? Think you can talk now? 'Cuz I'd like to know why you're up here cryin' like the sky's gonna come fallin' down."

The thing was, that was exactly how Bess was feeling at the moment: The sky was going to fall down--or at least her sky was. Hanging her head, the nine-year-old started to study the calico pattern of her skirt. "Did you talk to Mama?" she muttered hoarsely.

"Yep. That's why I came lookin' for ya. She said you two had an argument and you went runnin' off."

"Did she tell you exactly why I ran off?"

"Not in so many words." George's voice became very soft as he went on: "She said she told you about the baby."

Bess said nothing, just peeked up from beneath her brows at her stepfather.

The man looked genuinely sorry. "I wish she'd waited," he stated quietly, shaking his head. "I told her I wanted to be there when we told you, Mudpuppy." He smiled sympathetically at her. "To make it easier."

Bess sniffed and turned her gaze down again. "Yeah, well, she didn't," she grumbled. "That's Mama for you." Hugging her thighs, Bess drew her legs close again.

Silence fell over the tree. Wild birds' songs filled the emptiness.

"I know..." George broke the silence after a long while,"... it's gonna be a change, Bess--goin' from bein' an only child to bein' a big sister-"

"Does this mean you won't love me anymore?"

The question hit George like a battering ram, knocking all words and ability to speak right out of his head. He couldn't help but stare at the girl, who in turn stared almost desperately up at him as she waited for an answer. Finally George found his voice. "What?" he croaked in disbelief. "I... Bess, why would you ask that?"

Tears were welling in the girl's eyes, threatening to spill over again. "Mama said..." she quivered, "... th-that... now that you're having your own kids... y-you might not spend... s-so much time w-with me. Sh-She says... you might j-just want... yo-your own kid a-and n-not me." A tear trickled past Bess' lashes, and then another, glistening like diamonds as they descended down her freckled cheeks. "A-Are... are you not gonna be my daddy anymore, George?"

"What? No!" George was incredulous, his heart breaking at the little girl's tears and palpable fear. Instinctively, the big man sat up and grabbed up the child, pulling her into his strong arms as he scooted in to take Bess' seat in the junction of the tree. He held his stepdaughter tight to his barrel of a chest, curling around her to envelop her with a physical representation of his love. "Of course, I'm gonna be your daddy, Bess," he murmured, cradling the back of her head in his large palm as she buried her face in his chest. "I'm always gonna be your daddy--nothin's ever gonna change that, not even a baby. Not even a hundred babies."

"Not even your own baby?" Bess squeaked, her voice muffled against his shirt. She hugged her stepfather with all her nine-year-old might, never wanting to let him go and never wanting him to let her go. She felt so protected in his arms--so safe; like no one and nothing would ever be able to touch her while she was being held by George. She didn't want that to go away, ever.

"You are my baby, Bessie."

"I'm not your blood though."

"Don't matter--you're as much my baby as any child your mama and I have together, and I'll always love you just as much." George kissed her forehead, nuzzling into her hair after. "You're my little Mudpuppy," he murmured. "I picked you when I picked your mama--fell in love with you as much as I fell in love with her. I adopted you, gave you my name: You're mine, Bess. Blood or not, you're my little girl and I couldn't be happier or prouder of that. You're my Mudpuppy, and I will always love you."

Bess' chin trembled, the man's words hugging her aching heart just as warmly and tightly as his arms hugged the rest of her. But her mother's words still haunted her. "B-But Mama said-"

"Shh, I know what your mama said," George stopped her, stroking her back soothingly. "She and I are gonna have a long talk about what she said when we get home. I want you to forget about what she said, Bess--all of it. Don't pay it any mind; your mama's wrong. I love her with all my heart, but your mama is wrong, Mudpuppy; and she never shoulda said somethin' like that to you."

Bess sniffled and let go of her stepfather, gently pushing away from him enough to meet his eyes. She loved his eyes--always had. Always so warm and gentle, even now in her heartache and fear, those deep brown irises made her feel so calm, so loved, so wanted. She felt like she was something special, in George's eyes; like she mattered. And when George looked at her like he was now, with nothing but softness, love, and compassion in his gaze, she felt like the very center of the world. It warmed her to the very core of her soul.

"So you're still gonna love me?" she whispered, drying her eyes on her sleeve again. "Even with you and Mama having a baby?"

Chuckling with a gentle smile, George cupped the girl's face in his palm again. "Yes, Mudpuppy," he cooed. "I'm still gonna love ya. Always and forever."

"And you're still gonna be my daddy?"

"Yep."

"And you're still gonna have time for me?"

"Yep. Maybe not quite as much as I do now 'cause the baby's gonna need me to be their daddy too, ya know, but I'll always make time for you, Bess."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Cross your heart?"

George did just that as he held his right hand to God. "And hope to die."

At that, a small hint of a smile finally quivered its way onto Bess' lips. She wrapped her arms around the man's neck again and cuddled close; a relieved sigh left her as her stepfather wrapped his arms tight around her again and she closed her eyes, listening to the beat of his heart in her ear. It was steady, strong, unwavering, and full of love. Love never withheld from her, no matter how sick or tired or hurt or angry he was, not even when she was in trouble; love that she never had to work to earn but was freely given without strings attached. Pure love. Pure love for her--that made her feel warm and cozy from head to toe.

"Hey," George quietly murmured after a moment, "remember what I told you, Mudpuppy? When I adopted you?"

Not opening her eyes, Bess nodded against his chest. "Uh-huh. You told me with you I'd always be safe, I'd always be wanted, and I'd always be loved."

"Yep. And I want you to remember that always, okay? No matter what happens or what anyone--even your mama--says, so long as I'm alive, I will always protect you and keep you safe; I will always want you as my little girl; and I will always love you with my whole heart. Ya hear me?"

"I hear you."

"And if you ever feel like you don't feel that way, or maybe I'm not givin' you enough, you tell me, okay?

"Okay, George."

"Never settle for anythin' less, Elizabeth. I don't ever want you to settle for less than you deserve, with anyone or anythin', includin' me."

"I won't, George. I love you."

"I love you too, my sweet girl."

»»————-　♡　————-««

Cincinnati, Ohio--May 1840;

"Where would you like to go?" The question sounded more like it was being asked out of polite obligation as opposed to a genuine interest in what she wanted.

Bess looked up at Oliver Sprague as they walked side-by-side down the bustling Cincinnati street. They'd been going steady for two years, and the young man still wouldn't hold her hand or offer her his arm in public. Bess was rather low maintenance when it came to romance and relationships (much too low maintenance in some of her loved one's eyes), but even she couldn't help but feel a little put out as they walked by other couples, all of whom were hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm at the very least. Briefly, at the start of their walk, the young woman had considered just snatching up his hand on her own and holding it until he pulled away. She could have easily done it; his hand had hung unguarded at his side, so close to hers. Oliver was decent and would have indulged her if she had, she was sure. But almost as if he had felt her eyeing his hand and read her thoughts, her beau had pulled his hand up to his chest to scratch it before casually slipping it into his pocket, all the while keeping his elbow tucked into his side. So much for that idea.

Bess' mouth twitched and twisted in quiet annoyance as she counted yet another obviously happy couple pass by. They were so close as they were arm-in-arm, they could have been conjoined at the side. Bess quietly huffed, once again letting her gaze fall to her own young man's arm. She knew Oliver was reserved with his emotions--she'd always known that since they were children--everyone who knew him did--and, truly, she didn't need public displays of affection (though they would undoubtedly be nice); but it was their anniversary. Could he not, just for one night, maybe, possibly be sweet enough in public with her to offer her his arm? She knew he was capable--he hugged and kissed his mother and granny in public, for crying out loud! They were sweethearts--he'd chosen her: Was she still not special enough?

Stop griping! that caustic voice at the back of her mind that sounded too much like her mother chastised her. You're lucky a boy like him even looks your way without being disgusted, with your history. You're incredibly lucky to have him. Take what you can get and soldier on!

And so, Bess, once again, pushed her disappointments and misgivings deep down inside her. But as she did so, she felt a smaller, more quiet, and gentle voice in her heart, one that sounded like George: Never settle for less than you deserve. However, as always whenever Bess thought to consider that advice, her mother's voice came back to remind her that she was damaged goods; and this third-rate, tepid romance (could you call it "romance" when the first kiss didn't even bring a single small butterfly to your stomach?) was what damaged goods deserved.

"Oh, I don't know," Bess finally answered his question. She fiddled her lonely hands together in her skirt, wondering if maybe she could trick herself into thinking Oliver really was holding her hand. His hands weren't that much bigger than hers, honestly. "I wish you'd told me we were going out tonight sooner. I could have made reservations somewhere." She tried not to sound annoyed or passive-aggressive, even though she was. Just a bit. Oliver wasn't one for celebrations, so she hadn't even considered booking something somewhere; she'd simply expected to spend this anniversary as they had their first; Oliver coming over for a quiet supper and then attempting to play dominoes only to give up halfway through as Oliver started preaching about the new strides being made in the field of photographing and how he was sure there was a way that, not just objects, but colors could somehow be captured in photographs. (Colored photographs--that was a thought to make one laugh.) So, needless to say, when she'd received the letter from Oliver in the noon post stating that they were going out for the evening, Bess had been surprised. And admittedly pleased. Until she'd learned when Oliver had shown up at her door that, no, he hadn't made plans to go anywhere, they were just going out. Talk about all dressed up with no place to go.

Oliver shrugged, completely unconcerned. "I didn't think about going out until this morning when Albert asked me what we were doing tonight." The red-headed boy chuckled. "You know, he had to remind me that this was our anniversary. Can you believe that?"

"That you forgot or that he remembered?" Bess grumbled under her breath, eyes trained on the cobbles at her feet. "Because I can certainly believe both." Honestly, at this point, Albert was more of an attentive beau to her than Oliver was, what with remembering all the important dates. Bess was sure Albert had bought her birthday gifts the past two years, too. And Christmas gifts. And picked her Valentine's cards. He'd probably written them, too--the handwriting hadn't looked exactly like Oliver's, neither had the words sounded like him. Honestly, Bess should have been out with Albert right now, and perhaps she would have been had it not been for the fact that she was not his... type of person. Shame, as he was heartbreakingly handsome.

An idea came to Bess. "Why don't we take a hansom cab to the park and go for a walk?" she suggested, looking hopefully bright up at her beau. "There won't be many people there, so it'll be quiet. Not to mention--dare I say--romantic." She bit her bottom lip and wiggled her brows playfully at Oliver, nudging him with her shoulder.

Oliver did not look at her, but instead seemed to be mulling the idea over. Much more carefully than he should have needed to. "Hmm, yeah, I don't know, Specks," he said uncertainly. "I'm kinda hungry--there's nowhere to eat near there."

"Oh, well, we can stop in a pub and eat first then, yeah? Then we can go to the park and walk it off after. What'd'ya say?"

Again, the boy took much longer to think about it than he should have. She wasn't asking him to take her to New York City, for God's sake! Bess held her tongue: She didn't want to argue with him tonight--not on their anniversary.

"Eh... yeah, that sounds fine, I guess," Oliver agreed after long deliberation. Then he perked up as he looked at her for the first time since they'd left her apartment. "Mack's?"

Bess couldn't help how her face scrunched up at the suggestion. "Oh, no, please, Ollie--we go there all the time. Can we try something different? Please? I'll pay if you like." She didn't need to pay; she knew Oliver had money and he wasn't short on it either--his job as a daguerreotypist paid well. But she also knew she needed to sweeten the deal to get him to even consider breaking habit.

It didn't work. "Aw, come on, Specks, you love Mack's and you know it. Besides, it's only fitting, right? We had our first date there." He wasn't completely wrong, though Bess did not love Mack's, she was just used to it; and his bringing up something as sentimental as their first date on their anniversary was actually surprisingly touching. And not at all like him to think of on his own. "Did Albert tell you to mention that?" she couldn't help but ask, giving the boy a deadpan look.

Not picking up on her unamusement, Oliver simply nodded with a slight grin. "Isn't he great? Best roommate ever."

Bess rolled her midnight-blue eyes. "Yep, he certainly is," she muttered. Then she sighed. "Fine. Mack's is fine. Let's just go. I'm feeling hungry too." Not that there was much of anything edible that came out of the pub's kitchen; Bess just had no energy to try harder to change Oliver's mind.

So they arrived at Mack's and took their usual table in the back corner. Oliver greeted the usual pub-goers, Bess tried her best to ignore the usual skeevy heels that eyed her and not let them make her skin crawl. The usual barmaid, Abigail McLintock, a girl Bess' age that they'd both gone to school with, came over to take their orders and, as usual, she flirted with Oliver. As usual, Oliver flirted back and ordered his regular meal. The tradition broke slightly as Oliver ordered for Bess rather than letting her order for herself, but the variation stopped there as he ordered her regular meal as well (shepherd's pie--it was the only appetizing thing in this place).

Abigail took their orders to the kitchen and again, as usual, Bess told her young man off for flirting with Abigail. Like always, Oliver brushed it off with the assurance that it didn't mean anything, that she was just a friend, and he only did it to ensure that they got the best service. Again, Bess didn't quite believe him, but she let it go. She always let it go. Why did she do that? Oliver was her beau and, while she'd never claim to be passionately in love with him, it did twinge whenever he flirted with and looked at other girls. Particularly Abigail, who had always been one of the worst bullies to Bess in school. Bess didn't usually have a problem voicing her opinions and feelings, except when it came to things like this; then she clammed up like... well, a clam. But why? Why did she do that? It wasn't like she would be being demanding or controlling; she wouldn't be insisting he couldn't interact with other women besides her. She would just be telling him she didn't like it when he flirted with other women and asking him not to do it out of respect for their relationship and her. But she couldn't bring herself to do that--why?!

Again, Bess heard the warring voices of George and her mother in her mind and heart.

It was while they sipped their drinks and waited for their food that, again, the routine changed. Bess was staring at the fly in her beer, wondering if it had just dived in there or if it had been there under the head the whole time, when Oliver cleared his throat. "Bess?" he asked.

The girl looked up to see him looking at her in a... different way. He didn't really appear nervous, but he certainly didn't seem as calm and relaxed as he usually was. It was almost like he was... uncomfortable Like he wasn't sure he should do something. Or like he wasn't sure he wanted to do something. "Yes?" Bess prompted him when he didn't continue.

"I've--um... I've got something for you."

Bess raised an eyebrow, not quite sure what to make of that. She was still bemused by his expression. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Uh..." He dug into first one pant pocket, then the other before pulling his hand out. He stretched his arm across the table to her side and opened up his fist. Something fell to the tabletop with a metallic sound. "Here."

Bess looked from Oliver's face down to whatever he'd rather unceremoniously dropped on the table. She did a double-take, her eyes widening. "Oliver, is that a-"

"Ring? Yeah."

Bess picked the ring up. It looked like it had come from Atlantis, with the shoulders and the setting having been crafted to look like seashells. Small red garnets were set as the side stones and two larger, tear-drop, purplish-red garnets had been used as the center stones and positioned point to point so they made an eight. It looked older, so it wasn't polished up to look shiny and flashy, but it did look opulent, and it was big--big enough to draw attention--and it most definitely wasn't in Bess' taste. Oliver should have known that: Her fondness for simplicity and understatedness was one of the things he liked about her. (So he claimed.)

