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hankwritten · 3 years

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Disapprobation

Demoman/Soldier, 3k Warnings: Mild Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia

n. Moral disapproval; condemnation. Tavish’s life has a lot of shouldn’ts

Tavish’s life has a lot of shouldn’ts

For instance, he really shouldn’t be risking life and limb to meet up and have drinks with some barmy American he met at a projectile weapons convention. He shouldn’t be breaching contract over a bloke who’s got so many screws loose he could open up a hardware store, shouldn’t be sneaking around when the best case scenario is a few good laughs and the worst case scenario is losing a multi-million dollar salary.

He shouldn’t keep his lunch in the same place he keeps his potassium chloride. He shouldn’t drink so much, but he’s heard that one so many times anyway it’s hard to pay attention to. The voice of self-preservation is constant and buzzing, putting a churning in his gut, reminding him that he could be making friends with folks who aren’t a walking death sentence. He shouldn’t be going out for ribs. He shouldn’t be accepting invites to Las Vegas for the furlough.

He definitely shouldn’t be pressed into the mattress, another man’s tongue in his mouth.

The hotel bed creaks as Jane kisses him harder, and he thinks, oh god he wishes he could just not think. Their bodies are hot pressed against each other, their fancy jackets gone for the evening as they’re down to their undershirts as insubstantial barriers between skin on skin. Jane is heavy on top of him, and he shouldn’t like how that feels, to be held down while he and his best friend suck the air out of each other’s lungs. Jane has each of his wrists pinned to the sheets, and he shouldn’t like that either, how Jane’s taken control, how Tavish is slowly letting himself come undone.

There’s this plop at the loss of suction as Jane lifts his lips off Tavish’s and onto the Demoman’s neck, whisper-hissing, begging, praying, “Tav, Tavish. Oh god Tav.”

It’s slippery where time is now and where it was minutes ago before he was like this, before he was craving Jane's everything. It happened because they were laughing or maybe fighting or maybe…no they just tripped. They tripped and Jane landed on Tavish, and it wasn’t different at first. It just knocked the wind out of him. It wasn’t until Jane was chuckling and trying to push himself up that they had stopped, that they’d locked eyes and Jane’s smile had slowly fallen away, a mask lifted to something underneath. It was hunger, small and fiery at first when Jane’s eyes openly raked Tavish’s body, not disguising the fact as they took in his state of undress since—unlike Jane—Tavish had been successful at getting out of his dress pants. The hunger had grown hotter, burned brighter, a bonfire as someone kept shoveling more on, and Tavish drank in being looked at like a dying man in the desert. He’d never been desired like that, not in his entire life, and when Jane finished his tour of Tavish’s body he couldn’t suppress the hitch in his breath when their eyes finally met again.

He’d swallowed when Jane leaned closer. He’d closed his eye as Jane had pressed that first, tentative kiss against him.

Now his back arches, shoving his stomach up into the human canopy above him. His nipples are hard and he didn’t know they were so damn sensitive until they scrape against the solid plane of Jane’s chest and he whimpers. He shouldn’t be doing that either. He’s a damn mercenary, a Demoman, and he shouldn’t...

“God Tavish,” Jane’s muttering in his mouth in-between rough kisses. “I fucking. I love you. Want you so damn bad.”

And Jane must be a fucking mind reader because those words are a switch in Tavish’s brain. He can’t censor the moan that comes out of him, no matter how weak, how pathetic he sounds as his hips jerk upwards. Jane is moving his arms, and it takes him a second to notice that Jane is taking time to pin down both his hands with one of his own, and his free one now slides down until it can toy with the edge of Tavish’s undershirt.

“Jane…”

It’s the only thing he’s said in ages. He shouldn’t be saying anything at all, let alone confessing what’s coursing through his system, revealing how I want you isn’t quite right but I want you to want me is just so damn conceited. So the only thing he can do is breathe Jane’s name in a plea.

The roaming hand snakes up under his tank, the pretense of attire gone as the too-cold fingers press against unbearably hot flesh. Jane further displays his mind reading powers tweaking Tavish’s nipple with his thumb, clawing out another gurgle from the Demoman.

It’s so dangerously similar now, edging so close to fear, the shouldn’ts piling in his head as his breath increases. He tries to lift his arms and can’t. He tries clear his mind and can’t. He tries to make his voice behave where his body will not, as Jane’s knee begins to move up-

“Jane,” he yelps, only this time he says it in panic as his eye snaps open and he jerks upward. “Shit Jane- shit we need to stop. We’ll- shit.”

Jane freezes. The constriction around Tavish’s wrists lessons, and then disappears entirely and Jane rears back onto his haunches. Tavish wriggles until he’s against the headboard, panting heavily.

“Holy shit,” he coughs.

“You alright Tav?” Jane is looking sideways at him, but not in the way Tavish is expecting. The expression on his face is inscrutable.

“No. No! Of course not, we almost just-” The ghost of Jane’s body is on him, the memory of seconds ago where his hand was so close to Tavish’s waistband. He tries to shake it away. “If I hadn’t said something just now, we would have both crossed some damn lines.”

“Uh. Yeah. Probably.”

Tavish looks up and is bludgeoned upside the head with understanding. He realizes why Jane’s expression is so damn weird: he’s not ashamed. He’s not ashamed in the slightest.

“Jane,” Tavish says cautiously. “You know why we can’t do this, right?”

This when they’re still half-undressed on the bed together, breathless and sweating and the only thing keeping them back is Tavish’s self control. No one else’s. He’s alone at the wheel and Jane’s only refraining out of personal respect, not any sense of how screwed they are.

Jane squints at him. Thinking hard, peering deep into the soul he sometimes claims a RED can’t have, (and at the next drunken moment declaring that if it existed, it would be the purest, bravest soul in the damn world.) “Because you are…no longer in the mood?”

“Because we’re in enough trouble as it is!” Tavish throws up his hands. “Do you know how bloody condemned we are? Already RED and BLU can catch wind of us at any moment, I can’t go into half the places you can in this blasted country, and we want to add shagging each other in our Vegas hotel room to that bloody list?”

Jane’s forehead wrinkles, his features that Tavish has only ever seen go soft in the past few minutes now toughening up again. “Were you not…wanting that?”

“Fuck, Jane of course I wanted it,” the admission falls out too quickly. Too late to grab back and saying it aloud is its own line crossed. Having already failed to keep it packed down, he tries to at least get to his point. “I just shouldn’t.”

Jane stares at him blankly.

“Right. Of course.” Tavish presses the heel of his palm against his forehead. “Look at who I’m talking to here. Man who’s never suppressed an impulsive urge in his life.”

“It is not an impulse Tav.” Jane almost sounds…offended. Or something like it, as though he's irritated he has to make such an obvious correction. “It’s not an impulse if I’ve thought about doing it nearly every day since I’ve met you.”

That desire, that hunger Tavish had seen. He knows Jane has looked at him before, can now recognize it for what it was, those eyes flickering at him sometimes with the smolder beneath. It feels unwarranted. He feels undeserving, that Jane has been fancying him for months, and he diverts, “if that’s what you want, there’s a lot better sheep in the field.”

Jane narrows his eyes. “Gross.”

“Ach it’s an expression-” Tavish huffs. “Look, if men are to your tastes, you can find a hookup that’s a lot less dangerous. You don’t have to lower your standards just because I’m…around.”

“My tastes?” Jane scoffs. “What do you know about my tastes, DeGroot? Every time we go to the pier, you get me the wrong flavor of ice cream—even when I tell you exactly what kind to get.”

“I told you lad, they were out of ro-”

“My tastes,” Jane carries on, “are rocky road and handsome Scotsmen. So you can take that to the bank and sign it.” Jane crosses his arms.

A new, cool feeling runs down Tavish’s spine, the freezer-burn of fluster. “Jane,” he groans, running his hands over his scalp, craning his neck backwards until Jane finally falls out of his vision. “You’re not making this any easier.”

“I don’t understand why it’s can’t be easy. I love you. You, uh…” Jane trails off. “Like me. I think.”

Not since they stopped groping each other has Tavish wanted to touch him this bad, to assure him that he wants what Jane had given him, wants his hands, his mouth, to feel him again-

Tavish lets out a strangled cough, hard minutes of trying to cool off down the drain. Jane notices his state, the dilatation in his eye, and that only adds to his embarrassment. “Ach, please Jane. It’s not that simple. I just need you to listen, just a few minutes.”

“Fine. I will listen. But then you have to listen while I tell you what I think.”

Tavish allows it. He starts, “doing...” He waves his hand, disturbing the humid air between their still cooling bodies. “This, would be risky. More dangerous than anything we’ve ever done.”

“Un. Like. Ly,” Jane scoffs. “We’ve been sneaking around for ages by this point, and we’re damn good at it. Face it maggot, you didn’t want retreat with your tail between your legs until sloppy makeouts came into the picture.”

Tavish folds his arms. “I was thinking about it before then too. That we should break it off.”

“Ah bub bub bub!” Jane points out gleefully.

“It’s ‘bup bup bup’.”

“Quiet. You thought about it, but you didn’t actually do anything. So what is it Tavish? What’s the difference between then and now?”

An awkward silence hangs between them.

“…C’mon lad, don’t make me say it.” Tavish tries to look away, but he can still feel the solar rays of Jane’s glare socking him in the jaw. “Ach, it’s- what we got here isn’t right Jane. It’s not a natural thing for a pair of mates to do.”

“Ha! Natural?” Jane laughs. “I don’t buy that ‘natural’ crap from hippies and I certainly don’t buy it from you. I do not care about how natural the devil’s lettuce is! I do not care how much natural they cram into those granola bars, or how much fiber will help my bowel movements! Natural is for suckers.”

Tavish stares at him, long and hard, and finally, finally something small and brittle inside him crumbles away just enough that he’s hit with a weak chuckle. “You know, sometimes I don’t know how crazy you really are, and how much is just insight disguised as malarkey.”

“Good,” Jane smirks. “Keep it that way.”

“But still we need to-” Tavish rubbed his eye. “We need to think about this. It feels like I’m the only one here who’s trying to keep us both from getting killed.”

“Why?”

“Well someone has to, and it certainly isn’t going to be you.”

“Why?” Jane is angry now. “Why does one of us have to be holding the goddamn reigns? I didn’t ask you for ribs because I thought you would keep me back, I asked you for ribs because you broke that cop’s back and it was the most glorious display of patriotic strength I have ever seen!”

“Patriotism for where, exactly?” Tavish asks tiredly.

“You damn know well where. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

So Tavish doesn’t deign him with anything, just sits there massaging his head. He knows his rationality is eroding. That Jane is sitting here chipping away with his donkey’s indifference, his stupid, (literally) hardheaded attitude that Tavish can’t just turn away from.

“So,” Jane says. “I listened. Now you listen.”

“I barely got a word in edgewise,” Tavish complains.

“And they were all bad words. Now,” Jane sits crosslegged, stripped in the half-light coming in from the window, painting him radiant. “It’s clear you have some hangups about your latent bisexuality.”

Tavish puts all the power of a two-eyed stare out the focus of his singular optic, hoping the pure concentration gets his disdain though.

Jane carries on. “It is nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Ach, it's just that...I shouldn’t have wanted…shouldn’t have even…”

“You and your damn shouldn’ts,” Jane frowns.

The frustration, the embarrassment, all the waves of different emotions Tavish has been put though are washed away in the new torrent of shame. “Ah fuck.”

“Tavish,” Jane says sternly as Tavish begins to clutch his head. “I have been dying to put you in a supportive yet comforting hug for the past twenty minutes. Permission to embrace you?”

Fuck he could use a hug right now. He could use Jane right now. He nods.

He leans in to the enveloping warmth as Jane holds him in a touch that is scored all different than before, yet the same strange intimacy he’s starting to suspect relates to what Jane said before that knee-shaking I want you so damn bad. That he didn't say that in the heat of the moment or because he feels sorry for the sad Cyclops that happens to be his friend, but because he genuinely wants this as much as Tavish does.

Oh god does Tavish want this.

“Tav, has that stupid voice in the back of your head telling you not to do things ever made you happy?” Jane asks the back wall over Tavish’s shoulder.

“Kept me safe,” Tavish sighs.

“That’s not what I asked, private,” Jane reiterates. “Has it made you happy? Has it ever actually helped you find the man you’re supposed to be?”

Tavish thinks long and hard, bringing his hands up run shaky fingers through Jane’s hair. “No,” he admits. “I don’t think it has. You?”

“Me? I crushed that voice years ago under the heel of my American-made double buckle combat boots. Like a goddamn ant.”

Tavish snorts. “Figures.”

They stay like that, holding each other, for a long time. They stay like that until the neon pizza sign across the street winks off, until the digital clocks on the matching nightstands read long past 4am.

“I don’t know what to do about this,” Tavish admits finally.

“Fair. Even if you did, I wouldn’t listen. You’ve changed your mind so many goddamn times tonight I’d tell you you’d have to sleep on it first before I believed you.”

“I have not,” Tavish laughs. “Just…there’s a lot. And I’m scared. I’m scared every day RED or BLU’ll find out and we’ll be…” He sighs. “I guess it wouldn’t matter at that point if we were friends or…anything else. We’d be dead either way.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Tavish leans back and finds it in him to grin at this stupid, crazy, reckless man that is certainly going to get them both killed. No, no he’s not going to think like that anymore. They’re in this together, and they’d share the blame just as much as they shared each other.

He squeezes both hands to the side of Jane’s face and says, “I love you too, you crazy, crazy Soldier.”

It’s worth it to see the light flare up in Jane’s eyes, the dopey grin that springs to his face. “Well, then that makes you just as crazy as me.”

“Aye, I suppose it does.” He presses his forehead to Jane’s. “We’re already doing a spicy shimmy on what’s taboo and what isn’t. I suppose we shouldn’t give a damn what’s considered crazy.”

Jane’s face is so beautiful, the only shame being how long shouldn’t has kept that realization at bay. But Tavish quashes it, watching as a new question forms in Jane’s brow.

“I know I told you to sleep on it but,” Jane bites his lip. “Can I stay here? While you do that.”

Tavish likes Jane's warmth against him. He likes him here, where their atoms are pressing out against each other in the closest the universe can approximate as touch.

“Aye. Come here.”

They lay down on Tavish’s bed, and Jane rolls around until he’s nestled in Tavish’s arms. As their breathing slows, in sync then out of sync then back again, Jane says, “even if you weren’t freaking out, it’s a good thing you stopped us when you did. We don’t exactly have any condoms.”

Tavish’s jaw locks, and he quickly scoots his pelvis back a few inches. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he snarls into the nape flush with his nose.

“Maybe. I’m craaaaazy, remember.”

Tavish hates him, and loves him more in that moment than he ever has. If this is the night where he’s cut everything off, where he’s chosen this Soldier over the world’s approval, then so be it. He makes a little mental image of an ant, and steps down.

#tf2 fanfiction #demosolly #boots n bombs

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myhaikyuuthings · 4 years

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Getting Married

a angst continuation from my ‘tonight.. breakup hcs’ post

also fluff for Oikawa, it’ll be broken up between the two

oikawa x reader fluff & past ushijima x reader angst

oikawa’s song for this: here im just gonna say if you listen to any of the songs, i recommend this one. it is my favorite love song and made specifically for a wedding. i’ve cried many times to the thought of someone loving me the way the singer loves his wife

ushijima’s song for this: here

reader’s song: here

Your heart thumps against your ribcage as you hold your bouquet tightly in your hands. You’re nervous, but in the best way. He is everything you have ever wanted, and you feel so lucky to have him. In just minutes, he will be yours forever. You make your way to the aisle, a small smile on your face. The music starts up and you take your first step from behind the curtain.

Oikawa turns to you, his face lighting up as he watches you walk towards him. He wipes at the tear rolling down his cheek, his smile brighter than the ceremony lights. You smile, holding back tears of your own. As you reach the altar, he takes your hand in his.

“You look beautiful,” he sighs happily, not bothering to stop the tears from falling. “I’m so lucky to be marrying you.”

The officiant clears his throat, breaking up your moment with a small smile. “Shall we begin?”

You try to listen as the officiant speaks, really you do but he looks too beautiful in front of you. You’re trapped in this blissful haze where Tooru is the only thing you see, feel, hear. The only thing that matters to you at this moment. The way his eyes are filled with so much love you feel undeserving for just a moment. How his hands hold yours tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll run away at the last moment. How absolutely breathtaking he looks in his suit, the happiness you can feel radiating off of him. You can tell from how he’s looking at you, that he feels the same.

“Y/N?” he calls, snapping you from your trance with worry flashing in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry I was distracted, what?” you stammer, blushing furiously as everyone laughs.

“I said, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the officiant chuckles, a knowing smile on his face.

“Oh, yes I do, of course I do,” you answer quickly, not missing the sigh of relief that falls from the man before you.

“And do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the officiant turns to Oikawa, barely managing to get the words out before he answers.

“A million I do’s wouldn’t be enough to express how deeply I do,” he rushes, his hands shaking in yours.

“Well, I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride.”

You lost yourself in the feeling of his lips, your husbands lips. You had waited for this day for what felt like your entire life, and now that it’s here you couldn’t help the tears that fell from your eyes. The two of you pulled back, resting your foreheads together.

“I belong to you,” he whispers, bringing your hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss beside your wedding ring.

“And I belong to you,” you whisper back, feeling the happiest you ever have.

The reception is a whirl wind of congratulatory hugs and pictures with everyone. You find your eyes moving to him often, the two of you being separated for conversations here and there. Every time you look to him, his eyes are already on you. All too quickly, the two of you are swept onto the dance floor for your first dance.

I refuse to grow older unless it's with you

You rest your head on his shoulder, swaying softly to the music.

I fell in love and made you a promise though I'd never noticed how much it meant to you

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tight around you. You smile against him, your heart feeling calm for the first time all day. He spins the two of you in a circle, your giggles lighting his entire being on fire.

Yes they can see us but only at a glance only you know the man that I am beyond the surface i belong with you

His hands rest on your hips as the song comes to an end, guests filtering onto the floor around you.

“I love you Y/N Oikawa,” his voice soft as he smiles down at you.

“I love you too Tooru Oikawa,” you grin, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’m the luckiest person in the world.”

“Oh i beg to differ, that title belongs to me,” he teases, his eyes lit with mischief.

“Is our first fight as a married couple going to be who the luckier person is?” you ask, giggling at the look those around you are giving you.

“If we only ever fight over who is luckiest, then I’ll die a happy man,” he decides, pulling you in for another kiss.

You truly felt your happiest with him. It was amazing how much you could love someone in just three years. Many thought you two were rushing into things, but when you know you just know, and you knew Tooru was the one for you. From the moment he said your name, you knew and there was no going back from that.

He hadn’t been invited to your wedding, not that this surprised him. But Tendou had, which wasn’t exactly a surprise either. His best friend had been the one to help put you back together after he destroyed your heart and he was forever grateful for the red head. He knew Tendou would post something with you and Oikawa, so he tried to stay off line.

He went for a run to distract himself. He didn’t know you were getting married nearby, so when he ran past the venue and caught a glimpse of you through the window he nearly fell. You were in Oikawa’s arms, dancing and laughing together without a care in the world. He stood on the sidewalk, watching you two through the window as his heart shattered.

It had been almost four years since the two of you broke up, three since you had made it official with the other man. He knew he wasn’t over you, that he probably never would be. But seeing you again after so long hurt more than he was prepared for. You looked happy.

He took off once more, memories of the two of you playing in his head. The time you had laughed so hard you snorted after he let you attempt to put his hair in pigtails. The time you dragged him out for ice cream in the dead heat of summer, a child like innocence to your actions. It had been the very street you were now getting married on, that thought hitting him like a brick.

You two had sat on the curb across from that venue, discussing how one day you would marry him there. He had been so sure your dreams would come true, but he ruined it. He was young but he thought the two of you were it, and now you’re getting married to someone else.

He ran all the way home, his chest hollow. The thought of you in Oikawa’s hold was burned into his memory. The one thing he had been trying to avoid, it was funny in a very ironic way. It was as if the universe was reminding him, you were no longer his and you never would be again.

He opened up his phone, knowing your number had not changed.

“It’s all my favorite numbers! Why would I ever change it,” he remembered you saying once. Your phone number had the dates of everyone in your family, and you were too sentimental to ever change it.

Before he could process what he was doing, he was calling your number. It was late now, you had already left the venue. To his surprise, you answered.

“Y/N Oikawa, may I ask who this is?” your voice was as sweet as he remembered, and his heart dropped at the realization you had deleted his contact. “Hello? Tooru-chan do you recognize this number? They aren’t answering.”

He could hear the pout in your voice. He closed his eyes, knowing you were probably expecting a congratulations from someone, and instead he had called. He threw all sanity from the window, figuring he had nothing to lose.

“Uh Y/N it’s Wakatoshi,” he cleared his throat, waiting patiently for your response.

“Oh Ushijima, how are you?” Oikawa’s voice came through the phone. You probably had him on speaker phone.

“I’m doing good, I just wanted to wish you two a happy marriage,” he lied, feeling the pieces of his heart being shattered into pieces no one could fix.

“Thank you, I’m glad you’re doing well. We’re about to board the plane, but truly thank you,” he nearly cried at the sound of your voice. You sounded like you genuinely meant your words. How had you moved on so much that you could be happy for him being well?

“Y/N may I ask you something, just us for a moment?” he asked, knowing this would be the last time he talked to you.

“It’s okay, I’ll wait by the boarding gate okay?” he heard your husband, he nearly threw up at the realization, say and then the obvious sound of lips against skin.

“What is it?” you asked, your voice as gentle as the first time you spoke to him.

“Do you ever think of me?” he rushed, wincing at the sharp inhale from your end. “Do you ever dream we were meant to be? If i could have, I would have asked for one last dance. One last chance. If i knew you were getting married across from our old spot, I would have-”

“Ushijima,” you whispered, but he continued.

“I would have came in, and begged for you back. I would have, i messed up losing you.”

“Wakatoshi that’s enough,” your voice caught and he froze. “I am married, happily married. It’s been years. I don’t think of you anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t, we were not meant for each other,” you sighed. “As much as I tried to convince myself of that when we were together, it’s not true. I’m happier with Tooru than I have ever been, there is no one better for me than him. And that includes you. I’m sorry but please don’t call me again.”

You hung up before he could respond. He stared down at the phone in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he broke down. He had truly lost you forever.

#oikawa tooru #oikawa torū #oikawa x reader #oikawa #ushijima wakatoshi #ushijima #ushijima x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu!! imagines #haikyuu reactions #haikyuu!! reactions #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu!! headcanons

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merryfortune · 3 years

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Leech

Un-Love You Challenge: 06. I want to need you

Ship: Daruizen/Nodoka

Fandom: Healin’ Good PreCure

Word Count: 2.7k

Synopsis: There's a pity in wanting and in needing, pity that Nodoka obliges when Daruizen, in the form of a Nanobyougen, asks for a little more than just refuge.

A faint tap, tap, tap on her widow competed with the scratch, scratch, scratch of Nodoka’s pencil in her work booklet as she completed a bout of English homework and study. At first, she had thought it her imagination but there was something pitiful, like a baby bird, about this noise so she decided, sliding her chair back, the sound of the feet dragging on the wooden floorboards was musical, it was time to investigate and so, she did.

