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#except the one unit rented out to me

aholefilledwithtwigs · 2 months

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I once had a landlord offhandedly mention that his mother had set this house on fire before. He and his wife lived on the first floor, and i rented the third.

Apparently his mom didn’t like his wife. So she set their house on fire. The house i was living in.

He assured me that everything was fine now and that this was years ago, just kinda laughed, smiled, and said ‘You know how moms are’

Yes. I know how moms are. I know how fucked up moms are as well. I have known many fucked up moms and fellow children of fucked up moms.

Attempted murder through arson is not typical mom behavior, even for a fucked up abusive mom

Oh, and his mother lived next door 🙃

#story time with sair #i might follow up with more #that was a wild living situation even for me #family owned #two neighboring houses of six units total #all of them one family/lived there decades #except the one unit rented out to me

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the-californicationist · 2 months

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Sending hugs as always!!!! Soooo, another request with no rush intended. Not sure if you are familiar with “Cool.” Gwen Stefani song and video. Love lost but no love lost. Rainy days and nights. He sees you with your “new” love. All the memories come rushing back, and he has to have you!!!! Dripping wet in his fit!! Maybe he tries to sneak away with you?! You’re the genius!! Still loving your Fluff and Stories on AO3. Thanks always!! ❤️💜

hey babe!! love this ask. sorry for the wait! <3 <3 trying to get out chapter 2 of bear price before the weekend, but this one just wouldn't leave my WIP station, so i had to get it done. very cool premise. hope this comes close to what you wanted!!

Cloudy, with a Chance

John Price was not having a good day. He’d had worse days, to be sure, but as he trudged through yet another puddle, soaked through with this torrential rain, freezing to his bones, he thought it had turned out pretty bloody bad.

For one, he couldn’t get you out of his mind. Your laugh and the stuttering hello of your voicemail greeting were taunting him like a vicious demon, and every time he brought himself to pleasure, it was your sweet moans that flooded through his mind. He’d also come back from the field to find his truck broken into and his storage unit payment almost three months overdue. Getting all of his belongings back in order had been a real fucking drag. None of this would’ve happened if you were still there.

But, you weren’t.

You’d left him before his last tour, and that was almost six months ago. He could still hear your complaints in his mind, clear and orderly, like a list of commandments:

I’m tired of being left alone, John!

I can’t keep wondering if every phone call is about to tell me you’ve died.

You promised you’d be here for me, and you’re not.

I’m not stitching up another bullet hole. I can’t.

How much more of yourself are you going to give them? They don’t deserve you.

What if I need you?

It had been a rough tour. He’d called you a few times, and when you’d answered, the guilt rent through his heart like a stake.

“John? What’s happened? Are you alright?”

“Aye, I’m fine. Lads are fine. Just… I needed to hear your voice.”

“It’s alright, John. I’m here.”

And you had been. You were still there for him. Sometimes, when he got your voicemail, he thought he’d reached the end of your generosity, but that wasn’t the hardest part. No, the worst thing was coming home to empty drawers and his toothbrush, lonely in its glass, all by itself.

As he sheltered under the awning of a Nero’s coffee shop, he tried to get his bearings, deciding whether or not to wait out the storm. It was only by chance that he glanced into the window at Capello’s, and it was only by chance that the waiter had sat you and your date in the window seat.

His breath caught in his chest when he realized it was you, and his shock turned from yearning to sadness to rage in the blink of an eye. Who was that muppet with his bloody fuckin’ hands all over you? You were his.

Except you weren’t his. Not anymore.

No, fuck that.

He marched across the street, paying no mind to the honking traffic. A brief argument with the maître d' and he was through to the dining room.

“John?” Your voice had an edge of panic, and your eyes were focused on him as he dripped his way across the carpet.

In fact, all eyes were on him, but he didn’t care.

Your date looked more than a little put out, but when he started to stand up, Price grabbed his shoulder with no small amount of cruelty and shoved him back into his seat.

“What’re you doin’ here, love? You fuckin’ hate Capello’s.”

“I don’t…” You looked around, lowering your voice, trying to get him to match your volume, “I’m on a date, Jonathan.”

“Don’t be stupid. You need to come home. I can’t do this without you. I can’t do anything without you, and I don’t care who bloody knows it. I need you, love. Please.”

“You can’t keep doing this! I deserve to have someone who is there for me when I need them to be,” you raised your voice again, frustrated by his words.

Good. He liked it when you got all worked up.

“And you think this muppet can do more than me? Please.”

John rolled his eyes. The muppet tried to protest, moving to stand up again, only to be shoved back into position.

You took a deep breath, and you tried not to notice just how small your date was compared to your ex-boyfriend. John towered over him, and his thigh was more than twice the size of this guy’s bicep. Seeing John’s huge hand covering this man’s frail-looking shoulder kind of gave you the ick for your date.

You also tried to ignore your captain’s field-hardened body. He always came home so much more muscular, and so much larger, than he looked when he left. He was still soaking wet from the rain, drenched in his hoodie and tac-jacket. His canvas pants clung to his skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. But, that didn’t matter. You were imagining it anyway.

What you couldn’t ignore was that cold, blue hunger in his eyes. His beard had grown out, and the scruff combined with his long hair, all raked back under that disgusting boonie hat, were doing things to you that made you clench your legs together, becoming acutely aware of how every piece of fabric felt as it touched your body, and you knew exactly how it would feel when he ripped it off of you.

“Uh, hey. Listen, mate —” The date tried to protest weakly.

“Shut up,” you and John spat at your date at the same time.

John smiled at that, warming himself in your fire,

“C’mon, love. We’re leaving.”

He tossed a few wet hundred pound notes down on the table, not giving a shit if it was enough or not, and lifted the open bottle of wine from the ice bucket. His gaze fell to your date for a fleeting second, and he said,

“Cheers, mate.”

His hand grabbed yours and helped you from your seat, leading you outside. Once he had you back in your coat, he took you out into the rain, keeping his warm palm planted on the small of your back, and he didn’t say one single word to you until you were back in the foyer of his flat, dripping onto the marble tiles, panting and breathless in the quiet entrance, listening to his keys jingle in the lock.

“Let’s get you dry, love. Then,” he was breathless from the rain and from something else, “We’ll get your things. Put them back where they go, yeah?”

You nodded dumbly, shivering from the cold,

“Yeah. Okay, John.”

“Get inside, love. That a new dress?”

“Mmhm,” you let him towel you dry in the entrance, feeling how strong he was even though you knew he was trying to be gentle with you.

“Take it off.”

His voice had a tone that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on its end. You followed his command almost immediately, feeling your body rush with shock and excitement.

John caught you by your arms and shoved you against the wall in the foyer, his eyes bearing down into you with a fiery intensity you’d never seen. He spoke through his teeth, gravelly and dark, full of warning,

“You belong here with me. I don’t want any more dates. I want you to be mine, and I bloody well want to be yours. Let me.”

“Alright, John,” you whispered, holding your breath, nervous and waiting.

“Don’t,” he pressed his forehead against yours like he had a fever, “Don’t say yes unless you mean it, love.”

You pushed his head back with yours just enough to reach his cheek. You kissed it as softly as you could, moving down his jaw and onto his neck, feeling his blood rush through his veins warming his skin beneath your lips.

His hands fell away from your arms and you grabbed his hands, holding them in yours, still speaking to him in a low whisper, not wanting to break his spell,

“I’m yours, John. You’re all I have thought about for six months, and I don’t want to be without you. I don’t know what I was saying…”

He grabbed you on either side of your face and kissed you deeply, pushing his body into yours, grinding his wet clothes into you, and not caring a bit about the puddle on the floor,

“Shh. You’re mine. That’s all I need to hear.”

You looked into each others’ eyes and got lost for a moment. The blues of his irises were icy and sharp, tracking your every movement, your every breath. His sudden command pulled you out of your trance,

“Take off your dress.”

John watched you as you slipped the straps off your shoulders, revealing your bare breasts to him, your nipples pebbled from the cold, damp cloth. It fell, cascading down your body, showing off the black lace panties you wore underneath. Your strappy heels kicked the gown away from you, and you squirmed under his scrutiny,

“Were you gonna show him these?” John’s fingertips grazed the panties right above your clit, making little petting strokes with the back of his hand.

“Yeah,” you lifted your chin, challenging him, willing to face his jealous wrath.

“Yeah?” John growled, taking your bait, fisting your dripping hair in his hand and forcing your head back, baring your smooth neck to him, “On a first date? You must have been hungry for it, love.” He taunted you, touching your lips through the lace.

“Second date…” You flashed your eyes up at him, knowing he would snarl, and he did.

“Second… Mm,” John grabbed the panties by the front fabric and ripped them from your hips with one cruel tug. You gasped, and he caught your mouth with his, kissing you as his fingers found a different kind of wetness pooling between your legs, “My poor darling. You know he wouldn’t be enough for you. You’d have been so… fucking… disappointed...”

With every word of his last phrase, he thrust his fingers inside of you to their knuckle, lifting your body as he did so, his strength fully apparent.

“Did you miss me?” He asked you quietly. All the anger was gone from his tone, and a somber desperation was back.

“Yes, my love. I did,” you kissed him as sweetly as you could, telling him the truth.

“Fuck,” he grimaced, “I missed you.”

Suddenly, you were airborne, lifted into his arms and being carried into the adjacent kitchen. He sat you on the counter, shoving stacks of unread mail and keys onto the floor. You helped him strip off his wet clothes, pulling his hoodie and his jacket from his back, watching with admiration as he tugged off his undershirt, revealing his damp, furry chest, all of his dark hair laying matted against his skin. He was tanned and burned from the desert sun in odd tan lines, proof of his work, and your hands felt his sculpted form with joy, exploring all of him with abandon.

You knocked off his boonie hat and watched him rake his hair back again, trying to keep it out of his face. It was straight in the front, but it began to curl when it reached his ears, wild and unkempt.

Then, you heard the buckle jingle, and that familiar tool of his fell from the open folds of his pants. It was just as you had dreamt it, heavy and large, throbbing and flushed, excited to see you. He dipped the head of it into your lips, rubbing himself back and forth through your wetness, making you moan.

“Oh, fuck… There you are. My girl. Needed you. Fuck, I needed you.” He wasn’t talking to you. Not really. He was sort of lamenting aloud, lost in his selfish thrusting, slicking himself in the softness of your body, bumping your clit on the way up and teasing your hole on the way down.

Finally, he positioned himself at your center, carefully aligned with your tight opening, and he commanded you once more,

“Spread your legs for me. Show me. I wanna see you… that’s it. So damn pretty.”

“John, please…” You begged, touching yourself, trying to show him how ready you were.

He chuckled, pressing just the tip of his head into you, making you writhe,

“Whose pussy is this?”

“Yours…” You whispered, feeling particularly naughty about this call and response.

“Whose!” He got in your face, close enough to kiss you but holding himself back, his voice louder and more forceful.

“Yours! It’s yours. Please, fuck me, John,” you pleaded, gasping from being so near to your release and not being able to reach it.

“Mine,” he thrust himself into you and watched you fall apart, feeling you pulse around him uncontrollably, “My fuckin’ pussy. All mine.”

He found a rhythm, but it was punishing. You had orgasm after orgasm pulled from you cruelly. There was no lovemaking. He was claiming you. You were familiar with his need after his tour, especially if it had been particularly difficult, but six months of not knowing if he’d ever see you again had made him rabid. Each thrust was like the touch of a glowing brand, marking you as his, reminding you of where you found your pleasure.

You were not in control, not anymore. Any of your goading or teasing was immediately quashed by his dominance. You were just a mixture of screaming bliss and sopping, milking noises, made by his effort between your legs.

Frustrated that he couldn’t fuck you deeper, he pulled you from the countertop and down onto the cold tile floor. You were crawling onto the soft kitchen mat on your hands and knees, trying to catch your bearings when you felt him position himself behind you.

He grabbed your hair and pulled you into a high arch, shoving his fat cock back into you, sighing with relief as he did so, praising you in muttered, grunting words.

He began to slam himself back into you, somehow feeling harder and thicker than before, filling you up to your limit.

“Fuck!” You moaned, “Fuck…”

“Is that what you needed, love? Hm?” He leaned his body over yours like a hound, whispering into your neck.

“Yes, yes, yes yes…” You could barely breathe.

“Needed your man, didn’t ya?”

“Yes, please…” Whatever words came to mind, you said them. You didn’t care. You could barely put a coherent thought together much less a full sentence.

“I’m gonna fuck you like this until you can’t even remember his goddamn name.”

You smiled, cock-drunk and high from your repeated pleasure, peeking at him over your shoulder,

“Whose name?”

He laughed like a demon, fucking you faster, chasing his end,

“That’s my girl.”

When he lost his steady, pumping rhythm, he began to let out a barking shout, and you felt his come begin to drip from his body and into yours, heating you up in your core. He pushed his cock through it, frothing it inside of you, letting it drip down his shaft and coat his hair.

He fell out of you, sitting back on his knees, pulling you into his lap with his last ounce of strength, and leaned against the kitchen cabinets, legs spread, holding you to his chest. John was breathing hard, his eyes shut. You reached up and touched his bottom lip, earning your fingertips a soft kiss.

John opened his eyes and looked down at you, holding you close, begging you,

“Don’t leave me, baby. Please. Don’t leave me alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere, John. I’m right here,” you told him, petting his chest in comforting strokes, breathing hard with him.

“Stay,” he whispered, so low you almost couldn’t hear him, “Please, stay.”

You kissed his neck and whispered back,

“I’ll stay. Forever. I promise.”

Your tired captain pulled you tighter into him, leaning a sweaty cheek against your forehead, smiling slightly, finally at some kind of peace.

AO3 Link

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain john price #cod #john price #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x you #call of duty #x female reader #john price x female reader #captain john price x female reader

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eoieopda · 1 year

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Namjoon + “sibling’s best friend” except the sibling has been rooting for them to get together for years

combined with your other namjoon request 💕🫶🏻

Namjoon + “stuck in an elevator” bc god of destruction or simply bad luck idm either

the one with namjoon and the u-haul

ft. jeon!reader, moving day, a mild age gap, jk being a lil shit as usual, and blondejoon 🥵 (cw: claustrophobia / brief depiction of a would-be anxiety attack)

If you ever managed to get your hands on your brother, you might kill him.

Of course, you’d have to find him first — and if your sixteen unanswered calls were any indication, Jeon Jungkook might’ve left this mortal coil already. Unfortunately for you and the rented U-Haul parked outside your apartment building, you needed that evasive little shit and his inhuman stamina.

More importantly, you’d needed him an hour ago when that rental clock started ticking.

The minutes you’d burned up already — firing text after unacknowledged text at your twin — were ones you’d quite literally pay for later in the form of late fees. Jungkook knew this, knew you, knew that your neurotic, Type-A brain had calculated exactly how much time would be needed for the two of you to orchestrate your cross-town move. Just like he knew you were simultaneously too weak to move these boxes yourself; and too poor to shell out for the full-day rental package or professional movers.

And yet, there he wasn’t.

You’d worn crop circles into the carpet already with your relentless pacing. One more step, and the pedometer built into your Apple Watch might give up altogether, explode into a cloud of sparks around your wrist. Worse, it might send out an emergency alert to the nearest mobile crisis unit and get your ass pink-slipped. Maybe, you think, you should try being still for once in your life.

You hit the brakes so suddenly that the inertia makes you wobble, but you don’t fight it. Instead, you let that anxious momentum drop you unceremoniously onto the nearby sofa.

The one was supposed to be loaded up an hour ago.

Not that you’re counting.

Just as soon as you slump with a huff into the cushions, a rhythmic knock at your door yanks you back to your feet. All you see is red as you stagger over a sea of cardboard boxes, wind your way through garment bags, odds and ends to reach the entrance to your apartment. Your hand snaps like a bear trap around the doorknob when you finally clear the obstacle course; and you nearly rip the door off its hinges when your rage propels it open.

The preparatory breath you’d sucked in — gunpowder in your lungs, ready to pop off at your unbelievably tardy brother — instead leaves you in a startled gasp:

“Oh, God.”

Immediately, your face begins to burn with embarrassment. You don’t know what to do with your hands, either; they’re still balled up into fists and ready to swing. Fuck! Sweaty palms! You wipe them furiously on the back pockets of your denim shorts and try to keep the rest of you from liquifying.

“Actually,” comes a surprisingly soft voice from a body so contrary, “It’s pronounced Namjoon.”

Oh, no, no, no, no.

Not that lopsided, tight-lipped smile.

Anything but that.

You, a fool, blurt out the obvious, “You’re not Jungkook.”

Of course, this offering is worthless. The twerp who entered this world three minutes before you was sixty-three minutes late; and his friend — the one you still can’t believe Jungkook manages to keep — was standing in his place. His older, smarter friend, whose massive hands you picture when you —

Kim Namjoon has a laugh that makes less noise the more he means it. Based on the melodic little hiss that erupts in response to your declaration, he finds your buffoonery hilarious.

You are not long for this world, you fear.

“Got me there,” he concedes. Looking up to find him beaming at you, you’re not surprised that staring at his grin — the one that shows all his teeth and makes his eyes crinkle — feels a lot like staring into the sun.

Don’t you dare faint. You’ve survived three years with that face. You can and will be normal about this.

As if that wasn’t enough, Namjoon has the audacity to lay his palm flush against the door jam above your head and lean down and — shit, his biceps just look like that? All the time?

You’re already a puddle at his feet when Namjoon hums, “Heard you needed an extra set of hands.”

You want to ask if he’s psychic — his hands, in any context, are precisely what you need — but you don’t. You clear your throat and throw on your best approximation of nonchalance. Cross your arms over your chest in a way you hope looks casual, tilt your head to the side.

You raise a single eyebrow before responding, laying it on thick, “So, he lives, huh? Texts you but not his own flesh and blood? Sends his poor hyung as a proxy?”

“I have free will, you know,” Namjoon chides you without any real heat. “And a free afternoon, too.”

He then shrugs his shoulders before pointing over yours. The target he’s acquired sits at the very edge of your peripheral vision, a beast in velvet upholstery. His grin is downright impish when he continues, “Unless your plan is to yeet that couch straight off the balcony, I suspect your options here are limited.”

If you’d been given the opportunity, you’re confident that you may have come up with some witty remark. Instead of ongoing banter, you get a hand on either side of your waist, picking you up and moving your rag doll body out of the doorway. Namjoon smirks as he sets you down, ignores your slacked jaw, and invites himself into your apartment.

On his way to the couch, he spots something that catches his eye. He pauses, bends down towards a laundry basket full of assorted bullshit, and pulls out what can only be described as a cursed object. It’s your most hideous and most beloved possession, having joined you in every major move since you left your parents’ house: a ceramic shelf-sitter in the form of a rooster, the body of which is entirely made of sculpted fruits.

Namjoon is absolutely baffled by it, open mouth forming a circle as he stares down at his discovery. You should be baffled, you think, it’s God’s ugliest creation. Then, as if the force of his quiet blinking was too much for it to handle, the bunch of bananas composing its tail feathers pops off and promptly falls to the ground.

Horrified, he watches in slow motion as it hits the hardwood below with a thump. You watch as his shoulders sag; unable to tell whether the fond little tug in your chest is based on your weird, broken art, or how completely crushed he looks.

“Ah, fuck. I’m sorry!” He gasps, ducking down to grab the runaway appendage. Fuck the bird — it’s him. Then, he mutters directly to the object looking laughably small in his palm, “What’d you do me like that for? Rude as hell.”

Instinctively, you cross to where Namjoon stands in the center of your living room. When you reach him, you feel him brace himself for your reaction; but all you do is bend at the waist, grab a small tube of super glue from that same laundry basket, and hold it up. He glances from your fingers to your face.

“A must-have when you break shit as often as I do,” you chirp. Then, you gesture with your free hand to the basket. His gaze follows and locks onto the small, strawberry knee joint that you’d accidentally severed as you packed. To say that his eyes light up is an understatement.

Namjoon taps at the “made in” sticker on the bottom of the rooster and smirks, “This is what you get for buying American, honestly.”

_____

You didn’t have “spending time with Kim Namjoon” on today’s bingo card, but you’re certainly not complaining.

Lucky for you, he was stronger than your idiot brother and infinitely less frustrating to be around. The pair of you moved around your apartment like you were ballroom dancing; neither of you needing the steps called out to know them. It was easy, it was synchronized, and you didn’t have to beg him to stay on task.

Absolute none of that would be the case if your day had gone as planned.

In thirty minutes’ time, all of your possessions had been loaded into the U-Haul except one: the couch. Due to its bulkiness, you knew it’d be difficult to maneuver despite its relatively light weight.

Namjoon, boasting more brain cells than you by a long-shot, had suggested using the elevator. So long as it was angled properly, he reasoned, the two of you could make it fit without issue. Then, you wouldn’t need to wrangle the first neighbor you came across to help you pivot the blasted thing around every stairwell.

It was a short trip, only four floors, so you’d decided not to explain why you’d taken the stairs for every previous run of boxes.

Maybe you should have, because forty-five minutes have passed since you entered that elevator, and you are swiftly running out of ways to pretend that you’re fine.

From where you sit cross-legged on the elevator floor, you can hardly see Namjoon, who is believed to exist somewhere on the other side of your couch. Every now and then, there’d been a flash of blonde hair next to one of the couch’s arms — proof of life — but he’s more often invisible than not.

You’re okay with that fact, you realize. It means he can’t see the way your anxiety is manifesting only half a meter away from him.

“D’you think this call button even works?” He calls out to you, unknowingly contributing to the cold sweat slicking the small of your back, “I’ve pressed it a hundred times and — as you know — we haven’t been rescued.”

You wonder if you sound as strangled as you feel. Throat tight, you mutter, “Nothing in this building works. ‘S part of why I’m moving.”

Apparently, you do sound as strangled as you feel. You hear shifting in Namjoon’s corner of the elevator, and then you see his face materialize near the bottom of the couch. His eyebrows were initially furrowed, but the concern he carried there migrated. It settles and causes his eyes to widen when they find you.

“You alright?” He asks immediately. Sweetly.

In the grand scheme of things, yes, you would concede that you are — generally — more or less alright. You’ve been in worse places with worse company, and relatively speaking, this isn’t your ultimate nightmare. You’re capable of far greater panic than this.

In this moment, however, in this godforsaken metal box with walls that feel like they’re getting closer by the second, and stale air that gets heavier and heavier when you try to breathe it into your lungs, the walls of which are also getting —

Namjoon answers for you, decidedly but without even a hint of judgement, “You’re not alright.”

There’s more shuffling from the corner. Within a few moments, he manages to wriggle himself into a standing position. With two hands now on the couch’s spine, he glances urgently in your direction. His eyes soften, but you’re distracted by the loose lock of blonde hair that falls over his forehead, over them.

“If I find a way to you, does that make it better or worse?”

Of course, big-brain Kim Namjoon has the sense to ask. Of course, he’s emotionally intelligent enough to realize that joining you in your space could either calm your anxiety, or force it into X-Games mode. Of course, you feel like you’re being hydraulically pressed, so you don’t have the available brain cells to run a proper cost-benefit analysis.

So, you peep, “I — uhh, I don’t know?”

He purses his lips like he’s trying not to smile — because, as you’ve learned, he’s a good fucking person — but you feel a little bit less like you’re actively dying when you watch the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. Taking that gut reaction at face value, you swallow and wordlessly wave him over.

Only one way to find out, you suppose.

The way he grunts softly when he single-handedly pushes the couch further upright would make your whole body clench if it wasn’t already. The same is true of your rapid heart rate and the simmering desire to swoon. Wait — it’s called “fainting” if it’s a medical event, right? Whatever it is, the urge only gets stronger when he slots himself into the tiny bit of space at your side.

“Here — Oh, hang on,” He says, prompting you to look his way.

Your eyes catch him just in time to watch him wipe his hand off on his jeans, then hold it out to you. Without a second thought, you accept it. Squeezing slightly to express your gratitude, you smile and let your joint hands rest against your thigh. Like a shot of clonazepam, he has you calm in an instant.

A few moments of silence pass comfortably. Eventually, when your pulse returns to safety, you tilt your head back against the metal wall behind you and gaze upwards. The ceiling is back where it belongs, no longer inching towards you with the intent to flatten you against the floor. You breathe deeply then sigh out the exhale.

“I’m so glad I’m not trapped in here with Jungkook,” you announce, “If he were here, he’d be jumping up and down to try to get this thing to move, and I’d be nerve-barfing everywhere.”

“Good god,” Namjoon snorts. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye; he’s thoroughly amused, not at all grossed out by the picture you’ve painted. You know I’m right, you think.

It’s not clear if he knows you’re watching when his smile turns shy. He says it quietly, like he’s divulging some heavy secret, “Glad I called him off, then.”

You hum in agreement before those words actually register in your distinctly soup-like brain. When they finally do, you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him in confusion. For the first time in three years, he gets to hear what it sounds like when you buffer in real time:

“Sorry, you — huh?”

The math isn’t adding up. The science isn’t — doing whatever it is that science does. The words? Well, they’re failing you. You’ve got nothing.

Namjoon’s free hand rubs against the back of his neck. He smiles sheepishly, so damn cutely. For a second, he nibbles on his bottom lip before coming clean, “I may have asked Jungkook if I could sub in today.”

No thoughts, head empty, just wide-eyed blinking. It’s all you’re capable of with your stomach doing backflips the way it is.

