#existing anymore? so it feels my entire life is at stake and i could barely sleep and now i feel more bad than positive and maybe i don't

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch.10

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9

The day shift gives you ample time and opportunities to walk around the castle. Within a week, you come to know every chamber and pathway you hadn’t previously crossed, intimately.

At first, you pictured making your escape through a weak point in its fortification. The walls are ancient; You would have bet money on one of its parts having given out in the passing of centuries and gone unnoticed. Now, you know such a thing doesn’t exist. It doesn’t really surprise you that Alcina has made sure the exterior is in the same excellent condition as the interior.

But it is a problem.

The walls are too big for you to scale. If there are any stepping points, you can’t see them from within. You tried over and over to at least peak out into the back yard, but the shrieks and growls of monsters had you immediately changing course.

You don’t know what those things are and you’re not eager to find out. According to the older maids, there are more of them deep in the dungeons. It is only a rumor, of course, since nobody has ventured down there and returned to tell the tale.

Which, taking the window bars into account… leaves only one way out.

The front door.

You are aware that Lady Dimitrescu and the daughters all have a key on them. You know from Cassandra those are the only copies. Nothing enters or leaves unless one of them allows it.

There is not a snowflake’s chance in hell you’re getting Alcina’s key. She will murder you on sight. Bela won’t do anything to disappoint her mother, so that rules her out, as well. Daniela is the one most likely to misplace it or be persuaded to give it to you, but the girl is as unpredictable as she is sly and you won’t risk your wellbeing for a distant chance.

That means…

Cassandra is the only way out, isn’t she…

-

-

You lay low and await an afternoon where the cold is downright bone-piercing. As warm as the castle is, with fireplaces burning everywhere, you can still feel the stinging kiss of the outside frost every time you so much as go near a window.

And it all comes full circle right back to the start; You in front of Cassandra’s bedroom door, trembling with anxiety like the very first time. It is oddly fitting, in a way, that the story of the two of you ends where it began.

For a moment, you almost marvel at how long ago it feels, now. But there is no time nor space in your heart for sentimentality anymore. You stand at the point of no return.

And you cross it as soon as you turn the handle.

Cassandra’s bedroom is softly illuminated by the dying embers of the fireplace. You walk forward cautiously, slowly, almost as if you’re expecting a landmine to go off at a single misstep. Except –well. A mine would be far more merciful. Just an explosion and then nothing. If Cassandra wakes…

You try not to think about it, lest your muscles lock in place.

Underneath the heavy covers of the bed, you see her, cocooned, pale fingers clutching tight at the blankets. It is too early for her to wake. She is deeply asleep, you tell yourself, simultaneously praying she doesn’t open her eyes.

You make it to her vanity, soundless. Her amber-jeweled choker and the necklace she and her sisters wear are neatly arranged, yet the key you’re looking for isn’t with them.

Shit. You inwardly curse, your hand shaking from the nerves. It means she’s put it in the drawer of her bedside table. It means you have to go next to her, to literally put your fingers in the sleeping wolf’s parted jaws and hope they don’t clamp down.

Easy, right?

An unsteady exhale later, you move further in and carefully kneel by the small furniture. Keep your eyes on the prize. Keep—

But you make the mistake of looking to the side.

Cassandra’s expression is not relaxed in sleep like how you remember it from the time when you would wake her up. Instead, her brow is furrowed, the line of her mouth pressed thin. She’s shivering, you realize, either from the cold or a nightmare or both. Shadows dance across her beautiful face.

Your first instinct is still to reach over and soothe her. You hate it, but you’ve accepted you won’t be over whatever it is you feel for her in quite some time.

It is not your place anymore to touch her, you remind yourself. You cannot ease her through her fears now that she has become your own.

With a clenched jaw, you force your body through the motions of opening the drawer and taking the key within.

At last. Your freedom is in your grasp.

And yet.

Shouldn’t you be happier about it?

Cassandra’s voice nearly knocks the air out of your lungs when it reaches your ears, faint. “No… please…”

You forget how to breathe for a couple of seconds. When your wide eyes shift to her, though, you realize she’s merely talking in her sleep.

Leave. Leave while you can.

But your chest constricts when you hear her sob. “…don’t leave me here… please…”

And out of all the possible things she could say, she utters those words and smashes your glass heart with a sledgehammer into a trillion pieces. The shards cut into you and it hurts—

You pause at the door. The corners of your vision have started to blur.

And then the world snaps, sharply, back into focus when her tone changes;

“…Alexia…?”

Your eyes lock, hazel to amber-grey, for a split second.

You run.

-

-

You don’t think you have ever ran this fast in your entire life. But it’s different now that it is about your life.

Adrenaline rushes throughout your bloodstream. You’re not thinking, just acting. Just fleeing.

Death, in the form of a black swarm, closes in on you with every rapid heartbeat. Cassandra is faster –she can fly and you’re only human—and at this rate you won’t even escape the corridor, much less the castle.

Flies break ahead of the rest and attach themselves to you. The sting of their bite at your nape and arms nearly has you howling in agony. She meant it when she said she would kill you herself. Not that you doubted it. Not for a second.

Because if Cassandra can’t have you, she will make sure nobody will.

You didn’t want to hurt her back the first time, but the stakes are too high now. You grab the nearest solid antiquity in your panic and throw it with all your might against the nearest window.

Glass shatters and the temperature plummets with it. Over your shoulder, you hear her scream. More out of rage than pain.

The flies biting at you drop to the floor, grey and paralyzed. You hear her shout pierce through your eardrums like a gunshot as you dash towards the turn—

“You won’t ever get to that door, Alexia!”

From the corner of your eye, you notice a blur coming towards you and instinctively drop down. A heavy thump later, your frantic eyes fly to the wall to see her sickle embedded halfway through a painting. If you hadn’t reacted in time, that would have been you.

Still, she can’t cross the hallway now, so you scramble to your feet and run while she takes the long way around. Question is, will you make it to the front door before she does?

It becomes a race where the winner takes all.

You practically jump down entire sets of stairs in your struggle for survival and you have no clue how you do it. You just know you can’t slow down for even a second.

The castle feels ten times as large as it actually is. By the time you descend the last staircase and the sound of buzzing insects grows in volume, the entrance is within sight.

You reach for another decoration and smash another window. Cassandra slows down, forced to materialize out of the swarm before she can’t will her body back together at all.

You shove the key into the lock and turn it.

Cassandra fights through the rush of frozen air, taking step after weighted step towards you—

“I won’t…let you leave here…alive.” she hisses, her teeth bared at you, skin growing too pale yet eyes blazing.

“I’m done being your prisoner.” you say back, voice hoarse and raw…

And you open the door. Steps taken backwards carry you away from her faster than she can make it to you. You can see her pain and her frustration, but they cannot compare to your own.

Your wounds ache from the frost.

Cassandra seems just about ready to leap at you even if it will certainly mean something very bad for her—

Until a black blur shoves her a dozen meters back. Bela’s back stands between you and Cassandra’s cracking form. Daniela soon lands off to the side, looking between the two of them.

“Get out of the way, Bela!” Cassandra snaps.

“It’s over.” Bela replies, a grave finality to her voice.

Your breaths are coming out in harsh puffs of smoke. You still have trouble believing that you did it. That they can’t follow anymore. You did it.

“Nothing’s over!” Cassandra snarls and lunges for her elder sister.

The blonde, deadly calm, grabs her by the neck in a choke-hold and drags her closer to the nearly-extinguished warmth of the fireplace. The way Cassandra thrashes in her arms is downright heartbreaking.

Daniela looks at you, almost saddened, then back at her sisters.

“Shh. Calm down, Cassandra. Let go. Mother will be here soon. Don’t let her see you like this.” Bela says. “If you’ve any parting words to say to Alexia, say them now.”

You’re shivering. The cold nips through every layer of clothes you’re wearing to bite straight at your flushed skin. But you don’t move further away. You wait. Why am I even waiting, though?

Realization slowly sinks in, you can tell from Cassandra’s expression. Beyond the wounded pride of the apex predator losing a fight to a rabbit… she understands that she will never see you again.

Bela releases her and steps away, adjacent to Daniela.

“You’ve earned your freedom, Alexia.” Bela speaks under her hood. “Nobody’s ever managed to escape, before. Respect.” In another life, maybe her and you could have been friends. Maybe.

“So you’re really… leaving?” Daniela’s lower lip is slightly jutted into a little pout. “I… who will I use to get on Cassandra’s nerves, now?”

“I’d say it’s been nice, but.” you speak up between pants, birthing forth puffs of smoke. “I was taken from my home and sent here as a slave, so.” You can’t help the bitter grimace.

Cassandra’s chest is heaving, yet she isn’t looking at you. It doesn’t look like she has anything to say to you, either. But you have words for her, because you need to get this out at last, you need to be free of this weight or you will never really have escaped this nightmare.

“Even as your captive, you know what I fucking thought? You three can be so beautiful when you toy with the idea of basic human empathy. I don’t know what you saw our time as, Cassandra, but I was genuinely attracted to you. I wanted to be together with you. At some point, I was even happy!”

You’ve inhaled so much icy air your lungs probably won’t be doing great for very much longer but God, this is so cathartic. And so enraging that she’s not meeting your eyes now, at the very end of it all.

“Look at me! I care for you, deeply, but I can’t do this anymore! I don’t want to live in a cage as a pretty sacrifice, with you as my jailer. I can’t. You don’t know how psychologically destructive it is. You don’t know what it feels like!” you end with a hitched shout.

You hear the ominous sound of heavy heels hurriedly descending the staircase. “By Miranda! What is going on— Cassandra?!”

All three daughters freeze up for a moment.

Then Daniela touches her head as though she’s having a migraine and Bela shuts her eyes tightly, shoulders tensed. And Cassandra… drops on her knees to the floor, gasping for oxygen, clutching at her temples.

Bela shakes her head to snap out of it. Daniela still looks dazed and afraid… but Cassandra is nearly crying—

And then, in her panic attack, she whispers; “Don’t abandon me like they did, Alexia.”

You don’t know who she means or what you’re doing, until you’ve dashed back inside and gathered her chilled form into your arms, tight. You keep her there like you wish someone had held you during your storms. It doesn’t matter that you’re so much weaker than Cassandra, when what haunts her is too powerful even for her to face.

Alcina extends her claws as she advances on you.

You could probably still get away if you make a run for it, but where will you even go, when your heart is right here with the woman in your arms? The world beyond the village died for you a long time ago. The village died in a literal sense.

You wanted to be free. But freedom and being with her aren’t mutually exclusive. Why did it take me this long to figure it out…?

Alcina is too close now. You turn to kiss Cassandra’s hair for what may be the last time. You do not let go.

Bela and Daniela step in front of you.

Alcina gives them a warning, narrowed look.

“Uh— you know what, I just stepped forward because I saw Bela move. Haha, nevermind.” The redhead retreats once more. Maybe you’d roll your eyes at her if you weren’t bracing for your execution.

“Bela… step aside.” Lady Dimitrescu’s tone leaves no room for disobedience.

The eldest daughter lowers her head and hesitantly opens the path, as well.

Alcina casts a deep shadow over you in her massive height and giant claws. You lock eyes with her briefly, with the last, flickering cinders of your courage. Then you shift your face down into Cassandra’s shoulder and prepare to be skewered through. Her fingers clutch you almost painfully close to her.

“As for you…” there’s a growl in Alcina’s voice that makes you cower in terror.

Except...

The horrible pain you expected takes a little too long to come.

“…you have backbone, little human, I will admit.” Is that… is that a smirk you hear in her tone? “And my daughters do seem to want you around…”

…What?

Cassandra slowly pulls away from you to look up at her in disbelief and you dare to open your eyes. The claws are still uncomfortably close to your face.

“I will take responsibility for the damage, mother. Just, please, let her stay with me.” Cassandra says.

“…Hm. Very well. I expect the windows repaired by dinner.” Alcina gracefully pivots and just like that, takes her leave.

You and the sisters are left there, unbreathing, unmoving, wondering what just happened.

“Too cold. See you at dinner.” Daniela is the first to speak up. She rapidly waves and disappears like she’s being hunted by an army.

Bela glances at you, then at her middle sister. “We need to talk. But later. For now, defrost.” She, too, disperses in a swarm of flies.

Cassandra, uncharacteristically vulnerable, looks into your eyes and brings a crystalline hand to your cheek. The soft way she does it, it may as well be the apology she is too proud to voice. You both lean towards each other, resting your foreheads together.

You have a lot to talk about. But there is time.

#cassandra dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x oc #resident evil village #fanfiction #writing #we're almost at the end of this guys #thank you for all your sweet support #hope group therapy won't be needed

[hahnspoetry]

love is pain (agatha harkness x reader)

hiii, i’m back. no one asked for this but i felt inspired and my poor sleeping pattern helped encourage me to write this. i’m not used to writing angst so if you have any tips or suggestions on how to improve pls send them over!!

TWs: swearing, angst, deteriorating relationship, cheating allegations, character death, car accident, blood mentions (not too graphic but i don’t want to risk anything), unhappy ending (sorry folks). if i’ve missed anything please let me know. 

love is pain - finneas - the song that inspired this fic (youtube link). ¦ masterlist

Falling in love was something you never saw on the cards. Love wasn’t something you thought you wanted… until you met Agatha Harkness. She was beautiful, inside and out. A wonderful woman who never failed to make you feel special, make you feel like you matter. The time you’d spent together was wonderful and you felt like this could be the one, that Agatha could be the one. That all changed when you both moved to Westview.

Say it’s not enough to be in love

You need to prove it somehow

Agatha had felt an insane surge of power in New Jersey. She believed it related to something she had been researching long before you met her (probably long before you were born too). Her kind words and reassuring tone convinced you to come with her, under the guise that she would be able to look after you better if you were with her in Westview, she could protect you better. The one thing she couldn’t protect however, was your heart. 

It’s not dollar signs and pick-up lines

Or anything you could kiss away now

The first few days were nice. You enjoyed the domesticity of it; the calm, suburban life appealing to you more each day. You’d always imagined moving away from the city. Something you pictured doing with Agatha. You felt that dream slowly slipping away as she spent less time with you, she’d have one cup of coffee with you in the morning then dart off to Wanda’s. She’d never be home in time for dinner or to say goodnight, rather opting to climb into bed once you’d fallen asleep (or at least seemed asleep to Agatha, not that she double checked). She barely made conversation with you. You felt like she was drifting away from you. You began to realise something was wrong when Agatha dragged you out of a party at the Vision household, her grip tight on your wrist as she marched you both back to your ‘house’. She was angry, angrier than you’d ever seen her; and what was rarer was that she was angry at you.

That sinking feeling that you get

When you say something you’ll regret

“I don’t want you near her. She’s dangerous and I don’t want her finding out about us if you let something slip. It could ruin the plan, ruin years of hard work.” 

You shot her an incredulous look, surely it would be more suspicious if you didn’t talk to Wanda. If you ignored her existence entirely, she’d know something was up. The way she spoke didn’t sit right with you either, it almost felt accusatory. You’re the one that would be screwing it up.

“You’re more worried about me blowing your cover than anything else? She’s ‘dangerous’ and your main concern is your plan? Real charming Agatha.” 

You didn’t intend to make it sound so harsh, but that’s what it felt like to you. 

“Honey, I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here. I’ve put a lot of time and energy into this plan and I-”

You’d had enough of her condescending tone. You already knew what she was going to say.

“I know how important your plan is! That’s all you care about right now, your stupid fucking plan! You barely talk to me anymore, you spend all your time with Wanda now I’m barely a second thought to you.”

Agatha’s face softened. She hadn’t realised what she’d done to hurt you. 

“I’m sorry, angel. I-I didn’t-”

You felt guilty, she was only trying to protect you from Wanda. Was she though? Or was she trying to protect herself?

“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to snap, I know you’re just trying to protect me and I’m sorry. Let’s just go to bed, shall we?” Agatha nodded as she wrapped her arms around your waist, pulling you in for a tight hug. She pressed soft kisses to your temple before walking you both to your shared bedroom. As you climbed into bed that night, you feared the worst. Your brain overthinking every aspect of your relationship, second guessing whether Agatha really loved you, whether you meant as much to her as you believed you did. That was one of the last nights you believed to have shared your bed with Agatha, but you would never get to know the truth.

‘Cause you were jealous of some stranger

That she met when you were gone

The days that followed were empty for you, even though you went out and helped organise and run the talent show, spoke to neighbours and went grocery shopping, you felt uneasy. You felt alone. The pit of anxiety that lied in your stomach grew with each passing day. Agatha tried to make an effort with you but it felt fake. It felt forced, like she’d rather be anywhere else than sitting with you, eating the breakfast you’d prepared for her and put time and consideration into. It felt like another nail in the coffin. 

And you feel insane cause love is pain

Agatha didn’t come home for dinner, she was barely there the next morning, hearing her leave the second you came downstairs. It felt like you were no longer lovers, no longer were you inseparable. You were almost strangers to each other. 

Say it’s not okay to feel that way

The more you thought about it, the more you understood why Agatha would want Wanda more than you. Wanda was a witch, a powerful one from what Agatha had alluded to when she decided to acknowledge your existence. Agatha could teach her, watch her grow into an incredibly powerful witch. They’d be unstoppable together, they could take down anyone, anything in their path. You only held Agatha back, stuck in this relationship with a mortal who didn’t even fully understand magic. You’d asked Agatha to teach you, help you understand more but she’d always reply with some condescending remark about how your little brain wouldn’t be able to understand or comprehend it. You’d understood and almost accepted that she’d moved on, although a tiny part of your heart clung onto the relationship. Clung to the idea it wasn’t over. 

It’s real, you may not make her happy

So what’s wrong with me? If honestly

I wanna be the only way she can be

Over the next few days you didn’t see Agatha at all. In fact, you didn’t even leave the house, deciding to stay in bed, only getting up for the bare necessities like using the bathroom and eating one meal a day. You couldn’t bear the thought of trying to function anymore. Every now and then, you’d stand by the window in your bedroom that overlooked the street. You’d occasionally see Agatha walking along with Wanda, arms linked together, smiling happily. Agatha looked happy. Happier with Wanda than she ever looked with you, come to think of it. The thought brought tears to your eyes. Had your relationship been a lie this whole time?

That hollow feeling in your chest

As you both wordlessly undress

Agatha returned home that night, not realising you were awake. When she finally crawled under the sheets and cuddled up close to you, you immediately knew where she’d been all day. The second Wanda’s familiar sweet floral perfume hit your nostrils you knew. You couldn’t help but cry, your sobs harder to stifle as Agatha’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your back up against her chest. The soft kiss she pressed to the top of your head was the last straw as the floodgates opened fully. And as Agatha turned you around so your head rested against her chest and whispered sweet reassurances in your ear, you realised it was over. This supposed love was only causing you pain now, there was nothing good left here.

After a fight, it’s getting late

You tried your best but then she cried

And you're to blame, and love is pain

The house was cold the next morning, the other side of the bed empty. You felt like Agatha hadn’t even come home last night, it was some weird hallucination you’d had to make yourself feel better or convince yourself this wasn’t as bad as it seemed. You got out of bed and walked downstairs, the bitter chill of the house seeping through to your bones. The kitchen was bare, dull and lifeless. It didn’t feel like home anymore, not with Agatha. There was nothing left for you here in Westview. 

Don’t believe anyone

Who tells you any different

If it’s fun, if it’s easy

Something’s missing

That was the moment you realised your love had been wasted on someone who didn’t want to reciprocate it. You’d wasted so much of your time and energy on this relationship that turned out to be false. Agatha didn’t care, she’d found someone better and moved on, neglecting to tell you what she’d done, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your broken heart. You rushed back upstairs as you remembered nothing was keeping you tied down to Westview. You could go home, your real home. You began packing, leaving anything Agatha had bought you or given to you over the time you’d been dating behind. You didn’t want any reminders of this train wreck of a relationship. You packed what little belongings you had before changing out of your pyjamas, dressing to remain inconspicuous, you didn’t know what time period you were in now, nor did you care. You just wanted out of this godforsaken town. 

Agatha returned home whilst you were packing, sensing the dread and pain you were feeling a few blocks away from the house. If she could sense it, Wanda definitely could. Guilt weighed heavily in her chest, knowing she’d caused this. She’d made you feel this way. 

You didn’t even acknowledge the front door slamming shut, or the voice calling out your name. You just wanted to be out of here, away from her. 

“What are you doing?” she asked you from her place in the doorway, her voice a mixture of emotions, all of which hit Agatha at the same time. 

“I’m leaving, for good. Isn’t that what you want?” This time it was her turn to give you an incredulous look.

“Baby, why would I want you gone? What makes you think that?” She tried to approach you, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks but you looked away, refusing her touch. That hurt her more than she thought it would. 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’ve found someone better, someone who actually makes you happy. It just took me a little while to get the message. I’ll be gone before sunset. You’ll never have to see me again.” 

Your voice betrayed you as the anger slipped away in replacement of a desperate tone, your eyes once again filling with tears. 

“You make me happy, baby. There’s no one else-”

“Stop lying to me!! I know the truth, Agatha. I know about you and Wanda. And I-I get it. I really do. She’s more like you, she’s a witch. You can teach her about witchcraft and show her her true self. You can’t do that with me.”

Your eyes refused to focus on her, rather drifting around the room to anything other than her. 

“I-I don’t- What?” Agatha’s confusion wasn’t going to fool you.

“You’re barely home, you don’t spend any time with me. You don’t even acknowledge my existence when I’m with you. When you-” You had to stop for a moment as your eyes filled up with tears once again.

“-When you came home, the other night. You smelt like her, her perfume was all over you and I- That’s when- I just- I can’t keep doing this Agatha. I can’t keep pretending like nothing’s wrong. You can be happy with Wanda and I can go back home and heal. Just… Promise me you’ll look after her? You’ll keep her safe. She’s been through enough.”

Agatha sighed as she paced the room, not understanding what you were saying. She didn’t know how to fix this. For once, this was something she couldn’t use her magic to fix, she’d screwed up and there was no going back. 

“Is there anything I can do to convince you to stay?” Agatha pleaded. This was rare, Agatha never begged or pleaded or bargained with anyone. You shook your head in response, there was nothing left to fix.

“I mean it. I’ll do anything, honey. I don’t want to lose you. You’re too precious for me to lose.”

Agatha had approached you, pressing your foreheads together in a gesture of love, asking for forgiveness for her mistakes.

“You’ve already lost me. You lost me the second we got here.” You admitted to her, barely above a whisper. 

Agatha’s heart broke at that moment. 

“No, no, no. Please, baby. Please.” She pleaded once again, her hand cupping the back of your neck to hold you there for as long as possible as she resisted the urge to kiss you, wanting to try and convince you to stay. She wanted to fix this. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” You removed her hand and took a step back from her, avoiding looking at her as you grabbed your bag and walked out of the bedroom. You forced yourself to ignore the desperate cries and sobs that came from the bedroom, walking out the front door and out into the street. 

We go through life, we play pretend 

Act like it doesn’t have to end

The town was quiet, scarily quiet for a late afternoon. You kept walking despite that, hoping you would find some way of leaving. Agatha hadn’t told you about the barrier, how leaving was almost impossible. She had to force herself to get up, she couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt further because of her actions. If only she’d acted sooner, if only she’d told you before you left. 

It’s all alright until your friend runs a red light

You watch his car burst into flames.

You were so caught up in furiously drying your tears that you stepped out into the road, missing the car speeding down the road. The scream you let out could be heard across the entire town. 

Agatha ran. She knew that was your scream, she’d heard it in enough of her nightmares to know. When she found you, she knew she couldn’t fix it. She couldn’t fix the mess she’d made. The sobs that tore themselves from Agatha’s throat were painful. She collapsed to her knees next to your body, holding you close, cradling you in her arms. You coughed, blood trailing out the corner of your mouth as you glanced up at Agatha. You were grateful she was here, ignoring the pain as you focused on her. You still loved her deep down, even if she didn’t love you anymore, you would. Always.

“I’m sorry, my darling. I’m so so sorry. This is all my fault, this is my fault. And I-I-I can’t- I can’t fix it.” Her lips touched your forehead, pressing soft kisses onto your skin in between sentences. 

You struggled to keep your eyes open, but Agatha tried her hardest to keep you with her, keep you awake for as long as possible.

“Stay with me baby, please. Stay with me. We can get you help. I’ll get you the help you need. Don’t-”

You took her hand into your own, squeezing it with all the energy you could muster.

“I love you, Agatha.”

You took your last breath and Agatha felt like she’d lost a part of herself. She sobbed into your chest, holding your limp body, praying for some kind of miracle but no one would listen. She had made her bed, she now had to lie in it. Agatha laid your body down on a grassy patch of land before deciding where you would be laid to rest. Agatha tried to ignore the red headed witch that stood far too close to her in that moment. 

“Agnes? Agnes, what’s going on?” 

Wanda approached quickly, the state the older woman was in making her panic. Your lifeless body making her worry skyrocket further. Agatha wiped her eyes before she pulled your body into her arms, turning to face Wanda.

“This is your fault. If you hadn’t created this, she would-” She had to hold back a sob, looking back down at you. You had so much life left to live, and now you wouldn’t get to live out your dreams. But Agatha would make them come true for you. 

“This has to end Wanda, all of it.” 

Agatha pushed past Wanda and headed back to their house -now her house. There was a new weight sitting heavy on her chest. One that would constantly remind her:

Love is pain.

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness imagine #agatha harkness #kathryn hahn #wandavision

[dameronology]

written in the stars (poe dameron)

summary: after months of going back and forth, you & poe are finally forced to have a conversation that you’ve been avoiding. it’s bound to hurt, but he’ll never give up hope. 

warnings: swearing, angst

i hope u enjoy! 

- jazz

You and Poe had broken up.

But also...had you really?

I should preface this by saying it was complicated - a tale as old as time, right? Two people who were still in love, but couldn't find it within them to stay and fight; but you couldn't find the tenacity you needed to leave, either. It left you in a state of limbo, half way between the gates of heaven and the flames of hell. Try as you might, and as many times you'd told your friends with complete bluster that it was over, it never really was. You couldn't quit Poe, and he was pretty addicted to you too. Your feelings weren't a switch. You couldn't just turn them off. That would have been pretty fucking convenient, but nothing about the human brain ever was. The very galaxy in which you existed thrived on complications: love and war, rain and shine, good and bad. Your relationship was like a smaller scale model of that. A constant back and forth between a state of battle and times of peace. That was what had forced you away in the first place: if you were in love, would it not have been peaceful all the time? At what point did you draw the line between passion and toxicity? He didn't know and neither did you.

The entire separation was a pointless fete really, because even if you were physically apart, Poe Dameron still owned your ass and staked a large claim in your heart. Your times with him had been some of the best; he was some of the best. It was just that you were both stubborn, and fighting in more than one type of war. It was all well and good to be head over heels, but only when the timing was right. The leap was only worth it if there was water to catch you, and in your case, it was jagged rocks. That hadn't been enough to stop you constantly running back to him though, bloodying yourself up time after time. 

It was always just for one night. Usually after a few drinks and some pretty intense eye contact, and you'd be falling back between the sheets together. There was always the whispered promise of I'll be gone in the morning, but then you'd wake up in his arms and know in your soul that it wouldn't be the last. You swore to yourself it was but even for someone as stubborn as you, it was a hard pact to keep. How many just one nights had you shared together? It was probably ten. Maybe in the ballpark of fifteen. And then, once you'd stopped lying to yourself for the sake of self flattery, you would realise that it was more like twenty. Maybe twenty five? You weren't keeping track. That wouldn't have been good for either of you.

The morning after your twenty seventh just one night, you'd woken to a quiet room. Everyone in the Resistance had been out late, and the base was peaceful, save for the sound of the whirring of the boiler and the occasional clanging of the pipes above you. Poe's arms were tightly around your waist, holding you to his chest. His curls were tickling your neck as he quietly snoozed, head buried in your neck.

It was the first few moments of blissful, bleary-eyed ignorance. You know the seconds immediately after you wake up, when the circumstances were beyond you and your own name was a mystery? You willed yourself to stay in them, to not remember who you were or why you were in Poe Dameron's bed. Thinking about it would hurt.; remembering would have hurt. A cold reminder that the best thing in your life had become another victim of the war. That you weren't together and hadn't been for a while. Months, actually. Bare times like these, you'd let him slip away a long time ago.

You were the realist out of the two of you. Poe Dameron was a hopeless fucking romantic and every time you fell back into his arms, it gave him a little glimmer of hope. A tiny piece of anticipation that you would forget your existing problems and say come home, baby. He knew it was foolish but in times like these, pipe dreams were the only way people got through the day. Day-dreaming of romanticism against the back drop of a raging war was more common than not. Even Leia Organa dared to let herself dream. What else did anyone really have?

'Morning.' Poe quietly whispered.

He was in a similar state to you, knowing that last night had been a mistake (your twenty seventh, to be exact) but not wanting for it to be over just yet. If you could pretend for a little longer, even just five minutes-

'I have to go.' You sighed softly.

'Got a meeting?' He asked. 'On a Sunday morning?'

'No, Poe.' You murmured. 'I just gotta go.'

'Or could you not do that.' His grip on you tightened, head coming to rest on your shoulder. 'And stay here forever.'

Forever. That was a funny word. One you used to say to each other a lot - every day, in fact. I'll love you forever. I'll stay forever. That first one was true, at least. Forever was a big word. It was bigger than you and it was bigger than Poe. Neither of you knew what you'd been promising at the time.

'You know I can't.' You tried not to turn around, tried not to face him. The minute you caught wind of his warm eyes, you knew that would be it. The sad look on his face was enough to make you want to back-track on everything.

'Why do you always do this?' His voice was despondent. Poe let go of you, propping himself up on his elbows.

'Me?' You raised your eyebrows. 'It takes two tango-'

'- I don't mean that. I don't mean last night.' He pulled the covers further up his body as he sat up. 'I mean now. In the mornings.'

'What do you mean, Poe?'

'You're always the one to leave.' He said. 'You have a foot halfway out the door before I even wake up. Fuck, you have a foot half way out the door the whole night. You don't even bother shutting it behind you.'

'You know why.' You didn't bother to argue, instead clambering across him and out of bed. 'We've had a thousand conversations about it.'

Poe followed you out of bed, winding the sheet around his waist. He watched as you darted around the room, picking up your clothes that had gone flying the previous night. You pulled them on with haste - you just wanted to get out. The entire atmosphere was suffocating, threatening to swallow you whole and chew you up. That would have been preferable, actually. Poe wasn't usually this resistant when you'd left in the mornings before. He usually waved you off without a worry. Now, he was asking questions. Questions that you didn't want to answer, even if you knew what to say.

'That's the thing.' Poe said. 'I don't. I know we had our issues but the more I think about it, the more I realise that we can still make it work.'

'We can't!' You stopped, shirt midway over your head. 'You're forgetting, Poe.'

'Forgetting what?'

'The fighting!' You tugged it over your head, forcing your arms through either side of the shirt. 'The arguing, the accusations, the sleepless nights-'

'- that's my shirt-'

'- the you did this! and you did that!' You continued to ramble, pulling the khaki button up and throwing it towards him. 'Don't you remember? We were so dependent on each other but we couldn't seem to stand each other either.'

Poe's shoulders slumped, and he dropped back into the mattress. Yeah, he remembered. Chosen to forget, probably. Things had been either really, really good or really, really bad and it got to the point where the good wasn't worth the bad. If it was meant to be, it would have been lots of good times sprinkled with a few bad times. Instead, it felt like you were constantly in a storm, wading through the rain in hopes of finding a sunny day. That wasn't how relationships were supposed to be.

'So why do we keep doing this?' He asked. 'I know we were bad at a lot of things but we can't even break up properly.'

'Because it's a half-way point.' You reasoned. 'One night stands mean that we can be together without being together. No strings attached.'

'But we are attached, baby.'

You gave him a knowing look. 'My point exactly.'

'Are we going to keep doing this?' Poe murmured. 'Because every time you leave, a little part of me dies inside.'

You paused, biting your lip for a moment. You both knew the answer to that question - you just didn't want to admit it. This whole thing had to stop. The pretending to hate each other during the day and running to each other at night had to cease. Like smoking, the best way to quit was by going cold turkey. Just as Poe had said, having one foot out the door and one foot inside wasn't going to cut it anymore. You were in or you were out.

And out was the only option.

'For what it's worth, I'd rather it be coming in and out of your room than a revolving door of hot people.' You said. 'That might have actually killed me.'

Poe let out a small snort, despite the situation. 'I miss you. I really, really miss you.'

'And I miss you.' You replied. 'But I don't miss...needing you. I've learnt to exist outside of me and you, and so have you. We're better as separate people.'

'Separate entities.' He nodded. 'Got it.'

'That means that we actually have to do this now.' Your voice wavered slightly. 'We have to actually end it. We have to put us in the past and put a lock on it.'

Poe's chest felt heavy. He knew it was stupid to have held out hope that you might change your mind, but the fact you kept coming back for more lead him to think that the idea wasn't entirely crazy. What you had together was rare, and he knew he'd never find it again.

So, he settled for closing this chapter. For saying goodbye to this relationship; this version of you and him. It didn't mean that it wouldn't happen again in future. Maybe if you both survived the war, you could take the time to work through what had torn you apart. You could sit down and figure things out. There was no guarantee of it - no promise or certainty - but it was all he had. Because Poe knew that he could never completely quit you. Even if you said the words out loud and swore that him and you would never happen again, he knew you. You were past the point of no return. Past the point of ever loving anyone else in the way you loved one another. 

He knew that no matter what, you would come back to him. Maybe not now, but there were plenty of times in the future that weren't now. The idea that there might even be the slightest chance of you coming back and figuring it out was enough reason to fight. To fight for you, to fight for the galaxy, to fight for the Resistance.

Poe let you walk away. He let you get dressed, give him a watery smile and quietly shut the door behind you. Because he knew, no matter what, that you would come back to him. It was just the kind of thing that was written in the stars, like Leia Organ's bad-assery or Han Solo's sarcasm.

He didn't know when. He didn't know how. He just knew.

And that was enough, because he was certain he’d see you again. 

tags: @joyfullyswimmingface @etherealsanakin @interwebseriesfan24 @itspdameronthings @xwing-baby @jbtwpk @spider-starry @marvelinsanity​

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x you #poe dameron x y/n #poe dameron imagines #poe dameron fan fiction #poe dameron blurb #star wars x reader #star wars imagine #star wars fan fiction #poe dameron angst #star wars angst #star wars x you

[plus-size-reader]

Love

Geralt of Rivia x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 2005 words

Warnings: none 

Summary: Geralt confesses his feelings for the reader as she’s bleeding out but when she recovers, he isn’t sure how to navigate from there.

——————————————————————————————————

Geralt told you that he loved you.

He thought you were dying, and he told you that he loved you.

