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cha-melodius · 2 years ago

Note

Everyone thinks I should stay away from you because you’re dangerous - napollya

(Another trope prompt and Whumptober fill for today's theme "The Way You Shake and Shiver" + "Shaking Hands"... if there's a more Illya-appropriate Whumptober prompt, I haven't seen it! This is a fic I teased before as major Illya angst, and can be summed up as "4 times Illya and Napoleon were warned that the other person was dangerous, and 1 when they decided it was worth the risk.")

A Kiss Away From Being Dangerous

Read it on AO3 (T, 7.3k)

I. Gaby to Napoleon

As a matter of fact, Napoleon is very well aware of what Illya Kuryakin is capable of. Rome wasn’t all that long ago, after all, and Berlin just before that, when Illya tore the back off a car and nearly choked Napoleon out in a public bathroom. Then there’d been Istanbul, when Napoleon had snapped during an argument and needled him a little too much, taken things a little too far, and Illya given him a black eye that had lingered for a week.

That had been a bit of a turning point, though. Yeah, it had hurt, and it had really put a crimp in his style, but it hadn’t been that big of a deal. Napoleon has certainly had far worse. He kind of deserved it, too, if he’s being honest. What had been surprising—what actually had started things shifting between them—was how bad Illya clearly felt about it, even if he tried not to let it show. Napoleon thinks that, somewhat ironically, the black eye and its aftermath was really when he lost all remaining fear of Illya Kuryakin.

The flirting started before the half-moon bruise under his eye had even fully faded away. Napoleon never made a conscious decision to do so, but the teasing innuendos and loaded quips sneak into his speech anyway, largely without his leave. He tells himself it’s just for fun, because it’s a goddamned delight to see Illya flush crimson in response, and possibly even more gratifying when he snaps back, snarling without any heat to it save perhaps a thread of underlying sexual tension. That’s no doubt just wishful thinking on Napoleon’s part, though.

Ok, so he also flirts because he can’t help it, because he wants his partner. His completely, utterly off-limits partner. Turns out Illya is not only gorgeous and absurdly good at his job but also kind and brilliant and surprisingly funny when you get to know him, and it’d be hilarious how far gone Napoleon is on him already except it’s really, really not. Because Illya is also a KGB agent, and a man, and probably involved with Gaby (though Napoleon has pointedly stopped trying to figure out what’s going on there), and mostly seems to tolerate Napoleon the way you end up kind of fond of something you find equal parts annoying and amusing. This is why the flirting is ultimately harmless, since he can’t actually mean anything by it and nothing will ever come of it.

Apparently not everyone sees it that way, though.

He’s honestly surprised the first time Gaby brings it up, after one of their little tête-à-têtes that ends with Illya huffing and leaving the room where they’d been preparing for an operation that evening. And sure, maybe Napoleon’s pointed innuendos about Illya’s long fingers and what he could do with them were pushing the line of decency, but Illya had flushed so prettily and then scowled in that way that Napoleon now knew meant he was trying not to laugh before he’d stormed away, so Napoleon had chalked it up to a success. When Napoleon turns, though, he finds Gaby glaring at him.

“What?” he asks, a little befuddled. She’s never given any indication before that she disapproves of any of this.

“I don’t understand why you insist on provoking him like that,” she says. “One day he’s going to snap again and you’ll get worse than a black eye.”

“Who, Peril?” he asks, frowning at her. “He knows I’m just joking around. He’s not actually bothered by it.”

Gaby’s eyebrows arc upward, almost disappearing beneath her bangs. “Are you sure about that?”

“I am,” Napoleon answers confidently, if a little defensively. “What makes you so sure he is?”

“Because you’re flirting, Solo.”

Napoleon can’t help but be a little offended by that, even though she probably has a point. Still, Illya always banters back at him, and hasn’t told him to cut it out. Napoleon is pretty damned good at reading people, and has only gotten better at reading his partners over the past few weeks; if Illya was actually upset, he’d know. It occurs to him, though, that maybe he’s not reading this situation quite right. “Wait, is it bothering you?” “Why would it bother me?” Gaby replies, her brow knitting in confusion.

“Because you two are…” he trails off and waves his hand vaguely. He’s fine with it, honestly, but thinking about it too hard makes something twist uncomfortably in his gut that he really doesn’t want to contemplate.

“We’re what?”

Christ, she’s going to make him say it. “Look, you don’t appreciate someone flirting with your man, it’s understandable,” Napoleon says, as quickly and flippantly as he can manage. “I promise you, I don’t mean anything by it.” It’s not completely a lie, but he’s definitely not willing to admit what it does mean to anyone. Even someone he’s become quite close to in a few short weeks.

“My man?” Gaby chokes out, and it takes him a minute to realize she’s laughing. “Whatever you think is going on, it’s not.”

“Oh,” he breathes, unsure of what to do with this information. “Really?”

“Really,” she confirms, looking unmistakably amused.

“Then why do you care?”

“I care because you’re both my partners. More than that, you’re my friends,” she sighs, exasperated. “I’d prefer if you keep your face the way it is, and I don’t want to see you push him to the breaking point again.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Napoleon says with all earnestness. “I know where the line is now.”

It is clear that Gaby remains unconvinced. “So you say,” she replies, and then, magnanimously: “I promise I won’t say I told you so when he breaks your nose.”

II. Oleg to Illya

The first time Illya was warned about Napoleon Solo was, of course, when Oleg sat him down before East Berlin and went to great lengths to impress upon him that the American was not to be underestimated. Illya has to admit that even so, he’d been far from concerned. Of course, then Solo had beat him over the Wall, which turned out to be only the first time that Solo would surprise him. It would be safe to say that things had greatly changed between them since that night, but at no point had anything about the course of their partnership come close to what he could have ever expected.