“He was — umm — more than happy to switch swifts, you know?”

Of course, he was. Jungkook is a brat.

Namjoon chuckles and it’s then that you realize you’d broadcasted your thoughts out loud. He shakes his head as if you hadn’t just spit objective fact out into the elevator. Your eyebrows furrow as you try to follow the plot.

“For being an older brother, Kook’s a surprisingly good wing-man.”

Your jaw drops. Finger raised, you interject immediately, all piss and vinegar. “Joon, he is three minutes older. Don’t you dare give him credit for that. His ego’s already hit the ceiling, and I am not calling him oppa —”

Namjoon purses his lips again. The corner of his mouth ticks upward again. He’s apparently waiting for a response that you haven’t given him, again. Your sentence dies out before you can punctuate it.

Oh. Did you —?

Eyes as big as the moon, you sputter, “Wing man?”

“There you go, champ,” he laughs, affectionately nudging your shoulder with his. “Is that lag one of those twin things people talk about, or —?”

You land a playful smack on his bicep, but let your hand linger. Not unlike the way he’d done twice before, you pinch your lips together and try not to grin like the fool you are. Taking advantage of your pause, Namjoon reaches across his body with his free arm and peels your palm from his bicep. He keeps on holding it and you only melt a little bit.

It takes effort on your part, but you squirm in your spot until you’re able to face him more fully.

“Namjoon, you have to tell me the truth,” you demand. You squint back at him, narrowed eyes emphasizing the dramatic tone you’ve taken. “Did you or did you not break this elevator on purpose?”

He laughs so hard that it’s silent. His heads ducks down, too, until his forehead rests gently against your shoulder. From there, he sighs, “I did not break this elevator on purpose.”

After a pause, he sits back up, handcuffs his gaze to yours, then grins with all his teeth. “I’d be a fool not to capitalize on the opportunity, though.”

You close the distance and kiss him with all you’ve got, cotton-candy sweet and fresh-linen soft. It’s easy — the way it felt when your busy bodies swirled around your living room, never once stumbling — and you swear you hear bells ringing.

Namjoon pulls away breathless. He begins to ask the question, but the gentle lurch of the elevator answers before he can finish.

#jade’s requests #jade’s drabbles #knj #2k drabblepalooza #re: the one with namjoon and the u-haul #kim namjoon #namjoon #bts #bts drabble #namjoon drabble #bts imagine #namjoon imagine #bts scenarios #namjoon scenarios #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #namjoon x y/n #bts fluff #namjoon fluff

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dreamcubed · 11 months

Text

london boy | fred weasley x reader

song; london boy [taylor swift] pairing; fred weasley x fem!american!thunderbird!reader genre; s2l, fluff word count; 3,1k timeline; post-second wizarding war au (fred lives) warnings; swearing, alcohol consumption summary; after taking the plunge and moving across the world, you are unsure of how to form a new social circle and support system. it appears there was no need to worry, as you soon meet a charming man who runs a joke shop with his twin brother

a/n; this was actually suggested by an anon! sorry it took a couple months to write

masterlist

"babe, don't threaten me with a good time."

———————————————

The Second Wizarding War, while primarily occurring in battles throughout the United Kingdom, was something that had put the global wizarding world at stake. The United States were no exception, and as a recent graduate of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, you decided to wander across the pond to the country where the liberty of witches and wizards was saved. That, and you had no other plans for the course of your life.

You worked for the first year after your graduation in order to save up money for the move, but you were pleased to say you had finally stepped foot in England: specifically, Diagon Alley.

It was where you had managed to rent a small flat from, as arranged thanks to your mother having connections in the area as a result of her travels back in the day. You were beyond excited to meet new people and settle into a new life.

But you did need a job.

Your savings would suffice for a few months, which would hopefully give you sufficient time to secure an income - key word, hopefully. First on the agenda, however, was exploring your new local area to see if you could make new friends early doors.

And so you found yourself stood outside a completely buzzing joke shop, after visiting the local bakery and book shop. The name of shop was written in gold: Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Chadwick, that was a tongue twister - fitting, you supposed.

You pushed open the door to be greeted by both the bell tinkling above you and the sound of laughing children (and even adults) in all corners of the establishment. A smile pulled its way on to your face as you began walking towards the nearest display table, covered in enchanted prank items. You picked up what appeared to be a normal whoopie cushion, and began examining it.

"Looks normal, but is in fact quite the opposite," a British voice in your left ear caught you off guard, making you quickly turn to be greeted by a tall ginger-haired man, "First of all, it camouflages once it's set down, so anyone who's smart enough to check their seats before sitting down can't catch you out."

You stared blankly at the man.

"Second, it doesn't just make a fart sound, it produces the whole package," he grinned, "A hyper realistic fart smell - and even a greenish smoke if the person sits down with a lot of force."

You came to your senses and smiled, putting the cushion delicately back down. "I'm guessing you're Weasley?"

"One of them," he nodded, "There's two others - one of them fresh out of Hogwarts."

You hummed.

"And I was gonna ask why I don't recognise you from school, but I think your accent gives me the answer."

"Yep, I'm an Ilvermorny grad."

"First time in Britain?"

You nodded, "So far, I love it."

He grimaced, "Depends where you go, Diagon Alley gives you an idealistic impression. How long you here for?"

"Indefinitely."

"Oh?" he quirked an eyebrow, "You're living here?"

"As of today," you smiled, "Y/N. Y/N L/N."

"Fred Weasley," he replied, "Allow me to be your first friend in this foreign country."

You giggled at his feigned poshness.

"What are your plans for work?" he asked, beginning to walk away. Instinctively, you began following him.

You shrugged, "I don't know. Haven't thought that far ahead."

"Oh?"

"I have some money saved while I settle in and find a job."

"That's good," he nodded.

"Have you always wanted to run a joke shop?" you asked.

"Oh, yeah. Always," he said with a smile, "Me and my twin brother, George, have loved pranks since we were kids."

You raised an eyebrow, "Twin?"

"Identical - well, used to be. He has a missing ear now so no one ever mixes us up anymore. Sad, really."

You didn't have to ask how he lost the ear.

"Our younger brother, Ron, decided to join us too. Although I don't think it's a childhood dream of his."

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Six."

Your eyes widened, "Six?"

"Five brothers, one sister."

"Your poor sister."

"Well, she's not doing too bad for herself. She's just starting her quidditch career and she's dating none other than Harry Potter so," he shrugged.

"You know Harry Potter?"

He laughed, "Well, I went to school with him, so yeah. Although I suppose I am a bit closer than normal as Ron's his best mate and my sister's dating him. He actually helped fund the start of this very establishment."

"That's cool."

Fred beamed at you, "Wanna grab a coffee after my shift?"

***

"So, yeah, that's how I ended up losing my virginity to a no-maj," you finished off, sipping on your piccolo, "Poor guy doesn't know he lost his to a witch."

"How do you know it was his first time?" Fred chuckled, sat opposite you, having been intently listening to the story.

"Because he started crying afterwards saying how God was never gonna forgive him for not saving himself for marriage," you said through stifled laughter.

By this point, Fred was practically cackling.

"Honestly, I took it as a compliment. I'm sexy enough to get a guy to suspend his beliefs for a couple hours."

"Not surprised about that," he gave the slightest of smirks to you.

You stopped laughing, suddenly feeling flushed and embarrassed.

"You told a guy you just met how you lost your virginity and only now you get shy?"

You scoffed, "I didn't realise there were rules around when I'm allowed to get shy."

Fred shrugged, "There should be- by that I mean, you should have to do it more. You're cute when you're shy."

You couldn't help your lips from stretching into a grin.

"Oh, shit, is that the time?"

"What?"

"I agreed to meet some of my brothers and friends for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron."

"Oh-"

"Wanna come?" he quickly asked.

You frowned, "I don't wanna intrude."

"Don't be silly, I grew up on a 'the more, the merrier' policy."

"Well, if you're sure- fuck it."

***

"Fred, there you are!" a voice rang out from the bar, where a group of guys were gathered.

"Where you been, mate?" a man identical to Fred (save for a missing ear) said.

"If you'd been at the shop today, you'd know."

George, the name you remembered from Fred's many stories, laughed, "I'm just teasing. Ron told me," he nodded his head towards one of the other ginger men in the group. That was when he turned to look at you. "So, you're the mysterious lady Freddie disappeared off with."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Y/N."

"Ooh, accent!" the man who had initially called out to you both said.

"Alright, alright. Y/N, that's Lee there, this is my twin, George- obviously. Over there is Ron, Wood, and one of my older brothers, Bill."

They all greeted you.

"So, where in America you from?" Bill asked.

***

Some way, some how, many firewhiskeys later you found yourself laughing your ass off with a bunch of guys you had only met a few hours ago. You were drunker than the rest of them, that was for sure, as despite US drinking laws not having stopped you from drinking to drunkenness before, they still meant you had had less opportunity to do so. Thus, your tolerance wasn't good.

At some point during the evening, your group had migrated from the bar to a larger table in the corner, where you sat with Fred's arm around you.

"Oh, come on, Ron, you have to admit it's a little ironic that your girlfriend is on her way to be the next Minister of Magic meanwhile you run a joke shop," George said through wheezes.

Ron's expression suddenly went solemn, "How could you say that to me?"

Everyone went silent for a few moments, until Ron erupted in laughter again with everyone else swiftly following. You found it even funnier that the jokes weren't actually funny anymore: you all were just plastered.

As the laughter died down again, you turned to Fred at your side, "I like your friends."

"Better not like 'em more than me," he said, "I know it's only been a day but I'd like to think I've already called dibs on you."

"Called dibs on me?"

"Yeah, well, dibs on being the first British guy you date."

You grinned, "That's up to you to make it happen, London boy."

"I'm not even from London," he retorted.

"Eh, tomato, tomato."

***

How things ended up well past midnight with you stumbling down Diagon Alley, a red headed man helping support your weight, and an unhealthy amount of alcohol in your system - you didn't know. All you knew is that you had learned so much about the man in the last several hours that you felt very comfortable with him.

"Okay, love, is this your flat?"

"Yeah, that's the one," you slurred, moving towards the stairs that led up the side.

"Woah, hold up there, pretty girl," he said, quickly aiding you so you didn't trip and break your face, "You shoulda told us you were a lightweight. We wouldn'ta ordered you so many."

You grumbled, but didn't say anything in response, instead fumbling around in your pockets for your keys.

"Fred, I can't find them," you whined.

He pulled out his wand, "Alohamora." The door clicked open. "I see you haven't put an anti-unlocking charm on your flat yet."

"I literally just moved in."

"I feel like it's a first priority."

You didn't reply, instead tumbling forward into your new small home. Again, Fred steadied your weight, chuckling to himself in the process.

"You need to get to bed."

After helping you get your shoes off, Fred walked you to your bedroom and watched in amusement as you collapsed on to the mattress.

"You all good from here, sweetheart?"

You hummed softly, "Thank you, Freddie."

"Yeah, yeah," he said, "If you're not too hungover, stop by the shop tomorrow. I can set you up with a job."

"Really?"

"Of course. I have a sneaky feeling you're gonna be in my life for a while."

You giggled, "Me too."

"Alright, I'll see you. Take care."

"You too-" you yawned, "-Freddie."

***

It was mid-afternoon by the time you made it to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, still nursing a hangover but feeling better after a long shower, a painkilling potion and a big glass of a fizzy non-alcoholic drink.

"Oh, good, you're here," Fred opened the door, seeing as the shop was in fact shut. They functioned on weekend days of Monday and Tuesday since Saturday and Sunday were prime business days. (Apart from in the lead up to school starting again, as George explained in detail to you the night prior how they couldn't miss out on any day of the week when Diagon Alley was swarmed with kids.)

"You seem perkier than me," you grumbled, entering the unusually quiet store.

"I didn't get nearly as drunk as you," he reminded, walking towards the back room, "Anyway, I assume you're here for the job?"

You nodded, "That... and to see you."

He gave you a soft smile at that, "You're always welcome."

"You literally met me yesterday."

"What? Were you too drunk to remember what I said last night?"

You suppressed a smile, "No."

"Then you know. Call it divine intuition if you will but you're gonna be around for a while."

"I certainly don't plan on leaving," you replied, following him into the office area.

"Well, let's set you up for a job here then."

"It's really nice of you to do this."

He winked at you, "I don't do favours for free."

"What do you want in return?" you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Another date."

You grinned, "I think I could agree to those terms."

***

Not even a week later, you and Fred were walking down Diagon Alley, ready to go out for lunch for your second date. An hour ago, the sun had been shining brightly in the sky, warming your exposed skin. Now, the shimmery blues had been veiled by a thick layer of dark grey clouds, casting a shadow over the bustling street. You heard Fred, a normally cheerfully optimistic man (as you had quickly learned), let out a sigh.

"Looks like the forecast has taken a turn," just as he finished his sentence, droplets began cascading down from above, growing in intensity by the second.

You couldn't help but giggle slightly.

"Doesn't this bother you?"

You laughed harder, "No. I like it."

Fred smiled at you, "Really? A rainy date?"

You shrugged, "Don't threaten me with a good time."

"Well, okay, then."

He held out his hand to you, and you took it, letting him twirl you around before you both continued walking in the direction of the café he had in mind.

"Your smile is so pretty," he commented after some moments of delicate silence.

You couldn't help but beam at his words, "Really?"

He hummed, "I could look at it for the rest of my life."

In your chest, your heart was performing somersaults like a circus acrobat, and it was making you feel giddy. This was the most alive you had ever felt and you never wanted to let it go.

"Do it then," you replied, "Nothing's stopping you."

He stopped in his tracks, forcing you to halt as well since your hand remained interlocked with his.

"What?" you asked, looking back at him from your position one step forward.

"Can I?" he spoke with a soft gaze, the usual mischievous glint absent.

"Can you what?"

"Look at your smile forever?"

You shrugged limply, "If you can make me smile forever, sure."

"Can I say something crazy?"

"I would expect nothing less from you."

"I kinda want to marry you."

"Kinda?" you raised an eyebrow, feeling the swarm of butterflies spinning in your stomach but remaining calm and collected on the outside.

"I know we only met a week ago, but what would you say if I asked?"

"Guess you'll have to learn the hard way," you gave him a cheeky grin.

"Okay," he said, and it was only then you realised that the rain had caused the street to clear out of most people. Your eyes widened as he got down on one knee, still holding your hand. Suddenly, you could no longer feel your wet hair clinging to your face, nor your damp clothes sticking to your skin. Not because they had dried, but because all your focus was elsewhere.

You were pretty sure you had forgotten how to breathe.

"Y/N, in the short time I've known you, which is admittedly very short, I have had so much fun," he began, "And as I said right at the beginning, I have a feeling that you're gonna be around a while, it's why I even came over to talk to you the first time you entered my shop- I felt drawn to you. And, well, I'm known for my impulsive decisions, but they've all worked out so far, so, I have no reason not to act on this one too," he took a deep breath, "I don't have a ring right now, but will you marry me?"

You stood, stunned. You hadn't thought he would actually propose to you.

"Don't feel pressured to say yes," he quickly added, making you snap out of your daze.

You shook your head, "Yes- I'll marry you, Freddie."

The man's face lit up as he zoomed to his feet and picked you up, spinning you around as your lips touched each other's for the first time. You couldn't believe it: Fred Weasley was now your fiancé, when he was never even your boyfriend.

"Now, what say we go get some food to celebrate?" he asked.

"Sounds good to me."

***

THREE YEARS LATER.

***

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiator called out, "You may kiss the bride."

You watched from the crowd as Ron pressed his lips to Hermione's, joining the rest of the audience with the applauding.

"This is a lot grander than our wedding," Fred leaned down to whisper in your ear.

You laughed gently, "Ours was a much more last minute affair, Freddie."

"Mm, how long was our engagement again?"

"Three weeks," you reminded, "The courting only lasted a week too."

"What can I say? I'm a man who knows what I want."

You shook your head with a smile, picking up the applause again as Hermione and Ron began posing for photos from the photographer.

"Oh, they're calling us up now," Fred said, grabbing your hand and pulling you up to the altar with him. All of the Weasley siblings and their partners were also en route to where the newly weds were.

As you took your position in the photograph with Fred's arm wrapped around you, he leaned down to whisper in your ear yet again.

"Can I just say, my love, you look absolutely gorgeous- as always."

Your bright smile was one of the most genuine in the photograph, as Hermione later commented, and in response to that Fred had immediately taken a copy for your own house.

"What?" he had said when you raised an eyebrow at him, "I told you, I want to stare at your smile forever."

You chuckled.

"And you said I can, provided I make you smile."

You hummed, recalling the conversation that led up to his impromptu proposal fondly.

"And correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm the one that made you smile in this photo."

Unable to argue with him, you gazed at the moving photograph of Fred turning his head away from your ear to smile at the camera. It hadn't quite captured the moment in which he complimented your looks, but it didn't need to, as you knew that you would never forget the context for the image.

Not when your smile really did shine so brightly in it.

—————————————————

masterlist

written; 19/04/2023 —> 31/05/2023 published; 31/05/2023 edited; —/—/——

taglist ; @workinatdapyramid @iluvweasleys

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svtminghaolove · 1 year

Text

You’re having trouble sleeping - Hip hop unit (SVT)

Hello agaaaaain~ I finished this one pretty fast actually, was not expecting that but here it is (;

Triggers: Swears

S.Coups: School was freaking you the fuck out. It hadn't gone that well lately and basically your whole tuition was hanging on a test you had done a week ago, one that you was about 97% certain that you had failed. This had caused you to lay awake at night, all kinds of scenarios going through your head: What if you can't pay your rent? Would you have to drop out? Get another job? Return back home? It gave you no peace of mind and as soon as you closed your eyes you could feel the tears of stress burn behind your eyelids.

The fact that you hadn't been seeing Seungcheol for a while didn't really help either. He had been away for a few days for filming a music video and had even been hard to reach by phone. But today was the day he was coming back and he had planned to go straight to your place, but it was pretty late on a school night so he sent away a text to check first.

'Are you awake? Can I come over?'

'Yes. Please do.'

He frowned at your short answer, it wasn't rude or anything but it just sounded… weird, not like you would usually write to him.

He drove over to your place and was quick going up to your apartment door. He barely knocked two times before you opened the door, eyes red and lips dry. Your lips quivered as you set your eyes on Seungcheol and his eyes went wide.

"y/n, what happened? Are you okay?", you didn't answer him and just stepped out in the corridor, and leaned into his chest, letting silent tears fall. He almost found the silent tears more disturbing than if you had cried your heart out.

"… y/n?", he said softly as he put his arms around you and backed you into the apartment. "Hey babe, are you okay?", he closed the door behind him and you shook your head.

"I can't sleep", your voice was raspy and heavy. A voice that Seungcheol was very familiar with since he himself sounded like that from time to time.

"Want to talk about it?", you shook your head again, not even aware of the fact that Seungcheol was slowly backing you into the bedroom.

"Just… school is freaking me the fuck out", you whispered and he just hummed as an answer, the soft vibration from his chest making you close your eyes. You were by this point so out of reality and focused on him that you didn't realize that you were laying down until he pulled away.

"Where are you going?", you sat up as he stepped back.

"I'm just going to get ready for bed, I'll be quick", he said softly and kissed you on the temple before going into the bathroom for a few minutes.

You sat up in bed, listening to the water running until he came back. He gave you a soft smile when he saw you sitting on the bed, not saying anything as he climbed into bed next to you. He opened his arms and you laid down with your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat made everything around you just disappear and when he started humming it was like this was all that existed. The vibrations coated your skin and forced your muscles to relax.

"You know that I'll always be here right? If school is too much you can take a break.", he whispered but by that point you were already half way to dreamland.

Wonwoo: It had been two night without sleep, three days without sleep. You had a deadline for a writing project soon and where nowhere near done, which meant that you couldn't sleep but you needed to sleep but the work got you so stressed out so you couldn't. It was just… a mess, you were a mess all couped up in you study.

Since you didn't live with Wonwoo, he hadn't seen most of it and just thought that you were working, but when you didn't show up for a date the two of you had planned and only got a "sorry, work" as an explanation, he went to your place. He had the key so he just went inside, it was completely dark in the apartment, except from the small light coming from your study. He softly knocked on the door but when he got no response he opened.

"y/n?", you didn't answer but he saw you hunched over your desk, paper all over the floor and the laptop pushed to the side.

"y/n? Are you okay?", he went forward and put a hand on your shoulder, only to feel it shaking. "Are you crying? y/n, is everything alright?", he turned around your chair and you let out a sob as you leaned your forehead against his stomach.

"I can't write", you sobbed and he stoked your back, trying to size up the situation.

"Okay, let's take a break then.", you pulled back from him and brushed away the hair from your forehead. That was when he noticed the rings under your eyes were so dark they almost looked like bruises.

"I can't, I don't have the time.", he knelt down and pulled the chair closer when you tried to push away.

"When is the last time you slept?", you sighed.

"Don't you get it? I can't sleep! I don't have the time and if I try to sleep I just stress out of how little time I have and if I don't sleep I just sit here staring onto a empty screen waiting to be filled with ideas that I don't have!", the tears started to flow and you started to hiccup. He could barely keep up with your disarrayed thoughts and it hurt him to see you this way.

Wonwoo placed his arms around you and you laid yours around his neck, pressing your face into his shoulder.

"Come on, let's go to bed."

"I can't sleep", you hiccuped and he hummed as he carried you to the bedroom. On the way he picked up a random book laying on the shelf, and it unexpectedly turned out to be a children's book for one of your nieces or nephews.

"Alright, come here", he put you down on the bed, laying down next to you. You crawled up on his side and he turned on the reading light and opened the book.

"You're reading me a children's book?", you asked, slightly amused.

"Hush, just close your eyes and listen", he placed his free arm around you and you rested your head on his chest.

He began reading the book (mind you one that's meant for a three year old) and you closed your eyes. You listen to the combination of his heartbeat and his hushed voice and after a while your tears stopped flowing and the hiccup disappeared. You relaxed and your body molded itself to his and before you knew it, you fell asleep to your boyfriend reading a children's book to you.

Mingyu: It was the day before they were going away for a tour. Or well, the night before. He was leaving tomorrow night, when you were still asleep. It was the first time he was going on tour since the two of you got together and you just felt a bit unsettled, which made you unable to fall asleep. At first you had tried to fall asleep next to Mingyu but after about two hours you enough and quietly climbed out of bed and into the living room. You just sat down on the couch, staring out the window. There was a million thoughts going through your head at the same time as it felt like you were thinking about nothing.

"What are you doing awake?", Mingyu slumped down next to you in the couch, letting his head fall into your lap.

"Can't sleep", you were really tired to be honest.

"Why?", you went quiet for a moment at the question, just letting your fingers comb through his hair. He took your hand and pressed his lips to your palm. "y/n?"

"I don't know exactly why, I just feel… uneasy whenever I think of you going away on tour", he raised a brow and smiled.

"Because you'll miss me?", you rolled your eyes and lightly slapped his forehead.

"Yeah, I'll miss you", you sighed. "… A lot. I'll miss you a lot", you looked out the window again.

"I'll miss you too", he kissed your palm again. "We'll talk everyday, you can call me in the middle of the night if you have to", you shook your head.

"You won't forget me, right?", you joked, but even Mingyu knew that it wasn't completely meant as a joke.

"Never.", he said and sat up. "You're not really afraid of that are you?"

"… no. Yes?", you let out a dry laugh. "No. I know you won't forget me it's just… a weird thought. A what if thing that clung to me.", he placed his arms around your shoulders and pulled you closer to him.

"I love you, with my whole heart and if you ever leave me I would cry for ten years", you laughed and hugged him back. "I'll never forget you, I'll call you so much that you'll block my number."

"Okay", you closed your eyes, the sleepiness finally falling over you. "I love you too", you yawned and he pulled back.

"So, ready for sleep now?", you nodded and then the two of you went back to bed, limbs and all interwined.

Vernon: It was during a time that you had so much work and too few hours on the day, so you sleep was the first thing to go. At first it was only cutting back a few hours but when you realized that sleeping a few hours made you even more tired than not sleeping at all, well you stopped sleeping. And when you finally had the time to start sleeping again, your body just wouldn't let you. Every time you were about to fall asleep it was like a warning bell went off in you and you sat straight up in the bed.

Vernon, of course noticing your sudden movements happening multiple times, asked you what was going on but you had just brushed it off. But it was even more concerning when he realized that you stopped coming to bed at all.

One night he woke up in the middle of the night to what sounded like a pot hitting the floor. He figured out pretty quickly that it was you when you weren't in bed next to him, but he had no idea what you were doing in the kitchen at four in the morning.

"y/n?", he asked, voice raspy from sleep and hair all over the place as he walked into the kitchen to find you over the stove.

"Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?", you sounded completely exhausted and the smile on your face didn't hide the dark rings under your eyes.

"What you doing?", you turned back to the stove.

"Heating up some milk, you want some? It's my mom's secret recipe", you turned back to him with a smile. "It's cinnamon, the secret", he scoffed add walked over to you.

"Want to tell me?", your smiled dropped at his words.

"You noticed?", he wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder.

"Hard not to.", he softly squeezed you in his arms. "So, want to tell me?"

"… My body just jolts awake every time I'm about to sleep. It's like when you're deep asleep and the alarm rings in the morning, every time I try to sleep", you sighed and leaned back into him. You felt how everything just wanted to shut down and fall asleep but you just couldn't.