However, the stab wound you’d suffered at the hands of that man wandering through the forest hadn’t been as deep as you’d initially assumed and you were nearly back to normal in a few days.

That left the three of you; Geralt, Jaskier, and you in a rather precarious position. Jaskier had taken on the tedious job of changing your bandages and making sure you didn’t tear at the mediocre stitches he’d given you while Geralt wouldn’t even look at you.

You weren’t sure what it was that you’d done but you were sure of one thing, you were sure that Geralt hated you. For one reason or another, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he never spoke to you again.

The biggest trouble with the witcher was that you barely understood him in the first place but after everything that had happened lately, you couldn’t even guess what he was thinking.

...And you couldn't even ask him because he wouldn’t be near you for more than a moment or two in passing.

So, you had to stick to what little contact you did have and talked through all your worries and concerns with Jaskier. Even now, as he was fiddling with the wrap on your abdomen, you couldn’t focus on anything more than Geralt.

“Why would he say that to me? Assuming, ah, that he wouldn’t have to ever deal with the consequences?” you asked, only stopping in the middle to wince when Jaskier pulled away the bandage from the bloodied wound a little too aggressively.

You had thought over that moment over and over again since it happened, and you still couldn’t make sense of it.

Geralt was the first one of the two of them to find you there, laying in a puddle of your own blood, the man who stabbed you long gone by then. You weren’t sure how long you’d been there, or what was happening as you faded in and out of consciousness.

However, what you did remember more vividly than everything else was when Geralt leaned down over you, holding the wound in your stomach tightly with one hand and bracing your cheek with the other as he urged you to stay awake.

The pain was numbing, but after that much time, you barely even paid it any mind.

All you could focus on was Geralt’s face, and the words that fell from his lips as he tried to keep pressure on the wound.

“You’re going to be fine, just keep your eyes on me” he begged, doing his very best to keep calm though it was hard to ignore how much blood you had lost. He wasn’t sure that there was any way to come back from that.

Still, he couldn’t help but hope that you were going to pull through. Normally, something like that wasn’t going to just slip through the cracks but with everything going on, he couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t leave me Y/N, I love you”

It was so real, and even though you did end up passing out on the way back to the camp, it was the first thing you remembered as soon as you did wake up.

Geralt loved you, and there was no moving on from that...at least, not for you.

He seemed to have wanted to completely forget it, as if he’d never said it at all. However, you couldn’t let it go nearly as easily, mostly because he offered no explanation.

If he told you that it was some kind of mistake, made out of the desperation of the situation, you could get on with your life as if it never happened, though it would hurt. The worst part of it all was that you had no frame of reference for it.

You didn’t even know if he cared for you or not.

...And Geralt wasn’t exactly clarifying.

Jaskier considered his words for a moment or so, folding a shred of cloth over itself a few times to make a bandage for your wound. It was healing rather nicely, all things considered but if you came down with an infection, it wouldn’t be for long.

Luckily, he had spent a few nights with a medicine woman a few years back and that brief knowledge helped both you and the witcher on your travels.

It wasn’t much, especially seeing as he spent more time studying her body than the things she was trying to teach him, but it was enough.

“Unfortunately my dear, Grumpy out there is the only one who can answer that. Who knows, maybe I would have done the same had I found you there” Jaskier shrugged finally, gesturing outside the tent to where Geralt was.

He wished desperately that he could help you understand and that he could give you the answers that you craved but he wasn’t in a position to do so. Truly, the only person who could tell you was the witcher, and you both knew it.

...Fuck.

You had really hoped that Jaskier would be able to tell you so you wouldn’t have to confront the man yourself, but as it would turn out, you didn’t have much of a choice.

So, you finished up with Jaskier, making sure to thank him for being so diligent in your care and then made your way out to the river, where Geralt was currently staring into the depths.

He had been being so strange lately, and there really was no explanation for it, the obvious aside. The two of you had never had trouble speaking to each other before but this was different.

These circumstances were beyond your control.

“Looking for something, witcher?” you questioned first, finding that was the best icebreaker you could have hoped for. You both knew where this conversation was going, but it had to be handled the right way.

You were both rogues as a general rule, but sometimes it was easier to hide behind the social pleasantries that you usually disposed of.

“No”

That was about what you’d been expecting, but you’d already made up your mind. You were going to have this conversation, even if you had to knock Geralt on his ass to do it.

You weren’t going to just sit around like a damsel in distress, waiting for him to decide that you were deserving of an explanation.

All you could do was sigh, unable to keep your frustration a secret anymore. You had been raking your brain for days, when you weren’t in inconsolable pain, desperate to understand.

Nothing made him say it, in that moment he deemed as the last of your life, but he did anyway and there had to be a reason.

“Enough of this Geralt, why have you been so distant lately? I can’t understand” you asked, no longer paying any mind to how crazy you may have looked.

He wasn’t the only one who’d had to face your mortality. You couldn’t have died there in that moore, and still, you couldn’t get him to even answer a few simple questions.

Of course you were losing patience.

“I’ve spoken to Jaskier, he has no idea. I’ve given it every possible moment I could, but I can’t think about it anymore. I’m going to drive myself mad” you explained, both your hands rubbing hastily over your face.

You just couldn’t sit back and pretend it didn’t happen and maybe he could. Maybe Geralt was perfectly content with never speaking to you again, but you werent.

If nothing else, he was a good friend of yours and that would be a loss all its own.

Now, Geralt had been ignoring you purposefully, of course. He had no idea how to address what had happened there under that oak tree but he understood where you were coming from as well.

It truly wasn’t fair of him to expect you to forget it.

...But he just wasn’t sure how to explain himself.

Deep down the witcher knew that he was completely and irrevocably in love with you but that wasn’t even something he was willing to admit to himself so how was he meant to just tell you?

There was too much at stake on both sides. If you did happen to feel the same for him, you would be in danger for all the days of your life that you had left but if you didn’t, his heart would surely shatter.

How was he meant to approach you after that?

You had made it abundantly clear that you were in this voyage for the long haul and it would be terribly strange to have to see one another every day after this.

Still, there was no refuting the truth.

You had started this conversation, and he couldn’t very well back out of it again. He could only get away with that for so long, and it was time to own up to what he’d done.

“I thought I’d lost you” he started finally, his voice low in his throat as he tried to keep any composure he still had. These weren’t the sort of things he was used to talking about, and it was difficult.

Though, he had already made peace with the fact that he owed you an explanation, so he just had to swallow his pride and get it over with.

Whatever was going to happen, it was best to just get it out of the way now.

“As did I” you joked, not missing a beat as you tried to lighten the mood but Geralt only looked at you, those golden eyes of his silently begging you to just let him get through this.

...So you did.

You held your tongue, fiddling with your fingers as you let the man compose his thoughts. You understood that this was difficult for him but at least he was trying to tell you the truth.

It was more than you thought you’d get, frankly, when you came out here.

“I could not bear the idea of losing you without telling you the truth, and the truth is that I love you, Y/N” he admitted, his words shocking you more than even you were prepared for.

Until this moment, you could only think back in hazy memory to when those words had left his lips, but you had no confirmation that it was real. As soon as he spoke them into existence again, it confirmed what you’d believed all this time.

Geralt was in love with you.

“I was a coward, hiding behind what had happened but it doesn’t really matter. I have felt this way for quite some time” he shrugged, not once looking you in the eye the entire time.

He would never admit it, but Geralt was afraid. He was terrified of how you would react to his grand confession but that was quick to fade. You didn’t even have a chance to reject him really because you immediately found yourself in his arms, your lips pressed to his own.

It was a quick motion, something you shouldn’t have done, because as soon as you pulled away from him, the haze melted away from the two of you and you realized that you’d just really hurt yourself.

Though, Geralt beat you to it. “Your stitches” he warned, setting you down on the ground almost immediately after scooping you up.

The realization left you as quickly as it had came, but you didn’t really care. Frankly, you had more on your mind than a few torn sutures and from the tent, where Jaskier had been watching, all he saw was you, leaping into the white haired man’s arms again.

He was going to have to clean that all up, but it was best to just let the two of you have your moment for now.

After all, it wasn’t everyday that you admitted your love to one another.

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #witcher #geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x ps reader #geralt of rivia x plus size reader #geralt of rivia imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher x ps reader #the witcher x plus size reader #the witcher imagine #witcher x reader #witcher x ps reader #witcher x plus size reader #witcher imagine #geralt x reader #geralt x ps reader #geralt x plus size reader #geralt imagine

[redloftwingfeathers]

I feel like talking about the shit Zelda not only had to put up with but also what she subconsciously summoned herself and you're going to sit and listen and maybe cry with me okay? Okay.

While I don't think that was very cash-money of 'Hylia' to make Zelda wait until she's reached true, unrelenting despair to finally find her light, it made me wonder how everything came into play that made her journey so painstakingly hard, and not just Hylia pulling fast ones from the clouds. (Trust me I wanted to blame the goddess so bad after that moving performance at the spring of power but wait!! there's more!)

Things I'm looking at are specifically Zelda's anxieties of wanting to be a scholar but having to throw herself to the dogs of religion to keep Rhoam happy, the HEAVY depression she carries with not just from the loss of her mother but also just constantly being berated by her father and feeling like she's not good enough for Hylia, the jealousy and anger she harbors towards Link in their beginnings and how it effects her growth.

All of these are things (coming from someone who is very mentally ill) are ingredients that distract Zelda from her goals, intentional or not.

Zelda has a classic case of "I wanna do This Thing (studying, traveling) but I have to do That Thing (religion, strict orders) instead and now the fun is sucked out of it and my mind is buzzing and now I don't know what to do girl (hylia) HELP"

What's even worse is despite her hand-picked maturity, she KNOWS what is right and what she needs to do (her level of self awareness is impeccable sometimes) but she is still just a child in the end, wanting to live her life without dictation, which causes frustration and anger and can lead to self-doubts.

Starting with the loss of her mother, Rhoam claims that Zelda did not cry at all during the ceremony, and that it proved to him he could still be a strong king with how unwavering his daughter was. And although that's shown as an "awe inspiring" moment, it shows Rhoam does not understand how the processing of grief registers differently amongst people, especially children. She may have not showed it when she was, what, 6? (Not every normal 6 year old understands the fragility of mortality) but you can definitely see it affects her later on as Zelda grows older. It may not be entirely visible at first, but the way they portray it in HWAoC (I know its not entirely canon but bare with me on this) she longs for her mother's advice and comfort when her pleas and ideas fall deaf on the king's ears. Her mother seemed to be a very wise and compassionate queen, where Rhoam is a wise and a very bite-the-bullet king.

When stakes are high he trusts what he thinks needs to be done, and he enforces Zelda to finish her training Because she is part of his plan to push back the calamity. He knows protocol, and there's no room for creative thinking when the land of Hyrule is in danger. (Disclaimer: I hate Rhoam but I can also try to see what Nintendo was doing. He's not intentionally mean, he's an assertive dad that wants to see his daughter succeed (and also hella depressed) but he's really fucking bad at it and comes off as a dickhead. He is the embodiment of a boomer that does things the old fashioned way to get things done).

But all of this pressure he is putting on her, taking away things that make her happy so they don't distract her from her duty, shooting down her ideas because he wouldn't know how to even approach it from his standpoint, it really does a number on Zelda and really births her insecurities.

No matter how hard she prays and dedicates herself to Hylia, it doesn't work. Her mind is distracted, filled with fear and very little hope that the magic isn't Working. What even kicks me in the jaw more is that she's putting all of her effort into these prayers, and it's not even her wish she's making. It's Rhoam's wish. Her Ancestral Family's wish. That's why it hasn't sparked. She's praying on the behalf of her father and ancestors and not herself because she firmly believes there's other ways to settle the score. Zelda knows the importance of her role but its just not clicking when someone else is forcing you to do it. It just doesn't work like that.

Moving onto her liaison with Link, she is, well, in the beginning very irritated with him. Even a little bit after being chosen by Fi. But I don't think she MEANS to be angry at Link, he didn't do anything wrong in all honesty. She shouldn't take out her anger on him, but she's jealous, and he exists...so like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

When Link is suddenly chosen by the sword at a drop of a hat?? Yeah she's relieved, but there's also undertones of resentment. All of her Champions are here at the ready and she's still trying to figure out what shoe goes on first. She is the goddamn Princess of Hyrule, one who carries the blood of Hylia in her veins, and this random tiny knight who, mind you, fought tooth and nail to be her escort ends up finding his role before her? She is riding the struggle mule up Mount Lanayru (and I don't really blame her). And when she's exploring the shrines?? She makes it very clear to him she can work independently and does not need an escort, which although understood (freedom is a peace everyone strives for) she is careless regardless of her careful planning and efforts. She's a Princess, wandering Hyrule unarmed (and without her powers) with a horse as her only mode of transportation. You won't see yourself as a target even if they're pinned on your back, and with her determination to utilize these mysterious shrines as more Sheikah tech is being discovered is making her blind in remembering where she's placed in social status. It's dangerous, and I'm glad Link is there to see what she fails to see.

That's another thing too. As they progress and strengthen their friendship, Zelda sees Link as a mirror to question what her role really means. She uses him as guidance to help understand her situation, asking him "If you were told your whole life This is what you're meant to do, to take up your family's legacy...but one day realize this isn't what you want, would you still take the path you've been told to take?" In this case I think it's safe to say this is what Link knew he wanted. He loves being an aid to those in need, and becoming a knight despite following his father's path, this felt like his true calling. The spirit of the hero is VERY strong in his soul, and when he sees someone in need of help [Zelda] he's going to aid them whether they want it or not.

But Zelda still feels so lost, she feels so disconnected from her ancestors, as the previous daughters in the royal families were Given their powers at birth and meant to be awakened when the time has come. They were all given the gift of premonition, to be a medium for Hylia and a messenger of the gods, and overall able to keep Ganon away from the world no matter how many times he crawls back from the depths of hell. Being told your whole life you're meant to be like your ancestors, but not being able to fulfill any of those roles? It makes the past seem like one giant fairy tale when in you're in BotW Zelda's shoes.

No voices, no premonitions, no secret awakenings...Nothing.

At this moment, I finally understood why Urbosa said to Revali about Link. She said he is a constant reminder of Zelda's own failures. Link found his calling by following his instinct. Zelda has yet to figure out what she really wants, and is clouded by judgements not only from her father and people, but from herself too. With every passing day she is undergoing a meltdown, questioning if she is even meant to be apart of this whole plan anymore, probably something among the lines of "Was it meant to be someone else? I'm the only daughter, and yet I can't even do my one job." She lost everyone and everything, she's frightened, it feels like she's lost her faith in the gods, or even dare say, the gods lost faith in her.

But through absolute despair when Link just about gives his life for her protection, that's when it all clicked. She found her power and strength through Link, who was the one that, all this time, taught her about what she needed to do to awaken her powers without even directly telling her. Every conversation she had with him, she saw herself in Link. She saw all the effort he gave into becoming a royal knight, the unwavering determination in his eyes with every Lynel he slew, a never ending supply of optimism and hope no matter how high the stakes were. And yet he was also Free. He followed his path blindly, not even knowing where he'd end up, as long as he knew he was

able to protect those in need. And she wanted that.

He was her mirror, and Zelda managed to awaken herself when that mirror cracked.

Living the burden of being part of a prophecy and saying you're ready for anything, is very reckless. Understanding the heaviness that comes with sacrifice is not truly understood until it starts happening to you.

Zelda found her wish, her independence through Link. Her mind is finally clear and she understands what her role means in all of this.

She is meant to protect, to save, to understand more than just personal loss.

Zelda couldn't stand by idly anymore after everyone told her to do something else and let others handle the job. That was the last straw when Link stood in front of her, shield weak but at the ready when that guardian approached. She saw the desperation and said NO, which finally broke her seal. She chose to sacrifice herself, igniting her powers just as Hylia did for her people. She chose to save her last, literally dying hope, because Ganon cannot be fought alone.

He was the connection, the literal link, she needed to awaken her powers. And I just find that so fucking great.

Anyways thanks for coming to my TED talk I've been typing this for like 4 hours now

#hHGDFJDF SORRY THIS IS SO LONG #dont tag as zelink pls i tried keeping this ambiguous as possible thank #the legend of zelda #botw #aoc spoilers #sorta #cat talks #also my thoughts are flying faster than my fingers #so this might skip and jump around #my adhd welcomes you

[peeterparkr]

perennial;tom holland|three.

chapter three: peony

↳ flower meaning:pink: romance yellow: jealousy.

chapter summary: 

pairing: tom holland x y/n

warnings: angsty a bit, but confort and friendship! mentions of alcohol and mention of sex

word count: 8.6k

SOCIAL MEDIA BEFORE THE CHAPTER:

masterlist & profiles   two: (y/n): in which y/n now has to be on social media. two:(tom): in which Tom likes certain posts but dislikes some others.

previous chapter next chapter   perennial masterlist.

perfidy  ( series masterlist)

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Mistakes are made, often. That’s what makes us human. Sometimes a little bit too human. Our head and hearts lead us to places where we shouldn’t go. To where our hearts will most likely hurt. 

There are people who think it’s easy, decisions and whereabouts but when you’re dealing with the heart, your own heart, it’s not nearly as simple. When your feelings and sanity are at stake is just simply incredibly complicated. Especially when it’s mixed with desire, loneliness, heartbreak and cheap tequila. 

A combination of those often leads to disaster. But… it didn’t feel like one. Somehow the decision y/n and Tim had made under the influence not only of alcohol but of a lame attempt to flirt had led them to a place where their secrets had been hidden. To a place that was so sweet and so them. It was odd. How it didn’t feel like a mistake. 

How incredibly different it was for y/n, and Tim. 

As if they had owed it to each other. Tim knew a lot about y/n. Y/n knew a lot about Tim. But they barely knew anything about them, together. Because there was a spark, there was no denying it. How simple things were when they were together. It flowed. Like a song, one of those songs y/n liked to listen to. Maybe that’s why they were both always pulled back to each other. Because of how easy it flowed. How it never felt like they were doing something wrong, or how it always felt like both of them were only completing each other. They didn’t have to fake anything. 

No, it probably wasn’t a disaster. Not yet, at least. But Timmy knew it was a mistake, at least he was getting his own heart at risk because y/n still loved Tom, and she hadn’t been secretive about it. But he’d been broken-hearted too. For a while, now. To live with whom possibly might be the love of your life after breaking up and knowing they love someone else is like a bad joke, not even funny enough to make someone laugh out of pity. 

Yet, he woke up to her head against his chest, her hand delicately posing over his skin, legs intertwined. Just like they’ve woken up before. Like old times. And Timmy felt tranquility over his entire body. 

The hardest part about breakups is that you never plan them. And you end up with that feeling, one last kiss, one last laugh until midnight, one last breakfast together. One last. But that desire should not be. Was this the last time? 

Tim stared at the woman laying on top of him, breathing in slowly. She was so… peaceful, and he hadn’t seen her in such peace for a while. So nice. 

Her room was so her, even if she’d changed a lot in the past few months. Tim always wondered how she managed to make her surrounding so… hers. With flowers hanging on her wall, some old posters and new polaroids. Always polaroids. But they were different, of places, of things. No more people on them. She had claimed she hadn’t brought anything from Tom, but Tim knew she was lying. He could see a lot of Tom in her. Even when she didn’t admit it. 

He thought it was about Tom, honestly. How she had stopped drinking red wine, and liked rose instead now. How she avoided drinking tea in the morning, or how she had once grimaced when Tim had offered some street hot dogs. How she had once cried when Emma had mentioned something related to New York, and how she kept bringing yellow flowers home. 

The way that she had stopped wearing red lipstick, that’s what Timmy had noticed first. 

And how different she was from Emma. Emma was still in denial, Tim knew this. Emma still cried at night. But he couldn’t point it out. He knew Emma was still aching so much. And she was the kind to throw it all out and pretend it doesn’t exist. Quite different from y/n who had to live in her melancholy. 

Y/N would be that sad smile. 

But he knew Emma was the one kind to actually pretend everything was fine. She got angrier. And she’d yell more. And sing. 

Way too different the two of them were. Y/N would drown in sad songs and Emma would drown in red wine and listen to upbeat songs. A very different approach. 

Y/N would let herself cry and Emma would make herself laugh. Maybe that’s why they worked as friends. 

Poor Tim had to deal with his own broken heart alone. Though, this helped him. Tim was the one to order his thoughts quietly, and with hobbies. Photography. Writing. Modelling. Painting. Reading. Even now he wanted to learn new things. 

We all deal with heartbreaks in our own way. 

But it’s difficult when you also have to help the reason of your own heartbreak to get out of one. 

He wondered if she was still in love with Tom or only the memories of him. Sometimes we get confused with that. We often forget we have to be in love with the person, not the story. 

But Tim knew he was in love with her, and her story. That’s the problem. 

How even with her messed up makeup and her tangled hair he managed to be in love with her. How with the light coming from the sun was bathing her perfectly. A perfect morning, one which he hadn’t had in a while. 

Of course, the fantasy had to end. 

“Y/N, wake up, you idiot, we have to-what the fuck?” Emma yelled as she dropped her cup of coffee, waking y/n up immediately. “My eyes, no, what the fuck?!” 

It was until then in which Tim maybe realized it had been a very big mistake. Y/N covered herself with her sheets as Tim only froze. None of them couldn’t say anything, what were they supposed to say? ‘It’s not that you think’. Because it was. ‘Whoopsies?’ 

“Woah—No, okay, what the, what the fuck—I’ll wait for you—what the fuck, outside—I—Fucking get dressed at least—“Emma closed the door, leaving the broken cup and coffee staining y/n’s floor. “What the fuck?” She kept cursing outside. 

Y/N only blinked and then looked at him. He stared back and then… 

They couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Fuck,” y/n laughed. “She’s gonna kill us.” 

“You think?” He chuckled. 

She pinched the bridge of her nose, turning bright red. “I…I don’t even know.” 

“In all fairness, she was the one who told us to have some random hookup,” Timmy said. “She never said it couldn’t be between us.” 

“You’re an idiot,” she nudged him and laughed again

Tim smiled to himself and let out a snicker, he hadn’t heard her say those words in a while. “Yeah, you too.” 

He hadn’t heard her laugh like that in a while. Made him happy. 

“Um,” she gulped. “Do we have to… talk about it?” 

“No,” Tim said quickly, she blinked. “Not right now,” he continued seeing the confusion in her face. “You have to get ready, you'll be meeting with the director, too! You have to go with her!” 

“What the fuck,” they heard Emma yell again. 

Tim laughed. “I’ll… take care of her, you go get ready and we’ll…” He gulped. “We will.. Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” she was embarrassed as she reached for a shirt, only his was there. “I-uh.” 

He blinked as he dressed up as y/n awkwardly waited for him to leave. 

“Wait, um, Tim?” She looked up as he was by the door. 

“Yeah?” He turned to her. 

“Uh… thanks?” She said. 

He laughed. “Thanks?” 

“I don’t know what you’re supposed to say okay?” She chuckled. 

“And thank you was your go-to?” Timmy chuckled. “You really went oh yeah, thanks for… satisfying my needs.” 

She blushed. “I didn’t mean--Idiot.” 

“No, I know,” he laughed. “Thank you, too.” 

He left and then immediately had to face Emma, who ran over to him. “What the fuck?” she yelled… whispering if that was even possible. 

“Go get ready you’re going with y/n to meet the director,” he rushed. 

“What the fuck?” Emma asked again. “What the fuck?” She followed him. 

“Emma, dear, go get ready, also need anything for your hangover? Since you dropped your coffee.” 

“Tim, what the hell, what will happen now?” 

“I… I don’t know, okay?” Tim said. “I’ll figure it out, alright?” 

Emma frowned. “No, Tim, this isn’t… What does it mean?” 

“Look, Emma, I don’t know, okay? It’s between me and y/n and-” 

“No, but, it’s a big deal!”

“Yes but right now you should worry about the other things and y/n already has a lot in her mind with the movie and with Tom-” 

“I fucking know that, but I don’t--Why would? You guys are so both fucking stupid.” 

  Emma couldn’t finish her sentence because Tim had already closed the door to his room. “Timothée! Don't fucking close.--” 

“Go get ready, Em!” 

“Timothée!” She yelled. “You’re not-” 

“I’m busy!” 

Emma didn’t even try anymore. She knew how Timmy acted, and she knew that there was no use in knocking on the door because Timmy was avoiding it. And he would avoid it because Timmy was an idiot. 

Y/N was another idiot, and she’d deal with her. But she knew that Tim was definitely not going to be reasonable on this. Because Emma knew Timmy, and he was so stubborn. Especially when it came to y/n. Emma understood, however. 

Because y/n was probably to Tim what Harry was to Emma. That inexplicable person who understands you and who completes you and compliments you. The person whom it doesn’t feel like it's a burden, who makes everything better, brighter and prettier. Easier. But that’s not really loving, is it? Love is complicated and stupid and it hurts and Emma didn’t even want to think about it. Because love is a game where we either win, but if it goes wrong we lose, and we lose a lot. 

But just like Harry, Emma knew, y/n was probably blinded by someone else. And though initially, she thought y/n was the bad guy in the story, she soon realized it really wasn’t. And not Harry, or maybe, yes Harry had made some wrong choices. But we all do when it comes to deciding about love. That’s love, Emma guessed, making right decisions when it’s the wrong question, and making wrong decisions when it’s the right one. And though she was angry, she missed Harry, too much for her own convenience. It would only take her, she knew, one bright smile. 

Emma was someone who understood y/n, because she knew y/n probably would also fall down to her knees if Tom even dared to show up. Because maybe they were both too angry but they were both too in love with them. Stubborn things the hearts are, restless and wandering, stupid love. 

Emma knew it, she really had misjudged y/n. Maybe blinded by jealousy and too insecure of herself. Just like she had seen her, only days before, doubting every single thing. And who can really judge someone who is in love? And who can really judge someone who was hurt? 

Besides, Tom and Harry were to blame. Not them. 

Well, maybe y/n in her own situation. But really, what is there to even understand about Tom and y/n. 

So, no, even if Tim was Emma’s everything, Y/N wasn’t to blame in the situation. Timmy wasn’t either. 

Emma saw y/n rush through the apartment, from the bathroom to her room, from the room to her kitchen. Wearing a very perfect yellow dress, as she rushed again and again, leaving a stain of her perfume everywhere she was going. Emma decided to get ready too. Ignore the elephant in the room just for a bit. 

Y/N didn’t even bother to clean the broken coffee cup in her room as she was pouring some coffee for her. 

And then Timmy had walked into the kitchen. And Emma only wanted to see the tension. They were blushing as they bumped into each other, both struggling to get through the other side as they kept bumping, both moving to the same side not letting each other leave. 

“Oh, uh, hi,” y/n said. 

“Hi,” Timmy grinned. 

Emma rolled her eyes. She wanted to puke. So dumb. 

“Um, I have to--yeah,” y/n gulped as she tried to walk past him but bumped again. They chuckled. 

Emma grimaced. Though this was adorable, she knew they were both going to fuck it up again. They already had, whatsoever. 

Tim chuckled as he turned her around so they’d go to their directions. “Yeah, uh, yeah, I... you look… stunning, you’ll do amazing,” he said. Y/N smiled, still blushing. 

“Y/N, we have to go,” Emma pushed, knowing this would go extremely wrong. 

Y/N shook her head to get out of the trance. “Right, yeah, yeah, thanks.” 

And y/n kissed Tim’s cheek, before rushing out with Emma, leaving him dumbfounded. 

Emma and her would take the car, and Emma knew it would be the perfect time to question y/n. 

Y/N was nervous. Emma could see. With her fingers constantly drumming against the wheel, and her cracking her fingers. LA’s traffic, Emma found it completely soothing. She’d usually have time to think to herself, and in this case, it gave her time to try and figure out where y/n wanted to go with her best friend. 

“I have a terrible headache,” Emma pointed out. That was another issue, she’d drank too much the night before. They had stopped at some random Starbucks drive-thru to get breakfast. 

“Yeah, being hungover is the worst,” y/n said as she sipped from her coffee. 

“And bet waking up from a good shag isn’t,” Emma smirked. 

y/n hit the brakes. “Emma!” 

“Keep driving! What the fuck!” Emma yelled as they honked at them. 

“Shit,” Y/N cursed and continued driving as some cars drove past them. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” Emma laughed as they continued. 

“No.” 

“No?” Emma rolled her eyes. “Y/N you slept with Tim!” 

“Yeah, I know, I know!” 

“Of course you know, you were there, idiot,” Emma rolled her eyes. “And? How the fuck” 

Y/N bit her lip as she started turning red, and stressed. “I dunno we were flirting all night and it sort of happened it was an-” 

“An accident?” Emma interrupted. “No don’t fucking tell me it was an accident you just don’t open your legs and let a dick slip in.” 

Y/n rolled her eyes and let out a laugh. “Emma!” She grinned. “No, I wasn’t going to say that.” 

Emma chuckled as she took a bite of her breakfast sandwich “What were you going to say then?” 

“I don’t know I think it led there,” y/n admitted. “And before we knew it we were making out on the couch and then I was taking off his clothes in my room.” 

“Did it really lead there?” 

“Well it must have if it happened, don’t you think?” Y/N sassed. 

Emma laughed, rolling her eyes. “How was it?” 

“Emma!” 

“No, never mind, I don’t want to know how my best friend since diapers shags.” 

Y/N blushed even more as she reached out to playfully hit her. “You’re an idiot!” 

Emma grinned. They stayed quiet for a bit. Even if Emma, as a friend was kind of angry or disappointed or however one feels when both your best friends are complete idiots, she was quite amused by the entire situation. 

“Do you have feelings for Tim?” Emma asked after a while of them singing along to the music playing on the radio. 

Y/N bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Look, it did lead there but... I didn't want it to happen initially because I-” 

“You still love Tom,” Emma finished her sentence. 

“Yes I do,” y/n sighed. 

“Fuck, y/n,” she shook her head and clicked her tongue. It was a very complicated situation. However, she knew that y/n hadn’t done this in the slightest to hurt Tim. Emma was well aware y/n was probably very, very confused. Yes, she shouldn’t do this kind of stupid things, but Emma understood where it came from. 

“Yes, but Tom’s not here so I can figure it out,” y/n pointed out. “Besides he’s probably making love to Cherry.” 

“Making love,” Emma mocked. “I love you talk like you’re 13.” 

y/n laughed. “Shut up.” 

“Look, y/n, I’m your friend but Timmy.” 

“Tim is first I know.” 

“Yes but no, he’s an idiot because he clearly fucking has feelings for you and he’s the one playing with fire here,” Emma said. “I mean and you are too, but you are confused and stupid and-” 

“Thanks,” Y/N chuckled. “I don’t know what to do, Emma.” 

“Well, are you going to do anything about it?” 

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She had to think through her response. “It's cause with Tim I feel… I don’t even feel like it was a mistake.” “

“No?” 

“No, and you know usually everyone thinks sleeping with their ex is a mistake-” 

“Which it is.” 

“But that’s the thing with Tim, I just.. It’s”

“But y/n, do you love him?” 

“I do…. But” 

“But Tom,” Emma finished the sentence. 

“Yes,” Y/N sighed. “And I don’t want to hurt Tim, he deserves someone better than me.” 

Emma groaned. “He’s a man.” 

“But he-” 

“Look, y/n you’re both fucking grown-ups but I would advise both of you to stay out of that territory.” 

“Yes.” 

“And like, if you need it, get another man to satisfy those needs.” 

“It wasn’t about needs,” y/n snapped condescendingly. 

“Uh-huh sure,” Emma confined. “I’m pretty sure it was a cleanse from Tom.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“Please, y/n.” 

“I don’t know, alright?” she frowned. “I’m sad and stupid and I felt like shit, like actually on the floor everyone stepping on me, and then Tim made me feel like I wasn’t shit okay and apparently.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, no, I get it.” 

“I’m a mess.” 

“Yeah.” Emma laughed. 

“Maybe with time,” y/n said to herself. 

“What?” 

“Maybe with time I could try it out again with Tim.” 

“But don’t only do it because you’re hurt.” 

“No, that’s why I need to wait, because I need to be sure I don’t have any feelings for Tom,” she admitted “And I do now” 

“But you’ll always do.”

“It’s complicated,” she said. “You have to understand that I’ve loved him my whole life and… And I still feel guilty about it, and I still am hurt about this,” y/n continued. “And I am confused and I just…” she clicked her nose. “I don’t even think I want to let go yet, okay? That’s the problem, because I’m stupid enough to keep thinking I will have yet another stupid chance with him.” 

“Yes, stupid.” 

“Well, is it wrong that I believe in love?”

Emma watched her. “Is that love?” 

“It was, or at least it felt like it,” y/n said. 

“Feel like isn’t the same as being.” 

“It is love,” y/n stated. “In a very stupid and unexplainable way and I don’t… Get why I love him, alright? Even after everything. But now I am angry because yes I fucked up and now he’s with Cherry and I can’t help but wonder what could’ve gone better and-”

“But y/n-” 

“Look Emma, exactly after my heartbreak I found Timmy, okay?” Y/N took a deep breath as she was gripping to the wheel a bit more than expected. “What if Cherry is his Timmy? The one who’s perfect for him, the one who everyone sees and thinks oh shit, they were made for each other.” 

“Oh, now I….” 

“But I don’t know, alright?” Y/N was now clearly speaking to herself. “I just.. I am confused and I need to think about it and I need to let my heart sort it out, and be alright with it, and then before I know it, I’ll be back in London having to deal with his stupid ass again.” 

“y/n.” 

“It’s cause Emma, I can’t stop thinking about Tom, alright?” She sounded annoyed. “And maybe it should’ve all stayed like it was before, and I shouldn’t have written that stupid script and.” 

“No, y/n, no, shut up,” Emma stopped her. “The script is the one thing you can rescue from this, alright?” 

“I-” 

“We are… Look we don’t even have to talk about this right now? Okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” y/n gulped. 

“Let’s change the subject because we are meeting the director.” 

“Directors,” y/n corrected. 

“What?” 

“Two, apparently, they were very interested in the project,” y/n sounded excited. 

“Oh?” 

“Which by the way!” She sounded excited. “Please, can you please check teen vogue apparently they know the bloody cast and I don’t-” 

“The cast as in... the cast for dos-a-dos?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, shit, yeah, yeah, alright, okay so let me….” Emma took out her phone and quickly checked the article. “Fuck oh my goood.” 

“Who is it?” Y/N yelled and tried to snatch the phone from Emma. 

“No, wait, okay, are you ready?” 

“Fuck yes, bloody tell me!” 

Emma grinned. “So it’s Auli’i Cravalho as Valerie.” 

“No way, oh my god, I love her what the hell,” y/n chirped as she then made a very high pitched noise.  

“Shut up!” Emma laughed. “Yes oh my god, oooh, that hottie Gregg Sulkin is William.” 