The longer she studied the ring, the more Bess tried to decipher why it was so familiar looking. When it hit her, her stomach plummeted. Oh, God, please no! "O-Ollie..." she gulped, feeling all the blood drain from her face, "... is... is this...?"

"Gran's engagement ring? Yeah." He said it so simply; as if he'd dropped his grandmother's laundry on the table and not a family heirloom that had been passed down through the generations from woman to woman.

Bess felt like she could be sick for a completely different reason than the fly in her beer. Her hands began shaking. Slowly, respectfully, she set the ring back down and pulled her hands in her lap, folding them together tightly to try and stop the tremors. She continued to stare at the ring, unable to look up and meet Oliver's gaze. The girl cleared her throat. "Why... are you giving me your grandmother's ring, Oliver?" she asked, somehow managing to keep her voice even.

"I think you know why."

"Probably. But I want you to say it anyway."

"Okay, fair enough. I think we should get married."

That finally caused Bess to look up at the boy again. He just sat there, looking at her, not completely emotionlessly as he still looked a little uncomfortable and uncertain about this, but he certainly didn't look nervous. Nor did he look at all happy. He didn't look like anything one might expect a young man asking his sweetheart of two years to marry him might look like. And Bess was certain she didn't feel anything like what a girl in that situation would be expected to feel like either.

"Why?" The word fell from her mouth like a lead ball. It almost surprised her, as she knew that wasn't typically something a person being proposed to said. Was this a proposal? Yes, it had to be; there was a ring, Oliver had said they should get married--what the hell else could it have possibly been? Yes, for all intents and purposes, this was a proposal. So why did it feel more like an... obligation?

Apparently, the question had taken Oliver by surprise too, as he started to fumble around for something to say. "Uh... well... we've been going together for two years, right?" he reasoned. "Don't people just normally get married after they've been doing that?"

Bess felt a pain stab through her chest. "Um... y-yeah, I suppose."

"And, besides, you know Ma really likes you."

"Your mother has called me a "lobsterback brat" for as long as I can remember, Oliver Howard," Bess countered flatly. "And that's the nicest thing she's ever called me."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Aw, come on, Bess. You know she says everything out of affection."

"Oh? I was supposed to take "trollop" as a loving pet name?"

"Come on--I told her off for that."

"Yes. And I'm grateful to you for that, truly. But it doesn't change the fact that your mother is going to throw an absolute fit and scream about how I'll marry you over her cold, dead body and that I'm not good enough for you."

"Since when have you cared what people say about you?" No declarations that he didn't care what his mother might say. No reassurances that, whatever his mother or anyone said, she was good enough. No promises to defend and support her against whatever wrath might be directed her way as a result of their union. Merely a somewhat accusatory question that made her feel guilty for what she'd said.

"We're not just talking about just any people here, Ollie, we're talking about my future mother-in-law."

Oliver's mouth curled into that little, sly smirk that drove her up the wall in the worst possible way at that. "'Future mother-in-law', huh?" he repeated.

Bess knew what he was implying and frowned. "Don't take that as an answer--I haven't decided anything yet."

The boy shrugged nonchalantly. "What's there to decide, Specks? We've been steady for two years. We spend the weekends with your family or my family. We have supper at each other's places and go out for breakfast together. You make and pack my lunches for me. We're practically married already: We just need the legal stuff."

"Please don't be so flippant about this, Oliver: We're talking about marriage--you know how serious this is for me."

"Yeah, yeah, I know: Don't wanna end up like your mother."

"Don't say it like that--it's important to me, Oliver! Mama's first marriage practically ruined her until she met George, and it permanently soured her on me, even now that she's happy. I refuse to end up like her and I won't risk the chance that I do."

Oliver gave her an unconcerned look. "It's not like you have to worry about being a bad ma though, right?"

Bess felt like a prize purse-winning boxer had just socked her square in the gut. Her blood boiled; her eyes stung with the threat of tears. Did Oliver ever think about things before he said them? Did he ever consider the tone in which he said them, how cold and heartless he could sound? Did the thought that maybe this was something he should steer clear of ever cross his mind? "Wow," she croaked, trying her hardest to keep her temper under control. "Thanks for that. It's such a comfort to be reminded of the fact that I can't have children."

"Oh, don't be like that," Oliver grumbled, sounding the slightest bit annoyed. "You know I didn't mean anything nasty by it."

"Then do me the favor, Oliver, and just never mention it at all, yeah?"

Oliver held his hands up in surrender. "Whoa, yeah. Okay. Fine. Won't mention it at all."

Abigail was returning with their food at this point. She set their respective dishes down and the couple lapsed into silence for a long while as they ate, not so much as looking in the other's direction. There was an undeniable tension in the air over their table: You could have cut it with Mack's blunted knives.

Bess was about halfway through her shepherd's pie when her beau spoke again.

"So, what'd'ya think, Specks?"

Bess finally looked up to see Oliver looking at her again, still not appearing to be what one would consider happy over the situation. He did look more resigned, however; as if he'd finally managed to put to rest whatever doubts had made him initially uneasy.

With a shrug, as he noisily chewed on a fatty bit of his over-cooked pot roast, Oliver asked: "Ya wanna be Mrs. Oliver Sprague?"

Mrs. Oliver Sprague. A shiver ran through the young woman at the very thought, but not in a good way. And it made her feel horrible because it should have been in a good way. She should have been giddy, nauseous with butterflies, perhaps shedding tears of joy because the man she loved wanted to be with her forever. Instead, she felt dread and just plain sick. And for no good reason: Oliver was a decent fellow in both temperament and looks and had a job many people would have killed for if they realized how well it paid. And, above all else, he treated her like a person instead of some diseased vermin unfit to be around. Not the most romantic and passionate testimony one could make of their sweetheart, perhaps; but romance and passion weren't in the cards for her.

Again, Bess could hear the voice telling her she was lucky to have what she did--that she would be a fool to let it go: Your past, your looks, your attitude--you'll have a hard enough time finding any decent man to put up with your harsh edges, let alone a perfect one. Take it or leave it.

Again, Oliver was certainly decent. Mostly. He certainly never raised a hand or even his voice to her, and he never threatened her or tried to manipulate her into a compromising situation: She felt safe with him. Like George. Sort of--it wasn't quite the same kind of warm, fuzzy, homey feeling that came along with George's security; nor did it have the sense that he would do anything to protect her. Still, overall, she did feel safe and protected with Oliver, and that was important to her.

There are other important things to consider too, Mudpuppy, she felt George's voice in her heart again.

"Why do you want to marry me?" Bess asked by way of answer. She was almost afraid to hear his reasonings--her insides were already bracing for the blunt impact--but she had to hear them anyway.

Oliver looked at her as though she'd spoken French. His jaw ceased its grinding on the leathery beef in his mouth as he stared at her, completely taken off-guard. "What?" he mumbled around meat, potatoes, cabbage, onions, and carrots.

"Why do you want to marry me, Oliver?" she repeated calmly.

For a long moment, her young man was quiet as he tried to process that question and figure out how to answer it. Finally, he answered uncertainly: "Well... we've been going together for two years-"

Bess cut him off in some annoyance: "Yes, we've been steady for two years, and the family weekends, and I make supper, and we go to breakfast, and your lunches--I know--we've established all that. I want to know your feelings, Oliver. And I know how uncomfortable a topic that is for you, and I'm sorry, but I have to know before I decide anything: Why do you feel you want to marry me?" She repeated the question again, slowly, emphatically, looking her beau right in the eye as she said it.

Again, Oliver was clearly struggling with something to say. "Um... I... like you."

Bess felt her heart twist. "Like" not "love"; but Oliver was bad at communicating things like this, she reminded herself. "You like me. What does that mean, exactly?"

Oliver cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head and neck awkwardly. "Uh... w-well... I... I like when you cook and bake for me; everything you make tastes real good--even better than Ma's. And... I like that you can stitch up my clothes to make 'em look practically new. And I like how you don't hassle me like other girls to take you out on big, fancy dates all the time or demand I buy you expensive stuff."

The girl felt her insides completely drop into the abyss to leave her a cold, empty shell. None of those things had been about her as a person. They hadn't even been about her physical attributes, which was somehow both refreshing and vexing at the same time. And while it was nice to be appreciated for and complimented on one's skills, that wasn't exactly what one wanted for an answer as to why their sweetheart wanted to marry them. And it certainly didn't make one feel very loved. Valued, perhaps, but not loved.

Oliver sighed heavily, looking like that little confession had taken everything out of him. "Look, Bess," he said quietly, smiling a bit at her in a way that Bess couldn't help but feel a bit patronized, "I just... I think you'd make a good wife, and I know you've always wanted to be married, and we know each other and get on real well as a couple, I think, and I want to get married to a good wife. So... doesn't it just... makes sense that we tie the knot? Isn't it logical?"

"Logical": he was using logic to justify their being married. Of course, logic and sense had to play into something like this a bit; one didn't go around getting married willy-nilly--that would be idiotic. But to have that be the only thing considered felt wrong. And depressing. Bess felt like a spare princess being betrothed and married off to some foreign dignitary for the sake of political power and nothing more.

"Ollie," she began, leaning forward to look as closely into her beau's gray eyes as she could, "do you really want this?" She swallowed hard, thinking about how Oliver had started this conversation looking uncertain like he hadn't been exactly sure that he wanted to do this. Surely he had to have some misgivings about this idea. "Do you... do you really want me?" She thought about all the women Oliver had flirted with in the past while he had never flirted with her. Not once--before courting or during. Yes, he walked out with her, he called her his 'sweetheart', he hugged her on occasion, kissed her sometimes--all things he didn't do with other women. But he didn't ever play with her, or try to make her blush and laugh like he did with other women he called "friends". He didn't wink, didn't try to cop a feel (not that she wanted that... exactly), didn't try to tickle her--he did nothing with her that he did with his female "friends" and she was courting him. He didn't even call her by the same cute, endearing nicknames he did them: She was either 'Bess' or 'Specks', and 'Specks' had originally started out as something to make her cry when they were small children. Even as the one girl he'd asked to go steady with, the one girl to be chosen out of all the girls he could have picked, Bess had never felt wanted by him. Not as a friend. Not as a potential wife. Certainly not as a lover.

She should have taken George's advice back then; to ask Oliver why he was interested in courting her before jumping into the relationship. But she'd been eighteen and lonely, and Oliver was one of only a handful of people who weren't disgusted by her. The fact that he would look her in the eyes when he talked to her, was enough to make Bess swoon then. That initial feeling of what she thought was being in love had quickly faded as she'd realized just how generally uninterested in her he seemed--not to mention the serial flirting. But she stayed with him. Because she felt stupid for not taking George's advice and didn't want to disappoint him with the revelation that she had been wrong when she'd assured him she wasn't; and because she was terrified to be alone and not have a life. She was terrified of everything her mother told her about herself, and that it was all true. So if Oliver would take her in any capacity, she would accept it and count herself lucky. At least, that's what she'd told herself in the past. She didn't feel that way now that it was happening. Spending the rest of her life with someone that didn't seem to love or want her beyond the domestic services she could provide him sounded almost as bad as being a spinster.

Almost.

"I just... think it makes sense," Oliver replied to her question. She knew it was the closest thing to an answer she would ever get. "Isn't that good enough?"

Bess felt her stomach lurch and twist into a giant knot. No. It wasn't good enough. But it would have to be. Oliver was right about one thing; she wanted to be married--had dreamed of it ever since her mother and stepfather had married. Oliver was the only person who would ever be willing to give that to her, despite that he didn't seem to really love her, despite that he didn't seem to really want her. He was her one chance. And she was safe with him. Like George. She just wasn't loved or wanted by him, like George.

But safe--safe was good enough, she thought. Safe was all she would get, anyway.

With a sigh, Bess let her gaze fall to the ring again and tried not to show her distaste for it as she picked it back up. She slipped it on her left ring finger. Internally, the girl cringed; it looked so out of place on her hand--clashed so horribly with her sensibilities and who she was. But it was her engagement ring now; she would have to get used to it. "Okay, then," she sighed heavily. She looked up at Oliver and tried her best to smile at him, despite how sick she felt. "You got yourself a fiancée, Mr. Sprague." She'd never tasted anything so vile--it made her want to vomit on the grimy tavern floor. And that made her feel even more terrible because Oliver really didn't deserve that. He wasn't bad, he just wasn't The One. But he would be the only one she got. In return for that, she would make him a good wife.

Oliver smiled back at her, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. "All right then," he said simply. He turned back to mutilating his pot roast.

Bess turned back to her own food, though she was no longer hungry. Picking through the remains of her meal, the girl stared at her new accessory, trying to will herself to like it; will herself to be happy; will herself to love Oliver. After her first initial, naive infatuation with her beau, Bess had held out for the hope that, maybe, she would eventually grow to love Oliver, just as her mother had done with George some time in their own courtship. The problem was, Oliver was nothing like her stepfather, and Bess was even farther away from loving him now than she had been then. Still, love or not, happiness or not, he was her one ticket to any sort of life worth having: Her mother was right--another one wouldn't come along anytime soon. Or ever.

No, Oliver Sprague wasn't like George. But he and the security he offered would be the best option Bess would ever get.

»»————-　♡　————-««

London, England--June 1845

Bess had never been so disgusted in all her life, and she'd had plenty of things in her life to be disgusted about. She didn't know how she was going to be able to eat her dinner, when it finally came, with him sitting right there next to her and his pompous, arrogant voice resounding loudly in her ears to the point she had a migraine. At least he wasn't directly in her line of sight, she supposed; but it was a bad trade because, sitting where he was, the man was well within reach to easily reach out and touch her. Which he did. A lot. Bess hadn't wanted to cut off somebody's hands so badly since she was fifteen.

Lawrence Bryant, on the surface, was everything a woman could possibly want: sinfully handsome, lively, devilishly charming, rich, and from a very powerful family. He was very good at making the most out of these qualities and making them appear deeper than they actually were. But Bess didn't believe him--not for a second. She had a sort of sixth sense about these kinds of things, an intuitive gut reaction; and hers had screamed that Bryant was bad news since the moment she'd met him a year ago.

She could still recall it vividly; how he'd eyed her, undressing her with his eyes the moment she'd walked into her uncle's library; how he'd snatched up her hand without invitation and gripped it so tightly, as though he'd never let go; how he lazily kissed her knuckles--she could still feel the moisture of his inner lips on her skin if she thought about it long enough, and it made her shudder and want to dunk herself in boiling water. She felt the same way now, as Bryant reached over again to brush her arm with the backs of his fingers. The woman was thankful for her long gloves that offered a barrier between their skin, but even then she shuddered and cringed away at his touch, unable to help herself.

She scolded herself: Stop it! She had to behave tonight--couldn't do anything to upset Bryant. If she did, she knew he'd report to her uncle how she displeased him, and then who knew what her uncle would do in response? If it was just herself she had to worry for, Bess wouldn't have cared and bitten Bryant's hands off the moment they moved to touch her. But she wasn't what she had to worry about--her siblings were. If she made her uncle angry, there was every possible chance he could use the stipulations set in her mother's will to break the terms of it early and take custody of her brothers and sisters while throwing her out on the street. However much she hated Bryant and felt disgusted and uncomfortable with him, Bess couldn't risk custody of her siblings. She couldn't allow them to grow up under her uncle's roof, where they would surely be treated with cruelty. Aunt Effie had already stated once that she would send her sisters abroad to boarding school: Bess couldn't allow that to happen to George's children!