"Okay, let's watch a movie", you rolled your eyes but nodded.

You poured up two cups of the heated milk and went over to the couch where Vernon had piled up with pillows and blankets, holding out his arms to you. You sat down in his arms and he bundled up the two of you before taking his cup. You were half laying down in his arms, getting yourself comfy as he turned on the movie.

"The Grinch? Really?", you laughed and took a sip from your cup.

"You always manage to fall asleep to it on Christmas", you laughed and softly jabbed him with your elbow before getting cozy in his arms.

But Vernon was right, you always did fall asleep during The Grinch. And when he noticed your head starting to lull backwards he took the cup from your hands and placed it next to his on the small table next to the couch.

"Works like a charm", he smiled and carefully picked you up to carry you to bed.

-----

Masterlist

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Taglist: @foxdaisy @pearlygraysky @cixrosie @thmrdrs

#svt #seventeen #svt imagine #seventeen imagine #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #svt preferences #seventeen preferences #svt fic #seventeen fic #svt fanfic #seventeen fanfic #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt x female reader #seventeen x female reader #svt hip hop unit #seventeen hip hop unit

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gladlypants · 1 year

Photo

Hey! I uploaded a ton of lots to the gallery today (id: gladlypants) Some were recent builds I was doing while I was waiting for GT, some I just furnished today, some I built last summer before HSY released and forgot about, and then vault Cleo’s grandparents’ house. I had a lot of fun practicing building over the last few weeks! :)

It’ll take me a bit to get all of these tray files up, will have to go back and take interior screenshots and all that. There are names of each and short descriptions under the cut, numbered like the screenshots, cuz I just felt like talking about em, and gallery images suck. I’ve playtested most of these at some point, except Charles E. Cheese’s, the shells, and the Batchelder house.

Lmk if you want any of these now for your new pack gameplay and I’ll shoot you a temporary dl.

1. Charles E. Cheese’s - Heavily branded for the feline version of Chuck, Charles! It’s a restaurant and I haven’t playtested it, sorryyyy, but I don’t foresee any issues. There’s a pizza vendor kiosk inside too if you want to change the lot type or have typical Dine Out problems. Intended as a kind of party space for kids. The upstairs feels a little chaotic to me but maybe not idk. ♥

2. Raymond’s Noodles - A little local noodle restaurant I built for a sim named Raymond I was playing in a recent rotation save. It’s small and cute. ♥

3. The Schneider House - a big ol’ traditional style Windenburg house. I was also playing a household on this lot, and I really loved it!

4. Batchelder Craftsman - I love the style of this house. Named for Batchelder tiles, which I am pretending this one has throughout! (reference)

5. Gray 2 Story Craftsman - The household I played the most in my rotation lived in this house and I love the layout, so it’s probably my favorite of the Craftsman shells I built, even if it is a little plain looking on the outside. It has an awesome, huge main bedroom suite!

6. Green Family Craftsman - f*ck those rooves. This one has a a sunroom and a bedroom for grandparents/stay-overs. (reference)

7. Blue Craftsman - Built this one like a house my sister-in-law lived in here for a long time, it’s a common style and layout in older neighborhoods where I live.

8. Black Victorian Shell - It’s supposed to a small detached row house. I built it with the idea of using it for renting to roommates but you can use it however you like obviously.

9. Cleo’s Grandparents’ House - a desert mcm! Still has the camper in the yard that Cleo + Devon lived in before they got locked in the vault.

10. Single Mom House - I built this for one of my gallery households, who is a single mother and teenage daughter. It’s a little shabby, with some craftsman features and some Hispanic decor for them.

11. The LaFollette House - also built for one of my gallery families, a single military dad and his two daughters. I intended this one to be the same as the Single Mom house, but remodeled to be more modern and spacious.

12. The Gilbert House - for a gallery household, it’s a little retro inside!

13. Split Level Family Home - also for a gallery household, this one has very feminine style decor, except for one of the bedrooms for a teen, and a huge unfinished basement (just walls.)

^^ Also this “Colorful Craftsman Shell” that I forgot about and don’t think I’ll get around to furnishing/finishing it anytime soon. It has a bonus attic room. You’ll need to move the back door, place it on a bigger lot, or lower the foundation because I didn’t leave space for steps there.

And a big modern “apartment building” with one furnished unit and a gym and indoor pool downstairs, which is kind of unfinished but idk if I’ll get back to it.

Sorry for the wall of text, thank you if you read it all. ♥

#ts4 #the sims 4 #my builds dl #my cc dl #it's not cc and none of them have cc but that is the tag ok

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jtl-fics · 10 months

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For Want of a Nail

New Kings If Neil hadn't gone to Hernandez's house? (@stabbyfoxandrew)

New Kings AU | Unusual Fic Asks - Closed

Andrew felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin. It'd been a month and a half since anyone had heard anything from Neil Josten. Neil Josten may not even exist anymore but everyone was telling him to be calm, telling him to wait.

He snapped at the upperclassmen who did not matter and drew his knives more than once just to make them shut the fuck up. He wants to leave, wants to head out and start tracking down clues to find Neil and bring him back.

If he has to go to jail then he'll go to jail. It's never scared him before and it's not about to scare him now. He is more than happy to be Neil's trophy husband this time around when he gets out.

He makes plans to leave in the dead of night. He writes letters to Aaron, Kevin, Nicky, Wymack, and Betsy to explain himself but in the end that's the only kindness he can give them.

Neil had long been the highest thing on his totem poll. He has no idea what it would take to have someone come above Neil or to have Neil's importance to him wane.

He has plans to lock himself in a storage unit he's rented that is temperature controlled and remote so no one will hear him screaming for his medication. He can't be going through withdrawal on the meds.

He leaves the Tower in the dead of night and makes his way over to his GS having already started to come off of his medication slightly so that he'd be sober enough to drive out of town.

"Where are you going? It's not safe for you to drive." comes a voice and oh great he's hallucinating Neil. It was something he'd often done back at East Haven, his perfect pipedream always just out of reach.

"I'm going to go get you. I'm sober for the next hour before the effects start to hit." he returns with a roll of his eyes.

"Get me?" his hallucination asks. Andrew doesn't want to turn and look into Neil's young face. He's not sure he can handle seeing it.

"You ran off before Wymack, Kevin, and I could get you." Andrew scrubs a hand through his hair wondering why he's talking to this figment of his withdrawal. Except he knows why and that reason why is that he misses Neil desperately.

"Andrew...are you..." he hears the figment of his imagination trail off and then footsteps and then-

His hallucinations have never been able to actually touch him.

He whips around and there standing in the parking lot at 3 AM is a young and exhausted looking Neil Josten. Andrew's hands shoot up to cup Neil's face and he is alive and warm under his fingertips.

"Drew, it's you." Neil says with a watery smile and that was all he managed to get out before he pitched forward and utterly collapsed into Andrew's arms.

"Neil?" Andrew questions before realizing that Neil had truly lost consciousness, he can feel Neil's forehead burning against his shoulder where it lay"Neil!" he exclaims and gets a proper arm around Neil before he falls to the ground. He manages to get the passenger door to the GS open and puts Neil inside before rushing around to the other side.

Abby's old address in mind he twisted the key and started her up. Stomach churning as he broke speed limits and ran lights.

#New Kings AU #For Want of a Nail #In this Neil decided to just go straight to the Foxes #He was kind of desperate and couldn't wait it out in AZ #He's still pretty banged up tho #The cross country trip got him pretty sick from an infected wound #He'll be okay but he needs a lot of TLC #Which in this universe he would absolutely lovingly get from Andrew #It's probably about a week before Neil's coherent enough to explain it all #AFTG #AFTG AU #Andreil #Unusual Fic Asks

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changingplumbob · 1 month

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I tried For Rent out, sorry if I'm late to the info party

Results and occurances below

I launched my photography save successfully... Next step, completely new save on a rental unit in Tomarang. The heck is Onboarding and why does it apply to this scenario????

Wait... there's only two rental units available in Tomarang? And the 2 bedroom has mold and spooky??? Yes I need a 2 bedroom because I'm also checking if the system can handle an infant on lot and if I can figure out water births because lat time I tried the midwife would not arrive.

Okay it handled me going in and out of cas, and switching to my internet browser a couple of times... I went into BB mode and changed the second bedroom. Game seems unfazed so far. I have played on fast speed here and there. Successfully traveled worlds.

New day new loading. A patch of mold showed up in this allegedly moldy residential rental. Time to investigate options! Can't call the landlord about it? Let's try calling and inviting the property owner to visit, see how they react to the mold.

Clicked invite in and... they're not coming inside. Mate you can't see the mold outside! Okay I found the ask to inspect menu... and the mold is not classified as an object, hmm. Alright let's walk past the mold to get to the couch, no reaction from landlord except to say its dust free?

Let's try complain about rental conditions, maybe he'll go deal with the mold? Oop, nope. He just dislikes us a little now. Time to have the pregnant sim clean the mold in front of him, will he react?

Na it's fine mate, you just chill and do nothing. This must be great for the fetus. I'll go get the husband to stop jogging. Well I cancelled the action but he's still jogging away... Now he's stopped. Back home, has he picked a great angle for TV viewing or what?

Second ob visit, we're expecting twin boys. Time to go visit the tiger sanctuary! Oh wait... no, you're kidding! The wife can't queue up a visit because the husband is inside? Are you serious right now? We can't visit as groups???

Back to waiting for the outdoor lights. Seriously outdoor light not properly illuminating is a pet peeve of mine. If they could make these ones work, why not make all outdoor lights turn on at the proper dusky time? The York's patio would like a word!

So we introduced ourselves to the neighbours and now they're crowding up our lounge... I didn't actually invite you in from the shared area! Now we're off to the ob for the final visit and they're still there!

Middle of the night, after poor husband got attacked by Vlad as if he doesn't have two infants on the way, explosive malfunction! Will the property owner come at 2:30 am? He will!

Oh dear, it's a crush because we ushered him inside wearing just our boxers isn't it? Uh, sir, the trash is not the problem! I asked you to go check the stove! Both sims have now asked him to check it. He decides he would rather do push ups in the rain. Y'all I closed for lunch and I'm back and FIRE TRAP! Do I dare press play?

I thought the property owner was finally fixing but he's standing by the stove complaining that it's broken instead... Now he's washing his hands?

WE LIVE IN THE SAME BUILDING but why not bless other sims with incoming infant shrieks?

I eventually selected to replace the stove, there was no repair option. It cost 1050 simoleons and the property owner gave us... 143 simoleons to cover it... But at least I can watch the neighbours walk from their door to mine with suitcases. Still waiting on the dilation and the stayover guests have got into a brawl with each other... It was the father and son in law. Oh and now the girl is jumping in trash...

Note to self, water birth involves midwife and not partner. Might use it for single sims but probably not my couples. Twins are born and I can cautiously say that For Rent doesn't appear to be glitching at the moment. Don't invite this family to stay over though, the unit now has four piles of trash from their antics.

#ramble ramble ramble #I went on a journey I tell you #Also are safety masks going to invade my game now

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cowgurrrl · 9 months

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United in Grief

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (except this is all backstory)

Author’s note: I’m sorry

Summary: “My mom honks her car horn every time she drives past the cemetery her friend is buried in. This is what I think love is: everlasting. Deathless.” [1.8k]

Warnings: if you’ve been reading this far, you know what to expect

April 7th, 1998

You're trying to figure out how you got here. You think the nurses are trying to figure out the same thing. You answer their questions in between contractions, your body shaking and overheating all at the same time. Your water broke at home while you were getting ready for school. You probably shouldn't have even thought about going when your Braxton-Hicks contractions were so bad. Still, you needed to finish school somehow. You were sitting down in the bathroom when it happened.

"Is there anyone we can call for you?" A nurse asks, snapping you out of your head as she checks your and the baby's heart rate. "Boyfriend? Parents? Friend?"

"There's no boyfriend, and I don't think any of my friends care enough to come," you sigh, rubbing your belly. "Besides, everyone's still at school."

"What about your mom? I'm sure she'd want to be here with you." She says gently, but the words feel like sandpaper rubbing over your skin. The baby kicks, and you press your hand back, letting her know you feel her.

"If you can get her to answer the phone, it'd be a low-level miracle."

"She's not supportive?"

"Having a pregnant sixteen-year-old was never on the bucket list. She hasn't spoken to me since I told her about the baby. Neither has the father, and I… I understand what it looks like." you say. You've read the statistics about teen moms and how they are less likely to finish high school. You're determined not to be a part of that statistic. You will make life perfect for this baby. No matter the cost. "But I got emancipated when I was three months pregnant, and I'm living in an apartment owned by one of my classmate's dads, and he's giving me reduced rent. And I work part-time at a restaurant. People love to tip the pregnant girl, right? So, we'll be okay. I'll be okay."

"It's okay if you're not." The nurse says, but you shake your head.

"I need to be okay for her."

"You're having a girl?" She asks, and you hum. She smiles and glances at the different machines you're hooked up to, making sure everything is in order. "Well, it sounds like she's very lucky to have you as her mama."

"Thank you." You mumble. It's the nicest thing anyone's said to you in months.

The nurse stays with you as your contractions get closer together and more painful. She rubs your back when you throw up and keeps you upright when they administer your epidural. Eventually, in your drugged-up, sleep-deprived state, you ask her to, at least, try to call some people for you. You give her Matt, your mom's, and a few friends' phone numbers. If anyone answers, she doesn't tell you. She doesn't have to. She just returns and perches on the edge of your bed, her hand resting on your knee.

"Y'know, I have a daughter about your age," she says. "She's super smart. Motivated. Beautiful, too, and don't get me wrong. She's made some mistakes. Some really big ones. But I'd hope that if she were ever in this position, I'd be able to find the courage to be as brave as you are right now," she squeezes your knee, and you wipe at your eyes, unexpected tears leaking from your eyes. "We're gonna help you have this little girl, okay?"

She doesn't leave your side, even when you're yelling loud obscenities, and the room devolves into controlled chaos. She coaches you through every contraction and even braids your hair so it's out of your sweaty face. Your doctor and two other nurses come in once you're fully dilated to help support you and the doctor. The rain outside pounds harder on the windows as you try to push and breathe when you're supposed to, but it's so hard, and you're so tired. You've been working too hard. You haven't been sleeping enough. You definitely haven't been drinking enough water. What if you've already fucked up as a mom? What if there's no coming back from this?

Your doctor says something about needing to push harder; otherwise, you'll have to have an emergency c-section, and you start sobbing— full-bodied, earth-shattering sobs. The nurse who braided your hair shushes you gently and dabs a damp rag against your forehead. You look at her and cry harder.

"I'm scared." You admit.

"I know you are, baby, but you're so close. Can I tell you something I tell my daughter?" She asks, and you nod through your tears. "Whenever you're feeling scared, just squeeze my hand as hard as you can, and I'll take all your fear from you, alright? Show me what you got." She takes your hand in yours, and you squeeze as the next contraction takes your attention. A few minutes later, in a room full of women, you deliver your daughter with a scream loud enough to shake the entire floor, but she's silent. You look at the nurse holding your hand worriedly.

"She's not crying. Why isn't she crying?"

"Sometimes, babies have a hard time adjusting to being outside the womb. We'll get her crying, don't worry." Time seems to freeze as you watch the doctor rub your daughter's back until she rears her head back and wails. You let out a big breath, and a moment later, she's placed on your chest. You don't realize you're still holding the nurse's hand, but she doesn't let go. She lets you squeeze her until you stop shaking long enough to put your other hand on the back of your daughter's head.

She's so small and has so much hair. You stare down at her like she's the most precious jewel anyone could've ever discovered as she cries and cries. You kiss her forehead and vaguely tune into something the doctor is trying to tell you about recovery. You nod, but you're not listening. You're focusing on how your daughter's lungs expand and contract and how her heart beats against yours like it was always meant to be. Like it was forever and always supposed to be you and her.

You let the nurse holding your hand take the baby to get cleaned up as the rest of the nurses and the doctor run around to ensure you have everything you need. Once things settle and your daughter is back in your arms, people gradually leave the room for you to bask in her beauty. Now that she's here, everything seems so real, so important. The weight on your shoulders doesn't feel as heavy with her next to you, but it's still there. You're sure you'll cry later about not knowing what the fuck you're doing, but it's okay. It has to be. You're a mom now.

"I'm gonna go get some paperwork done, okay? If you need anything, even if it's just a friend, you press this button." The nurse says, putting the call button next to you in bed, and you nod.

"Thank you…" you trail off, realizing the nurse never told you her name, and she smiles, looking between you and the baby.

"Jane."

June 2nd, 2008

You're trying to figure out how you got here, outside the walls but in the opposite direction of the Shell station. You told Lee you didn't want to do any more drops so close to when Jane gets out of school. Still, the promised payout was enough of an incentive. You and Mrs. Carmichael have gotten closer since Adam died. She told you about her husband, who died long before the outbreak, and how she never changed her name back. You told her about Adam and what he meant to you. It felt like soldiers passing war stories back and forth to figure out why they were thrust onto battlefields, trying to find out what they did wrong to get drafted into a war they never imagined. She's kind. You trust her. It made sense to ask her to pick Jane up today.

Jane's been having a hard time in the past few months. A few weeks after Adam died, she asked you if he was her father. She admitted she doesn't remember much from before the outbreak and told you she vaguely remembers Outbreak Day. She's never really known a world without Adam until now. You wanted to lie and say yes. You wanted to tell her that, of course, she was a product of this beautiful, kind, amazing man. You wanted her never to know or claim Matt. You still don't know why you said no.

She barely wanted to celebrate her birthday two months ago but plastered on a smile when you surprised her with new notebooks and pencils for her to write with. These days, she's locking herself in her room with Adam's radio and her words. You remind her you love her and are there to talk, but she just nods and disappears. She's getting older. You can't shield her from the world forever, but goddammit, if you can't try for as long as you can.

You've connected with two guys on the radio who have a safe house in a safe, abandoned neighborhood in Boston. They've been giving you tips on how to find and keep a safe place outside of the QZ. With all the smugglers, weapons dealers, and survival skills you know, for the first time, it's feasible. It's possible. You could take her out of the QZ and build her that home in the forest where she could actually be a kid. You just need a few months. You can do it. You will do it for her.

Catherine's group shows up right on time, a desperate attempt to show how sorry they are for what happened the last time they were late. You don't make eye contact with her as you trade for the shit you need to. She's about to open her mouth to say something, and your fists ball up at whatever she could have to say when an ear-splitting sound emerges from the QZ. The ground shakes with the force, and you reach for your gun like you're waiting for it to happen again.

"Probably some Fireflies and FEDRA playing hot potato again," one of Catherine's guys says. "They've been throwing bombs at each other for the past month in our QZ." And just like that night you first saw fighter jets circling your city, you get an unmistakable sinking feeling in your stomach.

You start running back, praying to whatever god will still take pity on you after every sin you've committed to keep your little girl safe.

You wish you knew your prayers were landing on deaf ears. You would've run faster.

#when you’re lost in the darkness #look for the light prequel #tlou fic

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azuhrasims · 5 months

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Notes on Sims 4 For Rent:

*This list is incomplete and a matter of my observations while trying to complete the good landlord aspiration.

Rent is paid every Wednesday morning at 5am except the first Wednesday after you bought the place or move in. Not sure if this applies every time you move in new tenants.

If you want to complete the good landlord aspiration, begin with 1 or 2 star rated units. Maintenance events spawn in low star rated units, but not in high star rated units in my limited experience.

Fines often fail, but they seem to fail more often when delivered in person. Slide it under the tenants door or mail it for better (?) results.

Piles of trash generated from repairing things in the shared space of a residential rental will always spawn in the played unit. Ick.

Generous sims will autonomously give away 250 simoleans at a time when you're not looking!

In the shared spaces of residential rental lots I've watched neighbors use: the painting easel (and the player can sell those paintings for profit, hot tip!), the game table, laundry washer and dryer (I placed the hamper in the same room as the washer and dryer as I am a lazy simmer), the pool, the crafting table, the telescope, gardening planters (they even plant on their own? One tenant gave me a whole bunch of Cottage Living mushrooms in the planter boxes), the grill, the pizza cooker, radios, and the mixology bar (maybe, I didn't witness it, but there were a number of spoiled drinks sitting on it for some reason and my sim didn't make them.)

Maintenance events send you TO the tenants unit. These events include a Trash Overload, Water Leak, and I've heard of a cursed book, but I haven't encountered it yet.

Emergency events appear to happen in YOUR unit or the shared space and include things like exploded appliances and hauntings.

You can trigger a tenant revolt by blaming the tenants. For what? It doesn't specify, but you can blame them!

I've heard you can trigger things like charity drives and pet adoption drives by complimenting the tenant (wrong word, its an option under the RENTAL tab), but I can't prove it from my own game play.

Last-

Apparently they did something odd with the new kettle and pressure cooker appliances. Even if you don't use them, the appliance itself thinks it is decaying over time. Have you encountered your sim doing the "Eww, stinky" animation and your space is clean? Probably that new kettle you bought. I ran smack into it. NateTheLoser has a mod out to make it better.

#ts4 for rent #sims 4 for rent #ts4 #sims 4 #observations while playing for rent #Azuhra rambles

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beefromanoff · 6 months

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Project Mockingbird Ch. 6

summary: a little insight into Charlotte's backstory, lots of training.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x OC

author's note: there are more visuals than I usually use for this chapter, but it's just so fun! let me know what you think and if it's distracting! thanks for reading, xox!

tag list: @bangtanxberm (let me know if you want to be added <3)

chapter list

_________________________________________________________

Six weeks.

It had been three weeks of living at the compound. The longest she’d lived anywhere, except - no. That doesn’t count. She didn’t live there, she was kept there.

In the time since her imprisonment, she’d flitted from place to place, from life to life. Being a quick learner, she slipped into different places almost seamlessly. Her first stint in the real world had been in Siberia, not exactly an ideal place to be. She’d traveled across Europe by train-hopping, stowing away, and hitch-hiking before eventually settling in Austria.

Her mistake was being a little too reckless with her abilities. Though she’d gone relatively unnoticed at first, it was difficult to make it anywhere without money. That’s when she started doing what she did best…fighting. A few underground fights, cash payout. It was a cakewalk. Through a few connections she made in the seedy world of street fighting, she moved up. People wanted to bet on her, knowing they’d win. It fast-tracked her to bigger fights, higher winnings. She’d even given thought to making that her new life, it was something she knew and something she was good at. Something she was made for.

Until she saw the most beautiful, elegant thing she’d ever witnessed. In her studio apartment, rented for her by the man who’d been making a shitload of money off of her fighting, she sat surfing through channels just like every other night. On the screen, a strong, graceful girl hurtled through the air, landing perfectly on a blue mat. It was the first time she’d ever seen gymnastics. Charlotte couldn’t tear her eyes away.

The next morning, she’d packed her limited belongings in a bag and headed for the train station. The man called her 27 times when he realized she’d left. At least, that’s how many she counted before she threw the phone out a train window.

In less than a week, she’d learned everything she could about the gymnastics world, including the fact that the National Championship meet was being held in two weeks in Boston. With no ID, no passport, and no real identity at all - flying internationally wasn’t an option. However, when a cruise ship acrobat had suddenly received an urgent call from her ailing mother and fled to attend to her, Charlotte was there ready to step in. Her “audition” was enough for them to offer her a permanent contract performing on the ship. Politely declining, her only goal was to get to the United States. After ten days of performing for sunburnt tourists on the ship, they docked in the Port of Boston with just enough time to spare.

Knowing she’d need to incentivize the powers that be to allow her to participate in such a prestigious meet as a nobody, she went back to the drawing board. While thinking of how to come into a large sum of cash in less than four days, she overheard a group of Harvard students talking about how they didn’t know how they would ever pass the BAR exam that weekend. In less than 72 hours, she walked out of the last exam with twenty thousand dollars cash in her bag. Four students, desperate and wealthy, had jumped at her offer to take their exams for five grand each. All it took was a night of leafing through their textbooks with a box of takeout in her lap to have it all memorized.

With one day left until the meet, she bought the most beautiful leotard she could find. All black, one long sleeve, beautiful jeweled detailing. She watched footage of old Olympic meets, NCAA gymnasts getting perfect scores, anything she could find online. On the day of the championships, she stood waiting by the front door long before sunrise for the first judge to show up. She offered him ten thousand dollars cash to put her name on the roster for the day. He immediately accepted, leaving Charlotte pleasantly surprised. She’d been prepared to offer the full twenty.

The rest is history. She competed last, swept the meet with perfect scores in every event. Her name was in headlines across the country by the next day, even making it on ESPN.

For a little while, she thought she could have her dream life after all. Thought her abilities could do more than the violence she was bred for. It was beautiful, but it was fleeting. Just before the conclusion of Olympic Trials, she was framed for using performance enhancing drugs and kicked out without ever even being drug tested. She knew gymnastics was a very political sport, and if she could bribe her way in, it was only feasible that someone else could have bribed her out.