Sitting, as he is, at a secluded café in Stockholm with Oleg, Illya is pretty sure he’s about to be warned again.

He might be working with UNCLE now, but that doesn’t mean Illya isn’t still a KGB agent first and foremost, and with that comes check-ins with his handler. At the beginning they had been fairly frequent; he’d get a call every couple of weeks and have to find a time to get away to meet. Illya assumed he’d be asked to inform on his partners, especially Napoleon, but Oleg seems to be mostly interested in the missions UNCLE is running, as well as on ensuring that Illya knows his place in the world. That doesn’t mean that Napoleon isn’t a regular topic of conversation, to Illya’s increasing chagrin.

This is the first meeting they’ve had in several months, the first since UNCLE established some kind of headquarters in New York, and there is a lot to catch up on. Oleg makes some oblique comments on possibly having to recall Illya for a KGB operation, but there’s nothing definitive. The statements are not couched as a threat, but Illya takes them as such anyway: remember where your loyalties lie, or we may be forced to remind you. Illya makes sure to appear as amenable and eager as possible, and doesn’t really want to think about the relief he feels when he’s told perhaps he won’t be needed after all.

“There is one more matter I wish to discuss,” Oleg says, before Illya can relax too much. “I am concerned you may be relying too much on Solo in the field.”

Illya is not entirely sure what to say to this. If he cannot rely on his partners—even if they technically are on opposite sides of this cold war—then he has much larger problems.

“He has shown himself to be reliable,” he says evenly, truthfully. Deep down, he can’t help but feel a tiny bit amused to be making this statement, given his opinions of the American in the beginning. At least Napoleon is not here to hear him say it. He would be insufferable.

“He is not to be trusted,” Oleg replies sharply. “You know this. It is an unfortunate but unavoidable consequence of spending too much time with those at UNCLE that you begin to lose sight of it. He is a liar, and a thief, and he will betray you. It is only a matter of time.”

It seems unwise to point out that, as spies, they are all liars, and all thieves. “I understand. I will be more careful,” Illya says instead. Unfortunately, this seems to be one of those times where Illya fails to be a convincing liar.

Oleg stares at him for a long moment, the frown etching deeper into his already heavily-lined face. “I am not sure you do understand, Illya,” he mutters darkly, but then he lets the topic drop.

The fact of the matter is that the situation is far worse than Oleg suspects. Working with Napoleon and Gaby is sometimes infuriating, to be sure, but also satisfying and comfortable and strangely fun, which is not something Illya thought he would ever say about missions. He’s come to greatly value this team, far more than he knows he should. Worse, he’s attached. It had been easy to avoid making friends when everyone was too busy shunning him for his sordid family history, but Gaby and Napoleon had blown right past all his remaining barricades to insert themselves into his heart in a way he’d assumed was long since lost to him.

That wasn’t even factoring in the other unexpected turn things had taken, because even as the spark between him and Gaby had not so much ignited as kindled gently into a warm, familial glow, the tension that had been present from the very start between him and Napoleon twisted itself into something else altogether. The flirting had not been as much of a surprise as the realization that Illya likes it. Not just the teasing, snarky back and forth, but also the way he feels warm all over after a particularly good volley, or the way that something clenches in his gut at the more blatant innuendos, at the implication that Napoleon might want him. It’s a foolish, dangerous feeling, but Illya doesn’t want it to stop.

“Remember, Illya,” Oleg says as they part, as if he’s aware of the way Illya’s thoughts have drifted during the wrap up of their meeting. “Do not let your guard down. You underestimate Solo at your own peril.”

It’s a fair warning, though Illya thinks that underestimating Napoleon is not really his problem anymore.

III. Illya to Napoleon

In months of flirting, Napoleon had never actually allowed himself to believe that his feelings might not be as one-sided as he assumed them to be. To do so would have been folly; even in the moments when it seemed like Illya was actually flirting back, he wrote them off as Illya just becoming more comfortable joking around with him, not that he might actually want him.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Napoleon gets some very strong evidence to the contrary.

Retrieving intel from a high security facility is usually child’s play for them; they’ve come a long way in working together since the Vinciguerra shipping compound. This time, though, they need to be certain that no one knows that they’ve been there, so when it becomes clear that they’re about to encounter someone in a corridor that should be empty, they duck into a room to one side, then Napoleon proceeds to shove them both into a closet at the sound of the voices pausing outside the room. Illya makes a soft noise of protest once he realizes that the closet is far too small for two somewhat oversized men, barely allowing for any space between them, but he goes anyway, grumbling when Napoleon steps on his toes as he shuts the door behind them.

He hadn’t really looked inside when he’d opened it, but now he realizes there are clothes hanging next to them, and when he paws at them in the dark his fingers make out the lettering on the shirt. A lucky break: uniforms. The chances that any of them would be Illya’s size are pretty much zero, but if Napoleon can get into one then he should be able to access all kinds of areas without much fear of being caught, and their chances of success here will go way up. He pivots in place so his back is to Illya’s front, reasoning that he’ll be able to maneuver a little better in this position, with emphasis on a little. At least Illya is a convenient surface to lean against as he bends awkwardly to tug at the laces of his shoes before he toes them off.

“What are you doing?” Illya hisses immediately, trying and failing to shove him off. Joke’s on him. There’s nowhere for Napoleon to go but right here on top of him.

“Changing,” Napoleon huffs as he yanks his shirt out of his pants and deftly unbuttons it, then shrugs out if it and his jacket in one go. “There are uniforms here. I’m going to get one on so I can blend in. Hold this,” he adds, thrusting the bundle of clothes back at Illya, who’s apparently too flabbergasted by the situation to protest being Napoleon’s coat hanger.

Illya makes a strangled sound and abruptly there are two large hands bracketing Napoleon’s bare waist, pressing him forward in a clear attempt to hold his body away from Illya’s. “Stop wiggling,” Illya demands, sounding increasingly distressed for reasons Napoleon can’t quite fathom.