She stood by her far side window: it was huge and she always felt caught up in some awe of the wind and sunshine and in that glint, she saw it. Small and tiny and yes, something incredibly pitiful and Nodoka’s heart ached. Not for a baby bird, although that was almost accurate as she thought of what was fought for by the lakeside that an arborist cherished, but for something else.

“Daruizen…? Is that you?” Nodoka murmured as she caught this tiny little thing in her hands upon opening the window.

He looked up at her. His body was small and bulbous save for his wiry, leathery wings but admittedly, he didn’t look like much. Not compared to the final iteration of his self that Nodoka had seen and had vanquished as Cure Grace. Oh, she remembered him as being as colossal as a skyscraper and as being so resistant to how she and her friends could fight him because of all the Mega Parts that he had inserted into himself.

He had gone from being a giant among villains to being able to fit in the palm of Nodoka’s hand. He resembled Shindoine in this form: round and winged, not much by the way of being humanlike or anything else like that but apparently, he was still capable of emotions, of speech.

He looked up at her with a wounded expression, teardrops in the corners of his acidic yellow eyes, “Help me, please, Cure Grace.”

Nodoka grimaced. She sighed and she still felt the sunshine on her face. She still felt that what her past deeds unto Daruizen were right and justified. Rabirin’s words as a confidante and source of direction rang true to her right now and in her ear and yet, her heart ached for the misery that she held in her hands.

Daruizen turned shy in her hands. His wings cramped and crowded him as he hung what little of his head that he could, in shame. Nodoka moved a hand and Daruizen shuddered. She was gentle as she pet the top of his head with her fingertip, considering what she ought to do.

She had wanted to help him but that past tense to her desire was quickly becoming present tense. Without Rabirin, or even Asumi, to defer to on short notice for counsel, it was up to Nodoka to make her own decisions and she knew in her heart that she was a good, kind person and she wanted to extend the help that she had received from friends, family, and medical professionals to even the undeserving like Daruizen. She sighed.

“I’ve hopefully built up enough immunity to you, after everything that’s happened.” Nodoka murmured but her brows pinched forward. “However, if you do anything untoward then there will be consequences.” She said that even when she stroked the top of his head.

Daruizen cuddled up to her. As though he were making a promise to behave but Nodoka was sceptical of him. Even if he looked all adorable and pathetic in this form. She sighed. Disappointed in herself that she was even letting him melt her heart like this. She just knew if Rabirin were here, she would disapprove but as she was not, all that mattered was Daruizen’s approval and already, Nodoka could feel him leech life energy from herself through her finger. Like a pinprick.

He nattered pleasantly and already, Nodoka could see some difference in his Nano-Byougen form. His wings fluttered and he was eager for more but Nodoka bopped him on the head.

“No.” she scolded him. “You’re only allowed a little bit per day. I - I’m still really scared of when you went berserk with the Mega Parts… I don’t want that happening again.” The strength her voice quavered when she revealed her fear.

Daruizen’s eyes glimmered. They neither softened or hardened; showed sympathy nor harshness; showed only that he had heard Nodoka and he had listened to her, too. And so, with a tender uneasiness, Nodoka allowed Daruizen into her life once more.

She returned to her desk to study and Daruizen stayed nearby, as though chained or leashed to her presence. He was mostly unnoticeable but Nodoka felt distinctly irritated to have him around. Even as she tried to do her homework, their previous encounters played hard and fast and sharp in her head. It was difficult to believe that such a powerful foe and combatant, one who had so closely rivalled her in every step of the way on her journey of being a Pretty Cure could be rendered so lowly and microscopic. That he even remained at all.

Yet despite this friction between them, Nodoka found it did get easier. Though there had been many a moment wherein she had been tempted to keep him all locked up in a jar, she didn’t. Every couple of hours in the daylight, she gave him a little bit of herself to have a nibble on. That, too, got easier as well.

At first, it felt a pinprick and then, Nodoka didn’t notice it at all. What was once a chore to her, soon became something that she looked forward to or even enjoyed. Of course, “soon” spanned many days, even a month or so. It wasn’t something that happened swiftly like a river, more like the slow erosion that one would have caused by surging through a valley.

Daruizen’s gratitude became cute to her. The way his face lit up when the energy he absorbed was particularly rich with good vibrations and energising magic; the way his wings scrunched up when Nodoka had had a crummy day and it was reflecting in the residual magic that he fed off her. Either way, these little in between moments were becoming increasingly precious to Nodoka.

Even if they didn’t speak much - as in having grand conversations - it was still apparent that he was only doing this for himself. He wanted what he had lost back and honestly, Nodoka couldn’t blame him for that. She wanted her own magic as Cure Grace back pretty badly as well. Not that her health was failing or otherwise declining since giving up the rod, but it wasn’t exactly superhuman. Nodoka had gotten less paper cuts, less bumps and scratches having her alter ego Cure Grace around, she observed. She could even run a little bit farther on her running route as well, she had had to shorten it as well now that it had been several months since she had last felt the power of being a Pretty Cure course through her.

So yeah, she could understand why Daruizen wanted to be a big, mean Terabyougen again. She just hoped that when it was all done and dusted, he wasn’t going to be that big or that mean. He was pretty manageable, and even downright adorable, being this small and useless.

As peculiar as their relationship was - calling them host and parasite was probably the most accurate way to describe the nuances of their relationship, she thinks - Nodoka had gotten used to him. She was even going to miss him when he had gotten his powers back and decided to vanish. Doing whatever it was that armyless Terabyougens do, Nodoka supposed.

She had even let him sleep with him as of late. Again, really. Just like old times in a stretch of the imagination. After all, they had been literally inseparable for several years in Nodoka’s childhood and preadolescence. Even if they were mostly oblivious to each other, but he did make a good little bed bug. He didn’t bite.

Daruizen would brood on her pillow, just by her face and together, they would sleep. Sometimes, Daruizen would rest against her face and Nodoka would enjoy just how velvety he felt, even if it was a velvet streaked with grease or oil and she would wake up with some sort of smear to wipe off his morning and he enjoyed her warmth. The warmth that humans emanated was gentle, it was uncubatory and safe, completely unlike the unrelenting and horrible warmth of the magmic, undermined world of the Byougens.

Even so, their routine was very touch and go. The cat might have been out of the bag regarding the Pretty Cures and her parents knowing about all of that was well past gone but it was a completely different feline to worry about if they were to find out that one of those monsters was still around. And even worse, living under their roof with their precious daughter but somewhere in amongst those daily cycles of giving Daruizen the table scraps of her energy, she had forgotten that one day, it might be entirely possible that her parents, or her friends, might find out about him.

Daruizen had latched onto her fingers as per usual to have a feed of her energy whilst she flipped through the book she was meant to be reading for literature class when there was a bright light. Daruizen had eaten his fill and so, he reverted to his previous form, more evolved than his present.

Nodoka was blinded as Daruizen transformed in front of her. She stumbled back off her chair and even fell onto the floor as she looked up at the unfolding cataclysm of white and red and black. From the kitchen below, she could hear her parents call and fuss for her but she could hardly find her voice as she bore witness to the rebirth of the Byougens General Daruizen. Her heart hammered in her chest and all she could do was tremble as her room was filled with these blinding lights.

Yet it wasn’t because he was her enemy that she was horrified. Nodoka was horrified, she was actually wondering if that’s what it was like to transform into Cure Grace in front of others and just before that wondering could transform into a reverie, she was accosted by Daruizen. She heard the dull thumps of his feet landing on the floor, then she heard the sound of knees dropping on the wooden floorboards and was completely blindsided as she felt arms surge out from the light and embrace her. They were tight, either side of her and she was brought down to her knees by it.

Daruizen was hugging her. He emanated this spiky gratitude yet despite how offensive it was, it felt fragile too. Fit to break if Nodoka did so much as breathe. She was just barraged with this clingy affection as he hugged her, buried his face into her shoulder and there was a sob. It was awful, somewhere between swallowed and completely cried out.

Nodoka’s hands twitched and unthinkingly, despite that fragility that bawled, Nodoka hugged him back. When that light faded, he was human. Or maybe just human enough, Nodoka realised as he cradled him. His horns were smaller than before: tiny, little nubs of velvet. His face had a pinker colouration to it than before, when he had been of such a mossy pallor. Even his clothes weren’t quite so sharp, they were softer, rounder, and even more floral by the embroidery. The red which was once like dried blood was now an earthier brown.

This was a Daruizen who was not quite human but not quite a devil either. A new type of Terabyougen, perhaps? Nodoka didn’t know but she could see where her help had patched him up. He was healthier than before, so to speak. She let go of a flurry of anxiety that Daruizen might be on the cusp of attacking her, backstabbing the kindness that she had shown him but no. She didn’t think it was going to be like that.

“A-Are you okay?” Nodoka asked, stuttering with a tinge of surprise. “Are you scared?”

Daruizen growled.

Nodoka shuddered. It was a harsh, rasping noise from the bottom of his throat and it spooked her.

“Yes…” Daruizen finally admitted after that moment of broken repose.

“You poor thing… It was scary for the first time for me, too. Not knowing what was happening to my body, the surge of new energy and magic…” Nodoka consoled him.

“That’s not it.” Daruizen sharply intoned.

His raised voice scared Nodoka again. Her body freezing as she felt the fangs of his voice in her skin but again, when it was all over, and Daruizen could find it within himself to behave, she relaxed and it felt like she was shaking off a dousing of ice-cold water.

“I’m scared of leaving you.” Daruizen murmured and every word was so difficult for him to say but he said it. And he said some more, pressing on. “I’m scared of losing you.”

Nodoka blinked, “What do you mean…?” she asked.

Daruizen pulled back and Nodoka was harrowed by his facial expression. He was mid-bawl, tears and all. He held onto the mid of her shoulders before his clawed hands slipped downwards, along her willowy limbs and all to timidly hold her hands.

“I - I want to need you.” he sobbed.

“Pardon?” It still did not compute with Nodoka.

“I-I want your light.” Daruizen didn’t know how else to explain it. “I want your love.” Every breath he took was painful as he revealed all his icky feelings to her. “You are my beginning and my end and I - and I’m scared of not having you. Of being cast aside by you or torn away from you. There is nothing left in this world for me but I stayed. I survived. A-All because I wanted to return to you. I - I want to be healed and - and now that I am. I don’t want to be because it might mean losing to you again.”

Nodoka was shaken to hear such passionate words from Daruizen. The begging and the confessing. It was so utterly selfish but it was so utterly him as well, desperately clinging to what he had as it no longer came so easy or so simple to him. Nodoka sighed. Her expression softened and she reached out to Daruizen. She pet the top of his head and his hair was soft as silk. Slowly, Daruizen began to calm down. He swallowed a hard lump in his throat and he sank into Nodoka’s lap. He cuddled up to her, trying to make himself small again, just like a Nanobyougen, bringing up his legs to his chest as he held onto her.

“There, there,” she murmured, “I understand now.”

Daruizen turned his head slightly so he could see Nodoka, even if it was through the strands of his fringe. He was shy, trying to hide his outburst and ugly emotions. It didn’t suit him, he thought, with his tail literally between his legs. But it also suited him, or at the very least Nodoka, to be soothed. To have his head stroked and be told everything was alright.

“I’ve always wanted to see the best in you and as forces of nature - the good and bad, the sick and the healthy - we’re always going to be in tandem so I want there to be balance too. Some way to meet in the middle, so Daruizen… I want you to need me too. I like being the heroine after all.” Nodoka replied.

“I’m glad.” Daruizen’s voice was faint as he replied, he closed his eyes as Nodoka kept consoling him, with her voice, with her hand, with all of her heart and soul.

#unlove you challenge #darunodo #healin good precure #precure #healin good #hanadera nodoka #cure grace #daruizen #writing tag

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quicksilversquared · 3 years

Text

The Wavering Peahen: Chapter 6

When Nathalie started feeling oddly ill again, both she and Gabriel were worried that the Peacock Miraculous might somehow (impossibly) be to blame again.

So naturally, they pick someone else to be the Peacock for a bit. You know, as a test subject. Except the new Peacock… doesn’t exactly know that.

links in the reblog

Marinette was starting to think that Hawkmoth had officially gone around the bend.

For months after the Miracle Queen attack, Hawkmoth and Mayura had hammered at the superheroes, both of them plus the regular akuma and a sentimonster showing up to the battles. The superheroes had struggled to adapt, sacrificing their free time and fun activities to find and train new allies to help them as needed and doubling up on Miraculous almost as often as not to have access to more powers. They had been managing- sometimes only by the skin of their teeth- but it was taking a lot of effort.

And then, all of a sudden, Mayura vanished, and Pavona took her place next to Hawkmoth.

The change by itself would have been odd enough even if Pavona was an equally good fighter as Mayura. But Pavona was a poor fighter and even worse strategist. Her sentimonsters were easier to fight than Mayura's, and her outfit- while fancy- was a piece of cake to grab onto, either to yank her backward (or sideways) out of an attack or to fling her several blocks away, away from the fight and out of their hair for several minutes while the supervillain picked herself back up and straightened her outfit out.

(The Ladyblog had had an absolute field day with how ridiculous and ill-suited for fighting Pavona's outfit was. Marinette had worried that it would make Pavona reconsider her transformation and choose something more practical, but either the supervillain was unaware of the Ladyblog or was just so generally inept that she wasn't willing to sacrifice fashion for practicality.)

In most cases, Marinette would have assumed that Pavona had stolen the Miraculous from Mayura, and that was the reason for the change. But it was obvious that Pavona wouldn't have been able to overpower Mayura to start with, and Hawkmoth had clearly been anticipating the change. Right now, her assumption was that something had happened to Mayura- maybe she had died in an accident or something, she didn't know- and Pavona was Hawkmoth's only choice for an ally.

To be honest, Marinette was of the opinion that Hawkmoth would have been better off fighting on his own. Pavona only seemed to get in the way, and then she had to be saved before the superheroes could grab for her Miraculous. Pavona hadn't come out on the battlefield again after one particularly idiotic blunder, but considering that Mayura hadn't returned and the Peacock's sentimonsters were still showing up, it was more than likely that Pavona was just sulking in a lair somewhere for a bit before trying battlefield fighting again.

And now, after weeks- no, months- of Hawkmoth going after the superheroes with increased ferocity, the attacks had suddenly stopped. There had been nothing for the past four days.

Not that Marinette was complaining! Being able to attend school without having to dash out was really nice. It was just odd, that was all.

"Oh, Lila's looking like she might be finally getting better! I'm glad, she was looking so ill at the end of last week!"

Marinette blinked, pulling herself out of her thoughts and glancing over at Alya. "Hm?"

Alya nodded towards the front of the classroom, where Lila was straggling across the front of the classroom. "Lila caught a cold or something last week and she was so exhausted. She couldn't rest very well, since she's been pushing herself to get all of this work for her charities done before this deadline and there's been, like, so many emergencies that she's had to deal with all in a row. We've all been trying to help out so she won't get behind, but she's really been struggling. So I'm glad that she's feeling at least a little better now!"

For once, it was easy not to sigh in exasperation. Instead, Marinette frowned, glancing towards Lila as she headed for the back of the classroom.

The charities were a lie, of course. They always had been and always would be. Lila was too selfish and self-centered to even think about spending her time and money helping others. But the lie definitely got Lila a lot of (undeserved) admiration and offers for help. Mysteriously, Lila could never use the help with the charity directly- Marinette hadn't bothered to hear her excuses for that- but she could use the help when it came to things like homework. Normally, Marinette would assume that Lila had just wanted her classmates to offer to do all of her homework because she felt a little under the weather.

This time, though, Marinette had noticed that Lila seemed a bit under the weather, and it hadn't seemed faked. In fact, it had been pretty obvious once she looked a little closer that Lila had applied makeup to hide how bad she was feeling. And that was strange.

Sure, Lila seemed to have made a little bit of a recovery, but Marinette couldn't help but feel a bit curious about the whole situation. Downplaying her troubles wasn't Lila's style at all, and Marinette had to wonder what was going on. Because something had to be going on, unless Lila had gotten a personality transplant overnight.

(Considering that she was still lying about her charity work, Marinette doubted that.)

"I wonder if there's something going around," Adrien commented quietly to Marinette as Alya and Nino broke off into their own little conversation. "Nathalie was sick a couple weeks ago, and I've never seen her so drained. She's been getting better, but she still gets these little relapses sometimes." He glanced towards the back of the classroom, his brow furrowed. "Maybe Lila picked it up at one of the photoshoots or something."

"I hope it doesn't spread, then," Marinette said. She chanced a glance back at Lila, who was clearly half-heartedly engaging in conversation with a few of their classmates. "Being tired and miserable for over a week sounds miserable."

Miserable, and not very safe. Marinette had had to be Ladybug when she had a bit of a cold more than one time, with a stuffed nose and a sore throat, and that had been bad enough. It hadn't affected her fighting that much, she thought, but combine that with how being tired during late night and early-morning fights affected her...

"She probably shouldn't have been coming to school," Adrien added after a moment. "It's a bit odd that most of the time she's so eager to skip, but the one time when she actually has a legitimate excuse to stay home, she doesn't."

Marinette nodded, glancing backwards again. "Yeah, I was thinking the same thing."

The lack of akumas continued for the rest of the week, and Marinette got to get caught up with- well, everything- for the first time in ages. She worried that Hawkmoth was planning something, of course, but there wasn't really much that she and Chat Noir could do about it besides patrolling every evening in search of trouble.

Well, patrolling and going over what little information they had about the Miraculous powers and potions, comparing notes about what Master Fu had taught them. Thankfully she had gotten copies of pretty much all of Master Fu's translations before he was caught, but she hadn't had the chance to go through all of them and truly figure out the extent of the information at her fingertips. She and Chat Noir had been finding hidden crannies- ones where they wouldn't get spotted and where they couldn't be overheard or snuck up on- and going over the notes, puzzling over cryptic clues and tossing ideas for interpretations back and forth. Maybe it was a nice change of pace from battling akumas (and it was definitely something that they had to do anyway), but it was also difficult and frustrating and slow-going. Things had to be interpreted and then sorted into some semblance of order so that they would be able to find the notes again when they needed them.

So by the time Saturday rolled around, marking a full week without the barest whisper of an akuma, Marinette was more than happy to set her schoolwork and the Miraculous notes aside (the latter locked up in a box that was both secure and hidden), bake a batch of cookies, and package them up with some rejected pastries from the bakery to bring to their class picnic at the park. It sounded like a great opportunity to relax and focus on something else for a change.

Their classmates trickled in, coming in pairs and trios, laden with food. Thankfully it looked like people had brought dishes instead of just treats this time, so they would have a proper meal instead of just sugar, sugar, and more sugar. It was a far cry from their first class picnic, where almost all of them ended up feeling a bit ill from the number of sweets that they had eaten.

Rose, bless her, had even brought salad. She had put in a fair amount of work, clearly, tossing in more veggies and croutons and bringing a container of homemade dressing to make it more interesting.

Everyone milled around, talking and relaxing in the warm sun. Marinette wandered between her classmates, chatting with pretty much everyone before gradually circling back around to hang with Alya, Nino, and Adrien again. Maybe she got to hang out with them most often, just by virtue of where they sat in class, but they were also her best friends. They could talk for forever about nothing in particular, and it was nice to have that.

Ten minutes after the bulk of their class had arrived, Lila finally showed up. And in typical Lila fashion, of course she had to make her entrance loud.

"Oh my god, you guys, you'll never guess what my mom did for me! It was so sweet of her!"

"Oh, what now?" Marinette grumbled as people started to flock towards Lila as though they were being drawn by a magnet. "Can't we go one day without her making up some ridiculous story to tell?"

"I'll go listen in," Adrien volunteered, placing one hand on her shoulder. "Just to see what she's up to. If you want to, uh..."

"I'll go organize things on the picnic table so that I don't have to listen to her," Marinette offered, picking up what he was going to say. It was obvious to anyone with eyes (and critical thinking skills) that listening to Lila blather on made Marinette's blood pressure rocket up. "And then, uh, do some cloud-watching?"

Adrien snorted. "Honestly, that sounds way more appealing than listening to Lila. Anything is, really, but..." He glanced towards the growing group around Lila. "I'd rather not have to hear about what Lila was saying and showing off secondhand, not when everyone believes everything she says."

Before Marinette could agree, Adrien had darted off, lingering on the edges of the group. He blended in pretty naturally, clearly going for a 'just-here-because-Nino-is' look and succeeding fairly well. Before anyone could notice that she wasn't joining the rest of the group, Marinette wandered off to rearrange the table and make it not quite so chaotic. Since Lila seemed to be settling in for a long story-telling session, Marinette took her sweet time in surveying everything that people had brought (Lila, she couldn't help but notice, had opted not to contribute) and figuring out the best way to arrange them. Shapes of containers had to be taken into consideration, of course, and then similar things- the salads, the chips- could be put together.

It made the table much neater and meant that nothing was in danger of falling off anymore.

Lila was still going strong with her stories, so Marinette turned her attention skyward for all of a minute (cloud-watching, it turned out, was not particularly interesting for an extended period of time) and then down to her phone. Finally, finally, Lila stopped talking and everyone broke up into their little friend groups. Marinette headed over to Adrien's side at once, something that was made much easier by the fact that Alya and Nino were still talking to Lila.

"So what's the latest nonsense?"

Adrien startled for a moment, then relaxed once he realized that it was Marinette next to him. "Oh, gosh. I don't know how, but Lila's come up with pictures to go along with her stories. She has selfies with Jagged Stone, Clara Nightingale, Prince Ali, Ladybug..."

"She- what?" For once, Marinette was caught completely off guard. "She has photos? But none of those stories are true!"

"My guess is Photoshop. That, or she wanted to go low-tech, posters and life-sized print-outs." Adrien made a face, glancing around as he did to make sure that they weren't being overheard. "I don't know why she went all-in like that all of a sudden. Like, it didn't seem as though people were believing her any less than they were when she first showed up."

"Maybe she just wanted to head off that possibility before anyone caught on." Which was annoying, really. Marinette had just been about ready to try for another round of pointing out inconsistencies in Lila's stories to Alya, abet a more subtle round, and now that Lila had "evidence" to back up her claims...

Well, that made things a lot more difficult. She would have to abandon subtlety altogether and do something much more direct, like calling up Jagged Stone and having him come in or somehow approaching Lila as Ladybug when Alya was nearby and calling her out for the Photoshop.

She really should have just nipped the entire problem in the bud when Lila first showed up and gone to Alya's apartment to ask about the video of her "best friend" on the same day that it was posted, but it was a little too late to do that now.

"It makes me wonder if she's setting up to do something bigger," Adrien murmured, keeping his voice low. Maybe none of their classmates were lingering close by, but they didn't want to be overheard. "Then she would want to have a solid base. If she validates all of her previous lies, then she can tell a bigger one and not run as big of a risk of people doubting her."

Marinette nodded. Yeah, she was afraid of that, too. She also wouldn't be surprised if Lila decided to make up something about her to get rid of the dissenting voice for once and for all. If she tried, though, Marinette was ready.

There was a lock on her school bag, and another on her locker. Tikki had been told to keep an eye out and to destroy anything that Lila tried to plant. Marinette had even bought a recorder, in case she ever found herself alone with Lila and no witnesses again.