Bess took a deep breath and let it go slowly through her nose. She could do this. She was a big girl--she could handle some discomfort and disgust for a few hours. Just focus on all the different ways you could torture Uncle Gerald and Aunt Effie, she thought to herself. That oughta keep you occupied. Might even be pretty cathartic. Unprompted her gaze shifted to the clock on the wall. They'd been sitting here for forty-five minutes--where was the food? The sooner the food came, the sooner she would be free!

"Looking to see how much time you have left to bask in my presence, Beautiful?" Bryant's voice brought the woman out of her thoughts.

Slightly shaking herself back into the moment, Bess looked from the clock back to her suitor. He was gazing much too intently at her with those deep blue eyes of his, as if he were trying to will her affections for him into being. His lips were curved and parted in a grin that was much too white and perfect. She supposed that smile was meant to set her insides aflutter with butterflies; instead it filled her guts with rancid, dead fish. Could the man be any more repulsive? Don't tempt fate, Elizabeth.

Trying her best to smile in an amicable way, Bess replied: "Something like that."

"Aaaawwww!" a sappy, syrupy, nasally voice grated like nails on a chalkboard in Bess' ears. Lady Penelope Anne Michaels and her fiance Mr. Rupert Anderson III, heir to the Earl of Overton were seated at the table across from them: A double date. Bess had been set up on a double date with a man whom she didn't like (putting it lightly) and a couple she didn't know (she'd heard the names and seen the faces at balls the past seasons, but that was as far as her acquaintance with the pair went).

Lady Penelope was looking between Bess and Bryant with an expression that reminded the Yank of her baby sister on Christmas morning. Grinning and biting her bottom lip to the point Bess worried she may have bitten through it, Penelope clapped her gloved hands and squealed girlishly. "Only your second outing together and you're already watching the time, trying to will it to not slip away from you. Ooh, that's positively adorable! Isn't that adorable, Rupey?" She turned to her fiance for his input.

"Rupey" was looking much the same as Penelope, only less wholesomely smitten and more knowingly sly. "Yes, Penny," he agreed. "Very adorable." He winked at Bryant and nodded toward Bess. "You're a lucky tyke, Larry: Don't let this one slip away from you. She's a keeper."

Bryant grinned widely at his friend, raising his glass of champagne in a toast to himself. He looked incredibly pleased with himself. "I have no intentions of letting such a thing happen, I assure you, Rupert. I am well aware I'm a lucky tyke in Bess!" he laughed in agreement He turned to Bess and winked brazenly at her. Beneath the table his hand found her knee and gave it a presumptuous squeeze that caused Bess to stiffen. "Maybe we'll find out just how lucky tonight, eh, Darling?" He threw back his head and raucous laughter, Rupert joining him.

Penny pressed a petite hand to her lips and tittered with amusement. "Oh, Larry, you naughty boy!" she affectionately teased the man. "You'll bring scandal down on your own head if you're not careful!" She continued to laugh with the men.

Bess didn't know she could feel even more sick, but she did at the utterance of those words. The rolling in her stomach was unbearable. She had to step away from this and breathe or else she was sure to vomit all over everyone and everything and then she really would be in trouble with her family. Doing her best to force her nausea down, Bess stood. She managed a small, tight smile at her companions as she told them: "If you'll excuse me--I must run to the powder room for a moment." She pivoted away and took off in a hasty walk before they were able to respond.

The woman hardly had time to get in front of the toilet before her stomach heaved and emptied itself. A vile, bitter concoction of bile, champagne, and bits of partially digested lunch spewed into the toilet bowl with a sickening, cascading splash. The second heave brought Bess collapsing to her knees, bracing her arms against the round porcelain edges of the bowl. She sucked in a desperate breath before heaving again. Goddamn it! Saliva flooded Bess' mouth in a desperate attempt to cleanse it of the nastiness, drool dripping down her lips and chin, ruining her once immaculate lipstick. She would have to reapply before going back to the table, or else Bryant would be upset. He had a horrid lipstick fetish, apparently.

After upchucking a few more times, Bess' stomach finally decided that it was empty enough and stilled. She gasped and coughed, trying to pull air back into her aching lungs. Propping her forehead in her hands, she tried to relax and pull herself together again. Tears burned her eyes. "I can't do this," she whispered. She wasn't sure who she was whispering to. Herself? The toilet? God? "I can't do this! I can't--I can't--I can't! I hate him! God, forgive me, but I hate him! I can't keep seeing him: I know I can't marry him! But that's what Uncle Gerald and Effie want, and if I don't do what they want..." she broke off into a choked sob, unable to stop it. Bess clasped her trembling hands together and buried her face in her arms, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes. "Jesus, help me, what do I do? What do I do?!"

Ebenezer's face came to her mind's eye and the most agonizing of pangs wracked her body, heart, and soul. Bess wanted him. In every possible way, she wanted him, but right now, at this moment, she would have settled for just having him here beside her for moral support. She would have given anything to be surrounded by his long, strong arms and curl up into the protective warmth of his broad chest; drown in his deep, smokey, chocolatey smooth voice as he murmured sweet, gentle comforts into her ear. She needed his presence; she needed his advice; she needed his security; she just needed him! But Ebenezer was not here and, unless summoned by some miracle, wouldn't be here. She was on her own.

Sighing heavily, shakily, Bess pulled herself together and sat back from the toilet. She pulled her hankie from her bosom and wiped herself off before rising to her feet and flushing away her sick. Turning to the sink, she looked herself over in the mirror and finished drying off before turning on the water, removing her gloves, and cupping her hands under the stream. She pressed her face into the little pool in an attempt to cool her heated skin and soothe the slight headache starting to throb in her temples. The coolness of the water made her relax a bit. After a moment or two, Bess straightened up and looked at her reflection again. She didn't look quite as red; the cool water had soothed the tearstains. All she need do was straighten her dress, touch up her makeup, and reapply the lipstick and she would be good to go. She grabbed up her handbag that she'd dropped on the floor.

When Bess left the powder room, she ran smack dab into Penny. "Oh! Lady Penelope, pardon me!"

"Oh, it's quite all right," Penny assured her with a smile that was meant to be friendly but grated on Bess' nerves. It just seemed so fake. "No harm done. And please, call me 'Penny'. Any friend of dear Larry's has a right to do so."

Bess fought the urge to roll her eyes. Ah, yes--"dear Larry". Honestly, Penny talked about the sleaze like he was a saint! "Oh, well, all right then--if that's what you'd like. Penny."

Penny beamed. "Excellent! I merely came to find you and tell you our meals have arrived."

"Ah, I see. Well, thank you. I was just coming back."

Penny was looking at her closely, making Bess feel uneasy. What could she possibly be studying so hard on her face? "You've redone your makeup," she stated after a moment.

Bess didn't know what to say. "Uh...."

Penny's smile became knowing, almost conniving. "Bess, did you rush to the powder room in order to be sick?"

Again, Bess wasn't sure how to respond. "Um... well... n-not very-"

Penny squealed like a schoolgirl again, clapping her hands beneath her chin. "I knew it! I just knew it! I did the very same thing when I first started seeing Rupert! I was so charmed by him and so in love that I felt so rumbly and rolly with it all I couldn't help but be sick! And now here you are in your blossoming romance with Larry and experiencing the same thing! Oh, how magical!"

Yeah, Bess thought sarcastically. Magical. She offered the woman a small, awkward smile and replied: "Um... something like that."

"Ooh, and you're too shy to discuss it! Adorable! Simply adorable! Ah! I know the two of you have only been out twice, but trust me, my dear, I have an intuition about these sort of things--and I most definitely hear wedding bells!" Penny sang the last part of the statement, wiggling her brows at Bess.

Bess' stomach lurched a bit again. Penny was probably right, unfortunately, and not because Bess was in love with Bryant and wanted to marry him. She likely wouldn't have any choice.

The two women made their way back to the table together. Penny exchanged a little kiss with Rupert as she retook her seat beside him, staying as close to him as possible the entire time. Contrarily, Bess did her best to stay as far away from Bryant as possible, walking the long way around the table to get to her chair and slipping into it from the far side. Her gaze never met his and she stared at the seafood dish steaming on her plate. Drawing her lips into a thin line, Bess tried to will the remainder of her nausea away. She had to eat at least some of it or else Bryant would deduce something was amiss with her; he'd seen her appetite before and knew how healthy it was. "My Lady, you eat like all my horses combined!" he'd told her once. He'd said it as though it were a compliment.

No sooner had Bess sat down than Bryant was reaching for her again. She froze in order to keep herself from shifting away. She bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from snapping. Good God, could he just not for two minutes?!

"I missed you," Bryant purred. It was probably supposed to sound loving, perhaps seductive: to Bess it sounded like the ravenous snarl of a lion. As always, Bryant gave her the sense he would eat her alive if given half a shot, and not in a good way. That feeling only grew as Bryant reached down to grab her hand and squeeze it tight as if he never meant to let go again.

Bess knew she should have reciprocated the squeeze, but she just couldn't bring herself to. She was using all her willpower to not throw up again. "I was only gone but a minute," she responded quietly, still not looking at the man.

"Ten minutes and twenty-six seconds," Bryant stated. There was a slight edge in his voice that time.

Bess felt like she was hit by a runaway carriage; she swore her heart jolted to a stop. Panic slammed into her stomach like a cannonball. Her head snapped towards the blond, mustached man as she finally looked at him, her utter shock forcing her to. "Yo-You... you timed me?" she gasped in disbelief. A nervous smile pulled at her mouth.

Bryant smiled at her, but there was nothing good in it: no warmth, no softness, no kindness. He tried to fake it, but Bess could tell. Her gut could tell. All Bryant's smile had to offer was desire, possessiveness, and danger--the kind that would end with her six feet under. Bess had never wanted to run so fast and far in her whole life. Again she longed for Ebenezer to be here to protect her and make her feel safe.

"Of course I timed you, stupid woman," her date chuckled. "Just as you were watching the clock to see how long we have together, I watched the clock to see when you would return to me." Bryant lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I love you."

There were a million things to scream on the tip of Bess' tongue. First was to tell him off for insulting her. Did the idiot really think calling a woman "stupid" even if he said it in what was meant to be an affectionate tone (which he failed at) was a surefire way into a woman's heart? He was the stupid one, and that was putting it lightly! The second was that it was not normal to time the absence of someone down to the second they returned. That was insanely disturbing and borderline psychotic behavior, and would not endear him to any sensible woman either. And the third Bess actually voiced: "You don't love me." She tried to say it as calmly and evenly as possible as if she were trying to reason with him instead of rebuffing him.

Bryant chuckled, leaning closer, pulling her closer at the same time. Bess' free fist instinctively clenched. "Of course I love you," the man insisted. If he thought that tone in his voice was seductive, he was dead wrong; Bess had never heard something sound so chilling and sinister. "I think about you all the time. I yearn for you all the time. Sometimes I feel as though I can't breathe without you." He trailed spidery fingers up the woman's arm and shoulder and brought them to brush her graceful jawline.

Bess couldn't help but pull away that time. "Mr. Bryant," she said, trying to sound polite but firm, mimicking how she'd heard other girls gently scold gentleman callers that weren't as repulsive as her current one was, "what you are describing is an infatuation-" actually it was more like "obsession", but Bryant was not the person to tell that to, "-not a love. Besides, we hardly know each other--there is no possible way you could honestly profess to love me."

"We know each other quite well, I believe," Bryant countered. He took hold of Bess' chin, holding it so tightly between his fingers that it pinched. Bess wanted to pull away, but the cold, flinty gleam in the man's gaze made her stay. "I saw you quite regularly throughout the season last year and this year. We've danced at every ball, sat beside each other at dinners, spent time together last summer at your Aunt's house party in Somerset: I'd say we've spent more time together than most couples."

"You've certainly spent more time together than we have, that's for sure," Rupert remarked as he devoured his beef wellington with a fervor that didn't quite reflect a gentleman.

"How much of that were we alone though?" Bess challenged Bryant, ignoring Rupert. "How much do we really know about each other? I mean, what did we really talk about during those times, Mr. Bryant? The weather? We certainly never discussed anything personal. The truth of the matter is, Mr. Bryant, we hardly know each other beyond name."

"I don't need to know anything other than your name and how beautiful you are," Bryant insisted, starting to sound a tad bit testy.

Bess felt an alarm bell go off in her head. She was pushing him too far--she had to calm this down, sweeten it up and smooth it. For a frantic moment, she thought, mind racing for ideas. "Mr. Bryant," she started slowly, "I once thought about love the same way you did; that only one or two things really mattered and everything else would fall into place. I came to find out the hard way that that isn't the case at all. Being in love isn't just about someone's looks or how they make you feel a certain way. Those things certainly factor into different degrees, of course, but they're not everything." She managed a small smile at the man, hoping it looked sweet and friendly and maybe even a tad sympathetic. "All I want is for you to be careful about this, Mr. Bryant," she fibbed. She really couldn't care less if he got hurt or not. "Take it from me--a broken heart is a terrible wound to suffer, especially if you find out it was already empty to begin with." She found the will to squeeze his fingers as if in reassurance. "We really should get to know each other better before we make such claims... Larry." Lord, calling him by his casual moniker made her want to be sick on the table all over again. Nothing had ever tasted so bad!

Bryant had been quiet the entire time, listening to Bess' words intently, his eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but consideration. A couple times he'd even looked a bit surprised as she'd made insinuations about her past, something he had never inquired about even in all the time they'd apparently spent together. When Bess smiled, he'd smiled too, the sharpness leaving his eyes. When she'd squeezed his hand, he'd almost seemed to beam; a nasty, sickly-looking beam that only served to disclose his malignance further. And when Bess said his name, the woman was sure all the work she'd just attempted to do, had been undone, and the man was right back to being certain of his love for her; but she supposed she was never going to sway him from that thought. Perhaps she'd at least staunched the flow.

"Oh, I know my heart would never be broken when it comes to you, My Lady," Bryant crooned, pulling her hand back to his lips. "Because I know you would love me as purely and truly as I love you. In fact, I'm sure you feel the same way right now, but are only denying it because of the sorrow you experienced in your past." He smirked in some annoyance. "I'll admit that I find this a tad vexing, as I am not and could never be anything like the man who hurt you, and struggle to understand how you can't possibly see that after all our time in each other's company. However, I know women are of much more delicate sensibilities in matters of the heart-"

"Here, here!" Penny chimed in.

"-and I don't wish to appear insensitive to your womanly plight. As such, however hard it will be for me, I am more than willing to give you time to accept your feelings for me."

It took everything within Bess not to roll her eyes and clonk the dunderhead on the noggin. "Mr. Bryant," she said, shaking her head, "I can't promise you that I'll ever-" she was cut off as a cold, spidery finger was pressed to her lips. The woman froze, her heart leaping into her throat while her stomach plunged in the other direction. Wide-eyed, she stared at Bryant. He was so close to her--much too close! All of Bess' instincts screamed at her to strike out at the man and knock his block off, but she didn't. Hard as it was, she held back. For her siblings, she had to. Still, just in case, Bess tightened her already clenched fist.

"Hush," Bryant purred (Bess supposed that's what it was meant to be). He trailed his fingertip over her lips, smearing her lipstick onto the pad of it. "I will hear no such negative talk, my love," the man stated softly but adamantly. "Not when it comes to the concept of our love." He trailed his hand down beneath Bess's chin and cupped her jaw. "We are meant to be together, my love--you know it, I know it-" he gestured to the other couple, "-they know it." Bryant chuckled and leaned in even closer, his dark, desirous eyes gazing deep into hers. Bess had never felt so stricken with fear. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in this damn room knows we are meant to be together."