“Not making this easy, Peril,” Napoleon grits out, becoming more annoyed with every passing moment.

“Neither are you.”

This is absurd. He wrenches out of Illya’s grip and shucks his pants off, then pushes backward again in an attempt to get room to pull on the uniform pants. Illya’s chest and stomach are just about as unyielding as a brick wall at his back, but there’s something else pressing firmly against his ass, and he’s halfway to making a joke along the lines of watch were you put that pistol, Peril, or you’re liable to give a guy the wrong idea, when he realizes: Oh. That’s why Illya seems so uncharacteristically flustered.

Napoleon freezes, half in the pants and unsure of what to do. “Are you—” he starts without thinking, before he realizes he has no idea what he actually wants to ask right now. Are you hard? Are you… ok? Are you interested in continuing this later on in a more comfortable location? In the end, he elects not to finish that line of questioning at all. Now is simply not the time, but there’s also no way he’s just pretending this never happened. “Don’t think we’re not talking about this later,” he promises under his breath.

Illya doesn’t respond, but Napoleon is pretty sure he can hear his teeth grinding together behind him. Some how his hands have ended up back on Napoleon’s waist, searing like brands against his bare skin, though they’re not so much holding him at bay as just… holding onto him. It’s incredibly distracting, and Napoleon wills himself to focus without a lot of success. Then he falters getting his other leg in the pants and falls back against Illya again, and they both let out low groans as Illya’s erection presses into the cleft of his ass. Closing the pants he’s putting on has rapidly become a lot more difficult, and he has half a mind to turn around so they can both just let off some steam, but fuck, the mission, and there are still voices outside the room, so Napoleon jerkily tugs on the uniform shirt and absolutely does not bother to hide his frustration.

The uniform works like a charm; Napoleon gets into the restricted area without any trouble and makes it out with the intel they needed. Illya definitely does not meet his eye when he reemerges and slips into the back of Gaby’s waiting car. There’s no question that Gaby notices the tension, but to be fair she probably just thinks they had one of their usual fights, so she doesn’t press them about it. The moment they arrive Illya pretty much flees to his hotel room, and Napoleon just shrugs like he doesn’t know what got into him.

Later, after they’ve checked in with Waverly and gotten instructions for moving forward, Napoleon makes good on his promise. He’s already decided that he’s picking the lock on Illya’s door if he doesn’t answer, but surprisingly Illya answers promptly after he knocks. He probably guessed Napoleon’s plan, but then again Napoleon has never known Illya to save him any trouble. As it is, he opens the door and immediately turns away, walking back into the hotel room without a word.

“So,” Napoleon says, strolling after him and making a detour to the liquor cabinet for a tumbler of Scotch. “About today. In the closet,” he adds, just to make sure they’re all on the same page.

Illya stops in front of a window and stares fixedly out of it, arms folded in front of his chest and his hands clenched into fists. Not exactly a promising start, but he doesn’t move away when Napoleon approaches to stand next to him, so that’s something.

“Look, we can ignore it,” Napoleon offers, even though he’s pretty sure they can’t. “Pretend it never happened and go back to business as usual. Or…” he says, trailing off as he reaches up to gently tug Illya’s arms out of their defensive position, “we could admit what we both want and do something about it.”

There’s something slightly wild in Illya’s eyes when he finally looks at him, and Napoleon can feel his pulse racing where his fingers are delicately looped around one of his wrists. He takes a cautious step forward, but still, Illya doesn’t pull away. Which is not to say that his body language is particularly welcoming. Illya is clearly trying to close himself off, but being a forbidding stone wall isn’t going to be good enough this time. Maybe it scares everyone else off, but not Napoleon. He shifts another step closer, so there are only inches between them now.

“Cowboy,” Illya growls in a low rumble. A warning. “Do not. We cannot.”

“Why? Give me one good reason, and I’ll stop.”

Illya scoffs. “This is too dangerous. I am too dangerous.”

“Nope. Not a good reason,” Napoleon retorts with a shake of his head, unable to keep his lips from tipping into a tiny smirk.

“You do not understand—”

“I understand perfectly, Peril,” Napoleon says, cutting him off. “You think I’m not very aware of what these hands can do?” Slowly but purposefully, he lifts Illya’s hand and places it at the base of his neck, his thumb resting in the vulnerable hollow between his collarbones. “I just don’t care. I want them on me anyway.”

“You are stupid man,” Illya murmurs. His fingers tighten, digging into the soft flesh, though Napoleon can’t tell if it’s meant to be a threat or if the movement is involuntary. A conditioned response, maybe. “Not a single instinct for self-preservation.”

Napoleon swallows against the pressure on his throat and meets Illya’s gaze unwaveringly. “Not when it comes to you,” he says, his voice slightly hoarse. “Tell me you don’t want me, that you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away.”

Illya’s hand shifts, and Napoleon is sure he’s going to withdraw. That was, of course, the expected outcome; even if he’d felt confident enough to make this gambit, he’s not—all evidence to the contrary—an idiot. The odds that Illya would be willing to act on it were always low. But instead of leaving his skin, Illya’s hand slides upward to the angle of his jaw, his fingertips threading into the hair at the nape of Napoleon’s neck as the pad of his thumb drags across his cheek. He pauses a moment more, staring into Napoleon’s eyes with a breathtaking intensity. A silent challenge: Stop this, before it’s too late.

Napoleon was never going to be the one to stop this.

