#except he said '/all/ life's a game' with a vaguely manic expression on his face

[blossomingimagines]

Salvation

Lady Dimitrescu x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,134

Summary:

Notes: I hope you enjoy this. (For @yukinechan021)

The ground beneath your feet was crumbling. Giving way due to your manic pace as you flew through the underbrush. Your hands barely have enough time to raise up to protect yourself. The small twinges of pain that appeared because of the brambles and low-hanging branches barely making an impact on you. You had only one goal in mind. Only one purpose as you took another sharp turn around a bend. 

Run.

You could still hear the screams from your village. Hear the distorted voices in the distance calling out for help. Hear the horrid sound being interjected with the ravenous howls of hungry beasts. 

The smell of blood and decay reaching you before the first animal ever did. Your father taking hold of you and shoving you towards the wood. His gaze desperate as he said his last words to you. “Go, Y/N. Run like you’ve never run before. They’re here now. Mother Miranda isn’t going to protect us any longer.”

You had hesitated. You didn't want to leave your father but he hadn’t let you. His gentle nudges becoming incessant shoves towards the foliage. “You need to run, iepuraș. Don’t look back no matter what you hear. Just keep running.”

With his words, you had done just as he told you. Trying to not let the screaming or the howls stop you. Trying to not let the fear shining in his eyes stop you. You didn’t want to think about what it meant for your father when the beasts finally did reach him. 

Skidding to a stop, your chest heaves as you take in your surroundings. You knew that you had to begin moving soon. It was only a matter of time before the beasts caught your scent. You had only a small window of opportunity before you’d be captured too. 

The sight of rustic stone work causes you to blanche. Fear shooting through your body as the knowledge of where you were came rushing to you. Castle Dimitrescu; the one place you had always been warned to never venture near. The tales of bloodshed and twisted horrors doing little to persuade you to try. Its foreboding presence is always looming over your village for as long as you’ve been alive. You never thought you would ever see it up close.

The intricate stonework winding up towards grand towers in the sky. Its color is a rich black in the setting light of day. You could tell that the castle was old, even barring the tales you had heard about it, from the weathered quality to its structure. Even though it was no doubt still taken care of. Standing the test of time despite everything. 

A chilling feeling works its way up your spine. Causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand on end. Your body stiffening as a cold cackle reverberates through the air. A sharp breath catching in your throat at the faint shifting of metal against the ground. 

“Well, well, well.” The gruff voice purrs. “What do we have here? I don’t believe my dear sister let you out of your cage. So you must be a village girl.”

Flinching away from the strong grip suddenly on your face, your head is unceremoniously jerked towards the speaker. To a man with dark glasses and a cruel smirk on his face. Amusement clearly dancing through the expression. A twisted sense of glee lighting up his face even more when he saw your fear. “It’s a pity the doggies didn’t get to you too.” He pauses before a broad smile pulls his lips up. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with you. Oh, Mother Miranda is going to love you.”

Your brow furrows. “Mother Miranda?”

At your words a bark-like laugh falls from his lips. “Yes, child, Mother Miranda. I do hope she’ll let me have you. You’d make the most interesting tool in my games. I’m certain we’d have a blast. Well,” His head tilts to the side. “I know I would.”

Trying to jerk your head away from his hold, you couldn’t stop the pleas from leaving your mouth. “I don’t have anything worth giving you. No money to my name or family that would be willing to pay it. I have nothing of value that you’d want to take.”

“Oh that’s not true child. You shouldn’t sell yourself so short.” His hand loosens ever-so-slightly but it does little to abate your nerves. Especially as his other hand shifts his hammer. 

“I don’t have anything. Please.”

He grins. “While I do love to hear a beautiful maiden such as yourself beg, I must decline. As you do have something very special you can give me.”

You could feel tears welling up in your eyes. Fear began to run through your body as the man grew closer. “What?”

His face once again twists into a dark sense of amusement. “Your life.”

You didn’t see his other hand move. Didn’t hear or feel anything except for the sharp crack of pain against your skull. Your world is immediately consumed by darkness.

Only the sound of his maniacal laughter following you. 

-----

The rough stone scraping along your back is what roused you next. Your eyes blearily blinking open as you’re unceremoniously left against the hard ground. The basic stone ceiling being all that kept your attention for the moment. You could tell already, without even having to move too much, that you were restrained. The heavy presence of metal feeling like a sentence. 

To what? You weren’t sure.��

“Why did you bring her here, Heisenberg? She’s of no use to me.”

The female voice that spoke was familiar to you. You couldn’t quite grasp from where but you knew that you had heard it before. Lifting your head off the ground, you’re finally met with the sight of your captors. 

A sight that quickly causes a chill to run down your spine. 

Your original captor, Heisenberg, was lounged against a couch. A calm nonchalance surrounding him as a gleeful smile took over his features. His cruel intent still being as palpable even from the distance you were now at. 

A hunched over figure standing just behind him. A crown of bones situated atop its head as heavy breathing reached your ears. The grotesque form causes your stomach to churn at the very sight. You had to turn your head away from it. 

The other was in the form of a doll. Your body flinched away ever-so-slightly as it drew nearer. Its lifeless staring at you with something akin to interest before it scampers away. The clear barking order for it to do so coming from the woman who had spoken. 

A woman that was standing in the middle of them all. Her black dress and veil obscuring the majority of her features from you. Though you could still feel the tangible power that radiated off of her body. The command she clearly held over the people in the room. 

Mother Miranda-- through and through. No one but her held that type of power. The pull that she had on people. 

It was a spell that was only broken by the arrival of the fifth person. 

A heavy, yet graceful, gait announcing their presence before they even appeared. The faint clicking of heels against the stone floor telling you where they were. That they were growing closer and closer towards you by the second. Your body is already tensing at what monstrosity you would be subjected to at their arrival. 

Nothing would have ever prepared you for what you saw. 

A woman stops just within your field of vision. Glowing golden eyes taking in the room with a vague sense of interest. Painted red lips pulled into a small smirk as she finally settled her gaze on you. Raven black locks standing out against her pallid skin. Her clear beauty stands out even through the darkness. But that wasn’t what caused your breath to catch. 

It wasn’t the way an exotic tinge of danger exuded from her.