"Oh, there's no way they can't possibly know, Larry Darling!" Penny chimed in. She was watching the pair intently again, her hands clutching at her chest like her heart was about to implode. "To witness the two of you together is to witness true love personified! Oh! It's like seeing Romeo and Juliet together!"

Um... they died, is what Bess wanted to say, but she kept her mouth shut, which was fairly easy to do, as her terror had dried her mouth entirely and glued her tongue to the roof of it. She didn't even think she'd be capable of squeaking.

Bryant must have taken her silence to mean she was so flustered and awash with sensations of love and desire that she couldn't speak. Finally he pulled his hand away from Bess' jaw and began to sit back in his chair. He looked at his lipstick stained finger and brought it to his mouth, kissing it, tracing it over his lips and smearing the paint onto them. The dark red color made him look even more ominous, as if he'd just recently killed and devoured raw flesh and had stained his lips with the blood of his victim.

Bess could only stare at the display in mesmerized horror. All of her instincts screamed at her to flee, but she was quite incapable of moving now, either to run or look away. She had never felt less safe. Even here in the middle of a busy restaurant among all these people, the Yank felt as though she was mere seconds away from Bryant slitting her throat and gutting her like a deer. Not even in the Connellys' household as a vulnerable teenager had she felt such danger.

Bryant wanted her. More than anything. And he was set on possessing her no matter what he had to do. His delusional thinking that what he felt was love and that she felt the same for him was what made it all the more threatening because it meant only one thing: He would stop at nothing to have her.

Bess felt she'd been dropped buck-naked in the middle of the Arctic Circle. All those times she'd silently wished and prayed to be wanted by someone again, this wasn't what she'd had in mind at all! This was nothing like George or what he'd talked about! Nothing like what she wanted! No sense of security, no loving warmth, only want, desire, lust--hotter and more obliterating than the furnace Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego had been thrown into. And Bess suspected she wouldn't be saved from it as they had.

Finished coloring his lips, Bryant reached out again for her hand. He brought it to his lips once more and pressed a firm kiss to it, leaving behind a faded but undeniable lip print on the periwinkle blue silk. "I said I would wait for you to realize and accept your feelings in your own time, Bess," Bryant murmured, meeting her gaze as he caressed the lipstick stain on her knuckles. "But I yearn for you far too fervently to pass up this chance." With only that cryptic warning, the man yanked the American in by the hand , and pressed his mouth flush to hers.

Bess swore her soul fled her body. Simultaneously she felt her lips being branded with both hot and cold irons, marking her as this horrid man's. Everything faded away and she was left alone with Bryant in a vast, dark, perilous sea of existential dread. Something told her Bryant would never let her slip from his grasp now. Only the grave would be able to truly separate them, and it would likely be hers.

Very vaguely through the blackness and fear, Bess could hear both Penny and Rupert fawning and making comments at them, but she could not comprehend the words. Her mind was much too focused on Bryant: How his lips were just as possessive as the rest of him; how his cologne was even stronger this close and made her feel even sicker; how his mustache prickled uncomfortably beneath her nose; how he felt unpleasantly cold, even as his lips seared hers. The touch of a tongue against her top lip was what finally caused adrenaline to burst through the Yankee's system and force herself out of the kiss. (Not an easy thing to do, as Bryant had reached around to hold the back of her head at some point.) "Mr. Bryant, please!" she hissed, unable to keep the anger or the tremor out of her voice. She felt a mess: Her face burned with rage and humiliation, but her whole body trembled with fear now that they'd pulled apart.

Everyone else at the table merely chuckled.

"Oh, Darling, you look positively scandalized!" Penny tittered.

"Come on, Yank, don't be so prudish," Rupert said dismissively, successfully cementing himself on the list of individuals Bess wanted to box the ears of.

Bryant sneaked in and pecked another quick kiss on the corner of Bess' mouth, making her startle. "Don't worry, my dear," the man chuckled, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "Public displays of affection will be limited, I promise." He leaned into the woman, hissing in her ear, "Once I have you in my house, I do not intend on ever letting you out again."

The tone was meant to be seductive, Bess was sure, but there also seemed to be a sinister threat in it that she wasn't just imagining. She looked out of the corner of her eye at her suitor, studying him carefully. Perhaps it was just the odd, peripheral angle at which she viewed him, but the American could have sworn his face distorted, and for a moment he appeared with some horrible, demonic visage. When she turned her head to look at him fully, he looked as he normally had, which honestly wasn't that much better in Bess' opinion.

With a chuckle, Bryant winked at her and pulled away to turn back to his meal.

Bess sat and watched him for a long moment, a hurricane of emotions whirling through her. Her lips and cheek still burned where Bryant's lips had touched her; her heart raced her boiling blood through her veins; the rotting, dead fish in her gut had transformed into a nest of angry hornets that were determined to tear her apart from the inside out. Bryant's statement rang in her ears, tattooing itself into her memory. She thought of what she'd heard of Bryant's past; all the women associated with him that had ended up hospitalized, institutionalized, a few even dead; the wife that had apparently just vanished; his own mother who he openly admitted had abandoned him and never spoke with him. Bryant joked bad things trailed him wherever he went; Bess was growing surer the longer she knew him that he was the bad thing. And in her gut filled with raging hornets, the woman knew if she married Bryant--if she ended up in his house--she would either be killed or chained up and locked away forever.

Bess' gaze fell away from Bryant and down her hand, locking and holding on the lipstick stain he'd left behind. All at once she felt dirty--tainted--as if she'd been branded by the devil himself. She was a marked woman: Desired, yearned for, wanted with a passion that would burn the globe to a crisp if it wasn't fulfilled. But not loved, whatever Bryant believed or claimed. And certainly not safe.

Lawrence Bryant was nothing like George. He wasn't even a decent man.

»»————-　♡　————-««

St. James' Square, London--House of the Dowager Countess of Calloway--November 23, 1850

Bess could hardly breathe she was laughing so hard. She'd always known Tom to be witty and clever, but she never could have guessed him to be an actual comedian. But here he was, standing in Granny Felicity's parlor before the assorted rabble that was their social circle, proving himself to be just that as he gave her a good and right-proper roasting for her birthday. Bess had mentioned to Addie months ago how she would like to be roasted, and evidently, her cousin had passed the word on to her hubby as well. A most welcome and appreciated surprise! And apparently, she wasn't the only one who thought so, as everyone in the room was laughing just as hard as she was. Except Granny of course. She never smiled or laughed; at least not with her mouth--those piercing blue eyes of hers were sparkling brighter than stars though.

"Now, when I first heard that our lovely Bess was engaged to our dear Mr. Scrooge, my first thought was: 'How would that even work?'" the swarthy man was saying, as he stood before the roaring fireplace and casually sipped at his champagne, the smile never dropping from his face as he gazed at his audience. "I mean, none of us, not even the happy couple, can deny the age difference, yeah? Thirty and... how old-"

"Old enough still to take you over my knee and learn you some manners if you finish that question," Ebenezer snarled good-naturedly.

"Now, easy does it, Mr. Scrooge," Tom snapped back with a devilish grin. "Save the spanking for the missus!"

An uproar of laughter and shrieks peeled out of the partygoers at that, even Granny FeFe letting loose a delightfully scandalized cry. It was only fueled further by the bright red faces of the couple being fired at.

Bess giggled madly as she hid her strawberry blush in Ebenezer's collar. The long arm draped loosely about her waist tightened in the most loving way as the man leaned his cheek against her hair, burring a warm chuckle into her ear. Bess shivered delightfully and cuddled closer to her hubby, reveling in his comforting warmth despite how stuffy the parlor was with the fire and all the bodies present. Ebenezer didn't seem to mind either as he pulled her even deeper into his lap. Bess' heart fluttered.

"Well, anyway," Tom went on with a chuckle, "as I said, I was more than a little perplexed with their union: the age difference, the culture difference." A wicked gleam came into Tom's eyes yet again. "But then I realized she's so young and he's so old, their bedtimes would be the same anyway, so."

Another round of laughter filled the parlor.

"That was utter rubbish," Ebenezer remarked quietly so only Bess could hear above the laughter.

"You're still laughing," Bess countered, grinning up at her love's smirking face.

The man's blush deepened as he smiled softly at her. He pressed a gentle smooch to her hairline and trailed butterfly kisses down her brow to the bridge of her nose before nuzzling her. Bess tittered happily.

"Hey, hey, hey--easy now!" Tom's scolding voice brought the couple out of their reverie and drew their attention to him. He scowled playfully at them. "Simmer it down, you lovebirds! Need I remind you there are youngsters here? And Harry?"

More laughter.

"It's my party, Thomas Aaron, and I'll kiss who I damn well please!" Bess shot back, drawing even more laughter from those around her.

Tom lifted his hands to try and quiet everyone down. "Okay, okay," he chuckled. "But no, all jokes aside, I think we can all agree what an honor it is to be here tonight to pay tribute-" Tom held out a hand toward Bess, "-to this lovely woman right here."

A round of "here, here's" went around the room and Bess felt her blush utterly burn in touched embarrassment.

"Lady Bess--Cousin-" Tom's eyes briefly fell on Addie, who sat closest to him, her hands and arms cradling her growing belly, her eyes and wedding ring shining like stars, "-I think I can speak for everyone when I say that we are all so very blessed to have you in our lives." The man moved towards his pregnant wife and took up her left hand, kissing her ring. "I know, at least for myself, that you have changed life for the better." He and Addie shared a brief, soft moment of gazing devotedly into each other's eyes before Tom turned back to Bess, though he remained grasping Addie's hand. "Bess, you are clever, kind, beautiful, and so full of love, you make this gloomy old city a better place just by living in it. You are truly a treasure. And for a Yankee... eh--you're not bad." Again everyone laughed, and then Tom raised his half-gone glass of champagne. "A toast!" he called out. "To our dearest Mrs. Lady Bess Scrooge. The happiest of birthdays to you! May you continue to grace the London streets and the lap of our dear Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge for many years to come."

From his spot in the corner, Harry suddenly sang out: "For she's a jolly good fellow!" Soon everyone had joined in the song, a dozen or so mixed voices echoing throughout the parlor with fervor.

Bess hid her face in her hands and buried it into her husband's chest for good measure, feeling warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room or the handful of glasses of her favorite wine flowing through her veins. She felt so appreciated--so cherished. Six, five, even four years ago, the Yank never would have guessed she would be so awash in affection, or so deeply ensconced in her own little network of society that she would never have to worry about being alone ever again. The lonely, friendless little girl of her past would have burst into wailing tears of happiness to hear such news: Bess was a bit older and more mature now, so she didn't wail, but she did quietly sob into Ebenezer's waistcoat. The man rubbed her back and kissed her crown in comfort.

"-And so say all of us!" the group finished with a shout, practically vibrating the room with their volume. Whoops resounded, what remained of drinks was finished off, and everyone rejoiced as one.

"Tommy," Granny spoke up as soon as they'd all quieted down some, "as hostess of this little soiree, I believe it's my turn to have the floor."

Tom bowed low with a grin. "But of course, My Lady. The floor is all yours." He stepped aside and took his space next to Addie, his lips immediately connecting with her temple and one of his hands coming to rest upon and gently caress her belly. Addie beamed at him, totally and completely in love.

Standing straight and tall and stately as ever, Granna Felicity slowly made her way to Tom's previous spot in front of the fireplace. Her elegant, silver-headed cane tapped out a steady, strong rhythm on the floor. Coming to a stop in the center of the hearth, the old woman turned towards the group, shoulders straight and square, head held high and proud. The woman was an absolute pillar of their little community. Piercing blue eyes found and fell upon Bess, who had pulled her face from Ebenezer's chest, but still remained resting upon his shoulder. Granny's eyes warmed, and her thin, wrinkled lips softened ever so slightly, but did not curl. The closest thing to a smile that would ever grace her face.

"Bess," Granny began, her thin, wavering voice strong and commanding absolute attention, "my darling great-granddaughter, lost to me but then found, I cannot tell you how it overjoys me that I am here today, able to bless you with this celebration of your thirtieth-year of life that you so greatly deserve. And I hope to endow you with more as time carries off." At that, Granny sighed deeply, and she suddenly looked very tired as she leaned more heavily on her cane. "But, let us be honest--I am old--no spring chicken by far." She drew herself straight again. "In light of that, I believe it would only be fair that I open the dancing tonight with your fine young man."

Bess couldn't help throwing back her head in a laugh. "Granny!" she exclaimed. "It's my birthday!" She tightened her arms around Ebenezer and cuddled even deeper into his lap.

Granny looked completely unfazed. "I know, my dear, but you are likely to have many, many more birthdays, whereas I am likely to keel over any moment now and am limited on the amount of time at which I might be swept around the dancefloor by a strapping young gentleman."

"You know, she has a point," Ebenezer remarked with a smirk, his slate-blue eyes sparkling with delight.

Bess turned on him and fixed the man with a good-natured glare. "You just like being called "young man"," she accused.

Ebenezer didn't even try to deny it and simply shrugged. "Regardless."

"And, need I remind you, Elizabeth," Granny continued, "that if it weren't for me, you and that wonderful young shaver you're so tightly wrapped up with currently may never have come into being at all." A playful yet slightly haughty shadow settled over the woman withered and wise visage. "All that is to say, I am due for my just desserts--wouldn't you agree?

Snorting, Bess rolled her eyes. "Fine," she sighed melodramatically, "but I get him directly and immediately after you're done." A serious look fell over the American's face as another thought crossed her mind, and she held up a firm finger toward her great-grandmother. "And absolutely no groping. Or pinching. I mean that now, Granny."

Granny's eyes twinkled deviously. "But, my darling girl, you know as well as I, that's where all the fun is!"

The small orchestra Granny FeFe had hired was no half-baked group. Despite their small size, they played as well as, if not better than, the Philharmonic Society. They filled the front hall with a beautiful and speedy waltz which Ebenezer and Granny danced to splendidly. The steely-haired man gracefully swept the old woman around the wood floor, always controlled and collected in his movements despite how free he made the dance look. Granny's eyes sparkled though her mouth remained set in stone as ever. She, herself, moved with such grace and fluidity that she could have been floating along with Ebenezer. The music seemed to revitalize the octogenarian, shaving decades off her as she flitted about; if it weren't for her stark white hair, one could have sworn she was a far younger woman.

Waltzing around in Tom's arms (Addie had most graciously surrendered her husband for the moment), Bess grinned from ear to ear and guffawed as the man made a comment about her grandmother (or their grandmother technically) sweeping off with her husband if she weren't careful. Bess cheekily remarked that, with as much fun as he appeared to be having, it was more likely they would have to keep an eye on Ebenezer sweeping Granny off. They both laughed at that.

Hearing a startled yelp, Bess' head snapped in the direction of the pair in question. "Granny!" she barked over the music. "I said no pinching!" She tried to school her gaze into a firm glare, but it was difficult to do, especially when she caught the goofy grin on her hubby's blushing face. The black-haired beauty snorted and shook her head. He'd never admit it or let it cause him to stray, but Ebenezer did rather enjoy being felt up and admired for a younger man, and Granny FeFe was always more than happy to oblige him.