The kiss Illya pulls him into is achingly soft, in stark contrast to his earlier warning. It starts as a cautious, closed-mouth press, Illya’s lips moving gently against his, but, as previously established, Napoleon has never been much for caution. He pulls Illya’s plush lower lip between his own, offers a light drag of teeth and a swipe of his tongue, and Illya opens up readily in return. The hand on Napoleon’s jaw nudges him to tip his head so their mouths slot perfectly together, and Napoleon lets go of the last vestiges of his restraint. He chases the exquisite softness of Illya’s mouth as he licks past his teeth and slides his tongue against Illya’s, revels in the scratch of his stubble where their chins rub together, and slots his hand into the dip Illya’s narrow waist like he’s been aching to do for so, so long.

It’s certainly gratifying that Illya seems just as enthusiastic, that he lets out a low moan in response and drags Napoleon even closer, pressing their bodies together with a large hand that slips along his back and down to palm his ass, that Napoleon can feel him getting hard as their hips grind together.

“Eager, are we?” Napoleon breathes, grinning like a fool, when they finally break apart for air.

Illya ducks down to press a series of wet kisses along Napoleon’s jaw and over to his ear, until his lips brush against the shell of it. “You have been teasing me for months,” he growls before pulling back to look at Napoleon again, a spark in his eye that is equal parts mischievous and dangerous. “It is time to reap what you have sown, Cowboy.”

Napoleon surges up to kiss him again as a tremor of anticipation shoots down his spine, because that is a threat that he’s certainly not the least bit upset about.

IV. Gaby to Illya

If Illya thought it would be easier to deal with his feelings about Napoleon once they started sleeping together, he is sorely mistake. Sure, now he has an outlet for that itch that builds up beneath his skin, now he doesn’t have to force himself to look away before Napoleon catches him staring, now he can end arguments by shutting Napoleon up with his mouth, but allowing that door to open has also let in a whole host of other problems. Problems he could have probably predicted, had he stopped to think instead of surrendering to the irresistible gravity of his partner.

It’s just sex. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything, not with who they are and the world the way it is. If it’s just sex, it’s fine—

Well, it’s not fine. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of fine. Even just sex is more than a bridge too far, a betrayal he’ll never be forgiven for, and that doesn’t even factor in that it hasn’t been just sex for months now. Not for Illya, and he suspects not for Napoleon either, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too hard. It’s also Napoleon cooking his favorite foods and his steady support on Illya’s darker days, it’s quiet nights at one of their apartments between missions and soft mornings still curled around each other in bed. Those things all add up to something Illya doesn’t dare to try to name and can’t allow himself to acknowledge.

It can’t be anything more, so it isn’t.

Obviously, no one else knows, except for the one person they can’t keep anything from. They haven’t tried to hide it from her, but they’re not obvious about it either, and no one is exactly eager to bring it up in conversation. Illya supposes it’s possible that Napoleon has discussed it with Gaby, but he doesn’t think it likely. He certainly hasn’t. He’s not accustomed to talking about these things anyway, and it’s safer for everyone if as little is said about it as possible. They are still just as effective a team, so what Illya and Napoleon do in their free time is irrelevant.

Sometimes it’s a little bit relevant, though. Sometimes, like tonight, Illya and Gaby are attending a ball as a couple, and Napoleon is there to charm the other guests in an impeccably tailored tux that shows off all his best features, all roguish smiles and dazzling eyes, and Illya hates it. He hasn’t been particularly fond of watching Napoleon flirt with other people since long before he realized why that was, but now it sets off something ugly and possessive in his gut, something he has no right to. He spends the entire night scowling save for one moment when Napoleon catches his eye across the room and sends him a playful wink, and for some reason, this is when Gaby cracks.

“You know, the lovesick, kicked puppy expression is not really helping sell that you’re happy to be here with your wife,” she huffs, glaring up at him from where they’re standing at a table with good sight lines at one side of the room.

Illya manages to not flinch at her words and instead schools his face into something hopefully far more bland. “I hate these parties, my cover hates these parties, it works out,” he says with a shrug.

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

“What do you mean, Chop Shop?” he retorts, then realizes too late that he shouldn’t have asked at all.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Illya?”

“Because I have to be here for the mission?”

“No, I mean—” she starts, then cuts herself off with another huff of exasperation, drains her drink, and grimaces briefly before she looks back up at him. “Look, I haven’t said anything about you and Solo, because that’s your business. But as your friend, as someone who loves you, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to stand by and watch you get deeper and deeper into a situation that’s going to get you hurt, Illya.”

For a moment, Illya just stares at her, because this outburst is pretty much the last thing he expected tonight. “I do not know what situation you are referring to,” he says eventually, “but there is no worry about me getting hurt.”

“You think I don’t see how you look at him? You’re not good at masks like he is, darling,” Gaby tells him, her voice softening as she places a gentle hand on his forearm. “When you let your heart out of that cage you keep it in, you wear it right on your sleeve.”

Illya scoffs and looks away across the room to avoid her eyes, which is probably not helping his case. “So?”

“So I can see you falling for him, even if you’re too busy telling yourself that you’re not,” she says, eviscerating him in one fell swoop.

“You are imagining things,” he protests. “And anyway, I still do not see why you would say he is the one who will hurt me.”

Gaby sighs and looks across the room, and Illya doesn’t have to follow her gaze to know she’s seeking out Napoleon. “He won’t mean to,” she allows, “but if you let things keep going like this, it’s going to happen anyway.”

“You do not seem to have very high opinion of him for someone who is supposed to be his friend.”

“I am his friend, which means I know how he is,” she insists. “He doesn’t do relationships, Illya. That’s not a judgement, it’s just a fact. I’ve heard him say it.”

“When?” Illya demands before realizing that he doesn’t really want to know. Either it was long enough ago to give him a dangerous spark of hope that Napoleon might have changed his mind, or it was recent, and Gaby is probably right. It is better that way, anyway, if Napoleon at least might come out of this unharmed when it ends.