So she went back to fighting. This time in Vegas. After a few months of that, her penthouse suite rented indefinitely with three additional safes full of cash, she decided to switch to gambling. Poker and blackjack were her favorites. She’d managed to keep that going for a few weeks before casinos started to pick up on it, not knowing how seriously they took card counting. In her naive newness to the modern world, she thought that winning would be allowed and rewarded. It wasn’t the case. Not in the casino, not in gymnastics. The second someone caught wind of her unfair advantage, even when they couldn’t begin to explain it, she was kicked out. So her life became a run from one ruse to the next, catapulting to the top of whatever she tried and then forcing herself to abandon it as soon as eyebrows started to raise.

Until Nat showed up and finally gave her a chance to stop running.

And that was six weeks ago.

After breaking her conditioning, she’d found a loose routine. One that didn’t involve lying about who she was or figuring out how to conceal all the cash she had without so much as a drivers’ license to open a bank account. These days were good. She’d wake up early with the team, following a different member each day. Since she didn’t really have a role of her own, she helped out where she could. Sometimes watching and assisting Tony in his lab, sometimes watching Steve train the SHIELD agents. Everyone had something to do, a role here. Except Charlotte. Up until now, it didn’t really bother her. She liked the freedom to drift around the compound, not looking over her shoulder. After about a month, however, she was beginning to feel restless.

Which is why she asked to train with the SHIELD agents two weeks ago.

“I thought you didn’t want to be an Avenger?” Nat had raised her eyebrow.

“I don’t,” Charlotte protested. “But I’m…bored, I guess. I don’t have anything to do here. I feel like I’m in the way. If I can train with them, at least I’ll be prepared, you know…if anything happens and you do need me.”

“Something tells me you’re already more prepared than even our veteran agents.”

“Please, Nat, I need to do something.” Her eyes were desperate.

“I’ll talk to Steve.”

The next week, she’d begun training. Alternating between hand to hand combat, weapons’ training, and intelligence tactics, Charlotte was in Heaven. There was a schedule, a routine, and always more to learn. Although not all of the agents felt the warm fuzzies about having her there. The team had chosen to limit the amount of information given on Charlotte for her own privacy, but her performance had left people with suspicions.

“Fuck me.” Agent Bronson mumbled under his breath, stepping forward when his name was called.

Steve frowned. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” He ran a hand through his hair as he climbed into the sparring ring with Charlotte. “Let’s get this over with.” A few of the other agents snickered from the sidelines, relieved their name wasn’t called to be her partner.

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic.” Charlotte rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Rossi, we both know how this is gonna go. Just try to leave me a shred of my masculinity this time.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She smirked, feet set in a defensive stance. As soon as Agent Bronson began to raise his fists, her eyes tracked every miniscule movement he made. The way his eyes flicked to her feet, debating a leg sweep to take her down. The muscle that tensed in his neck when he prepared to throw a punch. In fractions of a second, her mind cataloged his fighting style, instinctively reacting to dodge and duck all of his attempts.

Eight, nine…She counted each of the blows that whipped past her. Steve had scolded her at the end of the past week, telling her that if she was going to train with the agents, she had to at least try to stay on their level. She told him she’d give each agent a ten swing head start before she went on the offensive. Ten.

When his boot swung over her head, Charlotte dropped to the ground, swinging her leg to knock his planted one out from underneath him. His back smacked the mat, making the spectating agents wince. From her crouched position, she interlocked her legs with his, flipping both of their bodies with the momentum. Agent Bronson was flat on his face before he even knew what happened. In another half second, Charlotte had his arms locked behind his back with her knees driving his shoulders down.

“Fuck.” His voice was muffled as his face pressed into the mat.

“Alright, let him up.” Steve stepped in. Charlotte climbed off, extending a hand to help him up.

“I tried to make it quick and painless.” She grinned, whispering in his ear as he stood.

“Much appreciated.” He grumbled. Of all the agents, Derek Bronson had been one of the more welcoming ones. He had some security from being one of the top performers, but still fell short when it came to Charlotte.

“Okay, team, what can Agent Bronson improve in his hand-to-hand?” Steve looked over the group, waiting for a response. The agents exchanged glances, shuffling their feet. “Anyone?”

No one spoke up for fear of being assigned to spar with Charlotte next, to demonstrate what they thought they could do better. After a few moments of awkward silence, Steve spoke again. “Alright, let’s wrap it up. We’ll resume on Monday. Good work today, agents.” He patted Agent Bronson on the back. “You’re a good sport.”

As the agents filed out of the training room, Charlotte took her time gathering her things. She knew she wouldn’t be invited to wherever the group of agents chose to get dinner and happy hour drinks outside the compound, so she preferred not to see them make the plans at all.

“You bored yet?” Steve crossed his arms and smiled.

“Do I look bored?”

“You looked bored the second day you got here.”

She laughed. “I’m not, actually. I really enjoy it. I could do this all day.” She winked, using Cap’s favorite line against him.

“I know you can, that’s the problem. Why don’t you train with us?” He held his hands up defensively. “Just train, that’s all. You don’t have to go off base, but it would be a little more of a challenge than this.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes, thinking. “I’ll try it out. But don’t get mad at me when you end up like Bronson.”

This time, it was Steve who laughed. “I’m a decent sport, too.”

_____________________

The next morning, Charlotte and Bucky jogged around the lake, having lost track of their laps an hour ago.

“Good God, do you ever get tired?” He groaned as she ran past the trail that lead back to the compound, beginning another lap.

“Eventually.” She smirked over her shoulder. “Keep up, old man.”

He caught back up to her, throwing a dirty look. “We’re the same age.”

“Semantics.”

“Alright, one more mile and I’m calling it. I want to do more with my day than run in circles.”

Charlotte shot him a mischievous look. “Race ya.”

They took off running back into the woods.

_____________________

The training room of the Avengers Compound buzzed with anticipation as Charlotte stepped into the ring, her eyes focused, albeit a little arrogant. Though the buzz of her first session with the Avengers’ had made its way around the compound, they elected to keep it a closed session. The group of them was clad in their black training uniforms, meant to mimic the weight and feel of their combat suits. Since Charlotte didn’t have her own yet, she wore another of Natasha’s. Each suit was specially engineered for the one who wore it, meant to accommodate their specific skill set. Nat’s was thinner, lightweight and flexible. Sam’s was double lined to keep him warm in high altitudes. Bucky’s suit had a cutout for his left arm, allowing full range of motion for the prosthetic.

Sam, with his usual charismatic grin, stepped into the ring first. "I’ll take it easy on you, alright?" he held the ropes open, allowing her to step in.

"I wouldn’t." Charlotte replied, her eyes glinting with challenge.

The spar commenced. Sam lunged forward, his wings extending to give him an advantage in reach. But before he could react, Charlotte sidestepped, her movements fluid. With a swift motion, she dropped to her knees and slid beneath the reach of his rings, grabbed his arm and twisted, putting him in a painful bind that dropped him to his knees.

"Damn girl," Sam breathed, his eyes wide with surprise.

"T’was a pleasure," Charlotte replied, releasing him and mock curtseying, barely out of breath at all.

Next up the Black Widow herself. She stepped in the ring with an air of confidence, her eyes sharp and assessing. She must have noticed how Charlotte balked, not wanting to overstep on her first friend, the reason she was here in the first place. "Don’t you dare take it easy on me," Natasha reprimanded.

“If you say so.” Charlotte gave a small smile, preparing for action. Faster than Sam, Nat put her weight back on her left foot, aiming a kick at Charlotte's midsection.

Charlotte spun to her right, evading the kick. Nat was already striking again, punching across her body. Charlotte blocked, dropping her elbow in the crook of Nat’s arm, bending it and bringing them within inches of each other. Both women moving at once, their legs interlocked in the same takedown attempt. They rolled once on the floor, a blur of black neoprene.

While Natasha was one of the most skilled Avengers in hand-to-hand combat, Charlotte was stronger, pinning the redhead down as they came to a stop. She held her forearm to Nat’s throat, knees pinning her arms down.

"Impressive," she croaked, a flicker of admiration in her eyes. Charlotte stood and helped Nat to her feet.

“Right back at you.” Charlotte’s chest rose and fell, breathing hard.

Then came Peter Parker, all enthusiasm and boyish charm. "You ready for this?" he asked, a grin on his face.

"Are you?" Charlotte replied, smirking.

Attempting to go for the element of surprise, Peter shot a web at her feet, aiming to immobilize her. Having seen his tell, a clenched jaw and eye flick to the place he wanted to shoot the webs, she knew it was coming. Somersaulting forward, she rolled over the web blast and closed the distance between them. Without rising back off the ground, she delivered a swift kick to the back of his legs, buckling them and dropping him to his knees. As soon as he fell, she wrapped her arm around his neck from behind, pulling him onto his back on top of her. Each of her legs hooked around his arms, pinning them to the ground so he was at an impossible angle to web her. He froze, momentarily stunned.

"You're so fast," Peter breathed, eyes wide.

“So I’ve been told.” She untangled her legs from his arms and he climbed to his feet, offering her a hand.

Finally, it was Steve’s turn, the one who’d convinced her to do this in the first place. "A little more fun than the agents?" he joked.

“I guess you could say that.” Charlotte tensed, knowing he would be the toughest of the three prior.

The spar was intense, each blow whistling through the air as she dodged it, power oozing from his every movement. Charlotte anticipated Steve's moves with uncanny accuracy, her eyes keenly observant of his every shift in stance. Steve, in turn, pushed her limits, testing her stamina as the clock ticked on. His style was classic, controlled. He relied on speed and strength more than exceptional skill or strategy.

The round went on longer than the previous three combined, Charlotte getting Steve in a near-pinned position three times, but unable to overpower him enough to keep him down.

This time, she took a different approach. Steve swung with a hard right hook, and instead of dodging what she knew was coming, she stood her ground and took it. His fist collided with her jaw, blood immediately bursting from her split lip. Her head snapped to the side, but she didn’t lose her footing.

“Oh, my God, Charlotte, are you okay?” Steve broke his defensive posture, eyes full of guilt.

Exactly the reaction she wanted.

In two moves, she swung her leg up, momentum carrying her into the air. Her legs wrapped around his neck and she twisted, throwing him to the ground. He landed flat on his back with a resounding thud, her shin pressed to his neck.

"You're good," Steve admitted, a grin tugging at his lips. "Although some may say that’s cheating."

"All’s fair in love and war," Charlotte replied, blood dripping off of her face from the busted lip.

The other Avengers, watching with keen interest, broke into applause, their admiration evident. Nat cheered the loudest, recognizing her signature move in the final takedown.

Bucky stepped forward and approached the ring, offering Charlotte a towel for her bloody face. “That looks like hell.”

“But kinda badass, right?” She smiled, showing her blood-stained teeth.

“Something like that.”

Charlotte, slightly breathless but clearly exhilarated, wiped her face and stood to face Natasha, waiting to give her kudos.

Bucky turned to Steve with a sly grin, clearly amused. "Well, well, Steve," he teased, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Losing to a girl half your size. What would Coach Tyler say?"

Steve gave an incredulous look. “Our high school wrestling coach, really?” He rolled his eyes. "Why don't you give it a shot, Buck? Let's see how you fare against that girl that’s also half your size." He raised his voice at the end, baiting Charlotte.

Bucky cracked his knuckles, his metal arm glinting under the training room lights. He stepped into the ring, eyeing Charlotte with a playful glint in his eyes. "Hope you're ready for this, sweetheart," he said, his tone mockingly confident.

Charlotte met his challenge with a smirk, her confidence unwavering. "I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Barnes, but I was made for this."

He grimaced ever so slightly, still not used to the flippant way she spoke about her tortuous past. The team had heard more about HYDRA in her six weeks at the compound than in Bucky’s five years. Clearly she coped with trauma differently than he did.

The two circled each other in the ring, the air crackling with anticipation. Eyes locked on each other, Charlotte raised an eyebrow and licked blood off her lips. Bucky lunged forward, his movements swift and controlled. Charlotte dodged his advances with ease, her lithe form moving as fast as his fists. She countered his strikes, her blows precise and calculated, although they didn’t seem to phase him in the slightest. Their movements were lightning fast, the spectating Avengers’ having trouble tracking the action. It was clear neither of them held back the challenge too tantalizing to back down from. The two didn’t spend a ton of time together outside of group settings, save for the occasional run, but they seemed to get along well. Their shared sense of grim humor was the catalyst for most interactions.

Bucky tried to catch her off guard, but Charlotte anticipated his every move. He advanced on her, swinging with near lethal force. She executed a series of back handsprings, narrowly avoiding his attacks. The ring seemed to blur with her swift movements, a small nod to her brief stint in the gymnastics world.

"Show-off," Bucky remarked, his admiration evident.

Charlotte grinned. "Impressed?"

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Their spar escalated, each move met with a countermove. Bucky utilized his strength, attempting to overpower her, but Charlotte danced around him, always one step ahead. She was incredibly light on her feet, her agility allowing her to evade his strikes effortlessly. Where he was strong and intense, she was quick and fleeting. She landed more blows, but they barely even registered. He swung harder, but she stayed out of reach.

After almost twenty minutes of intense combat, both combatants found themselves in a deadlock, neither of them able to budge. Flat on his back, Bucky's arm stuck up in the air, his metal hand wrapped around Charlotte’s throat. She perched above his chest, one shin pressed into his throat, the other leg braced on the ground, giving her leverage to push down harder. Their breathing became ragged as neither one conceded, fighting for oxygen as they continued to right each other.

“Should we -” Steve murmured to Natasha, brows knit together.

“Let’s see how this plays out.” She narrowed her eyes. “Worst case, they both pass out.”

Steve frowned but said nothing.

In the ring, Charlotte tasted the salt of sweat mixed with the lingering metallic taste of blood. She grit her teeth and drove her shin further down onto Bucky’s throat. He grunted but didn’t concede, gripping her throat tighter. Sweat had caused a few strands of his dark hair to stick to his forehead.

The corners of her vision were beginning to go dark, the sounds of the training room sounding like they were fading away. Charlotte saw the blood vessels in Bucky’s eyes reddening and knew he wasn’t far behind her. Their eyes locked, a battle of wills and stubborn pride. Bucky felt her wobble ever so slightly and made a snap decision.

“Truce?” He croaked. She paused, ever so slightly, debating if she could somehow spin this into a fifth victory of the day before her lack of oxygen overruled.

“Truce.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper through the vice grip he had on her neck. They paused for a second longer, eyes narrow, as if neither one of them trusted the other. Finally, they both released their grip, Charlotte tumbling to the mat beside him. Both chests heaved, their senses flooding back as their oxygen was no longer restricted.

Charlotte looked to her right and grinned. “You called a truce.”

Bucky, still flat on his back beside her, narrowed his eyes. “I’d feel bad choking out the new girl the first time we sparred.”

“Whatever stops the tears.” She winked.

The other Avengers applauded, climbing into the ring with them. Natasha and Steve pulled them to their feet. “Just when we thought no one was more stubborn than you, Barnes.”

Bucky chuckled, shooting a glance at Charlotte. "She’s tougher than she looks."

“Wish I could say the same for you.” She raised her eyebrows, eyes fiery. His eyes scanned her face, amused. Just like in the hospital room over a month ago, she swore she saw his eyes flick to her lips for just a split second.

The team’s enthusiasm drowned out their banter, equal parts shit-talking and compliments flying. Someone handed her a bag of ice for her chin. One one side, Peter was asking her to teach him a back handspring and on the other, Sam was mimicking her doe-eyed look to Steve right after he socked her. All of it was good-natured, all of it was warm. Even with the throbbing in her jaw and pounding in her head from almost passing out, she was happy.

So much better than the goddamn SHIELD agents.

#james bucky barnes #avengers #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x oc #bucky fanfic #winter soldier #bucky fluff #sebastian stan #winter soldier fluff #winter solider x reader

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jeniffercheck · 8 months

Text

hot & heavy (underestimated and overprotected)

shivlina paris au: pre-canon, karolina does not yet work at waystar, all shiv canon applies. CWs below the cut.

words: 19k

read here or on ao3

cw: drug abuse for shown/referenced cocaine use throughout the fic, domestic violence is referenced throughout with one conversation that goes into minor details, there is nothing graphic. please let me know if you think i've missed anything!

It starts before Karolina’s even realized it has.

Breathless and nameless in the warm-toned bathroom of an old colleague’s brand new speakeasy, a passcode-secured hole in the wall that Karolina thinks is better fit for Astoria than Paris, and her eyes shut tight as her shoulder blades dig deeply into the wall behind her, shoved between a doorframe, a red velvet ottoman that probably costs more than her monthly rent, and a pale-skinned girl with a vicious hunger for Karolina’s lips. Her soft hands grab at Karolina as if they’re the last two women on Earth, and for a second Karolina worries that they actually might be.

Then she remembers that it’s just another Thursday in France.

When they’re finished, it’s lingering eyes with quick hands fixing messed up hair and their displaced clothes, slightly shameful at the sound of a toast happening beyond the thick, dark mahogany of the bathroom door; two wallflowers skipping the party. While washing her hands, Karolina realizes she’s still wearing her ring. Vic had given it to her years ago, something like a promise that neither of them intended to keep, and on a whim, she takes it off. As she dries her hands, she finally asks for the woman's name.

“Shiv.”

“Like a knife?” Karolina asks, unable to contain her surprise.

“Like a shiv,” Shiv corrects, her eyes slightly rolling. She pulls out a small bottle, recognizable white powder filling the inside. She opens it up and brings the spoon to her nose, but she pauses before she does anything. “Want some?”

Karolina waves her off.

“Not my poison,” she says, and Shiv just shrugs, as if it’s her loss. She sort of makes Karolina feel like it is, what with the high society elegance of the silver canister, and Karolina thinks it’s a sort of upper-class gauche; the old money secret that you can be trashy as long as it’s behind closed doors. She briefly thinks if she were a hot, twenty-something spending time in Paris she might keep her blow in a five-thousand-dollar tube as well, and by the time the powder is snorted and the door is open, Karolina realizes Shiv never asked for her name.

—

Karolina accepted the job on a whim. Or, at least, that’s what she’d said. In reality, it’d been in the pipeline for months, if not years. It wasn’t her endgame, but it was always in her line of sight, and the only obstacle was in her own home, a sobbing, living person, begging her not to go. She can’t remember now if she even batted an eyelash when she chose the job. In that moment she felt like she’d had nothing left to cry about. Whether it was the dead conversations or the dead bedroom or dead, stale fucking air, she wasn’t sure, but she just knew staying in that place felt like a dead end, and doing this? It felt like the rest of her life could be in front of her.

(That’s what she told herself when she packed up her bags and got a storage unit for nearly ten years’ worth of coexisting with someone, and shipped her cat off to France, and then she wrote in her journal that sometimes things have to fall apart to come back together. A lame excuse for someone who always seems to find things falling apart.)

—

She sees Shiv again.

Except this time, it’s not under the cover of a hidden bathroom––it’s a wide-open rooftop, and it’s only a matter of time when she finally lands in Shiv’s line of sight, for the second time in her life. Shiv’s having a hushed argument that Karolina desperately attempts not to eavesdrop on, but with Shiv’s growing volume and Karolina’s growing inability to follow the French in the conversation in front of her, she doesn’t think it’s her fault when she hears Shiv snap, “I don’t want you here.”

It’s then, that Shiv’s eyes land on Karolina’s, and it’s a sharp enough glare that Karolina doesn’t know whether Shiv’s scowling at her, the situation, or if maybe perhaps the entire world, but Karolina tears her eyes away anyway, slightly embarrassed that she’d been caught staring at all. She can’t miss out of her peripheral though, when Shiv all but runs away from the man, nearly clipping Karolina’s shoulder as she escapes. Karolina’s gaze moves back to the man, eyes following Shiv with something wistful in his gaze, and she almost feels bad for him, the way you’d feel bad for a puppy who’s running around without an owner.

It’s the kind of scene she knows, recalling all of the parties she’d dragged Vic to, chatting up businessmen who’d inevitably flirt with her and then Vic would get mad and Karolina would remind her that it doesn’t mean anything if she entertains a little misogyny to get fucking ahead and Vic would make her feel guilty for apparently not having any morals, and they’d end the night early and pissed, Vic in the bedroom and Karolina sleeping on the old couch that she was never allowed to get rid of even though it made her wake up with an aching back and half of her limbs asleep, and she’d slink out of the apartment before the sun was even up just to hide out in a coffee shop until it was reasonable for her to enter the office without getting looks, and she’d let everyone think she was just that dedicated to her job.

The group surrounding her pulls her back in with their laughter at what she assumes was a joke, and she plays along, but she really has no fucking clue what’s going on in this conversation.

She’s halfway through another vodka Red Bull when she can feel her phone vibrate multiple times through her purse, and she’s grateful for the interruption as she’s able to finally sneak away, having had her fill of business talk for the night. That’s when she finds Shiv again, beyond the open bar and the DJ, where the sound is muffled and the view is obstructed. The perfect place for Karolina to answer some e-mails, and for Shiv, the seemingly perfect place for a smoke break. Right in front of a sign that says, interdit de fumer. Karolina’s unable to contain her quiet, “Oh,” and her slight laugh at the sight, and then she recalls the death glare from earlier.

“Sorry—” she starts, a mess of an apology already brimming at the tip of her tongue, but Shiv just quirks one of those perfect eyebrows, and returns her gaze to the skyline.

“It’s fine,” she says, leaning on the railing. “You can stay.”

Karolina sends her a small smile, then realizes she can’t even see it, and she shakes her head at herself, eyeing Shiv one more time before leaning against the wall behind her. She sifts through the emails, skimming through what seems to be a vendor switch-up, meaning she’s going to have to make sure all the logos are swapped on materials they’ve already approved of. Typical.

“Jesus,” she huffs, before she’s even realized she’s speaking. She attempts to look apologetic as Shiv looks back, Karolina picking her eyes up from her phone to apologize for the disturbance. “Sorry—work.”

Work. The dreaded thing she can never escape. Shiv doesn’t say anything though, returning to her cigarette and her fucking demure gaze into the city. Karolina eyes her out of curiosity. She looks so familiar, but Karolina would remember a name like Shiv. Then Shiv’s voice rings out, and she doesn’t have much time to consider it anyway.

“It’s not as impressive as I’d hoped,” Shiv says, looking out into the skyline. “Even with the Eiffel Tower.”

Karolina looks ahead. The Eiffel Tower peaks out above everything, illuminating the city with its lights alone. She remembers a time when Paris was a daydream for her, a small cut-out from a magazine that she kept inside every planner from middle school through college. She realizes she can’t even remember whether her first visit here had been for a work trip or a vacation, but she remembers being disappointed.

“The Eiffel Tower makes everything look smaller,” she says. “The rest of the city kind of pales in comparison.”

Shiv cocks her head at the statement, as if she’s inspecting the balance of the buildings. Once you notice it, it’s hard to look at Paris the same. All the hype for one structure. It’s like going to New York City for the Statue of Liberty. You get there and realize you’re not even allowed to climb to the top, and then you find out that it’s in fucking New Jersey.

“I guess you’re right,” Shiv says. Karolina doesn’t think she’s right, but Shiv says it as if it looks true, so it must be. Or maybe other people don’t have time to sit and think about why the Parisian skyline is so much worse than other cities. They have partners and kids and lives. Karolina has her cat.

“I’m Karolina,” Karolina says, and it causes Shiv to turn around again. “Since you never asked.”

Shiv smirks.

“Who says I wanted to know your name?” she asks, and the words themselves are harsh, but the teasing smile remains.

“I wanted you to know,” Karolina says, bouncing her phone against her palm.

“Okay,” Shiv says. “Karolina.”

It’s then, that Karolina decides she likes the way her name sounds coming out of Shiv’s mouth. For a second, she tries to tell herself that it’s too soon, that she doesn’t need to get involved with anyone else while the corpse of her and Vic is still cold, but then she remembers that too soon would’ve been years ago. That things had been over long before they actually were, that she and Vic were choosing security over happiness. They’d settled. This, Karolina thinks, feels far from settling. It feels like fun.

“Was that your boyfriend?” Karolina asks. She watches the way Shiv’s eyebrows immediately flex at the word boyfriend, but she recovers quickly, that easy smile barely faltering.

“Nope,” Shiv says. “I barely know him.”

Karolina frowns.

“He wasn’t bothering you, was he?” she asks, because even if she’s not looking for trouble, this is still technically her event, and she’s willing to throw someone out if it’s making a guest uncomfortable. She’s chivalrous like that.

“No,” Shiv says again. “He’s just hopeful, and—fucking relentless.”

“That’s a kind way to say desperate,” Karolina jeers, unable to stop the retort. She’s about to apologize for being brash but Shiv laughs, and by God, if it isn’t a glorious sound.

“He is fucking desperate,” Shiv says, taking a drag of her cigarette. It’s on its last life, barely clinging to the butt, and she puts it out, then fully turns to face Karolina, leaning her back against the glass railing. It’s held together by various scraps of metal and bolts, and it makes her skin crawl, watching someone put all their trust into a sheet of glass to stop them from plummeting twelve stories to their death. Shiv looks entirely unconcerned.

“You feeling desperate?” she asks.

“This is a work event,” Karolina immediately says, because it is, but she knows the argument is weak, and it’s possible that she doesn’t really care either. It’s possible that she’s having fun adding in a little chase.

“And the other night wasn’t?”

“That was social,” Karolina says, or so she’s been telling herself.

“Yeah,” Shiv says, sounding very unconvinced by Karolina as well. “Why don’t we go somewhere else and be social, then?”