Of course, Lila might very well decide to take the approach of making Marinette look like the bad guy by bringing attention to the fact that she didn't believe any of Lila's stories, and then try to alienate her friends that way. Marinette wouldn't let that happen- she'd just use her connections to discredit Lila if it got that bad- but it wouldn't be particularly pleasant, either.

"Maybe she wants to skip again and the teachers are starting to doubt her," Marinette suggested, keeping her voice just as quiet as Adrien's. "So she's going more indirect this time by showing off her pictures to classmates but not the teacher- except no, it would make more sense than to show the photos off at school. Then she wouldn't have to depend on the teachers overhearing classmates just happening to mention the photos."

"True. Which suggests that whatever she's planning, it's more important that our classmates all believe her." Adrien sighed. "I miss the days before Lila showed up. I didn't feel like I had to keep an ear open to what was going on and what was being talked about all the time."

Marinette nodded. Yeah, things had been a lot more simple before Lila returned. Maybe she still had to deal with Chloe's nonsense, but at least Chloe hadn't been trying to frame her for things, just make her life difficult in typical bully fashion.

"I guess we'll find out what she's up to soon enough," Marinette said with a sigh. She wasn't looking forward to it. "I almost wish I could see the photos without Lila there. I bet there's something off about them that I'd be able to point out, but she's hardly going to hand over her phone and let me pick them apart."

Adrien perked up. "Oh! Lila sent her Ladybug photos to Alya to post on the Ladyblog. Maybe it's not all of the photos, but you could at least look over those ones."

Marinette grinned. That was a start, at least. Of course, she would have to be really careful when bringing up any problems with the photos because otherwise she wouldn't even get her friends to actually look at the issue before they jumped down her throat about how she was being so mean doubting poor Lila, but maybe she could pose any concerns as a question or something.

"Hey, Marinette, come check this out!"

"I'll wait here and if Nino and Alya got anything more out of Lila once they finish chatting with her," Adrien said when Marinette hesitated to respond, not fully willing to give up their discussion so early. He nudged her towards Max. "There'll be plenty of time to try to figure out what Lila's up to later."

Marinette nodded, stepping away from Adrien and heading across the grass towards Max. He was grinning, looking eager about something.

"I would love some feedback on some of my proposed designs for the akuma villains that I'll be rolling out as part of my upcoming game update," Max told Marinette as she drew closer. He pulled a folder out of his bag and opened it, pulling out a sheath of papers. "Both the villain costume design and the powers, really. I want to make them a bit less, ah, one-dimensional, I suppose. Less predictable. I had some ideas, but would definitely be open to any improvements before I code them all in."

Marinette perked up. Oh, that sounded interesting, and something that sounded loads more interesting than discussing Lila and her nonsense. "Sure! How many akumas are you thinking of adding?"

"I thought ten to fifteen in the next release, then maybe do regular releases after that on a more regular basis with five or so akumas per release, just to keep things fresh." Max adjusted his glasses, angling the paper stack so that Marinette could see the top design. "Of course, how long I can do that for depends on Hawkmoth making new akumas and not simply recycling powers over and over, but at the moment I have quite a list of supervillains that I could use."

"That sounds like a lot of work, but very cool," Marinette told him, accepting the top paper. She scanned the design, grinning when she noticed how well Max had done at getting the details right. "This is so cool! Was it hard getting all of the details?"

"Nathaniel assisted with the character modeling," Max told her, shuffling around so he could stand next to her and see the page as well. "Which really helped bring the characters to life."

"It's really fantastic!" Marinette glanced through the next few papers, impressed. It was a real step up from Max's original character designs, which had been detailed enough for people to be able to identify the characters but nowhere near this quality. He had focused less on the design and more on the coding for the actual play. "Have the old characters gotten the same design upgrade?"

"Yes, that was what the last update was. I wanted to make sure that everything was perfect and there wouldn't be any mismatch between the old characters and the new ones." Max shuffled a step closer. "So, what do you think about this character?"

Ten minutes of character review later, Marinette left Max scribbling down notes in the margins of his character pages and headed back across the park to where her friends were hanging out. Halfway there, she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of Lila's voice, loud and pointed and annoying.

"You missed out on seeing my pictures earlier," Lila said loudly, smugness coming across loud and clear in her voice. "Which is a pity, really. There were some really nice ones that my mom recovered off of my old phone. If you wanted, I could still show you a couple."

Marinette snorted at that. As if. "So you've taken up Photoshop as a hobby, I take it?" she asked, thoroughly unimpressed. "And I think I'll pass on looking at the photos. If I wanted to see something that wasn't real, I'd go watch an action hero movie. That would at least be enjoyable."

"You're just so certain that they're doctored," Lila sniffed, still insufferably smug. "Do you know how jealous that makes you sound? It's not a very attractive look on you at all."

Marinette had to roll her eyes at that. Jealous? Why on earth would she be jealous of Lila? "Puh-leeze. There was a photo of me and Jagged Stone on the cover of Metal Lord not even a year ago, and I've got actual selfies of me and Clara Nightingale on my phone from when she was doing her music video. I don't need Photoshop. Some of us actually have the connections that you pretend to have. If anyone is jealous, it's you."

With that, she turned on her heel and left before Lila could say anything else, continuing her journey towards Alya and Nino and Adrien. Alya was busily tapping away on her phone, clearly in Ladyblog article mode.

She would probably have the photos and whatever article she was writing up done by the evening and posted with the photos, and then Marinette could look at them. With any luck, there would be something obvious wrong with them, and maybe- maybe she could post under an anonymous name and bring up the fact that the photos were clearly faked then?

"Max sure looks serious about something," Adrien commented as Marinette returned, settling down on the grass between him and Alya. "I don't know anyone else who would bring a file folder to a picnic- well, anyone else our age, at least."

"He's gearing up to start work on a new release for his video game," Marinette told him. She was really excited to see it, actually. Hopefully she would actually have the time to play. "Or, well, he's started work, but he wanted to get some input on how to make it better. He has twenty new akumas lined up to create, and they all look fantastic!"

Adrien perked up. "Oh, cool! I saw that the graphics took a huge leap forward with the last release, which was really nice. Before, it was very, ah..." He tipped his head to one side, considering. "Very early-game-y? But now the graphics match the coding, which is nice. I know there was a huge spike in interest once that upgrade came through."

"As there should be!" There had been several akuma-and-superhero-themed games that had come out since she and Chat Noir hit the scene, but in Marinette's (completely unbiased) opinion, Max's was one of the best. "We were talking about the powers that the akumas get and how he's working on making them a little more realistic and less predictable. Thankfully he doesn't have to puzzle it out through trial and error for each akuma. Or, well, at least he really only had to do a bunch of puzzling for the first one, and then each one after that only needs a few small tweaks here and there."

"I can't wait for that to come out. Did Max say when he's expecting to have that ready to roll out?"

Marinette shook her head. She had asked too, but Max had said that there were way too many variables to promise anything yet. "I think he's still early on enough in the process that it's impossible to predict. Everything could go really smoothly..."

"...or the code could tie itself into knots and take weeks to find the issue," Adrien finished. "Ah, I suppose I could be patient."

"I wonder if Max would be interested in giving out some preview pictures before everything is ready to go," Nino chimed in. "I know Alya's mentioned his game on the Ladyblog before, but it never hurts to drum up some more interest. Right, babe?"

He got a vague grunt in response.

"Babe?"

"I think she's a bit focused at the moment," Adrien said with a laugh when Alya didn't respond again. "We'll bug her later. I think Max's game is a pretty cool thing to put on the Ladyblog."

"Though not as cool as Lila!" Nino exclaimed. "I mean, I guess her friendship with Ladybug is old news now, but Ladybug doesn't pose with civilians that often, not unless there's an event or something. And the pictures- Marinette, you missed that! Lila's mom got a specialist to recover a bunch of her photos from off of her old phone that got destroyed, and she was showing everyone. It was cool to get to see the inside of Prince Ali's palace! Like, there weren't a ton of pictures of the inside, just what we could see in the background of her photos with him, but still!"

"Hm," Marinette said, completely noncommittal. "Pity. I had to make sure that none of the food was going to fall off of the picnic table. It kind of looked like Kim might have arranged it last- there was a really precarious pile of stuff. One pan was hanging halfway off of the table and the only reason why it hadn't fallen yet was because something else was piled on top of the portion that was actually on the table."

Adrien laughed. "That sounds like Kim. And yet there was plenty of space on the table, it seems? Nothing is about to fall off now."

"Yeah, it was just that dishes were piled every which way and there were a lot of oddly-shaped gaps between..." Marinette trailed off, squinting across the park. Lila was headed towards Rose and Max and Juleka, but something seemed... off. She didn't seem entirely steady on her feet for a moment, half-stumbling before catching herself and continuing.

Huh. Was Lila still sick? She had seemed mostly fine at school on Friday, and for most of the rest of the week, too. Marinette would have guessed that Lila was just trying to get attention again, except that stumble was...muted. Almost like Lila was trying to hide it.

...maybe she just didn't want to take attention away from her faked photos? The attention from that was sure to be better than any attention that she could get from being sick, even if Lila had clearly enjoyed the attention that she had gotten during her- what? One, two, maybe three weeks of being sick?

That... that was a long time to be sick.

Marinette kept watching Lila as she sat down, almost immediately joining in the conversation. She seemed fine now, but Marinette was positive that she hadn't imagined that stumble.

"-lots of tasty dishes," Nino was saying, though Marinette had largely tuned him out. "A lot of things that I want to try. The pastries you brought look great- and did you see the quiches that Juleka brought? I heard she made them herself!"

He didn't get a response. Marinette was too busy watching Lila.

She had the feeling that something was off, and she didn't want to let her guard down until she figured out what.

Hawkmoth had been quiet lately. Lila had gotten photos that were either photoshopped or had been made in some other way. Maybe it was a stretch to say that the two were related, but there was a niggling feeling in Marinette's gut that there was some sort of connection.

Marinette had long since learned that her gut was usually not a great thing to ignore. If she sensed that something was wrong, she needed to investigate. Just sitting back and waiting for things to resolve themselves or for problems to show up wasn't enough, not anymore.

"You guys? The quiches?"

Marinette startled, pulling her gaze away from Lila and back towards Nino. Right. Investigating was important, but so was not being obvious about it. If Lila caught her staring, or one of her other classmates did, then Lila would no doubt go out of her way to be even more sneaky about whatever it was that she was up to.

That was fine. Marinette could hold a conversation and watch Lila unobtrusively at the same time. So she did. And what she noticed...

Well, Lila was definitely still sick. She had looked positively green as she picked up food from the table (following what might have been either an attempt to make people feel like they had to rush to assure her that she could take all the food she wanted or a stab at getting out of eating that backfired spectacularly- Marinette suspected that it was meant to be the latter) and not entirely steady on her feet as she headed back to the bench that she had been sitting on. She hadn't eaten until one of the other girls commented on it, instead just pushing her food around her plate, and, if Marinette's eyes were serving her correctly, Lila seemed to occasionally be swaying in place. Which... wasn't normal.

If it weren't for the faked photos, Marinette would say that Lila was just ill and wasn't up to- well, wasn't up to being up to something. But clearly she had had enough energy to put in the work to create the photos.

Unless- well, there was a possibility that Lila had been working on those photos gradually, over the course of several weeks, and just finished them recently. Several weeks of Photoshop work logically made more sense than a day or two, unless Hawkmoth was involved. Somehow.

...it wasn't a completely illogical thought, right? She was pretty sure that Lila had worked willingly with Hawkmoth before. She had been Akumatized and looked just like normal, at least for a bit. So it wasn't impossible.

...but then how did the cold fit in? And why on earth would Hawkmoth bother giving someone photoshopping powers?

Across the way, Lila swayed in her seat again. She was looking rather pale now, and Marinette wondered why she hadn't just gone home. It would have been easy enough for Lila to claim that she had just gotten an email requesting an urgent Skype meeting about pollution or something and then she could have left.

"Just like Mom and Nathalie," Adrien murmured, pulling her out of her thoughts. "That's so strange."

"Hmm?" Marinette blinked over at him, puzzled. "Who is?"

"Lila." Adrien tipped his head towards Lila, who was pushing herself to her feet to follow Rose. "I think I might have mentioned it once before. Nathalie was really ill just like Lila. She was all tired and ill and dizzy for the longest time before she started getting better, and then there were sometimes off days where she seemed just as sick as she had been before. Mom was like that too before she vanished. And I've never heard of a cold before that acted like that."

"Me either." Not that there weren't illnesses that behaved that way. They just weren't colds. Not an average, run-of-the-mill cold, anyway. "Nathalie got better though, right? So if Lila caught whatever she had- oh my god!"

Across the park, Lila had stumbled and then simply collapsed, hitting the ground hard enough- and in an awkward enough position- that it was pretty obvious that it was 100% not at all faked.

"LILA!" Rose shrieked, dashing back to her side. "Oh my god, can you hear me? Are you okay? What- what do we do?"

"Rose, take a deep breath," Marinette called, already shoving herself to her feet. She had gotten first aid training several months prior, just in case she ever needed it as Ladybug, and- well, she was pretty positive that she was the only one in the class with the training, which meant that she needed to take charge. No matter how much she disliked Lila- or how suspicious she was that Lila was up to something- she had to do the right thing. "Juleka, help Rose roll Lila onto her back so that she isn't all crumpled up like that. Alya, call for an ambulance."

"On it!"

Marinette dashed over as Rose and Juleka got Lila into a more comfortable position on the ground. Lila's skin was white as a sheet against her hair, so far beyond pale that it was really concerning.

At least she was breathing. Marinette could tell as much as she skidded to a stop by Lila's side.

Rose was practically in tears. "Is she going to be okay?"

"She's breathing, so she should be fine." As long as she kept breathing, at least. Marinette quickly scanned through her memories of what she had learned in her first aid class. Lila had been acting ill before, so they didn't need to worry about environmental threats to them, too. That also pretty much ruled out choking, and the fact that Lila hadn't been coughing or clutching at her throat (or eating) before confirmed that. She had just passed out, so watching after her while they waited for an ambulance to arrive should be pretty easy.

Now, as far as things that they could do went...

"We want to encourage blood flow to the head, since Lila fainted," Marinette told everyone, keeping a close eye on the slow rise and fall of Lila's chest. "If someone could find something to prop Lila's feet up a bit, that should help. And then I'm just going to make sure that her clothes aren't too tight, because tight clothes restrict blood flow."

Several people darted off to grab their backpacks or bags to prop Lila's feet up. Marinette watched them go for a moment, then turned her attention back to Lila.

Right. What she was meant to do if Lila's clothes were tight, Marinette wasn't sure, but if she could figure out how to defeat an akuma with a traffic cone, she was pretty positive that she could puzzle out how to help Lila.

Methodically, Marinette worked over Lila's body, scanning for anything that might be in need of loosening, pausing briefly partway through to help Nino prop up Lila's feet slightly before going back to her scan. Nothing in particular was sticking out, except for maybe Lila's scarf. Even that was pretty loose, though, not something that would be cutting off any blood or air.

Maybe she should still be removing it? That would probably be a good idea.

"Marinette," Tikki hissed suddenly from Marinette's collar. "I'm sensing something really odd near Lila's neck. Can you take off her scarf? I just- I want to check something out."

Marinette nodded as subtly as she could, not wanting to attract any attention from her audience, then carefully removed Lila's scarf. There was something hard hidden in the folds, and a quick glance down at Tikki confirmed that whatever it was that she had sensed was on the scarf itself.

Had- had she been right? Was Lila actually akumatized and Tikki had detected the akumatized object? Maybe she had been akumatized all week, and that was why she had seemed better. Then the sickness had gotten too much and gotten through the boost that the akuma gave.

Which... well, that made Marinette wonder just how sick Lila was if it was able to force its way through the boost that an akumatization usually gave.

Also, speaking of which, she had to get away soon, then, and purify the akuma before it peeled itself out of whatever was in the scarf. But she couldn't just step away from Lila unnoticed, not when she was the only one of her classmates who was trained in first aid. She would have to wait until the professionals arrived- and even then, she would probably have to brief them on what she had seen and done, even if she had seen the same thing as most of her classmates and hadn't really done much in terms of care.

...maybe she would get lucky and the cursed butterfly would stay in the brooch or whatever it was in the scarf until after Lila was turned over into far more capable hands. It was a long shot, but not completely impossible.

Maybe. Hopefully.

"Here comes the ambulance!" Nathaniel called from the corner of the park. He rushed back towards them. "Clear a path, clear a path!"

The next few minutes were a blur as everyone scrambled out of the way of the path and grabbed up stray bags, making way for the paramedics. They surrounded Lila, taking her vitals and moving her onto a stretcher when she didn't respond. There were questions to answer about what they had seen and what they had done and then Lila was being wheeled away towards the ambulance. The class swarmed towards the curb, watching the ambulance pull away anxiously, but Marinette held back. With everyone else's attention off of her, she glanced down at the scarf in her hands. No corrupted butterflies had fluttered free yet, so Marinette carefully unfolded the scarf to see what was inside.

The folds fell away, tumbling to the side, and the pin inside was exposed. It glinted brightly in the sun, and Marinette gasped.

Because that was no akumatized brooch. That was the Peacock Miraculous.

#Miraculous Ladybug #My writing #The Wavering Peahen

34 notes · View notes

punkscowardschampions · 3 years

Text

Ruby & Cosmo

Ruby: Dying to know is every date colour coded? ❤️

Cosmo: Oh, God 😅 How unintentionally cringe

Cosmo: That sums up how well it went, sadly

Ruby: the quick reply had me thinking you were back early or answering in the middle of dinner

Cosmo: 🤫

Cosmo: I’d never!

Cosmo: It was a favour and I think that showed

Cosmo: She’s my cousin’s friend and just got dumped, sweet girl but perhaps not ready to be great company

Ruby: explains the 🌹

Cosmo: Not very personal or too basic?

Ruby: a nice try if it was your first date ever but I know it’s not

Cosmo: Thank God I didn’t get another bouquet 😏

Cosmo: They weren’t buy one get one free though, before you say

Ruby: they looked expensive

Ruby: she would’ve felt guilty throwing them back in your face

Cosmo: I told you I weren’t texting under the table, why would she need to?

Ruby: you told me why, they’re impersonal & basic

Ruby: & heartbreak makes you unhinged

Cosmo: I wouldn’t call her unhinged

Cosmo: at least not to her face, right

Ruby: 😅

Ruby: or your cousin’s

Ruby: Are you staying out in town or going home to change?

Cosmo: I don’t fancy showing up in the club in this

Cosmo: never mind hearing what my friends would have to say

Cosmo: What are you up to?

Ruby: the VIP area has seen worse, you don’t look like you raided the Gucci sale rail, eyes closed

Ruby: & your friends have worn worse, but I won’t say it to their faces

Ruby: I’m waiting for my own friends to be done making their own questionable outfit choices as usual

Cosmo: Careful, that was almost a compliment and not just a drag of the lads

Cosmo: not undeserved on their end but what did I do to make you decide to be nice to me?

Cosmo: besides entertain you with my dating woes whilst they redo their makeup, again

Ruby: You know how to dress, it’s a fact

Ruby: & I didn’t decide to be nice, it just happened

Cosmo: Not that you’re not usually nice in general

Cosmo: but here I am, feeling special, like 💖🤩

Cosmo: It’s also a fact, though not an impressive one, that I’m not lame enough to go in for that negging bullshit, so whatever I end up doing, calling you a bitch ain’t on the agenda

Ruby: there you were down in the dumps about your disaster date, I thought I’d try to help

Ruby: I wouldn’t, it only works for Mason when everyone’s too busy watching his feet move to care about his mouth & that’s not the audience you’ve got atm

Cosmo: I think I’ll survive

Cosmo: but I appreciate it

Cosmo: I’ve seen him get in trouble for his mouth plenty of times on the pitch

Cosmo: but referees aren’t ones to be sweet-talked so…

Ruby: your expensive roses are wasted on them 🥀

Cosmo: That is the real tragedy 💔

Cosmo: I reckon 🍷 could work on your dad though, whaddya think?

Ruby: aren’t we beyond bribes? I thought we were

Cosmo: You don’t have to go up for contract renewals

Cosmo: but I was joking, so don’t tell him he’s on a promise there

Ruby: oh yeah, it’s a joke you being worried you won’t get renewed

Ruby: he doesn’t shut up about you after a few 🍷’s with your dad

Cosmo: Sorry you’ve had to witness/hear that

Cosmo: can’t help my case

Ruby: it wouldn’t be realistic to entertain you or let you entertain me if he wasn’t on board

Cosmo: No?

Ruby: secrecy & sneaking around would be impossible unless we could both drop what we were doing at a moment’s notice, which we can’t

Cosmo: True

Cosmo: Neither of us has the time for that

Ruby: or the anonymity

Cosmo: You aren’t wrong

Ruby: 💖🤩 back at me?

Ruby: you’re being agreeable, above & beyond the Sunday roast standard you set when everyone was listening in

Cosmo: Agreeable from you I can take

Cosmo: I didn’t know any of you guys were going to be there, so if I wasn’t on top form

Cosmo: I’d love to have a second chance to do it better, of course

Cosmo: Somewhere more exciting than family dinner

Cosmo: and no impersonal and basic 🌹s

Ruby: I’d love to skip the club tonight, it stopped being exciting forever ago

Ruby: there’s your chance

Cosmo: Alright

Cosmo: I’ll make something happen and I’ll send you the place and the dress code

Ruby: pastel colours wash me out

Cosmo: What kind of place would be pastels only? 🤔

Ruby: [name drop somewhere boujee that you’ve been probably with your mum and godmother lol]

Ruby: you wasted the ❤️ on the wrong girl 💔

Cosmo: She wasn’t wearing red

Ruby: it was never going to work out

Cosmo: That might be for the best

Ruby: tbd

Ruby: but I’m not feeling like I’ll cry or talk about any of my exes so it’ll be better for you

Cosmo: And for you

Cosmo: not that you’re letting me be impressive with a bar that low but you know

Ruby: you’ll get over or under it if you want to

Cosmo: If I couldn’t rise to the occasion your dad definitely wouldn’t stand for it

Ruby: I won’t either

Cosmo: tbd

Cosmo: I heard

Ruby: another girl has beat me to denying you everything, I have no choice but to switch it up to keep things interesting

Cosmo: Has hard-to-get worked since the days of negging?

Cosmo: You’ve got all the choices, and no need to play any sort of game with me

Cosmo: Let’s have a good time

Ruby: it might have worked for people who want a different reputation than I do

Ruby: that’d wash me out too, the whole projection of intense cold bitch energy

Ruby: a good time is more doable

Cosmo: It wouldn’t get you very far, I understand

Cosmo: We all have to be some type of way to get to where we need to be

Ruby: yeah & talent has to be backed up with 😁✨

Cosmo: A winning personality, of course

Ruby: if I don’t have that both of my parents & coach are going to lose it, definitely

Cosmo: Well, you don’t need to worry about that, from my perspective

Ruby: from my POV neither of us will be worrying until the alarm wakes us early tomorrow & it’ll be too late to stress it by then

Ruby: the good time’ll have already happened

Cosmo: I’ll drink to that

Cosmo: [something that’s between the restaurant moment we just took Savannah to and the normal clubs they would go to, idk what that would look like, like a club that’s a bit sassier than the beyond standard ones footballers and WAGs would hang in]

Cosmo: but I won’t start without you, like

Ruby: not counting the 🍷 if the 🍝 soaked it up

Ruby: but what do you want me to wear? 🧡💛💚💙💜🖤🤍🤎

Cosmo: ❤️ off the table then

Ruby: the bar hasn’t fallen through the floor, I’m not okaying you wearing the outfit you chose for her & me dressing to match it

Cosmo: 😅 I’ve gone home but alright

Cosmo: I want to see what you come up with, actually

Cosmo: I’ll show you I’ve got better than the jumper, don’t worry

Ruby: I’ll do better than a roast with the fam, talk about a low bar

Cosmo: I think you’re probably incapable of looking bad

Ruby: try keeping me up all night & you’ll see

Cosmo: I won’t be the first or the last to show up to practice feeling less than 💯 … are all the other ice skaters perfect 😇s?