It wasn’t because of the way she gracefully moved through the room. Her white dress shifted against her form with every minute movement. 

It wasn’t even because of the way the dress looked on her body. 

No. It all had to do with her height. She stood taller than any person you had ever seen; man or woman. Her imposing height did little to detract from natural elegance that seemed to lace itself within her movements. In fact it only seemed to enhance it. 

Mother Miranda’s voice interrupted your thoughts. Your gaze being torn from her form towards Miranda’s. “You’re late, Alcina. I expect better from you.”

The woman, Alicna, offers an almost apologetic smile towards Mother Miranda. Her colossal from resting easily against the backrest of the couch. Her ankles crossing in the manner that only seemed to come from habit. 

“I apologize, Mother Miranda. I got caught up with affairs at the castle.” She dips her head towards the black-cloaked woman. “It won’t happen again.”

Miranda sneers. “Make sure it doesn’t.” Pausing for a brief moment, Mother Miranda seemed to observe the room. Clear contemplation taking up most of her concentration-- until her gaze once again landed on you. “Now it’s time to figure out what we’re going to do with our little friend.”

Almost immediately Alcina and Heisenberg speak up. 

“I found her. It should be I that gets to keep her.” No. Anything but that. 

“I would have the most use of her. She does look quite appetizing.” I don’t think I want to know what that means. 

At Alcina’s words, Heisenberg scoffs. “I’ll have the most use of her, dear sister. You’ll just hide her away in the private rooms of your castle. In the dark. Playing games with her that would end like it started; boringly.” He turns towards Mother Miranda. “Let me have her. I know exactly what I wish to do.”

“And you’ll just toy with her for only a few moments before she’s crushed by one of your contraptions. There’s no finesse to what you do, dear brother.” Her golden gaze flickers towards you for a moment. An almost contemplative look flashing across her beautiful features. “I’ll make sure I have something spectacular planned for her.”

Mother Miranda speaks before they can argue any further. And by the tone of slight agitation in her voice you can tell that this was a common occurrence. Your body shifted away from her ire even as you were restrained, almost painfully, from moving any further. 

“Enough. Alcina you will get the girl.” At Heisenberg’s whine, she snaps at him. “There will not be any more complaints regarding this issue. You’re dismissed.”

The next time you blinked she was gone. 

Your head is already plopping down against the ground. Despite the harsh greeting it got in response. You couldn't believe that this was your life now. You had just been sold to a woman, while undeniably attractive, that would sooner rip out your spine then let you walk free. 

At least it wasn’t Heisenberg. 

The thought only brings you a modicum of comfort. 

The sudden looming shadow around doing quick work to wipe out what was left. Your eyes trailing up well muscled legs, across a white-clad torso, an elegant neck, to finally reach her amused gaze. Even if her amusement was tinged with a darker entity that you truly didn’t want to think about. 

“Well, darling, it looks like you’re all mine,” she purrs as she leans towards you. Her hand coming up to brush against your cheek. Whether it be a way for her to maintain control or for her to know what you felt like; you hadn’t the slightest idea. “Aren’t you going to say anything to me? I did just save you from my brother.”

You still weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not. 

Raising your gaze to meet hers, you clench your jaw. Trying to prepare a biting retort to her clear teasing. Hoping that you’d be able to get even with her in some small way. If you were going to die you were going to die your way. 

However, the moment you opened your mouth, another two words appeared. “You’re beautiful.”

The moment that words slipped from your lips, you could feel your face heat up. Your body automatically tensing at the knowledge of you had just said to her. Fortunately she seemed to be just as floored as you. Shock clearly showing itself across her elegant features before an almost feral smile takes its place. Her arms wrapping around to hoist you in the air. 

But, before she did, she whispered one last thing towards you.

“I’m going to have so much fun with you, pet.”

#lady dimitrescu x female reader #lady dimistrescu x reader #lady dimistrescu #resident evil 8 #resident evil viii #resident evil village #resident evil imagine #salvation

[now-im-a-belieber]

speirs + "you're scaring me" or "you're so cute when you're mad" it goes without saying, but please make me cry ❤️

prompt: "you're scaring me"

ron speirs x reader

a/n: hi, i have no idea how to write speirs, but i tried? please forgive me for how bad this is. i was just anxious to post something again :/

taglist: @capsparkyspeirs @wecomrades @tvserie-s-world

══════════════════

Everyone had a breaking point. Some men would meet it, and stumble to the ground and bleed out for good. Others would claw their way back to standing and carry on best they could. Some men lost their wits trying to avoid the inevitable crash and burn that came for everyone. They could fight and curse and cry, but no man could escape war without facing the end of their rope at least once. Everyone had a breaking point.

Even Ron Speirs.

Some said he'd already lost it long ago. And his high strung manic behaviour was born from some horrific terror that he vowed never to be affected by again. Some believed he was truly immune to any such stumble and was built inside and out to handle the weight of any war. You didn't quite know what to believe, really.

You'd never known exactly what to think of Ron Speirs.

Even tonight, after all this time. It was as if you were always hearing about Ron. Never hearing nearly as much from him. Though he tried, bless his heart. He tried so hard with you. And that's how you knew there was some kind of real honest love in the pull that kept pushing the two of you back together.

He'd steal you away to join him for useless patrols and for drinks in local pubs when there was time. When there wasn't, he'd maintain quiet by your side in a half dug fox hole- not daring to frighten you with his chatter about being some kind of dead man walking. He'd tried once, somewhere back in France. And you couldn't help but let out a giggle at his scare tactics. You might've regretted laughing at what he'd said if he hadn't been so quick to smirk at your reaction. It was all a blur since that night. A mess of memories of stolen midnight meetings and winks across briefing rooms... And rumours about the man when he was away.

Tonight was no exception. All the things you'd heard about Ron before you'd dared to try and get to know him, all the rumours that arose still, were being traded like campfire stories one room over.

Your nerves gathered in heaps each passing minute, while you stole cigarettes from the pack Luz left on the tiny coffee table he and Talbert were using to play some card game. It was a futile distraction. Both men would glance past their deck and toward the parlour where some replacement was getting the ever-loving shite knocked out of him.