Karolina’s phone buzzes in her hand again, and she resists the urge to check yet another email that she knows she won’t be able to solve until the morning anyway. She doesn’t consider herself a risk taker, but this doesn’t feel like a risk so much as feeling desired, and she can’t remember the last time anyone desired her. So, she makes a decision that she hopes doesn’t haunt her.

“Your place or mine?”

—

The apartment in Paris feels like a breath of fresh air. She hasn’t lived alone since her early twenties, back when she still thought a daily commute from Queens to Manhattan was something she could stand to do every day. Her last apartment had become suffocating. It was a pit of festering resentment that burned like cheap candles, leaving invisible soot on the walls; something you can’t notice until it’s too late and the damage has already been done. Like her childhood home, the scent of cigarettes settled so deep into the carpet that it followed her everywhere, even sometimes thinking she can still smell the residue in her hair if tries hard enough. One day they were happy and the next they were caught in the world’s slowest-acting quicksand, unable to dig themselves out of the trap they’d wandered into.

Karolina often recalls their final fight, her using the word we and Vic always using you.

But this apartment is all hers. She can rearrange the furniture as many times as she wants until it feels right, and she can leave the windows open overnight because there’s nobody there to complain about the noise. She can leave her mugs in the sink or on the coffee table or on the nightstand and she can clean them when she wants. She works into the early hours of the morning, and nobody’s pissed off because it’s what she wants to do. Fucking freedom.

—

The calls start.

Karolina had elected to get a new SIM card when she got to the country. For the longest time, her only contacts were from work, the veterinarian, and her mother. Now, Shiv’s name sits clear on the bottom of the list. It was a moment of weakness, trading numbers, because Karolina doesn’t know what Shiv’s intentions are beyond late-night summons, and Karolina knows it’s risky territory, getting involved with someone when she feels hot off the press of emotional encumbrance, but Shiv keeps calling. 11pm on a Tuesday, 3am on a Saturday, an egregious 8pm on a Monday and Karolina knows she’s in trouble because she says yes without a hitch.

“The Americans in Paris,” Shiv jokes, and Karolina wants to tell her that she’s not American, not really, but they don’t know each other beyond what gets them off and even though this is the most intimate she’s been with a new person in years, and because of it, Karolina thinks the rest of it, the things about her that aren’t visible on her body, are far more intimate than taking her shirt off. She almost thinks the whole ordeal lacks intimacy.

It’s procedural. Shiv asks if Karolina’s free, Karolina says yes, and then they decide whose apartment they’re going to. Shiv will offer her a bump that she’ll say no to every time, and Karolina will pretend that it doesn’t unnerve her that this girl does coke every time they fuck, and then Shiv will go down on her and she’ll forget that she was nervous at all. Then, once Shiv’s high has kicked in, they’ll switch, and Karolina will try to be careful, will try to please, and she’ll touch Shiv slowly, asking, “Is this okay?” and Shiv will just grab Karolina’s hand, guiding her to go harder, never having said yes at all.

—

Karolina gets attached.

And maybe attached, isn’t the right word, but she starts to like Shiv. She starts to like Shiv a lot more than just wanting to fuck a couple of times a week. At first, Shiv is hesitant.

“Coffee?” Shiv repeats, and she makes it sound like the craziest idea in the world. Karolina wonders if it is a crazy idea, getting involved with some apparent socialite with a coke habit and a penthouse in the middle of Paris.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Karolina quickly asserts, “I’d just like to know who I’m getting into bed with.”

“Isn’t the mystery part of the thrill?” Shiv asks, but it sounds forced, not at all like her usual pension for teasing foreplay, so Karolina takes a risk.

“Maybe…I like spending time with you,” she says, and she waits, breathlessly for what feels like hours but is really only seconds, for Shiv to say anything, but the line just goes dead.

It stings a little, but Karolina thinks she’s faced worse rejections in her sometimes-sorry life, and she tries to move on. She leaves her phone in work mode the rest of the day, seeing only emails and team chat notifications, and tries to focus on why she’s in Paris at all. Tries not to let it feel like the end of the world, because it’s not, and she isn’t some unlovable creature that was put on this planet to always be within an inch of absolute contentment, no.

When she gets home, she fears her phone like it’s radioactive, and she sits next to Oliver and listens to him purr and she nurses a big glass of wine. She turns off Do Not Disturb in one swift click, eyes nearly closed and hands out in front like preparation can actually stop anything from hurting less, but there’s a notification from Shiv. Delivered nearly two hours ago, and she opens it up, and feels stupid, first and foremost, but also relieved.

Shiv sent one word, when?

That’s how Karolina finds herself at a cafe, morning blocked off with important “meetings” because she’s ahead of schedule with work and Shiv said she’s already busy this weekend. It’s an expensive place, one she wouldn’t tolerate going to for any extended period of time, but it was Shiv’s choice and anyway, Karolina’s never been the best authority on caffeine sources anyway, what, with her war-stock of 5-Hour Energy.

When Shiv arrives, Karolina attempts to not look as surprised as she feels. Shiv looks different in the daytime, hair pin-straight, and accessories purposefully understated, her outfit is a decidedly European collage of neutral tones with an obvious American aftertaste at the comfortability of it all. Big sunglasses cover her eyes, and her purse looks large enough to carry an entire fucking clown car, and Karolina thinks she looks like a walking ad for The Row.

“Long night?” Karolina asks as Shiv sits down, gesturing to the sunglasses. Shiv ignores her, grabbing the coffee cup that had been waiting for her instead.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“What I’m hoping is your usual,” Karolina says.

Shiv looks at the ingredients marked off on the label, and she lets out an amused laugh, “You sneaky little bitch.”

Karolina wouldn’t say that’s not one of her personality traits, but she didn’t have to sneak too hard to figure that one out.

“You have a habit of leaving receipts next to your key bowl,” Karolina says, having half a mind to look a little sheepish. “I might’ve taken a look.”

“Well, remind me not to leave state secrets out on my nightstand,” Shiv says, taking a sip of the coffee.

“Do you have any?” Karolina asks, to which Shiv just leans back in her chair, shrugging slightly.

“Maybe a few,” she smirks.

“Is that what you do for work?” Karolina asks. “State secrets?”

It’s apparently the wrong question, because the smirk falls, and Shiv shifts in her seat like the state secrets are actually real and Karolina’s just caught her sitting on a big one.

“No,” Shiv says, voice tight. “I’m on a sabbatical.”

This doesn’t shock Karolina, given the way Shiv’s eyes are always a little glassy and her nose a little red, the way her hands always shake slightly when she’s not paying attention to what she’s doing, and the way her body is always under a specific amount of control, as if losing control of anything would mean losing control of everything.

Karolina won’t mention it though, not here, not now, and it’s obvious she shouldn’t push the subject further, so she nods. She changes the subject to something that’s been bothering her.

“Are you sure we’ve never met before?”

Karolina tried asking her, a couple of weeks ago when it was late and Shiv had given her at least two glasses of wine, and Karolina just couldn’t put her finger on it. Shiv vehemently denied it then, but Karolina can’t let it go, especially now, seeing her out in the daytime.

“I can guarantee you, we haven’t,” Shiv says, and she sounds so sure.

“Weird,” Karolina mutters, returning to her coffee.

“Shiv isn’t—it’s not my full name,” Shiv says then, almost sounding nervous. “It’s more of a nickname.”

“What’s your full name?” Karolina asks, leaning forward.

“Siobhan.”

Karolina tries to rack her brain for any memories of a Siobhan. She thinks that’s definitely a name she’d remember, but the only Siobhan she can even think of is—wait.

“Siobhan Roy?”

“In the flesh,” Shiv says, sounding especially unenthused.

Karolina wouldn’t say she’s starstruck, because she’s rubbed elbows with billionaires before, but fucking the billionaire heiress of the largest media conglomerate in the United States? That’s a little more than she’s used to.

“Don’t make it a thing,” Shiv says preemptively, like she can see all of the different outcomes of this scenario working their way through Karolina's head.

“I’m not,” Karolina says, even though she’s definitely lying because this most certainly is a thing, but they’re in Paris and everyone who gives a fuck about Siobhan Roy is across the ocean, so she can act calm for however long this date lasts and then murder board herself to death later in case there’s some crazed paparazzi somewhere that’s desperate to get Shiv in tomorrow’s issue of Page 6. “I guess it makes a lot more sense now, knowing your parents didn’t name you after a prison weapon.”

That does crack a small smile out of Shiv, and Karolina’s happy to have eased at least some of the growing tension.

“I still wouldn’t say that wasn’t their intention,” Shiv says.

Karolina thinks it’s supposed to sound like a warning—a slight, careful, now, don’t get cut—but Karolina and warnings are friends. She knows how to heed warnings and navigate through them. Warnings themselves don’t scare her. It’s what comes from the things that have no warnings. The things you can’t see coming.

“So, now that you’ve interrogated me—what are you doing in Paris?” Shiv asks. Shiv can’t ever seem to get away from the topic of herself quickly enough. She figures now, that Shiv is just a Google search away, and Shiv doesn’t have the same luck with Karolina unless she wants to read the most standard LinkedIn profile in existence, so Karolina entertains her.

“I’m leading a PR team for Fashion Week,” Karolina says. “Ad campaigns, interviews, press releases—”

“Wait—a PR team, or the PR team?” Shiv asks, something like impression on her face. Karolina suddenly feels bashful, like bragging in front of a billionaire is some kind of fruitless endeavor that’s just going to leave her embarrassed and humbled, but Shiv looks interested, and she asked Karolina not to make her name a big deal, so that’s exactly what Karolina’s not doing.

“Well, I suppose it’s the PR team, when you put it that way, but it’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” Karolina says. “In my position it’s mostly phone calls and emails, appeasing the higher-ups so they think everything is running smoothly. The boring stuff.”

“I mean, still,” Shiv says, and she seems genuinely impressed. “Didn’t realize I was hooking up with fashion royalty.”

Fashion royalty. She remembers Vic’s, “Are you fucking serious, Karolina? Paris? Really?” and it’d felt more like a curse than anything.

“Paris Fashion Week can’t be the most extravagant thing you’ve been around, Siobhan Roy,” she deflects, and Shiv rolls her eyes at the sentiment.

“I mean, it’s no Met Gala, of course,” Shiv says, playing along.

“Well, I’ve worked the Met Gala too,” Karolina then says. “But I’m sure there’s something.”

“Fuck you,” Shiv says as she laughs, raising her sunglasses back into her hair, and Karolina finally has the opportunity to take all of Shiv in. Beyond the sleek hair and the jewelry that’s worth at least a few months of Karolina’s salary and the perfectly fitted clothing, she understands why Shiv was hiding behind sunglasses, because she can’t control the image of her own eyes. They’re bright and alert but still adorned with that never-ending irritated glimmer, a red ring of death that warns onlookers of her decaying. They also remind her that Shiv is just a person, not the heiress to a crime empire like The Washington Post tries to convey or the untouchable debutante that Karolina’s own publications perpetuate; she’s just a person. Karolina releases a breath.

“Who’s the worst celebrity you’ve met?” Shiv asks, and Karolina smirks.

“I didn’t meet him personally, but I remember a certain Roy was on the cover of GQ some years back and my staff had some choice words about the experience,” Karolina says, and before she has the chance to elaborate, Shiv laughs loudly.

“His alpha male days,” Shiv muses. “That cover was–”

Karolina quirks an eyebrow, “It was what?”

“It was awful,” Shiv says, throwing her arms up in surrender but still smiling in amusement, “I’m sorry, it was!”

Karolina can’t bite back her own smile, because really, she has no emotional investment in GQ.

“A lot of readers wrote in after that issue thanking us for having a real man on the cover,” Karolina says, and Shiv scoffs.

“That real man is now into the art of microdosing on meditation,” Shiv says, throwing air quotes around the words, and Karolina hums.

“Maybe they should do another cover story,” she says, and Shiv feigns disgust at the thought.

“How long have you been working in fashion anyway?” Shiv then asks.

Too long, is Karolina’s first thought, but even if she’s not totally obsessed with the clothes and the celebrities and the parties, she’s enjoyed the path, and the money.

“My whole career,” Karolina says. “I started at a publication right out of college, and it just stuck. I’ve been working my way up since then.”

“And now you’re here,” Shiv says, smirking into her coffee again.

“Now I’m here,” Karolina laughs. “Having coffee with someone from fucking New York.”

“Not the Parisian romance you were expecting?” Shiv asks.

“This is a romance?” Karolina asks, and Shiv’s eyes narrow slightly.

“I mean, you practically begged me to come,” Shiv says. “Kind of felt like you were asking me on a date.”

Karolina tries not to let her panic show at the word date. It very well could be a date if either of them wanted it to be, but despite Shiv’s pension for flirting, she’s not exactly forthcoming with her feelings, and Karolina has no clue what Shiv could possibly be feeling in this moment.

“I just thought, you know, if we were going to be benefiting from one another—we might as well be friends too,” Karolina says, taking the easy route.

“Friends?” Shiv asks. She says it as if the concept is foreign, like friends is a thing that never quite works out, but Karolina thinks she’s just keeping her cards close to her chest, the same way that fucking in the dark is supposed to somehow make Karolina see her less or the way that wearing sunglasses that block half of her face is supposed to make Karolina understand her less.

“Why not?” Karolina says, knowing she’s won when Shiv just shrugs.

“Fine,” Shiv says. “Friends.”

—

“I can’t believe you have a fucking cat.”

Karolina watches in amusement as Shiv and Oliver have a stare-down in her foyer. Stare down is probably the wrong phrase, because it’s more like Oliver is sitting there, looking sickeningly adorable with his short grey fur and his bright green eyes, and Shiv is glaring at him from in front of the doorway, like a tabby that’s just wandered into the wrong alley.

“Shiv, this is Oliver,” Karolina says, picking him up. He meows as she does so, and she can’t help but laugh at what seems like pure disdain on Shiv’s face.

“Oliver?” Shiv asks, bewilderment clear. “You named your cat after a fucking singing orphan?”

“No,” Karolina immediately fires back, not even having it in her heart to distinguish the fact that Oliver Twist was from a book first. “He’s named after an Agatha Christie character.”

Shiv takes a very long breath, like she’s contemplating agreeing to try this friends thing at all, and then she steps forward.

“You’re a dork,” she says, holding her hand out. Karolina turns so that Oliver can see Shiv better, and he sniffs her hand for a second and before retreating, and curls his head back into Karolina’s arms.

“I don’t think he likes it when you insult his mother,” Karolina says, petting him fondly.

“Well, I don’t like when his mother edges me because she forgot to feed him,” Shiv says, and it’s Karolina’s turn to roll her eyes as she heads into the kitchen.

“You can get yourself off, Shiv,” she throws behind her shoulder. “Oliver can’t even open the fridge.”

Shiv follows her, footsteps hurrying.

“You keep his food in the fridge?”

“That’s where cat food is kept,” Karolina says, setting Oliver down on the ground, and Shiv pulls a face when he immediately jumps onto the counter.

“And you let him on the counter?”

Karolina pulls out his wet food, and a bottle of kitchen bleach, making a point to place it in front of Shiv.

“I’ll wipe it down when he’s done, fair?”

Shiv just huffs, a sound of disbelief.

“You’re a crazy cat lady,” she mutters.

“Shiv, I have one cat,” Karolina exclaims, still unable to contain her laughter.

“Yeah, and that’s fucking insane,” Shiv says. “And you brought him to France!”

“Should I have left him in New York?” Karolina asks. “Given him up to the feral cat colony on Rikers Island?”

“The what on Rikers Island?”

“Oh my god, Shiv, here—” Karolina grabs Oliver’s treat bag, pulling one out and handing it to Shiv. “Hold out your hand to him.”

Shiv does as she’s told, and she holds out her palm, a single treat at the center. Oliver rushes over to her and sniffs it inquisitively until he picks it up, Shiv shuddering as he does so.

“What was that?” she asks, clearly disgusted.

“His tongue?” Karolina says, but she’s laughing. “You’re a hopeless case.”

“You’re the hopeless case,” Shiv says, sitting down on a stool. “God.”

They make eye contact and they both start laughing, and Karolina forgets for a moment that they’re just supposed to be fuck buddies. That they’re not dating and this isn’t a normal occurrence, and even though Shiv has agreed to be friends, that comes with limits. Still, Karolina basks in the light, not wanting to let go of what it feels like to share a life with someone again, even if it’s for a small moment, and even if she doesn’t like Karolina’s cat as much as Karolina would like her to. By the time Karolina has finished feeding him and has wiped down the counter with enough bleach to satisfy Shiv, Karolina’s convinced her to stay for wine.

They’re talking about everything and nothing, random books that they’ve both read that Shiv hated and Karolina loved, movies that they’ve both seen that Shiv loved and Karolina despised. Their knees are almost touching, and every time one of them shifts they both bolt into action to separate, as if the fact that their hands have been inside one another is leagues different than the fabric of their pant legs come together. Karolina watches as Shiv, cheeks rosy from the wine and smile easy from a joke that Karolina’s successfully recounted, pulls her hair back, and that’s when Karolina notices a scar, a little pinkish and normally covered by the fall of her side part, poke out from under Shiv’s hairline. It’s barely visible, only moving past the hair by a few centimeters, and she doesn’t think she’d have noticed it at all if she weren’t sitting so close to Shiv.

And in her own wine-drunk nightmare, Karolina can’t stop the question from stumbling out of her mouth.

“How’d that happen?” she asks, and she regrets it instantly as Shiv’s smile falls and her posture stiffens.

“Uh—it’s a childhood scar,” Shiv says. She swallows harshly, and Karolina knows she’s lying. “My brother, uh, Roman, he—he threw one of his toys at me. I don’t remember what it was now. Probably the red Power Ranger or something fucking stupid like that.”

“I’m sorry–” Karolina says. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re fine,” Shiv says, taking a sip of her wine, and then like she flicks a switch somewhere Karolina can’t see, her spunk is back, and she’s cocking an eyebrow, “I showed you mine.”

Karolina wonders if it’s some sort of test and she feels slightly uneasy about the pretense under which it’s falling under, like Shiv didn’t almost just freeze up at the mention of a forehead scar, but Karolina plays along because she bit Shiv, and even if it was an accident, she can handle Shiv biting back.

She rolls up her sleeve, holding out her right forearm to Shiv. There’s a jagged scar along the side of it, one that still makes her previously bolted bones still ache on rainy days.

“Back in high school I did whatever I could to piss off my father,” she explains. “There were these guys at school that liked me, and they had these cool motorcycles so, I’d go riding with them sometimes—I think you can guess how that ended.”

Shiv grimaces.

“I think you have me beat,” she says, and Karolina knows Shiv’s trying to deflect and that Karolina should be trying to let her, but she can’t stand that kind of sentiment.

“It’s not a competition,” she says.

Shiv eyes her, and she can only hold the contact for a few seconds until she looks away. Karolina just pulls her sleeve down, watching as Shiv readjusts her hair, scar no longer in view.

“You should tell Roman that,” Shiv says. “When I started losing my baby teeth the first thing he did was break an arm.”

When Shiv looks back at her, it’s like she’s begging to change the subject, and Karolina complies.

“Roman’s your other brother, right?” she asks, and Shiv nods.

“He’s the middle child,” Shiv says. “So, you know how it is.”

But Karolina doesn’t know how it is. Vic was an older sister, and she would get so mad when Karolina just couldn’t understand that apparent burden. You’re an only child, you don’t get it. She always thought it was a low blow, because, for her, only child wasn’t some sort of crown to claim her spoils with. It meant only successor, only option, only target.

Karolina wonders now if that is a sibling thing, saving your pain for important moments, letting it all blow up at once; breaking an arm when your sister loses her teeth. Maybe Vic did have that part right—Karolina never had to compete for her pain, it was given to her freely. Served with a silent, festering breakfast and a drunkenly belligerent dinner, every day: at least your dad didn’t hit you, Vic. Karolina had thrown up after that argument, the thought that he’d given her some sort of badge to throw in people’s faces when she needed it feeling more like a thorn that was stuck in her side, just so she could rip it out and say—See? I’m bleeding too!—when it felt convenient. That’s what pain is to Karolina. Convenience. To try and compete with it just feels greedy.

“I actually wouldn’t know,” she admits. “I’m an only child.”

She wonders if Shiv can tell that she accidentally bit her back.

“Really?” she says. “You’ve got the feel of, like, an older sister of seven, or something absolutely criminal like that.”

“My parents barely knew what to do with me,” Karolina says, forcing a laugh. “Thank god they never got up to seven.”

Shiv laughs as well, but she eyes Karolina as she does so and it feels not at all dissimilar to the way Karolina so often looks at Shiv, wondering what’s going on beyond the surface of her words. Shiv seems to push past the instinct to dig though, something she’s a lot better at doing than Karolina.

“Well, props to you,” Shiv says raising her wine glass slightly. “I fully would’ve blown my brains out if my brothers didn’t exist, so—congrats.”

Karolina doesn’t say that it’s a miracle she didn’t, and she holds up her glass anyway even though it feels less like a cheers and more like a commiserating tap, but there’s an understanding tone to it. There’s no, “God, you’re lucky.” It’s a, “Damn, that fucking sucks,” and she thinks maybe she’s misjudged Shiv in that moment because she’s not seeing this as a competition, she’s trying to take herself out of the race.

“Parents—they do what they can, right?” Karolina says, but she flashes her eyes sarcastically and Shiv chuckles hollowly.

“Right,” she exaggerates, and it’s then that Oliver jumps up on the couch. Karolina observes as Shiv stills, but she surprisingly doesn’t move away, letting Oliver go where he pleases. “What made you want to become a parent to…this?”

“You mean my cat?”

Karolina watches in amusement as he slowly crawls the small space in between her and Shiv, and he sniffs Shiv’s clothes. Shiv just watches as well, still seemingly frozen in her position, and Karolina stifles a laugh as Oliver picks up a paw, gently pressing it into Shiv’s leg.

“Why is he doing that?” Shiv asks.

“He’s inspecting you,” Karolina says.

“What am I, a fucking bomb threat?” Shiv replies. She slowly brings one of her hands up to him and pokes him in the forehead, and Karolina isn’t quite sure what Shiv’s intentions were, but Oliver takes it as a sign to ram his head into her hand and Shiv pulls it back quickly.

“He wants you to pet him,” Karolina says, and Shiv rolls her eyes.

“I’ve met a cat before,” she says, but the way her hand hesitantly returns to his body and runs across his fur doesn’t have Karolina convinced.

“Are you sure?” she asks, hiding a smile behind her wine.

“I must have,” Shiv says. “Who hasn’t fucking met a cat?”

He seems to like Shiv’s scent or something, because it’s certainly not her energy, and he moves closer to her until he’s lying in her lap. Shiv continues to pet him, and Karolina can hear the loud purrs as they leave his body, and she sneaks a look at Shiv, who’s become solely focused on Oliver. Karolina suddenly wishes she hadn’t left her phone in the kitchen, because she thinks it’s the sort of scene she’d like to look at a million times over, Oliver’s peaceful face and Shiv’s in quiet awe.

“I think he likes you,” Karolina says. Shiv doesn’t look up, but Karolina thinks she can see something of a smile coming out of Shiv, and she doesn’t stop the petting.

“I’m sending you my dry-cleaning bill.”

—

She doesn’t see Shiv for a little over a week.

Karolina had gotten a little busy with work and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t missing Shiv, didn’t miss her sharp glares and the charged banter, and she knows Shiv would never admit to as much, what, with all of her French exploits that Karolina makes explicitly clear she wants to know nothing about, but she thinks she can hear it when Shiv calls her out of the blue, and Karolina can feel the nervousness seep through the phone receiver.

“Do you want to, uh, hang out—again?” Shiv asks. “Like, not what we normally do, um—dinner, maybe?”

And it’s wrong of Karolina to tease, but it feels natural as the words come out.

“You asking me on a date, Roy?”

Her own heart pounds a little as she waits for Shiv’s response.

“Would you want it to be?”

Karolina doesn’t even have to question it.

“I think I’d like that, yeah,” she says.

“Good,” Shiv says. “I’ll send you the details.”

And then Karolina has to wait.

Has to painstakingly wait, and it feels like she’s nineteen again, going on a date with a girl for the very first time, except this time she’s thirty-nine, and it’s probably something like her millionth date with a girl, and she’s fresh off the tail of the longest relationship of her life. She’s not quite sure which thought is worse, but then she remembers going home for college break and facing her father with an un-hidable hickey on her neck, and she decides that she’s overreacting.

And then suddenly they’re on the date and Karolina forgets why she’d been nervous at all. It’s just Shiv. Ridiculously beautiful but indisputably infuriating Shiv.

“You’re sure you can’t get Oliver a pen?”

“The answer hasn’t changed since the last ten times you’ve suggested it,” Karolina says. “And like I said, he’d just jump it.”

“Whatever,” Shiv mumbles, stabbing her salad. “I’m just saying, the cost of one cat pen would surely save you on all of those lint rollers. It’s just basic economics.”

“How about the next time you come over, you try putting Oliver in his carrying case,” Karolina says. “Then let me know how you think he’d feel about a pen.”

Shiv eyes her suspiciously until she narrows her gaze, giving up with a light-lipped sip of scotch. Which, by the way, Karolina said did not impress her.

“That feels vaguely like a threat,” Shiv says, putting down her glass, and Karolina just shrugs.

“Want to find out?”