Y/N made another high pitched. 

“Shit, I’m… okay, and Jordan Fisher is Teddy.” 

“Oh my god, that’s perfect!” 

“And… Fuck, Asa Butterfield as Robbie,” Emma said. She took a deep breath. Robbie… as in… Harry. 

“Oh my god!” Y/N was too excited to notice her friend had turned a little bit sad. 

“Yeah.” 

But then she turned to her. “You know what?” Y/N grinned. “You’re right fuck all this men trouble let’s be excited about this!” 

“Yes!” Emma chirped. 

How magical it is to have a friend. And suddenly all of y/n’s troubles were forgotten. She needed to brighten up, this was her bloody dream for god’s sake. She needed to get her mind and forget every single man in her life right now, except probably the cast, or whoever she was working with. Were they female directors? Brothers? Sisters? Friends? Couple? 

It was… exciting. 

Though her mind did go back to her encounter with Tim. Where would she go with this? She was nervous enough about it. But she had to focus, right? She needed to sort some things out. Alessandra, her absolute pain in the ass, but the brilliant boss was nervous about it, too. But she seemed excited. Her new ‘y/n’, or assistant, Josh was absolutely the best. Nice guy. He had told y/n where she had to go, meeting room, time, everything. 

“He’s cute,” Emma said as soon as he left.

Y/N looked up from the million papers she was given. “Who is?” 

“Josh…?I think that was his name?” Emma said, blushing. 

Y/N blinked. “Oh?” She chuckled. “You’re... Serious?” 

Emma coughed and then sipped from the cup that barely even had any coffee now. “No, forget it.” 

Y/N watched Josh from afar. He was handsome, but was he… Ah, yeah, the curls. It was Emma’s type. Completely. 

“I can… introduce you to him?” Y/N offered mischievously. “He is cute alright, yes that could work.” 

“No, shut up, no,” Emma laughed, embarrassed. “It was just a random comment.” 

Y/N chuckled. “You know what? He’s coming back so--- Josh!” Y/N grinned as she tried to rush to her boss’ assistant. “Josh!” 

“No, fuck, y/n, no shut up,” Emma rushed to him. 

Josh was in fact, coming back, holding some pink flowers. “

“Josh!” Y/N grinned as Emma was jumping over y/n trying to stop her. 

“Hi, uh, this came in,” He said before y/n could even say anything. Emma, embarrassed, backed up. “For you,” Josh said,handing the peonies to her and then checked his phone. 

“What?” Y/N froze as she saw them.

From Tim. Of course.

Emma stared at them. “Wait… those are.” 

 “Uh, yeah, and okay, you know what? No time to… Give them to the directors if you want or whatever, but apparently they’re here, so let’s rush.” 

“Uh--what?” 

“Yeah, yeah, let’s--sorry if I sound bossy but Alessandra,” he said. 

Y/N turned to look at Emma. Confusion washing her face, but excitement, too. But she was more confused. Mind going back to Tim. What the hell was she supposed to do? How did she even feel about that? Flowers. Flowers. Flowers. 

“Y/N, look. Let’s, forget about this, now we need you to focus on this and-” Emma assured her. 

“Right, right.” 

Y/N was too nervous. This was it. Somehow this made it real. It would go quick, right? And she’d be able to talk to them and maybe they’d show her their vision and it would be amazing. Yes, this was exciting. She’d have time to think about whatever had happened with Tim later. And the flowers. 

Because Tim had sent this, and this could mean him wishing her good luck, or this could be Tim… trying to tell her something. Probably that. And right now it was time to pretend that she hadn’t been crying over months already, and that she hadn’t just gone out the night before to try and forget an ex that probably was too busy with another girl. 

Her mind couldn’t go there, it had to go back to professional y/n. Y/N the writer, that’s who she was that day. The y/n that had a dream. 

And she saw Alessandra, talking to two men. And then… Time started going too fucking slow. 

Too fucking slow. 

Tom and Harry. 

Harry and Tom. 

Tom. 

Harry. 

Tom. 

“Harry,” Emma said. 

“Tom.” 

There he was. In all his splendour. Bright smile on his face, hair pushed back, that pair of eyes that y/n had missed and hadn’t realized. Fuck, those eyes.  It had never occurred to her how much she loved his eyes, so kind and bright. Eyes that made anyone feel like they were the only person in the world, a glance that either made her feel so special. Eyes that could easily have her undressed in less than she could even say his name. That smile, and him. Fuck it was him. With those stupid angel eyes.  The reason why she had never ever stopped loving him, because even after everything he’d give her that glance. 

Tom. 

And it went so slow, her realization. He was there. As if she didn’t initially believe it. As if everything she’d said before was thrown away. And it came back to her, how much he had missed him. He was there, with that stupid smile of his, with that stupid white t-shirt and denim jacket. And that pair of eyes. 

And just as y/n had paused and ran out of breath, he looked up and dug his own sight on hers. He took a deep breath as he was assimilating it as well. She saw him swallow as he then smiled at her. 

Fuck, the world stopped. And if y/n hadn’t been confused from the night before she probably would’ve been stupid enough to run to his arms. If this was a rom com she would’ve jumped to kiss him, she would have forgotten everything and forgiven everything. But she was hurting. 

But she was confused and she… was… angry. 

Because she was angry and she was confused.

She was confused and she was angry. 

“Tom,” she whispered again. 

Running out of breath. She needed to run away. Emma had stopped walking too. The peonies had landed on the floor and y/n hadn’t even realized it. 

Seemed like all Y/N and Emma did was to drop things when they were surprised. 

But no, yes… Y/N was angry, yes and confused. She had to remember that. Tom, Tom was there. And the flowers Timmy had given her were on the floor. She was flustered and she was pretty sure she was sweating and she wanted to run away from him, but to his arms at the same time. She couldn’t walk, and Emma couldn’t either. Emma had only held y/n’s hand. She was sweating. 

And Harry. Harry was there, too. And she was even more confused about him. She didn’t know where she was standing with him. Her best friend who had kissed her. But she was holding his ex-fiancée’s hand. 

Harry. Tom. 

And then the flowers. Timmy. She’d slept with Tim the night before. And she had just said how she still loved that idiot. How handsome he looked. And perfect. And god, she just wanted to kiss him.

No, no. She couldn’t…. Tom. Tom was there. His eyes brightened up. And y/n fucking knew it, it would only take him another smile for y/n to be back in his arms. But wasn’t she angry? Wasn’t he angry? She was. 

Angry and confused. 

Because hey, he was there and she needed to remind herself that she was hurt by him. But then why didn’t she feel hurt? Why the hell did she only want to run into his arms? She needed to remember how much she had cried over and how many times he’d hurt her and how these days she had decided that she wouldn’t try, though she wanted to. And Cherry, yes Cherry. She had to remember… Then why the hell was she feeling that way? Why were her knees getting weak and why was her heart rushing? As if her broken heart had disappeared. 

No, and… What… What was he doing there? She saw his lips move, he was saying something. 

And Emma was also not having it, she was shaking, sweating cold as she saw the love of her life standing right there, dumbfounded and nervous. Emma wanted to puke, and Emma wanted to faint and run away. But it was weird, because just like y/n, she wanted to forget everything and just run back to him and kiss him. 

One smile, Emma knew, that’s all it would take for her to forget and forgive everything. What the hell were they doing there? 

Harry was just watching Emma, his eyes were only on her. Fuck, y/n. Yes, Emma had to be reminded of that, too. Her ex-fiancé had kissed the woman beside her. Her ex-fiancé had loved the woman beside her. But then again the woman beside her was already drooling over Tom. 

“Y/N!” Alessandra said, making Emma at least come back to her senses. “Hey, come here dear, please meet … Well, I bet you already know who he is, Tom and Harry Holland.” 

“Y/N,” Tom whispered with a smile. 

“They’re directing the movie.” 

“They’re… what?” Was all y/n could ask as she dropped to the floor. Emma widened her eyes. Lucky bitch y/n was, she had passed out. She didn’t have to deal with this. Josh quickly kneeled beside y/n as he tried to wake her up. Emma herself wasn’t doing fine, she needed some air, too. She only leaned against the wall. She was also running out of air. 

Tom, Harry and Alessandra rushed over to the floor to see y/n. Alessandra ordered Josh to go for water or whatever. Tom quickly kneeled on the floor as he helped y/n sat up, sitting her against the wall. He was quick to take her hand. 

Harry didn’t even care it seemed, or.. Emma didn’t know what the hell was going on, she avoided his glance as he was struggling to see between them. 

“Hi,” he whispered. 

“Yeah, no,” Emma said as she then realized that probably her friend would faint again if she saw who was there again. “Uh, no, no, no,” she kneeled beside. “Not you,” she said to Tom. “This will make things worse.” 

“Emma it’s okay, we need to loosen up her clothes,” Tom tried to wake her up. 

“Wouldn’t you love that,” Emma commented. “No, Tom, please,” Emma said, as she fanned her hand to Y/N. 

Y/N woke up, tears in her eyes as she breathed in a big puff of air. 

“You should’ve stayed passed out, dumbass, you wouldn’t have to deal with this,” she whispered to her friend. 

y/n confused, was heavily breathing. 

“Y/N, Y/N,” Alessandra said. “Are you okay? Where the hell is Josh?” 

“Y/N, you okay?” Tom asked as he reached for her hand. Emma flicked his hand away. 

“Y/N are you okay?” Emma finally asked. 

Y/N blinked and then turned to see her surrounding, yes the nightmare was still going. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to…” She stared at Tom. “No.” 

Tom blinked. 

Y/N tried to stand up. 

“y/n no, stay there,” Tom warned. 

“No,” she stood up, or tried to, Emma helped her up. “I need to… We need to, can I go to the restroom? Yes?” She was too nervous. 

“Do you need-” Tom asked. 

“No,” Y/N and Emma answered at the same time. Alessandra helped Emma to settle y/n who was still kind of spinning, Josh had arrived, too with a bottle of water. 

“Water? That’s all you brought?” Alessandra asked. Josh had to back away. 

Tom tried to follow after. Emma glared at him, and Harry stopped him. Luckily, the restroom was close enough. 

Alessandra walked over. “Y/N, sweetie, everything okay?” 

“No,” y/n laughed cynically. 

“I’ll go get you something else, here’s the water and I’ll--- Can you take care of her, sweetie?” Alessandra asked Emma. 

“Yeah.” 

As soon as Alessandra had left, both friends were ready to have the mental breakdown they deserved to have. Y/N rested her hands against the sink staring at the mirror, as Emma was leaning against the wall ready to scream. 

“What the fuck are they doing here?” Emma yelled, throwing her hands in the air. “What the fuck in the fuckery fuck, I need fuck fuck, fuck… FUCK!” 

“I don’t know!” y/n cried as the tears were streaming down her face already. 

“Why, why, why, why, why?” Emma yelled. 

Honestly, both of them just kept asking questions to the air, cursing, y/n trying to clean up the tears as they both quickly paced. 

Emma stopped Y/N. “What the fuck.” 

“I don’t know!” She was so stressed. 

Emma started shaking y/n. “Y/N I can’t handle this! That is Harry,  Harry Holland as in my ex fiancée, my ex fiancé Harry Holland is outside. Harry!” 

“I know! I know! Fuck I know!” 

“And that’s Tom as in Tom the guy you were crying over yesterday!” Emma, needless to say, was freaking out.

“Emma I know!” Y/N yelled. 

“What the fuck?”

“I don’t know!” Y/N said. “I don’t know, fuck, no, no, I.. No, why?” 

“What the hell are they doing here?” 

“Directing apparently, is this a nightmare? It must be a nightmare, yes, this is a nightmare!” Y/N stated. 

And it felt like a fever nightmare, honestly. After two more minutes of freaking out, of them trying to figure out-- or complain about it for more, honestly what could they do? They were both sad, trying not to cry and who would take care of that situation? Alessandra walked in. 

“Y/N dear, here,” Alessandra gave her a juice. “Did you have anything for breakfast, has this happened before? Why are you both crying?” 

“Yeah, okay, no, I’m… why are they?” Y/N stated. Alessandra’s eyes widened. “Yeah, Tom, and Harry. Why?” Y/N couldn’t even complete a sentence. 

“What?” Alessandra frowned. 

“Yeah, he’s-We are not,” y/n gulped. “Why are they the directors? Why… can we change them?” 

“I’m afraid that’s not possible…But may I ask why?” 

“I just… We…” y/n couldn’t talk.

“She knows them and she’s not in good terms with them,” Emma explained. 

“Why are they?” That’s all y/n could say, a half ass sentence that probably didn’t have much sense, but it did in a certain way. Why are Harry and Tom? Yes that made sense. That was the question she wanted to ask. 

“Look, we will.. Want me to reschedule for tomorrow? I’m sure they’ll understand, you go home and rest, or I’ll-” 

“Yes, I’m perfectly sure they’ll understand,” Emma hissed.. 

Before they could even know, they were heading out of the studio. They saw Tom and Harry try to approach them but Alessandra explained the situation, that y/n was sick. Of course they had understood, or pretended to that is. 

Emma and y/n were not in a good place, of course. And y/n could definitely not go to the apartment because there she’d find Tim and that was something that she didn’t need to add to the situation. The three most important men in her love life were all now in the same city and y/n was definitely not doing alright. Life was playing a cheap trick on her and was laughing in her face. She couldn’t face Tom. Hell, no, less in that situation. She was angrier now, because how dare them search for her script? 

They probably were only there to ruin it, especially Tom. Yes that was it. And why was she feeling that way? Didn’t she say hours before that she wanted him to come for her and try again? But not like this. 

Not like this. 

Emma was driving because y/n was still out of breath. Funny how it is. Emma was playing the music loudly and was actively ignoring everything, only focusing on the road. She drove them to the flower shop. A safe space for them both. 

Aunt Eliza had received them both, not sure what the hell had happened but she had hugged her niece and then offered them to have whatever they wanted. Emma had poured something for herself in her cup, and y/n was only having a glass of water. Emma explained the situation to Eliza. 

“I just can’t believe he’d do something like this you know? Fucking direct my script,” Y/N was complaining. “I just—can’t believe it! what the hell was he thinking? Didn’t he hate it? He said he hated it. Bloody hell, he’s an asshole he’s here to ruin it, isn’t it?” 

“And Harry... “ Emma was going through a very different kind of emotion. Did Harry there for y/n? Or was he there for Emma? 

“Fuck why are they doing this?” Y/N asked. 

“Because men,” Eliza said, rolling her eyes. 

“Yes men are trash!” Emma raised her mug. 

“I know, I know but wait how are you so calm?” Y/N asked Emma.

Emma laughed. “I’m not!” She grinned. “I’m just… This situation is hilarious, innit? You see this cup?” 

Y/N frowned. “Yeah.” 

“This isn’t coffee,” Emma explained. 

“What?” Eliza asked. 

“Let’s say this is Irish coffee but it’s only irish whiskey and no coffee,” Emma explained. 

“I need one of those,” Y/N admitted. 

“I’ll.. Look, I’ll go buy you girls some wine and we can order something and… Can you take care of the place? It won’t be busy.” 

“Yeah.” 

Both girls stayed quiet as y/n had sipped from Emma’s mug, too. 

“Harry looked really handsome didn’t he-” “Did you see Tom’s eyes?” They said at the unison. They were both lost. So, so lost. They probably hadn’t even heard each other. 

“His hair looked pretty,” Emma said. 

Y/N pinched the bridge of her nose. “When he smiled at me…” 

“And then he was so shy and he got all nervous and…” Emma ran a hand through her hair.

“Shit like when he said my name I just—” 

“And he smelled nice didn’t he?” Emma asked. 

“Did he get a haircut?” Y/N asked. 

“He looked so… nice,” Emma continued. 

Y/N blinked listening to her. “Wait, no what the fuck?” Y/N asked. “We are angry!” 

Emma snapped out of her trance and turned to her. “Huh? “

“Yes Emma what—why the fuck are we daydreaming here?” She asked. “These men are idiots!” 

Emma nodded. “Right, right, no, what are we doing?” 

“I can’t believe it,” y/n said. “I can’t believe I dared to even think this would be nice, for God’s sake, a week ago I was daydreaming of seeing him thinking it would be so nice and adorable and perfect and rom com moment, instead I got the throat thickening, heart pounding, heavy breathing, stupid love,” she complained. 

“I felt butterflies,” Emma admitted. “And that’s why I’m apparently day drinking to drown those suckers!” 

“Why are we even daydreaming Emma? We should, dunno, not this!” 

“In my defense I was engaged to that man, I have the right.” 

“I have the right to, I’ve been bloody in love with dumb Tom my whole life, I think I’ve got the right,” she complained. 

Emma laughed. “We are clowns, y/n, that’s it, that’s the only explanation.” 

“I was literally crying over him yesterday,—and I bloody fainted!” Y/N paced around the shop, as Emma laughed. “I mean, I do understand why I feel like this, but then again-” 

“Shut up.” 

“No, Emma, you don’t understand god, I know I am not supposed to feel this way but-” 

“Shut up.” 

“He’s got lovely eyes, didn’t he? Eyes which are daggers, nonetheless, and he was killing me with them-” 

“Y/N shut up!” 

 “No,I need to-- fuck if I saw him smile once more at me and I’d be on my knees--What the hell are you doing here?” She asked, as the figure that once terrorized her was terrorizing her again. 

Tom. 

She didn’t faint this time, but she felt like she was going to. Tom was there, again with thAT perfect pair of eyes he dared to have. 

“Hi,” he said. He looked nervous and he was probably shaking. But he had a smile on his face, a nervous shy smile. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” She asked again. 

“I uh--Cherry told me you were working here and her mother told her that Emma worked at some other place where I’m sure Harry is now—but guess I’ll tell him to… hi Emma,” Tom said nervously as he dedicated a glance to Emma.

“No,” answered Emma simply. 

“Fine okay,” he cleared his throat. “So Cherry told me-” 

“Cherry,” y/n repeated. And there it was, the sole reminder she needed to get back to her senses. She closed her eyes, and laughed. 

“Yes, Cherry-” 

“Well I’m—,yeah well you can leave now,” y/n said as she walked behind the counter. 

“ just came here to talk y/n,” Tom said. 

Y/N frowned as she started to clean whatever, moving mugs around, glasses, flowers. “Yeah can’t do that I’m working, see?” 

“Then I’m here for coffee,” Tom said, approaching her leaning against the counter. 

“The… machine is not working, you can leave,” she said. 

“Then I’m here for flowers,” Tom answered smugly. 

“We... are closed.” 

“Then I guess I’m here to ask you out so we can talk,” Tom said again. 

“No,” y/n answered with a smirk as she then walked out to fix some flowers. 

“She wants you to leave, idiot,” Emma commented.

 Tom gulped and followed after y/n. She was staring at the flowers, as if she tried to arrange the petals on them, moving them around, doing anything but looking at him. 

“Y/N we need to talk.” 

“We are doing that and I’m not liking it,” y/n snapped. 

Tom chuckled. “Y/n come on, please?” 

She shook her head. “No,” she kept pacing through the shop, it seemed like she was running out of places to run to. But the flowers surrounding them, which usually calmed her, somehow made her even sadder. Lots and lots of yellow flowers, only accentuated by the yellowness of her dress. 

“Why not?” He followed after, he grabbed her hand. 

She quickly pulled her hand away. “Because I’m angry at you.” 

“Oh, are you now?” Tom said. 

She finally turned to him. “Yes because why the hell are you directing it?” 

Tom approached her, only inches from her. “They called me.” 

Y/N frowned. “No, you called for it, you perfectly know that, didn’t you hate it?” 

“Well, I might have called, I think it’s got a lot of potential,” Tom said. 

“You’re just doing this to ruin it,” y/n snapped. 

“I’m not actually,” he answered camly, staring at her. “I really like the story, an ode to the 80’s with a personal story.” 

Somehow looking deeply into his eyes awakened something in y/n, so she looked away completely avoiding his gaze. 

“Why are you really here, Tom?” She frowned. 

“I came here to talk.” 

“I don’t want to talk,” she said walking away. 

“Clearly,” Tom rolled his eyes. “But come on y/n,” he followed after her, rushing to stop her by walking in front of her.

“No.” 

“Oh, so you’re the one who is angry now?” He frowned. 

“Yes.” 

“Do you remember everything that happened?”

Y/N chuckled dryly. “Yeah, years building up  of hating each other, bullying each other, Rome, that night at the club and a pink skirt, a vinyl, that drunken night that probably was a mistake, a date on a plane 3 yellow flowers by you, some by me and lavenders, a script, that disaster at the engagement party, a very, very hurtful breakup I don’t know how many heartbreaks and... my script which you’re now directing, and now due to that bloody script we have to maintain a professional relationship, and if you want to talk to me we will do it tomorrow in that damn meeting,” she snapped as she walked back to Emma. “Goodbye, you can leave.” 

Emma was rather amused by the situation, probably the whiskey had an effect on her. 

“Oh but we were never good at being professional,” Tom said, following after. 

Y/N only glared at him, crossing her arms. 

He walked over with a smile, he lifted her chin. She pushed his hand away. “What are you doing?” She asked. 

“I’m smiling, didn’t that get you weak in the knees?” He smirked. 

“You’re an idiot,” she pushed him. 

“Y/n,”he complained. 

“Tom why are you even doing this why—?” 

“Because--” 

“No Tom,” she interrupted. “I don’t even want your reasons,” she frowned. “You know how much this means to me and how much I worked to get a chance for it and I know you hated the script and I know you hate me but getting back at me with this? This is just some other level-” 

“I’m not doing this to hurt you.” 

“Well you are hurting me! God once again!” She snapped.

“Y/N, Can we please talk about it?” Tom said. 

“No, I’m gonna go to the back and when I come back I hope I don’t see you here, don’t you dare follow me,” she said as she finally rushed to the back of the storage closet. 

Tom sighed as he closed his eyes with stress. He turned to Emma. 

“Yeah don’t look at me, I’m even angrier,” Emma commented. 

“Harry went to look for you,” he admitted. 

“Ah,” she rolled her eyes. 

“He really loves you,” Tom commented. 

“Hm.” 

“He was confused.” 

“Look I… really Tom you’re the person I really don’t want to talk to,” Emma snapped. “you're literally the last person I want to talk to because if it hadn’t been for you ruining my-” 

“I’m sorry-” 

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Tom,” she said. “Besides I don’t know what you’re expecting from y/n.”

“I thought we were supposed to heal and then go back to each other.” 

“So you thought that calling to direct her script was the go to?” Emma frowned. “The one project that’s got her excited, you come in, how would you feel if she had walked into a project of yours?” 

“Well she’s brilliant but-” 

“I’m serious, Tom, you probably wouldn’t be happy, besides… It’s not that simple and you can’t prance in here and smile and pretend it’s fine, and expect her to go back to you.” 

“But-” 

“No buts, Tom, she’s had one hell of a month trying to get over you,” Emma snapped. 

“I love her.” 

“You do now? You have no trouble hurting her for someone who claims to love her.” 

Tom frowned. “You barely know-” 

“No, I do know, I know more than you think, at least I know her, and I must admit she probably still has feelings for you yes but that doesn’t mean she didn’t spend this whole month crying over you and being sad about it.” 

“But-”

“And maybe it was easy for you both to show up and think you’re going to solve it, but you don’t even remotely understand it. It might be easy for you, yes, you lost her. And that must have been hard,” she said. “But for her? God, she lost Harry, Sam, and you in one single night.” 

“But-” 

“Tom I don’t even know what you’re trying to do, I just need you to understand this , you come back into her life and--” 

“I want to do the project so we can make something beautiful out of it, okay? And I’ve been dying to see her and I want to work something out-” 

“And you think Harry and you showing up will just make it better?” 

“No.” 

“Then? I’m sorry Tom but that girl is my best friend and I can’t let you hurt her again, but I also know what you mean to her, and… All I know is you’re an idiot, a really big idiot for trying to show up and mend things, of course she won’t talk to you today,” Emma rolled her eyes, tired. “The best advice I can give you is to let her assimilate this, she bloody fainted when she saw you, don’t you think that’s explanation enough?” Emma frowned. 

“I-Maybe it was a mistake,” Tom sighed. “Coming here.” 

“You think?” Emma frowned.

Tom sighed. “I only have… one question.” 

“What?” 

“What is going on with Tim and her?” 

Emma didn’t answer. 

Eliza arrived just at that moment. “I brought the wine!” She announced. “Oh,” that was the only thing she could say. 

Tom gulped. “Hello, hi, uh, I came here to buy some flowers?” He looked up. 

Eliza only dedicated a glance to Emma, she nodded at her. 

“Oh, yes, of course, uh…” Eliza answered as she handed her shopping bags to Emma. “Any particular type?” 

Tom looked around the room and his eyes quickly landed on the first yellow flowers. Yellow peonies.  He picked them up and then paid for them.

“Give them to her, please,” Tom said, handing it over to Emma. 

He then proceeded to leave. 

“Yellow peonies?” Eliza frowned. “Second peonies for y/n today. Tim ordered some for her, did she get them? At the studio?” 

“Yes, she did,” Emma 

“That was odd, that’s Tom, right? Must be a mistake if he chose peonies like Tim, besides, yellow peonies mean jealousy, must be a mistake.” 

“No, I don’t think it was.” 

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perfidy  ( series masterlist)

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[vannahfanfics]

Request: GrayLu; "Life in Every Breath" from Lucy's POV

Hey, Anon, thank you for waiting patiently! Here it is!

Beat of Life

Alternatum to Heartbeat and Life in Every Breath

Lucy swallowed thickly as she stared down at the heavy leather-bound tome in her lap— the Book of E.N.D. Natsu’s life was tied to this strange book, she considered as she brushed her hand over its uneven, rune-carved surface. Her hand was just as marred, littered with scrapes and bruises accumulated through the conflict with Zeref and his armor. Second by second, they were inching closer to the climax, and Lucy could not let it end with Natsu’s death. 

Gray’s breath puffed in her as he leaned over her shoulder, drinking in the book with just as much apprehension and awe. He’d calmed down after his attempt to destroy the book, thankfully, but the fact that they’d come so close to just snuffing out Natsu’s existence made anxiety churn in her belly. Or maybe it was the fact that Gray was so close, his cheek brushing against hers as he leaned in to get a closer look. She couldn’t think about that now; she had to focus. 

“I’m going to open it now,” she murmured, but her fingers trembled along the hardcover of the book. She had to in order to save Natsu’s life, but she had no idea what was ahead. However, she set her expression into a determined frown; she couldn’t be scared! Her best friend’s life was on the line! Whatever would come, Gray was right there to support her, and he iterated that by gently bumping his chest with her back and whispering, “You got this, Lucy. Let’s save Natsu.” 

Before she could change her mind, she flipped the book open. For the briefest of seconds, it seemed like the world took a deep breath in anticipation. The wind died, the discarded leaves finding respite on the cracked cobblestone; even the clouds seemed to freeze, ceasing their endless drift across the heavens. The world and everything in it was in limbo. And then, that breath was released. 

Light exploded from the book with a shrieking roar, along with a great buffeting gale that had Lucy’s golden hair flapping around her face. One of her pigtails whipped back to smack Gray across the cheek, based on his pained grunt. Then, to her amazement, the characters inked upon the age pages began to move. As if carried by the gales springing from within, they danced into the open air, swirling upwards to form great, circling, interlocked chains of words. 

“What are they?” Gray whispered in her ear. Lucy’s mouth hung open as she gazed at them, struggled to make sense of the moving and shifting characters. Gradually, the text came into focus— the Book of E.N.D., of course!

“They’re all about Natsu,” she whispered, squinting as she studied the words more deeply. Surely, these strange sentences contained a hint on how to save him! She leaned forward in her concentration, scanning and scanning and scanning, until— 

She screamed as the world heaved underneath them. The book snapped shut as it was flung from Lucy’s lap, causing the words to dissolve into the dust clouds now filling the air. As she tumbled into the air too, she reached for it, desperate not to lose the one lifeline she had to Natsu’s life. She gasped when she felt Gray’s arms wind around her waist, and then his broad, muscled chest was pressed against hers. She didn’t even have time to be embarrassed about it before they crashed back to earth. Gray groaned as his bare skin met the rough cobblestone of the street, but he had spared Lucy such an unforgiving landing; embraced by him, she just flopped into his body, and stayed there until the world finally stopped rumbling and shuddering. 

“What was that?” complained Happy, who was rubbing his head while he lay sprawled out on his belly next to them. Gray was leaning his head back, eyebrows furrowed as he gazed in the direction of the guild. 

“I’m assuming it’s Natsu, since it’s coming from where he’s fighting Zeref,” he predicted. Once the aftershocks had faded, he loosened his grip on her. Despite his help, a dull ache pounded in her head from being jostled about, so she pressed her palm to the side of her head with a small groan. When she finally regained her wits, she gasped in alarm— had she really seen something that terrible in the text? Gray yelped when she kneed him in the stomach in her attempt to crawl off of him, shambling on her hands and knees back to the book. 

Once more, she flipped it open. The words spilled out into the open air— and her worst fears were confirmed. One by one, characters were popping out of existence. 

“Lucy, what’s happening?” Gray demanded, crawling up behind her. Lucy watched with wide, tearful eyes as more characters disappeared. No! This couldn’t happen! It couldn’t end like this!

“Natsu’s hurt really bad!” she cried, and she heard Gray suck in a breath. She had to do something, anything! Just as Gray sat behind her again, she fished her magic pen out of her pocket and sucked in a breath. She didn’t know if this would work, but she had to try. Their friend’s life was at stake! She held up the pen, like a director poised to conduct a symphony— the symphony of Natsu’s entire existence. “If I rewrite the missing characters, I should be able to save him,” she asserted. Even from that mere glimpse, she thought she knew what was missing— so, one by one, she began to scrawl them in the air. 

She could feel Gray tense behind her, and she glanced down to see his fists balled up by his sides. He could only watch as his friend’s life ebbed away, and she battled to save it. It must be maddening, she thought. She wished she could comfort him somehow, and so she tried to reach out to brush his leg, just to show that she knew his pain— 

Suddenly, it felt like fire surged through her veins. It tore an anguished scream from her throat, arching her back and freezing her in the middle of writing. She’d never felt such pain; it felt like she was being torn apart from the inside out. Her teary eyes drifted to her hand, where she was alarmed to find tendrils of dark red-orange magic dying her skin and slowly snaking up her arm. 

“Lucy!” Gray exclaimed, and she could only respond with an agonized groan. Oh, it hurt, it hurt. Her body trembled violently, rattling her teeth in her skull like she was freezing, but in reality she was burning, she was on fire. Gray put a hand on the small of her back to steady her quaking body, but it sent more flares of pain through her sensitized nerves, causing her to his. 

“M-my body,” she whimpered. “It’s so hot, I’m burning!” With another painful spike of pain she collapsed, curling on her side into Gray. It hurt to touch him, to feel the sweat smearing between her flushed skin and his own, but she also felt comforted by his presence. Moaning, she pressed against him, trying to leech as much of that comfort as she could to chase the godawful torment away. 

“It must be a rebound!” she heard Happy cry. “Natsu’s magic is overtaking her body!” Gray’s hands fluttered over her skin, afraid to touch her because she whined each time the pads of his fingers hit her searing skin. She still crooned and looked up at him with weary eyes as he brushed a few sweat-slicked strands of blonde hair from her face. 

“It’s okay, Lucy, you’ve done enough,” he said and reached for the magic pen, which she still clutched in her hand. She clenched her teeth tightly; she couldn’t give up just because of a little pain! She forced herself to grab onto Gray’s shoulder and hoist herself up, though it felt like all the muscle fibers in her body ripped in doing so. “Hey! Don’t overexert yourself!” Gray ordered, but she just lifted the pen again with a few heavy pants.

“I can do this!” she said, mostly to convince herself. “If I just finish re-writing this section, then I can change Natsu’s fate.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced herself through the almost insurmountable task of twirling the pen through the air again, scrawling out the characters that would save Natsu from certain death. 

She gasped when a sudden coolness spread over her body, and she looked back to see Gray generated a swirling, icy wind behind her. He gave her a reassuring smile and said, “Got it. Let’s save our idiot, Lucy.” 

As the chill spread through her system and kept the fiery poison at bay, Lucy felt herself relaxing, melting back against him a bit; however, with every minute that passed, the strange black magic tendrils crawled further and further up her body. She sucked in a breath when she felt it spreading across her chest, the spines invading her nerves to feel like it was wrapping around her heart and squeezing tight. She fought through the pain, one eye screwed shut and her teeth clenched. Just a little more…!

Just as her vision began to swim before her eyes, she wrote in the last character. She slumped forward with a wheeze, her arms falling limp; her hand didn’t even have the strength to hold the pen anymore, so it rolled across the cobblestone before settling next to Happy’s paws. 

“I did it… It’s done…” she wheezed between ragged breaths. The text spiraled back down into the pages, settling within the ink, before the book flipped shut. As she pawed at her heart, digging her fingers into her skin to try and pry out the magic instinctively, she looked up to see the book fading away. Tears bloomed in Lucy’s eyes. Did it work? Or was she too late?

“Lucy?” Gray asked, and she turned her face into his chest to avoid the question. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted weakly. “I did everything I could…” Still, it felt like even that had not been enough, and she whimpered as she pressed into Gray for comfort. She needed him now, more than she’d ever needed anything before, it felt like. Tutting soothingly, Gray gently guided her so her back was resting against his chest and her head was tilted back over his shoulder, her crimped and sweaty strands of blonde hair falling over her face. 

“You did great,” he assured her in a soft whisper and brushed her hair away with tender touches. She managed a tired, serene smile just as the book faded into nothingness. Her eyes fluttered as she stared up at the blue, blue sky and the clouds drifting within. Gradually, he graze was drawn to Gray, to the chiseled line of his jaw and his messy blue-black hair and his glinting ice-chip eyes. As the sun streamed down and fell into his hair like strings of ice water, she marveled at how handsome he was, how handsome he’d always been to her. 

She thought then of all they’d been through together, and how he was here with her now, holding her so close with his hand digging into her hip like he never wanted to let her go, and she realized it. 

She wanted to tell him, but all that came out was a strained gurgling noise— that’s because her heart had suddenly convulsed in her chest, driving all the air from her body. Her hands snapped to her sternum, pushing down like she could force her heart to start beating again, but her consciousness was already slipping. No, she thought weakly as the darkness encroached upon the edges of her vision. She could dimly hear Gray calling her name, or maybe she was imagining it? She wasn’t sure. 

No, she thought again as she slipped into the blackness. I wanted to tell him that I…

Emptiness. A void. Where was she going? Where had she been? She looked around with a lidded gaze into the nothingness, and had the strangest sensation of being called home. Was that her mother’s voice? Her father’s, too? Were they together, and had they resolved their differences? She longed to go toward them, she realized as she stretched out her hand toward the gleaming light taking shape before her. And yet… And yet… Something held her back. 