You had almost missed everything. You weren't anywhere around when Talbert came rushing through hours earlier, gathering friends to head off on a manhunt. You'd almost missed the group of guys shoving a stranger into the closest room of the building you'd been calling home, for now. If you hadn't breezed in from waiting up for Ron just then, you might've very well gone the whole night without hearing what happened.

And it was only because Luz and Talbert stayed behind that you managed to ask what the hell was going on.

It was Easy's favourite funny man who'd passed on the gut-wrenching news. Chuck had been shot, and the man who dared to fire his weapon was in the next room over, facing payback at the insistence of Ron Speirs. Only he wasn't here, not yet. Talbert said the man you so often concerned yourself with would only return from the hospital they managed to open in the nick of time, when he knew the Sargents fate.

So you smoked while the boys pretended to play a card game. You watched time pass much too slowly for your liking, promising Luz to repay all the cigarettes you'd stolen in an effort to stay calm. There was no one you wanted to hear from more than Ron, now, for more reasons than one. You battled the selfish feelings as all sorts of other worries had you pacing the hall. The war was supposed to be over. Ron was supposed to have met you for dinner. But he was off someplace, taking charge.

Just as you began marvelling over the man's fortitude, and wondering if it was his courage that might inevitably send him into a spiral, he appeared.

Ron breezed in, but you heard him before you saw him. His demands to know where they'd taken the assailant echoed through the hall you'd wandered toward the stillness of. At that, you stamped out the cigarette you'd only just started and rushed toward the man who'd been on your mind all the while.

Ron was passing through the doorway you'd been avoiding by the time you reached him. So you dashed in his direction but had to stall in the frame of the opened door to take in the scene.

The room was full of men you'd come to trust and admire, their faces pulled down with frowns. Their eyes heavy, fists bloodied. It wasn't much of an unusual sight. You just thought you'd seen the last of nights like these.

You thought you'd seen the last of the gazes your friends cast toward Ron in moments like now. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the soldier, expressions reminiscent of those they wore when the stories about Ron were traded to spook the new kids. They looked afraid of what they'd heard he was capable of. Afraid of what he might do now.

Ron managed to scare everyone, somehow, some way. But never you. Not until now.

Of course, you understood when he lashed the end of his gun across the bastard's face. And you couldn't blame him for pointing the weapon right at the waste of space who'd put your friend's life on the line.

But there was a certain fury in Ron's eyes. The gaze he wore brought every story and rumour to life for a moment, whether they were ever true or not. And you weren't sure what he'd do next. You never really were. But this time, that frightened you.

Everyone watched on silently. Maybe they were scared, too. Maybe they'd been waiting to see something like this with their own eyes. But you weren't. As the gun shook with the tremor of Ron's hand, you realized he was just as frightened of what might happen next.

Despite your halfhearted and very brief attempt at shoving your feelings deep down, they only swelled more fiercely. And Ron's paused action was the final straw that toppled over your will at keeping calm. The words you'd been biting back clawed their way through your throat and pushed past your lips by what seemed to be their very own volition.

"Ron... You're scaring me." You managed to croak, in a whispered plea from the doorway, ready toward bolt to or from whatever commotion came of the scene.

At your desperate, frightened call the soldier seemed to ever so slightly turn toward you. He considered everything for another moment, everyone's collectively held breaths in the palm of his trembling hand.

Then he seemed to notice the blood soaking his fingers. He wiped the side of his hand on the shoulder of the man they had all tied up, as he fought for an easy breath. But none of your comrades seemed to let out their own sighs. Not until Ron reached for his hat, letting it slide away, exhaustion every so slightly evident in his movement.

You watched as he turned toward the door, not looking at you but instead instructing Talbert to get the MP's to take care of the criminal's fate.

"Grant's dead?" Your friend begged to know.

"No. Kraut surgeon says he's gonna make it," Ron replied, a sure statement spoken with confidence. But you heard the waver that lived on the edge of his tone, and the dread in your gut only stirred more so.

Before you could reach out to him, Ron stormed out of the door without a further word, or a glance your way.

You were left with no choice but to scramble after the man. The only goodbye you manage to offer your friends is a pointed apologetic look before dashing off, hot on Ron's trail.

Your heart raced as you watched the man you loved saunter further down the road. His shoulders square, his pace steady, like he was on duty, like his mission was never-ending.

You called his name in your hurry to keep up with him, hoping he'd pause, or call back, or something. But he just kept walking, turning a corner as if your voice never reached him.

You moved even quicker now, at his silence. In a worried haze, you rounded the corner quickly, never thinking of stalling. But Ron had stopped just there, causing you to nearly crash into him.

You held your hands to his shoulders, half steadying yourself to stand, half digging your claws into him so he might not ever go so far from you again. And right as you opened your mouth to ask a dozen questions, Ron beat you to it.

"I don't know if I did the right thing, just now." He spoke so much more softly than he'd just been that it made your worry grow tenfold. Ron's eyes glazed over, unfocused. His quandary hung heavy in the air between you. And you'd barely processed its meaning, let alone any sort of answer in the seconds that passed in silence. Then your man met your eyes. His slowly came to lock with yours, and you realized he was waiting for you to say something, anything.

"I... I don't know either." You half shrugged, still holding his shoulders as if that would keep him from sinking deeper into the darkness you could see start to fill him up.

"I didn't mean to scare you... I didn't-"

You shook your head at his discombobulated way of apologizing and moved your hands to his face. Holding him much more tenderly in hopes the sweet gesture would calm the usual electric tide about Ron that seemed to be buzzing out of control tonight.

"Let's go see Chuck. Can we?" You wondered suddenly. Would he even be aware of your presence by his side? Would it even help Chuck? Or Ron, for that matter?

Your man nodded, though, and drew one of his hands closer to grab ahold of one of yours. And with a furrowed brow, he started yammering another vague apology. Saying something about how he wondered if he'd regret letting the replacement go like that. And it just wasn't like him to battle with such uncertainties. So you stopped Ron's murmurs by saying the first thing that came to your mind,

"I still think you're the meanest, toughest son of a bitch in the whole regiment. " You assured with a smile, meant to encourage his own. "And I'm sure all the others do too."

Then he grinned, and let his eyes roll away from yours. And some part of him seemed more alive at your jest. After a beat, he nudged you to walk on, with his hand in yours. And you knew this was only the start of the worst night ever. And that maybe once you got him all alone, really alone, your man might really lose it.