Ruby: I’m not giving any details of who isn’t, you’re a date down tonight as is, I’m not getting ditched for someone even more 😈

Cosmo: About how that looks

Cosmo: ‘cos I know

Cosmo: We aren’t going to post anything are we?

Cosmo: I’m not looking to add to the poor girl’s 💔 and I know it’s a dick move to not even wait ‘til tomorrow

Ruby: 📵

Ruby: getting into a fight with your cousin over me is even more Romeo & Juliet than sneaking around behind my dad’s back, we all know how it ended

Ruby: drama in the routine is fine but off the ice it’s not cute

Cosmo: Drama on the pitch depends how you feel about diving

Cosmo: but I appreciate that

Ruby: how I feel about diving depends how much my brother has got to me & I want to get him back for it

Cosmo: 🟥 or 🟨 depending on the day

Ruby: 🟥 usually

Cosmo: I feel that

Cosmo: about my own, usually, not necessarily yours but I can see the how and why there too

Ruby: yours made an impression, not at all good

Cosmo: That’s his speciality

Ruby: 😬 brothers bring the mood down when they’re ours

Cosmo: Neither of them’s invited

Ruby: it’ll make a change not to see mine out

Cosmo: That’s unlucky

Ruby: but you’re on to a winner with the location, congrats

Cosmo: I had a good feeling

Ruby: I’ve got one too

Cosmo: 💖🤩

Ruby: a compliment to last until I get there

Cosmo: tbd 👋

Ruby: ❤️

Cosmo: [so obviously this night is gonna go better than the awkward date, though that’s not hard soz Savannah, but also a step above the standard club moment of every weekend hence we stay out longer than we usually do when we’ve got an early start tomorrow]

Ruby: [and equally as obviously if you found enough to talk about when you were around all your annoying relatives for that roast I’m not worried about you struggling for a convo tonight, you’re both cute and have things in common and there’s clearly a vibe]

Cosmo: [I don’t think anything needs to happen tonight but it’s obvious you like each other ‘cos you could both be bothered to show and do this]

Ruby: [agreed it feels legit to who you both are and your priorities to wanna take things a bit slower than that, like it’s clearly unlike her already to do this when you were literally on a date earlier and staying out later than planned is also something neither of you do a lot so]

Cosmo: [yes, we’re not that kind of boy, not saying you’ve never slept with anyone obvs lmao but we’re not a different gal every weekend energy at all]

Ruby: [likewise neither calling this gal a nun or a slag but I doubt she's been out with that many people cos of a) her busy schedule and b) the lowkey famous dad and brother thing that would make some lads wanna try it on for that reason]

Cosmo: [exactly dr phil, you wanna skip to the AM of it all?]

Ruby: [absolutely boo]

Cosmo: 🟥 or 🟨 for keeping you out past your bedtime then?

Ruby: Are you willing to take credit or am I blaming a messy friend’s man troubles?

Cosmo: That depends

Cosmo: we would have to find a friend we’d mutually not mind throwing under the bus and I’m not sure if my brain is capable rn

Ruby: it wouldn’t be taxing to mine to think up someone believable, if you’re keen to show up to my door with 💐 & fool my dad that it’s the first move you’ve made

Ruby: for rep’s sake

Cosmo: The 💔 is all around

Cosmo: a hangover will have you feeling that way

Cosmo: are YOU keen for me to show up at your door with 💐s, that’s the real question here

Ruby: I’ll start getting hangovers when I’m old, it’s a scare tactic before, not a real thing

Ruby: impressing my dad doesn’t necessarily impress me

Cosmo: 😂

Cosmo: That’s alright, I already have impressed him, so it’s definitely not my intention here

Ruby: let’s hear what your intentions are

Cosmo: Now you’re bragging about how un-hungover you are

Cosmo: How about you let me set up a second date and we can talk about it then?

Ruby: a brag would have a selfie attached, I was reassuring you I’m not suffering mild alcohol poisoning like most of our friends

Ruby: a second date for when?

Cosmo: I’m pleased to hear it

Cosmo: it doesn’t make for a pretty sight

Cosmo: [pisstakey shot of some of the lads dying in the changing room or wherever like ew lol]

Cosmo: Send me your calendar and I’ll see?

Ruby: 😬 lovely [but send him something similar of the girls obvs and then your calendar of course, I’m cackling because what if the only time they can both do is tonight so that looks really extra when you’re both not]

Cosmo: They’d kill us for that 😏

Cosmo: [we so could, lmao okay]

Cosmo: Well, it looks like either we double down and go for tonight or we give it a rain check and see in a couple weeks 🤔

Ruby: tonight works for me but it’s you who’d be doing the work to think of somewhere else with wow factor

Cosmo: Undefeated with two wins sounds a lot better than one

Ruby: yeah & I don’t want to talk about weeks on the bench

Cosmo: Be a bit of a dirty tactic to put the blame on you for not going out with me tonight if I get benched but

Cosmo: If it works I’m not above it

Cosmo: So, what kind of place are you looking to avoid tonight?

Ruby: do we need to avoid anywhere or flash photography? your cousin & the girl they forced you to date can’t stay mad forever

Cosmo: No, we don’t have to

Ruby: 💖🤩

Cosmo: Understood

Cosmo: I’ll get back to you

Ruby: 🚫🍷🥃🍸🍹 can be tonight’s rule if you need a break

Cosmo: I don’t

Cosmo: I just needed to know what you want to do, and now I do and I’m thinking

Ruby: I know you don’t need it to have or be fun, me either hopefully

Cosmo: I think you’re fun

Cosmo: and it’s definitely tragic if you have to rely on something like that, that’s not me

Ruby: it’s nobody I know or would count as worth knowing

Cosmo: Totally

Cosmo: Okay, I’m going on the pitch, send you deets later

Ruby: don’t mess up or I’m going to cancel tonight & I don’t want to so that’ll be us both in bad moods 😘

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fanficflaneuse · 4 years

Text

One Day - Part 7

A/N: Dear magical tumblr friends, today I have not much to say but an expression of my gratitude for your comments, hearts and reblogs. I really wasn’t expecting many people to like what I write. So, it does come as a surprise, one that’s very pleasing and leaves a fuzzy feeling inside me :)

Details:

Draco x reader (she/her pronouns) Word count: 2165

Summary: One day AU. Post-war. Since The Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and y/n meet one day a year.

Masterlist

Enjoy!

3 May, 2005

(Y/N) and Draco stood in front of each other, unsure of what to say or do. The muffled sounds of the celebration inside only made their silence heavier. They were in the garden of Ginny and Harry’s new home. Their housewarming party was the first time they met in two years.

Ginny had given birth to their firstborn, James Sirius, in August. With the newest Potter in tow, they decided their little flat in London was not the right place to raise their growing family and moved to a house in Devon. It was closer to the Burrow and had a huge back yard for their mischievous nine-months-old boy. That Tuesday night, (Y/N) had knocked on the door expecting a very adult reunion with her closest friends. She was greeted by a full-blown party. The music was deafening and there was a thick smell of booze in the air.

She greeted her friends, unaware of the grey eyes fixed on her from across the room. Draco was determined not to let another day pass. Two years had gone by since he last saw her and even more since they had truly enjoyed each other’s company. He wanted her back.

“(Y/L/N) is truly like fine wine,” Draco’s gaze shifted to Blaise, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.

“How so?” he asked carefully, guessing he really didn’t want to know the answer to that.

“As years go by, she just gets better and better,” Blaise answered, a sly smile on his face.

Draco gulped. He couldn’t deny that every time he saw (Y/N) she seemed much more beautiful than before. Whenever he had the pleasure of rediscovering her, he’d find something new to…well, love. He hadn’t had that chance in the last two years, so the effect she had on him now, even across the room, was tenfold.

“I can’t believe she’s still single.” That was Draco’s cue to stand up. He didn’t want to listen to anyone talking about his best friend in such terms. Guided by a rush, he walked towards her, interrupting her conversation with Hermione and Neville.

At first, (Y/N) thought she was hallucinating. She looked at him from head to toe, admiring the cool and kind energy that emanated from him. He was a breath of fresh air, one she had been missing for almost five years now. Then, (Y/N) noticed how, standing silently as they were, they attracted people’s attention. Pansy and Hermione looked at them intrigued. Harry was offering them a kind smile. Ron and Ginny were most definitely scoffing. Her friends’ antics made her realize she was not imagining him; Draco was standing right in front of her.

She didn’t doubt for a second when he asked her to talk privately.

That’s how they had gotten there, standing solemnly on the veranda with tears in their eyes. After a few minutes of doubting, (Y/N) inched forward and hugged Draco’s middle, burying her face on his chest. Draco smiled, relieved, and hugged her back. He pressed kisses on the top of her head.

“I missed you so much, Dray,” she said.

“Me too, (Y/N/N). You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he answered, bringing her closer to his chest.

A friendship was reborn. They sat side by side on the porch, their backs to the house. They allowed themselves to be pulled towards each other, so their bodies were as pressed together as they could possibly be.

“Don’t you want to let off steam? I’m here, you can roast me, insult me, call me on my behaviour. Really, nothing can possibly be worse than what I’ve said to myself,” even if Draco tried to press a humorous tone in his voice, (Y/N) could feel the regret and shame.

“Dray…for the longest time I thought about barging into Malfoy Manor to give you a piece of my mind. I wanted to insult you. Circe! At times I even thought about hexing you to kingdom come. I am not going to lie, I was hurt,” as she said all of this, she noticed how Draco’s face dropped, “but I’ve forgiven you. I’m not going to pretend like things didn’t happen. But I also prefer not to dwell on them.”

Draco then told her he had been sober for almost two years. He explained that their meeting had been a wakeup call and he decided he didn’t want to be that prick ever again. He told her, excitedly, that he had started healer training and he felt he had finally found his true calling. (Y/N) genuinely rejoiced at this. Draco then described his chance encounter with Harry at a muggle tea shop. They rekindled their friendship almost immediately and met every Wednesday evening for afternoon tea. This fact made her giggle like a lunatic.

He also narrated, just for the pleasure of hearing her laugh again, how Ginny went ballistic when he first set foot on their house.

“Well, it wasn’t undeserved. You were a git,” she teased. Draco nodded, feeling a bit guilty.

“What I’m wondering is,” she added, her dashing smile leaving her face, “why didn’t you reach out to me, Dray.”

Draco squeeze (Y/N)’s hands. “Don’t think I didn’t try, (Y/N/N). I did. Many times, actually. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I know I hurt you for some very stupid reasons. I even asked Harry and Ginny – and Ron and Hermione and everyone else, basically – not to tell you about me because I wanted to contact you myself. And then I just couldn’t…I…”

“It’s okay, Dray,” she consoled him, like many times before, by putting her hands on his cheeks and making him face her. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, they gave each other that look of longing and lust that begs to be ended by a kiss. But before either of them leaned in, Draco reminded himself of the many, many reasons why it was not okay for them to kiss. I’m not that imbecile any more, he told himself.

“So, tell me about you. What have you been doing lately,” he said, ending abruptly their little moment.

(Y/N) blushed and fixed her gaze on the sky. She shared with him something nobody else knew: she was going to publish her first book. Draco was so happy for her – and for the fact that she had told him first – that he almost cried. She then explained how things were going spectacularly at her job. Once again, he hanged onto her every word as she poured so much passion into what she was saying. For some reason, (Y/N) mentioned her breakup with Ernie.

“I figured as much when he arrived holding hands with Cho,” he murmured. He didn’t say that MacMillan hadn’t even returned his greeting and had even glared at him from across the room.

As they spoke, he waited for the right time to tell her a not so little detail of his life, which was nagging at him. He convinced himself to wait another day to tell her, that they had just found each other, that it was better if they eased into their friendship first, when, all of a sudden, the door behind them opened with a bang.

“There you are, baby,” he heard a woman’s voice say.

Draco winced when he saw (Y/N)’s confused expression. She turned around to face the newcomer, a woman with auburn hair, delicate features and a very soft complexion. She was staring at them expectantly, her hands on her hips and her head a bit tilted. Draco stood up and the woman walked up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him, a soft kiss he responded so reluctantly it reminded (Y/N) of her time with Ernie.

Still, she was startled, baffled even. Draco put his arms around her waist and (Y/N) looked away, feeling like she was intruding.

Draco cleared his throat. “Tori, this is (Y/N),” he said awkwardly signaling between both women, “(Y/N/N), this is Astoria.”

The auburn-haired woman squealed and turned to (Y/N), enveloping her in a hug. “Drakey has told me so so so so much about you! I have a lot to thank you for. You’ve made my job easier,” she joked, hugging (Y/N) tighter, “I’m glad you’ve reconnected and I really hope we can also be friends. You sound like a beautiful person.”

The situation as a whole was asphyxiating, to say the least. But even as Astoria kept talking and violating her physical boundaries (and also despite the fact that she was clearly Draco’s something), (Y/N) couldn’t dislike her. She was...sweet. Draco gave her an apologetic smile. She smiled back, hoping it concealed the sadness and disappointment she felt. Draco noticed that there was something behind her gesture, but out of respect for his girlfriend he didn’t want to name it. Nor admit he was feeling something similar.

“Astoria,” (Y/N) said, trying to be as friendly and good-tempered as possible.

“Tori,” she corrected.

“Tori,” (Y/N) tried again, the nickname still foreign in her tongue, “It was a pleasure to meet you. I really need to get going now, though. I don’t know if Dray–co told you this, but I am a teacher at Hogwarts. Tomorrow is a school day and I need to apparate to the castle first thing in the morning.”

“How interesting! You didn’t mention that, love,” she reproached her boyfriend playfully, “It was a pleasure to meet you too, (Y/N).”

“(Y/N/N),” she corrected her as well. As cringe-y as she found strangers calling her by the nickname only her friends used, she felt like she needed to return the gesture.

“(Y/N/N),” Astoria agreed with a smile.

“It was great to see you again, Draco,” she said before heading back to the party.

(Y/N) said goodbye to all of her friends and picked her coat. She was trying to let go of any feeling of rejection or discouragement. She had her friend back and that alone was enough to make her happy, right? Of course, things were meant to change. That’s what she tried telling herself to avoid the heartache.

If she was completely honest with herself, (Y/N) had to admit she had been waiting for a day in which Draco came back and they could be together. As the years came and went, her hope diminished, but it was never completely gone. It was always there, in the back of her mind, even when she dated other people. Finding him here today, as good as it was, had been a reality check. As much as she felt her heart chattering a bit, she knew it was for the best. (Y/N) needed to move on.

She closed the door behind her, getting ready to apparate back to her apartment. All of a sudden, someone hugged her from behind. She tensed for a second until she recognized Draco. He felt her relax in his arms and then tense up again, which made him a bit sad.

“It’s always like this with us, isn’t it?” he said, trying to humour her.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“You’re always leaving and I’m always chasing you,” he answered.

(Y/N) thought that it was the other way around, but laughed anyways, knowing very well that Draco was trying to lighten the mood. He felt satisfied and kissed the top of her head again. Feeling her relax in his arms once again gave him the courage to face her. He didn’t know how to address this. How can you even begin to explain to the woman you’ve loved for such a long time that you’re in a relationship with another woman – who you’re also in love with – but you haven’t entirely moved on?

“(Y/N)-”

“Don’t (Y/N) me, Dray,” she said sternly.

“(Y/N/N), I’m sorry”

“Why would you be sorry, Dray?”

“I don’t know. Astoria…”

“Is your girlfriend,” she finished.

“Yes,” he answered, not knowing what else to say.

“Listen, Dray. Today I found one of my closest friends again. He was affectionate as ever. And he’s getting his life back on track, which an absolute relief. If I tell you a secret, he had turned into a bit of a git the last time I saw him. Seeing him like this has made me very happy. So, let me enjoy that,” she said, a kind smile on her face.

Feeling like the luckiest man alive, Draco engulfed her in another hug. Once again in his arms, (Y/N) remembered the words of wisdom he had said all those years ago in Mexico, how he preferred to be her soulmate destined to be best friend than a boyfriend of a couple of months. She realized that maybe that’s what their thing was all about. And even if it was going to take time for her to get used to it, (Y/N) felt content.

tags: @fandomscombine @okaydraco @naomi02hook @iliketoast23 @winnsmills @oldfashionedlovergirlsblog @happycomb @xtrashmouthxtozierx @hopplessdreamer

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davidmann95 · 3 years

Note

Comics this week (12/16/2020)?

Iron Man #4: Still good! Every issue I remain surprised that this is staying good, and yet it does!

The Immortal Hulk #41: A real good revisitation from a completely different angle of the ‘here’s why regular superheroes can’t fix what’s going on here’ thread from way back in #7, and god between this and Empyre Ewing writes such a perfect Ben Grimm.

King In Black: The Immortal Hulk: Surprised this didn’t end up a direct follow-up on the dangling thread left behind from the Absolute Carnage tie-in, but this was excellent so I’m not complaining.

Solid Blood #17: A new Robert Kirkman comic (joined by Ryan Ottley) announced right before its release like Die! Die! Die! before it, this one has the added gimmick of dropping its seventeenth issue with no preamble. The actual comic...well, the actual comic is basically 1963 for the 90s in the most fun way (it’s even printed on authentically fitting paper stock!), but the seeds of something much stranger are established and I have almost no clue what to expect next, quite literally. It must be nice to have that sort of fuck-you Walking Dead money, and I’m glad Kirkman’s choosing to do something as weird and interesting as this with it.

We Live #3: This one felt somewhat disjointed, but still an excellent experience.

Stillwater #4: I cannot believe I’m getting and enjoying so many horror comics on a regular basis now.

Once & Future #14: I keep saying I’m appreciating and decently enjoying this book while not connecting with it, but maybe it is winning me over.

We Only Find Them When They’re Dead #4: Get this book.

Decorum #6: I swear to god this series might be the prettiest comic of all time.

Commanders in Crisis #3: I didn’t review this one for AIPT, but this one’s a bit of a bridge between the first two issues tonally, both as grounded and as weird as the book has been thus far. I’m ready for it to return to something more bombastic, but I still have zero doubt this is going to be an all-timer when it wraps. No character interview with Ritesh Babu on AIPT this month, BUT in its place @deathchrist2000 has interviewed Prizefigher for Comic Book Herald on the subject of an in-universe James Bond novel written by Steven Moffat, and it rules.

Second Coming: Only Begotten Son #1: To borrow a line from @deathchrist2000, that sure is the death of Krypton as portrayed by the writer of The Flintstones. That’s the opposite of a complaint for me, but that’s sure what it is.

Superman #28: Kind of a perfect ending to Bendis’s tenure, in that it ends up totally whiffing some great ideas even if you can only mind so much given the quality of the character insight with the narration, but then there’s a Superman Moment so perfect it breaks your heart. Very glad Bendis will keep writing him in his half-announced Justice League with Marquez, and that he said today he’ll keep writing him elsewhere as well (I continue to assume he’s working on a Future State-era Jon as Superman book). Let’s see how well Action can put even more of a bow on it next week even with that art holding it back.

Batman #105: Does the ending here totally make sense? Ehhh. Am I willing to forgive any lapses in logic that get us way more Ghost-Maker? Hell yes. Speaking of which, he and Bruce totally used to be a thing off-panel, right? That’s the vibe I got from the opening in a BIG way.

Catwoman #28: I’ve been saying I’ve been loving it but also been waiting for what it looks like when it gets out from under Brubaker’s shadow, and I think I’m starting to see it, and it’s definitely my jam.

The Batman’s Grave #12: So someone either didn’t see or didn’t care that I explained I had already checked with my store to ensure my purchase of this wouldn’t result in any money going to Warren Ellis, so they messaged me spoilers for the ending of the issue in an attempt to ‘dissuade me’ from any further interest. A. Wherever the motives there are coming from, incredible dick move, for the love of god don’t do this. B. They misunderstood what happened in the ending? Wild. Anyway, it’s fine but also Ellis’s fourth-best Batman comic, strange if not at all undeserved that his now presumed/hopeful final Big Two comic, intended as a huge prestige Batman perennial (still confused why it wasn’t Black Label) and sure to forever be pushed as such if not for outside circumstances, ended up one of his passable third-tier works, destined to be remembered only as “that Batman comic DC had to finish publishing even after it turned out Warren Ellis was a piece of shit”.

Rorschach #3: Standard policy regarding my comments on this series applying: it was good.

Dark Nights: Death Metal #6: This one...kinda blew? Totally perfunctory moving-the-pieces into place issue for the most part, one or two nice moments aside. What a disappointing capstone to a story from 2017 to now I largely loved, hope it at least delivers a few haymakers with the finale.

Tales of the Dark Multiverse: Crisis on Infinite Earths: Mixed feelings. The beginning and ending are the sort of slaughter in mass of super-dopes without fanfare and on such a scale that it reminds me of World’s Funnest doing the exact same scenes for comedy, but that middle chunk? By god, Orlando makes me give a shit about the JSA, and that’s no mean feat, plus nice to see him write a few great Superman bits on his way out the door. Speaking of which, I’m mainly parsing this issue as an expression of Orlando’s bitterness over said exit and his time with DC as a comic about a big swaggering puffed-up dumbass living for destruction before whom our heroes our powerless, and a man has to sacrifice himself for a queer kid in servitude to it so that they can have a future and keep building that world. I liked it in balance, but I think I found it more interesting than good.

(Since I’m mentioning two Orlando books in here, worth noting I read this week his and Ricardo López Ortiz’s The Pull on Comixology. I’m not clear if it was released in single issues - I can’t quite wrap my head around TKO’s publishing model - but it’s basically an unholy mash between shonen manga, grungy noir crime comics, and a Crisis, and it rules and you should get it.)

The Green Lantern Season Two #10: What a strange, messy, fascinating capstone to Morrison’s DC work this series has turned out to be, and holy cow how has this been Liam Sharp lately? When did he get on this amazing Frazer Irving shit? And how is Ultrawar gonna happen and be resolved entirely within #12, unless it goes for a more abstract “The Ultrawar was really inside us all along!” conclusion?

#Week's Comics #Opinion

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negansdoll · 4 years

Text

Negan finds out you escaped the Sanctuary

Summary : Y/N left the Sanctuary, not accepting Negan’s behavior with some Saviors, and his relationships with his other wives. After have read the letter you left him, Negan did his best to find you, and when he finally did, he tried to convince you to come back.