Shiv has half a mind to give it a rest, still shoving her fork into her meal with the ferocity that could only come from a woman who’s just lost an argument about a cat three separate times in a row, and Karolina tries her own hand at a question that she’s asked before.

“Will you tell me what you actually do for work?” she asks. “When you’re not on a sabbatical?”

Shiv doesn’t look happy to answer the question, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to go running this time either.

“I’m a political strategist,” Shiv says. “I manage election campaigns.”

This catches Karolina off guard. Not that she’d ever been big on keeping up with the Roy dynasty anyway, but she sort of assumed they’d all just have bullshit jobs. Political strategy seems, real, for lack of better words.

“Trying to get in the White House one day?” she asks. She’s half-joking, but Shiv seems to consider the serious side of the question.

“Maybe at one point I would’ve hoped,” Shiv says. “Now…I don’t know.”

The words hand in the air, and Karolina gives them the space settle. Before she can get a word in, Shiv is sharing more.

“I’m thinking of getting out of the business,” Shiv says, meeting Karolina’s eye. “I don’t know if it’s for me anymore.”

“Hence the sabbatical?” Karolina assumes.

Shiv shrugs as if that’s partially it, but Karolina figures she won’t push that line of questioning any further.

“What was the last campaign you worked on?” she asks, but that seems to be the wrong direction as well, Karolina noting the way Shiv’s posture stiffens in the way it always does when Karolina asks something that unsettles her.

“Uh, just—it was a congressional candidate,” she says, her words stilted.

“State secrets?” Karolina asks, and she feels bad as Shiv looks away, knuckles going white as she grips her glass.

“Something like that,” Shiv says.

Karolina sighs. Talking to Shiv sometimes feels like she’s solving dozens of tiny puzzles at once, saving information and storing it for later, pulling out old facts when she finally thinks she’s found the missing piece. She wants to tear the puzzles apart, to tell Shiv that it’s okay to be scattered, that she doesn’t have to keep things so close to her chest, but Karolina knows how hard that can be. Because that’s cheating, right? If you give someone all the answers to your heart? You’ve made it too easy for them, and then they get greedier and greedier until they hold all of your cards and you have nothing.

So, Karolina gets it; trusting is hard. That doesn’t mean she can’t leave the line open.

“You know––there’s a shorthand we use in my line of work—maybe you use it too, but it’s for when you need a filler name, like maybe you can’t say it now, but you might want to say it later,” Karolina explains. “It’s just, TK—to come.”

Shiv nods, just the slightest bit, and Karolina continues.

“Just—if you ever wanted to talk about any, state secrets, or something,” Karolina says. She quirks a teasing eyebrow at the last part as Shiv looks back up, and Shiv reveals a begrudging smirk as she does so. Karolina doesn’t think of it as any kind of battle won, but it does maybe make her feel like somewhere deep down, Shiv can accept more between the two of them. A date is just a first step. Trust is a whole new game.

“What about you?” Shiv asks. “What does a woman do after Fashion Week?”

“I don’t know,” Karolina says honestly. “I only thought as far as taking this job. It was risky, but, it would’ve been stupid to pass up, right?”

“I mean, I for one, am glad you took the job,” Shiv says.

“Oh?” Karolina muses. “And why is that?”

“I guess…I just like having you around,” Shiv smirks, and Karolina can’t help from smiling as well, because Shiv is trying. Maybe she doesn’t want to share the big stuff, not yet, but she wants to share, and that’s more than Karolina thinks she can ask out of her.

“Yeah?” she raises an eyebrow, waiting for Shiv’s inevitable but to drop, because Shiv might be showing earnestness, but Karolina knows that honesty can’t come without a little protection.

“And it’s nice having someone around who can order all of my meals in French,” she adds.

“There it is,” Karolina says, still smiling. “Using me for my services.”

“Trust me,” Shiv says. “Those aren’t the services I use you for.”

Karolina blushes. She fucking blushes.

“And what services are those?”

Shiv gestures to the waiter for their tab.

“You wanna go find out?”

—

Karolina doesn’t need to find out. She already knows. That every time they get into bed, tangled limbs with the lights off, Shiv wants her rough and Shiv wants her fast. She wants just enough, never more, and never less. Karolina knows that when they’re finished, she can stay, but not too close, and when they wake up in the morning and Shiv needs to get amped again because the alternative is not leaving her bed for three days, Karolina can’t say anything. She does wonder if this is the only reason that Shiv keeps her around, that for whatever reason, Karolina acts as a bystander to it all. A happy medium disposed to bend at her will.

Karolina obliges, maybe because she’s so lonely that it doesn’t matter, or maybe because she thinks Shiv is so lonely that it does matter. Regardless, she’ll wake up with Shiv in her arms and Karolina will pretend to shift in her sleep, give Shiv enough time to wake up and escape her grasp before she thinks Karolina will even know it’s happened at all.

But that night, after Shiv’s satisfied and Karolina can feel the growing knot in her stomach get even larger, Shiv extends a hand. Karolina takes it, and wakes up the next morning still connected.

—

It’s in the small things. The way Shiv texts to ask how work is going, or the way she sends Karolina a delivery from her favorite lunch spot if she knows it’s been a busy day. It’s in the way she invites Karolina shopping with her, asking for her opinion on which top she thinks will piss off the snobby Francophile who lives on the floor below her more and the way Shiv can never help but to smile when Karolina just asks her which top she feels better in. It’s in the way Shiv will pull Karolina behind the curtain when the store associates aren’t lurking, and she’ll kiss her with a giddy look in her eyes because Shiv knows Karolina hates worrying about getting caught but loves how much Shiv enjoys it.

It’s in the small things. Which is why the big things hurt so much more.

The second Karolina is through the door, she can tell something is off. She’s caught off-guard by Shiv’s forwardness, and even though it’s not unwelcome—it’s not like she doesn’t know what Shiv called her over to do––something feels different.

“Can we slow down?” Karolina asks, trying to ignore the sensation of Shiv’s mouth inching up her neck.

“Why?” Shiv asks. “It took you fucking forever to get here.”

“It took—fifteen minutes,” Karolina says through stilted breaths, hands involuntarily gasping at Shiv’s hair. “Shiv—can I fucking take my coat off?”

Shiv sighs and leans away, resting a hand on the wall beside Karolina’s head. Karolina shrugs her coat off, sending Shiv a pointed look, and she lightly presses it into Shiv’s chest.

“Hang it up for me?”

Shiv rolls her eyes as Karolina smirks, but Shiv grabs it anyway, disappearing into the hallway. When Shiv returns, Karolina’s smirk immediately flips into a grimace.

“Shiv, your nose is bleeding,” she says, immediately looking around for tissues or anything. Shiv brings the back of her thumb to her nose, cursing as it comes away coated in fresh blood.

“Fuck,” she says, barreling past Karolina and towards the bathroom. Karolina follows her, watching with worried eyes as Shiv attempts to get the bleeding to stop. Under the bright fluorescent lights, Karolina can actually see how worn-down Shiv looks. The more time she’s spent with Shiv, the more time she’s spent looking at that silver vial. The knowledge of it taunts her now, and she’s starting to regret answering Shiv’s call.

“How much have you taken today?” Karolina asks. She tries to keep her voice even, like it’s curiosity at play and not an accusation, but Shiv’s already high on the defensive.

“Just a little extra,” Shiv says, removing a bloodied tissue from her nose. “That’s all.”

“What’s a little extra, Shiv?”

She watches as Shiv dabs a clean tissue around the area, looking satisfied when no more blood comes away from it.

“Does it matter?” Shiv asks, washing her face.

“Of course, it matters,” Karolina says then, eyes closely following every one of Shiv’s movements. Now that they’re up close, she can see it clear as fucking day. The extra-shaky hands as she dries them, the black of her pupils taking the place of that usual crystal blue, the way she seems extra hungry for Karolina. “You’re acting like a damn rail station.”

“Very funny,” Shiv says. She grabs Karolina’s hand as she exits the bathroom, attempting to lead Karolina toward the bedroom, but Karolina shrugs her off.

“Stop,” she says. “I’m not finding this amusing, Shiv.”

Shiv’s eyebrows furrow then.

“I’m just having a little bit of fun,” she says, her frustration seeping through her voice. “Fuckin—lighten up.”

Karolina rolls her eyes. She thinks it’s a juvenile blow, one that she’s heard too many times before. It’s not so different than the frigid and the anal and the uptight, and sometimes, Karolina thinks, she’ll take those. She’ll take the criticism when it’s necessary or it’s fair, because sure, sometimes Karolina does need to lighten up, but not when Shiv’s version of letting loose is going to the bathroom and doing as many lines of cocaine that her heart can take before trying to fuck Karolina into the next morning.

“What did I tell you when we first started doing this?” Karolina asks, Shiv just rolls her eyes in return as well.

“I’m not even fucked up right now,” Shiv argues, and Karolina takes that as a challenge she needs to prove wrong. She scans the apartment for anything else, and immediately an open liquor bottle hanging out on the coffee table.

“You drinking in between lines?” Karolina asks.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiv mumbles, rubbing her forehead. “I’m fucking fine.”

Karolina thinks it has to be some sort of sick joke, Shiv standing in front of her with God knows what absorbed into her body, bloody and sleep deprived, just begging to be fucked. Karolina isn’t even sure where to begin on the list of reasons why Shiv clearly isn’t fine.

“I can’t know that, Shiv,” Karolina argues, because it’s true. This girl will tear herself inside out, on her knees, bruised and bleeding like some prisoner of her own war, screaming––damnit, I’m fine!––just to keep the truth away from herself.

“Oh my god, Karolina,” Shiv groans. “I’m not gonna go cry rape just because I let you hit it while I’m high.”

The words feel so appallingly harsh that Karolina doesn’t even know where to begin, so she doesn’t. And maybe it is Karolina’s fault, just a little bit, because if she were being truly honest, the consent is only a small part of it. The bare minimum.

If she were being honest, she’d tell Shiv that it makes her feel used. That it makes her feel like she’s some ethical weapon of self-destruction to Shiv, because it’s not self-destruction if it’s coming from a different person, right? Shiv doesn’t only keep her around for moments like these, right? She can hear Vic, somewhere in the back of her mind having the last laugh. Maybe this is Karolina’s penance, for fucking everything else up too.

“I’m going back home,” she says. “Enjoy your fun.”

She doesn’t turn around as Shiv begs her to wait, and doesn’t respond to the texts that begin piling up as soon as she walks out the door. She lasts two days––both of which take everything in her not to behave in a way that would guarantee the entirety of her team quitting by the end of the week––before caving, sending a one-word yes when, for probably the twentieth time, Shiv asks if they can talk. She comes home from work that day to find Shiv waiting outside her apartment, a bag of Karolina’s favorite takeout in her hand.

Karolina approaches her tentatively. She knows the silent treatment was wrong, but Shiv was wrong too. And Karolina’s not big on saying things she’ll regret.

“Hey,” Shiv says.

“Hey,” Karolina echoes.

“Look, Karolina—I’m really sorry about the other night,” Shiv says, cutting right to the chase. She thinks the apology sounds unnatural coming from Shiv, and she knows Shiv must not hand out concessions often.

“Yeah?” Karolina says. “What are you sorry for?”

Because if Shiv wants to act immature, then that’s how Karolina will treat her. She’s surprised when Shiv continues to comply, and she nods to herself as if this is what she deserves. She’d half expected Shiv to fight back, not come running home with her tail in between her legs, and Karolina doesn’t feel any satisfaction. She just feels like shit.

“For being an asshole,” Shiv says, and Karolina raises her eyebrows, as if to say, “That’s all?” and she watches Shiv fight the urge to roll her eyes. At least she still has some bite. “And for—violating your boundaries, or whatever. It wasn’t cool of me, I know that.”

Karolina does think it’s a decent apology, as far as Shiv’s standards go, but she’s still upset, because if she and Shiv don’t have trust then they don’t have anything, and maybe what’s more upsetting is that it showed her the trust still isn’t there. That she’d been building it up in her mind for nothing.

“I had one rule, Shiv,” Karolina says, stepping closer. “One fucking rule—don’t call me over when you’re like that.”

Like that. Karolina knows they’re dancing around words now. Dancing and dancing until they get so tangled up that they both come spinning out. Shiv’s eyes dart around, but the street is empty. The cool weather reminds Karolina of a quiet afternoon back home, when she’d have time to leave work early and get to walk the streets of her neighborhood while all the kids were still in school, and she lived far enough downtown that she never saw any tourists. Then she’d get home and she’d feel like Vic was disappointed to see her. Like she’d ruined the afternoon by just returning to her home.

Enter Shiv, begging Karolina to let her in.

“I just—I wasn’t thinking,” Shiv says.

“Obviously,” Karolina can’t help but fire back, and she doesn’t trust herself to say more. A breeze goes by, and she watches as a chill runs through Shiv. She holds her hand firmly in her pocket, wanting to reach out but fearing what would happen if she did.

“Can we go inside?” Shiv asks.

And Karolina’s still mad, of course she is, but there’s a small part of her that just wants to let it go, wants to say fuck it and just give Shiv another chance. She ignores the scary thought that she’s already given Shiv chances, but she’s not sure if chances are something she likes to quantify anymore. She’s certainly burned through enough chances to last a lifetime.

“Fine,” she says, and Shiv follows her silently into the apartment as Karolina does her best to stay relaxed, to remain calm. When they get inside, she leaves Shiv in the kitchen as she goes to change and tries to breathe through the uncomfortability at being angry with someone she cares about. She hates being angry. It makes her fingers twitch and her skin crawl, and it makes her feel all too close to her father in the way that she can’t be certain if it’s the ghost of his touch grabbing her from behind or inching up from somewhere deep within her. Or if maybe it’s just her, inescapable and lurking in her own mirror.

They’re both silent as she returns, pulling out plates and silverware and the food that Shiv’s brought which, really, does smell fucking amazing even if Karolina is a little upset with herself for falling for a bribe, and Shiv attempts to talk to her, but Karolina just shoots her down with one worded answers until Shiv gives up, crestfallen like a kid who keeps trying to get their voice in at the dinner table until they realize that nobody in the room cares about what they have to say. But Karolina isn’t disinterested. She’s fucking upset. Majorly upset.

“You know––I’m not afraid that you’re going to accuse me of something,” she eventually says. Shiv’s head shoots up at her voice, but quickly falls back down, and Karolina’s shocked when the movement looks something like shame.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Shiv says quietly. “It was fucked up.”

Karolina looks up at her, and her heart pounds a little because she doesn’t want to say what she’s going to, but she needs to say it, because Shiv needs to hear it.

“It felt like—” But Karolina cuts herself off. Shiv’s looking at her again, eagerly awaiting the words, like she’s ready to absorb the critique and the reprimand and the disappointment and carry it with her forever, ready to mold herself into whatever Karolina could possibly ask her to just so long as Karolina doesn’t leave. Karolina pockets the words for a rainy day. “Just—don’t do it again, Shiv. Please.”

And Shiv nods.

“I won’t.”

And then Karolina lets Shiv stay over, because she’s mad but she’s not a monster, and she doesn’t think she’s much of a match against Shiv’s sad fucking eyes anyway.

They’re lying in Karolina’s bed, so close together yet somehow worlds apart, and Karolina’s watching Shiv pet Oliver, his small frame nestled in between them.

“He likes you,” Karolina says, her voice still thick with upset.

“He’s soft,” Shiv says.

“Most cats are,” Karolina tries to joke, but it falls flat between them. Shiv is silent, contemplation swimming through her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, eyes still on the cat. Karolina looks away as well, doesn’t want to see the sadness on Shiv’s face.

“It’s fine, Shiv,” Karolina says. “I already said it was.”

She thinks Shiv might leave it there, and she’s about to close her eyes when she hears Shiv’s voice again.

“What were you going to say earlier?” she asks. “About—how it made you feel?”

Karolina watches Oliver shift, twisting his body so his head lands directly where Shiv’s hand is.

“Like—” she swallows. “Like you were trying to use me to hurt yourself.”

The air in the room quickly becomes thick with the words, and she waits for Shiv to deny it, to pick a fight, cry, to do something, but she just lays her hand near Oliver and settles into the bed, her voice dense with a heaviness that Karolina wishes weren’t real.

“I won’t do it again.”

—

They try their best to get back to normal, and whatever normal is, it’s definitely not in the voicemail Karolina receives only days later.

“Hey, Karolina, it’s me, um—I know this is an odd request, like, really fucking odd, but—my dad—he’s coming through on a business trip and wants to get dinner, and, look—say no if this is totally fucking insane, but, I don’t know, do you—do you want to come? Just as friends, obviously, this wouldn’t mean anything, but with your career and his business I think you might have shit to talk about and I—I just don’t know how I can let him see me like—uh, yeah, um—if someone was there to just take the heat off then, I don’t know. Let me know.”

Karolina doesn’t think that she sounds desperate as much as she sounds scared, and while it is an absolutely nutty idea, Karolina feels compelled to help. She’d also be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit enticed by the idea of getting a personal sit-down in front of Logan Roy, but really, who in their right mind wouldn’t be? So, she says yes.

She ends up at a restaurant with bottles of wine that cost more than her fucking life insurance policy, settled at a small and intimate table with her fuck-buddy, and her fuck-buddy’s dad, who also happens to be the king of Manhattan. He doesn’t seem impressed when Shiv shows up with a stranger, at least not at first, but Karolina’s attractive, and she’s smart, and she knows how to craft a statement, and so she makes a joke about Sky News and the BBC and how she should’ve appreciated traditional American news media when she was still back home, and that cracks him open wide, a prideful man, unable to resist the temptation of competitive praise.

“Dad, Karolina is the Head of PR for Fashion Week,” Shiv says. “Both seasons.”

“Oh?” Logan hums, narrowing his gaze onto Karolina. “They’re working with an agency in the States?”

“No,” Karolina says, gripping the base of her wine glass. “I was previously working with Condé Nast and developed some professional relationships in Europe. One of my previous clients is on the board here, and they had an open position. Lucky timing, maybe.”

She tries to smile at Logan, but his personal demeanor is unflinching. Still, she doesn’t falter.

“Well,” he says, as if that’s that, “It’s good they’re letting women lead these days.”

Karolina sneaks a glance at Shiv, who’s trying to stifle a laugh into her drink as her father continues. It’s a performative politeness, Karolina can tell, but, hey, at least he’s being nice, right?

“You know, I always told Shiv she ought to aim higher,” he says. “It will be good for her to be around a professional.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, Dad,” Shiv says, rolling her eyes.

“And Shiv?” he says. “What are you up to?”

He sounds curious at best, but there’s an edge to his voice, and Shiv certainly doesn’t seem to like the sound of it. Karolina still wonders if for some reason, Shiv purposefully poked the bear.

“You know,” she waves her hand flippantly, “Meetings with different contacts. Keeping my options open.”

Karolina waits for a cue to jump in, to put out the fire that’s surely building in front of her, but Shiv looks determined to keep it under her control.

“And the Washington situation?” he asks, and for a second, it’s as if Karolina isn’t there at all. An intruding third party, eavesdropping as Shiv shifts in her seat, yet still taking the scene in, watching the way Shiv purses her lips and staunchly avoids looking in Karolina’s direction.

“It’s handled,” Shiv says stiffly.

Logan eyes her and Shiv meets his gaze with an unflinching sort of conviction, until Logan nods to himself and suddenly, like he’d cast some spell to lift a dark curse, the table feels light again. He looks at Karolina with a very easy smile, and she suddenly understands where Shiv gets it from, her ability to just switch. To hit some button and transform herself into whatever the situation has called for.

“How do you two know each other?” Logan asks, and Karolina scrambles, because she realizes she has no idea what Shiv had told him.

“Um—through a mutual friend,” Shiv says. “You remember Lisa Arthur, right? She heard we were both in Paris and said we should connect.”

Connect is a good word for it, Karolina thinks.

“Uh-huh,” he says to Shiv, then turning to Karolina gain, “This one staying out of trouble?”

She can’t miss the frantic eyes Shiv throws her as he asks, but it’s a no-brainer.

“Oh, I’m afraid she’s nothing but trouble, sir,” Karolina says, and there’s a slight pause before Logan’s laughing, and Shiv nervously joins in with a slightly relieved laugh of her own, meanwhile Karolina’s just thanking God she wore black so that nobody can see the sweat dripping down her spine.

“This restaurant was a good choice, Siobhan,” Logan says to Shiv, and Karolina can’t be certain, but it seems to her like they’ve won Logan over for the night.

—

They’re lying in bed, separated by mere inches, but Karolina can feel the ghost of Shiv’s breath on her bare shoulder. She’s closer than she usually is, and Karolina pushes her luck. It’s not something she likes to test very often, and she doesn’t think the universe looks down kindly on those who take more than their fill, but she can’t but feel like the universe has often given her more than her fill. So, she’ll take, just this once.

“The Washington situation,” Karolina says out loud, “is that about—why you’re taking a break?”

Shiv is quiet, but Karolina’s still keeping the windows open at night, so the room is a little cold, but the moonlight is shining through just enough to illuminate them in the darkness. She can see Shiv’s eyelashes batting as they both lay awake.

“Yeah,” Shiv says. “But it’s nothing. Just a—a low-hanging fruit. Dad shouldn’t have brought it up in front of you.”

Karolina swallows thickly. She has a million more questions that she won’t ask, because that was her push. That’s all the luck she’ll test for tonight.

“Okay,” she says, turning onto her back. “Consider it forgotten.”

Shiv doesn’t respond to that, and it’s quiet for a moment until Karolina hears her voice again.

“When we first met, you asked if my parents named me after a knife,” she says into the darkness.

“I did,” Karolina mutters. She remembers thinking the name Shiv more closely resembled a comic book character than a socialite. Siobhan made a lot more sense. Siobhan Roy made the most sense.

“My dad named me,’ Shiv says. “I don’t think my mom really had a say.”

Karolina tries to check-in to the mental game that she and Shiv always seem to be playing. The reading between lines, the talking in circles, and she thinks maybe she can tell what Shiv is trying to get at. That in some, fucked up way, Shiv’s dad is important to her. Regardless of what Karolina knows, or thinks she knows. Shiv gives a little, so Karolina gives a little as well, because despite whatever Shiv thinks, or thinks she knows, she and Karolina are seeming more alike than not every day that passes.

“My dad always hated my name,” Karolina admits. She breathes out deeply, not having thought about it in a long time, the way it seemed like he’d spit her name every time he had to say it. Like he couldn’t get it out of his mouth fast enough.

“Why?” Shiv asks.

Why. Karolina sighs softly, pondering the same question she’s asked herself so many times before. There’s really only one answer that she ever came down to.

“Maybe because it was mine.”

Shiv doesn’t say anything, but Karolina can feel the bed shake and the sheets rustle, and she realizes that Shiv is moving closer to her, fitting her head in the crook between Karolina’s shoulder and her neck, and wrapping a hesitant arm across her torso. Karolina immediately meets Shiv’s hand with her own, because she doesn’t want Shiv to feel unwelcome in her space for any longer than the half a second of hesitancy Karolina feels as Shiv nestles in, and she feels a special kind of calm wash over her as they both settle into the contact.

When Karolina wakes up, Shiv is still there.

—

“What do you think the artist is trying to say?”

Shiv is leaning down, talking lowly into Karolina’s ear. She says it in a teasing tone, clearly making fun of the pretentiousness of it all. They’re at an art gallery opening, another event Karolina’s gained the privilege of attending through her client connections. It’s above her social league, that much is apparent, but Shiv had seemed interested when Karolina mentioned it in passing, and so Karolina RSVP’d herself and a plus one, the thought of Shiv willingly joining her as a date too good to pass up.

Karolina eyes the painting. It’s a minimalist gallery, certainly not Karolina’s favorite for deciphering beyond what would look good on her walls, but she attempts to humor Shiv. The piece they’re in front of is a fully blacked-out canvas with a series of neon orange circles taking up the space inside. She imagines someone who likes this style of art might have something to say about the crispness of the circles or the contrast of the colors, and she thinks the technique must have something to do with why the painting has a charitable price tag of over four hundred thousand, but even still, she actually finds the nature of it pleasing.

“I like this one,” she says. “Something about the way the colors are presented, it’s nice.”

“Sure, it looks nice,” Shiv says, still looking unimpressed. “But it just seems too easy. I’m pretty sure this is what Roman used to make before eating the mac and cheese colored crayon when he was eight.”

Karolina fights against the urge to ask Shiv why her brother was still eating crayons at age eight, and she just marvels at Shiv’s relaxed state, no regard for whether the artist could be lurking behind her, or whether a gallery investor could be in the sea bodies in front of them. She doesn’t have a care in the world, and it’s like Shiv seems to revel in the discomfort of it all. Karolina’s come to realize that Shiv can walk into a room and immediately decide whether the people within it are worth her time, and the moment she walked in, she decided this gallery was bogus and that switch flipped in Shiv. She’s walking around with her hand on the small of Karolina’s back, whispering insulting quips about the guests and the artwork every so often. There’s a mischievous giddiness to her, an American heiress in a room full of French people who have no idea who she is.

“Does it have to prove something?” Karolina asks, turning to Shiv. “To be worth looking at?”

Shiv seems slightly taken by the question, but then she raises her eyebrows, the emotion only fleeting.

“I didn’t take you for a connoisseur,” she says, and then she looks at the painting again. “I guess you’re right.”