Everyone had a breaking point. Maybe this was Ron's. You hadn't quite figured him out yet, even after all this time. Maybe you never would. But so long as you got to tough it out at your favourite soldier's side, there wasn't really much to fear.

#ron speirs #ronald speirs #ron speirs x reader #ronald speirs x reader #band of brothers

[nekojitachan]

Hmm. So... the last week or two (two?) have been... interesting. Work go kablewy (that a word?) because of... things... (nothing bad for me, just... things... life is strange), head has been very owwiie, and have had some not very good days, to be honest.

But getting a lot of writing done! Including this - another part of the Raven!Andrew soulmate story that doesn’t exist.

Uhm, past sexual abuse is referenced, Nathaniel/Neil’s past is vaguely referenced/hinted at, Andrew’s past is vaguely referenced. Think that’s it for the warnings. Oh, and Andrew’s violent thoughts.

I should come up with a title for this at some point.

Oh, and rest of the story can be found here.

*******

Andrew stared at the visage on his laptop’s screen; the smile on Nathan Wesninski’s face was slightly smug as if he knew a secret that he wasn’t willing to share, his glacier blue eyes devoid of emotion. According to various internet searches, Nathan was a self-made man who owned several businesses in and around Baltimore, who gave regularly to charity, and had a wife and a son.

He also had persistent rumors of being connected to some unsavory individuals, but nothing that could be substantiated. Most people put it down to simple jealously – Wesninski was a man who’d built his own fortune, married his soulmate and had a talented son. People loved to find something wrong with a man so ‘blessed’.

Except he was somehow tied to the Moriyamas, whom Andrew was slowly learning weren’t entirely on the up and up, his lovely soulmate had a dead look in her eyes which Andrew knew all too well, and his son bore multiple scars, had a strong distrust of soulmates and was being treated as chattel.

‘Blessed’ wasn’t the first word which came to Andrew’s mind when he thought of Nathan Wesninski.

He closed the browser and forced himself to work on his class assignments; university wasn’t much of a challenge, but one of Tetsuji’s assistants checked to make sure he (and the rest of the Ravens) turned in their work and that they weren’t failing any classes.

There was almost half an hour of ‘study time’ left when he finished with assignments for the day (for the rest of the week, actually); he got up from his desk, which made Ben look at him. “You done already?” his partner asked, tone a bit envious.

Andrew nodded as he headed toward the door; Ben appeared surprised that he’d received some sort of answer and turned back to his statistics book with a slight smile.

There weren’t many people wandering about the Nest at that time since the players usually took advantage of any break they were given, so Andrew wasn’t surprised to not run into anyone along the way to the Black Hall nor to find Riko and Kevin all snug in their room. Kevin opened the door when he banged on it, expression confused when he saw Andrew smiling out in the hallway.

“Uhm, is everything all right?”

“I came to chat,” Andrew said as he shoved his way inside. “Not with you, #2.” He ignored Kevin calling him an asshole and strode toward Riko, who was reading an economics textbook. “With the man who can make things happen.” Or so the prick liked to think.

“Hmm, now that sounds interesting,” Riko drawled as he set the book aside and sat up straight. “What does white trash like you want? An early taste of Nathaniel?” He tsk’ed while waving his right index finger about as if chastising a naughty child. “Not until you live up to your end of the bargain on Friday.”

Andrew had to focus on Aaron, on keeping his brother safe, to prevent himself from bashing the bastard’s head in with the book on the bed. “It’s about the game on Friday,” he said as his grin widened, as he thought about using his racquet to eviscerate Riko and a good bit of his own team. “I want you to turn a blind eye to something for me during it.”

It was Riko’s turn to appear confused as he studied Andrew. “What? The refs can’t ignore you pulling something stupid out on court.”

“Not them.” Andrew reached into the right pocket of his track pants to pull out the bottle of his detested pills. “I’m going to play unmedicated,” he said as he gave the bottle a shake.

“That doesn’t sound like a good-“

“Why?” Riko asked as he cut off Kevin’s protest, his gaze intent on Andrew.

Andrew’s lips twitched even wider as he rattled the bottle some more. “Because it’ll make me play better, make me fight harder to win.” Because he wanted a few hours where he could feel his own emotions without the manic taint of the damn drugs, could be free of them, even if it was on an Exy court.

An Exy court with his soulmate nearby.

Riko studied him for a few seconds then grinned. “I’ll be disappointed if Rutgers scores a single point in the second half on Friday,” he said before he laid back down on his bed.

And Andrew would be disappointed if the prick didn’t get his throat crushed by a racquet to the neck during the game, but one couldn’t have everything, could they?

Taking that as a sign of both approval and dismissal, Andrew turned around to leave without saying another word. While he was in the Black Hall, he stopped by the break room there and snagged the good granola bars (chocolate chips) and a few energy drinks.

Moreau was back to full practice that day, but Andrew didn’t get a chance to talk to him; the backliner was never far from Nathaniel’s side, lately. Andrew suspected that last Friday night had something to do with it, especially when he was given virulent looks by the French bastard. He’d be offended by the obvious dislike, but he didn’t give a damn what Jean Moreau thought about him.

He didn’t give a damn about much, and wished he could include a certain redheaded backliner in that statement as well.

Still, while he spent too much effort studying the Scarlet Knights’ statistics and past games (any effort was too much), he noticed that the bruises on Nathaniel’s too pretty face were fading and that the rest of the Ravens (except Moreau) were giving the young backliner adequate space.

Hmm, it seemed that no one wanted to end up like Lev Federov.

Andrew also noticed the narrow looks Nathaniel cast his way from time to time, as if his soulmate was trying to figure him out. Every now and then he would grin widely at Nathaniel, which would make the redhead mutter something in French and stomp away with his dour shadow trailing along. There would be a pain, sharp and deep, inside of Andrew’s chest as he watched them leave together, until he reminded himself that Nathaniel was his soulmate, not Moreau’s.

Then he’d be so disgusted with himself he’d stalk off to the exercise room so he could hit a punching bag until the urge to destroy something finally eased.