Bess couldn't help but keep her eyes on Ebenezer throughout the rest of the waltz. She didn't regret allowing her great-grandmother a treat (it only seemed fair after the woman had put together this wonderful party for her), but she was longing to return to her love's arms so that they might sweep off together too. Even surrounded by all this love and warmth from her friends--which of course she was exceptionally grateful for--Bess wanted to be surrounded by Ebenezer's love most. It had taken her so long to find him--a man that was compassionate, kind, humble, intelligent, loyal, handsome, and charming and possessed a passion that matched her own; and she wanted to be completely enveloped in him as often as possible.

Finally, the waltz ended and everyone on the floor parted and bowed/curtsied to their partners. Bess walked arm-in-arm with Tom back to Addie. "Here's your hubby back!" she chirped to her cousin. "Thanks ever so much for lending him to me. He's a spectacular dancer!"

"Best there is in London!" Tom piped up, puffing out his chest as he hooked his thumbs in his lapels.

Addie giggled. "Don't I know it," she remarked. She reached her hands out to her man, and he instantly took them in his and knelt before her, gazing up into her round, glowing face. Addie giggled again, blushing all the way up her ears, her gaze locked on Tom's.

Bess smiled, her heart filled with joy. First, she and Ebenezer had tied the knot (although not under the most romantic circumstances); then Addie and Tom; now Ernie and Ella were only a few months away from their wedding; Jules and Martha were likely to be engaged any day; Josie, Belinda, and Kathy all had wonderful, steady beaus; Ida was making good headway with Harold (he'd actually come with her tonight though he wasn't dancing--that seemed to be just too far out of his comfort zone); and, to top it all off, the next generation was well underway, with Harry and Hela on their fourth child and Addie and Tom their first. Bess had a feeling her duties as a midwife would be even more taxing in the coming years, but she couldn't wait to watch and help their extended family grow. Again she thought of her lonely childhood and how happy her child-self would be to know that she grew up to be surrounded by love of all kinds.

Then she thought of George. She could almost hear his deep, warm, gentle voice in her head: You made it, Mudpuppy. And you done good. I knew you'd get there. Tears pricked at her eyes, and Bess reached up to wipe them, sniffling ever so slightly.

A deep, velvet voice called her: "Bess?"

Bess turned to see Ebenezer coming her way, a concerned look on his face as he watched her dry her eyes. She smiled reassuringly at him, though her lips did quiver, and stepped toward him. "I'm all right," she said with a little dismissive wave of her hand. "Just... thinking is all."

"Ah," her husband replied, the worry fading from his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his handkerchief, raising it to her face to gently dab at her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup. "A dangerous pastime."

Bess rolled her eyes and giggled. "I know." She brought her left hand up to gently hold his right wrist as the Englishman blotted away her tears, leaning into his touch. Ebenezer's free hand sought hers, twining their fingers together and squeezing soothingly. Bess squeezed back, gazing up into her lover's face, her eyes brimming full with adoration as she admired him for the millionth time in their six years together (two of friendship--four of marriage). She felt a soft warmth bloom on her cheeks: She didn't believe she'd ever get over this remarkable, handsome man and how he was all hers.

"May I ask what you were thinking of?" Ebenezer murmured quietly. He sopped up a tear at the corner of his wife's left eye before bowing down to gently kiss her there, trailing more kisses along her cheekbone until he came nose to nose with her. The man gazed into her eyes, love, admiration, and desire shining out from his soft, slate-blue depths. Just as they always did.

Bess felt her heart clench almost painfully with love for the gentleman, bringing a fresh wave of tears to her eyes. She was very emotional this evening. "Just... the future. And the past," she answered vaguely. "And about George--what he would say if he were here."

Ebenezer hummed in consideration. Letting go of Bess' hand, he folded his handkerchief again and replaced it, gazing around the hall at all of the people here specifically to celebrate his wonderful wife: The Cratchits and their oldest children, the Huffmans (including Mr. Huffman Sr.), the Chars, the future Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, the Jenkinses, the Dowager of course, Ida and Harold, Bess' siblings of course. So many people here, just for her. Well aware of her past and how melancholy it had been (much like his own), Ebenezer knew what this party and all these people being here meant to Bess.

Still gazing around the hall, the reformed miser reached out and pulled his wife into his arms, pulling her close to his chest, Bess wrapping her own arms around his waist. He brought his gaze to hers again, smiling warmly at her. "I never knew George, of course," he stated, "but I like to think I've heard you speak enough of him that I could know him." Ebenezer touched his forehead to Bess' and gently smushed their noses together, making her giggle: His heart soared for it. "I know he'd be proud of you," he quietly cooed. "He'd be proud and happy and tickled every shade of pink for you and the life you've built for yourself." The man pecked a feather-light kiss on his love's painted lips before burying his face in the hair cascading over her shoulder and hugging her tight to him. "I know I am," he whispered meaningfully into her neck. He pressed his lips to the burn scar partially hidden by the new choker he'd gifted her, making Bess tremble ever so slightly.

That quiet declaration touched Bess deep in her soul: She felt more tears sting her eyes as the smile on her lips pulled wider in reaction. Clutching at her man's back, she pressed her face into his chest, trying to be as close to his heart as possible. His beautiful heart; so full of love for her. A heart that had not only proven its love for her but wanted her and beat with a fierce desire to protect her unto the ends of the earth. Like George. Just like her beloved George's heart, was her beloved Ebenezer's heart. Bess wanted nothing more than to kiss and cherish it into eternity.

"I've failed in telling you thus far, because I haven't been able to find the right words to say," Ebenezer murmured, stroking a hand up to cradle the back of her neck, his lips hidden in her hair right beside her ear, "but I am so very, very proud of you, my darling Bess. I still can't quite put it into words, I'm so proud of you."

Bess knew she was about to cry, his words filling and soothing a void deep within her that had been there ever since George's untimely passing. She hugged her husband tighter, never wanting to let go or him to let go. A quiet sob shuddered its way from her lungs. "Ebenezer...."

"You've grown so much, Bess," Ebenezer continued softly, reciprocating her constrictor-like grip. "You arrived in London hardly more than a girl; alone, lost, nearly penniless, thrust into parenthood and a society and culture you scarcely knew how to navigate. Look at you now! A grown woman who's successfully raised two children into adulthood and two more into fine youths; an accomplished and much sought-after midwife; a darling of London society-"

Bess snorted. "I wouldn't quite say that."

"-surrounded on her birthday by all the people who know and love her. You've come into your own, Sweetness--become the woman I always knew you could be. My chest is so tight and swollen with pride in you, I feel it will burst into pieces."

Bess nuzzled lovingly into his pectorals. The cheeky part of her wanted to make a quip about how she hoped not because she rather liked his chest in one piece, but the lump in her throat wouldn't allow the words through. She was so happy--so very happy! Never growing up would Bess have believed it possible for anyone--much less herself--could be as happy as she was in that moment: She felt she could explode off and fly all the way to Heaven's golden gates with the force of the blast. What had she ever done to deserve such fortune? What had she ever done to deserve this man holding her?

"You forgot one very important thing," the woman rasped. She pulled back just enough to gaze up at her tall love and meet his eyes with her tear-filled ones. "I'm a wife. A wife to an amazing, wonderful, magnificent man who loves me so much and treats me so well. And who helped to make everything else you've already mentioned possible."

Ebenezer smiled humbly, his cheeks pinking up a bit. He shook his head. "Bess-"

"No, Ebenezer, I mean it," Bess insisted, giving him a severe look. "It's true. I... I never could have done everything I have without you by my side. None of this would have happened if you weren't in my life." She reached up and grabbed his face, holding it in her hands and pulling him down closer to her to gaze even deeper into his eyes. "You helped me. You saved me--more than once. You've always had confidence in me even when I've had none in myself and given me the strength to carry on even in the darkest of moments. You've done so much for me that I can never repay."

"You are my wife," Ebenezer replied. He lifted a hand to wipe away some tears that had breached her barrier. "I love you. And before that, I was your friend and still loved you. You needn't ever repay me, Sweetness; all services were given freely from my heart." He smiled gently. "After all, it's not as if you haven't done the same for me in turn."

Bess' lips quivered into a smile. "You're my husband," she flipped it back around. "I love you. My life... it wouldn't be a life without you." She tilted his face further down to kiss his brow.

Her husband chuckled softly, leaning into her touch. "Nor would mine be without you," he murmured. Slipping a finger beneath her chin, the Englishman kissed his American love sweetly and slowly, his lips slotting expertly in with hers.

Bess utterly melted, her insides turning to quivering mush. Wrapping her arms around his bowed neck, she went up on tiptoe to deepen the contact. She squeaked against his mouth when Ebenezer suddenly clutched her about the waist and thighs and swept her up off the floor. Lovely, gorgeous, strong, tall man! Tickled by internal butterflies, a muffled giggle left her. The kiss was already making her giddy, and the sensation of nothing under her feet made it almost feel like she was floating. Her heart certainly was. The elation of it all caused both of the woman's feet to pop; knees together beneath her skirts, toes primly pointed skyward.

The band was finishing with a song and starting in on another. The couple parted for breath.

"Would you care to dance, Mrs. Scrooge?" Ebenezer lowly rumbled against the Yank's lips. His half-lidded gaze held hers.

Bess smiled a bit dazedly and nuzzled his nose. "I would be delighted, Mr. Scrooge." She loosened her grip around the man's neck and slowly, gracefully descended to the floor again.

Ebenezer took a slight step to the side, folded an arm behind his back, and debonairly offered her his left hand. Bess bit back a giggle and reached out with her right to take it. Holding hands they made their way to the middle of the floor, avoiding the other dancers. Turning again to each other, they bowed and curtsied respectfully before Ebenezer held out his hand again, smoothly pulling Bess into his arms when she took it. He pulled her quite a bit closer than was traditional, her front coming flush with his. His right hand fell much, much lower on her back than was proper. Bess gasped, a blush instantly heating her cheeks, and raised a speculative eyebrow at the man. "I say, Mr. Scrooge!" she hissed with a smirk.

Her lover merely snickered, raising a devilish eyebrow of his own, a spark of desire flashing through his slate-blue eyes that made the woman in his hold shiver with excitement. "Consider this a prelude for tonight, Mrs. Scrooge," he growled huskily as he leaned down towards her ear. "You'll have one more present to unwrap and play with before it's all said and done."

Bess' blush grew hotter, her smirk turning saucy. "However I wish?" she inquired coquettishly. Her hold on him tightened, her hand squeezing his, her nails lightly digging into the back of his shoulder.

"However you wish," came the rumbled answer. As if to provide further reassurance, Ebenezer's hand only trailed up slightly higher on Bess' backside, but only for the sake of comfort.

A wave of anticipatory pleasure rolled through the woman, settling low in her pelvis and tickling with delight. Her heart skipped a beat. Oh, what a lucky girl she was!

Hands lovingly clasped, their free hands positioned properly on backs and shoulders, Ebenezer and Bess finally swept into the next waltz with everyone else, the gentleman's long legs carrying them rapidly around the circle. They held each other's gazes the entire time, following the path simply by instinct. That never would have happened six years ago, when Ebenezer was first helping Bess learn to waltz. Which, perhaps not so coincidentally, had taken place in this exact hall.

Bess smiled at the memory. Even back then, when they'd hardly been more than acquaintances yet, Ebenezer had helped her--had been willing to help her. Even though she'd been a perfect stranger from a foreign land who'd been an absolute and sometimes offensive idiot about everything English, he'd been nothing but compassionate and shown nothing but kindness and graciousness to her all while expecting nothing in return. She hadn't thought of it then (there'd been so much else to consider) but as she thought of it now, it reminded her of George and the first time they'd met: Her a little buck-naked urchin, caked in the mud of a puddle she'd run away from home to find, and he a gentle-hearted giant of a man who hadn't batted an eye at her antics and had wrapped her up in his own shirt and taken her back home. The parallels didn't end there, as both Ebenezer and George had kept coming back, offering support and protection free of any charge. Then, eventually, both had also stayed for love and want of her.

Bess pulled her gaze away from Ebenezer's and rested her head against his shoulder, slipping her hand on his shoulder around the back of his neck to embrace him. Closing her eyes, she simply let her husband--the man she loved and trust more than any other person in this world--steer and carry her wherever he wished. It didn't matter where it was, she would go with him; wherever he went, she would follow.

"Sweetness?" Ebenezer murmured, slowing their dancing just a bit. He watched her with some concern.

"Thank you," Bess sighed with contentment. She looked up at him again, her head never leaving his shoulder, and offered a small smile. "Thank you so much."

Her husband smiled warmly. "For what, may I ask?"

Bess felt the prick of tears again at the corner of her eyes; she blinked them back. "For being everything I've ever wanted in a man," she answered softly. She squeezed his hand. "For making me feel safe, wanted, and loved. For being..." she trailed off to take a shaky breath as one more tear dripped from her lashes, "... for being even better than George."

Ebenezer's eyes softened, and Bess could swear she saw a sheen of tears in them too. Bowing his head, the tall man lovingly kissed her brow before resting his cheek against her head. His arm around her waist tightened, as did his grip on her hand. "If that's true, you're happiness is thanks enough, my darling," he assured her. "And it would be my greatest honor to continue these things if you'll allow me."

Bess could only nod her head and squeak "Yes," as the lump was back in her throat. Her lips quivered into a tight smile as she tried to control herself. She had cried so much already tonight, she didn't want to cry anymore. Squeezing her eyes shut, the American buried her face back into her man's chest, breathing in his comforting scent. Not only would George be proud of her--he would also be happy; for she'd finally done it. She'd finally found a man that measured up to him--out-measured him actually. Ebenezer was everything George had been and more, and he was hers. All hers. She still wasn't sure she deserved him, but that was neither here nor there--she had him. And she was not letting him go.

And he was not letting her go. Not ever. Just like George.

Taglist: @rom-e-o @oldmanlusting @the-house-of-auditore-frye @crimson-phantom-designs @ofvampiirisms @purgratoriat

#Youtube #scrooge 2022 #netflix scrooge #scrooge a christmas carol #scrooge #ebenezer scrooge #scrooge x oc #ebenezer x bess #ebeness #scrooge romance #fluffy scrooge #married scrooge #past relationships #FEELS #ALL THE FEELS #father figures #strong male role models #scrooge ocs #george sullivan #lawrence bryant #the asshat #ex boyfriend #bess has not had a great past #but she will have the brightest future!

[beachbabey]

This with daddy phoenix

i saw your chat with 🫡 and I thought this fit perfect

HSHSBDBSHSVDGEV

You go out clubbing with all the dagger squad and get huffy when Nat doesn’t give you as much attention as you want, keeping her hand on your thigh whilst she talked to other people wasn’t enough for you, so you stomp away to the dance floor, finding Jake and giving him that look that tells him you wanna piss Natasha off, he wouldn’t be Hangman If he didn’t help you with you mission, smirking in Nat’s direction and pulling you to the bar, ordering a round of shots and taking you to the dance floor, shamelessly grinding on you in direct view of the rest of the squad.

Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek as she smiles, challenging you to continue

“Phoenix you seeing this” Bradley yells over the music

“Yep” she spits out, not taking her eyes off of you, evidently you’re not stopping anytime soon. Taking her eyes off of you and going to the bar, ordering herself a beer and sitting back down, she doesn’t look at you for the rest of the night until you’re underneath her, whimpering and whining at how deep she was rutting her strap into you.