Her eyes glaze over the painting, and Karolina wonders if it’s actually doing its job, making her feel. Shiv seems to be someone who is always trying to prove her worth, as if that’s something that needs to be proven at all. Shiv squeezes Karolina’s hand and tells her that she’ll be right back, and Karolina doesn’t have to wonder why the painting suddenly made Shiv so upset, because it’s not about the painting at all. Shiv just needs another fix.

So, Karolina holds Shiv’s champagne and tries to undo the knot in her stomach, but it only grows with every tormenting second that Shiv takes, and Karolina hates that this is a condition of their affair. Hates that she’s just supposed to pretend this is normal, and hates that she feels powerless in stopping it. Shiv eventually comes back from the bathroom with watering eyes that she knows there’s no use in trying to hide anymore, and Karolina meets those eyes with angered ones of her own that she really tries her best to hide, but can’t, because they were having a good night, and now they’re not.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Karolina ends up saying, because it’s true and she means it, but Shiv doesn’t get mad. She just shrugs her shoulders and gazes at the painting again.

“I wish I wouldn’t either.”

––

When they get back to Karolina’s apartment, shoes kicked off and bodies tentatively heading for the bedroom, Karolina waits for an okay that never comes. Shiv’s sitting on Karolina’s bed and Karolina’s lingering in the doorway, and they come to a standstill, Karolina like she’s waiting for permission and Shiv like she’s waiting for an order. Karolina leans against the doorframe as she eyes Shiv. She looks smaller in the yellow light of the room, patiently waiting for Karolina to take the lead. She’d been silent in the car back, and Karolina suddenly worries that Shiv thinks she’s upset with her.

Which, maybe Karolina is, but not in the way that should worry Shiv.

“Want to watch a movie?” Karolina asks, cocking her head slightly. She doesn’t let herself react to Shiv’s surprise, or the hesitancy with which she looks back at Karolina, doesn’t dare give Shiv a reason to believe that Karolina wants anything more than what she’s asking for.

“You’re, um—you’d be fine with that?” she asks. She sounds like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, like she’s holding her breath because Karolina’s testing her and it wasn’t an exam that she’d had the time to study for; but it’s not a test. Karolina doesn’t need a headboard apology, she just wishes she knew the magic formula to making sure Shiv never has to do anything that she doesn’t want to do, even if that’s despite herself.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Karolina asks.

Shiv looks away, trying to hide the way the question hits her, and Karolina elects to ignore it, grabbing the remote and climbing into her bed, far from the end where Shiv is sitting. When Shiv looks back at her, Karolina holds out the remote as if to say, your pick, and after a moment of hesitation, Shiv grabs it. She scrolls through the options for a while, pausing on a few enlightening selections before absolutely blowing Karolina’s mind with what she does choose.

“Practical Magic?” Karolina asks.

“What,” Shiv snorts, “Karolina Novotney isn’t into Practical Magic?”

She has to feign offense at that, because her DVD collection (currently most likely covered in layers and layers of dust in her storage unit back home) would be highly insulted by the thought.

“I am,” she says. “I just didn’t think you would be.”

“I guess I’m full of surprises,” Shiv says, smiling sweetly.

“You just have the hots for Sandra Bullock,” Karolina says.

“Something tells me you have the hots for Nicole Kidman,” Shiv says, twirling a lock of her hair. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Shut up,” Karolina says, and she crosses her arms, because fine, maybe she’s always had the hots for Nicole Kidman in Practical Magic. Shiv and her frustratingly beautiful red hair don’t have to have anything to do with it.

She looks over to Shiv and it takes about two seconds before they both burst into laughter, and the tension is broken as Karolina reaches out for Shiv and pulls her into her chest. Shiv collapses into her willingly, and the ever-present graveness of everything feels a little bit lighter.

It can only last for so long though, and it’s not until the credits are rolling and the evil boyfriend is long-dead and they’re just lying there, Karolina running her fingers through Shiv’s hair while thinking way too much about why Shiv would’ve chosen this movie, that Shiv takes charge of the conversation.

“You know when you said that the Eiffel Tower—that it’s so big the rest of the city pales in comparison?”

That feels so long ago now, almost a few months of Shiv filling up Karolina’s mind since that night.

“Yeah,” Karolina says. “I remember.”

“Do you think that can happen to people?” Shiv asks, voice peaking. Karolina looks down, but all she can see is the top of her head and her wringing hands.

“Maybe,” Karolina says. Because people can become consumed by things and never return. They can get chewed up or swallowed whole and be spit out all the same, and it can define them, the thing that took them. But that wouldn’t happen to Shiv. There are already pages and pages of things Karolina can say about Shiv that have nothing to do with the thing that consumes her. Karolina doesn’t even know what that thing is, and it’s then she realizes that there’s something paradoxical to it, because how can Shiv become overshadowed by something that she won’t let exist?

Still, if it did come to light, Karolina doesn’t believe it could tower her. Not when she knows how bright Shiv’s presence is, “But not to you.”

“How can you know that?” she asks.

“Because I’ve seen you in front of the skyline, Shiv,” Karolina says. “All I could see was you.”

She can feel her heart pounding, and she knows Shiv must feel it too, the rhythmic beating vicious from inside her ribcage, but she finds that she doesn’t care. If Shiv doesn’t know how she feels at this point, then it’s a lost cause anyway. Shiv doesn’t immediately respond, and when she does, it’s not what Karolina is expecting.

“I’m sorry that I’m such a mess,” she says, and Karolina’s erratic heartbeat turns to something more like aching, because Shiv actually does sound sorry. Sorry that this is her life, sorry that she’s dragged Karolina into it, sorry that she can’t feel the same way Karolina feels about her.

“You’re just hurting,” Karolina says, and Shiv stills, because Karolina knows it’s not something she was supposed to know, not something she was supposed to figure out, but she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to look at Shiv and not figure it out. Even still, Shiv hasn’t let it consume her. She stands tall among the wreckage.

“Maybe,” Shiv eventually says, confirming weeks of observation in just one word.

—

Sometimes, Karolina really just wishes everyone in the world would do her a favor and keel over.

“I don’t care what we have to promise them,” she says, holding up a finger to an expectant Shiv, fresh coffee in hand. “Just put whatever they want in the scope and we’ll deal with it, okay?”

The employee on the other end agrees, some Junior Manager named Jacques—as if it couldn’t get any more fucking French—and she hangs up as fast as she can, setting her phone down roughly onto her kitchen counter.

“Jesus—fucking, Christ,” she huffs sharply, leaning her hands on the counter. She knows setbacks are par for the course in an event like this, but they’ve been dealing with absurd requests from talent and vendors all week, and there’s only so much that she actually has the time to make happen. Not to mention that it’s a Sunday, and she can’t remember a single moment in the last ninety-six hours that she wasn’t either sleeping or putting out a fucking fire.

She takes a deep breath, trying to evaporate the ugly adrenaline of anger that’s forced its way into her system, and then she feels a weight against her back and two arms snaking their way around her torso.

“If only this was London Fashion Week,” Shiv says lightly. “Then you could just call them all wankers and get on with your weekend.”

“I don’t like cursing at my employees,” Karolina says, ignoring the joke.

“Okay,” Shiv says, drawing out the word. “Then how about you just ignore them for an hour so that doesn’t end up happening?”

Shiv squeezes at Karolina’s side a little bit, a reminder that she’s still here, that human life beyond client scopes and emails.

“I have to take care of a few more things,” Karolina says, trying to escape Shiv’s grip.

“It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday,” Shiv says, lightly fighting against her. Karolina gives up, not that she’d been trying very hard anyway, and she turns around, leaning against the counter. Shiv quirks an eyebrow. “I think they’ll survive until ten.”

Karolina isn’t sure that’s so true, since they clearly couldn’t survive until nine, but she relents, leaning forward into Shiv’s chest with a sort of purposeful reluctancy, not all that dissimilar from the way Shiv likes to act when she’s pretending she doesn’t want Karolina around. She wonders if they’re less of a match and more of a reflection, constantly catching each other in the act with nonjudgmental eyes but consequential curiosity all the same.

Shiv brings her arms up higher, swallowing Karolina in her embrace, and for a moment, she lets herself imagine that this is real. That she’s back home and it’s a time in her life where she still knows the Bodega guy’s name and she still keeps cat treats in her purse for the tabby that lives in the pasta aisle at her supermarket, and she hasn’t chosen capitalism over love. She imagines a Shiv that doesn’t scare her, one whose face isn’t so chiseled, and hands aren’t so unsteady, whose cheeks still carry the same, sweet pink but whose eyes don’t look so constantly at odds. One that she met in a way she could tell her mother about—a mix-up at the dry cleaners or a small talk at the crowded DMV—so the dull throb of shame for never having brought home a man might hurt a little less. She wonders if there’s a world where she can have that again. Where she can have Shiv in a way that doesn’t feel like everything is always seconds away from total destruction.

She wraps her arms around Shiv as well, and briefly wonders what would happen if she just never let go.

“You okay?” Shiv asks.

Karolina doesn’t know if there’s a right answer. Things have never been better, but there’s still an emptiness. What are you supposed to do when you think you might be falling in love with someone who doesn’t even seem to understand what love actually is? Karolina’s no expert either, but she knows enough to understand that Shiv’s experience is obscured, and she knows enough to understand that Karolina’s absolutely fucked.

“There’s just a lot going on,” Karolina says, and she tries not to let it sound how she means it, which is that work is a lot, and Karolina’s life is a lot, and Shiv is a lot. She can feel Shiv’s nails lightly graze her back as her hand curls slightly into the fabric of Karolina’s shirt.

“Is it too much?” Shiv asks, and Karolina knows they’re not talking about her job anymore.

“No,” Karolina says. “I’ll handle it.”

Because she will. She’ll get the vendors the extra two partners they’ve requested even though the pre-parties start in five days, and she’ll find twenty extra park benches (that certainly don’t exist) to splatter their logos across even though they’ve never needed that many park-bench signs before because, really, pigeons don’t go to fucking Fashion Week, and if in the middle of all of it, Shiv calls her in the middle of the night skiing down a slippery slope and too drunk to realize that the bed she’s asking for is in Karolina’s apartment, she’ll be there. She’ll handle it.

“You know you don’t have to be perfect around me,” Shiv then says. “You’ve eaten my shit, right?”

And Karolina guesses that she has. That she’s shown up for Shiv night after night and Shiv just wants to return the favor. Because in some sense, Karolina is asking Shiv to trust her. To let down her defenses and believe that Shiv won’t chase her away just because things aren’t currently built for a white picket fence, and Shiv is asking Karolina to do the same. To trust her, just a little bit, to handle some of the hard stuff. Karolina isn’t so sure that the Shiv she knows has that ability, isn’t sure she’d pull the lever on the trolley if it were coming straight for her, but she knows that Shiv must exist somewhere, that at some point she had to, so Karolina gives it to her. Gives her the reigns for just a singular thirty seconds, an inconsequential test trial that can’t result in bodily harm or sudden death.

“Fine,” Karolina says, maybe with a little more attitude than she’d wanted, but Shiv wants to be trusted with the real her, and sometimes the real Karolina is snippy. Shiv’s hand relaxes and Karolina focuses on the pressure of Shiv’s fingers on her body, and it does feel good, letting Shiv be the bigger person.

“I have to run some errands,” Shiv says, grip not loosening, “so, why don’t you go answer those emails and curse out whoever you need to, and I’ll be back with lunch?”

Karolina bites her tongue, not wanting to ask what those errands are, because she’s pretty certain it has something to do with the low stash she saw when Shiv asked Karolina to grab her phone from her purse the night before, and she just nods into Shiv’s chest. Lets Shiv feel like she’s doing something right for once, because in a way, she is, and then she lets Shiv go, trusting her to come back in one piece.

(She only ends up cursing out one person.)

—

Karolina continues to pretend. She pretends like Shiv agreeing to be her plus one to the week of events doesn’t make her heart skip a little, and like when Shiv texts her and asks what jewelry Karolina will be wearing to make sure their metals don’t clash it doesn’t feel more romantic than anything else she’s ever experienced before, and that when Shiv is standing next to her, hand on the small of her back, strategizing about all of the ways to maximize the business potential in the room because Karolina still doesn’t have her next job lined up rather than grumbling about the snobby rich people and begging her to leave early, it doesn’t somewhat feel like maybe they’re the two most powerful women in the room. That maybe, she’s met her match.

It’s a double-edged sword though, and Karolina can’t pretend that Shiv’s mood doesn’t shift at the end of each night. That the second the lock clicks in either of their apartments she’s taking off her earrings with a rigid spine and pensive eyes and Karolina can’t ignore what that means, can’t stand the thought of Shiv just playing along to make her happy. So, Karolina pushes again, hoping that it won’t be too much.

Shiv’s standing in front of the mirror, switching out her necklace for her everyday chain.

“You’re beautiful,” Karolina says, hovering in the doorway. She smiles as Shiv meets her gaze through the mirror, and Shiv gives her a small smile of her own, before changing out her earrings. Karolina walks into the bedroom, stopping in between Shiv and the bed, still looking at Shiv through the mirror.

“You know, you really don’t have to keep going to these events,” Karolina says, sitting on the bed, “if you’re tired of the charade.”

Shiv meets her eyes through the mirror and Karolina can see the moment she turns herself back on, as if she’d forgotten was a machine supposed to be willing and able for any bidding.

“I don’t mind,” Shiv says, closing her jewelry boxes. She turns away from the mirror and when she faces Karolina, she’s replaced her face again, this time with something distracting. She moves forward, not stopping until she’s leaning into Karolina, one hand placed precariously over Karolina’s chest. “Besides, it’s kind of hot when you get all, oui m’dame, to your boss.”

Karolina nearly takes the bait, wants to thank Shiv for sticking by her side in the best way she knows how, but it gives her pause, because that’s what it’s about, is it? Karolina doesn’t want Shiv to come just because it’s going to win her points. She wants Shiv to come because she wants to be there,

“Hey, wait—” Karolina says, lightly pushing Shiv back. “I just—I don’t want you to feel obligated, you know? I’m not going to be mad if you want a night off.”

Karolina thinks she’s struck a nerve at the way Shiv’s lips twitch just a little and her eyebrows dig a little deeper into her forehead. She’s touched a sore spot that perhaps had been lingering all along. She wonders about the TK of it all and worries that maybe she has gone too far, but Shiv’s face returns to neutrality almost as quickly as it’d left, and Karolina thinks the attempts at hiding her uncertainty would work if she just didn’t know Shiv better by now.

“I’ll tell you if I don’t want to be there,” Shiv says, brushing Karolina’s stray bang away from her face. “Yeah?”

Karolina wants to take the sentence at face value, but she’s not so sure she can trust that from Shiv. She wants to, but can she?

“Will you?” she asks, and she searches Shiv’s eyes. Shiv stares back, likely going through all the things she can say to dissuade Karolina from the image of Shiv she’s built up in her mind, but it’s no use, Karolina knows who Shiv is, and Shiv knows that. Still, it doesn’t change anything. Shiv nods, and Karolina has to believe her.

“Believe it or not, I sort of enjoy the company,” Shiv says, a small smile returning to her, and Karolina knows that’s her cue to drop it. Knows that’s all Shiv will give her, a promise of honesty that they both know she’s not intent on keeping.

“Sort of?” Karolina says, leaning back expectantly.

“Well,” Shiv says, following her movements, “Maybe a little more than sort of.”

Karolina doesn’t stop her this time, letting Shiv give what she wants to give, and although she can’t shake the feeling that the tender hands and the roaming lips are supposed to be more like compensation than they are desire, she still accepts them, and when they’re finished Shiv lays Karolina’s arms and she remembers that it wasn’t so long ago that Shiv couldn’t even bear to touch her afterward.

“Shiv?” Karolina says, and a quiet, “Hm?” reverberates on her chest. Karolina presses a featherlight kiss into Shiv’s hair and Shiv just burrows herself deeper into Karolina. Karolina imagines this is real.

“I like the company, too.”

—

“I’m going to have to go back to New York soon,” Karolina says. Her eyes are half closed, enjoying the warming weather on her balcony as Shiv smokes a cigarette. Their hands are loosely connected, Shiv dragging her thumb lightly across Karolina’s palm. The runways have started, and Karolina’s job is almost complete. Things are slowing down for her, just wrap up meetings and after-action reports.

“Why?” Shiv asks.

“Because it’s where I live,” Karolina jokes, but neither of them laughs.

“Do you know when?” Shiv asks.

“A few weeks,” Karolina says. She opens her eyes, squinting at Shiv in the sun. Shiv taps her cigarette harshly over the ashtray.

“Can you stay longer?” Shiv asks, quietly, and Karolina frowns, because Shiv never asks for anything, not out loud at least, and if she did, Karolina can’t think of anything she wouldn’t do. But this is something she has no control over. Something she can’t deliver on.

“My visa is going to expire,” Karolina says. “They need to kick me out so the next group of tourists can come in and be disappointed by French espresso.”

She fights again to find some amusement on Shiv’s face, but she finds nothing even close to it. Shiv looks away from her then, but her grip on Karolina’s hand becomes tighter.

“I hadn’t realized how long it’s been,” she says.

Karolina hadn’t either. Months of entanglement, from a chance meeting in a random club to this.

“Just because I’m leaving—” Karolina says, “—this doesn’t have to end.”

She watches Shiv’s face for even a hint of what she’s thinking, but Shiv just stares out into the view in front of them, a couple of rooftops that have their own inhabitants enjoying the freak warm weather. Karolina wonders if things for them always feel this grave as well, or if they’ve reached a point in life where everything’s stopped being so dire. She really thought she’d be there by now.

“That’s a pretty long distance,” Shiv eventually says, and Karolina puts down her book and reaches over to grab Shiv’s arm, lightly grazing her thumb across it.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says.

Shiv looks at her and then looks away again, sighing.

“I’m not going back.”

“Why not?” Karolina asks. Shiv’s bouncing a leg now, and Karolina knows they’re getting into dangerous territory, but they both need to know what’s going to happen after this. Karolina doesn’t know if she’d survive the cold turkey, and Shiv might act like she can, but Karolina doesn’t want to find out whether or not that’s true.

Shiv takes another sharp drag of her cigarette and her eyebrows furrow.

“I can’t,” she admits. Shiv says it like even the thought threatens to break her, but Karolina wonders if it’s too late for that. That despite her best efforts, Shiv is already long shattered.

“What are you afraid will happen?” Karolina asks, her voice calm.

“I don’t know,” Shiv says. “There’s nothing left for me there.”

Karolina knows why Shiv would say that. That her family legacy and the big fancy parties and the distant father who favors her overbearing brothers aren’t anything she’d want to go back for. That whatever happened in Washington carved a wound so deep that she needs uppers to get out of bed and downers to slow her heart enough to get into it, and that it’s easier to ignore and forget than to remember and let go. But Karolina still doesn’t think there’s nothing for Shiv there.

“I’m not nothing,” Karolina says, and Shiv finally looks over again. Karolina thinks she can see a twinge of pink over Shiv’s nose, a little extra glossiness in her eyes, and it’s a gut-wrenching thought, the idea that Shiv is fighting a battle in her mind that she won’t let Karolina into. She’s throwing her own body in front of the archers as if that’ll save either of them from destruction when in reality, it’s the thing that hurts them the most.

“No,” Shiv says. “You’re not.”

Karolina hates seeing Shiv feel so alone, especially when she’s right next to her, touching her, existing with her. She thinks Shiv feels her emotions like she’s the only person on the planet who has ever had them, and Karolina wishes she were more tactful, because anything Shiv is feeling, Karolina’s certain she’s felt before.

“I don’t really have anything to go back to either,” she says, and Shiv immediately shakes her head.

“You have a great life,” Shiv argues, as if it’s supposed to mean that Shiv doesn’t, as if it’s supposed to mean that Shiv is dragging her down, somehow, and Karolina wants to laugh. Her life has become hollow. Hollow work for a shallow industry, distant friends that she doesn’t check up on enough, too many lost lovers to count with the most recent feeling like her culminating failure. She considers that maybe she’s just been hollow from birth, and she wonders if Shiv can feel that shared between them, that absence that can linger in a child forever if parents aren’t careful enough.

She realizes then, that maybe it isn’t about tact at all. If she wants Shiv to give, then she has to continue to give as well.

“I chose Paris over my relationship,” Karolina admits. “Before I left, she gave me an ultimatum—and I chose the job. Nine years, gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiv says, and it sounds like she means it. Karolina shrugs, hands still linked with Shiv’s.

“I’m just saying, I don’t have a life to go back to,” Karolina says. “I’m starting over.”

Shiv seems to get that message, the idea that they could start over together, and she roughly wipes at her face, Karolina assuming it to be a tear that she can’t see from where she’s sitting.

“Why’d she give you an ultimatum?” Shiv asks, ignoring the sentiment.

“She thought I loved my career more than I loved her,” Karolina says.

“Did you?”

Karolina will never forget when Vic asked point blank, “Do you?” and Karolina hesitated. She hesitated, and that was it. In that split second, they could both fill in the blank.

“Maybe,” Karolina says instead. “Or, maybe in the end I just wanted to love her more than I actually did.”

She hates the way remembering makes her feel so cold, how instead of comforting each other through the end, Vic had just told her to get out, and she did. She left without a fight. She just gave up.

“Love is fucked anyway,” Shiv says, but Karolina stills, unsure if that’s true. She decides to bite, praying that it doesn’t send Shiv away.

“Were you—you and TK, were you in love?” she asks nervously.

Shiv drops their hands at the mention of the codeword, and she crosses her arms, folding into herself. For a second, Karolina thinks Shiv isn’t going to give her an answer, but she’s surprised when Shiv does.

“I thought we were,” Shiv admits. “But when he—”

She cuts herself off, and Karolina just waits for Shiv to fill the silence again.

“The way it ended,” Shiv eventually says. “It didn’t feel like love.”

Karolina doesn’t let her mind wander. She’s silent as she tries to come up with something to say that doesn’t feel like she ripped it out of a get well soon card in the pharmacy, but then Shiv steals a glance at her, a very quick one, and her voice rings out again.

“What do you think love should feel like?” she asks.

Karolina looks at Shiv, carrying more pain than she’ll ever truly know, yet here she is, being honest with Karolina. Asking her the big questions, letting herself be vulnerable with someone new, and Karolina realizes that maybe she has done something right for once. That love and trust and a career and happiness might not be as far out of reach as she’d thought. She closes her eyes and faces the sun again, letting her body soak up the warmth.

“Maybe like whatever this is.”

—

Shiv won’t say it, but Karolina knows they’re exclusive. Knows that Shiv considers Karolina hers and that if Karolina strayed, Shiv would care. That if Karolina left, Shiv would care. That Shiv cares. She also knows it’s too soon for Shiv. That old wounds aren’t yet old, and that she still can’t trust Karolina not to accidentally rip them open, that Shiv just needs time. They both know that they’re running out of time.

What Shiv doesn’t know, is that Karolina is prepared to wait.

—

Sometimes, it feels like Karolina is still catching up. Things go well for so long that she forgets exponential growth can stutter and stagnate and sometimes even fall, despite her efforts, despite how much she wills for things to be smooth and perfect. But even in stagnation, there are lessons learned, there are things that change and that still constitutes growth, right?

Shiv calling her panicked and breathless at two in the morning and asking if she can please just come over is horrifying and heartbreaking but also very different than a Shiv who a few months ago couldn’t even hold Karolina’s hand, right?

When she gets there, it’s not quite the scene she’d been expecting. Shiv’s call had her fearing the worst, but the apartment is calm and clean, and she can’t quite figure out what the issue is until she finds Shiv, curled up on the couch, an American news channel on her TV. Shaking hands carry her nail beds to her teeth, and her slightly angered face is partially hidden by the way she has her knees pulled into her chest, listening intently to the soft hum of the television. Karolina’s eyes travel towards the TV; on it is a special report, some greasy bastard with enough pomade in his hair to supply an entire class of pre-tween boys who’ve just discovered the world of manscaping and shifty eyes that look like the secrets he’s sitting on could take his entire campaign down in one fell swoop taking up the screen, and Karolina thinks she puts the final puzzle piece together.

She sets her bag down and walks over to Shiv with cautious legs, cautious arms, and a cautious mouth, and she sits down on the couch, listening to the report. It’s a fluff piece about an after-school meal program in DC.

“Did you work on that initiative?” Karolina tries asking.

Shiv doesn’t move, the only sign that she even heard Karolina’s question being her cheeks sucking in as she shifts her jaw, and her eyes drop from the TV, as if she can’t speak while looking at him.

“Uh—” she sniffs, and digs a hand into her hair for a second before her hand rubs harshly on the back of her neck, “yeah.”

Karolina nods, steeling herself before asking her next question.

“Is that him?”

The silence is suffocating. If she couldn’t see the tight rise and fall of Shiv’s chest, she wouldn’t be sure she was even breathing at all, and Shiv’s face immediately twists, as if the question itself was the last straw in her ability to hold back the tears. She watches as Shiv fights against the instinct to blink, fights against the instinct to let herself cry, to fall apart and to let Karolina see this, and eventually, something gives, because Shiv may be great at pretending, but she’s not superhuman.

She blinks and the tears run down her face slowly, and then, so slightly that Karolina would’ve missed it if Shiv weren’t the entire center of her world currently, Shiv nods.