Friday arrived, and Andrew made a game out of thinking up a different ways to kill everyone he saw wearing a #1 Ravens jersey as he went to his classes; he considered it a worthwhile mental exercise. He was distracted from imaging the guy in front of him two rows down in Biology class being slowly whittled away by razor sharp vegetable peelers when Aaron interrupted him by dropping into the seat next to him.

“Hey, real quick, hope you win tonight and Nicky sent this along for you in the monthly care package. Give him a call, okay?” He dropped a plain box in front of Andrew then left, headed to where his friends were seated.

Andrew frowned at the ‘care package’ since Nicky sent one to each of them (and why did he have to talk to the pest?), ready to throw it at his negligent brother until he picked it up and sensed the contents sloshing about inside. Finally, Aaron had come through for him; he slid the box into his backpack then proceeded to ignore the lecture.

He made sure to stash the two bottles of whiskey (cheap, but beggars weren’t about to complain) in his closet when he got back to his room and Ben was distracted, then joined the rest of the team for ‘game-prep’ (going over stats yet again, Tetsuji’s wonderful ‘win or be known forever as scum’ speech, endless warm-up and drills, and then the damn game).

He was half-tempted to drain one of the bottles dry first.

Instead, he clenched a hand around his bottle of pills before he took half a one, just enough to get him through the next couple hours, for the manic buzz in his veins to fade before the start of the game. He wished that he could flush all of them down the toilet, but he’d already tried in those first few months to go without them and failed miserably.

There was no coming off them while locked up in a bathroom for a few days, like he’d done with Aaron.

He didn’t feel the insidious, awful artificial euphoria begin to bleed away until well into the first quarter of the game, as he sat on the bench and watched the Ravens run the Scarlet Knights ragged out on the court. Rutgers might be one of the better ranked universities, but they were late in putting together an Exy team; they had a few good players, but not enough yet to be a serious contender.

Ivanova was able to keep the score low, especially when she had Hebig and Moreau helping her with defense. As much as it annoyed Andrew that the tall Frenchman was Nathaniel’s partner, the man was a good backliner and meshed well with the others, and was near perfect when Nathaniel was out on court with him.

Andrew had hoped that as the drug burned out, he’d be less fascinated with his soulmate, would realize how foolish he’d been to be drawn to him, to think that he could- to think anything about Nathaniel. Yet as he sat there, slightly numb but no longer filled with false emotions, he couldn’t help but be conscious of the lean figure dressed in black and red a few seats way on the bench… conscious of his presence and how the young man made him feel.

It was something so powerful yet fragile at the same time, such a protective, overwhelming urge, and it was all for Nathaniel.

Andrew was so fucked.

He sat off by himself during the halftime break, mentally reviewing how Rutgers had played during the first half, while Tetsuji berated players for their mistakes on court and reviewed plays for the last two quarters. Feeling the sensation of being watched, he glanced up to find Nathaniel gazing at him; his soulmate turned his head when Andrew met his eyes.

Riko clapped him on the shoulder before he stepped out on court and nearly got a racquet smashed down on his head. “Remember, shut the goal and he’s all yours.”

Andrew bit back on a retort that his memory was fine, mostly because he couldn’t help but add ‘unlike yours, you useless prick’.

Rutgers must have spent their break being yelled at, too, since they came back on court determined to redeem themselves, not that it did them any good. Andrew thought of Nathaniel bruised and held down, about him being a ‘reward’, then let his world narrow down to the ball and who had control of it. As that person approached his end of the court, his memory, usually a curse, pulled up their stats and playing style to help him prepare to defend the goal.

That was, if he needed to defend it; Loiseau and Bautista did a decent job of driving away the Rutgers players in the third quarter, then Moreau and Hebig took over for the last one. As always, Moreau put his size and strength to good use to block the opposing players from reaching the goal, and coordinated the defense with Hebig. Andrew didn’t exactly relax for the last part of the game, but he allowed himself a deep breath and the thought that his deal with Riko might not have been so insane after all.

That he could actually keep Nathaniel safe.

He was exhausted by the end of the game - exhausted, sore, covered in sweat and beginning to feel the first twinges of withdrawal, but he’d held up his end of the bargain: Rutgers hadn’t scored a single point in the second half. The crowd roared in victory as the final buzzer rang, and all he wanted was to go shower then find someplace quiet to curl up.

First he had to suffer through the stupid post-game handshake (touching all those people) then the locker room; at least Tetsuji saved the game review for the next day and everyone already knew that Riko and Kevin would do the post-game interviews. All he cared about was washing off the stink and some of the soreness with a bunch of hot water, and was one of the first in the large wash room.

When he came out, it was to find Riko talking to an upset Moreau (with no Nathaniel in sight); Riko flashed him a ‘thumbs up’ gesture before the prick sauntered away. Intent on reaching his locker so he could change, Andrew figured he’d deal with the backliner later and went to walk past him, only to lash out when Moreau grabbed his shoulder.

“Listen, if you touch him I’ll-“

Andrew spun around and fisted his hands into Moreau’s sweaty jersey then slammed him into the nearest wall; he had to yank on the material to pull the tall bastard down to somewhat face level. “Did I touch him last time?” he gritted out in a low voice so none of the Ravens gathering around them would overhear. “Did I?” When Moreau gave a reluctant shake of his head, Andrew tugged some more on the damp, black material. “I’m doing this so no one else gets him.”

Moreau appeared stunned by that claim, then quickly resumed scowling. “I will gut you if you hurt him.”

There was a slight bit less venom in the words that time, so Andrew took that to be a general warning for show.  He clicked his tongue as he pushed away from the backliner. “You’re spending the night in my room,” he called out as he walked over to his locker to get dressed, aware of the other Ravens staring at them.

For once ‘glad’ of the attention, he figured let them find out that Nathaniel was ‘his’ so he wouldn’t put up with anyone disagreeing on that front.

He was given a lot of sideway glances while he changed then walked out of the locker room, but no one said a word. He pushed aside the growing sense of nausea from withdrawal as his body clamored for another pill, for a hit of artificial mania, determined to face Nathaniel as himself.

When he reached Nathaniel’s room, he knocked twice then entered; Nathaniel sat on the bed in a defensive huddle, his arms wrapped around his long legs, dressed in one of Moreau’s jerseys and an impressive scowl on his face.

“And you said you’re not like the others. Liar.”