( I’m French so I apologize for the mistakes ! :( )

You were one of Negan’s wives since a year when you escaped the Sanctuary. The first time you met Negan, this was because he saved you in the wood when you were trying to kill some walkers who were too many for you. You were only 18 when this happened. After that, Negan took you to the Sanctuary where he made his best to give you a “ beautiful life”. It didn’t take much time to fall in love with him despite all the terrible things he was doing to some saviors and some prisoners... But you couldn’t help loving him. He was the only man you ever loved in your life, you loved him so much that you have accepted to become one of his wives... but you hated to see him with other women. You were the youngest one and that’s way you were the only one he called his “ Babygirl”, also, he always told you that you were his favorite. You forgave him all the punishments he gave to his men but one day, after he literally threw a man into the fire, you just opened your eyes about him and you realized that the man you were in love with wasn’t as perfect as you thought all this time... Plus, it was too painful for you to see him with his other wives... All of this was already a good reason to leave, but what made you escape was the fact that he threw another guy into the fire for a stupid reason. This was just too much and too hard to accept, so you left and join Rick’s group in Alexandria.

Negan was in his office when Dwight knocked on the door. - Yeah ? asked Negan as Dwight entered. My Dwighty boy, he smirked. - Negan... started Dwight, clearly feeling uncomfortable. Have you seen Y/N lately ? - Not since a day... Why ? - Well... It seems like she has escaped. - What ? asked Negan, frowning. - I was just walking down the hallway when I saw the door of her room opened... And I also saw a letter on the bed, on which it was written “ Sorry”. - And so you read it ? asked Negan, arching a brow. - No I... Well just the beginning, I mean, I... - C’mon, said Negan.

Dwight took a deep breath before approaching him, and giving him the letter you wrote. - Now, get out. He looked at Dwight leaving his office before looking down at your letter on which he recognized your writing.

« Negan. I never thought I would write you a letter but I know it would be too hard for me to say all of this to you if you were in front of me. I’m leaving. I’m leaving the Sanctuary cause it’s too hard for me to accept all of this... The undeserved punishment and all your other wives. I thought I could live with it but I can’t. I love you, I love you like I never loved anyone else before and that’s why this is really painful to write all of this to you. I’m really sorry. I love you -Y/N »

Negan bit his bottom lip while reading... He was shocked. He thought you were happy and that you were not really paying attention to the things he was doing and about his wives... but you left him.

Negan took a deep breath before closing his eyes a second. You left.

He suddenly swept away all which was on his desk with his arm before screaming his rage. You left him. You were no longer here and you were no longer his.

He suddenly took his talkie-walkie and brought it to his mouth.

- Everyone in my office. NOW ! he ordered the Saviors before banging his fist on the table.

A minute after, Dwight, Simon, Arat, Laura, Regina and other Saviors were all sitting around the table looking at Negan, holding Lucille.

- I need you all to leave the Sanctuary now. Y/N has escaped and I need you to find her as quick as possible. And when you’ll find her, bring her back here.

- Dead or Alive ? asked Simon smirking a little.

Everyone looked at him frowning as Negan clenched his fist on his bat before suddenly banging it on the table.

- If no one find her, you’ll be the one who’ll be dead, he said in a low voice. Now you go, he then said to the others.

Four days has passed since Negan send almost all the saviors to find you but no one saw you. Negan was in his office, feeling completely depressed... He realized that he cared about you more than he thought. He knew he loved you but not this much. He was missing you and he started to be really afraid that something happened to you.

He looked up when he heard someone knocking on the door.

- Come in.

- We found her, we found Y/N, said Simon.

Negan instantly looked up to him.

- Where is she ? he asked, standing up.

- She’s in Alexandria.

Negan frowned.

- Alexandria ?

- Yeah. We saw her there this afternoon.

- Alright. Thanks. Get out now, said Negan going back to his desk to take the talkie walkie Carl left to him before walking outside of his office while turning it on.

He took a deep breath before pressing the button.

- Is anyone listen to me ? That’s Negan, he said, praying for someone to answer his call.

- What do you want ? answered Michonne few seconds after.

- I... started Negan. Is Y/N here ?

- Why ? asked Michonne in a suspicious way.

- She left the Sanctuary. Some saviors saw her in Alexandria. Is she here ?

Michonne didn’t answered for ten seconds before sighting.

- She’s here, then what ?

- Let me talk to her.

- And why would I do that ?

Negan sighted.

- Cause if you don’t, I’ll come to Alexandria. Don’t you think that I made enough victims there ?

Michonne took few seconds to think about it.

- Alright, she simply said.

Negan took a deep breath, already knowing what he was going to tell you.

- Negan ? you asked in the talkie-walkie, surprised by his call.

You were not expecting him to look for you. You thought he wouldn’t care about you and your escape. Well, you were wrong.

- Y/N... Thanks God you’re fine... What are you doing in Alexandria ?

- Haven’t you read my letter ?

- I did... I did but... I still don’t get it.

- I thought I’ve been clear. Negan... I just can’t live with someone who’s doing such horrible things to people.

- They deserved their punishment.

- That... That is what you think. But that’s not all... I’m done being “one of” your wives, just another girl that you can fuck whenever you want. It’s not what I want.

- Do you really think that there’s just sex between us ?

- Yeah. I feel like you’re not sharing the love I feel for you.

Negan bit his lip feeling his heart sinking in his chest. He loved you and that was hurting him to hear you saying this.

- Y/N... Sweetheart I... How can you think this ? This is more than just sex I mean... I know I never tell it to you but I...

- You ?

- I love you, he admitted. And I want you to come back. I don’t think you realize how important you are to me. I just spent four of the most horrible days of my life, wondering where you were... Wondering if you... If you were still alive. You can’t imagine how worry I was for you. I thought I treated you good but then... it seems like I wasn’t. I need you by my side and if this means that I have to change, I will. I promise I will spend more time with you. I need you to come back and if this means that I have to choose between you and all my others wives, I’ll choose you without any hesitation. You know, you’re the only one I really care about. It’s you since the beginning Y/N. So please. Forgive me for being such an asshole. I need you.

You held back tears... That was the first time Negan truly opened himself to you or to anyone else by the way. That was the first time he admitted you how he felt for you and especially, that was the first time he told you that he loved you.

You realized, by his words, that he was really carring about you. He opened his heart to you and this meant a lot to you, you knew Negan hated to do and say this kind of things.

- Do...Do you really think all you said ? you asked him, a tear streaming down your cheek.

- Course I do. Why would I said that otherwise ? You know I hate to talk about my feelings this way. But I don’t care if I’m ridiculous now, I need you to know ‘bout how I feel for you.

- That’s not ridiculous. Or this means that we both are cause I... I feel the same for you.

- So come back. Come back. Please.

You closed your eyes for a minute before smiling a little.

- Do you really think they’ll let me leave Alexandria as easily ? Don’t forget who you are to them.

- I’ll kill them all if they want to keep you with them, said Negan, smirking.

- No one needs to die Negan. I’ll... Okay I’ll leave it tonight.

- Tonight ? There’s no way you go in the forest at night. Do you want me to remind you what happened the last time you were alone in the wood ?

You laughed a little, remembering the night you met.

- No, I’ll come and pick you. Just tell me where I should wait.

- Negan, you don’t need to... you started but he cut you.

- Y/N. Where ?

- Alright. To the East.

- Fine. Get ready or tonight then.

- Thank you.

- There’s no need to thank me for it sweetheart.

- No I mean really... Thank you, Negan.

Negan smiled a little.

- No Y/N. Thank you for giving me another chance to treat you the way you deserve.

Hope you liked it guys ! ❤️

Gifs credit : @neganuniverse

TAG LIST : @jamiekingofmen

#negan #negan x reader #negan x you #negan x y/n #Jeffrey Dean Morgan #jdm #The Walking Dead #twd #jeffrey dean morgan x reader #negan imagine #imagine #daddy #sanctuary #i am negan

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yourpaceangel · 5 years

Text

like a prayer for which no words exist

[Read here on AO3]

There are places [1] Crowley likes to go when it all gets to be a little much, like a snake seeking a hole for refuge from a storm. That Aziraphale is the storm is surprising, or maybe not surprising at all. These places are holy - lowercase h - in that they are undisturbed, protected, and treasured. A reprieve. An indrawn breath before drowning. They are places Crowley goes that Aziraphale does not visit. That’s not to say that the angel doesn’t know where they are, simply that he does not go where Crowley does not ask for him.

[1] A rooftop garden in New York City. A cozy nook inside St. Paul’s. A patch of red dirt outside Tuscon, Arizona. An old iron bench just outside Kensington Gardens. The bosom of Eden.The edge of the World. Others, dozens maybe, that Crowley knows by feel and not name.

He’s in New York two days after the Apocolypse-That-Wasn’t, high up in a humid class cage full of shivering plants that know both fear and reverence. The Orchids have become fussy in his absence refusing to stand straight out of pure defiance. The English Ivy, the oldest, grows thick and lovely in creeping vines along the ceiling and walls. It almost seems to sigh at Crowley as he brandishes a pair of shears menacingly at the disobedient Orchids.

“Not you as well,” Crowley sneers, shaking the shears at the wall, “I won’t hear it.”

In the corner a Snake Plant shakes almost fondly. Crowley hisses, terrible yellow eyes drawn into slits, and it stops moving, its tall leaves stretching skyward as if in surrender. Crowley clicks his tongue and goes back to fussing with the Orchids.

“Don’t know why I even bother. I should just bin the lot of you.”

He does not. Crowley has known these plants for a long time. He takes a seat on the floor amongst empty pots and potting soil, dirt on his hands and smudged along a sharp cheekbone because he allows it to be. There’s something satisfying about the mess. He wonders, vaguely and quite without meaning to, if that is how She feels about Her Creation. Crowley snarls and kicks out at the leg of a table. It wobbles, the pots atop it shuddering with the force, before going still.

An impossible Honeysuckle bush in the opposite corner blooms for him, sickly sweet in her smell. The orchids finally stand upright, maybe sensing the shift in their Master’s mood or maybe just tired of being contrary. Crowley is no longer looking at them, however. His eyes have drifted up, through the English Ivy curling sweetly along the ceiling, where gray skies hang fat and heavy in the sky. The rain starts first as a light pat and, as Crowley watches, works its way to a torrent. Between this and the overwhelming smell of sweet Earth, Crowley can almost fall asleep.

It’s tempting, and Crowley does love temptations. A hundred year nap after The-End-That-Almost-Was feels well deserved, but Aziraphale gets dreadfully worried if Crowley is gone for too long. He’s startled by a creeping vine tangling around his ankle. He shakes his leg. “Off with you, you annoying little bugger.”

The vine squeezes once before letting go and all at once Crowley misses Aziraphale so dearly it makes his stomach ache. In a wild fit of temper he reaches for an empty pot to throw and smashes it against the wall.

smash

Then another-

smash

And another-

smash smash smash

Until he is left empty and the wall of Ivy is bruised.

Crowley moves then, shaking, standing to shove the table aside with less care than it deserves, cutting his feet open upon broken terra cotta. He rests a hand, gently now, on the Ivy and pulls away green fingers like he’d made it bleed. He puts his hand to the wall again, burying his hand amongst the leaves and pushes . “Dreadfully sorry old chap.” Crowley says and feels the Ivy pulsate around his fingers. [2]

[2] Long ago Aziraphale had given Crowley a little cutting of Ivy from the side of his bookshoppe. “Perhaps you can take up gardening,” the angel said wryly. The Ivy had pulsed in Crowley’s hand then as well, like it was trying to hold him.

Crowley untangles his fingers from the Ivy and it shivers once before stilling. He moves the table back into place and waves a hand dismissively at the floor, clearing the pots. The storm outside rages on and he paces, leaving bloody footprints along the concrete. The garden suddenly feels stifling and Crowley leaves without a word, letting the door clap closed behind him.

His place in Mayfair is bitterly cold when he lands. The rain in America had soaked him down to his bones, and the accompanying rain here is nothing short of depressing. Crowley drops his jacket in a puddle at the door, rolling his shoulders. In his shadow, along the wall, his wings tremble from the cold. He drapes himself over the couch and turns his space heater on with a snap. The little machine wheezes and coughs a moment before turning on. It’ll be awhile before the room is warm enough to drive the chill from him but for now this is the best he can manage.

Not even a minute later there comes a polite but insistent knocking from the front door. Crowley groans, slinging an arm over his eyes. He knows the longer he makes Aziraphale wait [3] the worse it will be, but he can’t make himself answer the door. Crowley waves his hand, instead, and hears the front door click open.

[3] Who could it be but Aziraphale? No other being would bother knocking.

There’s a shuffling from the entry hall as Crowley imagines Aziraphale hanging up his coat and then doing the same with Crowley’s. He can almost see the wrinkled nose and furrowed brow that the angel would make seeing it there on the floor.

“What do you want, angel?” Crowley asks before Aziraphale is even properly in the room.

“Hullo my dear,” Aziraphale sounds cheery but also awfully worried, “I hadn’t seen you since - well, since-” Since they’d swapped bodies back; since Crowley had turned tail and ran from St. James’s Park like the Devil himself had been on his heels. “And I thought I might pop over for a bit, yeah? I brought a bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion from the cellar.”

Crowley sniffs a little and finally drags his arm from his eyes. Aziraphale looked windswept and a little damp, standing in the doorway with a bottle of needlessly expensive wine. Aziraphale smiles [4] and holds up the bottle.

[4] It was a vulnerable and easily broken smile, something Crowley felt wholly undeserving of.

Crowley makes himself sit up. “Uh, yeah, okay.” He sounds a bit stupid.

“I’ll get some glasses,” Aziraphale says and furrows his brow, “You’re awfully soaked my dear, maybe you should change clothes.”

The little space heater must be working overtime, Crowley feels a touch too warm and tugs at his collar. “I don’t need you to mother me,” he says without heat.

“Someone has to,” Aziraphale counters, not unkindly, and goes to find the wine glasses.

They stay up too late and drink too much wine. Aziraphale says it’s a celebration, that they’d prevented the World from ending. And certainly they had. The World, but not Crowley’s world. No. That had ended when Aziraphale had put his hand in Crowley’s and squeezed. When he had held on for a touch too long afterward and Crowley felt seen . It had felt too much like a promise. Crowley had never been good with those. And yet, it was hard to feel shattered with Aziraphale at his side now even if he did feel entirely undeserving of the attention.

Aziraphale’s necktie is askew and his hair fluffed from running his fingers through it too many times. He’s got his head tilted back in a laugh, more free than Crowley has seen him in centuries. His smile, when he turns it on Crowley, is beatific and absolutely sloshed.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, loud and merry, “whatever are you staring at?”

You , Crowley thinks, You, blessed you . What he says is, “Your hair looks ridiculous. A proper bird’s nest.”

“My hair?” Aziraphale runs a hand through it again, tugging lightly at the front. “You think my hair looks ridiculous?”

“Utterly.”

“You- your hair is ridiculous!”

“That so, angel?”

“That’s so!”

“Hm.” Crowley brings his wine glass up to hide his smile.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Aziraphale cries petulantly, shooting forward to press a finger against Crowley’s lips as if to silence him.

crash

Crowley jerks back, his wine glass on the floor in pieces, wine seeping down into the granite leaving stains like blood.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale exclaims, “Oh my dear I’m so sorry.”

Crowley can barely hear him over the loud thump of his own heart. “That’s-” He clears his throat, “That’s quite alright.”

“I’ve ruined it, haven’t I?”

“Nothing a minor miracle can’t take care of.” Crowley’s going for nonchalant but he can’t look Aziraphale in his eyes.

“No I mean-“ Aziraphale’s weight shifts, the couch creaking below him, “Well I suppose I mean this, you and I?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

“Crowley you won’t even look at me.”

Crowley does, just to be contrary. Aziraphale looks incredibly pained and sad. It’s reminiscent of another time, when Aziraphale had sat in the front of his Bentley and said “ you go too fast for me, Crowley.” “Honestly angel,” Crowley says and this time the lie burns , “I haven’t the foggiest what you’re going on about.”

Aziraphale’s mouth works, gaping like a fish out of water before closing. He frowns, lips pursed in a thin line, his face stony. “You’re right, of course, my dear boy,” He stands and makes a minor show of dusting off his slacks. Aziraphale is at once alarmingly sober. “I’ve got- I have business to attend to, back at the shop, so unfortunately I must take my leave.”

“Are you sure?”

“More so than you.” Aziraphale waves his hand and the mess on the floor clears itself. “Goodnight my dear.”

“Night,” Crowley echoes hollowly.

When Aziraphale leaves Crowley drops back onto his couch, like a marionette with its strings cut.

Crowley spends the next three days in the Sonoran Desert. It’s a place that feels both like birth and death, something that used to breathe life and now works so hard to sustain it. He remembers Eden [5] and can think of nothing else.

[5] At night he sits and stares upward at the stars, more than he can see even on the clearest night in London, his wings spread wide and high. The desert does not sleep around him, creeping scorpions and roaming serpents give him a wide berth but he can feel them. He feels more, here, than any other place he knows.

He could stay here forever, unbothered by humanity or the creatures around him. Just himself and the cacti and the stars. He used to spend centuries alone- invisible -but now it only takes a few days for the familiar ache to settle.

He’d come here to be away from Aziraphale, but he misses him just as deeply as if he’d stayed in London. Crowley slumps over the arm of a small saguaro, lets the pins press into his hands like tiny daggers just to feel something other than this constant ache.

The plant is unbothered by him, resolutely silent when he wails his despair. A group of pronghorn dart away, startled by the sudden noise. A sidewinder slips between his feet and flicks a tongue upward in irritation.

Crowley rips the needles out of his palms with his teeth, digging into flesh and drawing blood. Deep dark red, the same color as wine splashed across his granite. He wants to go home. He wants to see Aziraphale. For the first time in a long time those both seem like different goals.

Aziraphale finds him two days later in St. James’s Park, splayed under a tree and hiding from the swollen dark rain clouds hanging pregnant in the sky. “Budge up,” Aziraphale says, taking a seat on the ground next to him. The air smells charged, like it’s waiting for lightning. Crowley grunts and slithers over closer to the trunk so Aziraphale can come further under the leaves.

They say nothing for a while. Crowley is used to companionable silences but this doesn’t feel like one. [6] Finally Crowley says, “I’m sorry.”

[6] This feels like they’re both choking on words they don’t know how to say and it’s left them speechless.

Aziraphale looks down at him, eyes wide with surprise, “My dear boy, whatever are you sorry for?”

‘Whatever I’ve done to make you seem so sad’ Crowley thinks. Crowley shrugs a shoulder sending a beetle scampering. “For last week I s’pose, I must’ve done something awful to make you leave in such a rush.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale looks away, his cheeks flushing a delicious pink, “I ought apologize myself for that, leaving in such a huff was very ill mannered of me. I was quite drunk.”

“S’fine.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, “Well, I suppose that’s settled.” His eyes find Crowley’s eyes again, even through the dark glass of his Valentinos and he smiles. “Lunch?”

They end up in Soho at a tapas place called Barrafinna. Aziraphale adores the tapas, Crowley is more in favor of the sherry. Crowley feels more at ease during lunch, like he had dining with Aziraphale in the days before the Apocolypse-That-Could-Have-Been and soon enough he’s letting Aziraphale tempt him into tiny bites from his plate. Twice Aziraphale feeds him with his fingers and Crowley’s ears nearly set to flame from burning. It’s all he can do not to bolt out the door.

Aziraphale dabs at his mouth with a napkin, making a pleased noise as he does. “Utterly scrumptious. Are uh, are you going to finish that my dear?”

Crowley shakes his head and pushes his dessert plate across the table.

“Ah, thank you.”

Crowley hums, chin resting in the palm of his hand. ‘I missed you’ he thinks, and then shakes himself for being silly because he’d only been gone a few days.

Aziraphale chews with his eyes closed, face scrunched up in something close to bliss. Underneath the table, Crowley squeezes his own knee with his free hand because suddenly he’d very much like to reach across the table and touch .

“Good?” Crowley asks, just for something so say, only so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

“Marvelous,” Aziraphale says and dabs at his mouth, “my dear you do always know the best places.”

“I could take you to more, now that the world is saved and all.”

“I would like that very much.” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and his face is warm with something, but Crowley doesn’t dare try to read into it. Can’t allow himself to hope .

Crowley coughs and curls his hand over his mouth. “Well then, home now angel?”

Aziraphale goes uncomfortably quiet. “I thought,” he says carefully, “today might be a rather nice day for a drive.”

“Angel, it’s raining.”

“Not too bad, no,” Aziraphale says, “you can drive slow.”

“Well-”

“Come on Crowley, anywhere you want to go.”

Crowley closes his eyes and bites down on his tongue. He wants - he wants - “Alright,” he says, undone, “I’ll settle up.”

Aziraphale is already in the car by the time Crowley has settled the bill and made his way outside. He has a kind of vague knowledge that he may have left an outrageous tip, despite never having ever tipped before, but he can’t quite think straight at the moment. He feels a bit dreamy, if he’s honest.

The Bentley drives for him, mostly. Crowley’s a bit preoccupied with the way Aziraphale has his hands folded in his lap, the soft curve of his mouth, the gentle swell of his chest to pay attention to the road. Aziraphale is looking out the window at the falling rain and passing buildings. Crowley’s hand twitches on the wheel. What would Aziraphale say if he tried to take his hand? Crowley forces his focus back on the road and tightens his grip on the wheel.

The steady thrum of the Bentley’s windscreen wipers and the soft croon of Freddie Mercury’s voice fill the otherwise companionable silence in the cab. Aziraphale taps his fingers along with the tune [7], humming along like he almost knows the words. He might. Aziraphale has heard these songs almost as many times as Crowley has.

[7] It is a tune that may or may not have been inspired by a certain night with a certain musician, Crowley cannot confirm nor deny this. ( I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings / Be your Valentino just for you)

Crowley likes driving. He has for a hundred years. The focus of it, the ease. It’s like flying without the fear of falling and he does it now mindlessly, easing between lanes and creating spaces where there was none before. He slows down only when he sees Aziraphale’s knuckles turn white, when his mouth gets pinched in the way that means he’s about to be cross with him.

“Alright there angel?”

“I don’t see why you have to go so fast , my dear,” Aziraphale’s hand clenches in his lap when Crowley takes a turn at a speed unsuitable for both the weather and road conditions, “why are you in such a hurry?”

Is it really a hurry when it takes six millennia to get here? The Bentley slows further, without Crowley’s say so, until they’re moving at a sedate pace with the cars next to them. “Don’t know any other way to go, angel,” Crowley says almost absently.

Aziraphale turns his head and looks , really looks, like he’s trying to see inside of Crowley. Crowley squirms, snake-like, under his stare until it becomes too much and Crowley makes himself focus on the road.

“Where are we going, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks.

“Anywhere. Wherever I stop. Anywhere is good enough as long as you’re beside me.”

Aziraphale inhales sharply. He seems tremendously far away, sitting on the other side of the cab. Crowley grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. He shouldn’t have- He should have been more careful about saying-

“Yes,” Aziraphale says and he sounds breathless , “Yes, alright.”

Crowley’s ears feel a bit pink. He drums his fingers along the steering wheel absently just for something to do.

It’s night by the time Crowley decides to stop the Bentley, somewhere south of Edinburgh. They’d stopped for dinner in Manchester and Aziraphale didn’t complain when they’d gotten back in the car and kept driving. He turns into a field, the Bentley whispering over the grass and not leaving tire tracks. He parks and the car goes blessedly silent.