“I don’t know, maybe Istanbul? Or the one after. We stayed up late drinking and I got to hear all about the Napoleon Solo philosophy on relationships. Truly edifying,” she adds dryly. “The point is, you may be happy enough now but one day you’re going to want more, and he’s not going to be able to give it to you, because that’s not who he is.”

“You are wrong. I will not want more because there is no more to have. Not for us. So there is no problem,” Illya says, and then, because he really doesn’t want to be having this conversation anymore, he turns on his heel and starts to talk off, though he doesn’t get far before Gaby catches him by the arm again.

“Lying to yourself is not going to help, Illya!” she hisses, and even though he could easily pull away he stops again. “Just think about it, ok? I don’t want to see you get your heart broken.”

Illya isn’t really sure exactly what she wants from him. She must know that putting an end to their arrangement, going back to the way things used to be, would be nigh impossible. He’s not going to stop wanting Napoleon—he’s not going to be able to stop feeling these things—just because he should. If that were possible, none of this would have started in the first place. Besides, he’s still not convinced that Napoleon is the dangerous one in this scenario.

“You are forgetting one thing, Chop Shop,” he says eventually as he carefully pries her hand off of his arm.

“And what is that?”

“I am the one who breaks things.” I am the one who is already broken, he doesn’t add.

“Illya—” Gaby tries, but he cuts her off.

“I am done discussing this,” he says with finality, and this time she lets him walk away.

It starts with a mission gone sideways, an ambush in a not-so-abandoned research facility, and a poisoned tranquilizer dart that wasn’t meant for him. To be honest, Napoleon isn’t really sure how it goes after that, because he spends most of the next 24 hours barely conscious. He’s of course aware of the beginning, before the toxin had started kicking in, when Illya had fucking lost it at him for having the temerity to push him out of the way, and Napoleon had yelled back, and they’d both said things they were sure to regret the next day.

Well. Illya might regret them the next day. It becomes rapidly clear that Napoleon isn’t likely to see the next day if they don’t find the antidote.

Napoleon remembers the message they received that put a countdown timer on his life, the onset of the weakness, and the way his heart had started beating an alarmingly erratic rhythm, but after that, things get a little blurry. He knows he spends most of that time in a safehouse bed, sweating and shaking as his jaw seems determined to grind his teeth to dust. He knows that, on the rare moments that the fog in his mind clears and he regains a sliver of lucidity, Gaby is there, trying to get him to drink water and telling him to hold on, that they’re going to fix this. (Napoleon doesn’t really believe her, but it’s not like he has it in him to express that, and Gaby would just get mad at him if he did.)

He knows that he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Illya since his partner stormed away after mostly carrying him into the safehouse. Napoleon appreciates that Illya is mad at him, but he’d kind of like to see him, just once, before the end. The Illya-shaped apparition that shows up at his bedside, covered in blood, probably doesn’t count. At that point Napoleon is so out of it that he is certain that he must be hallucinating.

When he wakes up an unknown amount of time later, Gaby is still there. He’s more fatigued than he’s ever been in his life and everything aches, but his heartbeat is steady and he’s alive.

“You found the antidote?” he asks unnecessarily, because if they hadn’t he’d be dead by now.

“Illya did,” Gaby confirms as she shoves a glass of water toward him.

“Where is he?”

She hesitates; not for very long, but long enough. “He’s just wrapping some stuff up now,” she offers, not very convincingly, then immediately changes the subject. “How do you feel?”

“Like death warmed over,” he admits.

“Drink the water. I’d offer you some aspirin but we don’t know how it might interact with anything still lingering in your system, so you’re just going to have to tough it out.”

“I’ll live,” Napoleon huffs.

“Yeah,” she sighs, not bothering to hide the profoundness of her relief, “you will.”

The lingering effects of the poison have left his strength completely sapped, so he spends most of the day in bed while Gaby brings him the barely edible concoctions that she’s managed to throw together. Once, thinking he heard voices, he managed to be upright long enough to venture down the hall and into the living room before Gaby caught him and shoo’ed him back into bed. He tells himself that he just needed to move, that he wasn’t looking for anyone, but that, of course, is a lie. Over a surprisingly good dinner (“Take away,” Gaby admits with a smirk), he tries to ask again.

“Is he avoiding me?”

“Of course not,” Gaby answers immediately. “He’s just busy.”

Napoleon cocks an eyebrow at her. “So he left you to play nursemaid?”

“I don’t mind,” she says with a shrug. “The most important thing to me is that you’re all right.”

“But not to him.”

“Now you’re just twisting my words—”

“Save it, Gaby,” he snaps, then immediately feels bad. It’s not her fault Illya apparently can’t stand to be around him. He lets out a heavy sigh. “Sorry. Just exhausted.”

Gaby unfolds from where she’d been sitting cross-legged on the bed next to him and moves his dinner tray to the side table before she leans in to press a kiss to the side of his forehead. “Get some sleep. Things will be better in the morning, I promise.”

The one benefit of being this bone-tired is that he falls asleep before he can spend too much time dwelling on what Illya’s absence really means. That doesn’t mean he stays asleep, though; he wakes in the middle of the night with a strong feeling that he should check the safehouse perimeter. It’s nothing, he knows, there’s no reason to suspect they’re compromised here, but he’s not going to be able to fall back asleep unless he sees for himself that everything is all right. He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the robe that Gaby had scrounged up for him, snugging the belt around his waist before he shuffles out into the quiet house.

As he expected, there’s no sign of anything out of the ordinary. He’s just about to give up when he glances out of the window in the kitchen that looks out onto the unruly back garden and sees a familiar figure hunched over in a chair. Most of him is hidden in shadow, but the way his hair nearly glows silver in the pale moonlight is so arresting that Napoleon doesn’t know how long he stands there staring before he finally steps outside. Illya doesn’t look up, but he must hear the soft click of the latch, and in any case he doesn’t stir when Napoleon finally speaks.