Andrew arched an eyebrow at the amount of scorn and hatred directed his way right then, impressed despite himself. “All I did was walk through the door.”

“You made a fucking deal with Riko for me!” Nathaniel shouted as he unfurled enough to snatch up a book from his nightstand and throw it at Andrew; of course he had good aim, Andrew barely managed to bat it aside in time. “For every week!”

“Every week I manage to nearly shut down the goal,” Andrew confessed.

Nathaniel produced a ragged laugh as he tucked himself into the corner of his bed. “Yeah, now you take playing seriously, when it gets you something, huh? When you get to act like the mark on your arm means you own someone when it doesn’t, it doesn’t mean anything other than you’re an asshole and the Fates hate me and I wish I could just burn it off and have everyone leave me alone!” He’d started out yelling at Andrew but ended up practically tucked into a ball with his arms wrapped around his head, his tone one of misery.

A misery which Andrew understood, considering all the times he’d wished much the same about his soulmate mark, after all the grief Drake had caused him over it, after believing no one would want him because of Drake and the others. Then what did he find? A lovely young man bearing terrible scars on his body and soul who was so much like him that it hurt.

Andrew had hoped he wouldn’t feel anything as he stood before Nathaniel with the drug (temporarily) out of his system, but he’d been deluding himself on that front. The protective urge he’d experienced earlier returned so strongly that he moved before he became aware of it, was kneeling on the bed before he could tell himself to stop.

Nathaniel reacted to his presence immediately; he began to sit up, to move his arms (to lash out), but stilled when Andrew cupped the back of his neck, his blue eyes wide with a mix of panic and fear.

“Nothing but this,” Andrew assured him, angry at himself for causing that fear. “I swear. Okay? Yes or no?” He just wanted to calm Nathaniel down.

His soulmate was quiet for a couple seconds, enough to make him begin to pull away. “Yes,” Nathaniel breathed out, his expression now wary as if he waited to see what Andrew would do next. Despite the strain on his tired muscles from leaning forward, despite the urge to sink his fingers in Nathaniel’s thick hair, despite the growing sense of nausea and dizziness, Andrew remained still and focused on the slowing pulse beneath his thumb.

“Why are you here?” Nathaniel eventually asked as he continued to gaze up at Andrew. “What do you want?”

He ignored the second (dangerous) question. “If I’m here, the others aren’t.”

“Are you serious?” Nathaniel scoffed, then frowned when Andrew remained quiet. “You’re really going to try to shut down the goal every game then come here and only sleep, just to keep Riko from handing me off to the others?”

He didn’t need to sound so doubtful about everything; if Andrew was the sensitive type, he’d be offended right then.

“You don’t snore like Ben does,” Andrew drawled as he forced himself to let go of Nathaniel and move. As he walked away from his incredulous soulmate, he motioned toward Moreau’s bed. “Tell your partner to get a spare set of clean sheets for me so I don’t have to sleep in his smelly bed.”

It took some effort, but he managed to make it into the bathroom without walking into the door or tripping over his feet; once inside with the door closed, he fumbled for his pills and choked one down, then slumped against the sink with the water running until the nausea was under control. He hated having to take the damn medication again, but Nathaniel might object if he spent the night puking his guts out.

When he finally left the bathroom, it was to find Nathaniel beneath the covers and facing the wall, and what appeared to be a set of clean sheets folded on top of Moreau’s bed. Andrew only spent a moment regarding what he hoped was a peace offering of sorts before he worked quickly to strip and remake the bed, tired and more than willing to fall asleep.

Maybe it was from working so hard during the game, maybe it was because his soulmate was nearby, but Andrew slept without any nightmares that night. He woke up when Nathaniel rose early and left the room, then got half an hour more sleep before he had to get up for another ‘fun’ day at the Nest.

Moreau caught up to him later in the day, when he was fixing a coffee to take back to his room after their morning practice; the other Ravens in the break room (including Ben) were quick to leave, obviously expecting some sort of fight between the two of them.

Andrew gave him a grin as he hopped onto the counter to sit. “Got any croissants on ya, Valjean?”

Moreau sighed as he fetched two mugs from a cabinet. “Do you try to be so annoying or is it natural?”

Andrew gasped and clutched his free hand to his chest. “Me? Annoying? I guess I’ll have to really lay on the charm now.”

“God forbid,” Moreau muttered as he glanced toward the door as if to ensure they were alone. He was quiet as he made two cups of tea (hmm, who might the other be for?), then approached Andrew with due caution. “You’re protecting Nathaniel,” he said, his deep voice quiet and expression serious.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” Andrew asked as he kicked his feet back and forth, uncaring about the heels of his sneakers hitting the lower cabinets.

Moreau frowned then set the mugs down so he could tug on the left sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal the fleur de lis and wave pattern of his own soul mark – the mark which was only revealed when he showered. “Because it’s what we do, we protect them.” His black eyebrows drew together as his frown deepened. “Well, most of us.”

Hmm, not people like Nathaniel’s father, maybe? But one thing at a time. “You know your soulmate,” Andrew accused as he held his mug of coffee beneath his chin, curious to see if Moreau would tell him the truth.

The backliner was quiet for a moment then nodded. “He plays Exy,” Moreau whispered with a gleam of fear in his eyes. “I can’t let Riko know.”

No, or Riko would use Moreau against the man, much like he’d used Nathaniel against Andrew (had he suspected they might be tied together because of their pasts?). “What does Riko have against you?” Andrew asked as he leaned forward. “You and Nathaniel? Who’s Nathan Wesninski, really?”

Moreau shook his head as he tugged down the sleeve of his shirt. “Not here,” he hissed out as he once again glanced toward the door. “That’s… not here.” He picked up the mugs and stared at Andrew as if searching for something, then nodded. “But if you’re serious about Nathaniel….”

“I want answers, so tell me where ‘not here’ is,” Andrew commanded as he poured his lousy coffee onto the floor while he held Moreau’s gaze.

Moreau nodded again as if answering an internal question. “Later. Riko and Kevin will be gone to play for their professional team, and Nathaniel to work on translations. I’ll let you know when to stop by.”

“Ooh, it’s a date,” Andrew drawled as he jumped to the floor and splashed coffee everywhere. “Just so you know, I don’t put out, I’m not that kind of guy.” He sauntered out of the break room to the sound of Moreau muttering in French.