It’s dark out here with nothing but the moon and stars for light, but Crowley can see just fine. Aziraphale is breathing easy and slow beside him. Crowley is staring and Aziraphale is staring right back and he can’t bring himself to break first.

Aziraphale clears his throat, “Well…”

“Well?” Crowley prompts, the corner of his lips tilting up. He leans forward against the wheel, all long limbed and loose.

Aziraphale’s hands twist in his lap, “Yes, well…” he trails off again and sighs. Before Crowley can cut in he picks back up again. “It’s very beautiful here, and the moon is so lovely and full tonight. It’s not often we get to see the stars.”

“I know,” Crowley hums. “This is one of mine, you know? I picked it for the stars and the smell of sweet grass. The wildflowers bloom madly in late spring.”

“You will have to bring me to see them, my dear,” Aziraphale smiles, “perhaps a picnic.”

Oh, I love you, Crowley thinks, heart hammering in his chest. I do love you. He hopes he looks more put together than he feels. Demons can’t love but Crowley is sick of being told what he can and cannot do. “Yes,” Crowley says past the lump in his throat, “I’ll make deviled eggs and you can make those damned cress sandwiches you’re so fond of.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, “and we’ll have wine, maybe a cake as well.” He pauses for a moment. “Crowley,” He says slowly, “what did you mean this place is one of yours? You don’t mean- Crowley, my dear boy, is this one of your hiding spots?”

“I don’t use this one often but yes.”

“And you brought me here.”

“Yes.”

“With you.”

“Yes angel, do keep up.”

Aziraphale’s face softens, like it did a week again in St. James’s Park. The way he says “oh Crowley ”, his eyes misty with tears, has Crowley half out of his skin. He can’t run away this time. Where would he go? Crowley buries his shaking hands in his lap and tries to bear it.

Aziraphale reaches across the cab - inches and millennia between them - and cradles Crowley’s jaw in his hand. Crowley sucks in a wet breath and blows it out, trembling.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says again. His other hand finds Crowley’s and grips firm, steady. “You make me ever so happy.”

“Angel I-“

“Dearest,” Aziraphale leans in, close and closer, “how I love you.” Whispered, reverent, like a prayer.

Crowley closes his eyes tight against the welling of tears. “ Aziraphale .” He feels Aziraphale’s fingers drift up to his sunglasses, freezing there in question. “Yeah.” Aziraphale takes his sunglasses off and drags a thumb tenderly under his eye. Crowley opens his eyes. His chest aches, open and raw, at the warmth in Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh love,” Aziraphale murmurs, wiping an errant tear from Crowley’s cheek, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

“No,” Crowley breathes, “ no , Aziraphale I-“ he squeezes Aziraphale’s hand hard, “Angel I’ll ruin you.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale presses their foreheads together. They’re sharing breath and Crowley’s barely breathing. “You couldn’t if you tried.

“I love you,” Crowley gasps and it hurts , “I love you, I love you, I love you-“ Aziraphale closes the space between them, capturing the words with his mouth.

Kissing Aziraphale is- It’s everything Crowley has been wanting since the Garden, when Aziraphale had shielded him with his wing from the first rain. It’s centuries of temptations and clandestine meetings, of lunches and wine and boxes of chocolate. Aziraphale is warm and steady and Crowley goes soft under him, opening himself to the one being in Creation he’s ever had concrete faith in.

When Aziraphale pulls away Crowley can’t help but chase after that mouth, his hand coming up to clutch at the lapel of Aziraphale’s jacket.

“I’m here love,” Aziraphale says, thumbing along his jaw, “you have me. For as long as you like.”

“Long as I like?” Crowley says thickly, his cheeks burning, “How’s eternity sound?”

“I’d like that,” Aziraphale says, eyes crinkling as he smiles.

Crowley breathes through the molten feeling in his chest. Aziraphale’s love feels like basking in the sun after spending eternity underground, blinding in its intensity. He laces their fingers together in his lap. Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley’s temple and again to the thin skin under his eye.

They spend the night at a small hotel in Edinburgh, Crowley sprawled half across Aziraphale’s chest most of the night with Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. The drive back to London the next day is spent mostly in silence, their hands clasped securely in the narrow space between them. Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hand up to kiss his knuckles, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb.

A month later they’re in New York City, Crowley opening the door to a rooftop greenhouse. Inside are impossible plants, flowers that quake in their pots when Crowley lets the door slam shut. There’s a handsome English Ivy that seems to wave hello from the ceiling. Aziraphale touches the creeping vines and smiles at Crowley.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale says, “Really beautiful.”

“Oh hush,” Crowley says, “you give them an inch and they’ll take a mile.”

“Nothing wrong with a little bit of positive reinforcement. You seem to enjoy it, as I recall.”

“Shut up,” Crowley whines, the tips of his ears going pink.

Aziraphale steps in to hold Crowley’s face in his hands. His fingers trace at Crowley’s ears. “Precious boy,” He says, leaning in to kiss his sharp cheekbone.

Across the room a Rose bush blooms, beautiful pink and red petals opening and releasing a sweet smell. A pot of green Carnations turn toward them. Above, that old English Ivy gently ripples.

Crowley drops his head to Aziraphale’s collar, sighing softly. Aziraphale slides his hands up into Crowley’s hair, twirling dark red locks between his fingers. “I like this,” Aziraphale says, “I’m glad you decided to show me.”

“I like you.” Crowley says, punctuating it with a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck. He looks up to glare at his plants, “Don’t get any ideas, I’ll still bin the lot of you.”

Aziraphale laughs. “You won’t.”

He doesn’t.

End

(For those that wanted to be tagged: @jawnlawk , @the-djinn-inside)

#fic #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #mine

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aliceslantern · 3 years

Text

Give/Take, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 6

Ienzo has been too busy since the war to be overwhelmed by the past. But with little progress to be made in his work with Kairi, old nightmares start to invade.

Riku is a glorified housesitter. Lonely and faced with no choice but to wait for a way to find his friends, he eagerly accepts when Ienzo asks him to help do repairs around the castle. Before long, the two strike up an unlikely friendship, united by their dark pasts and their attempts to be better people.

But just as they begin to consider something more... Kairi wakes up.

Ienzoku (Ienzo/Riku), post-Melody of Memory, slow burn. Updates Thursdays until it's done.

Chapter summary: Ienzo has a conversation with Ansem, leading him to a crucial realization about his feelings for Riku.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

Riku did seem awfully despondent when that day came. Ienzo insisted he not spend it alone, that he come to Radiant Garden. Somewhere along the way Riku’s emotional wellbeing had become important to him, though why he wasn’t sure.

Well. He knew why .

All this time spent together. Ienzo may have been inexperienced, but he wasn’t naive. He could see Riku looking at him, sometimes, out of the corner of his eye. Whatever was happening between them was clearly growing and also clearly mutual. Thinking about it too hard made his palms sweat and his heart race--with anxiety.

He wasn’t good enough. Riku’d had--mostly a normal life. He deserved someone whole and who could be completely emotionally available to him. This had to be a passing attraction--a combination of Ienzo’s newfound feelings and Riku’s boredom. That was all.

But if it was passing … how come over the course of these months, and the time they’d only gotten to know each other better… why was it getting stronger ?

Ienzo realized that he desperately wanted to talk to someone about this. He also realized that the person he most wanted to discuss it with, the person whose opinion on the matter was most important, was Riku, and the notion of doing that felt like cutting the wrong wire on a bomb. After all, once his friends were back, wouldn’t Riku just go home… and move on with his life? It was unrealistic to expect him to stay here for Ienzo.

He wasn’t sure he liked the way this felt.

“Ienzo?”

His head snapped up from the tablet in his hands. “Yes, Master?”

Ansem sighed. “How many times must I tell you to call me by my name?”

“I’m… sorry. Habit,” he lied. In reality, it felt undeserved. Everything still felt undeserved. He and Ansem had sat down multiple times to talk and try to get to know each other better, but as gracious as the man was, Ienzo still felt an awful pang of guilt.

“Forgive me, but… something seems to weigh heavily on your heart. Moreso than usual,” he said.

Ienzo looked into his rust-colored eyes. This man was his father , he forced himself to think, and as much as that was the truth it was still difficult to internalize. “I suppose it must be quite obvious,” he said.

“Well, yes. Why don’t we sit down for a few minutes? Have some tea?”

He glanced back over at Kairi.

“The girl can wait a little while, I think,” Ansem said gently.

Ienzo tried to swallow the nerves. They went back into the office, gathered yet more tea. His feet throbbed when he sat down.

“So what is it?” Ansem asked.

He took a deep breath. “I feel… undeserving,” he began. “Of so many things. Receiving any comfort from you after what I’ve put you through, firstly.”

“Ienzo, you were not the one to oust me from this place. You said yourself that you were a child, and they lied to you about the reason for my… disappearance.” He winced.

“Even so. If I had not convinced you to build that lab--”

“If I recall correctly, the intentions for it were much different, much less insidious, at the time,” Ansem continued. “Not to mention… the others, especially Xehanort, knew how much of a soft spot I had for you. I’m sure it was easy to make you think it was all your idea.”

Ienzo shook his head slowly. “I should’ve known better.”

“You were a boy,” he said. “Ienzo, your expectations of your past self in the situation are far too high. A child can only know what they’ve been taught.”

“You hold no resentment whatsoever?” Ienzo asked. “I find that hard to believe.”

Ansem sighed. “I had a lot of time to think, where I was, and yet more now that we’ve been here. To say I do not have any bitterness in my heart is a lie. At the same time… I’ve seen your ambition, since you’re yourself again. You mean to atone for your mistakes. So do I. I have no reason to hold any blame for you anymore. It won’t help either of us move on.”

Move on. Ienzo did not know how to move on. He wondered, briefly, what his life would be like once this was all over, and felt a seed of dread tighten in his stomach. Especially with Riku gone.

“What’s on your mind?” Ansem asked.

“I just…” Ienzo exhaled and smoothed the ascot tied at his throat. “The truth is lately I’ve been feeling a great many things that scare me. Everything about this life seems so… loud and so intense. And I worry about… what the outcome of those feelings might be. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” The glint in his eye suggested he may know what Ienzo was referring to, but wanted to make him say it.

Very well. “I’m concerned I may be…” He took a quick breath. Saying it would make it concrete, more concrete than the feelings in his body. “That I may be harboring feelings? For someone?”

Ansem tapped his fingertips together. “Romantic feelings?”

“Maybe? I don’t know,” Ienzo said, knowing instantly that was a lie. He felt his face flush. “And I don’t… Master, I don’t know how to do friendship and I clearly don’t know how to do family. How am I supposed to be able to… be good enough for this person? For anyone?” He took a long drink of the still-quite-hot tea to smother the lump in his throat.

Ansem thought about it. “Ienzo, ever since I’ve been back here I haven’t seen you stray once onto that selfish, dark path. I see what you’ve devoted in order to atone, and I also see its price. You’re a young person. You needn’t waste all your years alone in solitary work--regardless of how that companionship may manifest.”

Ienzo shook his head slowly. “I have so much to make up for.”

Ansem leaned forward. “And you are. You will. But I don’t think that punishing yourself when you are doing everything in your power already will help the situation.”

Ienzo wanted to believe that so badly.

“You are too young to have such a heavy heart,” Ansem said. “Ultimately… you were also someone who lost years of your life due to the experiments and the circumstance. You were also a victim.”

Ienzo felt tears in his eyes. “No. That can’t be true.”

“You were a child. Lied to. Manipulated. It should’ve been the adults in the situation who stopped this, yet they did not. How can it be your fault that you turned out a certain way? It is possible for it to be true that you were both a victim and you did things of enormous consequence. One, in fact, begat the other.”

Ienzo didn’t know what to say.

Ansem smiled sadly. “I know I cannot convince you to forgive yourself. That’s something that you have to do yourself. But I hope you can begin to do so. Remaining trapped within those feelings only gives your mistakes more power.”

He was right, Ienzo realized. He was right. The tears broke free.

Ansem squeezed his hand. “I think the object of your affection understands this well.”

Ienzo sniffled. “Is it very obvious? Does everyone know?”

“Not quite. Even is still Even, after all, oblivious as always. But what I know of the boy… what I’ve experienced of him firsthand…” Ansem sighed. “I think he understands, Ienzo, better even than you might think. Moreover…” A mischievous glint came into his eye. “I think he may feel the same.”

“I know he does,” Ienzo said.

“You feel you do not deserve such things.”

“I know I don’t. And we’re now going around and around in circles.” He brought a hand to his forehead.

Ansem thought a moment. “Have you talked about it?”

“I can’t just bring it up. ”

“Why not? If you’re so sure it’s mutual?”

“It’d change everything. He has… he has a whole life. And I have…” He faltered on “nothing.” “Perhaps this is just desperation and loneliness on my part, because I…” He realized he had nothing else to say.

Because he was, essentially, making excuses.

Slowly, Ienzo stood. “I see,” he said. “Thank you for the tea and sympathy.”

“Where are you going?”

“I need to think,” he said. “I’ll… I’ll be back to work in a little while.”

Ansem nodded. “Take your time,” he said.

---

Riku sighed and flexed his hands. He’d just spent the better part of an hour cranking bolts into place with a ratchet wrench, and his wrist was killing him. He put the wrench back in its toolbox, took off his brace, and gave it a good stretch. He could go to any of the healers he knew and have them fix it. But for some reason it always slipped his mind, or wasn’t bad enough, to warrant fixing. A quick rebreak and it would be back to normal.

He went back to his room, showered and got changed. It was already getting cool again. The year mark was coming up fast.

For perhaps the first time… Riku almost wished it would last a little longer. But then he thought of his friends, conscious, alive, and the thought disappeared.

Only to reappear when he saw Ienzo at his doorway. “Oh, hey Ienzo,” Riku said. The other boy looked a bit stressed, his face pinched and eyes red. “Are you… okay?”

“Do you… have a few minutes? Or were you on your way out?” His nostrils flared a little.

He tugged his hair back into its customary ponytail. “I’ve got time.”

“...Walk with me?”

The sun was just starting to set. Ienzo’s pace was brisk, almost frenetic, and Riku’s anxiety spiked. “Did something happen?” he asked.

“Kairi is fine,” Ienzo reassured him quickly, though he seemed no less agitated. “This has nothing to do with that.”

“Then… what does …”

They ended up in a breezeway that overlooked the town. Ienzo took a deep breath. “I need to say something before I lose my nerve,” he began. “Because it has been causing me an awful lot of stress and frankly I’d like to just put the whole matter to bed.”

Riku blinked. “I don’t follow.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “This whole… game between us, the past few months,” he said. “The… banter, the longing gazes, the…” He exhaled in frustration. “Once she’s awake you’ll have a job to do and I can’t afford to keep taking you from it.”

Riku felt somewhat paralyzed. “Taking me… from it?”

Ienzo looked him in the eye. There was something pleading in his own. “I…” He was breathing audibly. “I feel something for you, something I shouldn’t, and I just think… well--” He stuttered. Riku had never seen him like this, and it made his own pulse thunder in his ears. “You deserve better. I’d hold you back. The darkness of our pasts--”

He put up a hand. “Wait. Wait. Slow down. Just breathe a minute. You like me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He couldn’t quite suppress the beginnings of a smile.

“But it’d never work.”

Riku was dizzy. “But--why?”

Ienzo rubbed his upper arms, like he was cold. “I'm older than you, our lives have had vastly different paths. We don't even have much in common--”

“What is it really about?”

Ienzo seemed startled. “I’m not…” He was trembling. “You’re… I’m not good enough, Riku, I’m just not. If you knew even half of the things I’ve done you’d run out of here screaming.”

“For some reason I doubt that.” He took a step closer to him. “Both of our lives have been shaped by darkness.”

“But you’ve overcome it, and I’m--”

“No, it’s not something you can just overcome ,” he said. “It takes… it takes work, day in and day out, and even then, it’s still… part of you. But choosing a different path… like we both have… that’s what matters.”

“I’m just starting,” Ienzo whispered.

“But you’re starting,” he pointed out. He was close to him now, close enough to realize that they were very nearly the same height. “And so far I think you’re doing awesome.”

“You deserve someone whole,” Ienzo said.

“Someone “whole” wouldn’t get it,” Riku said, daring to gently rest a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the only person I can talk to about these sorts of things. The only person who doesn’t make me feel… well, insane , or kind of disgusting about it.”

Ienzo let out a long breath. “I see,” he said softly. “So… what now, then?”

“I know what I want,” he said. “But do you?”

“I think I do.” He reached up and brushed his fingers across Riku’s cheek, his touch so soft and delicate Riku shuddered. “I… I must be crazy…”

“Then we both are, I think.”

Ienzo leaned in a little closer, almost hesitantly. Riku could smell him, something like sandalwood, and for a second he thought he might faint--

He nodded a little, to show this was okay, this was wanted, and finally Ienzo closed the gap and kissed him.

For some reason Riku thought he might have more experience, but as they grappled it was clear this was uncharted territory for both of them, messy and a bit awkward. But it was really happening, he was actually kissing him, and after this strange moment of trying to learn what to do they both seemed to understand a bit better. They were both breathing shakily. Riku pulled him closer. The sensation of touch after so long without was overwhelming, making him feel still dizzier. This was so-- nice --

After an unknowable amount of time, Ienzo pulled away. “Oh,” he said softly, touching his lip. “I see. I suppose it was clear I’ve never--”

“Me either.”

“Really? I’m surprised.”

He raised an eyebrow. “When would I have the time?”

“Well, perhaps when you were in school--have you seen you?” he asked.

Riku laughed, and Ienzo did too, and finally Riku saw the awful tension leave his shoulders. “You’re not so bad yourself. So… what should we do now?”

“We could finish our walk,” he said. “I’m… dizzy. ”

“I am too.”

Ienzo offered his hand. “Might as well. Isn’t this what people do?”

He took it. “I think so. Yeah.”

Another small burst of nervous laughter. “That was not how I expected today to go,” he said.

“Uh, yeah, I would think so,” Riku said.

A few beats of silence. “But what about the future?”

“Let’s not think about that,” Riku said. “Why don’t we just… enjoy this?”

“...Alright.”

#give/take #ienzoku #ienzo/riku #ienzo #riku #ansem the wise #ienzo is trans

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antihero-writings · 4 years

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His Butler Cemetery, Chapter 3: The Problem of the Nights

Fandom: Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji (manga)

Fic Summary: Four visits to the cemetery, each growing in emotional intensity, and spanning backwards in time. (Spoilers for the manga!!)

(I'll put the links to chapters 1 & 2 in a reblog!!)

Chapter Summary: “Young Master, Edward. If something you held most dear suddenly shattered one day...What would you do?"

"Dear, God. What a terrible ordeal you've tasked my sister with...."

Character Focus: Edward and Lizzie Midford

Notes: Eyyy remember this fic? The one I planned to finish in October 2018? Hehe...Yeah...

I never forgot about this fic... life just kinda got in the way and I moved on to other things. I have so many fics on my computer that I just can't seem to figure out how to finish, and this chapter was one of them. Lately I've been trying to go through some of them and either just slap an ending on them, or split them into multiple chapters so it's more manageable, haha. So I just picked a way to end it, even if I'm not entirely satisfied XD

I actually really really like Edward as a character, and was kind of inspired by the quote above to write this. I was excited to write for him for this fic, and really really liked this chapter, so I couldn't go without posting it at some point!!I hope people still like it, even though it's been so long...I'd deeply appreciate it if you could leave a comment to let me know!!

By the way, I am NOT caught up on the manga, so please don't spoil anything from the recent chapters for me!!

Chapter 3, the Problem of the Nights:

Edward never could win against her.

Father would laugh and say that the Midford women had always been strong, and it was no cause for shame.

Still, there’s something particularly humiliating about getting your ass kicked by a cute little girl….Especially when she’s your younger sister.

The world would coo over her: her pretty shoes, her curly blonde hair, her frilly dresses, and sigh in awe that someone so cute could be so skilled with the sword.

And, if he was perfectly honest, she was incredible. He would never deny that, never say the praise was undeserved. Often he was her biggest fan, her loudest cheerleader, and if anyone dare lay a finger on her, or say a single syllable of slander, they’d certainly have a sword to answer to.

And, he supposed, her proficiency was good for him too, in a way, because it pushed him to work harder.

But no matter how many days he spent waking up early to wave his sword at empty air, no matter how much mastery he had compared to his classmates, he could never catch up to her. Sometimes it felt like the race was rigged, and he wasn’t moving at all.

He applauded her, admired her.

But sometimes he would throw his sword into the wall and demand that it listen to him. That he, a thirteen-year-old boy could and should be better at swordplay, than a ten-year-old girl who decorated her world in pink plushies and bonnets.

When the other nobles chatted with Lizzie, and about Lizzie, and then turned to him to ask what he’d been doing, sure he had a story to top hers…

Sometimes he would hold his head high and boast of his accomplishments, and Lizzie would have only the loftiest of compliments to add.

But other times that question would ring through his head, and his tongue would fall limp in his mouth.

Because no matter how much he’d done, if he was the top of his class, he could never triumph Lizzie.

What have I done lately? Not much compared to Lizzie.

Mother was not the kind of person who would answer for you; unlike most mothers she wouldn’t boast of her children smallest accomplishments. In fact, in even their greatest endeavors she could find “room for improvement.” He wasn’t complaining: this too was a good thing; he would never be where he was now without that.

But sometimes he just wished she would just wrap her arms around him and say that she was proud of him.

There was Father at least, who was the softie of the family. Who would clap him on the back and tell Francis not to be so hard on him, that he’d done more than well. His eyes would shine as he promised he was a champion in his own right, as well as his eyes. And that helped. Still…

Still, he didn’t feel like much.

It wasn’t that he was bad at things, or dumb. He was quite smart, good at school, but he didn’t…excel.

The thing about Lizzie is that there were only a few things she practiced, but she excelled at them.

Jack of all trades, master of none, so they say.

And no one notices you unless you’re very good at something, or very bad at it.

So he faded into the background. Lizzie’s cheerleader. His parents’ son. And he told himself he was alright with that.

Beneath all those intermingling feelings of pride and jealousy was a question:

How could such a small girl hold so much fight inside her? How could those gentle eyes hold so much fire?

It didn’t make sense. She was supposed to be sweet, and gentle, and soft. So what was it that drove her to get the gold when he could only ever snag second place?

He got his answer when he met Ciel.

The twin boys, one of whom she was destined to marry—some day, after they had learned how to be gentlemen in a world of men who weren’t gentle.

Well he couldn’t approve of that without meeting him first.

The twins were…so small. Smaller even than Lizzie. Big blue eyes like stormy days.

One marched up to him and demanded who he was, and what he was doing there, and that his name was Ciel, and he was to be the Earl some day. The other, hid behind his father’s pant leg, and muttered his greeting from afar. And when Mother scolded Mr. Phantomhive to keep them in line, and comb their hair properly, even the bolder one shirked into the shadows.

He finally understood what Lizzie had that he didn’t:

Something to protect.

When he took up the sword, it was for the sake of the sword itself, and a name.

When she took it up, she did so for something more than the trade, the passed-down-name, the skill. The sword was a means, not an end. There was something—someone—she loved, or was learning to at least, and if that person were ever threatened, she didn’t want to stand on the sidelines and cry. She wanted to stand between him and danger and do everything in her power to keep the hurt at bay.