“You think it was a good idea to do that huh? You like acting like a filthy little slut for my squad? You want jakes cock instead of mine princess?” She grits her teeth, pressing her nails into the flesh of your hips, slamming you back onto her strap, you let out a choked sob as the overstimulation courses through your core, shaking your head feverishly

“No Daddy no! Only want your cock ‘m sorryyy” you wailed as she changed her pace, swapping her harsh thrusts out in favour of grinding into your dripping pussy, brushing back the hair sticking to your face in a mocking tenderness.

“Sure didn’t seem that way back at the bar honey pie, you knew what you were doing, and if you’re too fuckin’ dumb to think I wouldn’t punish you then take this as a lesson, this is what bad girls get, this is what Daddy does to sluts like you”

#for reasons I am passing away #natasha trace smut #natasha trace x reader

[sokkas-first-fangirl]

Kind of a part 2 to the baby Dolores being fond of Bruno: baby Mirabel also being fond of Bruno and the adults joking he is the baby whisperer.

Best Tio Bruno 👏👏👏

Bruno was good with the kids and the whole family would acknowledge it. Even Alma, who rarely gave outright praise, said that Bruno was good with his nieces and nephew.

They also knew he was Dolores's favourite. After her parents, he was the closest with her; she'd forever follow him around, clinging to his ruana.

And now it seemed that baby Mirabel, only a few months old, was following in her cousin's footsteps. She'd been oddly clingy all day, wailing whenever Julieta or Agustín put her down. In the end, however, they had duties to attend to and Julieta passed a screaming Mirabel to Bruno.

For a moment, Bruno froze. No one in La Casa Madrigal was a stranger to screaming babies (God knew they could burst your eardrums) but Mirabel was always such a cheerful little thing that he floundered.

She didn't need feeding or changing. Julieta said it was way too early to be teething. Mirabel just seemed to be having an off day.

Well, Bruno could relate.

"I know, I know," he said quietly, trying not to rock her too desperately. "Everything's a bit much right now, huh?"

Mirabel outright screeched.

"Same, bébé, same," Bruno sighed. Quietly, he began to hum his papá's song, Dos Oruguitas. It usually did the trick.

As expected, it once more worked its magic. As Bruno slowly paced the courtyard, gently rubbing Mirabel's back and humming, her screaming and sobs slowly stopped. She fell into an exhausted sleep, only stirring when Bruno finally sat in the living room. She scrunched up her little nose but once she realised she was still being held, she fell back asleep.

Yep, just an off day. Just a clingy day.

Fair enough, Bruno supposed.

He ended up falling asleep himself, only waking to the sound of Pepa's giggles. She stood in the doorway, sunshine radiating from her and Camilo in her arms.

"Are you sure babysitting isn't your real Gift?" she asked, careful to keep her voice down.

"Nope," Bruno said. "That's acting."

"You wish, Bruno." Her gaze softened. "You're good with them. All of them."

Bruno, never the best at taking compliments, shyly smiled. "Gracias," he said, as Mirabel continued to doze against his chest, her tiny hands clutching his ruana like a lifeline.

#answers #best uncle bruno madrigal #best uncle and niece duo #bruno and mirabel #bruno and his merry band of niblings #asks #prompts #encanto #encanto fanfic #my writing #encanto snippets #bruno madrigal #mirabel madrigal #julieta madrigal #pepa madrigal #i love them your honour #the madrigal family

[liviavanrouge]

Little Brother

My Brother

Livia: *Perks up feeling a small tug on her cloak* Hm? What?

Mistic: I-I want to walk beside you!

Livia: *Sighs* Fine! Come on.

Mistic: *Beams and steps to her right*

Livia: *Walks away, Mistic at her side*

My Treasure

Mistic: *Beams, stuffing his mouth with cake*

Livia: *Stares in disbelief* Ah...

Mistic: Oops

Mistic: *Grabs a napkin, wiping his mouth* S-Sorry..

Livia: *Huffs and nudges her chocolate cake towards him* Whatever..

Mistic: *Beams, picking the plate up and eating the cake*

I love you forever

Livia: Is there anything you want?

Mistic: Hm?

Livia: I expected you to demand things from me...

Mistic: *Stares at her, not planning to demand ANYTHING due to her being a fricking ticking time tomb that could kill him at ANY moment*

LIvia: Well?

Mistic: *Giggles cutely, giving her an innocent smile* Can sissy get Mistic a history book?

Livia: *Blinks in surprise* ...a-alright..

Mistic: *Giggles* Thank you Sissy!

My Brother

Livia: *Touches Mistic's forehead, frowning down at him* You're gonna catch a fever, stupid...

Mistic: *Pulls the blanket up* Sorry

Livia: *Turns and walks away* I shall send Lilian your way

Mistic: Thank you, Sissy....

Livia: *Closes the door behind her*

Mistic: *Sighs, getting tired of playing cute all the time with her*

My Treasure

Livia: *Stares at Mistic stunned*

Mistic: What I want...I WANT AN APOLOGY!!

Mistic: YOU HURT ME!! I WANT YOU TO SAY "I'M SORRY"!

Livia: *Trembles, tears falling down her cheeks* I'm sorry....for the way I treated you, I'm ashamed of feeling threatened by someone who just wanted to be my family....

Livia: I had no right to treat you the way that I did...I-I'm so sorry...

Mistic: *Wails, rubbing his eyes as he cried* I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!!

Livia: *Pulls Mistic into a hug* I'm sorry...I won't do it again

Mistic: *Wails, sobbing into her shoulder*

I swear my Forever

Livia: *Smiles redoing the painting with Mistic she had destroyed*

Mistic: *Smiles wide, standing behind her chair, arms resting on the back of it*

Livia: Do your legs hurt?

Mistic: No, I'm fine sissy~

Livia: *Chuckles amused* Alright, that's good, I'm glad

My Brother

Mistic: *Beams at Livia* There's lots of other sweets here!

Livia: Yep, I had the cooks make something you might like, thought you'd get tired of eating tarts, cake and cupcakes

Mistic: NEVER!!

Livia: *Laughs and crosses her legs* Bring them over then!

Isabellea: *Rolls over a cart with plates of desserts*

Mistic: YUMMY!

Livia: *Grins amused*

My Treasure

Livia: *Brushes Mistic's hair, grinning* Hold still

Mistic: *Yawns* Sorry...sleepy-

Livia: Alright, I'm done, head to bed

Mistic: Night sissy

Livia: *Chuckles as he fell asleep in her chair instead of leaving the room to his room* Night~

Livia: *Floats over a blanket and covers him up*

Really don't wanna leave

Sebek: Princess, your brother-

Mistic: *Shoves past him* SISSY!!

Livia: *Smiles as Mistic threw his arms around her* Hey..

Mistic: *Beams up at her*

Livia: The dessert is coming, settle down

Mistic: Alright!

Livia: *Chuckles, working on her documents*

Wanna be beside you

Mistic: So many people came

Livia: This is your special day, so enjoy it...

Mistic: *Looks at her and smiles*

Livia: *Pats his head and nods to him* Go ahead

Mistic: *Beams* Alright!

Huso: *Stares at Mistic with wide eyes shocked, dropping his gift for Livia* Huh...

@queen-of-twisted @pekoetiikapu @yukii0nna @zexal-club @teddymochi

#disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst livia #twst disney #livia vanrouge #twst oc #twst #twisted wonderland disney #twst wonderland #disney twst #twst mistic #winning my sister over #twst ocs #twisted oc #twistedwonderland #twisted #sebek #sebek zigvolt #twisted wonderland sebek #twst sebek #twst sebek zigvolt

[whumperstorm]

Zephyr drabble No. 1 - Whipping

(Note: Zephyr uses she/he pronouns interchangeably)

content warnings: mentions of past self harm, "it" as a pronoun ~~~

The rope on Zephyr's wrists rub painful marks into her skin. They took away her gloves, so the rough fibers dig directly into her flesh. It wouldn't be so bad if she stopped struggling, but she can't. She can't help it. She's tied to a pillar, her arms pulled up and around so her back is on full display and her chest is pressed against the pole. Her legs are free, but she's already tried kicking out at her assailants to no avail. She can hear them around her, their footsteps on the concrete and their hateful muttering, but they're too far away to hit.

A sharp crack has Zephyr flinching. He gasps at the sound, trying to discern its source. It kind of sounded like a...

"What- What do you want??" he asks desperately.

"Fucking freak," is the only response. "Pretending to be a person."

Zephyr sobs. He is a person! He has a family and a life. He was born and he can talk and laugh and live just like them! But all they see are his "additions". The animistic teeth and ears that mark him as "other". The magic he embraced so readily, thinking it made him special. Made him a superhero.

"P-please, I just wanted to help-" she says.

"You can help by screaming nice and loud for us."

For a moment, all Zephyr hears is another crack that echos through her eardrums. Then suddenly, a burst of agony tears across her back, ripping open her shirt and skin alike. She shouts in pain and surprise, spine arching away from the pain.

Yep. That's a whip.

Zephyr's struggles begin anew, wrists protesting his movements. He knows they aren't going to stop at one strike. He's read history and he knows how this works. There's a lesson to be learned, a price to pay. He feels something hot trickle down his back and knows he's bleeding. His thoughts flash back to another time, when his arms wept blood from a different kind of cut, all lined up in rows, and he chokes. I don't want to bleed anymore!

Another strike lands across her lower back where her crop-top doesn't reach. The pain doubles with no fabric to slice through, and she wails. A spark of electricity shoots out from her body, but wherever they’ve set her up  is made of wood and her tormentors are too far away.

"Look at that!" one shouts. "That coulda killed us!"

No, NO it was an accident! Please, stop hurting me...

The strikes speed up now. Lash after lash rain down on her until her shirt is in tatters. Distantly she's disappointed, it's her favorite one. Her entire back screams, and her voice follows along. As the pain stacks and the cuts begin to overlap and dig deeper, her screams turn feral. A growl crawls out from her throat and her voice becomes guttural as she writhes.

"It really is a fucking monster..."

"See? You can't hide what you are."

One strike goes too high. It hits his upper shoulder and wraps around his neck. He chokes as it slices through the delicate skin of his throat and snags on his collar.

"Ah, shit," says the one holding the whip.

The cut didn't go deep, but the cord is stuck. Zephyr whines. Help, I can't breathe! He's already lightheaded from the torture and blood loss and now he wobbles on his feet.

"I'll get it."

Hands touch him, fingers dig into his throat.. Zephyr panics and flinches away, but there's nowhere for him to go. His hair is yanked back to expose his neck and he cries like a wounded animal. Tears pour down his face.

"Fucking- Hold still!" the voice spits. Too close. The pressure on her neck is released and she can breathe clearly again. She gasps, and her legs buckle. She falls until her arms are pulled taut and she's hanging, her knees not quite touching the ground. Her shoulders burn from the pressure, and her flayed back sings as the skin is stretched tight.

She's losing grasp of the world around her. The pain rules over everything and her ears ring. After a minute, or maybe an hour, there's more lashes. The pain is as agonizing as before, but now all she can do is flinch. Her head hangs. She feels nauseous. Distantly she hears voices, muffled like they’re underwater.

"...no fun.."

"...eave it here and..."

"...nna die anyway."

Zephyr's wrists are cut loose and he falls. Unable to catch himself, his head smacks into the ground with a groan. There's a kick to his side, almost dull compared to the fire of his back. Then, with his cheek pressed to the ground, blood and tears pooling around him, Zephyr falls into blissful unconsciousness.

#my writing #zephyr #last chance #tw self harm #uhhh im new with content warnings so please let me know if i should add something #hope you like it! there will be a part 2 #whump

[yet-another-heathen]

Invasion, Pt. II

994 words. Original Work: Liliholm and Page.

<< | Masterpost | >>

Kyle's night is only getting worse. Second installment of the choose-your-own-ending whump mini series, Invasion.

TW | aftermath of a dog attack, broken bones, blatant disregard for the whumpee's life, a bad fall down some stairs, robbery gone wrong, blood, violence, choking, whump of a 19 yr. old

Tag List | @ink-and-salt @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpvp @redwingedwhump @lave-whump @castlehillwhump @sideblogformindtrash @burtlederp @fanastywhump @whump-in-the-closet @sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles

The Girls dragged him back inside into the silence and stillness of the house, Garcia trailing after with the crowbar still in hand.

The kid fought, sure. But against three dobermans that were each about as big as him? Tch. That's what he'd call an exercise in futility.

Blood smeared across the tile floor as they dragged him into the kitchen, his feet skidding uselessly on the floor. And with a single command, the three of them dropped him into a bloody pile in front of the refrigerator. The kid dissolved into a fit of ragged coughing while the Girls circled back behind Garcia, still growling.

He'd started begging before he'd even caught his breath.

"Please, man, please—I'm sorry—I'm fucking- s-orry!"

Garcia grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him toward the nearest door. The kid cried out in pain and panic as he clasped at Garcia's arm with mangled hands, voice rising nearly to a shriek.

"Wait! WAIT! I swear to god I never saw your face. Please!"

"Never, huh?" Garcia chuckled. The only light throughout the house was the ever-shifting colors cast by the television's glow. He was missing his wrestling match for this shit. He reached up and pulled the door open to reveal basement stairs leading downward into pure, empty black. "That's a shame, kid. I have seen yours."

"Oh god—" He didn't even get the chance to finish his thought before Garcia shoved him over backwards.

He hit the steps on the way down once, twice. Then a SNAP as he hit the bottom. And a scream of pain so raw it was almost inhuman.

Heh. Yep, something was broken for sure. Garcia was gonna go with either arm or shoulder.

The screams died off into frantic, wailing sobs as Garcia shut the basement door and began to slowly descend the steps after him. He flicked on the lightswitch near the bottom, and a string of industrial bulbs buzzed to life.

The basement itself was exactly what you'd expect. Boxes, shelves that lined the perimeter, and an assortment of all the items that were too delicate to throw in the shed. There was a bare patch of cement at the bottom, and an old drain set into the floor.

The kid was laying at the bottom of the staircase, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle beneath his weight. And—yep. Humerus. He could see the kid struggling to bear through the pain enough to try to pull his own weight off of it, but with every minute shift the fracture just ground into itself even worse than before.

Garcia just watched him, resting the crowbar on his own shoulder with familiar ease.

When the kid was finally coherent enough to look up at him again, agony gave way to terror. And oh, how clearly he could watch the weight of the situation finally sink in.

His frantic, breathless voice cut off as the curve of the crowbar pressed against his throat, starting to cut off his air again. "—wait..." His mangled hand rose up to wrap around the metal, but he didn't have anywhere near the strength it would have taken to pull it from Garcia's hand.

"Tell me why you're here."

The kid nearly closed his eyes as he sobbed, tears pouring down his cheeks. "Please—"

The sound broke up into a gargled wheeze as Garcia pushed harder, crushing down on his windpipe. The kid's bloodied palm slipped on the metal in a moment of raw panic, trying to claw it off. Garcia let it go on for just long enough to make sure he knew it wasn't an idle threat, then eased off again.

The kid dissolved into another fit of coughing.

Slower, "Tell me why you're here."

"Your truck—" wet, rasping breaths. Hard, forced blinking as though to clear the stars from his vision. "I saw—your truck—"

....what?