“Come on!”

Whose voice was that?

“Come on!”

It sounded familiar. 

“Come on!”

Gray? That was his name. She felt a warm, bubbly feeling rise up within her as the image of a handsome dark-haired man took shape in her mind. Gray… She loved him, yes, she did. She couldn’t go yet, even though she longed to look upon her mother’s face. She still had so much yet to do, so much yet to say… to him. 

“Come on, Lucy! Don’t die!”

“I’m coming,” she tried to say, but there was no sound in this endless void. So, she turned away from the light and started running, starting searching for him in the dark. His voice echoed all around her, but yet she had the feeling of getting closer, closer, closer…

“I love you, Lucy! Please don’t leave me!”

Light exploded all around her, and then she was on her back, heaving for breath while the azure sky blazed above her. And then Gray was there, hauling her up, whispering her name as he hugged her tight enough to crush her heart all over again. Her sternum burned from where he’d been frantically compressing it, but she was alive. She was alive. He was sobbing into her golden hair, and she managed enough strength to shakily tug at the black tufts at the base of his neck. 

“Gray,” she managed hoarsely. “Gray, I’m okay… I’m okay…” His trembling hand came to her neck to feel the blood pulsing through her carotid, and she felt him melt against her. She felt tears flood her eyes at the desperate gesture, and they carved through the layer of dirt and sweat on her cheeks. He pulled back to look at her with broken eyes and an equally broken laugh, then started touching her face like he wanted to commit it to memory. 

He swept a fingertip down her cheek, over her jawline, and then swiped a thumb gently over her lip. Lucy parted her mouth ever-so-slightly, the softness of her lips embracing the pad of his finger, and blinked expectantly. 

He jerked her forward to kiss her passionately, hungrily, desperately. She fell against him as what little breath she had recovered was stolen away, and every time she fought for a gasp of air, her chest brushed over his. She tangled her fingers into the messy strands of his hair while his snuck to her waist, fixing her place while he pushed the kiss impossibly deeper. Lucy felt like he was drinking her up, savoring everything she was to make himself whole, and she would let him because she was doing just the same. When they finally broke apart they both sucked in deep breaths, then stared into one another’s eyes like they were meeting for the first time. 

“I love you, Lucy,” he murmured with another caress of her face, and despite everything, she blushed. 

“I love you too, Gray.” 

He pulled her into another hug, and they both buried their faces into each other’s necks. As she pressed the tip of her nose against his jugular, she could feel the pulse beneath. Bump-bump-bump-bump: the beat of life, of love, of passion. It was such a beautiful sound, she considered for the first time. And she wanted to hear it every day forever. 

And as Gray whispered once again that he loved her while pressing sweet kisses into her skin, she had no doubt that she would.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#graylu #gray x lucy #lucy x gray #gray fullbuster #lucy heartfilia #fairy tail

[kewltie]

Izuku had broken up with Katsuki on a boring, unspectacular Wednesday.

Afterward, it only took three hours for his name to trend all over the internet and be called a clout chaser, gold digger, and even a harlot by millions of random people he’d never before because he'd broken the heart of their precious Crown Prince.

He couldn't even step a foot outside of his home without being bombarded with paparazzi accusing him of using the prince to social climb before ruthlessly dumping him.

"What did I tell you about dating His Royal Asshole?" Ochako says as Izuku groans, having hide out in her apartment for three days now because the media corps decided to stake out his apartment for him.  

"To not to do it," he admits with a wince, "even on pain of death and that I should stay away from that hot mess."

"Atta boy," she says with a nod, but she doesn't let him rest on his laurels for long, "but you didn't listen and chose to jumped right in and be fucked over."

"It was his hot bod," Izuku murmurs, staring down at their tray of takeout daifuku from his favorite dessert shop; the one that he used to visit often with Katsuki but can't anymore because the kind elderly owner who'd always handed him extra daifuku with his purchased had given him the stink eye and a lecture when he came to pick up his order yesterday.

Ochako snorts. "If only that was the case, then you would have dated Kirishima instead like I'd wisely suggested. At least he wasn’t a prince."

He sulks. "Kacchan took my favorite shoe hostage! He wouldn't give it back unless I go on a date with him."

"Because you threw your shoe at him!" she retorts.

Izuku groans again, because this story had been rehashed so many times already. "It was an accident! And he only asked me out so he can mock me endlessly about it."

"And you found that Royal Ass charming enough to go on another date and another and another.” She huffs. “Now, look where you’d ended up."

Izuku stares down at his pajamas that he hadn't bother to change out since this morning. It has been several days now and he’d barely left Ochako's apartment for anything but the lure of food. What a sad and deplorable existence his life became, and all because he'd fallen in love with the Crown Prince of Japan.

"It been two weeks already," he whines, resisting the urge to shove another piece of daifuku in his mouth. It would have been his thirteen one on this awful evening. "Why won't they just leave me alone? I'm not that interesting enough to keep making headlines after headlines. Every. Single. Day."

Ochako just gives him a long, pointed look. "You broke up with him on live TV and in front of hundreds important guests s at his mother's birthday, who by the way is the much loved Empress. For someone who is afraid of drawing attention to himself you sure know how to wreck complete havoc."

Izuku drops his face into his hands and mutters words into it, muffling his respond. The memory of Katsuki's distraught and confused face that night, just right before Izuku had run out on him, still haunts him.

A hand ruffles his hair fondly. "Hey, hey, can't hear you."

He groans and raises his head in despair. "I wasn't in my right mind."

"I would hope so," Ochako says dryly. "This may even top that time when you broke into Eito Med Lab at sixteen, freed all their test animals, and got thrown in jail for three days."

Izuku grimaces. "That bad?"

She lets out a whistle. "Way worst." She pats him on the shoulder. "If you wanted to cut him off you could have break it to him gently. In private, preferably, and where his parents, various government dignitaries, and the entire nation weren't breathing down your back the whole time."

Tucking his knees against his chest, he chews on his lower lip and quietly confesses, "I found the ring Kacchan was hiding."

Ochako's eyes nearly bulge out of their socket. "He was going to ask you to married him?!"

Izuku hesitates, then frantically, he says, "I panicked!" he protests. "It was just before we’d left for the party and I saw the ring box hidden in his drawers.” He recalls that moment when he’d first found it and how it felt like his entire world had shift on its axis. “All thoughts went out of my head after that." He drags his hands down his face. "What was I supposed to do?!"

"Not break up with him on live TV!" she snaps, pinching the bridge of her nose. Ochako lets out a long-suffering sigh like Izuku's existence is tiring her. That's probably true, because being around Izuku is tiring. "So did you not want to marry him, is that it?" she probes.

Izuku looks away, his insides all twisted up thinking about it. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"Of course it does!" she insists loudly, drawing his attention back to her. "If you don't want marry him then that's fine, but," she frowns at him, "if you do want to then you got to stop sabotaging yourself!"

"I just don't think we're a good match for each other," he reveals his deepest and greatest fear that he had been nursing since he knew what it’d meant to be with Bakugou Katsuki.  

All the anxiety he'd locked away in a chest is now broke open, spilling out of the cracks. He's terrified. Wretchedly afraid like the first time he'd found out every tabloid press had plastered his face and name everywhere just because he was caught hanging out with Kacchan. They weren't even dating at that time.

Her brows furrow. "Why do you date him then? I thought you love," she pauses and shakes her head before continuing, "well, maybe it's loved now."

Izuku nearly jumps out of his seat to correct her. "No, I still do! That hasn't change!"

"Then?" she presses relentlessly.

Izuku swallows, hands clasping together in a tangle of tight knot in front of him. "I'm not a good fit for him. There’s a thick juvenile record with my name written all over it,  I’m chronically anxious and fighting off depression on a good day. My perfect night is cuddling in bed and tuning into a nature documentary, while Kacchan is out pretty much every night shaking hands with the movers and shakers of the world.  Everything little things he do make the news, even that one time he decided to wear a blue sweater and for the next three days that’s all the top news agency talk about the latest Prince Katsuki’s fashion trend. You can’t even be mad at him at all for it because he’s fiercly smart, charming when he wants to be, and more driven than anyone I know. And he lives is an actual palace where he get attended by servants everyday! Like, for him his normal day is  some strange drugged up fantasy! Can’t you see how he's—"

"Also an asshole," Ochako interjects with an eye roll.

Izuku cries out in protest, but she raises her had up to stop him. "Look, Bakugou is smart as you said. Brilliant even," she easily admits. "He’d made a lot of great political moves and done plenty to bolster the economy. He gets shit done and gets it done right, but he's not a people person." She sighs. "He looks at this country and sees it as a machine that he can fix and tinker with, but not as individual smaller pieces that make up the larger picture; he doesn't see us because he's Bakugou Katsuki, a prince who lives in a separate world than us so he doesn’t understand what it like to live on paycheck by paycheck, to worry about where your next meal may come from, and to live off government’s generosity. He's a great prince but you," she looks at him softly, "made him a good man and that’s more than anyone had ever done."

She pries his tangled hands from each other and tucks them in hers, squeezing it meaningfully. "It's because you feel so impassioned for this world and everyone who lives in it and not afraid to get hurt or let your voice be heard that Bakugou actually listened to you."

Izuku looks down at their held hand and feel tears fall down his cheeks. He doesn't deserve the friends he has now. They're amazing people, far better than him. "Ochako, thank you," he says, sniffing hard. "Thank you so much, but you have to understand Kacchan isn't just anyone." It feels tight and painful to admit it, but he wants her to know it’s not about him. It’s all for Katsuki. "He's the heir to the throne and he has so many responsibilities rested on his shoulders that sometimes I would wake up at night and still see him up at 3AM drafting a new speech or policy. It looks easy because he purposely makes it look that way. He just puts so much on himself and doesn’t want to ask for help because his dumb pride, but he cares more than he let on." He smiles thinking of how Katsuki loves, loves so fiercely that it’s drowning him. And Izuku is the anchor currently dragging him down right now.

"He's going to be the future emperor one day and the person standing next to him can’t just be anyone,” he says softly. “It can’t be little old me. I'm just so scare." He breaks at that admission. "So terrified that one day Kacchan will realize I was just one big mistake."

“Oh, Izuku,” she breathes. “You’re such an idiot.” She breaks their hold and grabs him, pulling him against her chest. "It'll be okay."

Izuku knows nothing will be okay again. He'd just broken his own heart and Katsuki's just to save their future. It's fixable now. Who ever said love is fairy tale is damn liar. Did no one wonder what happened after the prince married Cinderella and the magic ended?  

#bakudeku #fic snippet #modern cinderella au

[cavalierious-whim]

Felix's life is turned upside-down when Sylvain comes back after years away to hustle at his pool hall. #

Ever have an idea that's neat until it grows legs and just becomes 12k words worth of filth? Yeah, that. My google search history suffered intensely for this fic, but now I know that you can use cue stick oil as lube. You're welcome. Read here on A03 for better quality, and for wips, updates and more, follow me here on Twitter!

#

Felix runs a clean establishment which is why the red-headed idiot is the bane of his existence.

Every night, he’s there, running the action for a dime a pot. Making his victims even up before they start a new round. Regulars know that he’s hustling; he makes his targets put the money in the rack and then before they know it, he sweeps them in the last game, taking the pot for his own.

The newbies don’t stand a chance. Everyone else stays to watch the slaughter.

Felix waits before he steps in. He might run a tight ship but he can’t risk his regulars running out because he puts a stop to the usual entertainment. So, Felix watches from his corner spot on the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he scowls.

The idiot has cued up a tricky three-rail bank shot. His opponent looks confident that he’s going to win but everyone else knows better. Ingrid tries to warn the new guy; tugs on his arm to whisper into his ear. The man only smiles at her like she’s dumb, twirling a lock of her short hair around his finger.

When Ingrid smiles back, it isn’t kind.

The idiot takes his shot, the cue ball connecting with all three walls just as planned before sinking the eight like there’s a magnet in the pocket.

The newbie’s cigarette falls from his mouth, Ingrid stamps it out before it can do any lasting damage, and Felix makes his move before things get ugly.

“Sylvain,” he snaps, sliding in near the billiards table and leveling him with an unimpressed glare.

Sylvain’s already snatched up the money, thumbing through it and double-checking even though he knows it’s good. The bills never leave the table, not under his keen eye. Sylvain pauses dramatically and offers him a smarmy smile.

“Felix,” he greets in a low baritone.

“Are you done swindling my customers?”

“Hey, I’m a customer too.”

Felix scoffs. “You’re a leech and I can throw you right out.” The crowd around them is used to the theatrics of it all and begins to disperse, making themselves scarce. Ingrid hangs back for a moment and exchanges a knowing glance with Felix.

She isn’t much better than Sylvain at the end of the night, hustling her own targets in games of Cribbage before clearing the table, but she and Felix have an agreement. Felix and Sylvain don’t. Mostly because the latter is impossible to reason with.

“You won’t,” says Sylvain, back to counting his bills. “If I made this much, you easily made twice that.” He folds them before tucking them into his pocket.

Sylvain isn’t wrong. He might be a hustler, but he’s a damn good pool player, and people will spend all night in the hall just to peek at a game or two. Sylvain makes good change, but Felix takes a better cut off the booze and food he sells as a result.

It’s a win-win and it’s why he’s never actually kicked the man out despite his idle threats. Among other reasons, those far more complicated. Still, it’s the principle of the matter.

Sylvain orders a whiskey, neat, and Felix scowls. When Annie brings him a crystal tumbler, Sylvain gives her a wink. He’s barking up the wrong tree and knows it, but it’s harmless flirting that they throw between them on the regular. Annette finds it cute.

Felix finds it appalling.

Sylvain takes a sip and sets the glass aside, picking up a cue stick and rolling it between his palms. “So, it was a good night, I’m sure,” he says conversationally.

“I don’t talk shop with patrons, least of all you.”

“Here’s a reminder that I bring in money--”

“You could bring in Blaiddyd himself, and I still wouldn’t talk.”

Sylvain whistles lowly. “That’s a bit low,” he says. “Blaiddyd wouldn’t ever step foot into a place like this.”

Dimitri wouldn’t. Felix knows it, but it’s not because his pool hall is tucked into a dark corner of Fhirdiad. It’s because he and Dimitri aren’t on speaking terms and likely never will be again. The red-headed idiot doesn’t know that, can’t know that. He and Sylvain haven’t properly talked in years. Hustling in his hall is a fairly new development and it’s haunted Felix’s dreams for nearly a half-year.

Sylvain’s calling a blind-eyed bluff and Felix lets it ruffle him.

“Insufferable fool,” snaps Felix.

Sylvain shrugs as Felix rounds the table to clean it off, grabbing the wide boar-bristle brush. He sets about sweeping up the chalk marks from the felt because Sylvain’s shit at doing it.

Or, he doesn’t even bother, racking up another game without any consideration. Truly, the bane of Felix’s existence, a constant aggravation, from the way that he hustles patrons in his carefully cultivated pool hall, to that damned smirk that is more attractive than it should be.

Old habits die hard, especially when it comes to the decade-old flame still flickering in Felix’s pathetic heart.

When Sylvain leans against the table, Felix stands up, instantly high alert. When he sits his ass on the rail with his entire weight, Felix nearly has a coronary.

“Off!” he snaps, shaking the brush at Sylvain. “You’ll fuck up the balance.”

“I can fuck up a lot more than that, you know,” says Sylvain. “All you have to do is ask.”

Felix isn’t a mobster so he doesn’t murder the man. But he is a pool shark, so he does the next best thing. “You and me,” says Felix. “Later when the doors close. One-on-one, house rules.”

Sylvain regards Felix with one long, sweeping gaze across the entirety of his body, and Felix almost snarls back. But he doesn’t. Ingrid would be proud.

“I’m a front-runner,” says Sylvain, as though it makes a difference. Of course, he’s a front-runner, he’s likely the best player Felix has ever seen aside from Glenn. But Glenn’s dead and that doesn’t matter anymore.

“I’m no slouch,” says Felix.

Sylvain smiles a curling thing that spells danger. “Oh, I know. I’ve seen you shoot a rack or two.” Or two thousand. Sylvain looks at his whiskey glass, swirling it gently. “And the stakes? A dime? Two?”

“Rights to play here,” says Felix. “You lose and I get to kick you out once and for all.”

“And if I win, you never bother me about hustling again.” Felix opens his mouth and Sylvain cuts him off. “Ah-ah-ah, none of that. You and I both know that I bring in more business than this dusty old place would see without me.”

Felix hates that he’s right and he hates that he doesn’t have the guts to refute it. He swipes the brush over the table angrily. “Fine, I’ll take your damned deal.”

They don’t shake on it, but Sylvain does tip his glass in a salute. Good enough for Felix since the faith of Sylvain’s word doesn’t mean shit.

#

So the thing is, they’ve actually known each other since they were children. Ingrid and Dimitri as well; they’d grown up together during the tail-end of Prohibition, spending their afternoons with Glenn shooting pool on tilted tables with badly balanced cue sticks.

Felix was good, but Sylvain was the prodigy when it came to shooting racks, an absolute monster that no one wanted to challenge. Back then, he didn’t hustle, he just enjoyed the sport. And Felix did too, their days spent leaning over chalk-dusted felt and hand-me-down sticks.

Then Glenn died, Sylvain went pro and Felix turned bitter and angry. And everything between them stretched wide and thin, colored by wanton attraction and the fear of fucking it up.

Dimitri bought this place to relive fond memories. Abandoned it when he lost his mind for fancier clientele. Felix, unable to forget his youth no matter how he tried, stepped in to keep it from shutting down entirely.

No longer in its prime, the place struggled for years, Felix barely paying the bills and keeping it afloat.

Until Sylvain walked back in one day. It’d been five years without a word, and nearly a decade of sore, unbidden feelings. Felix wanted nothing to do with him. Didn’t want to relive those memories.

One problem, though: Sylvain can’t take a fucking hint. Felix has told him to his face that he’s unwelcome and Sylvain just shoots him that signature smirk of his, the one that’s so impossible to ignore, and pretends that nothing was ever said.

Felix never kicks him out because he lacks any resolve, something that haunts his dreams. It makes Ingrid laugh.

“So, house rules,” says Sylvain, sliding up next to him with a smooth swagger that Felix makes a point of ignoring.

“Eight-ball,” starts Felix, but Sylvain tuts.

“Where’s the fun in that? That’s a family game.” Felix doesn’t like the glint in Sylvain’s eye as he leans against the table rail. “Nine-ball. Best three out of five.”

“Nine-ball’s a tournament game,” says Felix. “I don’t do tournaments.”

“You could,” says Sylvain with a shrug. He’s right; Felix can. But he won’t.

“You know that I don’t compete.”

“Anymore,” says Sylvain, a quiet correction that turns Felix’s blood red-hot. Sylvain must see it because he raises his hands in deference. “Not the point, not the point. I’m just saying. We’re playing for a high pot so might as well make the game match.”

Felix doesn’t think that playing for his pool hall is a high pot but there isn’t a point in arguing-- Sylvain’s been bit by a competitive bug and it’s too late to stop it.

“Fine, nine-ball,” says Felix. He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at Sylvain. “Casual rules, though. Ball-in-hand--”

“Ugh.” Sylvain sounds positively offended and Felix smirks.

“And none of that fancy shit you like to pull.”

“Felix, you wound me.”

Felix levels him with an unimpressed look. “I don’t have time for it,” he says. Then he kicks Sylvain’s shin. “And off the fucking table. I won’t tell you again.”

Sylvain hops off but doesn’t apologize. “I’ll rack--”

“I’ll do it,” cuts in Felix, reaching for the triangle rack instead of the one used for nine-ball. “I don’t trust you further than I can throw you.”

Sylvain pauses, frowning the slightest bit, a tiny little crack in his carefully maintained facade. Felix nearly pauses-- nearly. Sylvain isn’t the kind to wear his heart on his sleeve. He only shows what he wants other people to see. But this here, it doesn’t seem intentional. He’s already off his game, distracted by something.

“I only meant you setting up the game,” says Felix.

“I’ve no qualms about you racking, but you know it means that I get to break.”

A calculated decision that Felix has already considered. Felix isn’t bad at getting a good spread, but Sylvain’s better at it. It’s a risky move to give him the first shot since he’ll likely sink one at the get-go, but it’s a risk Felix is willing to take.

Sylvain pulls a cue from his bag and twists it together, carefully wiping it down with a soft little cloth. Felix watches while he arranges the balls, nine in the middle. He presses his fingers against the bottom of the diamond, pushing them tight into the corner of the triangle. Not a traditional method, but Felix can get a better grip if the rack isn’t in the way of his fingers. Sylvain hasn’t noticed his stare.

Instead, he’s too busy inspecting the tip of the cue that he uses for breaking before chalking it up.

Once the balls are racked, Felix steps off to the side, showing off the table. “All yours.”

Sylvain offers him a smile, something small and genuine and for a second it’s like they’ve gone back in time. All that unwanted shit he’s tried to forget just wells right up from the depths of his heart. Felix pretends that they aren’t friends, that they were never close, that he hates Sylvain quite severely.

It isn’t true. When Sylvain left they’d been sitting awkwardly, hanging strangely in their friendship. Trying to figure out what they were together. For Felix, it’s never been something as simple as just friends.

And it never was for Sylvain either, which is why everything’s so fucked up between the two of them. Sylvain, despite whatever he feels, isn’t the type to settle down. And neither is Felix. But they’d thought about doing it, together.

Feelings can’t save shitty relationships, though, no matter how strong they are. They’re better off like this, frenemies that constantly dog each other.

Sylvain looks slick as he runs a hand through his wild auburn hair. The light above the pool table is dim and casts a shitty glow, but Sylvain looks alive as he takes his place at the south end of the table. He’s focused when he leans over, break cue held loosely in his hand. He lines up his shot, utterly focused on the task at hand, and then he brings the cue back before letting it loose.

There’s a crack as the cue ball flies across the table. The diamond scatters and balls bounce off the rails. He doesn’t sink one on the first shot which is an immediate red flag.

“You missed,” says Felix. “You did that on purpose.”

Sylvain shrugs, unconcerned as he swaps out his break cue for his regular. He chalks it up. “There isn’t any fun in running the table on the first go.”

Felix scowls. “You’re playing for keeps.”

“It’s best three out of five,” says Sylvain. “Might as well make it worth it.”

He’s a hustler through and through. Sylvain makes his bread and butter swindling poor sots out of their coin, pushing and pulling pots as he sees fit. Ingrid’s no better, but she’s already at a disadvantage. No one takes her seriously because she’s a woman, and if her goal is to take men down a notch, Felix isn’t going to be the one to tell her no.

Sylvain, however, doesn’t do it for the money, he does it for the thrill. He’s always been like that, living by the seat of his pants because it’s the only way that he feels things. Like right now. It’s the only reason he even bargained the game to begin with.

Felix only wanted a go at it, a friendly game between somewhat enemies. Sylvain was the one that put stakes on the table.

The cue that Felix uses is old and a little battered, but it’s straight and it’s got a decent weight to it. Nothing fancy, but he doesn’t need fancy, he only needs functional.

The spread on the table is good. The one-ball sits at the bottom left and the nine is at the right side pocket. The rest have enough space to get in a good table run if he plays his angles right. Felix leans over the corner of the table, lining up his shot.

Sylvain watches as Felix thinks it through. Nervousness prickles down Felix’s spine. He might play a game or two alone after the doors shut, but he’s admittedly, out of practice. Felix already knows if he mucks this shot up, Sylvain will spend the rest of the night poking fun at him.

The cue stick strikes true and Felix sinks the one-ball in the opposite side pocket. So far so good. The two is near a north corner, an easy shot. But the three is along a rail, leaving behind a tricky follow-up lie. Felix sighs and sinks the two, the cue ball kicking back to the left.

Not far enough, leaving him in a precarious position.

Sylvain whistles low and says, “Tricky, tricky. Not where I’d want to sit.”

“Shut up,” says Felix, scowling. He chalks up his cue, thinking about his next shot.

Sylvain shrugs, sipping at his drink. “I’m just saying. You’ve always been shit at putting spin on the ball.” Sylvain’s right. Felix never did practice his English much.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve played a game,” says Felix. Not since before Sylvain fucked off. He’s watched him, of course, but Felix hasn’t shot a rack around Sylvain since he came back. “Plenty of time to pick up some skill.”

“It wasn’t ever about skill, you just sucked at it even with how much you practiced.”

Felix would spend hours hitting shot after shot. He’d set up complicated lies and work out the math. He’s good with angles, and he’s decent at putting spin on the ball but it’s definitely his weak spot.

Felix doesn’t answer and Sylvain crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not trying to be rude--”

“Zip it,” cuts in Felix, shushing him. “I’m thinking.”

Sylvain’s quiet for exactly ten seconds before he says, “Lower half, middle of the ball. Put some meat behind it and it should stop dead.”

Felix ignores him on principle, hitting slightly to the right instead. The cue ball connects with the three, then banks to the side, flubbing the shot entirely.

Sylvain snickers from behind his hand, amused.

Felix knew it was a bad shot the moment his arm moved. He’s unsure why he’s so obstinate when it comes to taking Sylvain’s advice on a go. But then he sees the insufferable smirk plastered across Sylvain’s face.

Scratch that, he knows exactly why: Felix refuses to give in to his hustling.

“Should have just listened to me,” says Sylvain, getting up from the barstool and chalking up his cue.

“I’d rather sell out,” says Felix. And he would. He’d sooner leave him a good shot, sitting pretty on the table than give him any sort of satisfaction.

“Thought we were playing for keeps,” says Sylvain, repeating what Felix snarked earlier. “At least give me some satisfaction.” He leans over the table, marking up a shot at the three. He pulls the cue back once, twice, testing the wait of his aim.

“The only satisfaction you want is someone stroking your big, fat ego.”

Sylvain stops right in the middle of his shot, head cocking to the side as he shoots Felix a dangerous look. “Oh trust me, there’s something else I’d rather you stroke.”

Felix turns red in anger, hissing at the innuendo. Here it is, that unspoken thing that’s loomed between them for years. Sylvain’s always been overtly flirty with it, low whispers as he murmurs dark and dirty words into his ears. Felix refuses to be just another notch in his belt.

And it’s hard, so unbearably hard because the worst part is that Felix wouldn’t say no. Ingrid tells him that it’s stupid to hold off, that he should just get it over with and satisfy his fucking curiosity.

Felix refuses.

Sylvain bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “Man, you should’ve seen your face, Felix,” he says, setting up his shot again. He falls silent as he baits the cue ball, his practice strokes smooth like buttered perfection. Then, he takes the shot and sinks in the three, lining up for a perfect hit to the four.

And the five, and then the six. Sylvain cleans the table with little-to-no effort, calling his shots because he knows it pisses Felix off.

“Eight off the seven,” says Sylvain, grinning widely as he surveys the table. “But I’m going to bank it off this rail and nail the corner pocket instead.”

It’s an absurd trick shot and Felix tells him as such. “You’re wasting time with these superfluous tricks.”

“Sit back,” says Sylvain. “Relax. Shit Felix, this is supposed to be fun.”

Felix knew that it wasn’t going to be fun the moment he proposed it. He knew he’d be staring at Sylvain’s long and lean form, bent over the table as he figures out math and angles. Sylvain’s a smart guy, despite what people think. It’s one of the few times that the look on his face is truly genuine.

He’s more handsome now than ever before, something straight from Felix’s most vivid wet dreams. He has a love-hate relationship with those.

“Nothing about this is fun,” says Felix finally. “It’s infuriating.”

Sylvain bites the inside of his cheek in a huff, a nervous tic that he’s never been able to get rid of. “You’re the one making it so,” he says smoothly. “As I said, just relax. We’re here to play a game.”

“That I need to win if I want you good and gone.”

Sylvain pauses at that, still hanging over the table as he looks at Felix. “Is that really what you want Felix?” For once in his damn life, he sounds serious, not his usually mocking tone.

Felix doesn’t warrant the question with an answer. Instead, he just crosses his arms over his chest as he lurks in the corner near his pool cue.

Eventually, Sylvain gets tired of waiting. “Suit yourself,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Felix to hear. He lines up his ridiculous shot and takes a few practice sweeps. The moment he pulls back, Felix speaks.

“Of course I want you to piss off.”

Sylvain fucks up the shot, nearly miscuing. The cue ball lurches to the side, misses the seven entirely, and nearly sinks in the nine-ball instead. That’d be a game lost, one to Felix’s favor, which is greatly amusing.

To his credit, Sylvain doesn’t look angry, despite his swear. He looks dejected. And really, what does he expect? That he’d come back here to find everything normal? Back to the way it was? Felix is too tired for ifs, ands, and buts. He moved on years ago.

Or so Felix pretends. It’s his most practiced lie, second nature at this point.

The look, though, that shadow of sadness that falls across Sylvain’s face is gone nearly as soon as it appears. He schools it into a competitive grin instead, nodding to the table. “Well, here’s your chance,” says Sylvain, leaning onto his stool, cue resting against his thigh. “Knock me out of the game.”

Felix surveys the table. The ending lie of Sylvain’s kicked shot leaves Felix in a decent position. Just enough to smack the seven-ball in and clear the table if he can keep his mind empty. Felix looks at Sylvain again who stares right back. Easier said than done.

He sets up his shot, pulling back the cue a few times. He sinks the seven easily and with the left spin he put on the cue ball, it rolls over to the eight. The side pocket’s an easy target that leaves only the nine left.

“Think it through,” says Sylvain.

“Shut up.”

“Look, I’m just saying. The easiest shots are always the worst, especially when it’s the nine.”

True. Felix can hit a stellar shot and still fuck it up-- there are a thousand ways to lose a game of pool, almost all of them your fault. Felix knows that he should take a deep breath, sit back and think about angles and spin.

But he won’t because he’s too fucking impatient, the absolute worst quality he has.

“Nine-ball, corner pocket,” says Felix, gesturing with his cue. He forces himself to try and take his time, at least, breathing in deeply before letting it loose.

He fucks the shot up royally. Taps it a little too hard and overshoots, the cue ball sinking in right after the nine. A scratch, and the worst kind-- entirely self-inflicted because he’s far too distracted to keep his head in the game.

Felix blames it on Sylvain. Doesn’t matter what part of him-- that handsome, devilish smile of his; the way that he twirls his cue around nonchalantly; the gentle grasp he has around his crystal whiskey tumbler; the ease as he sinks in ball after ball.

It’s all the same shit as far as Felix is concerned.

“Man, you dogged it,” says Sylvain, a badly concealed smirk set across his face.

“You’re taking way too much pleasure in it.” Felix is beyond annoyed.

Sylvain’s expression changes as he raises an eyebrow. “Felix, if I wanted to take pleasure from something, it certainly wouldn’t be you losing.”

“Is that so?”

Sylvain doesn’t answer, he only stares him down, the depth of his face smoldering. And Felix stares back, frozen in place as he worries his lip between his teeth. At least after the game, he thinks. The pool hall deserves that much.

The tension between them is so thick you could cut it; the kind of joke that Ingrid would happily make were she watching their sorry asses dance around each other. Ridiculous, Felix thinks. Utterly ridiculous, how the two of them still act like teenagers who can’t keep it in their pants.

“You nearly had it,” says Sylvain finally, trying to diffuse the tightness in the air. “Next time I can show you--”

“I don’t need your pity,” says Felix suddenly.

Sylvain blinks. “An honest offer,” he says. “No pity involved.”

Felix knows there’s a catch, though. There has to be. When it comes to Sylvain, there’s always an ulterior motive.

They fall silent again for a moment that stretches a little bit too long. Staring at each other, neither willing to make the first move.

It’s Sylvain that finally does. “Rack them,” he says, pulling the balls from the pockets on his end of the table.

Felix says nothing as he sets the next rack, the nine-ball right in the center. He rolls them back and forth, pressing his fingers in between the wood and resin, ensuring a tight diamond.

“Three out of five, one to my name,” says Sylvain as he swipes some of his drink before cueing up his for his break.

It’s effortless as always, the crack of his shot deafening in the awkward quiet. He sinks two balls on the first go, the three, and the seven. Sylvain isn’t playing around this time. Felix knows he isn’t angry. He’s trying to distract himself.

And Sylvain does that by doing what he does best-- sharking pool.

He continues to clean the table in relative silence, intensely focused on the game. He gets like this when he’s thinking about things. Goes weirdly quiet as he formulates what he’s going to say next. Most think he’s inherently suave, an instinctual casanova, but that isn’t it at all.

Sylvain’s the best pretender around, carefully cultivating how others perceive him. Everything he says and does is by design.

Especially when it comes to Felix. It’s a well-practiced game to Sylvain when it comes to whatever the fuck their relationship is. Felix maintains there isn’t one, that there wasn’t ever. But it’s hard to hold to that when Sylvain’s two feet away in the pool hall, hustling right next to him every night. And Felix can’t stop looking, hasn’t ever been able to stop.

Even now.

“It’s hot in here,” says Sylvain, hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulling at it slightly. It is, and a little humid too. That’s what the weather does this far south, as far away from Fhirdiad as you can get.

“You’re the one insisting on being fully clothed,” says Felix.

Sylvain’s usual fare of dress is high-class. Crisply ironed button-downs paired with a well-tailored vest. Sometimes he wears his pocket watch, sometimes it’s a pocket square. He always rolls up his sleeves though, showing off well-defined forearms. Paired with the sleeve garters, everyone can’t help but stare.

Felix included.

“Gotta look the part,” says Sylvain with a tawdry wink. “You know that.”

“You already do,” Felix huffs, “With all the money you spend on those ridiculous brand-name labels.” Because it’s always been the best of the best for Sylvain.

Sylvain responds by reaching up and pulling his tie loose, unfastening the top few buttons before pressing the collar open, showing off his collarbone. And the sheen of sweat that glistens in the shitty glow of the light hanging above the table. Felix finally looks away, settling his gaze onto the wall.

“Nine off the eight,” says Sylvain. “Corner pocket.” He doesn’t point to the corner pocket that Felix would aim for.

Sylvain leans against the table, ass on the railing, the cue behind him. Shooting backward because he’s a gluttonous prick who can’t help but show off.

“Wrong corner pocket, you dick,” says Felix, obstinate as always. Mostly because he can’t stop staring at Sylvain’s ass when he should be watching the game. Between that and Sylvain’s gleaming collarbone on display, Felix is a goner.

Sylvain’s aim is impeccable, so naturally, he sinks the nine, winning the second game. “Rack ‘em,” he says with a smirk, jumping off the table.

Felix snarls before doing as he’s asked. Sylvain keeps smirking, running a hand through his unruly hair, stretching out his neck just so. Because he knows; he’s seen Felix looking and he’s hamming it up.

“Insufferable git,” says Felix, dropping the balls into the triangle-shaped rack and shuffling them around.

“You’re the one who keeps staring.” Felix pauses, looking back at Sylvain. He knows a challenge when he hears one and Sylvain’s looking at him like he’s ready to eat him right up.