She didn’t care about being well-versed in the sword: she just cared about protecting him. The sword was simply how she’d do that. And, well, the irony of being something is that you’ll only be good at it when you’re looking beyond it.

And it was that, that passion, that idea that there was something beyond, that this was all in preparation for a war against anything that stood to harm him, that was why she excelled. Because he didn’t have anything calling him to it, besides the fact that the Midford’s had always been good at it. As long as he didn’t have a reason for it within himself, he would never excel.

So, from then on, he never complained, silently or aloud. From then on he was nothing more than her firmest supporter, and when people asked what he had done lately, expecting his story to top hers, he could be okay that he would never be better than her at some things.

And then, one snowy December, when they were putting their finishing touches on their Christmas tree, and competing to make the best cookies, someone arrived at their door to tell them they found Mr. and Mrs. Phantomhive in a pool of their own blood…and the twins…they didn’t find.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t immediately burst into a thousand shards of glass like he would have expected.

He would have liked it better that way. Because he could deal with that. Because he could do something, he could run up to her, hug her, kiss her, comfort her. Be the big brother.

No, the Midford women had always been strong, and she was no exception. She didn’t fall to pieces. She went into her room, put on a black dress and bonnet—(as was proper). And she went to the funeral, as all good little noblegirls should.

And all throughout the service, as they lay Rachel and Vincent to rest, beside two little graves they all knew were empty, as the vicar read from a Bible a passage about sheep, and finding your way home, he kept glancing at her, kept waiting to see the tears to stream down her face, for her to fall to her knees.

Her eyes were big, and blank, and full of almost-to-the-surface tears, yet she was sugar and spice and everything nice; the picture of an English noblewoman.

She went about her day, whole, composed, proper. And no one could have guessed that grief wasn’t another thing she excelled at.

But he’d never quite forget that night. The sound he heard, even through the passing years.

That night, after the funeral, after mother sent her off to bed with a few proud words, and father kissed her one to many times, after Edward grabbed her hand and asked “Are you sure you’re okay?” After she said “Yes, I’ll be fine.”—

He woke up to the sound of screaming.

He shot up in bed, wondering if he’d dreamed it, heart yammering, breath burning. He didn’t bother to light a candle, just stumbled out of bed, and ran down the halls, calling her name.

When he reached her room, she was sitting on the floor beside her bed in her little white nightdress, and tear tracks staining her face; in pieces. A perfect gold stain on the world.

She reached her hands weakly out to him as he knelt down before her, and wrapped her arms so tight around him that he thought she might break him too…and she cried into his nightshirt until she stained it. But he didn’t care.

Many little girls run to their parents in this situation. But he knew, if she had gone to their parents, mother would have told her there was no use crying, they weren’t coming back, and father would have doted on her, and she wanted neither…or rather, something in between. So she came to him.

This wasn’t the last time.

During the day she would go about her life as normal.

But every night she woke up. It was always somewhere between 14:00 and 16:00 he heard her screaming, calling the name of the sky. Either that, or he would hear a faint knock on his door, and see the face of a broken little girl in need of her big brother.

It became muscle memory for Edward to comfort her. To throw off his covers and run to his sister’s room, or he would pat the blankets beside him to say come here, and either way he’d wrap his arms around her tight, as if trying to wring the tears out of her, and she would sob until they burned rivers in his skin. He would brush his hands through her golden hair, whispering things in her ear like shh, and it’ll be okay, and singing old lullabies, all the while knowing knowing the quiet would come. And he would pray. Pray that things would be okay. Pray that the one who created the universe would grant some solace to this sweet little sheep.

He would pray, and the next day, with tears barely barred from his own cheeks, he would kick the wall, and demand why and how a merciful God could do this to someone like her. Why he would take good people from the world.

—(He would pray, and he thought one day he heard Him say They aren’t yours to keep.)—

Sometimes she asked if they could go to the cemetery in the morning. They would dress in their finest blacks, looking like ink blots on the world, onyx with gold filigree in the cracks. She would carry bouquets of flowers, the petals sifting off in the wind, and add them to those there, left by the miscellaneous others who cared for them…And she wouldn’t cry then, no. She wouldn’t cry until it was past the witching hour.

She didn’t give up. Didn’t stop living. For all intents and purposes she was the same as she’d always been…but something was missing when they crossed blades.

She woke up less and less as time went by. Eventually her visits to his room were stray nights in the grand scheme of things, and she didn’t cry so hard. Sometimes she’d just sit with him, or ask to play chess, or chat with him till the morning came.

And then one day, after the grief didn’t burn so badly in her chest—

Her fiancé came back without an eye, and with a pitch black butler.

He didn’t talk about what he’d gone through, or how he’d come back. He didn’t speak of that day his parents died. He didn’t mention how his brother died—he didn’t mention much of his brother at all.

He wasn’t that brazen, bold, grinning child they knew before. He was dark, and serious…and he never smiled.

And Edward was glad to have him back…yet from the start he couldn’t help but feel…uneasy. Like something was wrong. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There were too many questions, too many gaps in information, and the darkness that seemed to flock to this boy now didn’t help.

And Edward, though Lizzie’s fire was only stronger since he came back, her skill even more unmatchable, was at last able to get a few good hits in sometimes.

He couldn’t believe he never saw it before, his reason beyond the sword, the task of carrying on a name... it was there from the beginning.

He knew who it was he had to protect.

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romeulusroy · 4 years

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What Could Have Been (Steve Rogers Oneshot)

Character/s: Steve, Tony, Thanos mention

Word Count: 1,030

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt

A/N: First fic of 2020, I've missed writing so much. I have a couple ideas which is really exciting! This is not the best writing, but I think the story comes through regardless :) I'm also really proud of the word count, which is probably silly, but it's something I have a hard time with and it's so surprising how long this is!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜

Deserving only of the dark, the company if the shadows, he hid from the light, a light that belonged to you, undeserving of the warmth, the comfort. Plagued by baby powder dreams and white hairs, he'd had it all planned out: the rest of your lives together. A mortal man with hopes and dreams of the future, one he never could have dreamed of seeing if it wasn't for who he was, is, the person he's trying so hard to be, the one you used to know and love.

An engagement ring. Too many choices, too many decisions. Crumbling under the pressure. He'd kept it to himself, in the beginning, knowing everyone would have their own opinions. A 1940's guy struggled in the 21st century, but nothing compared to this. Searching for the right one, the best one, wishing he could come right out and ask. Weeks of searching, asking around from every married stranger he could find, it waited for him, the two of you endless in patience and forgiveness, almost dripping it from its box within seconds. Simple, straightforward, beautiful. You. It traveled. The sock drawer, the top shelf, between the towels and toothpaste until he took to taking it everywhere, catering to its every need. Just in case the perfect moment struck.

Then, the wedding. He'd never realized how long these things took to plan. Neither of you wanted anything big or extravagant, though friends believed different, getting ahead of themselves with extravagant ideas of chandeliers and white doves. Not having an after party was out of the question, Stark insisted. It would be small-ish. Guests from all over the galaxy, friends old and new, no dry eye in the venue. He'd love you in every form, dressed up for date night, just as much as lounging around in his t-shirts, spending the day on the couch. Nothing imperfect about you. But those seconds he sees you, walking down the aisle, his heart breaks, shatters into a million pieces: he should have asked you the day the he met you. You were proof of it right there.

A home. A Brooklyn Boy wanting to go back, peak at the places that still thrived. You never wanted anything big, too much space between you. Wherever you went, whatever felt right, he knew you would make feel like home. Push open the shades, the sun peaking through, illuminating the floorboards. Trinkets and tchotchkes, hints of the past as well as the future. It wasn't yours, or his, but an ours. His notebooks, full of lists crossed off one after the other. Star spangled oven mits and a shield you tripped over as easily as the shoes. Became a running joke. Brought home vintage and antique, things he recognized instantly, alongside something red, white, and blue. He'd wear the sweetest smile when he looked at them, at you. You were his home.

Kids, maybe, down the line. Foster, adopt, have your own, whatever felt like the right start to your family. Crying from the next room over, he pats your arm, whispering to go back to sleep, that he's got them. He'd always have them. Changing dirty diapers and bubble baths in the sink, there was nothing he wouldn't do for them. Someone so small, so vulnerable, the scariest mission he'd ever face. Talk of more, at night, delusional from lack of sleep. Maybe you would. More first steps, first days of school, first dates and first heartbreak, they'd have their own little team running around the place. Aunts, Uncles, more god parents than you could count tripping over themselves to see them. Your kids would always, always, feel safe, protected.

They'd grow up, and you'd grow old. He knew the jobs you had weren't forever. It'd take its toll. On your body, your mind, your family. Retirement would come sooner than you wanted, but it would be needed. Step away from the shield, the lifestyle, the city eventually. He'd always wanted a little more time by the ocean. Born into a concrete jungle, he found a sense of safety in the sand, watching the ocean. Family vacations always seemed to get interrupted. Without the work, you found more time to be there, leaving the city altogether. His hair would whiten, his skin would wrinkle, and you would be as breath taking as the day you met. The kids would visit with their own families, reminiscing about the childhood they had unlike any other. The grandkids would listen in awe, fight over who would hold grampas shield first when they were deemed old enough. Cover them in sunscreen and send them off, you and Steve would watch them from the comfort of two rocking chairs.

Your family across the galaxy would grow smaller until it was your turn to the end of the line. The end of a full life. That's what he'd planned, what he'd wanted with you from the start. None of that would ever come true, though. No sun and sand, no late nights of new math and fussy eaters, no wedding invites and flower bouquets. Only a funeral.

Yours.

The ring in the box burned a hole in his pocket. He was gonna ask you, made reservations and everything, but, like always, you had been interrupted by the end of the world. He didn't know what would happen. The Snap, it took you away. All the time you had, but he vowed to get you back. The universe played with his emotions, toyed with its play thing. Back, only to be ripped away for good. Tony had a family, made one for himself in the time you'd all been gone. You didn't know her name, his daughter, but you couldn't let her lose her father. She had to know what a good man he is. You did it. You took the gauntlet from him, did what no one else could. Steve knew before it was over that it was over. Held him back, up, his knees buckling, a single sob escaping him. They knew before you did about the proposal, about the ring, but he was the only one watching the life you'd have together come crashing down.

#writing #steve rogers #steve rogers drabble #steve rogers oneshot #captain america #captain america drabble #captain america oneshot #avengers #avengers drabble #avengers oneshot #marvel #marvel drabble #marvel oneshot #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #x reader #drabble #oneshot

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globrights · 5 years

Text

after the dust settles and the married couple are gone for good (neither of them can remember their last names, or even bothered asking), dennis finds himself boiling a cup of tea. normally, this would be a beer, or, hell, several gallons of hard liquor situation, to help drown it all out. to forget. to push deep down where their own ears are deaf to the burrowing guilt. they still feel guilt, right?

tried to break up a couple. who they thought were falling apart because the husband cheated on a guy named teddy, but it turns out teddy was the name of their dead leukemia son and greg isn’t even gay.

or well. he could be gay. we don’t know that.

his mind diverts to the gurgling of their old kettle, screaming from its spout, old and crying for reprieve. he thinks of the sounds of lisa crying, echoing down the halls, this experience piling onto her grief and pain no doubt. he isn’t sure he felt all that bad. awkward, sure. but if he really felt so bad he wouldn’t be drinking tea. mac didn’t seem all that affected either though, so he thinks he’s in the clear. people die everyday, right? people’s kids die too. it only really hurts if it happens to you.

“hey, you want tea?” dennis settles down at their table, mac is seated on one of their yellow chairs. the question is pretty much rhetoric, he thinks. mac is only here because he wants some of whatever dennis was making. or he’s here to be with dennis, so he might as well have some tea while he’s at it. dennis pours carefully into their cups. the steam is kinda stinging on his knuckles. maybe he should’ve tricked mac into doing this.

“i was thinking about you.”

“huh?” dennis sets down the kettle. he has no idea what mac is talking about.

“when i was. talking to greg. tryna get him to date me, fuck me, fall- i don’t know,” he sighs, almost despondent now.

“what’s...” dennis stops. his throat catches because he now has a little inkling of what. “uh.”

“i don’t know, man, i don’t know. i watched all those rom-com movies-”

“yeah, i know.” he knows because they watched them all together. every chummy, over-the-top, cliched as hell rom-com. they saw so many of them, because mac said he never saw them before because he thought men couldn’t watch those movies because that would be gay. but he’s gay now, so. no reason not to. and dennis sat and watched with him, made recommendations, too. didn’t think about the implications of all that. he sure as hell is thinking now. “those movies- that’s what gave you the idea for the scheme.”

“i guess. i keep thinking, dude. like, when i watch those movies, i think about you.”

dennis is almost angry. they had an equilibrium here. they had an understanding again, he thought. they’d be normal, they’d be friends, dennis doesn’t point it out when mac is staring at him a second too long, mac stops trying to explain why he stares. mac stops trying to redefine who they are, what they mean to each other.

“mac-”

“every time i talked about, about leading men, leading ladies, making the perfect rom-com in real life, talking about love, that was all you, man. i said it, cuz, i was thinking about you.”

“don’t say it-” dennis begs, eyes downcast. “please don’t say it.”

“why not, dennis?” he is exasperated. “because, i mean, i tried. i wanted to let go, believe me-” he points-”but you know how you were like. you didn’t give a shit about lisa. i couldn’t pay you to fuck her-”

“that’s because you have no money-”

mac almost laughs at that, and it’s a good thing he does, because it quells his anger and he sits back down, slumped and drained, but he sits back down. “i don’t think you even like women anymore. so why can’t you like me?”

“that’s ‘cause you’re annoying,” he thinks, he thinks maybe, if he keeps deflecting, keeps throwing quips and catching cheap laughs from mac, maybe he will drop this. oh, please. please let him drop this.

“you don’t really think that. not for the most part.”

“oh, but i do.”

“fine, then i’ll leave right now,” mac stands up again, tries to find some thing to throw into something, like shirts into a bag, but he comes up empty. he raises his voice to compensate. “i’ll move out, just like you wanted! you want me to leave dennis? you wanna sit here in this apartment alone, lying to your goddamn self?”

“mac, sit down.”

“say you want me to stay.”

“no.”

“then i’m leaving,” he tries to move to his room now. oh god, he hates this. his tea is getting cold. mac’s tea, which he’ll have to drink if the idiot makes a break for it, is getting cold too.

“mac, come back, please. we can do this another time.” mac ignores him, actually starts packing a bag, so dennis has to drag himself off that chair, and walks his heavy steps toward mac, grabbing his hand, the one that’s tearing open a duffle bag. “come on,” he says, trying to sound patient. “what’s this really about?”

for a moment there, mac looks at him like he has the comprehension of a very stupid baby. “i wanna be in love, man.”

“i know, okay, i’m sorry the air bnb thing failed, we can try it some other time, market the place to some, some hot greasy beefcakes. not greg, okay? guy was ugly as shit anyway.”

“this, this isn’t about the air bnb, i don’t care about the air bnb!”

“i know, i know, you wanna be in love!” dennis yells back, tired of this. “we’ll find you someone-”

“i don’t want just any bozo off the street, dennis, i want-”

“then we won’t get some bozo off the street, i said-”

“i want you!” mac exhales so loud after that. “oh my god, will you please shut up, dude. don’t act like you don’t know.” “i know, okay? believe me, i know. i’m saying this because i know. and trust me, you don’t know.”

“okay now you’re confusing the fuck outta me. uh, what don’t i know?”

“you don’t want me. you want the closest thing that’s most comfortable. trust me, buddy. i know i’ve been pissed about this in the past, but i get it now. i know it isn’t your... well, i guess, fault.”

“so you don’t believe me.”

“no, i just-”

“dennis, i love you man.” the words leave mac’s lips but they stick in dennis’ throat. “i wanna be in love, because i’m-i love you. i don’t even, i don’t even think i care if that scares you off anymore.”

“if it scares me off will you stop?”

“no.”

“why the hell not?”

“because i-”

“yeah, yeah, you’re in love with me,” he groans. “fine. be in love with me. i don’t care.”

but he does.

mac scoffs. “be in love with you? all on my own? by myself dude? fuck off. i’m so tired. i’m so fucking tired i can’t do it anymore. i can’t do this. i drive myself crazy because of you. i think you hate me, i think you love me, i think, i think i’m gonna die.”

“stop being so melodramatic.”

“well, i’m sorry, dennis. i’m sorry you don’t give a shit about this, or me, but, it hurts, okay? and-”

“who says i don’t give a shit about you?”

“then why won’t you say anything?”

“oh give me a break. you haven’t been talking to a wall or anything. i’m right fucking here.”

“you’re talking, sure, but you’re not saying shit, bro. you’re not telling me a thing.”

dennis sits down on mac’s unmade bed. he must be getting a migraine. “what, pray tell, do you want to hear from me?”

“the truth. if you don’t love me, fine, if you’re not into men, fine. tell me, dude. do something. say something. but don’t fucking lie to me. i’ll know that, at least.”

“if-” dennis hesitates. “if you can tell.” he is tempted to just run away, frankly. “does it need to be said?”

silence drapes over them, the room, a cold silence, it freezes everything around it, and now dennis is the one who wants to die. he’s said too much by not saying enough. maybe it’s not to late to say sike and proclaim his undying hatred for mac. lord knows it’s got some truth to it. mac is insufferable, he is annoying and controlling and a full on bitch. but god, dennis can’t stay away, dennis can’t even look away sometimes, and maybe that is his one flaw.

“say stop.”

mac shuts his eyes, leaning in. dennis doesn’t pull away. his eyes flutter then droop close, too. mac plants the softest, most chaste kiss on his lips. when he pulls away without taking things any further, dennis looks at him, not a thought in his mind. mac breathes out. “i never thought i’d get to do that.”

“so do you feel better now?” his voice is almost petty. dennis has one too many thoughts now. all of them involve mac realizing he has no interest in dennis at all and that this was all just. one big ruse. mac has what he wants, so he wants nothing more now. maybe dennis can save his dignity if he claims that letting himself get kissed was a fluke too. “can we- can we go and have that tea?”

“not if i get to keep kissing you.” dennis looks almost shocked. mac looks to the side. “can i? keep kissing you?”

dennis moves first this time. he traps mac’s lips with his own, face between his hands, pulling mac close. mac takes the hint, draws in, knee between his legs, and he moans at the contact. he inches up mac’s shirt, and mac stops kissing him to sit up, pull it off. he’s straddling dennis when he leans back in and says ‘i love you’, again, inches from his lips. this gets him going. “i love you so much,” he says, words slurred, but meaning profound. “gonna show you how much”. dennis ignores him, but those words, once nothingness, become everything now. he slowly finds himself believing.

“you’re my everything,” he says, recklessly, before the thought leaves his head and before he can reconsider and decide against. mac freezes, and then he smiles. dennis hopes mac knows this means he remembers what he said to greg too. maybe if mac is smart enough, he’ll know dennis wished mac had been talking about him back there, when he heard him dole out a dollop of sweet nothings, to that undeserving greg.

“you’re my everything too, man,” he says, making him giddy in the head, unbuttoning his jeans like it’s a contest, tugging them down with a relish. “oh my god. you’re so much bigger than greg.”

dennis goes pink. “shut up, you’ve seen my cock before.”

“i know. thought it would make you happy. and for serious, dude? it’s. shit.”

“it’s shit?”

“no, like, holy shit, it’s nice, you know?”

dennis is almost irritated now. he’s got a throbbing hard cock and no one to suck it, you know? or pump it. or put their... ass over it? dennis isn’t really sure what mac’s gonna do here.

just as he’s about to chastise him, mac licks down the flat of his palm and sends his hand down the side of his shaft, touching it tentatively, out of curiosity. dennis makes a very embarrassing noise, but is soon rendered unconscious of it, because tongue dances around his arousal and mac’s lips pull over it, slowly sucking him off, and dennis is more helpless than he should be, whimpering and pleading, pathetic as can be, but it doesn’t matter, it’s okay, and mac goes faster and faster and it gets wet and so, so good, and he’s crying for help, for more, for release. he grabs onto whatever he can, at some point, he grabs at mac’s leg and gets swatted at, and then he doesn’t think or remember how it happens but he gets what he’s needed for the longest time.

“fuck,” he curses, a good minute or so after it happens, because god, he can’t believe that this happened. oh well. too late now. pretty hard to take getting your dick sucked back.

“was that good?”

“you’re actually asking?”

mac laughs. it feels good to hear. “i was awesome, right, dennis?”

“shut up.”

“okay.” he almost loves this. mac’ll do anything he says now, at least for a good few days.

“hey.”

mac flips his head immediately to look at him. he’d make fun of mac, except he looks beautiful, and his dick is hanging out, so maybe it’s not the time to make fun of someone with anger issues, whether he’s in love with you or not.

“yeah?”

“i-” he changes his mind. “you wanna get some tea?”

mac looks a little confused, but he nods instantly, readily. “uh, sure. if that’s what you want.”

dennis searches for his pants and pulls it on and mac finds his top. they walk to the kitchen in silence and mac hands dennis his tea. he takes a sip. they sit down.

“i meant to say i loved you too,” dennis admits after a while, and to his surprise, mac doesn’t drop his tea, or have any outward reaction aside from his smile.

“i know. you kinda said it earlier when you were-”

“oh.” well that’s embarrassing.

“can we go have sex now?”

they down their tea so fast it would’ve burned their throats had it been any hotter. frankly, there was no need to finish the tea. but they do it anyway, and they scamper off to whichever room’s the closest to finish what they started.

they’ve got the rest of their lives to start and finish things now.

#text #iasip #macdennis #s14 spoilers #14x01 #I DONT KNOW WHAT THIS IS SHH #i just. started typing i guess #anyway #sorry for inserting tea into this so much #i have my reasons but its a secret n im not sure tea really is so important but fuck it i love tea

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the-darklings · 5 years

Text

—the space between fingers;

pairing: arthur morgan x female!reader

summary: What brings you back to life also gives you the means to destroy yourself.

word count: 5.3k+

warnings: a poor attempt at arthur’s pov RIP

notes: I would have had this out sooner tbh but you know ~life~ and ~drama~. Thank you for your insane support on my first two fics. You guys are amazing <33

tagging: the usual suspects: @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast & @deviantramblings

. . .

What brings you back to life also gives you the means to destroy yourself.

It’s a simple truth he has known for many years now. He has gone through phases of it—his parents, Mary, Eliza and Isaac. Fragments of his life he can neatly order into moments that are almost happy, and moments that don’t resemble anything close to happiness.

There is good in those memories but the good always gets vastly outweighed by the memories seeping with bloodshed, bullets and dynamite. Some nights he’s surprised he manages to sleep at all. Even something as simple as sleep feels like a commodity he’s undeserving of.

He has learned his lesson a long time ago though—was taught it time and time again—to stop caring, to not get attached, that the only thing that matters is the Gang and the job. Sometimes his thoughts bleed with Dutch’s voice and he wonders if it’s his own conviction anymore or if the only truth he knows is the one Dutch tells him. He’s his own man, always has been, but sometimes—lately—it’s been harder to tell the difference anymore.

Blackwater has changed something in them. All of them. It’s the kind of fundamental change no one acknowledges but Arthur can see and feel it everywhere he looks.

Some things, it seems, never change though.

Javier’s music still has a way to gather everyone in the camp together.