“Nightmares?” Napoleon asks, pausing just on the other side of the door. Illya waking in the middle of the night in a cold sweat is far from an uncommon occurrence, but over the past few months he seemed to have been sleeping better. Napoleon liked to imagine that part of it was that he was no longer sleeping alone most nights, but he’s also reluctant to read too much into it. He knows how he feels, but expecting too much from his partner would unquestionably spell disaster, so he doesn’t.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Cowboy,” Illya mutters.

“Neither should you,” Napoleon says as he cautiously creeps closer, until the outlines of Illya’s face and hands slowly resolve out of the darkness. Then he sees what he was dreading. Illya’s hands, covered in bruises and cuts, are clenched around his thighs just above his knees, but his grip can’t fully mask the tremors running through them. Napoleon hasn’t seen him this bad in a long time, and it’s more than a little concerning. “Christ, you’re shaking,” he breathes, moving forward and reaching out for him without even thinking about it.

He tries not to think about how much it hurts, a physical ache in his chest, when Illya shies away from him. Illya almost stumbles out of the chair, putting ground between them, and Napoleon forces himself to stop even though it goes against every one of his impulses.

“Leave me alone,” Illya warns, still backing away. His hands clench into fists by his side in a failed attempt at controlling the shaking.

“Not happening,” Napoleon returns, because there’s no way he’s letting this go. Yes, Illya is in distress, but him shutting people out is not the answer, not to mention that Napoleon is kinda pissed at him for disappearing without a word when Napoleon needed him. “What’s going on, Peril? Why are you avoiding me?”

Illya huffs and turns, already striding away as he mutters under his breath, “I cannot do this.”

“Don’t you dare walk away from me, or so help me god, I will tackle you to the ground,” Napoleon calls after him, and shockingly, Illya stops, though he doesn’t turn around.

“You are still too weak.”

“Fucking try me,” Napoleon hisses, though it does take him far too long to close the distance between them. His heart is racing in a slightly alarming way when he stops directly in front of Illya, glaring daggers up at him. “You’re stuck with me, asshole.”

Illya holds up a trembling hand before closing it into a fist again. “You know what this means. You need to stay away.”

“And I told you that I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be,” Illya snarls. He takes a step forward that’s probably supposed to be threatening, but Napoleon holds his ground. For a moment he thinks this might end in a fist fight after all, and though it wouldn’t be the first time, he’s really not in any condition for such things right now. Illya glowers at him, and Napoleon stares back unflinchingly, and then, after several long minutes, something shatters in Illya’s expression and he looks away. When he speaks again, all the heat has gone out of his voice. He just sounds… broken. “You should be terrified of the things I would do—that I have done—to save you.”

Napoleon reaches out for him again, and this time Illya lets him take his shaking hands and curl their fingers together. “You think I wouldn’t do exactly the same? I would burn the goddamned world down for you, Illya, because I love you,” Napoleon confesses. Fuck it, he might as well go all in. “So no, I’m not afraid.”

He might start to regret that confession, just a little, when Illya just stares at him in shock, eyes impossibly wide, for far too long. Maybe he can play it off as being not exactly what it sounded like, somehow. Maybe—

“You— what did you say?” Illya breathes.

There’s no question which part he’s talking about, so obviously Napoleon’s traitorous mouth says it again. “What? The part where I said that I love you?”

“You cannot mean that.”

“Excuse me? Are you implying that I’m somehow mistaken about how I feel?”

For a long moment, Illya is silent, his face drawn into a pinched, pained expression as he stares down at their linked hands. “Love is beautiful thing, but so delicate,” he says eventually, his voice unsteady. “Men like me… we are only built for only destruction. So you can’t, because I do not know how to hold something like that and not break it.” He pauses another beat, then adds in a whisper, “I— I am a monster, Napoleon.”

It’s a tossup whether Napoleon feels more heartbroken by Illya’s words or furious that anyone could have ever made him think that way about himself, but most of all he feels deeply ashamed that he was one of those people too, at the beginning. When he regarded the man in front of him as nothing more than a ruthless, volatile machine. Christ, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so utterly wrong about anything in his life.

“You’re not. You’re not, Illya, you hear me?” Napoleon insists. He lets go of Illya’s hands, steady now, to cup one of his own around his cheek, tipping Illya’s face up so that blue eyes meet his again, and presses the other just to the left of his sternum. “You are beautiful, every part of you, but especially this big heart, the one that the world and those bastards at the KGB could never beat out of you, no matter how hard they tried. You deserve to be loved, and I want to fucking destroy every person who ever made you think otherwise. And the way I love you? It’s not fragile. You can’t break it, I promise.”

Illya stares at him, and Napoleon doesn’t know if he’s going to keep arguing or not. His expression is utterly inscrutable, his blue eyes unreadable. “I was angry,” he finally says, “because you would throw your life away to save mine. Because of what that meant, and how it scared me almost as much as the possibility I would lose you.” He puts a hand over where Napoleon’s rests on his chest and leans forward until their foreheads touch, a small, almost melancholy smile just barely curving his lips. “You were never supposed to love me back.”

All at once Napoleon’s chest is absurdly tight, because even if it isn’t exactly those words, there’s no mistaking Illya’s intention. “Well,” he manages, a little breathlessly, letting a grin of his own tug on the corners of his mouth, “you know I’ve never been good at doing what I was supposed to.”

Then Illya kisses him, slow and deep, like he’s carefully mapping every surface of Napoleon’s mouth. Like he thought he might not ever get this again. And Napoleon kisses him back, meeting his every movement, until his go slightly numb and his legs start to tremble under him. The latter does not escape Illya’s notice.

“Cowboy,” Illya says as he tries to take a step back, but it turns out Napoleon kinda needs to support to stay upright. He stumbles forward, and Illya catches him up in his arms again, concern etched on his face. “What is wrong?”