They were going to be besties, he just knew it.

*******

Oh boy is Jean in for it now.

So... I’ve being going back and forth on this, but I’ve set up a discord channel (have had it for a while, actually). Don’t know if people would be interested in it as a place to get a look at fics, stuff in progress and things like that?

#nekojitachanfics #aftg #aftg au #soulmate au #andreil soulmates #raven!andrew #raven!neil #andreil #mumbling into the void #andrew minyard #neil josten #aaron minyard #jean moreau #riko moriyama #kevin day #the ravens #edgar allan ravens #andrew and jean buddy fic #wow is that weird to type #just ignore me i babble #protective andrew

[mizjoely]

The Fire In Which We Burn Part 15: When Worlds Collide

At long last, an update! Can also be found on ff.net here and AO3 here. Many thanks to @broomclosetkink for her fantabulous betaing skills! Molly wakes up in the bedroom belonging to the man of her dreams. How will she react when Sherlock explains to her how literally true that expression is in this case?

She was sunning herself on a tropical beach, enjoying the breathtaking view of the ocean in front of her. Sherlock was there, wearing a sinfully tight white button-up, black suit, and his Belstaff. “You’ll fry if you stay in the sun much longer,” he warned her, but she just rolled onto her stomach and told him to make himself useful by rubbing some sunblock onto her. She hummed her approval as she felt his long, elegant fingers pressing against her back, but when she looked over her shoulder to thank him, the words froze in her throat.

“Surprise, luv!” Jim Moriarty chirped as he showed her the cooking oil he’d been rubbing on her skin. “Time to fry!”

Molly screamed herself awake, arms flailing and legs kicking as she toppled over the side of the bed. She hit the floor with a loud thump, coming fully awake as she tried to orient herself. What the hell - ? This wasn’t her bedroom, wasn’t any bedroom she recognized at all.

The sound of pounding feet and a door being flung open caught her attention; she tried to rise to her feet but found herself instead fighting the yards of fabric in which she seemed to be trapped. Why on earth was she wearing such a massively oversized night-gown, and why did she feel as if she’d accidentally fallen asleep in a tanning booth? Her entire body had that telltale tingle to it that signified sunburn, something she was always careful to avoid. While she struggled regain her footing, both literally and figuratively, she reached out with one hand and gripped the edge of the bed as she finally made it to her feet. When she looked up, she was stunned to see Sherlock moving toward her with an alarmed expression on his face.

“Sherlock?” she said, shocked to see him - and thrilled. He stopped near the foot of the mahogany sleigh-bed, watching intently as she steadied herself. “You’re alive, you’re all right, oh my God, I’ve been so worried!” she exclaimed, wadding up the material of her oversized nightgown and starting forward.

“Doctor Hooper, I’m afraid you’re laboring under somewhat of a misapprehension,” he said, averting his eyes as she bared her calves.

The voice froze her in her tracks; it was Sherlock’s, but there was something about the way he spoke, the intonation of his words - ‘Doctor Hooper?’ - that was the slightest bit off. And his clothes, what on Earth was he wearing? Some sort of dressing-gown over a rumpled white button up and dark grey trousers held up by braces, clothes she’d never seen on him before.

Except, her mind whispered to her, in a vision.

Moving slowly, as if in a trance, she walked up to him. He made as if to back away, but Molly reached out and grasped the sleeve of his dressing-gown, halting him. Pressing forward until she was only inches away, she looked searchingly into his eyes.

His grey eyes.

The swiftness of her buckling knees would have brought her to his feet, but he - this not-quite Sherlock - caught her in his arms. “You’re real,” she murmured. “But you can’t be...unless it’s colored contact lenses? Is it colored contact lenses?” she demanded as she allowed him to steady her.

“No.”

He had to be lying. There was no way...it was impossible. Sherlock was playing some game, or else he was still undercover...she pulled away, stumbling a bit as the voluminous skirts of her night-dress fell around her feet. “Sherlock, please, just tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, you know I’ll do whatever I can to, to help you. You know you can trust me,” she pleaded.

His lips tightened and his expression seemed sad, so very sad, but only for a moment. Then the cool, emotionless mask she knew so well slipped into place. “Doctor Hooper, I am very sorry to have to tell you this, but you are no longer in your own time.”

She shook her head, dismissing his words. “That doesn’t make any sense, Sherlock - and since when do you call me ‘Doctor Hooper’?”

Sadness flickered across his features, before it smoothed into something approaching... tenderness? “Would you rather I called you ‘dear lady’?” he said softly.

Jerking back, Molly's eyes went wide as memories of a night four years ago filled her mind. Sherlock, drugged to the gills and somehow making his way to her flat. The way he’d kissed her, and the fleeting impression she’d had that another man had been looking at her through his eyes - this man, the one standing before her, looking sad and a bit...lost?

Which was exactly how she was feeling at the moment. She studied him a moment longer, then eased herself out of his hold. He let her go, watching out of those steel-grey eyes that seemed far warmer than the blue-green orbs she was used to seeing in her waking life.

Could it be true? Could the man standing before her actually be an entirely different Sherlock Holmes than the one who’d faked his suicide two years ago? How could such a thing even be possible?

Shoving aside her growing bewilderment and fear, Molly reached deep for the detached professionalism she’d learned to master while performing autopsies, when her own emotions would only impede the answers she sought. She sat on the edge of the bed, folding her hands together on her lap as she spoke. “You’d better explain it to me. Slowly, please.”

Sherlock nodded, as if expecting that answer, and then launched into an explanation so bizarre, so insane, that if it hadn’t been for her own personal history of inexplicably realistic dreams and daytime visions of the very man standing before her, she’d have questioned his sanity - or at least his sobriety. But his eyes were clear and pupils normal; he appeared neither manic nor depressive in behavior; his speech was clear and straightforward, unslurred; and his hands were stable, without the tell-tale twitches or shakes. In short, he appeared to be the Sherlock she'd become accustomed to seeing since his stint in rehab back in '08.

She stifled a nervous giggle at that; was it truly back in ‘08, or was that date still in the future, as Sherlock was trying to convince her? It seemed more likely that she was suffering some sort of lurid delusion brought on by concussion. “I’m probably unconscious in a hospital bed right now,” she murmured, interrupting the flow of words.