“Only because you’re utterly ridiculous,” says Felix finally. “Pompous and loud, cheating my good patrons out of their money. Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

Sylvain hums at that, sipping at his whiskey. “Well, if someone’s going to, I prefer it be you.”

Felix nearly throws the rack at him but he doesn’t, hanging it neatly where it belongs under the table instead. Ingrid would be proud of his remarkable restraint. “Your break,” says Felix, turning away.

Sylvain’s already chalking up his cue. Figuring out exactly how he wants to set up his final run. “One more, my favor,” he says. “Better step up your game.”

Felix intends to, tired of this song and dance, of playing cat-and-mouse. They’ve chased after each other for years. It’s time to put an end to it. As Sylvain preps his shot, Felix switches cue sticks, pulling a second one from his bag. Pitch black with mother of pearl accents, but a tad beat up and not well-polished.

When Sylvain turns to him, he goes stock still like he’s frozen in time. Watches as Felix screws it together, brows knitted as recognition sets in.

“You kept that old thing?” asks Sylvain, quietly.

“It shoots straight. Might as well.”

Sylvain’s surprised because he gave the cue stick to Felix. Spent nearly three month’s loose change when they were young and desperately poor. Probably thought Felix chucked it the moment that he fucked off. Felix nearly did, and nearly has repeatedly over the years. Never quite gets there.

There’s one thing that Felix is really, really bad at: actually getting rid of Sylvain once and for all. It’s a complicated thing, full of complicated feelings. For better and worse. Felix and Sylvain were very nearly something all those years ago. Shared a few kisses in dark corners, wandering hands here and there.

Childhood friends to nearly-lovers, then rivals to whatever the fuck they are now.

Felix has caught Sylvain off guard, judging by his unsure expression. And for once, Felix doesn’t know what he’s thinking, can’t really tell. Sylvain just looks at him with this entirely unreadable expression.

“What?” asks Felix, a little more bite to his tone than he wants.

Sylvain doesn’t immediately answer, just rubs at his chin with his fingers. Thinking. But then he smirks, shooting Felix a rather dirty grin, and just like that everything’s back to normal again,  brushed away like chalk from the table felt.

“Nothing,” says Sylvain, swiping the cue ball from Felix’s hand and their fingers brush, Sylvain lingering. Felix is the one to pull away.

But, he can’t look away when Sylvain sets up his break, or the long lines of his frame as he leans over the table and tests the slide of his cue. Draped over the felt like he belongs here, in this dingy pool hall. Right before Felix, just like the days of old.

Felix sighs. He’s tired of longing for the past.

Sylvain’s cue makes great contact and the break spreads well. He sinks the two and four-ball and leaves a good lie for the one. Sinks that, and then the two. Leaves the three, and the five onward. Felix bites at his thumb nervously because Sylvain’s likely about to run the entire table with little effort.

He’s fucked this up.

Sylvain spares a glance at him and pauses, biting at his lip. Then he lines up his shot for the three. Should be an easy shot into the side pocket, incredibly straightforward. Until he fucks it up.  Intentionally.

“Shit,” murmurs Sylvain, “Jawed the tit.” Bounced right off the corner edge of the pocket.

Felix’s eyes narrow. Unlike before, this time it doesn’t seem like he’s giving him a chance to catch up or drag the game out. He’s left Felix with a pretty terrible lie. Whatever Sylvain’s plan is, it’s something else entirely.

Something that Felix isn’t sure he wants part of.

Which is why he doesn’t call it out. Instead, they swap sides, slowly rounding the table. Felix has been left with a shitty option for the three-ball, but still doable. He lines it up and calls his shot, takes a deep breath, and then shoots.

Sylvain watches from the stool on the opposite side, strangely quiet. The cue ball hits one rail, then the second, then connects with the three-ball, sinking it into the left corner. Felix lets out a sigh of relief and Sylvain a low whistle.

Felix makes quick work of the five and six-ball, leaving the seven in a good spot on the side pocket. He freezes, hesitating. The last time he had a shot like this, he fucked it up, leaving the table open for Sylvain to take the win.

And Felix knows that Sylvain won’t risk losing because he isn’t playing to keep hustling, he’s playing to keep Felix at his side. Even if they aren’t anything.

Anymore, Felix’s brain unhappily supplies.

“Think about it,” says Sylvain, just like before.

“I am,” says Felix irately.

“If you want, I can show you a trick. Help you sink shots like that with no issue.”

“I’d win.” It isn’t a guarantee, of course, but a high chance. The spread on the table is in Felix’s favor if he sinks this shot.

Sylvain shrugs and stands. “Fine by me,” he says. Sylvain walks around the table, running his hand along the wooden rail smoothly. Felix tracks the movement. Then Sylvain’s behind him, leaning close.

“Alright then,” he says right next to his ear. “Mind if I guide you?”

Felix nods minutely, words stuck in his throat because he lacks any conviction to say no. Sylvain reaches around him and takes the cue, carefully arranging Felix’s arms. “Loose form,” he says. “Lift your elbow just a bit, yeah, like that.”

Sylvain’s hand isn’t just warm, it practically burns through the sleeve of Felix’s shirt. “From this angle, you want the cue ball to kick left, so you’ve got to put your spin here.” Sylvain slots himself even closer, his pelvis flush with Felix’s ass. One hand on his waist, holding him there gently as he reaches even further to point to the cue ball.

The only thing that Felix can focus on Sylvain’s crotch and-- “Are you seriously hard right now?”

Sylvain freezes but he doesn’t move. “Can you blame me?” he asks simply. Like there’s nothing to it, like it’s completely normal. He doesn’t make any further movements to manhandle Felix, he just stands there nonchalantly as Felix’s gut twists at the thought of it.

Definitely not how this game is supposed to go.

“Yes,” says Felix, “I can absolutely blame you.”

A pause. Sylvain’s mouth is very close to his cheek, Felix can feel the gentle puffing of his breath against it. “Do you want me to move?” asks Sylvain, sincerely.

“No.” Felix’s answer is barely above a whisper and comes far too quickly. Sylvain’s breath hitches slightly as he shifts his stance just barely, his hardness more evident than ever before. “But at least help me finish the shot.”

“Felix--”

“You never give away your tricks,” cuts in Felix. “I’m not letting this opportunity go.”

Sylvain laughs mirthlessly but complies, guiding Felix’s cue to the proper position. “Tap it here, on the right. Not too hard, just enough to kiss it.” Felix swallows, trying not to think of the insinuating verbiage. He doesn’t want to kiss the ball, he wants to kiss Sylvain instead.

Sylvain pulls back but doesn’t move away entirely, still holding onto his waist. Felix sinks the shot and the cue ball kicks back just as it should.

Time slows, the both of them hesitating. Sylvain makes the first move. He doesn’t give Felix the chance to lean into another shot, turning him around and pressing him against the edge of the pool table.

Felix lets him, but says-- very weakly-- “We’ve got a game to finish.” He still has a cue in one hand as the other reaches up and latches onto the tie hanging loosely around Sylvain’s neck, tugging at it slightly. Teasingly, if he were the sort to tease.

Sylvain certainly takes it that way, reaching up to grip Felix’s chin lightly. “The only game I was playing wasn’t pool,” he says, thinking he’s smooth.

“I’m aware,” says Felix. “Noticed it the moment that you undid your shirt. How annoying.”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”

It certainly didn’t help, thinks Felix, but he’d been gone long before that. Before this night, weeks and months ago. He was gone the night Sylvain walked right back into his life.

“I’m tired of pretending,” says Felix. “Of ignoring it.” Because he is. Tired of being the last to leave work because he knows he’ll go home with Sylvain if he isn’t. Of watching from afar, itching to touch but resigning himself to stay on the other side of the room. Of Ingrid’s eye-rolling and suggestive hand gestures. It’s exhausting.

“So don’t,” says Sylvain.

Felix pulls him down and Sylvain meets his mouth eagerly. Felix is risking the balance of the pool table for this, leaning onto it fully as Sylvain presses in close, slipping a thigh between Felix’s legs.

Kissing Sylvain is like riding a bike; Felix remembers exactly how to do it. What Sylvain likes and the amount of pressure. The way their mouths slot together like it’s meant to be. Sylvain moans against his mouth, just a soft breathy sound like he can’t believe this is happening.

Maybe he can’t. Felix isn’t the type to reciprocate and he’s been fighting this for months. Not that Sylvain hasn’t tried his best to unruffle him, to get him to fall back into the ease of it.

Felix finally gives in, tumbling down that darkly lit corridor to chase that tell-tale fire that stokes slowly in his gut.

Sylvain’s lips are soft against his and he holds him too tenderly. Felix responds by yanking at the tie again and nipping at his mouth. Sylvain opens it in surprise and Felix’s tongue finds his, seeking out that wet warmth and comfort.

The sound that Sylvain makes is enough to fill Felix’s cock halfway.

They part to breathe and Felix knows he looks a mess. Flushed and breathing heavily in the hot and humid pool hall. Half-sprawled across one of his carefully balanced tables. He can’t find much care in it, his brain muddled by the sharp press of Sylvain’s body against his own.

“Shit, Felix.” Sylvain runs a thumb across the high arch of Felix’s cheekbone. Just looking at him as it slides across the seam of his mouth. Felix nips at the digit in response.

Their next kiss is a little slower, driven by Sylvain’s persistence to take his time. Felix is impatient but lets him lead, relishing in the softness of his lips. Sylvain slides a hand down his front and pulls his shirt from his pants. His fingers are cold against Felix’s skin despite the heat of the room, splaying smoothly across the planes of his stomach.

But he hesitates, nails just barely scratching at the top of Felix’s waistband.

“Touch me, you imbecile,” says Felix, demanding and needy, kicking his hips closer to drive home his point.

“Right,” says Sylvain against Felix’s lips. “Yes, okay.” He sounds even needier, something that Felix takes great pride in. Sylvain’s stopped kissing him, nose pressed into the nape of Felix’s neck instead, resting there. No doubt savoring the moment or whatever other romantic bullshit that Sylvain thinks when lost in the moment.

Felix’s only complaint is that he isn’t moving fast enough. “Sylvain,” he warns, “I’m this close to shoving you off and taking care of myself in the office.” Not his favorite option and not nearly as fun.

Sylvain pulls back, one hand gripping Felix’s chin. “You wouldn’t,” he says.

“Try me,” says Felix defiantly. Because he definitely would and Sylvain knows it.

And the way that Sylvain looks at him in response, how his gaze smolders as he smirks knowingly, makes Felix want to drown in the heat of it.

Sylvain surprises him by dropping to his knees against the hard ground, grasping Felix by the hips. Nuzzles at Felix’s crotch, where he tents his trousers. Felix lets out a soft moan, fingers finding Sylvain’s hair, scratching at his scalp.

They’d shared kisses in the past and rutted against each other fully clothed. Fevered hands grabbing at each other over rough cotton in dark corners as they roughly jerked off.

Sylvain’s hand is soft as he drags it over the front of Felix’s trousers, the touch somehow still familiar. Then he grips a little firmer, cupping him properly.

“Sylvain--”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sylvain, fingers already pulling at his zipper instead. “Impatient as always. Just like old times.” Even with Felix egging him on, Sylvain is unbearably slow when it comes to undressing him. “I’m savoring it,” he says when Felix grunts in frustration. “You only get one first time with another.”

Felix can’t dispute that. Still. Felix moves, shimmying his trousers past his ass, letting them drop to the ground.

“That’s one way to do it, I suppose,” says Sylvain with a chuckle. Then Felix’s briefs quickly follow and he stops laughing. Sylvain’s mouth falls open as he stares, hands gripping Felix’s thighs tightly. “Felix,” he croaks, looking at him like he’s a man starving, fingers itching to touch. And do more.

Felix isn’t an angel. There’ve been others. But this is Sylvain, and Felix has never been like this with him, never given him that much.

He would’ve but it never panned out.

Sylvain leans in close, pressing a kiss at the juncture where Felix’s groin meets his thigh. Then to the base of Felix’s cock, his lips lingering there. Felix takes a deep breath, his eyes slipping closed at the sensation.

Then Sylvain swallows him down, his mouth hot and wet around his length.

“Fuck,” says Felix, fingers tightening their grip on Sylvain’s hair. “Fuck.”

Sylvain moans around him as he bobs up and down his cock, tongue flat along the underside of him. Then on the upstroke, Sylvain’s tongue curls around the tip and his hand finds the part of Felix’s cock that isn’t buried in his mouth.

Felix wasn’t expecting this and he tells him as such. “You’re the kind that takes what he wants,” says Felix in a light-hearted jab. Even if this had gone another way, he wouldn’t have complained.

Sylvain pulls off to retort. “Oh, darling,” he says, pressing a sweet little kiss to the crown of his cock, “I never do anything that I don’t want to. And this? I’ve wanted to do this for years.”

“Insufferable bastard,” says Felix, but the insult dissolves into a blissed-out moan when Sylvain’s mouth finds him again, this time sucking around him properly. Felix can’t get enough of it, the tight and wet heat that engulfs his cock. The way that Sylvain works him like he’s trained his entire life for this.

Felix likes to think he has.

Sylvain’s hand moves to cup his balls, rolling them softly in the palm of his hand, and Felix nearly pulls Sylvain’s hair right from his head. He can feel the way that he smiles around his cock, the way that his laugh rumbles up from his throat. How it caresses his dick.

Felix shoves Sylvain’s face off none-too gently, his chest heaving as he tries his best not to come right then.

“Oh,” says Sylvain in surprise. Then his face melts into something amused. “Oh--”

“Shut it,” cuts in Felix. “I’m losing my patience and I didn’t want to finish in your mouth.”

“But what if I wanted you to?”

Felix blinks, the words barely registering. “What?”

“What if I wanted you to come in my mouth?” Sylvain looks up at him, eyes half-lidded and hazy with want. “What if I wanted to swallow it down?” It’s sinful, the earnest way that he says it. The way that Sylvain still cups his balls in one hand and drags lazy circles across Felix’s thigh with the other. Eagerly waiting.

Felix swallows thickly, thinking about the debauched image that fills his mind. Then he guides Sylvain back to his cock, his hands on either side of his face, thumbing at his cheekbones. Sylvain happily accepts it, tongue out and waiting before slotting his mouth around Felix’s length once more.

And he keeps going until the tip of Felix’s cock hits the back of his throat, and Sylvain’s nose is near the coarse hair at his pubic bone.

Felix is going to die, he’s pretty sure of it. Not a bad way to go, all things considered. One hand moves to grab at Sylvain’s hair tightly, the other still cupping his jaw. Sylvain’s efficient in the way that he moves, sliding up and down, tonguing expertly around him. The pressure as he sucks and laps at his cock.

“I’m--” Felix tries to warn that he won’t last much longer. “Sylvain, I’m--”

Sylvain doubles his efforts, letting go of his balls to press his fingers a little further back. Against the smooth skin there, massaging at it gently. Felix curses and spills into his mouth, doing his best to not buck against him. The tightly coiled tension has snapped and Felix does his best to come down from the high of it, but he’s nothing but a puddled mess, leaning back against the pool table. His legs shake like jelly.

When Sylvain pulls off him, he looks triumphant, swallowing Felix’s spend like it’s an expensive delicacy. Which is almost worse, the fucked-out look of it. Seeing Sylvain like this, on his knees before him, lips swollen and face ruddy in the aftermath of spectacularly sucking him off.

It’s almost enough to get Felix going again.

Felix tugs at Sylvain’s tie and he stands, leaning over him again, slotted between Felix’s open legs. Felix doesn’t care where his mouth’s been, he pulls Sylvain in for a kiss. Tastes himself as Sylvain deepens it, licking into Felix’s mouth.

Sylvain’s cock is fully hard and digging into his thigh.

“You’re wearing too much,” says Felix when he breaks the kiss.

“Going to return the favor?” asks Sylvain, his hands braced against the table rails on either side of Felix.

“No,” says Felix. “Not this time. You took too long, indulging as you did.”

“You weren’t complaining about it.”

“And I won’t.” Felix knows he’s being cheeky but Sylvain loves it, the way that he teases. Felix presses a hand to the open collar of his shirt where it’s undone, fingering Sylvain’s collarbone there.

“Irritating,” he continues. “How good you look when you show off your skin.”

“Only for you, babe,” says Sylvain.

Felix scoffs. “That, I doubt.”

Sylvain’s expression changes, softening. “No, really,” he says. “Not in a long time.” It isn’t a lie; judging by the subtle change in his demeanor, Sylvain’s sharing a rare moment of truth.

Felix stares at him for a long moment, and Sylvain stares right back. Then, Felix’s hand shifts down to Sylvain’s vest. “So, no one else has peeled this off you in a while, then.” He toys casually with a button.

“That’d be right.”

“That must’ve been annoying.” Felix undoes one button and then the rest, and Sylvain shucks the vest off faster than Felix can finish his sentence. “Knowing you.”

“I managed,” says Sylvain.

Felix hums as his hand curls into the front of Sylvain’s shirt, pulling him closer. “Must’ve put your hand through the wringer,” taunts Felix. He unbuttons the rest, pulling it from Sylvain’s trousers. Sylvain’s always looked good, but he’s downright unfair now with his trim waist and just-enough-muscle.

“A downright nightmare,” says Sylvain with a chuckle. “Damn near sprained the thing.” Then he leans close, his mouth near Felix’s ear as he whispers, “Last few months especially, with all the thinking I’ve done about you.”

Those are the words that do him in. Felix’s hands drop to Sylvain’s waist, pulling at his trouser band. His hands are steadier than expected he when unzips them. Not so much when he slips his hand in, caressing Sylvain’s cock through his underwear.

The moan Felix gets in response can set him on fire.

“You’re cruel,” says Sylvain through a punched breath.

“Not as much as you with how slow you’re being. Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Sylvain has two modes. The first is the saccharine one where he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, his voice smooth as silk. The kind that makes women swoon at romantic, chivalrous ideas, toes curling in their shoes.

This is the second; the searing hot one where his smile is a devilish smirk, and everything that he whispers against Felix’s ear is dirty and salacious. “Is that what you want?” asks Sylvain, before pressing a kiss just below Felix’s chin. “Goddess knows it’s what I want, you underneath me all hot and bothered.”

Sylvain’s intoxicating in the way that he leans close to him, and the weight of his hard cock pressed against Felix’s thigh.

“You’re all talk,” says Felix, rubbing a thumb across the front of Sylvain’s briefs, relishing in the wet dampness there. The way that his cock tents against the soft cotton there, twitching slightly under Felix’s grasp.

Were he more a patient man, he’d suck Sylvain off. But Felix isn’t, so he’ll save it for another time.

“You wound me, Felix,” says Sylvain, eyes shutting as he bites at his lip.

“Certainly no action,” says Felix, fingers tugging at the waistband of his briefs, letting it snap back into place.

Sylvain groans. “Have you forgotten so quickly? How I was on my knees before you just moments ago?”

Felix’s hands still as he thinks about it. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget such a sight,” he says.

And he won’t. It’ll haunt his dreams for decades to come. Even now, Sylvain looks so delectable; his face flushed, his shirt is open in the front and showing off his pecs, and his sleeves rolled up to the arm garters, revealing perfectly toned forearms.

Felix said it before, how irritating it is; how he can’t help but stare, to drink up and memorize it so he’ll never forget. Maybe he won’t have to. Maybe this’ll be the start of something new and a little more permanent. He won’t hold his breath.

Sylvain’s unpredictable at best and despite his earlier promise that there hasn’t been anyone else, for years, it’s always been the flavor of the week when it came to his interests.

“I’m waiting,” says Felix, tugging at Sylvain’s briefs again.

“Okay,” breathes Sylvain, kicking off his pants entirely. His briefs land in a messy pile on the floor beside them. His hand finds Felix’s hip, squeezing it gently as he looks down. Felix feels the heat of his gaze deep in his gut, his cock already twitching again.

Sylvain smirks as he sees it, hand sliding over Felix’s front and then down, his fingers nestling into the hair at the base of his dick. “Gorgeous,” says Sylvain, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Felix’s neck. “But you know that.”

“Yes,” says Felix. Then pauses, huffing. “Still waiting.”

Sylvain licks a stripe up the side of his neck, then says, “Lube?”

At least he’s considerate. Felix is too impatient to even think about something like that at the moment. “What, none on you? What’s happened to your stellar reputation?” As a player who was always ready. Felix is going to tease him about it until the end of time.

“Wasn’t expecting this to happen,” says Sylvain, looking around the room.

“You practically orchestrated this.”

“Trying to seduce you isn’t the same as actually doing it.” Sylvain’s got a point there. Felix is notoriously prickly. He’d managed to ignore it the best he could for months. Until he couldn’t anymore. Sylvain’s gaze settles on something at the far end of the room. “Jackpot,” he says, pulling away from Felix.

Felix watches his backside with a burning gaze, eyes honed in Sylvain’s perfect ass. Sylvain digs through his cue stick bag before pulling out a bottle. Then, Felix narrows his eyes. “Is that your cue stick oil?”

“What?” asks Sylvain, looking incredibly dumb as he stands there mostly naked and confused. “It’ll work.”

“Sylvain, I’m not--”

“It’s linseed oil,” cuts in Sylvain, “and it’s very good for--” Felix bursts into laughter and Sylvain stops dead. “What now?”

Of all the things they can argue about, it’s what they’re going to use as lube. Not their sordid past, or the awkward shit between them, or hell, why Sylvain even left in the first place. But lube.

Sylvain crosses the room in record time. “I’ve broken you,” he murmurs.

Felix clears his throat and says, “Not yet.” He leans back onto the table and spreads his legs, and Sylvain’s gaze drops right to where Felix wants it. Sylvain’s throat bobs as he swallows. “But I expect you to ruin me entirely.”

“Shit,” says Sylvain, a soft little curse as he looks skyward. “I can do that.” His hands find Felix again, squeezing at his hips, running along his sides, pressing close enough that it’s hard to tell where Felix ends and Sylvain begins.

“I mean it,” says Felix. He’s never been one for dirty talk, but with Sylvain, it feels natural. He reaches out to grab the loose tie that still hangs limply around Sylvain’s neck. Felix’s other hand dips into the open shirt, smoothing over a pec. He thumbs at Sylvain’s nipple and gets a low moan in return. “Make it impossible for me to forget.

Sylvain will, Felix knows it. Can already tell by the way that Sylvain whimpers softly against his neck when Felix’s hand drops to grab his cock. Felix’s fingers finally circle around him after such a long wait. He’s hard and wanting in Felix’s hand, already wet at the tip.

“Turn around,” says Sylvain when he regains his senses. Felix responds by sliding his hand up and down instead. “Felix, move--” Felix palms the crown of Sylvain’s dick and he chokes out a sound that Felix would give his first child to hear again.

Sylvain turns him around and presses Felix’s chest down against the felt of the table. “We’re going to fuck up the table,” says Felix, teasing. He doesn’t give a shit about the table anymore, the only thing that matters is Sylvain’s hands on his ass, settling him into a more preferable position.

“Not as fucked as you will be,” says Sylvain, leaning over and whispering into his ear. “Thoroughly and extensively. Within an inch of your life.”

Terrible, terrible lines that absolutely work on Felix. “Do your worst, then,” says Felix, goading him.

Sylvain smiles against the side of Felix’s neck. Felix can imagine it, the way that Sylvain’s lips are curled dangerously. Sylvain presses a soft kiss against the skin there, directly contradictory to the way that his hands slide across his ass, massaging it gently.

“Is that a challenge?” asks Sylvain.

Felix scoffs. “Everything’s a game with you, isn’t it?”

“Not this.” Sylvain’s voice is quiet as he bites at the back of Felix’s neck. “Never this.”

Felix loves it, the way that Sylvain sprinkles in romantic shit as he touches him. “Is that a promise?”

“Yes,” says Sylvain immediately. Sincerely. Like he’s holding the world in his fingertips. One hand slides around Felix’s front, tweaking a nipple through his shirt that’s stubbornly remained on.

Felix hates how much he craves this kind of attention, those soft-spoken words of attention that he’s longed to hear, even when he was pushing them away. In the end, he’s never been able to say no to Sylvain, even if he tries. He’ll always come back.

Still, Sylvain’s insufferably slow at this, taking his damn time. Fingers skimming across Felix’s skin as he relishes the way he’s pressed into the pool table underneath him. “You’re playing lemonade,” says Felix. Stalling everything intentionally, slowing the pace of the game to a crawl. “Get on with it.”

“Yes, yes,” says Sylvain, pulling back. He spreads Felix’s ass cheeks and stares. Felix squirms under the touch, kicking his hips, trying to get the game on the road.

Sylvain slicks his fingers with the accursed cue stick oil and presses one against him. Felix’s breath hitches in anticipation, huffing slightly as Sylvain carefully circles around his entrance. When he slips the finger in, Felix moans so loudly that it’s embarrassing, practically echoing in the empty pool hall.

“Dammit, Felix,” murmurs Sylvain, working his finger in gently, pressing around inside. “Your--”

“So it’s been a while,” Felix bites out. “Fuck off.”

“No, that’s not--” Sylvain pauses, biting at his lip. “Goddess, I can’t wait to just--”

“Faster then, you idiot. I won’t break.”

Felix knows that Sylvain will still be careful, though, treating him like he’s something precious. Sylvain keeps it slower than Felix prefers, pressing in and out leisurely as he tugs slightly at his rim. Then a second finger joins the first. Felix loves the stinging pressure and the way that it makes him feel alive. It sets his blood on fire as it starts to boil, the pressure mounting deep in his gut.

Felix is hard again, cock twitching as it hangs below them.

Sylvain’s fingers move a little faster, setting a prickling pace. The way that he slips them in, the way he spreads them wide to lovingly stretch him-- Felix thrusts back against Sylvain’s hand, trying to speed up the process.

A third finger is added, Sylvain perfectly attuned to the wants and needs of Felix. Felix moans again, bites at his lip, grips tightly at the table rails below him. Sylvain’s good at what he does, prepping him so nicely.

Then his fingers stroke across his prostrate and Felix tightens up.

“Bull’s eye,” says Sylvain triumphantly.

Felix huffs, trying to seem indifferent. “Took you long enough,” he says, but his voice pitches high, crying out wantonly as Sylvain caresses him there relentlessly.

“Not yet,” says Sylvain. He slows his fingers but he doesn’t stop, moving them slowly as Felix does his best to not buck against his hand. “Don’t come until I’m inside you properly.”

“Give me some credit. It’s going to take more than your half-assed efforts.”

Sylvain’s fingers halt. Then he pulls them out entirely, leaving Felix suddenly bereft, his hole clenching around nothing.

“Half-assed,” repeats Sylvain, opening the bottle of oil once again. Felix looks back, watching as he pours it over his cock. He’s delicious looking, long and hard as Sylvain spreads the oil around with his hand. Then he’s spreading Felix’s ass again, thumbing at his loosened hole, watching with a dark and heated gaze. “I thought we weren’t playing games?”

“That was before you decided to take too long. I think I’ve already threatened you about that.”

Sylvain laughs before pulling Felix’s hips back. He nudges Felix’s entrance with the tip of his cock. “Ready?”

“A decade ago,” says Felix. It’s a double meaning, they both know it. They’ve wanted to indulge in this for far too long which is why Felix is so tired of waiting. He has to commend Sylvain on his valiant show of constraint because if it were Felix in his position, he’d have already lost.

Sylvain slides in like it’s second nature. He fills Felix up like he’s always belonged there. And maybe he has, maybe this is what Felix has been missing for so long. The heat and pleasure of what’s probably the world’s most perfect cock.

The man attached to it isn’t so bad either.

“Fuck,” says Sylvain, leaning forward once he’s fully seated, pressing his brow into the back of Felix’s neck. Waiting. Trying to ground himself. His fingers grip Felix by the hips, nearly bruising as he hangs on.

“You aren’t yet.” Felix can’t help the banter and Sylvain chuckles. Presses a kiss to his neck and then moves.

The slide of his cock is smooth. Sylvain’s lazy in the way that his length drags through Felix, a carefully maintained pace that’s just gentle enough. The kind of pace that’s wholly satisfying but not nearly enough.

It’s Felix’s turn to curse; filthy words, Sylvain’s name, anything that he can remember at the moment. He presses back, meeting Sylvain’s thrusts eagerly.

“Are you going to come like a clean shot?” asks Sylvain, his lips finding his ear, tongue licking around the shell of it. “Without me touching you? Like you’ve sunk the nine-ball without any interference.”

Felix should hate the ridiculous pool analogy on principle. He doesn’t, tightening up in response to the jargon. Felix moans at the words, biting at his lip and Sylvain smirks like he’s just won a new pot of money. Felix feels so satisfyingly full. Sylvain’s cock hits in all the right places as he moves over him. In and out. Pulls at his rim with stinging satisfaction.

Sylvain lifts Felix’s leg slightly, the angle changes and suddenly, Felix is seeing stars. Blinding white pleasure now that Sylvain’s cock has direct access to his prostate. Felix is mostly sprawled across the table now, his cock pressed into the soft felt of the table. Dribbling precome pathetically all over it.

“The table’s wet,” whispers Sylvain naughtily into his ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. Felix knows he doesn’t mean the humidity of the room and how it can fuck up a game. Sylvain reaches around to grab Felix’s cock, hand sliding along the length in time as he thrusts into him. “Felix, look at the mess you’ve made.”

“More,” says Felix, needily. He barely recognizes his own voice, too busy chasing the high that’s coursing through him. He can only focus on the thrust of Sylvain’s hips and the way that he fills him so perfectly, setting his nerves alight with every touch.

Sylvain delivers, pressing in as deep as he can go. He’s got a slick grip on Felix’s cock, fingers curled around it loosely as he jerks him. Sylvain bites at the meat of Felix’s shoulder, marking him up, and Felix moans, craving it.

“Felix, fuck.” Sylvain sounds so gone, his hips dragging against Felix in stuttering motions. He’s close, Felix can tell. And Felix is close too, the heat in his groin tightening more and more with every touch of Sylvain’s hand over his dick.

“Inside,” says Felix.

Sylvain pauses. “What?”

“I said to come inside me, you bonehead, not to stop. As in--”

“Yeah, yeah,” murmurs Sylvain. “Shit, Felix. You’ve got a way with words don’t you?” Then he lets go of his cock, leaving Felix feeling stripped of pleasure and entirely on edge. “Think you can do it? Come from just my cock?”

Felix can and he will, wholly determined. It’s perfect, Sylvain’s perfect; from the heat of his length, to the way that drags at him-- Felix can’t think of coming any other way. “Yes,” he says, his voice cracking like the word’s been punched straight from his gut. “Yes.”

Sylvain leans back, fingers digging into the meat of Felix’s waist. He doesn’t speed up, but he thrusts in hard and deep, sweeping strokes that aim to finish this off quickly.

“Look at you,” says Sylvain, “Taking me so well. Always knew that you would.” He spreads Felix’s cheeks, watching as his cock slips in, watching the way that Felix’s rim is stretched around him. Felix can imagine that satisfied smirk on his face, the kind that he gets when he’s won a pot.

Felix is the first to come, his cock just barely touching the felt of the table as Sylvain ruts into him. He tips over the edge, crying out Sylvain’s name and a litany of curses. None of them bad, all of them deserved. He feels rung out and limbless, legs shaking as he collapses onto the table.

Sylvain’s right behind, thrusting in only a few more times because he comes deep, filling him up.  The resulting sound is downright sinful, Sylvain’s moan the kind of thing that Felix dreams about every night.

Even his dreams can’t compare. Sylvain lives up to the hype, thinks Felix as he breathes heavily, awkwardly folded against the pool table. His only regret is that he’d been facing away, that he wasn’t able to see Sylvain’s face in the throes of his orgasm.

Next time.

Sylvain’s careful when he pulls out. He’s gone for only a moment before he’s back with his polishing towel, splashed with lukewarm water from the tap. He cleans Felix up with a soft touch, pausing to look at his work. Felix can feel his spend leaking out of him. Moans when Sylvain presses it back in, his thumb lolling around his hole with smug satisfaction.

“Was it an adequate ruining?” he asks Felix.

Felix shoots him a rude gesture back, too tired to say anything else. Sylvain only chuckles, finishes wiping him up, and then leans in close for a sweet kiss against Felix’s sweaty head.

“For the record, I think you ruined me more,” says Sylvain. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

Felix won’t either. After a few minutes, he finds the strength to move, pulling back from the table. Then he sees the absolute mess he’s made all over the felt. Felix pinches the bridge of his nose, hissing at the idea of it.

Sylvain looks over his shoulder, wincing. “That’s, uh--”

“It’s ruined,” says Felix. “I’ll have to get it re-felted.” It’s his fault, though, not Sylvain’s. Not entirely at least. Felix was so gone he didn’t even think about it, lost entirely in their passion. Felix sees Sylvain’s expression and he reaches out, grabbing him by the shirt sleeve. “It isn’t a big deal.”

Sylvain’s flushed and sweaty, his cheeks pink and his hair mussed. Looks like he ran a marathon. Might as well have; Felix put him through the wringer. But then Sylvain smiles like he’s found the meaning of life, a wide grin that makes Felix’s heart stutter.

Felix leans back against the edge of the pool table gingerly and pulls Sylvain close. Sylvain follows, his hands immediately finding purchase on his waist. “Does this mean I’m not kicked out?” asks Sylvain quietly.

“You do bring me a lot of business,” says Felix.

“Oh, so this is all business then?”

Felix is quiet for a moment, fiddling with Sylvain’s collar. “No, it isn’t all business. It’s definitely something more.”

Sylvain cups his cheek, looking at him seriously. Felix pulls him down for a kiss, the kind where lips linger because you want them to. He doesn’t want to forget the way that Sylvain tastes.

When they part, they clean up. Felix limps about slightly, resulting in more raunchy innuendo from Sylvain. He’s never going to hear the end of it.

But Felix doesn’t want to, smiling softly when Sylvain isn’t looking.

They leave the pool hall tired and satisfied, fingers melded together as they walk hand-in-hand. Sylvain stays the night at Felix’s shitty apartment and it’s surprisingly chaste; they fall asleep fully clothed, shoved into a too-small bed, and wrapped around each other.

The next night at the pool hall is the same old bullshit.

Sylvain’s hustling Felix’s customers, stripping them of their money by winning pot after pot. Felix stands against the wall not far off, arms crossed over his chest as he watches. His expression is disgusted as usual. But his demeanor is entirely soft.

Ingrid notices. “Something happened,” she says.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” says Felix, obstinate as ever.

Ingrid levels him with a look. “You and Sylvain. Spill.”

“We played a few games last night.”

“Did you win?”

Ingrid sits on the edge of the doomed pool table. It’s covered that night and entirely off-limits. Felix isn’t sure that he’ll ever be able to look at it again, his face burning red at the mere thought of what he and Sylvain did there.