Karolina releases a deep breath and steals another glance at this man’s smug face, still not even knowing exactly what he’d done, but feeling a familiar rage course through her system. It’s one she keeps on reserve, one she doesn’t often pull out because it’s so red-hot that it feels like she can’t come back from it. The kind she’d used the first time she stood up to her father. It’s then that Karolina notices the small ATN on the corner of the screen, and she knows that if she were anywhere else but alone in an apartment with Shiv, she’d allow the anger to be blinding; but for now she’ll just have to let it be sadness, and protection, and reassurance, and whatever else Shiv could possibly need from her right now.

She doesn’t think she can stomach the sight of him any longer, and doesn’t think Shiv can either, so she grabs the remote and that’s what finally springs Shiv into action, latching onto Karolina’s arm as if it’s the last thing she’ll ever do.

“Wait—” Shiv says, and her eyes tear away from the remote and back to the TV, then to Karolina, and they’re full of such a timid desperation that Karolina wishes she could just open Shiv up and find the faulty wiring, wipe whatever horrible memories seem to be trapping her in this moment and just fucking fix it, but she can’t. What she can do is get this prick’s shadow out of Shiv’s living room before it does consume her. Before it swallows Shiv whole in a way that she feels like she can’t come back from.

Karolina gently brings her hand over where Shiv’s is still latched onto her arm, biting the inside of her cheek when Shiv jumps at the touch, but she doesn’t stop, just guiding Shiv’s fingers to uncurl and then she connects their hands together. She holds on tightly, rubbing her thumb across the top of Shiv’s hand.

“I’m going to turn it off,” Karolina says softly. “Okay?”

She waits for Shiv to react, not daring to break the eye contact Shiv is maintaining until eventually, Shiv is the one to break it, and she nods; hesitantly, but she nods. Karolina immediately turns it off, cutting off his arrogant voice in the middle of some sentence about education reform and the thought of him makes her feel sick, the theatrics of this pedestal he’s posing on when she can see Shiv right in front of her, the consequences of his pedestal in her peripheral, touching her hand. The consequences are real, not some bullshit bill that he’s only getting passed as some sort of mutually beneficial hush deal.

She turns to watch Shiv closely, waiting for any sign of what her next move should be. She doesn’t let go of Shiv’s hand and Shiv doesn’t make a move to let go either, and Karolina is almost ready to speak up again when what little is left of Shiv’s resolve cracks fully open, and Shiv drops her head into her free hand, letting it all out as if this is the first time she’s allowed herself to feel the depth of her emotions since this whole thing had started. Karolina takes deep breaths herself, not wanting to get swept away in her own emotions, and she rests her free hand on Shiv’s back, waiting for any sign that Shiv might not want the contact. Shiv doesn’t react, and Karolina wonders if Shiv even remembers she’s there.

She doesn’t know what to say to even begin trying to make it better, and she feels entirely out of her depth. She just resorts to being there, because Shiv had asked for her, and if this is what Shiv needs, then fuck, Karolina would sit here for months. The French police will have to drag her out of the country kicking before she leaves Shiv, that’s for damn sure.

She draws the same pattern over and over across Shiv’s back until eventually, Shiv leans down, laying her head across Karolina’s lap. As she does so, the tears lessen some, not quite all-encompassing but still burdensome, nonetheless. Karolina is surprised when Shiv speaks, her voice gruff and guarded, and Karolina knows just from the sound alone that she would give anything to take away an ounce of the pain.

“I thought coming here would make things better,” Shiv says. “Like maybe the distance would stop it from feeling like so much.”

“Treating the symptom,” Karolina says, moving her hand to play with Shiv’s hair. Shiv doesn’t say anything to that, and Karolina takes the turn to speak again, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Shiv sighs, her breath shaky.

“He just really hurt me,” Shiv says, her voice cracking slightly, and it’s so simple that it makes Karolina want to scream. She can feel the sting of tears in her own eyes, and she blinks them away. There’s no complexity to it. He hurt her bad enough that she raced to an entirely different continent to numb her days with booze and blow, in a country where she barely speaks the language and nobody would ever notice her, to whittle herself into nothing. To carve herself hollow with sex and drugs until there’d be nothing left to take from her. Nothing left to lose.

Karolina’s fingers move towards Shiv’s hairline, both her and Shiv stilling when she brushes against the scar she’d asked about what feels like so long ago now.

“Did he do that?” she asks, though she isn’t sure she wants the answer. At first, she doesn’t think she’s going to get another one, every question she asks feeling like a deeper hole that she and Shiv might not come out of unscathed, but she has to try, and it seems Shiv does as well.

“The handle of a kitchen cabinet,” Shiv says, clearing her throat. “He said he opened it too fast. That he forgot I was there.”

Karolina hates how clinical the answer is. He said it was an accident. He didn’t see me. He said. He said. He said.

“Is that when you left?” Karolina asks, and she doesn’t want to ask it, doesn’t want the confirmation of whether or not it’s the last scar, if it’s not the only scar—somehow worse if it’s the only visible scar— but it doesn’t look new. It looks old and angry and most of all, it looks sad.

“Uh—no, that was…it was the first time,” Shiv says. “I guess I believed him, or—or, I wanted to, maybe…”

“It’s confusing,” Karolina jumps in. “When you love someone, and they do that.”

“Yeah,” Shiv whispers.

Karolina removes her hand from Shiv’s hair and drapes her arm over Shiv. She’s trying to figure out what her next move should be when Shiv’s fingers run along the surgical scar on her forearm. She remembers she decided to start sharing more. That she owed it to Shiv if she expected the same from her.

“Do you remember when I told you about that?” Karolina asks, and Shiv nods.

“Motorcycle accident,” Shiv says.

Karolina nods even though Shiv can’t see her, and she eyes the scar, less faded than it should be for something almost twenty years old.

“When I broke it, I had to get surgery—a plate and seven screws,” Karolina says. “After it healed, my father, he’d um—grab my arm in that spot. Never hard enough for it to hurt, but just hard enough so that we could both feel the screws under my skin. I don’t know if he even remembered they were there the first time, but every time after that, it was with purpose, you know?”

Shiv grazes the scar again, as if she’s afraid to touch it.

“He wanted to remind you,” Shiv says. “Of your weakness.”

“Yeah,” Karolina says grimly. Not that she needed reminding, and not like she didn’t continue to test him anyway.

“Are they still in there?” Shiv asks. “The screws?”

“No,” Karolina says. “I had them removed once I could afford it. That’s why the scar hasn’t faded so much.”

It was a day of freedom. Something tangible that she could rip out of her body and be rid of, but she knows Shiv doesn’t have that same luxury.

“TK—” Shiv says, even though Karolina knows his name now, “When we got back from the hospital—he told me it was a good thing I wouldn’t be the one on TV, and he held that over me, every time we got into an argument in public or somewhere he couldn’t—somewhere he didn’t have power he’d find a way to say it. And now, every time I look in the mirror he’s just fucking there. He’s always there.”

Shiv’s voice cracks again and Karolina just holds her tighter.

“It’ll fade, Shiv,” Karolina says, because there isn’t anything else Karolina can assure her of.

“I just wish I could erase him,” Shiv says. “Pretend none of this fucking happened.”

Karolina won’t pretend like she knows everything, but she thinks she knows this one thing. She’s banked her entire life on it being true.

“He’ll fade too,” Karolina says. “It won’t always feel like this.”

Shiv just grabs Karolina’s arm and holds it close to her chest, and as Karolina feels Shiv’s heart beat fiercely into her bones, she knows she is telling the truth. She listens to Shiv’s quiet breaths, and looks around the living room, the sweat from the early morning dew on the windows making the glow of the room much warmer than it currently feels. It’s a big apartment, too big for one person, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to leave Shiv in a week. She doesn’t know that she can. Even still, this is bigger than her.

“Shiv?” Karolina asks, hesitantly.

“Yeah?” her small voice croaks out.

“I think––I think maybe you should see someone,” Karolina says, and she can’t stop her own voice from cracking as the words come out. “You can come back with me, and we’ll find someplace private in the city, or maybe somewhere upstate and I––you know, I wouldn’t be that far, then.”

Shiv’s response comes in the form of the smallest, most defeated sound that Karolina thinks she has ever heard, a quiet, “Okay,” with an affliction that Karolina hopes she’ll never have to experience come out of Shiv again.

“Okay,” she whispers back.

“Will you stay tonight?” Shiv asks, and Karolina just runs her free hand soothingly through Shiv’s hair once more.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

#dropping this like a note in a bottle in the middle of the ocean #shivlina #shiv roy x karolina novotney #shiv x karolina #succession fic #shiv roy #karolina novotney #duskfalls

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miamierre · 1 year

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Piarles getting married for tax benefits will make such a cute fic Omg

charles suggests it as a joke one time--"you would be a monaco citizen, pierrot, think of the money you wouldn't have to waste on your milan apartment"--but they laugh it off, and the thought disappears.

at least. for a little while.

pierre thinks of it again listening to danny ric talking about juggling his time in monaco to retain his citizenship. it sounds like such a hassle, to settle there for the financial benefits but have a whole life elsewhere--and it feels dishonest, which he doesn't like. he'd never want to do it like that! at least if he were married to charles he'd have a reason to stay all the time--

and oh, when did that thought resurface? he must make some kind of expression because daniel stops mid-beer and is like "what, mate, are you the financial crimes unit now?" and pierre just laughs, having startled himself by the thought. "you're too busy for your own good, daniel," is what he settles on, but the way his brain had so readily supplied the charles option™ kind of has him thrown.

he mentions it to charles when they see each other at the driver's briefing on that race friday. "i was talking with daniel the other day and he said this thing--he's totally about to get caught with the whole monaco thing." and charles is laughing when pierre continues, "if i were your fake husband, i totally would not get caught." or something really kind of heavy-handed like that. and charles...stops laughing. "yeah," he says after a too-long beat, "but you'd have to be careful about who you date, you know." (pierre hadn't even thought about that part--seeing someone in secret while he's got some wedding band tying him to charles. it just hadn't occurred to him.)

they drop it.

but the thought resurfaces again, and again--the idea of being a citizen of monaco, of giving up milan because it's starting to become too much of a hassle and just...living with charles and paying less rent and not being by himself all the time? when he mentions it to ilies he just gets a loud burst of laughter and an "oh, yes, definitely" that sounds sarcastic but in a way that's got pierre raising an eyebrow.

it could work. it could be something they try.

he texts charles about it. were you serious?

about what? an immediate reply.

pierre's sweating bullets and he can't really figure out why. the citizenship thing.

charles...is typing for a while. pierre is hyperfixated on the little bubbles. then, after what feels like forever: of course p

so pierre just. takes the swing. you wanna marry me then? short sweet and to the point. he's expecting another agonizing wait.

sure is the reply he gets almost instantly. so fuck it! he'll get married to charles and pretend. it won't be hard, because they're best friends and he already spends plenty of time in monaco as it is. he's met the royal family, he's close to the leclercs, nothing really will change except his location.

...right?

scenes when pierre gets fixated on the rings they exchanged in front of the marriage license clerk. when charles jokes about sharing a bed as pierre says he'll sleep in a guest room. when charles asks if he wants to start seeing other people and pierre's tongue is so, so heavy when he says if you want even though he really, really doesn't want that. when they have to hold hands when they go out to the store because #married but they...they don't stop once they're in the privacy of their apartment building. when they get so drunk one night and pierre just kisses him because "we are married, it is what they expect of us" with a grin only for charles to cave easily and devour him. when they realize the next morning this may not be as simple as they thought.

#.......help #piarles #10 x 16 #ask reply #Anonymous #me writing this at work as if i dont have another day and a half of this job

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gal-palanaeum · 2 months

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Warmth by Thirstspren

Rated General, 1000 words, Akane/Yumi Yumi settles into her new life and begins to realize there's something missing.

Turns out, running a restaurant was a lot harder than it looked. Especially when the head server wasn’t great at talking to people, the head chef had only been cooking for a single week, and all the financials existed solely in the brain of a person who was no longer on the same planet.

(If Design even had a brain. Yumi still didn’t know what that strange woman was, nor did her old assistants, who had thankfully stayed on to prevent complete disaster. Except the one who’d fled when the old coatrack had come to life. Putting up with Design’s oddities had been one thing, but no job was worth putting up with that, he’d said.)

Worse, Painter’s role in saving the city had made him a minor local celebrity, drawing thronging crowds and massive scrutiny, and a clumsy business operation coupled with furious demand was a recipe for failure. Both feared that all their admiration would last only as long as their patience for late, cold noodles.

“These (lowly) customers,” Painter groused one night after closing, as they stacked chairs on the tables for sweeping. “Please tell me I was never this infuriating.”

Yumi balanced a chair on one leg. “I may no longer be a yoki-hijo, but that has not changed my position on lying,” she said.

Painter laughed, then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. The chair toppled.

He winced apologetically and put the chair back the normal inverted way. “I’m just saying. I’m an artist. Why did Design think I’d know how to wait tables?”

Yumi nodded in sympathy. They both knew he’d get better with practice, but that didn’t ease his frustration in the time being.

In comparison, she felt a little guilty at how quickly she was improving in her new role.

They maintained separate residences, because neither felt ready to move in together. Ironically, sharing a body did not prepare them for sharing an apartment. Neither could be comfortable at the other’s preferred temperature, for a start. Fortunately, all the former nightmare painters had been permitted to keep their free housing for a year to ease their transition into a radically changing labor market, and Yumi took over Design’s former quarters in the back of the restaurant, so they didn’t have to worry about rent.

Each night, after they closed, she practiced for long hours, basking in the residual warmth of boiling broth, measuring out herbs and spices and other ingredients until she knew the look and weight of them intuitively, and she could reach for each ingredient without conscious thought. Meanwhile Painter walked home every night, watching the walls come to life with extraordinary murals commissioned by the government to create work for the unemployed artists. Artists who weren’t him. He’d finally gotten his love of painting back, just in time to lose his calling. Then they’d sleep separately, and in the morning, they’d unite for breakfast and watch a couple shows on the hion viewer at Painter’s apartment. Yumi would cocoon herself in blankets, and Painter would do his best to snuggle her from the outside.

It was nice. But part of her felt like something was missing. She no longer felt that sizzle of energy when they touched, for starters. That had been about their condition, she discovered—it hadn’t been about them. Without the fate of both worlds hanging in the balance and a spirit artificially connecting their souls, Yumi feared she and Painter were falling out of sync. Like a stone that refused to balance on one side, and needed a different orientation.

Keep reading

#femslash february #wlw cosmere #cosmere femslash fic #cosmere fanfic #yumi cosmere #akane cosmere #yumi/akane #yumi x akane #yumi and the nightmare painter #yatnp #ssp3 #ssp3 spoilers

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arathenerd · 1 year

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✨Fanfic soulmate AU idea for Merthur✨

Hi, hey, hello.

So. Here’s the thing: this idea has been literally living in my mind rent free and it has developed into a sort of monster idea at this rate. I NEED this thing out so maybe someone actually competent at writing can pick it up and make me very very happy. So. So. So. I’m gonna divide this post in three parts to make it more understandable and all that, starting with the world building.

World building 🌎

I know what you are thinking. “Oh, soulmate au, must be very straightforward and boring” NO MY FRIEND.

Usually, in a soulmate au, a superior divine power (be it a god, the universe, or whatever) chooses the characters partners without their intervention. In this world, the characters are the ones who choose their soulmate.

“What?” Yeah. Hear me out.

In this world magic not only exists, but it’s also widely accepted and integrated in society. That includes practices such as marriage, which can be accomplished in three different ways.

Your usual magicless ceremony, though in this world is not as popular as,

Emotional-bonding ceremony. Pretty self explanatory, I think, but nevertheless, is about bonding emotionally with your partner, which means people can feel what the other is feeling. Is believed that this bond allows for a deeper connection in the relationship. And then there’s the most rare one,

The soul-bond ceremony. Like I said, extremely rare. This is mostly because of a series of different reasons, but is also considered the most important marriage bond you could ever have, if you do, and is widely romanticized. Soul-bonded pairs, because of this, are deeply respected, to the point that separating them is considered a grave violation.

Some of the reasons why soul-bondings are extremely rare:

a. It doesn’t work for everyone. What I mean with this, is that just being in love with someone isn’t enough. The soul bond requires not only a deep mutual understanding, but a love that transcends the body. In a matter of speaking, your soul has to be in love with the other person's soul.

b. It’s not enough if you do happen to love that person that way, but the same kind of love it’s not returned. It needs to be mutual.

c. It cannot be forced. You can’t make an arranged marriage with a soul-bonding ceremony. If the people involved aren’t willing and don’t feel like that, the magic simply won’t take. And finally,

d. Not that many go for it? I mean, the prospect of a soul bond is daunting as it is but on top of that, this ceremony is not as simple as that. As the name itself tells you, this is a soul-bonding ceremony. You are literally uniting your souls. That’s not only permanent, my friend, it will also transcend your mortal life and bleed into the next. Do you have any idea how desperately and profoundly in love you have to be to go for it? Yeah, exactly.

As you probably noticed, yes, this is where the chosen soulmate thing comes into play 😏.

Reincarnation exists in this world, but mostly, people can never know if they are reincarnations or new souls… unless, of course, the had a soul-bond from a past life.

People really don’t get flashbacks or memories if they do happen to be reincarnations, soulmate or not. There’s no such thing as a soulmark but the universe does have its ways to push people that are supposed to be close together.

You know when you are about to go on a trip, add all these thing to your baggage, and feel like you have everything you need, except… no. Not quite so. There’s something missing. You turn around your room, even search the bathroom, but for the life of you, you can’t figure it out. The feeling it’s maddening, anxiety inducing, really. What is missing?

And then, you can’t wait anymore and need to leave, so you do. You get to your hotel, and, while unpacking, it hits you. Suddenly you know exactly what you left behind and, yes, it turns out to be something you very much need.

That feeling, that nagging at the back of your brain, it’s how it feels to be reborn soul-bonded. Not that people can recognize it easily. Besides that, there’s the hunches. Sudden strong feelings that say “yeah, if I do this, if I go down this path, I’ll get closer to finding this thing I need, even if I don’t know what it is yet”. It’s slow working, but people always get there. Eventually. It only takes one look for your soul to sing in recognition.

Also, just because they are soulmates doesn’t mean they immediately fall in love. They are still strangers to each other. It’s more like, meeting someone and having the perfect comfort that if you work for it, give it your all, you will find a love like no other at the other side.

Engagements are also done with magic, usually. The practice is as sort of more formal promise, because once a person is magically engaged to another, any magic done in a ceremony (marriage) that isn’t done with the person you are engaged with simply won’t take.

Not only that, but if you happen to already be married (either with an emotional bond or a soul bond) and try to get engaged, the magic won’t take either. This means that if you are a reincarnated soul with a soulmate, you might find something new about yourself at your engagement ceremony lol.

Unless you happen to do a magicless ceremony I guess, but like I said, it’s really not the preferred thing.

Arthur in this AU 👑

After laying down the basics, who’s Arthur in this AU, within my head?

He’s the crown prince of a kingdom (it can be Britain if you wish, or a modern Camelot, idk, it really doesn’t matter) and he’s about to go through his engagement ceremony. *gasps*

Is an arranged marriage, of course. If you write this, you can choose whoever you like to be the woman at the other side, but either way it’s not gonna last.

Arthur, of course, isn’t happy about it but knows this is his duty and all. Never mind the constant feeling that he’s doing something he really shouldn’t be doing, or the feeling of guilt he doesn’t understand.

The ceremony is a public affair. Nobility, high society and royalty are all there to witness the event as expected, including journalists to document the event. Then the ceremony begins, Gaius, the Court Sorcerer to King Uther, doing the spell casting. Except, it doesn’t take.

The guests, who had been silently expectant, suddenly start quietly murmuring. What’s happening?

Uther frowns, going to Gaius, wanting an explanation. Calmly, Gaius tells him that the engagement won’t be possible, since the magic bounced against Arthur. The murmuring gets louder. Is the prince already engaged? Married? Oh, my!

Uther turns to his son, red in the face, screaming “what have you done?!” But Arthur is just as confused as everyone else. He says as much.

Gaius intervenes, telling the king there’s no point in being mad at Arthur, since the soul bond was clearly done in a past life.

Now people are really going nuts with this. Soul bond? It’s rare of course, but do you have any idea how many centuries it has been since a noble, let alone a royal, was soul-bonded? Let alone the crown prince?

Arthur can feel his heart beat out of his chest.

This is pretty much the only clear scene I have in my head, so, yeah. I also played with the idea of having a sort of soul-tracking spell that lets you see who’s at the other side of the soul bond as if it was tv and make everyone look at Merlin and realize it’s him but I wouldn’t know how to make it work. If you can, I might kiss you.

Merlin in this AU 🧔🏻🪄

So, you probably noticed Gaius being Court Sorcerer to king Uther there, didn’t you. It will be relevant here.

Court Sorcerers and monarchs in this world work as a team. Usually, when a new king is crowned, a new court sorcerer will be named, and this sorcerer will be the most powerful one of the same generation as the will-be-king. Sometimes, they'll meet before the kingship, sometimes after. There aren’t really any hard rules about that.

The new Court Sorcerer prospect is not obliged to say yes, but it is considered a high honor. Not that Merlin in particular wanted to.

Merlin is not only the most powerful of his generation, but also the most powerful to be born in centuries. This is not surprising, since it doesn’t matter if he’s reincarnated or not, Merlin is always going to be the most powerful one. But I digress.

He was found by Gaius, when he was 17, barely getting out of school. He explained the process: he would go trough training, and when the time came, he’ll take his place.

Merlin really wanted to say no. He almost did, but something stopped him. A hunch, a feeling that, maybe, just maybe, saying yes would be worth it. The feeling was strong enough for him to doubt his original stance, and then, to yield.

And so, the man would spend years under Gaius’s tutelage on all things magic and royal customs and etiquette, these days being closer to his thirties (somewhere between 25 and 29 years old). And everything would be perfectly fine if he hadn’t had the most curious dream.

You see, I said that people usually don’t remember their past lives but Merlin is a bit different. He’s pretty sure this was a past life.

In the memory, he’s running through the woods. He runs, runs, runs, feeling the heartbreak, the pain, the tears running down his face.

Modern Merlin doesn’t know it, but his past self would dare to soul bond with prince Arthur of Camelot, even knowing he wasn’t his to have. They did it because they wanted something only theirs, for once. Something no one could take away. But, as was usual when it came to duty, prince Arthur would be forced to marry eventually. And that day was that day.

So Merlin runs. Eventually, he reaches a hidden stone cellar, abandoned a while ago. He goes in it, burying the precious item within. He buries it because he knows no one must ever find it. The gods only know what would happen if the nobles or, gods forbid, the king figured out what they’ve done. So he buries his dreams and hopes, protects them with magic so they are not eroded and damaged by the earth, enchants the cellar so it doesn’t fall apart on top of it, no matter how much time passes.

A sudden fear paralyzes him. What if he tried to recover it and didn’t find it? No. That wasn’t an option. He was being a fool, he knew. He would never get the item back. But just in case, he needed to make sure that he could.

And so, the Merlin of the past didn’t know it, but, the spell might have worked too well. The point was to brand the location in his brain, but he’s so desperate, so scared, he doesn’t realize he branded it in his soul.

Modern Merlin wonders at this memory, wonders at the sudden necessity to go look for the item. But the thing isn’t there anymore, is it? It probably never was. It was just a dream.

And yet, before he knows it, he’s already looking, something he can’t name driving him forward. He feels ridiculous, set for disappointment, but he can’t stop. He walks as if he knows where he’s going.

His heart stops when he sees the beat down entrance of the cellar. It goes up to his throat when he goes without stopping to the specific place the item was hidden. He chokes on it when he knows not only where it is, but how deep it was buried.

And then, it’s in his hand.

The ring is simple, but beautiful. A gold band with elegant Celtic runes. Merlin looks at it, fascinated. He can feel the magic embedded in it. Soul-bonding magic.

He gasps. It is believed that touching a soul-bonding item that’s not yours is bad luck, but he has the all encompassing feeling that this ring is his.

Now, within the library he seats with Will and tries to pretend there isn’t a necklace around his neck with a ring hanging from it, hidden under his clothes.

Finishing thoughts 💭

If you write this in a slow burn, longish fic, with angst but also mostly softness and drama from an external threat I would love you forever. Bonus points if you use third pov, specially with the media. I love when that’s included with characters that are supposed to be public. I mean, people gushing about the fairy tale with prince Arthur on twitter? Newspapers documenting what’s happening? Yes please. External pov is the best.

Super extra points if you write it without miscommunication being the center of the angst and the fic. Forget kissing you, I would soul bond with you.

Anyway that’s it. It’s pretty long, but hopefully someone feels as excited as I do about this AU and picks it up. If you do, don’t forget to leave the link in the comments ❤️.

#bbc merlin #merlin #Merthur #Merthur fic #fanfic idea #fic idea #Merthur fanfic #Arthur pendragon #merlin emrys #this idea has been HAUNTING ME I SWEAR #Is it obvious with how long this post is?#i just keep thinking about Arthur suddenly looking at Merlin and forgetting how to breath bc holy that man’s gorgeous #and the media going crazy bc the crown prince being soul bonded to a man? talk about unexpected #and then everyone and their mother shipping it so hard they are trending on Tumblr for a full month with gifs and everything #and Merlin seducing the hell out of Arthur and Arthur trying to pretend he isn’t helpless against it #uuughhhhh #king arthur #camelot

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