"You went past this morning and I fucking—I- I- I- I know that thing cost money. R-eal money, not the—the shit cars you always see around. I don't know what I was thinking! IIf you let me go—please, I s-sswear to you I'll n-ever do it again—"

Garcia did this for a living. He knew how to spot a lie. How to watch someone's eye movements, how to gauge their breathing. How to tell when rambling was because they were stringing themselves along as they went, and when it was because they couldn't think of anything but the genuine truth.

"Please—I'm so sorry! Just—please—Please let me go! I swear to god I'll never steal another thing in my life—I'll go back to school! Anything—"

He wasn't sure this kid was lying.

"Who sent you?"

"S-ent me?" There was no faking the confusion that washed over his face. "Wha d'you mean 'sent—'" Or the realization. Or the dawning horror. The kid looked up at Garcia with his bloodied mouth hanging open, one eye already beginning to swell. "Oh god....no! No! I swear to god I don't know who you are!" he sobbed. "I'm just a— I'm, I just—I knew even if I couldn't get the ga—garage door open for the truck there still had to be something else in the garage worth taking and I was—you were never supposed to even see me! I was never even going to be inside the house!"

This kid wasn't lying.

He dissolved into even more hopeless sobs when Garcia's expression didn't change. "Oh, god, please—please—you have to believe me!"

The kid wasn't lying.

Fuck.

FUCK. The bloody metal lifted away from the kid's throat. And without another word, Garcia turned and began making his way back up the stairs. He paid no attention to the abrupt, frantic pleas that chased after him. He needed to think. He made it back up to the kitchen, and swung the door shut.

next | >>

#Garcia #Luca and Garcia #whumper #whumper pov #whumpee #whumpblr #choose your own whump #whump fic #Invasion Mini-series #whump #writeblr #Liliholm and Page

[thetrishtalgem]

Day 5: "You better pray I don't get up this time around."

Debris || Pinned Down || "It's broken."

A flash back into Dimeia's rough childhood.

TW: Child abuse, domestic abuse

Fandom: Dungeons and Dragons (OCs)

Tag List: @whumptober-archive

“I want you out of my sight, you little cretin! And don’t you even think about making a sound, or I will make you wish you were never born!”

Dimeia was thrown backwards, slamming against the wall of the closet. She watched the silhouetted figure slam the closet door shut and listened as a metal clicking sound signaled the padlock was on. Overhead a few pieces of pottery shook. Dimeia pulled her knees up to her chest and sniffled. She could still hear her mother storming around their tiny apartment and continuing to rant and rave. Her stomach growled as she curled further into herself, as if it would muffle the sound.

The pangs of hunger were something she was used to dealing with. But ever since her mom got pregnant with the baby, food seemed even more scarce for their family. Dimeia hadn’t really thought anything of it when she spotted the loaf of bread sitting on the counter. Nor did she think it was going to be that big of a deal for her to share it with Beelzebub. He was her best friend. She couldn’t let him go hungry. She hadn’t thought that it mattered that he was ‘a pile of fluff and fabric’. He made her feel happy. Safe.

Tears started to stream down her face as she hugged her knees even tighter. It was hard to think of what her mom was doing to Beelzebub. She shut her eyes and tried to remind herself that he was tough. Tougher than anybody she’d ever seen before. That’s why he could help get her through anything and everything. The more she heard her mom storming around outside, the more she heard the dishes above her rattling and the wooden shelf creaking.

She flinched as she heard the front door slam shut. Then suddenly, she heard a shattering noise right in front of her as one of the dishes overhead crashed down. Dimeia jumped up and stumbled backwards, causing more things on the shelf to come tumbling down. She felt a sharp jolt of pain as something heavy cracked into the side of her head. Her hands flew up to feel the crack through the lower curve of her horn, sending a dull ache throbbing wherever she pressed her hands.

“Mommy,” she cried out. “Mommy…Daddy…i-it hurts.”

Slowly she slid to the floor, clutching the side of her head and sobbing quietly. She wasn’t sure how long she was sitting in the dark before she heard the front door opening again. Dimeia held her breath as the door closed and she heard footsteps approaching the doors.

“Aly?”

“Daddy!” Dimeia wailed. “Daddy, please, it h-hurts.”

“Meia?” her father called out. “What happened?”

“I-I knocked something down, and, and it hit me in the head,” she cried.

She heard her father mutter something quietly before hurrying away. It wasn’t long before she heard him hustle back and fumble with the lock. Evening sunlight streamed in quickly as he opened the door. Dimeia threw herself at her father and buried her face into his chest. She could still smell the sweat and steel on him as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Daddy…”

“Meia, what happened?” he asked again. “How did the dishes fall?”

“I-I don’t know. Mommy put me in there because I got bread for me and Beelzebub, and then she was really mad, and she left, and…and…and all that stuff just fell,” she explained.

Her father pulled back, a sad expression taking over his face, “Meia, you know better than to take food.”

“I-I know, but I was so hungry, and I didn’t want Beelzebub to be hungry too,” she hiccuped.

“Sweetie, Beelzebub is a toy,” His voice was soft. “He’s not real.”

“Yes he is! He is real, and he’s the bestest bunny friend ever!” Dimeia argued.

“Okay, okay. He’s…he’s a magic bunny,” He explained, face lighting up ever so slightly. “And because he’s magic, he doesn’t need to eat like you, Mommy and I.”

Dimeia’s eyes grew wide. “Really?”

“Yep. Maybe someday, he’ll teach you how to do magic.”

“Do you think he could fix my head?”

“Your head?” Worry quickly overtook her father’s expression as he pulled away from her. “Meia, did something hit you when you were in there?”

She nodded her head. “It made my horn hurt really bad, Daddy. I don’t like it.”

“Shit. Let me see.”

He turned her head to the side, fingers gently brushing along the rough, jagged edges of Dimeia’s horn. She whimpered as his touch lingered in one spot.

“Shit. Cracked it pretty good,” he muttered.

Dimeia looked at her father with watery eyes, “It’s broken?”

“Not quite. But you do have a crack in it,” he answered. “C’mere. I’ll take you into the kitchen and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

She felt a strong pair of arms wrap around her and lift her up effortlessly. Dimeia gingerly leaned her head against her father’s chest and took in a deep breath. Something about the metallic tang that always clung to him brought a sense of calm over her. His touches were always soft. Gentle. Reassuring. Whenever it was just them, Dimeia felt safe. She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Her father set her down gently on the kitchen counter before turning to rummage through the cabinets. He set down a roll of gauze he must have grabbed while she wasn’t watching, she assumed. After a moment he set a half-empty, amber colored bottle next to her. She jumped a little at the loud POP! the cork made as it came loose from the neck.

“This is gonna sting a little bit, baby, but it’s gonna help make sure there aren’t any germs or other yucky stuff that gets into there and makes it worse. Okay?” He leveled with his daughter.

Dimeia’s brows creased in worry. “Can you hold my hand, Daddy?”

“I need my hands to keep this steady,” he answered. “D’you want to hold Beelzebub?”

“Mommy took him from me when she put me in the closet. I don’t know where he went,” she said quietly.

A sly grin tugged at the corners of her father’s mouth. “I might have an idea or two.”

Seemingly from nowhere, he produced a small, fuzzy brown rabbit stuffed animal. Dimeia’s eyes went wide as she reached for the rabbit, cradling it gently in her hands. Then she brought it into a tight squeeze against her chest.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispered.

“Of course, Meia. Now hold still for me so I can make sure this gets where it needs to.”

She nodded her head. Her grip on the rabbit plush loosened just a bit as she watched her father work. He tilted her head down and gently placed one of his hands on the cracked horn. Then Dimeia felt a stinging sensation on the side of her head. She squoze Beelzebub tighter as her father quietly assured her that she was doing well. Her eyes shut tight and she focused on the way her chest was rising and falling. Eventually she managed to find a rhythm that helped ease the pain she felt.

It didn’t take long before she heard her father set the bottle down. She opened her eyes to see him unravel the gauze around his hand. He spared her a quick smile before swiftly wrapping up her horn. When he finished, he picked Dimeia up and set her down gently on the ground before crouching down to her level.

“You did a great job, sweetheart. I’m proud of you,” he said.

She smiled. “Thanks, Daddy. It was really hard, but I think Beelzebub helped me with some of his magic.”

“He’s very talented like that.” He turned his head to look at the mess in front of the closet doors. “Why don’t you go get a broom and help me clean this up? We wouldn’t want mommy to come home to a mess, would we?”

Dimeia shook her head before quickly running off to get a broom. When she came back, her father had already picked up the heavy iron pots. She began sweeping up the shards of shattered ceramic into a large pile. Just as she finished, the door to the apartment swung open. Alyona stood in the doorway, staring down at Dimeia with a scowl on her face.

“What are you doing out? Didn’t I tell you that I didn’t want to see you?” she sneered.

Dimeia stood stone still. “I…I stayed in there until Daddy came home because I got hit in the head-,”

“And look at this fucking mess,” she scoffed. “I leave this house to try and get some fucking peace of mind, and you just go and do whatever you want.”

“It was a accident, Mommy, I-I didn’t-,”

“You were an accident. But you don’t hear me stuttering and stumbling pathetic excuses for it.”

Dimeia lowered her head, doing her best to keep the tears at bay.

Alyona turned her attention towards her husband. “And you. Why did you let her out?”

“I came home and she was crying. She said she got hurt,” her father answered meekly.

“What, so you just give her what she wants because she whines a little? No wonder she’s such a spineless little shit like you, Ashe.”

Ashe lowered his head as well. A heavy silence hung in the room for a long moment.

“Finish cleaning up your mess and go to bed,” Alyona finally answered.

Ashe spoke up, “Aly, what about din-,”

“What she stole earlier is plenty enough for her,” Alyona seethed. “You should consider yourself lucky that you’ll get anything to eat tonight, either. What, with that pathetic excuse you call a paycheck.”

“Y-yes, dear. I’m thankful for everything you do for me.”

“As you should be.”

With that, Alyona turned on her heel and marched out of the room. Dimeia grabbed the dustpan and made quick work of the remaining debris. Without a word, she hurried off to her room. As she started rearranging her pile of sheets to sleep with, she could hear the muffled sounds of an argument just outside her door. She laid down, Beelzebub close to her, and covered her ears before eventually drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

#whumptober2023 #no.5 #debris #it's broken #fic #oc #child abuse #child abuse tw #domestic abuse #domestic abuse tw #dungeons and dragons #dnd #dnd oc #curse of strahd #cos

[silvfyre-writings]

Aizawa Cares Pt. 24 (MHA Fanfic)

Hi, yes, I forgot to post this yesterday omg. I got in the car to work this morning and went "shit, I didn't post the chapter" but here it is now! It's time for Aoyama to shine! I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!!!

Okay, so, usually the way I work is that I try to be a chapter ahead so that if something happens I still have something to post. Well, I've now not gotten ahead. And it's also heading towards December so I'm becoming rather busy ugh.

The next update, as a result, will come on the 1st January, 2023.

HOWEVER! If I do complete the next chapter before then, I will post it, but just in case I can't get it finished in time, that date will be the next chapter post. Thank you all for understanding and I'll see you all in the new year (with this fic at least, and hopefully sooner haha)

Aoyama is crying.

It certainly wasn’t a strange sight for Aizawa to walk in on, and it wasn’t the first time that he’d walked in on one of his students crying. Hell, he often caught Midoriya crying about some thing or another at least once a day; he was surprised Midoriya even had any tears left to cry out by now.

But yes, Aizawa was no stranger to tears. The only question he had was what Aoyama could possibly be crying about. Nothing immediately came to mind; he hadn’t put his class through the usual rigorous training he did, and he hadn’t heard about the other teachers giving them a test so bad that even Yaoyorozu had been brought to tears. Poor Ectoplasm hadn’t realized just how hard he’d made the test until his students had approached him for help—something that they never did unless the situation was dire. Or someone got hurt. But all was well and mathematics had yet to claim a life.

That still didn’t tell him why Aoyama was currently on the kitchen floor, an empty packet of cheese in front of him, and sobbing his heart out, and Aizawa was a little terrified to find out just what could reduce the boy to such tears in the first place. “Aoyama?” Aizawa questioned as he approached his student, coming to crouch beside the boy, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What happened?”

Aoyama looked up at him, tears running down his cheeks. “Someone ate my cheese, Aizawa-sensei.”

Oh. Aizawa glanced at the empty cheese packet sitting on the floor. Yep, it was definitely empty and Aizawa had honestly thought that Aoyama had eaten it, but clearly that wasn’t the case. He’d witnessed just how passionate the boy was about his cheese, often sharing different kinds of cheeses with his classmates; however, unless Aoyama actually offered, the class knew to leave the cheese alone. But this time, one of his students had broken that rule.

“Did you do what I told you all to do?” Aizawa asked gently.

Aoyama nodded. “I put it in a container and labelled it and someone ate it!” The boy’s words rose until his voice was practically wailing.

“Alright, I know it’s upsetting that someone ate your food, but I need you to calm down for me, okay kiddo? Take a breath and wipe your tears.”

Aoyama did as he was told, his lip wobbling as he tried to stop himself from crying. It tugged at Aizawa’s heartstrings. It was such a simple thing to get upset over, but that didn’t mean that Aoyama’s feelings were any less valid. So, he reached over and tugged the boy into his side. His student lost the fight against the tears and began to cry again. This time, Aizawa let the boy cry it all out on his shoulder.

“Write down what cheese it was that was eaten, and I’ll try to get it replaced for you.”

Aoyama nodded into Aizawa’s shirt, a muffled ‘thank you’ coming from the boy.

Aizawa was going to find out who ate that cheese if that was the last thing he did, but first, he needed to help Aoyama calm down. He continued to hold onto Aoyama, not saying anything but just holding his student carefully. After some time had passed, Aoyama seemed to calm down, his sobs quietening into sniffles, and his tears coming to a halt. Still, the boy clung to him and showed no signs of moving.

"How about we get you to your room and you can have a rest?" Aizawa suggested.

Aoyama simply nodded, and didn’t resist when Aizawa guided them both into a standing position; Aizawa then leading his student up the stairs to his dorm room. The entire walk, Aoyama didn’t say anything, just kept his head down and finally pulled away from him when they reached his room. A quiet ‘thanks’ came from his student, and he watched as the door slowly shut behind Aoyama.

Letting out a sigh, Aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally preparing himself for the following conversation he had to have with his class. Hopefully, whoever ate Aoyama’s cheese would own up to it, and fast, because he did not want this to become a regular occurrence; a detention and buying replacement cheese should be enough of a deterrent. As he made his way back down the stairs to the common room, he tapped out a message and sent it to his students—minus Aoyama of course—telling them all to come to the common room immediately.

Now all he had to do was wait.

One by one, his class trickled into the dorm, eyeing each other anxiously and slowly approached where Aizawa stood. He’d put his most unimpressed face on for this moment, eyes narrowed. It had the intended effect, for none of his students dared to speak, only taking a seat wherever they could. Midoriya walked into the room, his entire body trembling. If it were any of his other students, Aizawa would take it as a sign of guilt, but this was Midoriya, who quite frankly, was easily frightened. Still, Aizawa watched the boy sit next to Iida and Todoroki, politely nodding at them before turning his attention to Aizawa.

All he was waiting on now was the stragglers, those that had probably been in the midst of something when his message had gone through. And he was right when Bakugo stormed into the dorm, drenched in sweat and ranting about being interrupted; the rest of the boy’s friend group following behind.