“You--” Ingrid’s mouth falls open. Then her gaze drops to the table which usually isn’t out of commission. “No,” she says. She jumps off it. “ No.”

Felix doesn’t confirm nor deny it, just sips at his well-deserved alcohol as he looks back at Sylvain. He’s dashing as ever, despite the shitty lighting, sleeves rolled up to show off his forearms. He isn’t wearing a vest this time and the collar’s undone, showing off what Felix would consider his biggest fucking weakness.

He swallows thickly and Ingrid makes a disgusted noise.

“I mean, about fucking time,” she says, “But really, Felix? Here?”

“It wasn’t planned,” he says truthfully.

Silence stretches between the two of them, relatively comfortable. Sylvain wins another pot, leaving behind an angry victim. Looks like someone’s about to go fisticuffs.

“You should go stop whatever that is,” says Ingrid.

“Yeah,” murmurs Felix, pushing away from the wall.

Back to normal, thinks Felix as he tries to talk the scorned gentleman down from punching Sylvain right across the face. Except that it isn’t. Things have shifted entirely, almost like they’ve both gone back in time, and moved forward. The start of something fresh and new.

Felix can think of worse things.

#sylvain/felix #felix/sylvain #felix x sylvain #felix hugo fraldarius #fe3h #sylvain jose gautier #fe3h fanfiction

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Seven

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Paladin Danse, pride of the Brotherhood of Steel, yawned loudly right before he took the shot. The radstag looked up, alerted to his presence, but it was already too late for the beast.

  Danse lumbered down to the water's edge, hauling the body up onto the withered grass and then drawing his combat knife. As messy as field dressing creatures could be, Danse found himself soothed by the memorized motions. He wondered idly whether he could have been happy doing something like this. Just hunting to support his own needs, staking a claim on some forlorn piece of land and slowly shaping it into a home, maybe even starting a family...

  He almost nicked his thumb due to his inattention and Danse grunted, a little irritated to have caught himself daydreaming about a more domestic existence. You're a member of the Brotherhood of Steel , he scolded, start acting like it! Imagining fake lifetimes was reserved for those who hadn't sworn the Creed, dedicating their lives to carrying out the will of their Elder and honoring the tenets of the Brotherhood.

  Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.

  Danse's familiarity with the task made quick work of butchering the animal, the paladin rolling everything neatly into the bedraggled hide he had peeled off the beast. The inedible bits of the animal he buried, not wanting to draw any predatory attention to the site. 

  With the lumpy, makeshift sack slung over his shoulder, the paladin trekked back up the hill to the station. Preston waved at him from the fortified wall and the paladin saluted out of habit. 

  Danse found himself powerless to stop his smile when a freckled face popped out from the doorway of the station, Matthew staring down at him. The child's fear seemed to have evaporated overnight, replaced by the verbose curiosity that so many of his age group eagerly employed. It probably helped that Danse had left his power armor behind the station.

  "Whatd'ja get?" The boy asked, skittering down the stairs.

  "Radstag. Notoriously gamey, but ultimately acceptable for consumption." Danse replied as he rinsed off his hands and knife, surprised when Matt nodded solemnly.

  "My papa and older brothers get them sometimes. He says I can't see them shoot one yet though. When I'm older I can come along." Matthew squatted beside the paladin, watching intently as Danse unrolled the pelt and separated out the different cuts of meat. Some would benefit immensely from being aged, but out in the field there was little chance of a reliably-cooled environment. 

  Danse frowned. He had been hoping for smaller game, like some mole rats. He hadn't wanted to pass up the prolific meat the larger beast offered, but now he felt a bit foolish for impulsively going after a creature they may not be able to consume entirely before it spoiled. He couldn't spend all day cooking or preserving it either, he had promised Preston he would finish the wall--

  "Good news!" Garvey called, a spring in his step as he approached the two. "Matt's folks are coming 'round to collect him as soon as possible. I'd expect them by noon, if not earlier."

  "Does your family need food, Matthew?" Danse asked the boy bluntly, gesturing down at the meat. 

  "I got three brothers and four sisters, Mister Danse sir." Matt said by way of reply, his eyes a little wide. "We grow some stuff and my mama makes pretty things to sell, but food's kinda' tight." A flush rose on his face. "We're not poor though! Not poor. We have a place to live, and clean water." He continued defiantly.

  Danse was stunned silent for a moment, and Preston cleared his throat. "You need a hand with that, Paladin?" 

  "I...yes. Thank you, Lieutenant." Danse mumbled, struggling to gather his thoughts. "I may have bitten off more than I could chew as far as resources go. If you would...just...uh, wrap the…"

  "You want them to have the decent stuff, or the larger stuff?" Preston asked simply, crouching down.

  The paladin grimaced. "The whole damn thing, but I'm certain they wouldn't accept it." He muttered incredulously under his breath, " eight children." 

  "They're lucky. A lot of times, pregnancy doesn't really work out so well." Preston rumpled Matthew's hair. "How about you decide, big man. You want the whole deer, minus what we eat for breakfast?"

  "What, really? All of it?!" The boy asked excitedly, looking up at Danse like he was waiting for confirmation. Danse nodded jerkily, unsure of exactly which emotion was choking him at the moment. "This will make my mama wicked happy! I hear her cry sometimes about food. S'why I went to the water place, I was tryin' to scavenge for stuff like my big brothers do."

  It was hardly Danse's first time encountering a family that was low on resources. He had grown up a scavenger himself, alone and hungry. The Capital Wasteland had been rife with desperate people who were willing to try their luck against fully armored BoS troops. Danse couldn't even begin to count the amount of times hostile situations had erupted due to the Brotherhood sitting pretty atop a mountain of supplies. 

  "I'm glad it'll be put to good use, then." He managed to say, his fists balled up tightly. 

  At least right here, right now , he could help.

  …

  Danse trudged across the lot yet again, dragging a massive fallen tree behind him. Thanks to his power armor, the paladin was a machine of industry when it came to building the remaining two sides of barricades. Backhand was just grateful that he had waited until after eight o'clock to begin. Her sleep had been poor, filled with dreams of chasing after Shaun.

  Danse worked almost silently aside from noises of exertion, and it seemed as though his mind was elsewhere. If Backhand had learned anything during her brief stint of traveling with the paladin it was that when he pondered, he appeared to devote his whole body to the task.

  "He's really somethin', General." Preston commented. "I mean, just look at him go! If more folks in the Brotherhood were like him, I feel as if the tide would finally start to turn for the Commonwealth."

  "You're not wrong." Backhand agreed, wiping the sweat off her forehead. After Danse had assured her that he was more than up to the task of finishing the fence, she had decided to start planting the crops. So here she was, General of the Minutemen, up to her elbows in dirt, tato seeds and corn kernels while Matt 'supervised'. "I think he likes helping."

  "Kindred spirits?" Preston teased. 

  "Maybe so!" She laughed, flicking his knee with dirt-covered fingers. "I think the Commonwealth could always use more people willing to lend a hand, though."

  "The Minutemen certainly can, even if the rest of the Commonwealth wants to stick its head in the sand." The radio on Preston's lapel crackled to life and he dashed off, practically bounding up the steps to the station so he could get a little higher and clear the signal. " Lieutenant Preston Garvey here… "

  "I hope my parents come soon." Matt said quietly. He toed at a mound of dirt, his expression troubled. "D'ya think they'll be mad at me?"

  Backhand grimaced. "I doubt it. They'll be happy that you're okay. You're really lucky, y'know."

  "I know." Matt continued staring at his feet, "I just didn't want my mama to cry anymore. I wanted to fix it."

  Backhand raised her hand and placed it on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. "Hey, sometimes we're just not big enough to fix stuff by ourselves. Sometimes we're not strong enough, even when we think we are. But that's how you learn, right? So you gotta' pick yourself up and try to help where you can." The little boy still looked dejected. "I'll tell you what, Matt. As General of the Minutemen, I'm giving you a field promotion to Intel Lieutenant."

  "Intel Lieutenant?" Matthew echoed in confusion, his eyes wide. 

  "Yep. You're observant and resourceful, excellent qualities in an intelligence operative. I need you to keep your family safe, and that includes keeping you safe. A smart intelligence operative always ensures the safety of the people around them. Can I count on you, Lieutenant?" Backhand asked, wiping her hand off on her jeans and extending it to the boy.

  "Yeah. Yeah! Yeah, I can do that!" Matthew puffed his chest out a little, small fingers grappling her own when he shook her hand. "What's my first order, General ma'am?" 

  "Your first order will be to work in tandem with Preston and secure the perimeter. You walk the inside beat, he walks the outside." Backhand instructed, barely stifling her laugh at the child's stiff salute. 

  "Matthew?" An unfamiliar voice called, a thin woman slipping through the doorway Danse had left in the fence. "Matthew!"

  "Mama!" Matthew hollered, bolting across the settlement to fling himself into his mother's arms. The woman sank to her knees, holding her son close and crying into his hair as he clung to her.

  Backhand's throat ached and she looked away, blinking away the tears she wanted to shed at the reunion. She noticed that Danse had stopped mid-motion, the paladin appearing to silently watch the scene unfold.

  Preston trundled down the stairs, his smile kind as Mrs. O'Brian tried to thank him. "All part of the job, ma'am. We were happy to help." He assured her. "Really, you can thank that curmudgeon Rob. Without him telling the General about the super mutants, she never would have gone to Weston."

  Backhand rose from the dirt, brushing her knees off and meandering forward. Mrs. O'Brian launched into a new wave of thank-yous which Backhand attempted to graciously deflect, and in the midst of their conversation Mr. O'Brian arrived. He was wheezing a bit from the climb, freckled face red with exertion.

  "Matthew Amadeus O'Brian!" He thundered, and Matt lunged for him.

  "Papa!" The little boy cheered, hugging his father's leg. 

  "You had us out of our minds , young man!" Mr. O'Brian scolded, the relief in his eyes belying his sharp tone. "Don't you dare wander off like that again!"

  "I won't, I promise!"

  "We seriously can't thank you enough, we...we've been so worried ." Mrs. O'Brian daubed at her eyes with her sleeve. 

  Backhand caught her arm and carefully took her aside, speaking in undertones when she said, "Matt told us that he was trying to scavenge like his older siblings did. Apparently he overheard some discussions about food scarcity."

  Mrs. O'Brian froze guiltily, looking back at her son and husband. "I...well, the winter was so hard , General, and caps have been tight because the corn wouldn't pollinate properly. We'll get by, though. We always have." She said staunchly. 

  Backhand cocked her head towards the motionless Danse. "My friend Danse butchered a radstag earlier today. We ate our fill this morning, and Matt already promised us that you'd be willing to take the rest. It'll just go to waste, otherwise." She reasoned, watching the other woman's eyes glisten with tears all over again.

  "Oh General, we...I mean, if you're sure -?" 

  "Absolutely. Myself and the paladin will be going our separate ways from Lieutenant Garvey today, and that much meat will definitely spoil before we reach our next destination. Please, I insist."

  "I thought the Brotherhood of Steel wasn't willing to help civilians?" Mrs. O'Brian whispered cautiously, her eyes flitting to Danse.

  "I can't speak for anyone else, but my friend Danse is a cut above your average grunt." Backhand said proudly. "Once this settlement gets up and running I hope to establish a caravan between here and Starlight. If we can get the logistics squared away, hopefully that will make trade a little easier. I can't promise anything, but-"

  "I can already tell better days are coming." Mrs. O'Brian said softly, her hand clasping Backhand's own. "Now that the Minutemen are back...well, it gives folks hope again, and sometimes that's all you need." She then waved Danse over.

  His power armor grinding loudly, Danse obligingly approached the two women. "Citizen." He addressed Mrs. O'Brian with a polite nod once he was within earshot.

  "I wanted to personally thank you, Paladin Danse." The older woman announced, her voice wavering slightly. "For finding my son, a-and for the food."

  "Oh, you don't...er, thanks are not necessary, citizen." Danse floundered, rubbing the back of his neck. "A good Brotherhood of Steel soldier knows that their responsibilities lie with the people under their protection." His smile was slow, and a bit awkward. "I am simply glad that we discovered Matthew before any serious harm could be done, though I have to apologize for the cut above his eye."

  "Matt was hiding in a wall when we entered the facility, and we thought he was a hound. We may have gone through the wall." Backhand explained with a wince. 

  "The super mutants would have done much worse. Hopefully that little scrape helps him learn." Mrs. O'Brian brushed off their apology ruefully. "He's very fond of getting into trouble. I call him my little wanderer."

  "If you'll excuse me." Danse murmured, offering the older woman a salute and then turning to Backhand. "I should be done by fifteen hundred hours or thereabouts. At that point, I believe it would be prudent for us to return."

  "Are you sure? You're already burning your grease, Paladin." Backhand pointed out worriedly. 

  Danse shook his head. "Paladin Brandis will have reported in by now. I can get my armor serviced at the base."

  "Alright, I'll have everything locked and loaded." 

  The paladin nodded and headed back towards the framework of a wall that he had constructed. "God, he is tall ." Mrs. O'Brian muttered. "And stiff." She seemed to remember herself after a moment. "Uh, anyway! We really appreciate everything that you've done for us, General. Everything . If there's anything you need, or...even if you're just in the area, you're more than welcome to stop by. We'd love to have you visit!" She said, loudly enough so that Danse could hear her. 

  He simply nodded again and heaved a log up into his arms, then slammed it down over his armored knee to snap it in half. The bark essentially exploded off the trunk, bits and pieces landing on the ground as Danse shoved the crude beam into the dirt. Where the first half of the wall had been constructed with various scrap, the second half was much more reliant on raw lumber. It looked more like a stockade wall than anything.

  "Oh." Mrs. O'Brian said weakly. "Are they all...like him?"

  "I imagine some of them are way worse." Backhand chuckled. "We'll leave him to it. Let's get you that radstag."

  Mr. O'Brian was a touch more reserved than his wife, but he still expressed a wild amount of gratitude to Preston and Backhand. The entire time Matt was glued to his leg. "I'm just happy to know that there's still damn decent people out here." The older man remarked, looking a little misty as he secured the pelt over his shoulder. "We owe you a lot, General. You can count on us if the Minutemen ever need help."

  "I'll hold you to it, Mr. O'Brian. Lieutenant Matt." Backhand inclined her head to the little boy, who saluted her. "It's in your hands now, soldier. I'm depending on you. I know you're up to the task." 

  "Uh huh." Matthew replied, sounding a bit breathless. He scrambled away from his father right before they departed, fumbling with the knotted bandanna around his hand. "Here, General! I gotta' give you your luck back before I go." He said seriously, unwinding the cloth and returning it to Backhand. Without waiting for a reply, he then rushed at Danse. "Mister Danse! Hey, Mister Danse!" 

  Danse halted where he was. "Yes, Matthew?" He replied.

  "I wanted to say thank you. And I'm sorry I thought you were scary before. You're not that scary." Matthew said plainly. "You're nice even though you look scary."

  Danse arched a brow. "A charitable allowance, citizen. Maybe I'll bump into you again someday. In the meantime, try to stay out of mischief and listen to your parents. You are…" Danse paused, his expression sad. "You're very lucky to have them, Matthew."

  "I know!" The boy answered brightly, wrapping himself around Danse's greave in a makeshift hug before skipping back to his parents. "Bye, Mister Danse!"

  Danse raised one large gauntlet. "Goodbye, Matthew."

  …

  There was no easy way to say it. Danse was in a slump . It felt like the closer he got to the airport, the harder it was to force himself to keep moving forward. He doubted the amount of labor he had done earlier was helping matters, as the joints in his armor protested vigorously with every step. 

  When Knight Vega tentatively suggested that they find shelter for the night, Danse hated the relief that flooded his body. "The next suitable structure we come across." He promised, knowing that she must have spotted the radstorm he had been tracking on the horizon for several hours. 

  Steaming rain began to fall as Vega pointed out a ramshackle-looking lean-to, butted up alongside a collapsed house. "There, c'mon!" She said urgently, running through the tall grass alongside the road. 

  "Vega-!" Danse began to protest, lumbering along in her wake. Green lightning split the sky in the distance, the odd warbling thunder that accompanied radstorms rolling shortly thereafter. "Knight Vega, you don't know whether that's inhabited! "

  "I don't care!" Backhand retorted, shoving open the door with her shoulder and vanishing inside. 

  Danse tried to enter through the doorway, but it was too narrow. "Dammit Vega, you need to think your trajectory through. Don't just go running off whenever you get an idea in your head." He scolded, swapping his rifle to his right hand and flicking on the tact-light as he sidestepped gingerly through the door instead.

  The beam wavered in the darkness, playing over the battered walls and half-tarpaulin roof. It did appear that the tiny structure was deserted, and Danse wasn't sure if he should be even more cautious. What could have caused the previous inhabitants to depart? 

  Backhand stood in the middle of the room, her arms folded around herself as she shivered. "C'mon, get in here. The wind is picking up and I'm freezing ." She complained.

  Danse attempted to oblige, nearly cracking his head open on one of the ceiling trusses in his haste. The paladin grimaced, ducking and then carefully closing the door behind him. "Better?" He asked, a little irritated with her demanding attitude. 

  "Y-Yes." She replied, her voice sharp. She immediately began stripping her armor off, as well as the Vault suit beneath it. 

  Danse flinched, turning his head away. "Vega, will you-"

  "Please just...just give me a second." She begged. 

  Danse's brow furrowed, and the paladin shot her a look. Thunder rumbled in the distance and...was that a flinch? "Vega, are you-"

  "Just give me a second! " Backhand cried, probably louder than she had intended. Danse took a reflexive step back, his gauntlet clattering against the wall. "I'm sorry, I...I'm sorry, Danse. Paladin." She apologized after a second, floundering with her greaves. "It's the rain, I can't...it makes me feel sick to my stomach." 

  "You should have said something earlier, Vega." Danse chided gently. "We could have found a more defensible position."

  "I thought if we moved quick, we might make it back to the airport before it hit." Her motions were jerky as she yanked the Vault suit down, unlacing her boots as an afterthought. "But now we're stuck here for the night."

  "At least the roof appears to be sound." Danse tried to look on the bright side of their incarceration, and tried to not look at her as she stripped to her smallclothes. He was dry aside from his head, the gorget seal at his neck saw to that. But Backhand had no such luck. "I'll put my armor in front of the door to barricade it." Danse offered after a moment, taking the opportunity to turn his back to her. He didn't get a reply, and he honestly wasn't sure if he had even expected one in the first place. 

  Danse emerged from the armor, stepping down and back smoothly before he urged the hatch closed once more. He then popped the fusion core out and tucked it into his utility belt. He knew he was being overly cautious and performative when it came to giving Knight Vega her privacy, but at this point he was doing this for his own sanity as well.

  After a pregnant pause, he heard her shift her weight. "Okay, I'm decent." She mumbled.

  The scent of lantern oil wafted past his nose and a light flared up behind him, turning his shadow into a pitch black silhouette on the wall. Danse took a gamble and slowly turned around.

  Vega had thrown on a shirt that reached her mid-thigh. That was her idea of decent? She scuttled around bent nearly double, spreading her bedroll without even bothering to clear the floor beneath it. "Vega." Danse addressed her quietly, then a bit louder when she failed to respond, " Vega . You'll do serious damage to your back if you sleep so rough. Take a minute to prepare."

  "I-" Backhand's eyes were wild when they met his own. For a moment, Danse wasn't certain she knew who he was, or if she even saw him . 

  "Knight," He paused, clearing his throat and then mumbling, "Elizabeth." Saying her actual name, the name she had given Matthew, felt oddly inappropriate. "You're alright." He assured her calmly. "You're fine. We have shelter, light and food. You're alright."

  "I know ." Backhand retorted. "I-I know. And don't call me that." 

  "What?" Danse asked in confusion. "I apologize, I didn't mean to-"

  "Paladin, please ." Backhand's eyes had gone fierce, pale blue snapping in the light from the lantern. "I'm not his fucking Beth anymore." She practically snarled the words.

  "I didn't call you Beth. I called you Elizabeth." Danse replied, trying to gentle his tone.

  "Oh. I... God , Danse, I'm so sorry. I don't mean to be all…" she trailed off helplessly, making a vague gesture. "I didn't sleep well and getting sick from the rain wouldn't help. We used the last of the Rad-X for you."

  Ah . Danse should have known. This wasn't about her getting damp or being uncomfortable, it was the usual resource scarcity that had her on edge. "It'll be alright, Knight Vega. We're only a few hours out from the airport." He hesitated, unsure if he should continue. "I apologize for using your first name. I was unaware that it was a raw subject for you."

  "It's not , not really. I just...he used to call me Beth and I'm not that person anymore. It's been so long since I heard Elizabeth that I must have just assumed you said Beth. I'm sorry, Danse." She was wringing her hands nervously.

  "Logan." Danse murmured.

  "What?"

  "Fair's fair, right? My first name is Logan. I regret that I have no nickname to give you."

  …

  Backhand's eyes widened. Logan . It was a good name. It suited him. She mouthed it once to herself. "Don't encourage me to give you a nickname." She joked, aware that she probably sounded a little too reedy. "I can guarantee you'll regret it."

  Danse's eyes crinkled good-naturedly at the edges when he smiled down at her. "I don't doubt it," He allowed, repeating, "but fair is fair, Knight."

  "I don't like the radstorms at all." Vega blurted out, a blush staining her face. "The thunder, it's wrong and I hate it."

  "Understandable, Knight. The noise is highly unsettling." Danse had her gather her sleeping bag back up, the paladin using a spare piece of plywood that he found by the door like a makeshift plow to shove the debris off to the side. "There," He said finally after he was satisfied with the state of the floor, " now you can lay down. Without worrying about tetanus or a herniated disc." He teased.

  "The Brotherhood will not forget your sacrifice." Backhand ribbed in reply, smoothing the wrinkles out of her bedroll.  

  "And this is how I'm promoted to star paladin." Danse said dryly. "For my dedication to the art of proper slumber in the field." He shook his head ruefully, unrolling his own sleeping bag and spreading it lengthwise at the base of his armor. He was blocking the door, Backhand realized after a second. Like the immobile armor wasn't enough!

  "Hey, come over here." She requested boldly, patting the cement beside her. 

  Vega didn't expect him to obey, the larger man dragging his bedroll parallel with hers after a moment of thought. "I suppose the floor is more level here." He reasoned. "Good eye, Knight."

  "Oh yeah, it's not because you're probably warm or anything. I was definitely looking out for you."

  Danse's chuckle was soft. "Understood. I am a commodity." He lowered himself onto his sleeping bag, waiting patiently as she dug through her satchel. 

  "So for dinner, we have a wonderful assortment of Cram. After that, I'll brew us some tea." Backhand said finally, digging two cans out of the pack. " God I wish I'd had the stuff to bake bread, would have made us some back at Oberland." 

  Danse shook his head. "It spoils so fast out on the road. Though during the harsher months there is nothing quite like a fresh slice of hot bread with a little grease alongside the meat stew from the mess hall." He sounded wistful, despite the fact that Backhand knew he was talking about military food and therefore it probably wasn't anything to write home about.

  "Remind me to bake you some bread." Backhand tossed him a can of Cram, and then opened her own with less-than-steady hands. She did her best to ignore the storm that was raging closer and closer, steeling her spine from flinching at every rumble of thunder.

  Danse all but devoured the canned substance, the large man obviously starving from his day of labor and walking across the Commonwealth. He drowsily watched Backhand set up the small coffee pot she lugged with her, the lantern now doubling as a brazier of sorts. Backhand pried open her tea tin after a momentary struggle, grabbing one of the bags inside and dropping it into the pot of dubiously-clean water without much ceremony.

  The tea was a hubflower blend, lacking in caffeine and bearing a sweet, calming scent. Backhand often employed this beverage when she had difficulty sleeping, finding that the entire tea-brewing process tended to calm her racing mind.

  Danse dug out the cup from his mess kit for her to pour into, the thin metal thoroughly scoured clean and dented from use in the field. "Be careful, it's really hot." Backhand warned, gingerly scooting the cup across the floor to the large man.

  He nodded absently, cradling the cup close. He looked pensive, as though he wanted to ask something but couldn't quite think of how to phrase it. "Knight... how do you know of the way to get into the Institute?" Danse's tone was wearily quizzical. "That information is...it's unprecedented , but I assume you must know that already."

  Backhand exhaled, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to gather her thoughts. It was a relatively straightforward story, all things considered, though some portions would sound insane . So she started talking.

  She told Danse about going to Diamond City and employing the assistance of a well-known detective. Finding out that Kellogg had been there, with a ten year old child. The grueling endeavor of tracking him across the Commonwealth, culminating in a ferocious gunfight against the mercenary and his group of synths. The grisly discovery of the devices implanted in his body, and the slow unraveling of the truth from the escaped Institute scientist in the Glowing Sea. Teleportation .

  Backhand conveniently left out the fact that Detective Nick Valentine was a synth, and that Virgil the Institute scientist was once a man, who had in turn become a super mutant by force of necessity. 

  She sipped her tea, realizing that her throat was parched from talking. The look that Danse was giving her was one of extreme incredulity and she grimaced into her cup.

  "Christ, Vega." He said hoarsely. "What happens now?"

  "Well, if I have any luck left , I figure out how to convince someone to help me build a giant machine that I don't really understand." Backhand shrugged glibly. "Sturges has been working on a few things, but I think this project might be beyond his scope of expertise." 

  "Maybe Proctor Ingram should take a look at the plans you have? If there's anyone I know that can make sense of a mess, it's Ingram." Danse suggested tentatively. "Her and Haylen are...just outstanding ." The warmth in his tone whenever he spoke of Haylen never failed to make Backhand smile, but this was the first time he seemed to notice her doing it. "What? Did I say something funny?"

  "Not at all! You just talk about Haylen like she hung the stars." Backhand pushed down the brief flare of envy she felt. "It's sweet."

  " Sweet? " Danse sputtered, a flush rising on his cheeks. "I am not...she isn't--Knight, you misinterpret my admiration. She is a phenomenal soldier, an immensely talented field scribe. I sponsored her as an initiate. She and Rhys are...they're the only ones left of Gladius. I'm thrilled that they've decided to pursue a relationship." Danse's eyes were soft and haunted in the dim light of the guttering lantern, but his words were sincere when he said, "They deserve to be happy."

  "What about you, though?" Backhand asked gently before she could stop herself. Danse tilted his head, appearing confused. "Don't you deserve to be happy too?"

  His smile was sad. "I am a paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, Knight Vega. I am sworn to uphold the tenets and be an example to the troops. My own happiness was doomed to irrelevancy the moment I accepted the promotion." He folded his hands in front of him, leaning forward a little and staring at the floor. "Truthfully, it was rendered obsolete long before then."

  …

  "Why?" Vega sounded curious and Danse cursed himself for even bringing up the topic.

  He could lie, or simply brush off her question. But that didn't sit right with him. Danse sighed heavily and began to speak.

  He talked about growing up alone in the Capital Wasteland, no parents or siblings that he could recall. Always alone, picking through the ruins for anything edible or salvage that he could trade. He talked about opening his own little stand in Rivet City once he was grown, and he was ashamed of how his voice broke when he mentioned Cutler. Joining the Brotherhood had been a no-brainer, like it was the only course of action possible. Everything had gone so well. He had felt like he was actually making a difference. Until the day Cutler disappeared on a scouting mission. Danse vaguely remembered arguing with Paladin Krieg, his sponsor attempting to shout down the then-knight. But Danse was fiercely stubborn.

  He tried to tell her what he had found when he had finally tracked the remains of Cutler's squadron down, tried to continue his explanation as to why his personal happiness held little to no ground in his life, but the lump in his throat left him incapable of speech. 

  Backhand's touch on his arm startled him and he jerked, looking up at her. Her eyes were sorrowful. "Hey, you don't have to say any more." She offered him a weak-looking smile. "I get it. I lost my C.O. during an assault on an enemy bunker. You feel like it's your fault and you stay up all night trying to figure out what you could have done to save them."

  "I know it's futile to think of such things. " Danse rasped.

  "And yet you do it anyway." Backhand rubbed his arm. "Empathy is some rotten stuff, Paladin Danse, but we need to be reminded that we're human sometimes." Her sigh followed the tail end of a rolling boom of thunder. "I was incapacitated by the same explosion that killed Sergeant Cathan. He bled out next to me. I was shipped home with him technically, although I wasn't in a pine box. I went to his funeral, got to listen to his widow try to keep her shit together when I knew all she wanted to do was bury every single uniformed asshole there that had sent her husband to die." Backhand scoffed. "I knew because I felt the same way."

  "I was furious with Arthur for sending Cutler's squadron out to that corner of the wastes." Danse admitted. "It was shortly after I had discovered what happened to Cutler that Ar-" He stopped short, horrified that he had nearly let the information slip.

  " Come on Danse! " Arthur had complained, rolling his eyes . " I know you did this stuff for Cutler. "

  Danse cleared his throat. "It doesn't matter." He breathed. He had always been a terrible liar and he knew Vega didn't buy it for a second . 

  Those pale blue eyes narrowed and she scooted even closer, her sleeping bag pooled around her knees as she studied his face. Danse just tried to avoid eye contact. "What did he do, Danse?" She asked softly.

  " Nothing ." Danse stressed the word, his tone sharp. "I said it didn't matter, and it doesn't."

  "Hey." Backhand murmured, "I'm on your side, okay? Don't lie to me. Whatever it is, it's eating you alive."

  Danse's breath hitched. How could she tell? How could she pierce through the stoic facade he had painstakingly crafted over the course of his military career? 

  The answer came to him suddenly and he felt a little foolish for not having seen it sooner. 

  She wanted to. 

  Ludicrously simple, almost child's play. It was because she dared to bother . In a world that was more than content to let appearances be, she did the unthinkable and probed past the first glance.

  She was like Cutler. Perhaps a bit too much like Cutler. Curious to a fault, whip-smart and witty. Danse's heart ached in his chest. The idea of opening himself up again like he had with Cutler was... terrifying , mind-numbing, it was like standing on the deck of the Prydwen knowing that one misstep could send him plummeting to his demise. He had barely survived the depression that had engulfed him after he was forced to end Cutler's life, knowing that it was what the other man would have done in his stead but also hating himself for being able to carry it out at all. What did that say about him as a person, that he could stare into the eyes of the only individual he had been truly intimate with and kill him without a word?

  Danse was a model soldier. He was relatively certain that he would be following orders until the day he died. No one had ordered him to go after Cutler. He could have left it alone, simply gone along with the " missing, presumed dead " verdict. But those damn emotions he struggled with so much had reared their ugly head, made him volatile to the point where he had gotten into a screaming match with Paladin Krieg . 

  The person he had really wanted to shout at had been Maxson, both for assigning Cutler such a far-flung post and for doing it without warning. Danse hadn't even been able to say goodbye , damn it.

  And then the hive, the empty suits of power armor covered in blood and gore and fragmentary human remains and Cutler , babbling nonsense in a voice that grated and shrieked. He hadn't recognized Danse when the other knight foolishly removed his helmet. Instead, Cutler had lunged at him, trying to tear him apart with his newfound mutant strength--

  "Danse?" 

  The paladin jolted at the sound of her voice. "It doesn't matter, Knight." He repeated dully. "We should get some sleep." Without waiting for a reply, he shifted down a bit in his bedroll and tugged the fabric up over his shoulders. 

  Backhand stayed up for a bit longer, probably finishing her tea. The rain continued to beat on the roof, the occasional flash of green lightning blazing through every crack and crevice in the dilapidated lean-to. 

  The Capital Wasteland hadn't gotten storms like these. Danse had to assume that they must blow in from the Glowing Sea to batter the surrounding landscape. 

  He heard her shuffling around, and her whisper of " good night, Danse ." He didn't reply, hoping she would believe he was asleep. 

  Vega sighed softly and Danse barely kept himself from jumping when he felt her back press against his own. He wasn't sure if the defensive sleeping position was really necessary what with his armor in front of the door and all, but he appreciated the strategic forethought. 

  It felt like he had only closed his eyes for a second, the rain pounding on the roof lulling him into a doze and then he was being blinded by a particularly vibrant beam of sunlight. Danse grunted, half-lidding his eyes to try and adjust to the light.

  He idly watched over the top of Vega's head as motes of dust wafted lazily through the beam, the paladin feeling weirdly peaceful and unhurried. As if he could take the time to simply observe the world. He noted that he had rolled over in his sleep, and so had Elizabeth. Backhand. Knight Vega . 

  His thighs were pressed against the jut of her knees, her elbows tucked into his stomach through the layers of their bedrolls. Backhand apparently slept with her hands folded beneath her chin, but her left arm was threaded up beneath the hem of her shirt to do so. It pulled the fabric to bunch just above the bottom of her breasts and only through extreme self control did Danse manage to exhale slowly through his gritted teeth, knowing that his face must be bright red. 

  He flicked his gaze back up to the sunbeam, feeling like a lech. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He could pretend like he was still asleep, but that may come at the cost of their progress. He'd rather not sleep rough yet again, although if it was beside Vega--

  No , Danse reprimanded himself sharply. Maxson had given him hell for his lack of self control the last time he had seen him. The last thing he wanted was to give Arthur the satisfaction of…

  Of what? Having something else in Danse's life that he could ruin or take away? 

  Danse reached out slowly, cautiously, taking hold of the fabric of Vega's sleeping bag and drawing it up and over her shoulder to preserve her modesty. Then, the paladin eased his body away from hers to rise, his back protesting a little when he stretched. 

  The sooner we get back to the Prydwen, the sooner I can get my armor serviced , he mused, still opting to let Backhand sleep a bit longer as he checked over their weapons and his gear.

Part Eight

#fallout 4 #fallout four #paladin danse #paladin danse x sole survivor #paladin danse/sole survivor #paladin danse x f!sole #paladin danse imagine #fallout fandom #fallout fanfic #brotherhood of steel #BOS #bethesda #fo4 companions imagine #fo4 companions

[hibiscusangel15]

Why Tragedy Exists

An angsty @ichirukimonth 2020 fic this time.

Summary: When you spent your whole life fighting, what was there to do when you had nothing left to fight for? What purpose did Kurosaki Ichigo even have in this world anymore?

Ichigo’s life during the seventeen months without Rukia. For Day 7 of Ichiruki Month 2020.

Rating: Teen

(Belated) Day 7 Prompt: why are you full of rage? because you are full of grief.

Also crossposted to FFN and AO3!

When you spent your whole life fighting, what was there to do when you had nothing left to fight for? What purpose did Kurosaki Ichigo even have in this world anymore?

“Hey, bleached-hair kid! I’m talkin’ to you, asshole!” Another faceless thug snagged his collar. Yet another nameless gang gathered to back up their cookie-cutter character of a leader.

He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t want to be here. But where else did he have to go?

Another meaningless scuffle. Another bruise, another scrape, more blood to be cleaned later.