The people he considers his own are gathered in a merry circle of happiness and laughter. A bottle of whiskey is being passed around but it’s not necessary, considering the state Uncle and Pearson are already in. That, however, doesn’t stop everyone from indulging.

Javier’s music has always been vivid, exciting and full of life; the type of music that makes you want to sing and dance on instinct. On this warm summer night, Charles has also joined in with his harmonica, creating a completely new and exciting set of melodies.

Little Jack is a bustling ball of limbs as he leads Mary-Beth and Karen in a wild dance, much to the amusement of the two young women. Dutch is leading Molly in a more elegant but no less energetic dance that has the redhead blushing bright pink. As always, Dutch and his damn charms are irresistible.

And there, just behind grinning Lenny and Tilly, is you.

He hasn’t seen you smile or laugh since Blackwater.

But your grin is warm and genuine as Hosea spins you in a circle.

Arthur knows you are fond of the man, much like the man is fond of you. Hosea was the first to see more in you than a simple street urchin who decided to steal from Micah—much to the latter's embarrassment and irritation.

Hosea was the one to convince Dutch to take you with them, who taught you how to read and write. Much to his delight, you took to it like a duck to water too. Hosea often brought up—with a not-so-subtle stare in his and John's direction—how much he wishes his old students have been as adept as you are. You’ve become a bit of protege of his.

Arthur sometimes finds himself wondering if it’s simply an old man’s sentimentality, or if you are genuinely two people who have found deeper kinship in one another.

Hosea says something and your expression crumbles before delighted laugh slips out of your mouth, your head slanting back for a moment. The sound is rich and loud, slicing through the heavy, energetic beat of the music.

He feels the sound of it wash over him, and remembers once again why he hasn’t sought you out since Blackwater. Why he has been keeping his distance even more so than usual, why he’s been accepting jobs that take him out of camp for days at the time. He convinces himself it’s because they need the money—and they do—but there is also you.

You make it hard to remember why he stays away, why he avoids connections, why he focuses only on getting the job done and nothing else.

You make a lot of things hard for him.

A part of him wants to look away from you and never look your way again. Because really, he will be doing you a favour if he does. He sure as hell isn’t a nice man to be around, and despite your quick fingers and even quicker tongue, you are a good person. At the core of you is warmth and life—so bright and vivid you practically bleed with it.

That liveliness is also what makes it so hard for him to just look away. Because it’s so very easy to get addicted to gentleness and kindness. Genuine interest and care. So easy to look forward to those things and start to treasure them.

Kindness, he finds out after meeting you, can be a very dangerous thing indeed.

He feels the sting of tobacco on his tongue but doesn’t look away from you, despite the hard voice deep inside him telling him that he should. He isn’t much of a man for festivities, although a free drink is always welcomed. He’s happy to watch over others though, watch the tension and the doubts melt away from their shoulders. That mountain was hard on everyone, and Arthur wonders if things will go back to how they were used to be any time soon.

Dutch shouts something and everyone else cheers in reply, Javier promptly changing the tune to match the uplifted mood.

“Pretty little morsel, ain’t she, cowpoke? Won’t mind a little tussle in the hay with the likes of her.”

Smoke escapes his lips and Arthur grits his teeth for a second, throwing his cigarette to the ground and stomping on it. He digs his boot into the dirt, imagining it's the head of the man who decided to bother him.

"Now I don't know if yer brave or just stupid," he begins almost jovially as he glances at Micah from under the brim of his hat. "Because unless you fancy losin’ all of your teeth I would keep your mouth shut. Think before you speak."

A snake. That's the only way he can describe Micah—the only way he can ever describe the man that feels right. He slinks around the camp, leering and watching, muttering in Dutch's ear far too often for Arthur's taste. But Dutch is a stubborn fool, and whatever he wants to do, he will. When an idea enters his mind, not much can change it. He admired that, once. Now that stubbornness is starting to become a burden, is starting to make him near unreasonable to deal with.

But that doesn’t wipe out twenty years of loyalty. Twenty years of bleeding, fighting and running together. And Micah should know better than to slither his way in and hope he will ever be able to match up to what he, Dutch and Hosea have gone through together.

"Now, I don't mean no harm, Arthur," the man replies easily but there is a sliver of greed, of lust, when his eyes flicker in your direction once more, and Arthur feels something in his gut burn. "We all know you have yer eye on that one. It just surprisin', that's all. The great Arthur Morgan brought down to our level by a pretty face."

Arthur’s lips curl upwards as he glances down, his fingers latching onto his belt buckle as he chuckles under his breath. The sound clearly confuses the blonde man in front of him because after a tense moment he joins in unsurely, the sound more anxious and wheezy than he probably would have liked.

When he looks up at Micah, there is a tense sort of air around him, and it’s obvious where his confusion stems from. Arthur rarely engages him, and if he does, it’s seldom with a kind tone, much less a smile.

He takes his time in approaching the man, the half-grin still lingering on his lips as he looks up at him. There is a very particular kind of joy to be found in the way Micah flinches when Arthur lays his hand heavily on the blonde’s shoulder, squeezing tightly.

“I’ve been runnin’ with Dutch for odd twenty years now,” he says conversationally, patting Micah’s shoulder heavily. “And you wanna know what’s the one thing that always happens?”

Micah remains tense and silent, a disgruntled sort of scowl twisting his expression and Arthur grins wider, fingers sinking deeper into his shoulder for a moment, “When it comes down to it, every man eventually shows what he’s really made of. I’ve seen it time and time again. Those who think they can trick and weasel their way outta of things...well those poor fellows don’t do so well with us. And they sure as hell don’t last long either. So a little respect towards your fellow gang members might do ya some good in the long run. Now you think on that, hm?”

Micah’s expression grows taunt, and his scowl only deepens with every word, but he keeps quiet and Arthur is grateful for it because he’s not in the mood to hear the snake run his mouth again.

After another stretch of strained silence, Micah finally opens his mouth to say something but he never gets to finish.

“Well, well, ain’t this a blessed sight,” Dutch’s voice slices through the night, and Arthur glances to his right to see the older man approaching them with a deceivingly calm expression. “My two best men in one place. Glad to see you two gettin’ on for once,” he adds with an underlying bite in his voice that doesn’t go unnoticed by Arthur.

A slice of anger rips through him at the comparison, but he only dips his chin to not let it show. Whatever opinions he has of Micah are for Dutch’s ears alone, and he sure as hell isn’t going to give the snake the satisfaction of knowing that his presence often causes friction between them. There's no love lost between him and Micah, that much is true, and the whole camp is more than aware of it even if they don’t voice it. He’s glad that he’s not the only one who feels like something is wrong with the blonde though, even if most excuse it due to his impressive skills with a gun.

And no matter how much Arthur wishes he could say otherwise, he has to agree with others. Despite his less than savoury attitude, Micah is a good gun to have in a fight.

“Oh, nothin’ much, Dutch,” he replies, patting Micah on the shoulder a few more times before letting go. He notices how Dutch’s eyes track the misleadingly harsh motion as he turns to face the older man. “Micah and I was just discussin’ the values of respect.”

“That so?” Dutch drawls slowly, eyes fixing on Micah, “Good discussion?”

Micah shoots a harsh glare his way, and Arthur feels his fingers clench around his belt buckle. It will not do him any good to start throwing punches now, no matter how much he wants to.

“It wasn’t anythin’, boss,” Micah bits out, his voice laced with irritation as he rotates his shoulder as if aggrieved. “See ya in the mornin’.”

Dutch does not stop him and Micah walks away without a backwards glance, though the silence he leaves behind is something Arthur would much rather not deal with right now. Dutch pulls out a cigar, still looking in the direction Micah has disappeared in.

“Must you always do this?” he asks at last, his voice pitched low and Arthur can feel his anger spike at the near disappointed edge in Dutch’s voice.

“Oh, I’m sorry, next time I’ll be sure to go and sing him a nice lullaby, Dutch,” he snaps back, motioning in the direction Micah has walked off in. “I’m not startin’ a damn thing and you know it.”

Dutch’s eyebrows rise and he nods his head slightly, a thoughtful hum thrumming at the back of his throat, “I see. And what about how you treat him?”

“How I treat him? And how exactly do I treat him, Dutch?”

His gaze is dark when he answers, “Like he ain’t one of us.”

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief, “That’s probably ‘cause he ain’t,” he replies, words heavy with frustration. “Loyalty. Respect. We might be a bunch of crooks but I always thought that was at the core of our people. He has none of those things. Bell is the last man on this godforsaken patch of dirt that I would trust to ‘ave my back.”

“Enough, Arthur,” Dutch cut off sharply, taking a forceful drag of his cigar before he addresses him once more. “Micah has proven himself to be a fine fellow and valuable addition to our ranks, so I will hear no more of this, is that clear? It’s been a long day, son. You oughta get some rest. Wherever this animosity between you two comes from, I want it dealt with as soon as possible. We can’t be fightin’ amongst ourselves.”

“Yeah,” Arthur intones quietly in reply, bitterness welling in his chest. Besides Hosea, Dutch is the smartest man he knows, and yet when it comes to Micah, he refuses to budge. “Yeah, whatever you say, Dutch.”

He grits his teeth and turns to leave but a hand on his shoulder stops him, and he glances sideways towards the man who looks at him calmly but flatly.

“Son, you must understand,” Dutch begins softly, “I can’t have pointless fightin’ in the camp. I need ya with me, Arthur. I know I’m askin’ much but can you at least try?”

Once, it would have been so easy to turn a blind eye to it all, to simply trust Dutch’s judgement and let him handle everything. Now, Arthur is no longer sure what to make of any of this. Perhaps Blackwater shook his own faith more than he cares to admit.

“Sure thing,” he says at last, still torn, still unsure what the hell has happened to them. Who is responsible for this tension between them. “I’m always with ya, Dutch. But you better have a word with that fool because next time he runs his mouth, it will not end so well for him.”

He pulls back, stricken with the realisation that he can’t stand the thought of lingering here, that for some reason Dutch’s request feels almost like a stab of betrayal. Something in his gut twists at the thought and he tries to push it back as swiftly as he can. Dutch asking him to try and get on with Micah doesn’t mean he’s choosing favourites. They’re not kids for crying out loud. And yet—

His feet start carrying away before he even realises fully what he’s doing. But he doesn’t feel bad about leaving Dutch with those words because he means them and he needs to think, he needs—

“Arthur?”

He freezes.

It takes few blinks to slip out of his daze as he looks over his shoulder to see you standing there, your lips parted and a worried frown twisting the planes of your face. He hasn’t realized he’s stormed past the campfire till that exact moment, the lack of music leaving a near tranquil quiet in its place. Most of the camp has cleared out already, leaving only passed out Uncle and Sean by the fire. Hosea sits beside them, smoking his pipe as he gazes thoughtfully into the flames. You both stand just far enough to be covered by shadows but close enough to still see the glow of embers in the distance.

“Arthur?” you repeat softly, more worried this time as you take a step closer towards him.

You rarely speak his name. Usually, it’s ‘Mr. Morgan’ or some other version of identification that did not require his name. It’s only during rarest, most private moments that you forget yourself enough to use his first name. It warms something in his chest when you do; the worry and concern you so clearly feel towards him, even more so. It’s just another reminder that he has no business involving you in any of this though. It’s true you confide in him but he’s unsure if, just this once, he can return the favour.

“You ought to get some rest Miss (Name). Tomorrow—”

“Are you alright?” your question is brimming with genuine concern as you approach him, and it stops whatever words he’s about to say. “You look...upset.”

He wants to dismiss it but there is something disarming about the look on your face as you gaze up at him.

“It’s nothin’, don’t you worry…” he trails off before something catches his eye, and for a brief moment he forgets Dutch, forgets Micah and focuses only on you, his lips twitching upwards slightly. “Your Highness.”

He bows his head briefly, and his grin widens at your confused frown. There is a moment of suspended silence before your expression clears and you laugh, your hand flying to the top of your head where a freshly woven flower crown sits. Your expression is one of pure delight and he almost sighs at the feeling of lightness that blooms in his chest with it.

“Oh! Um—little Jack made it for me this morning,” you tell him with an affectionate grin, and he turns to face you fully as you come to stop right in front of him. “It was awfully nice of him, and he didn’t ‘ave to but he still—sorry, you’re probably busy! I don’t mean to waste your time Mr Morgan, just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

He watches you from under the brim of his hat, tracking the nervous twist of your fingers and wonders if you realise how endearing this nervous habit of yours has become. Except he shouldn't really care, certainly shouldn't notice it. And most certainly not feel better with you near. Like it’s easier to see things clearly, like your mere presence is enough to calm the simmering anger burning away in him.

But the thought of Dutch and Micah brings back the bitter sting and he feels his small smile wilt. He trusts Dutch, he does but—

“Mr Morgan?” your voice sounds again, and suddenly you’re close enough to touch, to smell, to feel the subtle heat coming from your body. He tells himself that the shiver that races down his spine is from the night chill and not your closeness. “Are you sure you’re fine? I’ve been tryin’ to ask you somethin’ but...I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t wanna,” you trail off, but he notices the sad break in your voice, and there is a part of him that tells him that he’s better off not knowing.

But.

“Apologies, Miss (Name), my head is all over the place today,” he says carefully, noting the way your eyes flicker back to rest on him. He knows that due to the dark and the angle his head is slanted in, you can’t really tell he’s looking right at you. “What was you sayin’?”

“Would you care for a dance, Mr Morgan?”

“Excuse me?”

From everything—anything—he might have expected to hear from you, that most certainly hasn’t been it. For a moment he’s uprooted and unsure because that cold, logical part of him is already rebelling, spitting how not only will this be improper but it will also be dangerous.

You are dangerous.

With your easy smiles, gentle yet understanding eyes and a sense of humour that would make most nuns blush with shame.

He’s been a fool for a woman’s love once.

A love that he has never managed to live up to, never managed to make his own. With Mary it’s always been a race to change himself, to shift his very being into something that will suit her and her high society life.

With Mary, it has always been take, take, take.

With you…

He hasn’t even notice when or how you managed to crawl your way behind the walls he kept so tightly around himself. Not only because he’s undeserving of such happiness but also because after Eliza and Isaac—

His heart—whatever little he ever did have of it—has been destroyed too many time to let another in. To risk the pain and agony of another loss.

But you stand there, looking up at him hopefully, shyly, and he feels so goddamn helpless at the sight of your unguarded expression.

With Mary, it has always been take, take, take.

With you, it has always been give, give, give.

Undoubtedly ironic, considering that from you two, Mary is the elite lady and you are nothing more than another runaway with little to no money to your name.

“There’s—er—no music Miss (Name),” he says finally, his throat dry because this is not the turn he ever expected his night to take. “It’s kinda hard to dance without it, ain’t it? Besides, I ain’t much of a dancer.”

A slight smile curls your lips, and he wonders why for a moment you look so relieved.

“Why Mr Morgan, there’s always music,” you tell him seriously and he feels his eyebrows rise, head tilting so you can see his dubious expression. “You just gotta know how to listen.”

You raise your hand to him, palm outstretched as you wiggle your fingers a little, “May I have this dance?”

Tell her no. Push her away now to spare her the pain later.

He wants to push you away—he really does—but as if in a daze, he cautiously takes your hand in his. Your fingers are so much smaller than his. He hasn’t realised until this moment just how small when in comparison to his. He feels you move them till your hands rest securely against each other, and he allows himself the foolishly indulgent moment of feeling the simple warmth of your skin.

It feels much nicer than he would care to admit.

“Now, just listen.”

His eyebrows knit together in confusion and he glances around, “To what?”

You chuckle under your breath, the sound warm and breathless as you look up at him and he wishes you haven’t. Suddenly he’s painfully aware of your hand in his, of your closeness, of his other hand resting on the curve of your back.

“—relax and listen to everythin’ around you, of course,” you tell him, almost teasingly, and he blinks, realising too late that he is so focused on your nearness he failed to hear you. “Nature is the best provider of natural music. Mr Morgan—Arthur—just relax.”

He clears his throat uncomfortably, and shifts on his feet, “Like I was sayin’ not much of a dancer, that’s all.”

Your head tilts and after a moment of silence, you start humming under your breath, drawing his straying gaze back to you. It’s hard to look at you. It’s still even harder to look away. His fingers itch with a sudden urge to pull out his journal and sketch the visage of you. He wants to remember this moment; the slopes of your face, the curve of your lips and the ghost of a smile on your mouth as your eyes remain shut. You look peaceful. So peaceful, he feels like he’s intruding on the moment even though he’s in the moment with you.

It’s then that he realises that your hums are matching the sound of crickets and owls, of a whisper of leaves caught in the wind, of nature itself. You’re swaying side to side unhurriedly, clearly lost in the moment and Arthur feels his breath seize in his lungs.

Is this his punishment then?

To be given a chance to meet someone as wonderful, as fiercely alive as you, and know he has no right to your heart. Because what could he possibly give you? You deserve someone better than him. Not an old, ugly, bitter outlaw with a bounty on his head, and a past soaked in the blood of the innocent.

You deserve some handsome city dweller who can buy you a pretty house with a picket fence and a dog. Someone who can give you kids who will adore you, and a garden where you can grow flowers when you grow old.

The pang of longing that cuts through his chest is sharp, near acidic, and his grip on you tightens just slightly. Your eyes flutter open and you blink up at him, lips curving down.

“Mr Morgan?”

Your voice is a mere breath that fills the space between you, and suddenly a thousand different things burn at the back of his throat. He wants to say so much and yet—

What can he possibly say? What words can possibly do this—do you—justice? What can he say to you that will not make him appear like a complete, smitten fool? Can he really look you in the eye and tell you how he thinks you’re lovely and kind, and better than anything he could ever deserve? How he could spend the rest of his life doing nothing but good and still be unworthy of you.

“Don’t you worry yourself, ya hear?” he answers with forced calmness, and reads your doubt in the subtle narrowing of your eyes. “Just an old man reminiscing, this is quite the relaxin’ end to my night, believe it or not.”

You’re silent for a long moment, the two of you still swaying side to side leisurely as you continue peering at him.

He’s always liked that about you too. That no matter what people tell you about him, what you hear or see, you always look directly at him. Like you can see him, like he’s real and doesn’t need to hide away or pretend. No fear, no resentment; not even after your less than friendly first meeting.

Something about the knowing, gentle scrutiny of your gaze makes him feel alive.

“I know...I mean, I understand that you don’t owe me nothin’ Mr Morgan but…” your breath catches, eyes slipping away for a moment and he wonders what, exactly, is the source of your internal struggle. You swallow audibly before looking back up at him. “I know you may not trust me but—”

“I do,” he utters before he can stop himself, and he can feel danger crowd him. Having you so near is clearly clouding his sense of reason, and he doesn't want to dig his grave any deeper than it already is. Your expression is frozen with shock, lips slightly parted in disbelief and this time it’s his turn to swallow heavily. “I do trust you,” he adds, ignoring the unfamiliar taste of those words in his mouth.

How many people have ever warranted his complete trust? He can count them on one hand.

Trust is not a currency he deals out freely or often.

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes wide and he feels the tremble of your fingers in his hand. “I—oh. I’m glad.”

And damn it all. Damn that beautiful, soft smile that lifts your lips into a sight that etches itself into his mind, right into his heart too. Damn it all to hell.

This whole thing is becoming a goddamn mess. He knows he shouldn't have done this, knows that this level closeness to you was going to affect him. There is a reason he always opts to stay away. It’s better this way. For both of you.

But this—you—

He lets his hand drop from your back before taking a small step back, and lifting your other hand above your head. You let out another chuckle, seemingly even happier than earlier and it feels worryingly nice to know he’s the source of that joy.

You turn slowly as if savouring the moment, and for one, irrational second he doesn’t want to let you go at all. He wants to stay suspended in this moment of peace, cocooned by your warmth and shadows of the night, with nothing but a song of nature for company.

But all things come to an end, including your spin. Your fingers are still interlaced when you come to a stop right in front of him, grinning down towards the ground. You glance up, moonlight dully illuminating the flower crown sitting on your head.

There is a lull of silence, your fingers still entwined together, and the beat of his heart is the only thing he can focus on at that moment.

He’s about to pull away reluctantly but before he can, you move first by letting go of his hand. You step closer and he feels himself still when you duck your head down to not disturb his hat. The feeling of your soft lips against his cheek is the last thing he expects. It’s brief; nothing more than a fluttering brush of softness and warmth against his ragged skin, but everything about that moment—about the heat of your lips, the smell of your skin mixed with flowers, and the gentleness of your movement—gets committed to memory.

All things end, and you pull back so quickly, he knows the moment only lasted a few seconds. His skin burns, he burns with it, and his fingers clench into fists in an effort to keep himself...calm. He needs to control himself before he does something he will regret later. Like kiss you.

“Thank you, Mr Morgan, for the dance.”

He says nothing but that has never deterred you before—if anything, you understand better than most his need for quiet, and have always been respectful of it.

He finally nods his head, realises that he already misses the heat of your palm in his but refuses to voice his thoughts.

“I’ll oughta let you rest now, I’ve already held you up enough,” you note quietly, that faint smile still lingering in the corners of your mouth. “Goodnight, Mr Morgan.”

With another nod, you turn to go but he reaches out first, his fingertips brushing against your hand and you stop dead in your tracks. He pulls back like your skin has burned him, and it might as well has. He feels the heat of you sink into the very marrow of him, and it makes him grit his teeth briefly.

“Do me a favour, will ya?” he begins, his tone raspy and he forcefully clears his throat before continuing, “If Micah Bell ever so much as looks in your direction, you go straight to Hosea or Charles, alright? Or...me. Whichever you prefer.”

Your shoulders curve slightly and you look positively troubled. “Is there somethin’ wrong?”

He shakes his head sharply because the last thing he wants is to worry you with this. But the memory of the leering look Micah shot you earlier lingers in Arthur’s memory, and he finds that he can’t quite let it go.

“Nah, still, you never know,” he retorts calmly but you don’t look convinced, so he adds, “Don’t forget your shootin’ lessons tomorrow. Better get some rest, or I will be frightened for my own life come next sunrise.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head but the mock irritated look on your face is brimming with tender affection that feels like a kick right in his heart.

“Goodnight, Arthur,” you call with a slight laugh, waving over your shoulder. “See ya tomorrow!”

He watches you walk away and every step feels painful, leaves him feeling bruised and raw even though it shouldn't.

Let her go you fool, let her go. Let her be happy.

He wants to. He really does. He wants to look away and do you that favour in return.

But he hears the thud of his own heart, feels the electrified buzz of his blood rushing through his veins, and finds that he can’t.

What brings you back to life also gives you the means to destroy yourself.

And perhaps you’re the kind of destruction he doesn’t mind.

. . .

an: Mr Morgan is fascinating to write. I truly hope I did him some justice with this fic. He feels things so deeply (based on his actions and journal entries) but rarely, if ever, voices his inner feelings. It’s interesting to try and realistically look at how he might handle having feelings for someone, but still being plagued by his self-hatred, doubt and overall insecurities.

This fic is very much a test run for something much larger and elaborate I have cooking in my head. So any feedback on how I handled his character (and others) and how I can improve would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading guys <33

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur x reader #red dead redemption x reader #arthur morgan imagine #red dead redemption imagine #arthur morgan fic #rdr #rdr imagines #dutch van der linde #micah bell #hosea matthews #arthur's pov...#what did it cost?? everything.

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