“Please don’t sit on anything, Bakugo.” Aizawa said, not feeling up to trying to get nitroglycerin out of the furniture.

“I’m not stupid!” Bakugo snarled, and continued to stomp towards the bathrooms. “I’ll be back!”

Aizawa let Bakugo go, turning his attention back to his class, taking a mental count of who was here. Everyone had arrived, which meant that once Bakugo returned, he could begin. It didn’t take long for the explosive boy to return, free of sweat, yet Bakugo still chose to sit on the floor.

“Right, we can begin.” Aizawa said, but before he could continue, he was interrupted. By Iida naturally.

“But, Aizawa-sensei! Aoyama is not here and you said everyone had to be here in your message!”

“Aoyama is not present because he is the reason I have called you here.” Aizawa narrowed his eyes at Iida, who straightened and gave a single nod. “Now. I do not care what your opinion on the matter is, nor do I want you teasing or mocking your fellow student for what I’m about to bring to your attention. Aoyama did not ask me to do this, I did. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Sensei.” His class echoed quietly, each one of them looking uneasy.

“Now, I am aware that Aoyama likes to share his cheese with you all, and that’s his business to do so. However, Aoyama has expressed that the cheese in the labelled containers is only to be eaten by him, as is the rule in this dorm.” Aizawa pulled out the empty container he’d picked up on the way, showing the labelled lid to his class. A few of them seemed to pick up on what the problem was and paled. “One of you has broken this rule. One of you decided to ignore the fact that the food in this container was not yours and ate it anyway. And I expect that whichever one of you did this, will be mature enough to own up to it, because your actions caused your classmate a great deal of distress, and that is unacceptable.”

Aizawa paused to let the words sink in, yet no one immediately owned up to the cheese. He imagined it was because the culprit was scared of what might happen to them if they did. He did tend to forget how threatening he could be when he wanted to, and that his students were about as forthcoming as rocks when he was actually mad. He sighed, and lessened his glare. “The punishment will be the following; detention, buying a replacement of the exact cheese that was given, and a handwritten and verbal apology to Aoyama.”

Finally, after several minutes of tense silence, Sero raised his hand, doing his best to avoid making eye contact with anyone. “It was me, Sensei.”

Aizawa nodded. “Everyone else but Sero, leave. Now.”

His class was quick to take the escape, practically fleeing the room and heading upstairs. Not one of them seemed to want to dare to leave the dorm with how angry he was. Sero’s friends gave him sympathetic glances as they too, fled upstairs, and soon it was just him and the boy in the room. Aizawa stared at Sero and sighed. “Why did you eat Aoyama’s food?”

“I—I don’t know.” Sero said. “I want to say it was an accident or something, but I honestly don’t know. I just wasn’t thinking I guess.”

“I’m disappointed. I thought I’d taught you all better than this.”

“I’m sorry, Aizawa-sensei.” Sero dropped his head even more, looking thoroughly ashamed at his actions.

“It’s not me you have to apologize too.” Aizawa said. “It’s Aoyama.”

“I’ll do that, Sensei.”

“Of you go then.” Aizawa tilted his head towards the stairs. “You’ll have detention for three days after school, and need to replace the cheese you ate. I expect it done ASAP.”

“Yes, Sensei.” Sero said, standing and quickly making his way towards Aoyama’s room, understanding Aizawa’s dismissal for what it was.

Aizawa sighed, hoping that Sero’s punishment would be enough to stop such a thing from happening again. Hopefully.

 Aoyama was crying. Again.

But this time, he wasn’t crying alone.

Aizawa didn’t know what he’d walked in on just now, but he almost wanted to walk back out and let the students involved handle the situation, thinking it was just a minor disagreement or something similar. But then he saw the same distressed look on Aoyama’s face that the boy had worn a few days ago after the cheese issue, and Aizawa knew then that he wouldn’t be able to leave the situation alone.

“What’s going on?” Aizawa asked as he approached the students trying their best to calm Aoyama down. Yaoyorozu… Ashido… Midoriya… and Sero. A quick glance up the stairs showed more of his class looking on anxiously; trapped on the other side of a wailing Aoyama. It was then that Aizawa saw it; shattered glass at the bottom of the stairs. Ah, shit.

Aizawa knew exactly what it was that had been broken, for it had been a glass sculpture of a building in France that Aizawa didn’t know the name of, but recognized. It was an important possession of Aoyama’s—a gift from his parents if he remembered correctly—and Aizawa wanted to know just how it had ended up broken.

Ever the voice of reason, Yaoyorozu was the first to speak. “It was an accident, Aizawa-sensei. Midoriya tripped down the stairs just as Aoyama was coming up them. We heard the crash and came to investigate, but by then, they were both in tears.”

Aizawa glanced over and Midoriya, taking note of the equally distressed look on his student’s face, and the rapid waterfall of tears running down his face. Aoyama was similarly distressed, but being much more vocal about it. “Midoriya—”

“I’m so, so sorry, Sensei!” Midoriya said in a hurry. “It was stupid of me to trip over my own two feet, and I tried my best to dodge Aoyama, but I couldn’t do it in time, so then I tried to save the sculpture, but I just made it worse, and I can’t apologize enough, and—”

“Midoriya, breathe. Aoyama, I need you to do the same.” Aizawa interrupted before Midoriya could really get going. His student followed his instruction—Aoyama taking a little longer to understand what was being asked of him—giving Aizawa time to approach, resting a hand on both his and Aoyama’s shoulders. “Now, are either of you hurt?”

Both students shook their heads, although Aizawa could see some puncture wounds where the glass had penetrated, and he wasn’t blind to the way that Midoriya was gingerly holding his arm. Aside from a few bleeding spots, Aoyama seemed to be fine, which was good considering he’d probably been squashed by Midoriya in the first place. Teenagers will be teenagers, I guess. Aizawa turned his attention to the students at the top of the stairs, scanning the crowd for the ones he wanted. “Iida! Todoroki!”

Two heads peered through the crowd, pushing their way to the front. “Yes, Aizawa-sensei?” Iida asked, quickly coming to stand just behind his classmates.

“Can you and Todoroki take Midoriya to Recovery Girl, please?”

“Sure thing, Sensei.” Todoroki nodded, quickly helping Midoriya to his feet.

“The rest of you, go back to your rooms.” Aizawa ordered, pleased when the rest of the kids scattered like mice. Now that there was only a small group of people, Aizawa could focus his attention on Aoyama. “Hey, kid, how can we help?”

“You—You can’t.” Aoyama sobbed, reaching for the broken glass, only to be stopped by Sero. “It’s broken!”

“I know.” Aizawa soothed, rubbing gentle circles into Aoyama’s shoulder with his thumb. “But maybe we can fix it?”

Aoyama’s entire body shuddered as the boy tried to gather his words. “It was a gift from my mother. She—she made it herself. And now it’s gone!”

Clearly, Aoyama was too distressed to actually listen to what Aizawa was saying. But thank god that Yaoyorozu was still here.

“It’s okay, Aoyama.” The girl smiled gently. “I’m sure if you tell your mother what happened, she’ll be happy to help you get it fixed. It was an accident that it got broken. I could easily make another for you as well if you’d like, but I think it’s more about the sentiment, isn’t it?”

Aoyama nodded; his sobs having died off. “Maman made it for me before I came to UA, as a way to remember her while she was in France still.” The boy paused. “Do you really think she won’t be mad?”

“Of course not!” Yaoyorozu said. “She’s your mother! How about we write her an email together? Sero and Ashido can gather all the glass and we can try and get it all sorted out.”

“Okay.” Aoyama agreed, letting Yaoyorozu pull him up, both students disappearing back up the stairs before Aizawa could stop them. He’d wanted to make sure that the minor injuries from the glass were alright. He’d just sent Yaoyorozu a message asking her to do that for him.

“Will you two be alright?” Aizawa asked his two remaining students who looked a tiny bit annoyed and being put in glass cleaning duty.

“Sure, Aizawa-sensei.” Ashido smiled at him. “We’ll just use Sero’s tape to clean everything up and take it to Momo! Although it would’ve been nice if she asked us first.”

“Would you rather be the one that has to comfort Aoyama and talk to his mother?” Sero retorted.

“Good point.”

Aizawa sighed, turning on his heel and leaving the two students to clean up the mess. Now he had to make the trip to Recovery Girl’s office to check on Midoriya. Why are my students such a mess? Why?

 

By the sixth time that Aizawa had walked in on Aoyama in tears, he was ready to get to the bottom of the what was the reasoning behind all the waterworks. Aizawa was all for his students expressing themselves, but this was more than the normal emotional distress he’d encountered over his years as a teacher. This time, Aizawa had had to hunt down Aoyama, for the boy simply hadn’t shown up to class that day, and no one seemed to know where he was. His class certainly hadn’t enjoyed the lecture that had come from that little titbit of information, but maybe that would teach them to pay more attention to whether their fellow classmates had actually left the dorms in the morning.

Anyways, Aizawa had left his class the moment Ectoplasm had walked in, and made his way over to the dorms, quickly climbing the stairs to the floor of Aoyama’s room. He was worried about his student, especially after the many breakdowns over the past couple of weeks. Aizawa stopped outside of Aoyama’s door, gently rapping his knuckles against it. “Aoyama? Are you in there?”

Aizawa listened carefully, pressing his ear against the door. He could faintly hear the sound of something moving in the room, but it was too soft to distinguish whether it was Aoyama or something else inside. “Aoyama?”

Aizawa carefully pushed the door open, not wanting to invade his student’s privacy, but also wanting to make sure that his student was actually in there and alive. The room was dark, a stark contrast to what he’d heard about the room in passing conversation. His eyes were drawn to a massive lump in the bed, the covers drawn over to hide the lump from view. The lump was shaking, the bed rattling in response, which explained the noise that Aizawa had heard from outside.

“Aoyama, are you alright?” Aizawa crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed. He carefully pulled the covers down to reveal his missing student, cheeks splotchy and tears running down his face. “Oh, kid, what’s wrong?”

Aoyama’s eyes met his own, and the tears began to fall even faster, and the boy’s sobbing grew worse. Aizawa’s concern shot through the roof, all sorts of possibilities running through his mind for what could possibly be causing this kind of breakdown. At first, he thought Aoyama could be injured—a valid concern since his class had been sparring yesterday—but he didn’t find anything as he scanned the boy. Next, he thought it might be sickness, but it was hard to figure out if the heat Aizawa could feel was an actual fever or just from all the crying. Whatever was causing the breakdown, it certainly wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, so Aizawa just carefully pulled Aoyama into his arms, letting the boy cling to him and cry into his short.

Aizawa rocked Aoyama from side to side as the boy continued to cry, although his wailing was starting to quieten down, the sobs descending into silence. The tremors remained, and occasionally Aoyama would hold his breath; Aizawa felt a little bit of pride in that moment that his student was trying to calm himself down. He continued to soothe Aoyama for some time, just patiently waiting for the boy to calm down enough to tell him what was wrong.

“It’s okay, Aoyama. You just tell me when you’re ready.” Aizawa said, hugging Aoyama just that little bit tighter, ignoring the snot and tears that were slowly staining his shirt. He could handle a little mess if it meant that his student was comfortable.

Finally, the crying stopped, the silence that followed broken by the occasional sniffle and cough. “Aizawa-sensei?” Aoyama whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“I’m here, kid. What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry, Aoyama. But you can talk to me.” Aizawa said, running a hand through blonde hair. “I want to help, if I can.”

“It’s stupid.” Aoyama sighed into Aizawa’s shirt.

“It’s not stupid if it got you crying like this.”

Silence followed his words, but Aizawa didn’t push. He just patiently waited for his student to find the words he needed. Several times, Aoyama made to speak, but failed to follow through; still, Aizawa did not push. Pushing would only bring back the tears.

“I miss home.” Aoyama finally said. “Not… home here, but home home.”

“Home home?” Aizawa was confused for just a moment before he remembered that Aoyama hadn’t been born in Japan like the rest of his students. “You mean France?”

Aoyama nodded. Aizawa could feel tears start to dampen his shirt again. “I miss France, and my parents. They went back after the dorms were built. And I can’t visit them…”

He’s homesick. Aizawa finally put the pieces of the puzzle together; when Aoyama had been crying over his eaten cheese, when he’d been crying over his broken statue that had come from his mother. All of those had been reminders of home for his student, and all of them had been broken in some way. It wasn’t surprising that Aoyama had broken down.

All of his students missed home one way or another, but most of them could be soothed with a late-night phone call, or an organized visit. Something that was near impossible when your family lived in another country entirely. And for once in his life, Aizawa didn’t know how to help. The solution would be to arrange time for Aoyama to visit his family, but the current situation with the League made that impossible. A phone call could help, sure, but he doubted that it would. And it wouldn’t be right of him to ask for Aoyama’s parents to just fly back to Japan—considering his students track record with bad parents, he wasn’t willing to risk it either—even though that would probably help Aoyama the most.

“How can I help, kiddo?” Aizawa asked.

“You can’t.” Aoyama let out a single sob. “You can’t help me, Sensei.”

“Let me try at least. Is it just you missing home?”

Aoyama nodded. “Maman and papa are busy. I haven’t—I haven’t heard from them in ages.”

“Okay, okay, it’s alright. We’ll sort something out.” Aizawa ran a hand down Aoyama’s back. He racked his brain to try and figure out what time it would be in France; not something he’d ever had to think about before. Once he figured it out, he couldn’t help but wince. If he tried to call Aoyama’s parents, it would be well into the night.

But if it calmed his student down, it was worth losing some sleep. At least, in his opinion, it was. Aizawa pulled out his phone and found the number he was looking for, only hoping that it was still the correct one. He held the device up to his ear, listening to it as it rang. Aoyama didn’t question what he was doing, nor did he seem to notice.

“Hello?” A tired, accented voice came through the phone. “Who is this?”

“This is Shouta Aizawa. Am I speaking with Ms Aoyama?”

“You are. You’re Yuga’s teacher, aren’t you?” Aoyama’s mother questioned, sounding much more awake. “Is everything alright?”

A competent parent. Finally. “Yuga’s just feeling a touch homesick. Would you be able to speak with him for a bit. I’m aware it’s late and—”

“Put my son on the phone.” Aizawa blinked as he was interrupted, not expecting the woman to interrupt him.

He pulled back from Aoyama and held his phone out to his student. Aoyama just blinked at him. “Your mother is on the phone, if you’d like to talk to her.”

“Maman?” Aoyama shakily took the phone from Aizawa’s grasp, tears welling in his eyes once again as rapid French began to filter through the phone; Aoyama responding in turn.

Aizawa found himself trapped, since Aoyama was still clinging to him, so he resigned himself to his fate and just made himself comfortable, pulling Aoyama into a one-armed hug. He didn’t have a clue about what was being said on the phone, and he could hear another voice had joined the conversation—Aoyama’s father if he wagered a guess—but whatever it was that was being said, it was helping, for Aoyama was slowly starting to relax, looking happier than he had in the past few weeks.

It wasn’t a solution to Aoyama’s homesickness, but it was a start to helping him.

He’d talk to Nedzu and Aoyama’s parents later to see if there wasn’t a way to allow Aoyama some time to go to France, or if they could bring his parents over to Japan for a visit.

And if they couldn’t sort something out, well, Aizawa would just have to learn French, wouldn’t he?

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #bnha #dadzawa #aizawa shouta #aoyama yuga #mha fanfic #fanfic #writing