Flurried fists and tiny pocket knives and screamed obscenities never seemed so dull before.

Other boys his age often picked fights with him. Had done so as far back as he could remember. All over trifling, inconsequential matters that seemed so laughable to him now. His hair, his attitude, his existence was all wrong.

Only now he had the strength to take them all on by himself. Only now did he choose to fight them for no reason at all.

Chad interfered in one of these fights once. For a moment, they were a team again. They fought side-by-side without the burden of death or the balance of the worlds looming over their heads. This was just a brawl on the street. Nothing more, nothing less.

Once Chad called an ambulance for all the knocked-out thugs, he offered to treat Ichigo out to some food.

Ichigo said nothing. Didn’t even thank him. Just spat out coppery blood on the concrete and stalked off without looking back. Chad wouldn’t chase after him or insist, he knew. Knew all too well how to take advantage of his friend’s inherent kindness.

He never felt more disgusted with himself.

Time moved on. Everyone around him recovered. They all got over the horrors they’d just barely survived. Only he remained stagnant, falling behind, grasping at something forever out of his reach.

He never thought that saving the world would be so thankless.

Tatsuki once invited him to watch her karate team practice and give them a few pointers. None of the upperclassmen were all that stoked about it, but they’d heard about Kurosaki’s reputation. One of them even challenged him to a fair match to test his skills.

He nearly refused. Until the guy went on and on about how Ichigo’s only fighting experience came from fights in the street. How a punk like him couldn’t possibly have learned the discipline or technique a real warrior possessed.

Tatsuki told this smug upperclassman off, stabbing him with reminders that he didn’t even qualify for nationals last year. The upperclassman—Ichigo was never very good at remembering names—snapped something at her, and it was only then he stood up and accepted his challenge.

Ichigo took him down in a few minutes. Then another upperclassman claimed he cheated and demanded a match with him, and another one after that. Their pride as one of the top karate teams in the nation was staked on this.

Unfortunately, these guys were all weak.

None of them would last a day being a Shinigami.

They begged and begged him to join their team despite all their injuries. Despite how afraid of him they all were. To them, to normal humans, Kurosaki Ichigo was little more than a monster.

So he refused. Such things simply didn’t hold his interest anymore.

And then they offered to pay him.

Ichigo hadn’t had much need for money before. Though his father didn’t make much running the Kurosaki Clinic, his family lived comfortably enough.

Now those bills waved in his face meant something else. Something new to latch onto.

With enough money, he could move far, far away from Karakura Town. He could leave everything behind. Go to a university where no one knew him. Start fresh. Start anew.

Ichigo could forget last year ever happened. He could finally forget her.

He took the deal, but made his own conditions as well. This much would only pay for the week. He wouldn’t ever be considered an official member of the team, so they couldn’t ask him to participate in competitions.

They were not comrades. They were not friends.

Word got out about Ichigo’s “services” to the other sports teams at Karakura High.  Soon enough, he found himself making weekly and bi-weekly contracts to help them out during practices.

It was a decent way to make money, he supposed. Looking into how much apartments cost outside the city, though, he knew it wasn’t enough.

He’d have to find another job soon.

Ichigo was out with the track team when he spotted Ishida alone in the park. No, not alone. He couldn’t sense the enemy, but the pocks in the grass and suspiciously trampled playground equipment more than spoke for itself.

He didn’t know what he was going to do when he took off. Instinct never really left much room for rationale, after all.

He leapt high over Ishida’s head, grunting in surprise when his foot connected with an intangible figure. The earth rumbled underneath as a plume of dust kicked up a few feet away.

Definitely a Hollow. A big one.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Kurosaki?” Ishida snapped. His arms were extended before him, holding a bow Ichigo couldn’t see anymore.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m helping you! The least you could do is thank me.”

Idiot! I’m not going to thank you! The echo of her voice rang so unbearably clear in his mind. He wished he could cast it aside, wished the memory of her would not linger in every little thing he did.

Ishida's eyes flickered away, and he leapt a distance much wider than any normal human would’ve been able to cover. A fist-shaped crater bloomed before him. Ichigo raised his arms to block the debris flying past, choking on the dust swirling in the air.

As a habit, he reached behind him for a sword that did not exist anymore. Would not exist ever again.

Fate was once again the millstone, he the grist. It turned relentlessly, endlessly onward, further away from her and back again.

Powerlessness. Normality. Both synonymous with complacency.

Both equaled death.

“You’re only getting in the way, Kurosaki! Just back off and let me handle this for once,” Ishida yelled.

Ichigo watched him mimic pulling an arrow back, deliberate and steady. Watched Ishida fire that shot above his head. There was no fanfare, no sense of accomplishment to accompany it. He didn’t even know where the Hollow was.

“Is it...dead?” he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Ishida lowered his arms. “Yes.”

“I see.”

Silence weighed in the air far heavier than any reiatsu ever could.

“Hey, do you ever feel bad about the Hollows you kill?”

Ishida frowned at the question. “What do you mean?”

It was pointless to ask him this. It was pointless to continue.

“Quincies completely destroy souls with their arrows, right?” Ichigo clenched his own shirt in a fist. He had to stop talking. “Don’t you ever feel bad that any random Hollow you killed might be some lost soul in pain?”

Ishida studied him for a wary moment then shoved his glasses further up his nose. “It can’t be helped. If it comes down to saving a Hollow or an innocent soul, I’d choose the innocent one without hesitation. Surely you’d do the same, Kurosaki.”

“I could save both of them.” The words were so quiet, so riddled with hollow confidence. “I’d save them both without even thinking about it.”

“Funny, you once said to me that you knew you couldn’t protect everyone.”

His friends didn’t always have the right words to say. He couldn’t expect them to understand.

And yet….

“But I did save everyone! I saved Karakura Town. I saved the entire damn world as we know it. What makes you think I couldn’t save two souls at once the way I am now?”

His chest ached. The strain was unbearable. He was drowning.

“Are you calling me weak? Do you think I’m so incapable of protecting anyone that you’d rather cast me aside than even let me try?”

Ishida looked away. “Quit putting words in my mouth, Kurosaki. I never said any of that.”

“Oh yeah? I’m in the way? I should back off?” He trembled with directionless rage. “All of you guys think I’m some weakling that needs to be protected. That I can’t fend for myself anymore. And I’m so fucking sick of it!”

“Uh, h-hey, Kurosaki, are you okay?” the captain of the track team asked behind him.

Any idiot would know he wasn’t.

Ichigo turned away. “I’m fine.”

The captain paled at the sight of his scowling face. “Um, you can finish your conversation with your friend—”

“We’re not friends.”

Ishida sucked in a sharp breath, but said nothing. Did nothing. Again.

“Kurosaki!”

Ichigo didn’t turn back. How could he? They’d all turned their backs on him. It only seemed fitting he return the favor.

The wheel continued to turn.

Finals were a pain to deal with, especially with all those remedial classes he had to take for missing so much school before. Though difficult and boring, they weren’t entirely unmanageable.

He hadn’t really talked much to the others in a while. Better to distance himself now. Better they all learn to let him go so he’d have no further reminders of the last year. Of her.

It was stupid to think they’d ever go so quietly, though.

“Ichigo!” Tatsuki called to him on the street.

He stopped walking but refused to look back.

Several sets of footsteps scraped along the concrete behind him.

“You’ve been avoiding us for weeks now, Kurosaki,” Ishida said. “But now that Finals are over, you can’t hide from us anymore.”

“I wasn’t hiding from any of you. We’re all in the same class,” Ichigo replied, keeping his tone unaffected.

“You know that’s not what we mean, Kurosaki.”

Fate was cruel in each revolution. In each turning of the wheel, he would always be crushed under its power.

“Kurosaki-kun,” Inoue piped up, her voice wavering just a bit. “You’ve been acting very strangely since...that day Kuchiki-san left.”

Her name. The mere sound of it dragged him down when he’d tried so desperately to claw himself to the surface.

He hadn’t said her name in months. Didn’t even dare to think it.

“Ishida-kun and Sado-kun and Tatsuki-chan told me everything that’s been happening with you. And...we’re worried.” Her voice bubbled and warped, and he was drowning again. “We don’t know why you’re pushing us all away, Kurosaki-kun.”

They didn’t know? They really didn’t know why he couldn’t bear to be near them?

“I can’t stand the way you all look at me.”

Such a disgustingly petty reason. Such a terrible excuse. When even he couldn’t stand to look at himself anymore.

“Ever since I lost my powers, you’ve all been acting like I'm fragile and useless!”

Enough.

“I can’t stand it!”

Shut up.

“I don’t want your pity!”

Please stop.

“I can’t wait to get the hell out of Karakura Town so you all can finally leave me alone!”

The rain would follow him, though. That cursed rain would always follow him.

He was drowning. Why couldn’t they see?

Tatsuki was the first to speak. “You’ve always been like this.”

“...What the hell did you just say?”

Even now he refused to look at them.

“What, does being mad all the time make you deaf, too?” she snapped. “I said you’ve always been like this, Ichigo. You don’t know any other way to express your grief outside of lashing out.”

“Is that right?” Ichigo stood up straighter. “And what makes you think I’m grieving, Tatsuki?”

“Don’t you dare act like I don’t know you, Kurosaki Ichigo!” Her voice rippled through the water. “We’ve known each other for so long—we’ve been friends for this long—and you couldn’t even bother to tell me what was going on with you from the beginning. I had to learn about all this Shinigami stuff after the fact! And not from you, either! From Orihime! From Chad and Ishida! But you didn’t tell me anything! Not when you left to rescue Kuchiki-san, not when you went to save Orihime…. I know you’re grieving because this is the exact same thing you did when your mother died!”

Ichigo finally whirled on them, eyes burning with so much fury it was difficult to look at him head-on.

Ishida stepped in front of her, arm outstretched like a shield. “So you’ve become the sort of person that would attack your friends over something like this? Do you think Kuchiki-san would be happy if she knew she’d left you in this sorry state?”

They kept saying her name so freely. As if she was so commonplace. As if his heart could bear that burden.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Didn’t she tell you she’d be watching over you, Kurosaki? Do you think she’d approve of anything you’re doing now? All your fights. Your rage. And for what?”

Ichigo gritted his teeth. “I don’t need her approval! I don’t need anything! I’m happy without her! I’m happy I’m finally normal!”

Ishida’s usual calm demeanor cracked, and his face twisted into a scowl. “What you’re doing isn’t normal, Kurosaki! Constantly picking fights with strangers, ignoring all of us, butting into simple Hollow fights—”

Inoue sucked in a breath. Clearly there were some things the others hadn’t told her.

“Does it make you feel strong, Kurosaki? Does it help you forget that, just for a moment, you aren’t completely pathetic?”

Ichigo punched him square in the jaw. His glasses flew off. A sickening crunch sounded under his foot when he took a bewildered step back.

Inoue ran to him immediately. “Ishida-kun!”

Tatsuki grabbed his arm, tried to pin it behind his back and get him to submit. Ichigo wrenched his arm out of her hold and turned to shove her away.

Chad stepped in between them. There was that awful pity reflected in his eyes again.

Ichigo wanted to wipe it away.

Chad took blow after wild blow to the chest, to his stomach, each one more frustrated than the last. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, but he did not move. The pity in his eyes did not change.

Ichigo shoved Tatsuki to the ground when she tried to intervene again. There was yelling. So much yelling. None of it was enough to pierce through the rain. It wasn’t enough to save him.

His hand suddenly bounced off an invisible barrier, bruising the knuckles and his pride all in one shattering blow.

“Kurosaki-kun…” Inoue muttered, her voice cracking.

She flinched when he glared back at her. That look on her face made him hate himself all the more.

It was the same look she wore when he first protected her with his Hollow mask. It was that look every other human threw his way.

Monster.

“Please...stop this.” Tears spilled down her face. Ishida wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, and she folded into the embrace. “We’re your friends! So please….”

Ichigo couldn’t take it anymore. All his sorrow and grief and aimless rage collapsed around him and he screamed.

Chad caught him before he sank any further. “Ichigo!”

“I can’t…. I don’t….”

He couldn’t breathe. He was drowning. He was dying.

A steady hand squeezed his shoulder, another placed flat on his back. They held him above the water. They lent him their strength.

The rain still echoed around him. He still struggled to stay afloat. But maybe now he would rely on his friends to protect his heart.

A single tear crashed to the ground as bright as a falling star.

“I’m sorry.”

                                                        * * *

Quiet mornings were practically nonexistent in Karakura Town.

“Maaaaan, I can’t stand not talking about this anymore! Doesn’t it drive you insane?” Keigo screeched while walking alongside Mizuiro.

Mizuiro scrolled through social media on his phone, only half-listening. “I’m not sure what you mean, Asano-san.”

“Don’t you ‘Asano-san’ me again, Mizuiro! I’m talking about all the weird stuff Ichigo and the others did a while ago! I mean, I know Ishida and Chad and all the others said it’s better if we don’t talk about that stuff with him, but c’mon! How’re you not supposed to talk about ghosts and monsters and Shinigami after finding out they exist? It’s impossible!”

“Considering your track record, I’m surprised you managed to hold out for this long.”

“Now what’s that supposed to mean? I can be sensitive to others’ feelings!” Keigo insisted. “But it’s been forever. Ichigo might be okay if I talk to him about it now.”

“Might be?”

“Don’t make me second-guess myself, Mizuiro! I’m gonna talk about this so much, even I’ll get sick of hearing about it!”

Mizuiro finally looked up. “Everything that happened to us was pretty unbelievable. Sometimes I want to believe it was all some weird nightmare I had. But...I don’t really want to talk about it. There isn’t much left to be said anyway. Not if reminding Ichigo of it all will just depress him.”

At this, Keigo’s enthusiasm deflated. “Well, yeah, I guess. But don’t you wanna know what he thinks about Rukia-chan not coming to visit all this time?”

What a tactless idiot.

Mizuiro’s smile was more polite than genuine. “I think she’s the main reason he’s been feeling down.”

“What? So you’re saying that they—”

“I’m not saying anything, Asano-san.”

His cold facade nearly fell at Keigo's childish pout. Honestly, if he wasn't able to pick up on these things after all the time he'd known Ichigo, then there really was no hope for him.

Keigo didn’t get a chance to talk to him until lunchtime.

“I wonder what Rukia-chan’s up to.”

Ichigo nearly spit out his juice. “What’s Rukia got to do with anything?”

“I’m just saying, would it kill her to pop in and say hello from time to time?” Keigo flopped about on the floor like a fish. “Don’t you think it’s cold of her to not show her face even once since then?”

Yes.

“It’s not cold,” Ichigo replied.

Liar.

“She’s not in charge of Karakura Town anymore, so it’s completely normal for her to not hang around.”

Keigo squinted up at him. “You don’t miss her?”

More than anything.

“No reason to.”

He rattled off the same bullshit excuse he always did whenever anyone brought this up. He always wanted this slow peace. He didn’t need his powers anymore.

He didn’t need her in his life.

Before today, when was the last time he’d spoken her name aloud? When did Rukia become someone who never left his mind?

Ichigo stared up at the sky. Dark clouds blurred through a once-clear blue.

A black butterfly fluttered past. His absent hand trailed after it, chased it in the hopes it would perch itself on his finger. It flew up higher, further than he could reach, and he slowly let his hand fall away.

Fate turned on relentlessly. It would not falter, would not pause even for them. He had wished, foolishly perhaps, that he could go back to the moment Rukia disappeared from his eyes. Go back just to tell her everything he could not say.

He loved her.

He loved her with every fiber of his weak human heart.

The wheel kept spinning. The butterfly grew more distant.

Rukia would not come back to him.

The wind picked up, and he finally turned away.

I wonder if I can keep up with the speed of a world you’re not in.

#ichirukimonth #ichirukimonth2020 #Ichiruki #OTP: Black Sun and White Moon #Kurosaki Ichigo #Kuchiki Rukia #Bleach #my fanfiction

[undermounts]

Bound—Chapter 15: Borrowed Time

AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: And so the plot thickens

Pairing: Gaius Augustine/Diana Leigh (BB MC)

                                   Zermatt, Switzerland, 2042

After leaving the restaurant, Diana and Gaius strolled down the pedestrian streets of Zermatt, peeking their heads into small shops and bakeries as they went. Most stores were starting to close, leaving little to do besides wander, but Diana wasn’t quite ready to head back to the hotel. She knew better than to take any moments of peace and quiet for granted and wanted to see as much of Zermatt before they were either found or had to leave again.

But more than that, there was a feeling in her gut that subtly urged her to stay out just a little while longer, to idle down yet another sidestreet. She had not yet decided if it was wanderlust,  intuition, or something else.

“Tell me something,” Diana said as they turned around another corner onto another avenue bordered by immaculate buildings of stone and wood. “Anything.”

This had become their thing, ever since that day in the barn. “Tell me something,” one of them would request. Not for the sake of conversation or to banish the silence that fell between them, but to swap little pieces of themselves. To share not because they had to, but because they wanted to. Diana knew that with the bond, she could easily learn whatever she wanted about Gaius and he could do the same. But there was something different about talking like this, about taking their time when there was an eternity stretched out before them. There was nothing that said fate had to be the only thing that bound them.

Gaius pursed his lips, his hands in his pockets as he glanced thoughtfully at the star-flecked sky. After a long moment passed, he finally spoke, his voice distant. “When I was a child and I couldn’t sleep, my mother would take me down to the beach. We would sit below the docks, watching ships come and go for hours, counting them. I was always looking for something…” Gaius’s brow pinched as if he were trying hard to recollect the memories. 

“My father…” he murmured at last, wonder coloring his voice. “He was… a sailor. I was always looking for him, trying to find the boat I last saw him leave on, exhausting myself until I fell asleep. Every morning, I woke up back in our home, safely tucked beneath my mother’s arm.” He shook his head. “I still don’t know how she managed to carry me back up all of those steps every time.”

Diana wanted to brush her thumb over his brow and wipe away the crease that had formed there. There was an odd look in his eyes, despondent and confused all at once, as if he was mourning something but didn’t know what or why.

“I’ve never heard you talk about your life before being Turned,” Diana said softly. “Just that one time on the island about Ariadne.” His wife.

It was so easy for Diana to forget how long Gaius had been alive, and even easier forget how much living could happen in three thousand years, regardless of whether or not he had really been himself. She couldn’t quite wrap her head around the fact that he had once been married—even if he had only been a young man at the time and it lasted barely six months. After all, Adrian had been married. He had even had a son. But somehow, that had been easier to rationalize than this. Perhaps it was because it was more fitting of his identity and the loss of them had shaped his life after being Turned. Regardless, Diana realized once again that there were aspects of Gaius’s life she still didn’t know and probably more things that she could not even begin to comprehend.

“I still don’t remember most of it,” Gaius admitted with a frown, his eyes downcast. “I know that Rheya made me forget many things, but perhaps I have just lived too long to remember anymore.”

“I could try to help you recover some of those memories,” Diana offered. She couldn’t imagine being unable to remember her own family. Growing up, they were practically all she had. If she forgot them, she would have almost nothing left of her old life. 

Gaius opened his mouth, then hesitated and closed it, shaking his head. “I appreciate the offer, Diana. Perhaps one day, but I don’t think I could…” His mouth twisted as he sought out the words he was looking for. “Not right now. I’m still trying to figure out what I am now. To learn more about the man I once was… I don’t know what that will do.”

Diana nodded. He had told her once years ago that without Rheya’s influence, he wasn’t sure where he stood. I was one man. Then Rheya changed me into something else. Now that change is undone. Am I that first man? The second? Something else entirely?

“Well, whenever you decide that you do want to learn more, I’ll help you,” Diana promised and he met her gaze. “And for what it’s worth,” she added, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Most people don’t know who they are. Sometimes I don’t even know either. But when you think you’ve got it figured out, no matter how long it takes or how temporary it is, I’ll still be here.”

Gaius smiled softly and reached out, squeezing her hand. “Thank you, Diana.”

“Of course,” she replied, lacing her fingers with his before he could think to pull away. 

It was easy to be with him in the comfort of their room, where they could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. Being out in the streets of Zermatt was a small step up. They were still relatively isolated in this alpine village, geographically and socially, but taking that step outside made everything a bit more real. Several times tonight, Diana found herself wondering what would become of them and what sort of ramifications this might have when they left, because surely, there would be. Not only because she would have to tell the others what transpired if this continued, but her life had a habit of being unnecessarily complicated. 

“What do you remember about your mother?” Diana asked, bumping his shoulder with hers. His expression seemed to lighten, indicating this was not such a heavy topic.

“She was strong,” Gaius began, his fingers tightening around hers. “Kind. She always knew just the right thing to say, to me and to everyone else. We didn’t have much sometimes, but she always gave to people in need.” He glanced sidelong at Diana. “You kind of remind me of her. The pieces I remember, anyway.”

Diana felt a comforting warmth spread throughout her body, shielding her from the evening’s chilly air. She tilted her head up, studying his face. “What did she look like?”

How much of him was his mother? How much, his father? If she knew what his parents had looked like, could she discern which features he inherited from each?

His eyes were trained on some point in the distance, focused once again although his expression was untroubled. “I have her eyes. Her skin was fair in the rainy seasons, but golden in the summer. Her hair, however, was always black as pitch, no matter how many hours we spent in the sun. High cheekbones, the corners of her eyes creased from smiling.”

“She sounds lovely,” Diana said, deciding that aside from the hair, Gaius must look a lot like his mother. 

He nodded. “I don’t know how my father managed to part with her every time he had to leave. But I’ve been told that the call of the ocean is rather irresistible for the seafaring folk.” He huffed, a slight edge to his voice. “They are beside themselves with longing and exhaustion when they are away but miserable and restless when they are home.”

“I suppose I could see where they’re coming from,” Diana conceded after a moment of thought, gazing past the mountains that bordered the village. 

“Is that so?” Gaius raised a brow, tilting his head. “I didn’t know you had an affinity for the sea.”

“I always have,” Diana shrugged. “I used to wonder how surfers could throw themselves into the ocean and attempt to ride the waves. It would be so easy to wipe out, to get pulled into the undertow and drown. They get beaten around so much, and yet, they keep going back to chase that perfect ride. And I wondered why they did that. Why they would take the risk.”

Diana was aware of Gaius’s eyes intently trained on her face as she went on, still working out her thoughts on the matter as she shared them. “But I guess the risk is part of the appeal. Knowing that you’re in the middle of something so incomprehensibly vast and powerful. Knowing that you’re so insignificant and could easily be snuffed out at a moment’s notice. There’s a sort of thrill that comes with challenging that kind of power, of coexisting with it.”

Gaius worked his jaw, gaze thoughtful as he considered her point of view. “That is very fitting of you to say.”

Diana’s brows drew together. “What do you mean?”

He raised an eyebrow as if he was surprised she didn’t see what he did. “What you just described—the surfers. They sound a lot like you. Running with deadly beings that could have just as easily killed you as welcomed you. Going toe-to-toe with powers you can’t even comprehend. Even as a mortal, you challenged me, knowing it could be suicide. It’s as if you like being in mortal peril, too.”

Diana chewed her lip, mulling that over. She had never thought about it that way, but from his point of view, it made perfect sense. “Maybe I did once,” she relented, absently tugging on a strand of her hair. 

“But not now?”

“No,” she decided, sighing. She watched as her breath clouded before her and slowly dissipated on the wind before continuing on. “Sometimes I crave action. The adrenaline. The opportunity to let go, just for a little bit. But not like this, whatever mystery we’re in right now,” she waved her hand at their surroundings. “I’m okay with a little fighting, especially if I’m doing it to protect people. But right now, I just want peace. I’m sick of other people’s lives being at stake. I can’t help but feel like their fate rests in my hands.”

“Diana…”

“Yes, I have Rheya’s powers,” she continued, her throat tightening and cheeks heating with frustration. “But does that really make me qualified to have this much responsibility? My hands are just as stained with sin as anyone else’s. Who’s to say if I will be able to stop Demetrius’s influence and not fall to it?”

“I think you are capable of more good and restraint than you believe, which is why you are  a perfect fit. Not just because you have her powers,” Gaius murmured, his gaze roaming across the buildings around them. “I just wish you didn’t think that you were alone in this. If you slip up, someone else will catch you.”

Diana knew he was trying to be comforting and that his logic was sound. But the idea of having others get involved on her behalf—especially if it was because she failed—wasn’t as reassuring as it was meant to be.

They continued for a little while, observing as other people trickled through the streets, slowly retreating to their homes in search of rest and shelter from the cooling night. As the town collectively fell into silence, they came upon a steepled church of gray and white stone. It towered over them, an ancient place that spoke of refuge and repentance but only seemed hollow and forlorn in its emptiness.

Diana stared up at the belltower, watching as gilded arms slowly rotated around the structure’s clock face, and couldn’t help but feel as if it was counting down the seconds until their time here was up, reminding her that the sanctuary she found was only temporary.

“I wish that I could give you the peace you deserve, Diana,” Gaius said softly beside her, his breath turning to mist in front of them.

Diana’s chest caved and she turned to him, tenderly pushing his hair away from his face and fitting her palm against his cheek, his skin cool from the night air. She spoke honestly, pouring her heart into her words. “This is enough for me, Gaius. You are enough and more.”

Unable to bear the anguish that would most certainly cross his features in response, Diana closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly, sweetly. His arms came up around her, his touch at once tentative and grounding. She let herself lean into his embrace for a little while longer, touching her forehead to his briefly before drawing away, contenting herself with simply holding his hand for now.

Eventually, they drew away from the church, leaving the solemn air behind. As they meandered back to their hotel, Diana picked up a bag of baked goods from a closing café, taking with her the scent of roasted coffee and nutmeg. Before they turned onto the final street that led them back to the lodge, Diana felt a slight presence brush against her mind and caught movement on her peripheral.

She stilled, pulling Gaius to a halt as she turned, her eyes settling on a small antique store on the corner of the block. Inside, an elderly man slowly bustled around a glass display case tucking only the valuable items into a separate box for safekeeping. Diana watched the man as he set about his tasks with great care, not because he dealt with fragile objects but because he clearly cared about what he did and possessed. 

She was momentarily struck by how normal life could still go on despite how things changed around them. That would have been her in merely thirty years, not necessarily owning an antique shop, but growing old and hopefully doing what she loved. She had told Gaius that she had long since made peace with her lost life, but sometimes she couldn’t help but feel a little sorrowful as she watched the people she grew up with age and move on while she stayed the same.

Gaius squeezed her hand, the gesture comforting as if he knew what she had been thinking. She supposed he probably did. Diana was about to let her lead him away when her gaze caught on something that glinted in the storefront window among other knick knacks. Her breath caught and she tightened her grip on Gaius’s hand. 

“Look,” she breathed and he followed her line of sight. The knife.

It almost looked just as it had in her dreams, with its long curved blade and hilt of bone, although it was significantly tarnished, the handle blackened in some parts as if someone had tossed it into a fire. It’s presence was faint, muted, as if there was a damper on it. But why? To keep it hidden? And from whom?

She and Gaius shared a look before wordlessly deciding to approach the store. Diana pushed the door open, a bell chiming above the entryway as they stepped inside. The store was cramped full of shelves stocked with all sorts of odds and ends. An L-shaped counter stood against one wall, topped with glass display cases and an ancient cash register. It smelled faintly of pumpkin spice as if a candle had been burning not even an hour ago. “Hello? Are you still open? I hope it’s not too late.”

The old man looked up, thick eyebrows raised and pale blue eyes magnified by his thick glasses. His face split into a kind smile worn with laugh lines. “Oh no, come in, come in!” he said cheerfully in a thick German accent. “Have a look around! I still have time before I’m finished packing up. Don’t get many customers this time of year. Winter brings the snow crowd.”

“Actually,” Diana began, pulling Gaius with her further into the store as she waved towards the window. “I was interested in the knife you had on display.”

“That old thing?” He lifted a snowy brow, setting his box of valuables on the counter before hobbling over to the storefront.

“Yeah. I’ve, uh, got a friend at home who likes to collect knives,” Diana supplied, her eyes briefly flicking to Gaius as she let go of his hand and followed the man. “She asked me to bring her back a souvenir.”

The shopkeep paused, shaky hands outstretched towards the blade’s handle. He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “Oh. Well in that case, I’ve got plenty of nicer knives in the back—”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Gaius cut in smoothly, stepping up to Diana’s side. “Our friend has a very particular taste. Bone hilts and whatnot. An odd collection, but to each his own, I suppose.”

“Right you are. “To each his own. Hmm….” The man squinted, casually plucking the blade off its display and turning it to find the tiny price tag that was attached to the hilt by a bit of yarn. “Ah, here we are. Says here it’s twenty francs,” he looked up, waving his hand nonchalantly. “But I’ll give it to you for fifteen, since it’s a bit burned and all. Found it in a box full of baubles at an estate sale a while back. ”

“Do you accept cards? Or US dollars?”

“Either’s fine,” he shrugged.

“Perfect.” Diana gave him an easy smile. “We’ll take it.”

The man nodded and they followed him to his counter where the decrepit register sat. Diana was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as she handed him her card, relieved that she didn’t have to fight or kill anything for this. Yet. 

Inside her pocket, she crossed her fingers, just in case.

“Here you go,” the man said at last, handing her card back first, then the knife. “I would have wrapped it, but we’re all out of paper.”

“That’s alright. We appreciate it nonetheless,” Gaius assured him, taking the blade from his hands before Diana could reach for it. He tucked it into the inside of his coat and sent her a look that clearly said, You should not be touching this yet.

Diana sighed. That was fair.

They thanked the shopkeep again, bidding him a goodnight, and stepped out onto the street. Diana let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding when they left the store and nothing horrible befell them. She was even more surprised when they made it all the way back to the hotel room without any issues.

“That was… easy,” Diana frowned as she closed the door to their room behind her, then knocked on the wooden wall for good measure.

“Feels too easy.” Gaius’s brows were drawn together, clearly suspicious as he withdrew the blade and set it carefully on the table against the wall.

Slowly, Diana shook her head and came to stand beside him. As she spoke, she knew her words to be true. “No. I don’t think anyone knows what this is. The shopkeep included. Even I could barely detect it, and we’ve been in town for days. I had no idea this was here.”

Gaius’s frown only deepened and his eyes fell to the golden chain around Diana’s neck, the amulet hidden beneath her shirt. “It seems that the Compass knew where we needed to go before we even did.”

She raised her brows, her fingertips brushing the pendant through her clothing. “You think the amulet brought us here because of the blade? But how did it even know we needed it? Or where the knife was?”

“I don’t know, Diana,” Gaius admitted, running a hand through his hair. “All I know is that for some reason, you and these artifacts are connected. Perhaps the amulet knew what you needed when you established a blood link to it. Or perhaps the artifacts themselves know that they are meant to be used together for something.”

Diana pressed the heels of her hand against her eyes. “Christ.”

“As for how the amulet knew where the knife was,” Gaius continued. “I don’t think it did. Not precisely at least, just the general location. That’s why we ended up at the farm instead.”

“Well, how did it even know that it was in Switzerland?” Diana wondered aloud. She wasn’t sure why she was asking Gaius, but she had to admit he was pretty good about developing fairly sound explanations based on what few clues they had. He was a good fighter, yes, but an even better thinker. 

Gaius turning, leaning back against the table as he folded his arms, brows furrowed in thought. Diana could practically see his mind churning through possible explanations as he worked his jaw. When his eyes sharpened and filled with clarity not even a minute later, she knew he had fit the pieces together. “You said you had heard voices when you made contact with the Compass, yes?”

She tilted her head, sitting down on the foot of the bed. “Yeah…”

“Perhaps they knew,” Gaius mused and Diana was surprised that he was being completely serious.

“What?”

“It’s entirely possible that the reason it knew is because that amulet is bound to an entity of sorts. Something sentient,” Gaius explained.

“What, like a ghost?” Diana scoffed, rolling her eyes. Maybe she had jumped the gun a bit in assuming that Gaius could be trusted to always provide a rational explanation.

“No, not a ghost. Don’t be ridiculous.” His eyes narrowed at her. “Do you consider me to be a fool?”

“No, but I think you’re being a little absurd.” She shook her head, snickering to herself. “You are the last person I would ever expect to suggest my necklace is haunted.”

“That’s not what I’m—” Gaius was fully scowling now, his irritation stinging like a whip down the bond. “I’m not going to talk to you if you’re not going to take me seriously, Bloodkeeper.”

Bloodkeeper. Oh, he was not happy with her.

Diana forced the smirk off her face, holding her hands out, palms up to show that she was done mocking. “Sorry. But you have to admit it is a little crazy.”

He glared at her.

“Okay, fine. It’s not.” She rolled her eyes and waved her hand. “Go on. I promise I’m listening.”

Gaius stared down his nose at her for a long moment before he took a deep breath and continued. “I don’t think the Compass is haunted. But perhaps it’s a bridge of sorts. I’ve heard of relics that could connect their user to wells of power. Locations like the forest in Bergen, magical creatures, and so on. When you establish a blood contact with the amulet, the amulet didn’t transport you—”

“It forged a connection to something powerful enough that could,” Diana finished, picking up on his line of thought and he nodded.

Okay, that was reasonable enough. After they made the jump from Copenhagen to the barn, Diana had doubted that even her blood was powerful enough to do something as insane as transport them hundreds of miles away from their starting point. But if it was only using her blood to connect her… perhaps that was possible.

“Well, that still leaves who or what the Compass connected me to,” Diana noted, her fingers anxiously tangling in the ends of her hair.

Gaius opened his mouth, then hesitated. Diana caught his expression and grimaced. “You have an idea, don’t you?”

He winced, eyes flicking to hers, then to a random spot on the wall behind her, his gaze hardening. “I think there’s a reason it’s called the Mercurian Compass.”

Diana blinked at him blankly, then put her head in her hands and groaned. “Have I mentioned that I am sick of this? Because I am sick of it.”

She heard Gaius let out a long-suffering sigh and a moment later, the bed depressed beside her. He squeezed her shoulder, pulling her to rest against his side. “I know, diviana.”

Diana buried her face into his shoulder, muffling her words as she spoke. “Why would a god get involved?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his breath stirring her hair. “Phampira gifted Rheya, so it’s not unprecedented.”

“Are Roman gods even… alive?” Diana’s brow furrowed. She still wasn’t even entirely sure she believed in gods. Now she had to consider that one of them was real and helping her?

“Roman, Greek, Egyptian… They’re all the same.” Gaius shifted up the bed, pulling her with him until they rested against the pillows. “It doesn’t matter what name they go by. Sometimes their attributes are swapped or condensed into fewer gods, but they’re all the same.”

“I really hate this,” Diana repeated, slinging her arm across his stomach and holding tight, as if she were drowning and he was her only lifeline left.

He kissed her temple. “I know.”