Napoleon huffs a soft laugh. “I’d like to say you just make me weak in the knees, but I’m pretty sure it’s just the lingering effects of the toxin,” he quips, offering Illya a lopsided grin. “Come back to bed with me? I sleep better with you there. I think… you make me feel safe.”

“Yes,” Illya agrees with a small smile, “it is the same for me.”

#whumptober2022 #no.7 #the way you shake and shiver #shaking hands #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#fic #napollya #napoleon x illya #tmfu #the man from uncle #napoleon solo #illya kuryakin #napollya fic #tmfu fic #my fic

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lady-literature · 4 years ago

Text

Found Family

holy shit did this one get way out of hand. Don’t expect them all to be this long because hot damn this is a monster compared to literally everything else but it just wouldn’t stop

(should I have expected this? probably. we all know how I am about found family.)

anyway enjoy 4.5k words ig

based on this post | @maribatmarch-2k21 | find more here

***

When Marinette had been chosen to intern with Monsieur Wayne’s PA, she hadn’t been expecting anything special. Sure, the Waynes were an odd breed and generally considered strange, but Marinette hadn’t actually expected to have much contact with them—if any at all.

She was here to earn credit for her business degree.

Instead, she has… well. She thinks she’s been somehow inducted into the Wayne family, mostly on accident and kind of as a joke.

That is, until it very much wasn’t.

***

Her first mistake, she supposes, was being too good at her job.

Marinette is an old hand at keeping track of multiple moving parts and riding herd on stubborn people who’d otherwise be too distracted or goofing off. (She was the Court’s leader for more than just being the latest in a long line of Ladybugs, after all.)

After the first two days shadowing Selina—“please, darling. Ms Kyle is so formal”—and learning the broad strokes of the job, Marinette felt confident enough to dig her nails in and get to work. Selina spent most of her time dedicated to international tasks and arranging Monsieur Waynes’ private affairs—all of which was highly classified and not discussed with Marinette—so she turned her attention to inter-company affairs.

Her first order of business was personally meeting with as many people in managerial positions as she could get. Not a requirement for the job per se, but these were people she’d have to interact with often and Maman had always stressed the importance of building connections in the workplace.

“People,” she would say, “are far more willing to do what you want them to when you’ve endeared yourself to them.”

So Marinette takes that advice and spends her breaks and lunches charming employees and giving baked goods to security guards and learning the names of the cleaning crew. She doesn’t speak to the department heads, because Selina handles their correspondences, but everyone else is free game as far as she’s concerned.

She becomes a well-recognized face astoundingly quickly.

***

Marinette probably should’ve seen the rumors coming.

It’s common practice in not only the Wayne family, but in most business conglomerates, for the children to quickly rise through the ranks of their company—if not just handed a high position right off the bat.

It took barely a month before the eldest was all but running Human Resources, and the second was placed as Head of Security practically out of nowhere. Monsieur Drake is the youngest (and most terrifyingly calculated) CEO to ever hold Wayne Enterprises, even if he does share the title with his father.

The other three are still too young or have yet to express an interest in the company, but people say it’s only a matter of time.

The track record speaks for itself, even if Marinette wishes it didn’t.

As a girl who’d come mostly out of nowhere and found herself with far more divisive sway in the company than she had any right to, it’s no wonder everyone thinks she’s some sort of secret Wayne finally coming out of hiding.

Marinette had nearly choked on her coffee when Selina dropped the bomb of that particular tidbit of company gossip.

“Most think you’ve been unofficially adopted,” Selina tells her, looking far too amused for Marinette’s liking. “Seeing as you’re too old for official avenues now.”

Marinette looks up warily from the schedule she’s rearranging. Selina had all but shoved the thing at her a month ago when she started suggesting more efficient ways of managing the CEOs’ valuable time.

“Only most? Does that mean the rest have common sense?”

Selina’s grin widens even further, if that’s possible, and Marinette regrets her question even before the older woman starts speaking.

“Oh, of course not!” she laughs delightedly. “The rest are hoping to hear news of wedding bells. It’s high time someone swept a Wayne off the market, don’t you think?”

***

“So you’re the new little sister I keep hearing about.”

Marinette stares up through narrowed eyes at the brightly smiling Dick Grayson. In her stomach, there are already the beginnings of resignation starting to form.

“It’s nice to finally meet you!”

This man is going to bring her nothing but trouble. She can tell.

***

Dick takes a liking to her. And she, against her better judgment, finds herself doing the same to him.

It’s a little hard not to, if she’s being honest. He’s bright and bubbly and brings her bagels during his morning break without her ever having asked.

It takes practically no time at all before Marinette considers him a friend, relaxing when he’s near and laughing openly at his ridiculous jokes. Despite being the head of HR, he’s not great at the whole ‘professional’ thing and often employees will walk by to find him draped across a chair or balancing precariously on the edge of her desk while she tries and fails to get some work done while he’s around.

It really doesn't help all of the ‘Marinette is a Wayne’ rumors running around. Especially when Dick starts pointedly calling her every variation of ‘little sister’ that he can think of just to annoy her (and, she knows, because he thinks the entire situation hilarious).

***

Three weeks after befriending Dick, Selina all but shoves her into Monsieur Drake’s office and, in no uncertain words, says, “He’s your problem now.”

Marinette blinks at what she can describe as nothing other than a disaster area and just… sighs.

Tim blinks back at her.

The motion is somehow both completely blank and filled with an uncomfortable amount of knowing at the same time. There is also, she notices, a frankly ludicrous amount of concealer caked beneath his eyes and more coffee cups scattered on every flat surface than Marinette has ever seen in her life.

She knows his schedule like the back of her hand seeing as she spends hours of her day pouring over it to make sure everything runs smoothly. He has no prior engagements for the next three hours.