Sherlock gave her a sharp glance, hesitated, then reached out and pinched her wrist. Hard. Yelping, she slapped his hand away, holding up the injured limb and rubbing it. “Ow! What the hell did you do that for?”

“To convince you of the reality of your situation, Doctor Hooper,” he said with a scowl. “The sooner you accept the facts as I have presented them to you, the sooner you’ll be able to accustom yourself to your new reality.” He rose to his feet, moving toward the window and gazing out. “I regret to inform you that I know of no way to return you to your own time and place, not now that the Cheval glass has been destroyed.”

Molly stood up, her stomach in knots as she made her way over to his side. She hesitated a long moment before turning her gaze away from his still figure and fixing it on the view outside the window-glass.

“Where are we, Sherlock?” she asked, twisting her hands together to hide their growing tremors.

“Baker Street,” he replied. “My flat, to be precise - my bedroom, to be even more precise.” Was that embarrassment she heard in his voice? “Forgive the impropriety.” There was a momentary hesitation before he added, “Solely for the purpose of explaining your presence here, I’ve informed Mrs. Hudson that you are my wife.”

He continued speaking as she gazed numbly out at Baker Street, but his words faded into a mere background drone as she took in the details outside the window. Instead of the modern, asphalt-paved road of her memory, she saw a cobblestoned street; instead of cars and motorbikes, a series of horse-drawn carriages paraded by. Even the pedestrians on the pavement wore quaint, old-fashioned clothing straight out of a BBC documentary about Victorian times.

Which meant that, unless Sherlock had gone to extreme lengths to fool her, he wasn’t lying. And if he wasn’t lying, then...then it had to be true.

She was no longer in her own time. The trembling of her hands increased.

Sherlock still seemed to be speaking, but she couldn’t hear him over the rushing of blood, the pounding of her heart-beat, the buzzing in her ears. She was hot, she was freezing, not just her hands but her entire body trembling as she covered her ears and shook her head no, no no. It was something to do with Moriarty, it had to be; she’d been attacked by that man, she remembered it now, Moran, and he’d been one of Moriarty’s men and this was some crazy scheme of Sherlock’s to take that madman down. She hadn’t actually fallen into the mirror she now very clearly remembered falling into; she hadn’t spent some unknown, agonizing time in a golden, hazy somewhere/nowhere, choking on hot, viscous liquid that seemed equal parts matter and energy. No, it was just part of the nightmare, she’d never actually woken up, and when she did she would be in her flat, with Toby meowing at her for breakfast or, or she’d be in a hospital bed after surgery for a knife wound…

“Doctor Hooper, I implore you to calm yourself!”

Sherlock’s voice was raised in a near-shout, and she wondered vaguely why she could barely hear it even then. Oh, it was because her hands were pressed to her ears and was chanting - nearly sobbing - the word ‘no’ over and over again.

When he made as if to grasp her arm she pulled away from him, stumbling back and nearly tripping on the hem of the goddamned nightgown. “This isn’t funny,” she spat out, still shaking. “None of it. You bastard. Is this one of your stupid games? You know I can keep your secrets, I never told John you were faking your death, you-you don’t h-have to lie to me, for Christ’s sake, Sherlock…”

Her voice turned pleading, and this time when she stumbled she allowed him to catch her, to cradle her in his arms and carry her gently back to the bed. His bed, if he was to be believed.

As he did so there came a sharp knocking at the door, which opened almost immediately after. Molly gaped at the sight of John Watson barreling into the room, dressed in the same old-fashioned garments as many of the men she’d spied outside the window, and sporting a bushy mustache that surely had to be part of a disguise? “Holmes, I heard Doctor Hooper screaming again…”

“An understandable reaction on her part, Watson,” Sherlock said as he rose to his feet. “She’s been dealt a considerable shock, both physical and mental, but I believe the truth has finally begun to register. Perhaps you could enjoin Mrs. Hudson to bring us up some tea?”

John huffed a bit at being so peremptorily dismissed, and insisted on examining her before doing as Sherlock had asked. “I can assure you, Doctor Hooper - or rather, Mrs. Holmes as I am given to understand I must address you for the time being - that whatever Holmes has told you is nothing less than the absolute truth. I myself witnessed your distressing arrival here via the Cheval glass, as well as the attack on you by that brute Moran. I understand how upset you must be at these events, but I also wish to assure you that both Holmes and I will do whatever we can to assure your comfort while you are with us.”

“Thank you, John,” Molly said gratefully, his words a soothing balm indeed. He flinched a bit when she said his name, and she tensed, wondering what she’d done or said wrong.

“Watson’s given name is James, not John,” Sherlock corrected her before the other man could do more than open his mouth. “One of the many differences between your time and ours, I’m afraid. And if you are disinclined to believe my version of the events that brought you here, I urge you to at least consider what Watson has told you, to reconcile it with your own memories - which, I deduce, have begun to return, have they not?”

Molly ducked her head. “A bit,” she mumbled. “At least, I think so. But it has to have been some kind of hallucination, when that thug shoved me into the mirror I must have hit my head, it can’t possibly be real…”

“I assure, Doctor Hooper, it is all too real.” She flinched at the harsh certainty in Sherlock’s voice. “Your denial is understandable, but it will not change the reality of your situation. It is the year 1895, and to my regret, I am not the Sherlock Holmes with whom you are more intimately acquainted.”

She bit back a semi-hysterical laugh at the ludicrousness of his words; she and the Sherlock Holmes of her own time were hardly intimately acquainted. Hell, she had no idea if the man even considered her a friend or not, even after she’d helped fake his death. Even after he’d kissed her.

“I need…” Her voice trailed off; what, exactly, did she need? Time? Apparently she had a surfeit of that. Rest? According to Sherlock she’d already slept or been unconscious for nearly twelve hours, and had been awake for less than an hour.

“What?” Sherlock pressed her. “What do you need?

It felt odd, hearing those words directed towards her, but at the same time it somehow grounded her, helped to push back the rising tide of hysteria she’d been fighting. “I need something to wear besides this,” she finally said, gathering up a handful of the nightgown and letting it drop again. “And then maybe that cup of tea while you explain to me one more time how I ended up in the Twilight Zone.”

TBC

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