After several minutes had passed, Diana extracted herself from his embrace, combing her hair back as her gaze resettled on the blade resting on the table. “I should probably try to—”

Before Diana could even finish her thought, her phone rang. She sighed, pulling her phone out of her pocket. Her brows rose and she answered. “Kamilah?”

Gaius sat up behind her.

“Diana,” Kamilah said by way of greeting. Then her voice softened a fraction.“You sound tired.”

“Just...frustrated,” Diana shrugged, scooting back against the headboard and leaning against Gaius’s shoulder. 

“Still unraveling more mysteries?”

Diana huffed a laugh. “Something like that. Every question answered only leads to more questions.”

“Mm,” Kamilah merely replied and Diana could hear the hint of an amused smile in her voice. “Well, I’m calling you because I think I’ve figured out a way to contain Demetrius’s influence.”

Diana straightened and Gaius’s brow furrowed at her reaction. “You did? How?”

“Demetrius’s influence is synonymous with that of the Tree of Eternal Death, yes?” Kamilah asked, her voice calm and analytical.

“Yeah…”

“Well, the world needs balance, Diana,” Kamilah went on and Diana could distantly hear the click of Kamilah’s heels. She must have been going somewhere. “Good and bad, light and dark, life and death. You know how it goes.” There was a faint ding! She was getting into an elevator, then. “Well, twenty-three years ago, we upended that balance. Back on Mydiea, when we—”

Diana gasped, the realization dawning on her. She thought of an ancient cavern beneath the Order of Dawn compound, which was now barely more than a pile of rubble in the middle of the Mediterranean.“When we destroyed the Tree of Eternal Life.”

“Precisely,” Kamilah agreed and Diana could hear a note of pride in her voice. “For centuries, the Tree of Eternal Life and the Tree of Eternal Death kept each other in check, two sides of the same coin. One can’t exist without the other, not without consequence. And for twenty-three years, the Tree of Eternal Death’s power has grown without its equal to counter it. Now we are paying the price.”

“Can we stop it?” Diana asked, subconsciously clutching her silver lily pendant so hard, its edges cut into her palm.

“Theoretically, yes,” Kamilah declared and Diana almost sighed in relief before Kamilah continued, her voice growing gravely serious. “But it won’t be easy. The only thing that can stem his influence is the Tree of Eternal Life. And we don’t have that. But, we do have the next best thing.”

Something about the way she said that made Diana’s stomach twist into a knot. “Which is?”

“Someone who holds the tree’s power,” Kamilah said softly, almost apologetically. “You, Diana. We need your blood.”

Everything in her body went cold at that. Diana suddenly felt as if there were a yawning pit beneath her, waiting to swallow her whole. She echoed Kamilah numbly, “My blood.”

Gaius stiffened beside her. She felt his gaze burning into her skin but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. Her blood.

“Yes. I…” She heard Kamilah swallow, struggling to find the words. If Kamilah was hesitating, things were bad.“I wouldn’t ask this of you if I thought there was any other way.” 

“How much of it?”

“I don’t know. There’s no way to tell until we do it.” Kamilah’s voice was quiet. “Diana, if you don’t want to do this, it’s okay. We’ll… We’ll figure something else out.”

“It’s okay,” Diana whispered, heart pounding in her ears. “It’s okay,” she repeated. “You said it yourself. You wouldn’t have called unless there were no other options. So, we have to at least try this. I’ll be fine. I’ll do it.”

“...You’re sure of this?” Kamilah questioned.

“Yes.” Diana swallowed the lump in her throat, her fists clenching against her thighs, palms sweating. 

“I’ll have Adrian arrange for your flight back. Then we can work out the details,” Kamilah promised and Diana heard her heels clicking once again. “I’m about to meet with him and update him on the situation.”

“Give him my best.” It was a battle to sound upbeat and Diana knew her attempt fell flat.

“I will. Just get home safe,” Kamilah said. “Both of you.”

Ah. Both. So Jax had filled her in.

Diana promised they would, then hung up, her phone dangling between her fingers as she stared blankly at the wall, reeling. She couldn’t explain the pit that had yawned open in her stomach or the inexplicable feeling she had that whatever was coming next, it would demand everything of her.

“Diana…” Gaius murmured and she felt his fingertips on her jaw, gently guiding her face towards his. His eyes were intent on hers, full of questions and concern. Diana wanted to fall into his touch, to drown in him until she forgot about everything that existed beyond this room. She wanted so badly to give in and hide away forever with him, but she couldn’t. Diana had known this would come. Their time was up.

Diana pulled away, rolling out of bed and starting towards the closet that contained what few belongings she had. “Get packed,” she said over her shoulder, yanking out her duffle bag. “We’re going to New York.”

                                Tagging: @courtesanofedenbrook, @esmeortegas, @xbobbatea, @bachelorettebound14, @somin-yin, @mkamra2355, @bigmemesplz, @dorkylittleweirdo, @memetrashing, @vesselsynths, @mindlesschicca, @mikewawazoski, @choicesplayer101

#gaius augustine #gaius x mc #my writing #bloodbound #choices #pixelberry #kamilah sayeed #adrian raines #jax matsuo #lily spencer #rheya apostolous

[mhdiaries]

Sometimes a manster has to do what a manster has to do, and if that means ditching the ghouls for a night in order to save the world, then so be it. Now, just because the world in question exists only in the manster’s mind and basement, or that its fate is determined by a series of opposing dice rolls, doesn’t mean bragging rights aren’t at stake, and dude, you are so going down!

October 1 

It’s game week! I’m trying not to get too excited, because you never know how things like the weather, or an illness, or an injury might cancel the game or knock a player out of competition. I’m just going to cross my fins and hope every monster is at full strength when it’s go time! Especially since this encounter is going to be a test of all our strength and skill.

October 2

We only had a half-day at school today because all the teachers had to attend some kind of seminar or something, which was clawsome because that meant I could take Lagoona out for lunch and a matinee movie. I think she was a little frustrated that I’ve been so focused on the game this weekend, and I think she was also hoping that we’d get to spend the whole time together. I actually used one of her��“Lagoona-ism” on her - “let’s enjoy the time we have instead of focusing on the time we don’t”. She gave me a look that, I’m sure, is reserved for surf monsters that drop in on a wave and cut her off. Lagoona really is as kind and gentle a monster as there is in the entire monsterverse, but she’s as tenacious as a rip tide when she wants to be. I was really conflicted about the weekend because I wanted so much to make the game and I knew if I didn’t, the bros would be a player short against some really stiff competition, but I also didn’t want to hurt Lagoona’s feelings; but she never once said, “It’s just a game,” or “If that game means more to you than me,” or any of a hundred other things to make me feel guilty. It’s why she’s the beast ghoul any manster ever had and why I love her, no matter how much my parents don’t understand our relationship.

October 3

Barely averted a major catastrophe today. My parents started worrying about me being at home by myself for the whole weekend and were talking about taking me with them. Noooooooo! I had to think fast, or I’d be missing the game and spending the whole weekend at my parents’ high school reunion in the “Land of 10,000 Boredoms”. I knew if I played the “I’m 16 and responsible” card I’d get trumped by the “You need to pack your bag, you’re going with us” answer. So I cast out an unlife line out to Deuce and hooked up big time. Before the conversation between my parents and me went over the falls in a barrel, my mom’s phone was ringing, and Medusa was on the line offering to let me stay at their house for the weekend. My mom usually takes a lot of convincing, but Deuce’s mom can be pretty charming when she wants to be, so I won’t be missing the game after all!

October 4

Mom’s been busy packing for the trip and putting meals together for me so I don’t “starve” while they’re gone, even though I’ll be spending the weekend at Deuce’s house. I told mom not to worry about it, but she said, “You never know, you may get homesick and there’d be nothing here for you.” I know better than to argue with mom about this. Dad’s been watching that channel that keeps track of weather and current worldwide water conditions just in case some freak storm descends out of the clear blue forecast and they have to take an emergency detour. Dad already has five planned out. That’s my parents, though. When I was just a small fry and we’d go on vacation, it always looked like we were prepping for an expedition into the deepest part of the abyss. I guess, dad never forgot his koi scout training, “Gillington, my boy,” he would say, “you’ve got to be prepared for whatever kind of killer rapids or stretches of dead water you might encounter.” How he and mom were able to pack and stow our entire luggage is still a mystery Mad Science has never been able to solve. Of course, I have been left a checklist to make sure I am prepared as well.

Lock the doors

Feed the catfish

Leave a light and radio on when you leave the house so it always lurks/sounds like some monster is home

Thank Deuce’s mom for letting me stay

Don’t date Lagoona. They didn’t actually write that. I just know what they’re thinking.

Actually, we don’t really talk about that directly very much anymore. We kind of just agree to disagree, especially since Lagoona was wished into a freshwater monster and back again. I think they saw how miserable I was during that whole time, and I believe it made some kind of impact... hopefully.

October 5

I spent tonight working on my character for the game this weekend. I’ve been playing a paladin-brave, chivalrous and dedicated to rooting out injustice and evil everywhere. In this case the root that needs removing is a sorceress that kind of reminds me of a certain older sister that has been making life difficult for the Kingdom of Deuce and Cleo. We’ve been playing this particular campaign for a year now, not every weekend, unfortunately, since there always seems to be something that gets in the way. It’s hard to get Clawd, Heath, Deuce and me all free at once. It used to be that Heath could always be counted on to show up, but since he’s been dating Abbey his weekends have been kind of “booked” lately as well. This weekend it’ll all come together, and even though Deuce is a tough game master, I’m sure the mansters will be able to prevail.

#monster high #monster high diary #monster high journal #game journal #gil webber #gillington webber

[johnny-and-dora]

how sweet the taste of certainty

Finally, she doesn’t have to wonder if their love is doomed to be some quiet, fragile thing. It’s not some fickle flickering candle at all, but rather something as bright and as certain and as inevitable as the sunrise. Something beautiful and familiar that, in earnest, is only just beginning.

or, amy tells her parents the shining, golden reason why she can't marry teddy. (a missing scene of my royalty au)

read on ao3 / read the original  -

The morning after she asks Jake to marry her, Amy stops a couple steps short of the heavy dining room doors, heart in her mouth, feet suddenly and brutally rooted to the ground. The eloquent and respectful speech she spent all night planning has seemingly evaporated, leaving her less of a person and more a pile of nervous mush.

“Are you ready?” Rosa meets her gaze, her armour glinting in the summer morning sunshine.

“No.” Amy admits, smiling nervously, calculating the nearest escape route and how long she could survive in the forest based on her existing hunting and foraging skills. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

Rosa considers it for a beat. “No. I think it’s crazy, and it might blow up in your face, but I think it’s a good thing. For everyone.”

She can’t help but feel reassured by her best friend’s trademark bluntness, smoothing down her dress and fixing her hair again almost compulsively. It’s just breakfast. A breakfast that may as well be taking place in the middle of a minefield, but still just breakfast. She can handle breakfast.

Amy takes a deep breath, nods at Rosa, and pushes the doors open.

She’s greeted by the tail-end of an idyllic Santiago family meal; her parents sit at the head of the table, looking stoic and serious as usual. Three of her brothers are also dotted around, Julian in the middle of shoving an entire croissant in his mouth as he waves at her. David is mercifully absent. Silver linings. She definitely doesn’t need the golden child around today.

“Amelia – good, we were starting to worry…” Her mom trails off, a weight behind her words that instantly sends an unpleasant lick of irritation down her spine. She clenches her fists, resisting the urge to tell her just how much she really needs to be worried about. Just how close she was to smuggling herself and Jake over the border last night and never looking back.

Amy knows this won’t work unless she’s calm, firm and collected – she needs this to go perfectly, the stakes for this particular conversation so far past the roof they’re practically up in the stratosphere (Jake’s words, not hers). So, instead of letting out all the latent anger kicking around in her chest, she takes a deep breath and smiles politely, the one usually reserved for dukes that condescendingly call her “sweetheart” and then drop their jaws when she can recite state law from memory.

“You guys said you wanted to see me?”

“Prince Theodore has been asking after you. He’s waiting at the West Wing gate.”

“Good. I need to talk to him.” Amy says, forcefully enough that her mother sharply raises an eyebrow, sucking all the air out of the room in the process. “I need to talk to you, too.”

Her mom and dad share a quick, loaded glance. Everyone falls quiet, Tony and Simon no longer squabbling over who gets the last bread roll, Julian letting a blob of jam fall on his shirt without noticing. All eyes are on her as Victor gestures for her to continue – ideally, she’d do this with as little of an audience as possible, but she confesses to Jake later that she couldn’t help but revel slightly in the drama of it all.

She’s Amy Santiago – she’s fluent in five languages, director of the royal art collection, ambassador for human rights and one of the best trade negotiators in the seven kingdoms. She is capable of anything. She can do this. She’d barely last a week in the forest anyway.

“I’m not going to marry him.”

“Amelia…” Her mother sighs disapprovingly – it drills into Amy’s soul, but she stands her ground, making peace with her portrait being one step further away from the mantel. Her father eyes her warily as if he was expecting this.

“No, I know. I know you think it’s what’s best for me. I know a marriage like that worked for you two, and I know that it would benefit the kingdom and that’s great. But I can’t marry someone I don’t love, and you can’t force me to.”

“Accepting his proposal may seem like a risk, but a one worth taking.” Her father says. “He’s good for you, Amy – his reputation, his influence, it could really help you build something. You two are perfectly matched.”

Amy chews her bottom lip, a nervous tic she just can’t shake, gathering her courage. “Maybe in a different situation, Teddy and I would have worked. I see what you see in him. But it’s more than just on principle. I physically can’t marry him.”

“Why not?”

“Because - “Amy says, voice shaking a little, but eyes alight, “-I’m engaged to someone else.”

And, well, there it is. Her whole life changed by a single sentence.

It has the intended effect, increased tenfold thanks to a truly magnificent spit take from Julian as he chokes on his orange juice. Her parents stare at her in stunned disbelief – a wide-eyed Tony pats Julian on the back as his coughing dissolves into laughter. Best of all though, Amy can see Rosa smiling wide and proud in the corner of her eye, and it’s all she needs to feel newly emboldened, heart thumping in a way that makes her feel powerful instead of helpless.

“My God, Amy. I thought I had it with the whole one-night-stand with the Prince of Arabia thing, but you officially just won most dramatic family announcement. Well played.” Julian laughs, uproarious and bright. She’s glad he’s here.

“I…don’t understand. You are…already engaged?” Her mother asks weakly.

��As of last night, yes.” Amy tries to remain as neutral and matter-of-fact as possible, but she can’t help softening at the fresh memory of Jake saying yes over and over again, punctuating each affirmation with a kiss as she laughed, buoyant and alive with unadulterated joy. It’s all still very surreal, especially considering she hasn’t slept since; but if it is all a dream, it’s one she never intends to wake up from.

“I don’t see a ring,” Julian says, a bright grin plastered on his face that Amy ever so slightly mirrors, unable to completely tamp down her happiness any longer. “Isn’t there supposed to be a ring?”

“There is, but he has it. I proposed to him.”

“Oh, of course you did.” Julian shakes his head in a perfect marriage of awe and amusement.

“How…what…who…” Tony stammers – having graciously passed the point of no return, Amy decides to throw all her caution and concern to the wind and dive headfirst into the unknown.

“His name is Jake Peralta and he is the absolute love of my life. I have never been surer about anything than I am about that fact.” She consciously pours every ounce of conviction she has into her words, and it tastes like honey on her tongue, fresh air in her lungs. “He’s a baker and he helps out in the kitchen with Charles and he is the kindest, most loyal, most wonderful person I have ever met.”

There are so many ways to describe him – completely unexpected, completely full of warmth and laughter and more love than she thought any human being was capable of containing. Loving Jake is endlessly surprising, but it’s also the easiest thing she’s ever done.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d never approve of me being with someone who didn’t have ‘reputation’, but the truth is that Jake is good for me in a way that Teddy could never be. He is unconditionally supportive and thoughtful, and he sees me for me, not just as a status symbol or some idealised fairy-tale. I love him and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with him.”

She says her piece, affection flowing from her almost of its own accord. As she does, she’s flooded with memories – throwing grapes at each other at the picnic they shared in the wildflower meadows beyond the gates. Jake smuggling cupcakes to her to cheer her up on bad days. Him clumsily risking his life climbing through her bedroom window just to help her rehearse her big address at a formal dinner, planting a kiss on her forehead every time she got through a cue card.

Their walks around the castle grounds, laughing at stupid inside jokes. Playing cards in the kitchens with Charles, Terry and Rosa. Teaching him how to paint and sketching him in increasingly ridiculous poses. Having dinner with his mom. Stealing away moments behind the stables and on staircases. Most vividly, their countless private rendezvous in the forest, free of all façades and responsibilities and reputations to uphold.

Amy refuses to hide any of it anymore – he is, openly and unashamedly, the man she loves.

No-one speaks, for a little while; she lets her honesty sink in. Her mother is wearing a look of abject horror – her dad’s expression is stony and unreadable, and it startles her when he is the first one to break the silence, directly addressing Rosa standing guard by the door.

“Diaz. Is all of this true?” Rosa glances at Amy, who gives her an encouraging nod. She knows her father has always valued Rosa’s directness as much as Amy does.

“Yes, sir.” She pauses. “And for the record, I’ve known both of these people a long time, and this is the happiest I’ve seen either of them. It’s kind of sickening, actually.”

Her parents exchange glances, a silent conversation Amy isn’t privy too – she’s too busy feeling her heart swell with further affection, this time for her best friend. She and Jake owe so much to Rosa helping them out, relaying messages back and forth and covering for them. When this is all over, Amy’s definitely embroidering a thank you pillow for her to punch.

“I see. Will you please bring this Jake Peralta here for me?” His tone is even and calm, almost unnervingly so. Rosa nods, quickly disappearing. She knows exactly where Jake will be; in the kitchens, probably stress eating day-old pastry and getting a last-minute pep talk from Charles (which is guaranteed to be largely unhelpful and delivered through hysterical tears).

She’d warned him that they’d probably want to meet him; he’d expressed anxiety about it last night, but Amy had quickly reassured him that no-one else’s opinion mattered to her about this. They’re getting married, whether her parents approve or not.

Obviously, she wants them to like him. She’s dedicated a lot of time to making sure he knows he is loved and accepted, and she’s willing to work even harder to wax lyrical about how wonderful he is for the rest of their lives if she has to. For now, though, she just has to focus on not getting them both exiled.

Her dad calmly asks her brothers to leave the table – Julian mutters in protest as he exits, only stopping to brightly clap Amy on the shoulder and earnestly congratulate her with an enthusiastic high five.

“He sounds great, mimi. I can’t wait to meet him.” For once, her older brother is completely sincere, save perhaps for the suggestive wink he gives her, and it’s a touching gesture that eases some of the relentless anxiety building in her gut. Amy dreads to think how insufferable the pair will be when they do finally meet. She can’t wait either.

Part of her is absolutely fucking terrified to be left alone with her parents with her open defiance and violation of their wishes hanging so ominously in the air – Amy Santiago has never been a rule breaker. She’s always worn the stupid fancy dresses even when she’s dying for something more practical and let Gina give her more and more complicated and ridiculous hairstyles and politely mingled with the endless line of boring high-status bachelors as her parents watched on hopefully. She’s always played the role of the only princess to perfection.

But then she thinks of little six-year-old Amy demanding that she be taught the same combat training as her brothers and twelve-year-old Amy petitioning to allow female members into the Royal Guard and, well. They really should have seen this coming from a mile away.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take long before Rosa strides back in, a clearly nervous Jake hurrying forward in her wake. For a moment, her original plan of whisking him away to start a simple life together swims into her head, a powerful urge to protect him surging over her.

But then their eyes meet, and he waves, a small nervous smile on his face. And then she notices, as it catches the sunlight streaming in through the window and glitters as if enchanted, the engagement ring hung proudly around his neck. And she just knows, as sure as the sun will rise, that they can handle anything.

“I understand that you are engaged to my Amy.”

“Yes, sir.” Jake rocks on his heels slightly, nervously fidgeting the way he always does when he’s anxious. “I’m very lucky to know her and I love her very much.” It’s not the most eloquent speech ever performed in this great hall, but it’s by far her favourite.

“How do I know you are good enough for my only daughter?”

“Oh, there’s no way I’m good enough for Amy. She’s the most incredible person I’ve ever met and the best thing that’s happened to me.” He steps closer to her, silently taking and squeezing her hand as he speaks. “But she still chose me, and I promise you that I will spend every moment of the rest of my life trying to be someone worthy of being loved by her.”

She wants to scream from the top of her lungs that he is completely and utterly good enough, and she wants to hurt anyone who has ever made him feel otherwise. Instead, she squeezes back, and mouths I love you while her parents exchange another hushed conversation.

“Well then - it appears there’s nothing we can do to stop you. Nor do I think we should try.” It could be a trick of the light, but she swears that she sees a glimmer of pride in her father’s eye. Her mom clears her throat, clearly still struggling to comprehend the situation.

“Mija, what we want most for you is for you to be happy. Does he make you happy?” She asks – Amy glances at the man beside her and finds her best friend, her fiancé, her favourite person. Easiest solve in the world.

“More than anything.”

“Then that settles that. You two have our blessing.” Her father says, as simply as if he was commenting on the weather. Amy blinks once, then again, her grip on Jake’s hand getting tighter.

“We…we do?”

“Yes, you do. We clearly have much to discuss, but I must first inform Prince Theodore that other arrangements need to be made.”

“I…wow. Thank you. Thank you, so much, I…” Her brain appears to be malfunctioning, so she does the only thing that feels right; she hugs her parents, whispering another strangled thank you, and then hastily pulls a stunned Jake out of the room, now squeezing his hand so tightly it’s probably cutting off all the circulation. If it does hurt, he doesn’t say anything – then again, in the moment neither of them seems able to speak.

She drags him into the nearest room; Holt’s classroom which, blessedly, is currently empty. Heart pounding, she finally meets Jakes gaze. He looks like he’s just found the end of a rainbow.

“Did they just…”

“Yeah. Yes. I think they did.”

“So, we’re…”

“Getting married. Yep. That is a thing that is officially happening.”

There’s a single moment before they’re both collapsing into shocked, near-hysterical laughter, an amalgamation of relief, disbelief, exhaustion and above all else, joy. Amy practically throws herself around him, performing some kind of strangled hybrid of laughing and crying as she buries herself into his shirt.

They stay like that for a while, completely wrapped up in each other. It could be seconds or minutes or maybe even hours – she doesn’t care. Time has ruled their life together for so long; now, it’s an insignificant enemy, no longer precious, unpredictable or finite. It’s bliss.

“Hey, listen. Rosa told me, uh, what you said. To your parents. About me being the love of your life and all that.” Jake says, suddenly adorably shy.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She said it with a disgusted look on her face, but I think she’s secretly rooting for us.”

Amy hums in contentment, making a note to call her a secret sap and then hug her the next time she sees her. Jake clears his throat nervously, calling her attention back to him, all soft and warm honey gaze.

“You’re mine too, by the way.” He says sheepishly. “Just in case…I mean I hope you that know by now, but-“ She smothers his nervous ramblings with a firm kiss, finally. Finally, the abstract brush-strokes and subtle hues of the future they could have together come into sharp focus, vivid and prismatic.

Finally, she doesn’t have to wonder if their love is doomed to be some quiet, fragile thing. It’s not some fickle flickering candle at all, but rather something as bright and as certain and as inevitable as the sunrise. Something beautiful and familiar that, in earnest, is only just beginning.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, future wife.” He grins, kissing her again. She’s sure, now, as her lips meld to his that he is the person she was always meant to come home to, to find a home in.

Amy feels a wave of exhaustion overwhelm her; now that the adrenaline is wearing off, the unfortunate side-effects of not sleeping for almost twenty-four hours rapidly take hold. She barely suppresses a yawn, scrunching up her nose as Jake looks at her fondly.

“You wanna go back to bed? I happen to know an excellent nap partner.”

“Oh, great, me too. I’ll see if Hitchcock’s available.” She says, laughing when Jake pouts in offence, draping her arms around him, leaning up so that their noses are almost touching.

“It’s our first day together as an engaged couple. I want to do something special.”

“Ames, we have the rest of our lives to do something special.” He says, gazing down at her with so much undiluted affection that her resolve completely melts away. The rest of their lives. She really likes the sound of that.

“Okay, napping sounds pretty good right now too.”

“Good, because we have about five minutes until I collapse from twelve hours straight of nervous hysteria. Would you mind carrying me to your bedroom?”

She rolls her eyes and shoves him, but also offers him her hand. They soon collapse into Amy’s four-poster bed, quickly pulling the covers over their heads, wriggling around and fighting for space while they giggle like little kids. Amy sleepily leans into him when they’re all settled in, and she’s never felt safer than she does now, being lulled to sleep by the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“We’re getting married.” She whispers reverently, eyelids heavy – she feels his lips gently ghost against the top of her head in response, perhaps subconsciously as if he were made to do it. They drift off, and the last of her anxiety ebbs and flows away as if merely a bad memory.

It’s the best sleep either of them has had for months.

#b99 #b99 fic #peraltiago #jake x amy #my writing #we love a passion project #listen i haven't stopped thinking about this au for MONTHS. so here you go. welcome to my twisted mind #if you do decide to read thank you very much for indulging me :') #shut up sian #oh and also happy trying eve everyone! thought i'd get this out before we all die

[hargrove-mayfields]

A Stake of Holly in Her Heart Pt. 4

Pt 1.   Pt. 2    Pt. 3

Max reads the message written in the Christmas card over and over until her eyes are crossing, then does it some more.

She’s so caught up on that last part, the signature, “mom.” Her mind just can’t process what she’s reading.

Maria Hargrove was Billy’s mother, a woman who Max had never had the pleasure, or displeasure, depending on who you asked, of meeting, being that she was out of the picture years before Max got involved.

According to her ex husband, she was conceited, selfish, sleazy. Ask her son, and he’d say she was quiet, nervous, loving.

Rumor has it that she just up and disappeared one day, leaving everything behind but a packed suitcase and a stolen debit card. Everything including her ten year old son.

Max had never really gotten the full story, only bits and pieces of the truth, but up to this moment she’d been perfectly content with the explanation that she’d gotten too worn out by Neil’s abuse, and cut out everything that had to do with that life they shared.

The card in her hand and the note inside of it might suggest otherwise.

The retelling of events from the abuser abandoned by his victim and the scorned and forgotten child was something that Max always knew would never be the most accurate, and so she knows her perception of the situation might be wrong, but there was still something that was throwing her off.

For one thing, why would a mother who had deliberately left without her son just write to him like nothing was wrong? She supposes that Billy tried to keep guarded a lot of his personal life, and maybe this wasn’t quite as out of the blue as she thought.

But what bothers her more is that the message seems far too simple, too casual to be addressed to a dead boy. Maybe it is surprising for Maria to have sent anything in the first place, but for it to include such a normal interaction? There’s something there that’s rubbing Max the wrong way.

Thinking back, she realizes she can’t actually remember anybody ever mentioning that they’d called Billy’s mother to break the news, and she knows for a fact that she hadn't seen her face, the one immortalized in the photo of her that Billy always kept in his glove box, anywhere among the few guests that had shown up at his funeral. And then she figures it out;

Maria Hargrove doesn’t know her son is dead.

Max’s knees start to shake, so she lowers herself to sit on the stoop. Words can’t come close to describing how she’s feeling, holding in her hands that handwritten sentiment from an isolated mother to her dead son. Not even the tears that run down her cheeks and are dried by the winter wind can express the grief that that little Christmas card triggers in her heavy heart.

Just knowing that there’s someone out there that might care as much about Billy as she does is such a profound thought in her mind. But is it really the same?

Is there any comparison even able to be drawn between the grieving sister of a misunderstood brother, and the woman who’d knowingly left her child with a monster?

Max’s knee jerk reaction is to say no, that any person who would knowingly abandon another who needed them deserves in no way to be affiliated with her and her heartache, but deep down she knows that isn’t completely true.

Even she’s considered it, running away from Neil and Susan and Hawkins and never looking back, but she’s trapped, by school, by her friends, by a cemetery plot. For Maria to actually go through with it, that must’ve been the hardest decision of her life.

And besides, Billy would had to have already forgiven her if he gave her the Cherry address. There’s no way she would’ve gotten it on her own, they hadn’t even told anybody where they were going before they moved.

The whole thing was a lot more complicated than she’d ever expected.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there contemplating it, bright red tear streaks on her freckled cheeks, before her ride eventually shows up, and Max realizes that now more than ever, the last thing she wants is to go to some party.

Not even the idea of being around her loving friends seemed like too attractive an alternative right now, not since she’d stumbled across Billy’s Christmas card, but the way she saw it, she didn’t have a choice.

Bailing now meant she’d have to go back inside and face her parents after she’d already made them angry today, which would do nothing but prove Neil right. She could already imagine the smug look on his stupid drunken face, and so, despite her resignations, she stands to make her way towards the car.

Carefully, she slides the card back into its envelope and puts it into her jacket pocket, or rather the pocket of Billy’s jacket that she saved from being thrown out when they cleaned out his room.

Up until now, she’d been telling herself she only wore it because it was warm, but today she'd done enough reflecting to be able to admit that, more than any other excuse she might make for the sake of appearances, she just missed her brother.

The walk down the sidewalk to Steve Harrington's BMW waiting for her at the curb feels very much like a walk of shame.

Maria’s card burning a hole in her pocket, Max tries to focus on the crunch of ice melt under her boots, the wind whipping the branches of the bare ginkgo trees at the edge of their property, anything at all that might take her mind off the lump in her throat.

When she yanks the door open, she knows it’s a little too hard for an expensive car that isn’t hers, but she slumps down into the passenger seat anyways.

Steve makes a face, she assumes because he’s going to call her on not going for the backseat when they’re supposed to be picking up Dustin too, but then he just keeps staring at her.

Max scowls, “Are you going to take me to the party or what?”

He clears his throat and looks away. “Yeah I just, uh, wanted to ask, you know, if-if you were okay.”

“What do you think?” She spits.

Even though she’s pretty sure he wasn’t asking about the abuse, only curious as to how she’s coping with her brother's death rather than how she’s holding up against Neil’s temper, she tugs her sleeve down anyways, just in case he saw the bruises.

Of course Steve catches it, his eyes flickering down to the denim cuffs pulled over her hands and softening to show something like pity, before he says, “Sorry, I wasn’t-“

But Max doesn’t want his pity, so she shuts him down, clear exhaustion in her tear-thick voice, “Please, just drive.”

Most people would be happy to know there was someone in their corner, but the longer she’s alone in that house, the more others' empathy has come to make her feel smothered.

Because a thousand empty “sorry”s and condolences without feeling wouldn’t change a thing, wouldn’t make the bruises and the man who put them there go away or bring her brother back, they only piled up expectations on her to get better for their sake, so they didn’t have to watch her be all depressing anymore.

For that reason, it felt sort of insulting to her to have others showering her in pointless pity.

“Right, yeah, of course.” He says, but his gaze lingers again on Max’s face for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing in thought as he turns away to start the car.

She rolls her eyes and leans back in her seat, hoping to show him that now is just really not the time for a therapy session from her babysitter.

Max’s subconscious must have disagreed, or maybe the concern on Steve’s face just seemed genuine enough that she buys it, because she feels the tears coming again.

It’s something that feels so incredibly shameful, to turn her head and stare out the window so Steve Harrington can’t see her crying, to even be crying again for what felt like the hundredth time today, but she just can’t stop herself.

She tries to cheer herself up by remembering that she is currently on her way to her friend's house, and that she would soon be celebrating and having fun with the people who care about her, because Christmas is not supposed to feel like this.

But knowing that when all of it was over, Billy won’t be the one there to pick her up in his Camaro, and that she’ll be dropped off back at a home where she isn’t safe, and where they’ll pretend her brother never even existed, the joy of the holiday is drained away entirely.

Her shoulders shake as she stifles her sobs, and there’s no hiding the few sniffles and gasps she can’t hold back. It’s humiliating, especially because she can feel Steve glancing over at her every now and again.

Were she not sure that the moment she opens her mouth she’s going to start ugly sobbing and betray her barely there dignity, she would’ve told him to mind his own. Instead, she just keeps her mouth shut and stares out the window, hoping he’ll leave her alone.

They’re a few minutes away from Dustin’s house when Steve sighs and suddenly makes a dead stop, pulling over against the curb. She looks over at him, and notices his eyes shining in a way that was probably not because of the heater being turned up too high.

“What are you doing?”

He lets his hands drop from the wheel, and turns in his seat to look at Max. “Do you even want to go to this party?”

She doesn’t really know how exactly she’s supposed to answer that. There isn’t time to explain the nuanced version, the internal debate she’s holding between friends or family, invasions of her privacy or a slap to the face, so she settles on, “I don’t know.”

“Then let’s ditch. My friends and I used to go down to Benny’s on Christmas for the pie, we should go.” Steve says, his voice wavering, just a little.

The implication of skipping out on the party to go out with a boy her brothers age, alone, mind you, when he’d already been accused once of being sweet on her, (the assumption was baseless and came from a panicking and very confused Billy, but still) is enough to make Max’s heart drop into her stomach with dread.

There must be a look on her face to match that feeling in her chest, because he specifies, “I promise it’s not weird or anything I just- you shouldn't have to be around all that right now.”

But she’s on the defensive now, and she crosses her arms and says, in her meanest tone of voice she can muster, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you and I both know they’re going to be nosy.” Judging from the concentration on his face, he knows he has to earn her trust back, and calculates his next words very carefully. “Wouldn’t want them asking any questions about your arm.”

In a way, that only does the opposite by making him seem suspicious, but her interest is piqued. He knows something, and he wants to talk about it without drawing the attention of everyone that’ll be at the Wheeler’s. That doesn’t automatically equal him being a creep, right?

Not when she’s got so much that she doesn’t want them to know either.

Turning it over in her head, she makes the decision that she's got enough that she doesn’t have to bolt, but she’ll still be wary. She's well aware that she has a problem with being too trusting, for years she’d thought Neil wasn’t that bad of a person, but she’s pretty sure Steve’s a little more open about his baggage, and her judge of character isn’t that bad once she gets familiar with somebody.

So she agrees in her own way, looking over to Steve and asking him, “What about Dustin?”

“He’ll be fine, dude. He’s like, super tough.” Steve mocks Mikes tone from when Mike had said the same thing earlier, having overheard through his own walkie that he always left on in case of emergency and putting lots of effort into his stupid teenage boy impression.

For the first time that morning she feels something other than the sting of despair, a small bubble of laughter from her throat and a smile finding its way onto her face as she mumbles, “Whatever.”

Read also on ao3!

#Max Mayfield #Billy Hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #ej writer #story by EJ! #quick reminder that ao3 is a chapter ahead #so at some point today (probably a little later) chapter 5 will be posted there #thank you all for your support! #this has over 200 hits on ao3 and I know that’s not a lot but my heart is soaring I love you all!!!