“You’re not going to take a nap just because I ask, are you?”

He snorts. “Absolutely not.”

She nods, having expected the answer; her phone was already at her ear before he even finished speaking. “Hey, Dick!” she greets, sounding brighter than she feels at the moment, and watches as Tim stiffens in front of her. “Yeah, no. I was just wondering if you’re busy right now.” She pauses. “Oh, good! Can you come up to Tim’s office for me? Yeah, I need you to knock him out so I can fix his dumpster fire of an office.”

Tim has since started waving his hands frantically at her, panic setting in behind his eyes.

Marinette stares at him, unmoved. “Thanks, Dick! You’re the best!”

The silence after she hangs up is deafening.

“I don’t know if I should be impressed by the ease you’re manipulating me or pissed off that you’re doing it in the first place.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Does your decision have any bearing on my future employment?”

His eyes squint. “…No.”

Marinette shrugs, mind already whirling with what she’ll need to get done first and calculating how long she’ll likely have to get it done. “Then I think you should skip right over both of those and land on resignation as quickly as possible, Monsieur, because you’re going to have to get used to it regardless.”

It’s silent for a long moment, and she worries for just a second that she’s severely crossed some sort of line. Then Tim bursts out laughing instead of, you know, firing her like he probably should have.

“Oh, yeah. You’re going to fit right in here.”

Marinette doesn’t ask where the ‘here’ is. She’s pretty sure she already knows.

***

It takes ten days for Marinette to wrangle Tim’s life into something resembling order. His office is clean and organized to his liking. She’s developed a system of filing so that all paperwork goes through her and is quickly sorted into ‘can be handled by Marinette’, ‘forge his signature and tell him about it later’, and ‘actually important enough to have Tim read through’.

His schedule is the most efficient it’s ever been and Marinette is quickly honing the skill of getting him properly dressed and out of his office in under thirty minutes. (Dick is, thankfully, a great teacher and has little to no qualms about giving her the key to all his little brother’s weaknesses.)

Selina stares at her when Marinette all but drags Tim from his office, a folder tucked neatly under his arm and the sugary monstrosity of a caffeinated beverage she’s bribed him with in her own, with a whole ten minutes to spare before his meeting with the Board.

“My dear,” she says solemnly, “you are positively magic.”

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s simultaneously wrangling Tim’s hair into submission and laying his tie down flat. “You have no idea.”

***

She knows Tim is capable of professionality. She’s seen the cool facade he pulls up in front of the Board members and the kind but impersonal smile he uses on the employees of Wayne Enterprises. (He is not the Ice Prince of the Wayne family, but Marinette believes he should have some equally ruthless sounding title.) He is aloof and sharp and every inch the businessman people praise him to be.

She’s seen it. And yet…

“Monsieur. Why are all the Lexcorp contracts I gave you done in crayon?”

Tim doesn’t stop messing with his Rubix cube or even look up at her when he says, “Cause deadbeat fathers don’t deserve the respect of a pen.”

Marinette is very tired. She does not have time for this. “What are you talking about?”

“Lex is a bitchass absentee dad and I live to inconvenience him.”

“What about inconveniencing me?” she all but whines. “I can’t hand him these!”

That does make Tim look up at her, eyes wide with false innocence and mouth pouting up at her. “But sister dearest, I’m your little brother. It’s my job to inconvenience you.”

Growling in frustration is probably an inappropriate reaction to the situation.

But, Marinette thinks, so is the fact that both of the Waynes she associates with regularly seem hellbent on convincing the world that she too, is a Wayne, so.

(Is this how Alya felt dealing with the twins? Cause if so, Marinette takes back every joke she ever made—little siblings are a bitch.)

***

She meets Damian without warning.

Honestly, she never really expected to meet him at all but, well.

She finds him in Monsieur Wayne’s office, sitting at his father’s desk and doing something that she thinks is vaguely illegal, but she’s not about to tell her Boss a dozen times over how to parent his children.

Damian is a near-perfect copy of his father with darker skin and calculating green eyes. There’s also a more potent aura of danger around the child than there is around his father, like Damian hasn’t yet learned how to hide behind his public persona as his father had.

Or, Marinette looks at the teen thoughtfully, perhaps he just chooses not to.

“Monsieur Wayne,” she greets. Children like to be treated like adults, she knows, and Marinette doesn’t think this one is any different. “Selina hadn’t told me you’d be in the office today.”

“I don’t run my schedule by her,” he says flatly. A response she expected considering Dick’s stories.

“Of course not,” she agrees.

He finally deigns to look up at her and something flits across his expression, too fast for her to pick up on it. “Are those for Father? Bring them here, I’ll deal with them in his absence.”

Marinette raises her eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s wise Monsieur.”

Damian scowls and sticks his hand out. “I’m perfectly capable of forging Father’s signature. Give them here.”

She does not move and, instead, lets her lips quirk up into the smile she’s been fighting since she stepped in here.

“I don’t doubt it,” she tells him, and she doesn't. Forgery seems exactly like the kind of skill a child who broke into the CEO’s office of a multi-billion dollar company would have. “But you’ll find that all forging of signatures has been finished for the day and that these,” she shakes the sheaf of papers lightly, “actually require your father’s attention.”

He snorts disbelievingly and it says a lot about Marinette’s life up until now that the blatant display of disrespect doesn’t piss her off but instead reminds her of Chloé and of the fact that she still needs to reschedule their spa day. It's been too long since they spent time together in person.

“Well,” she pauses and eyes the papers thoughtfully. “‘Requires’ in the sense that its information needed to trounce the Board when they start spouting off greedy bullshit about cutting corners on our humanitarian efforts. I’m not sure how much of it is actually useful for anything besides that.” She shrugs. “But homework is homework, yes?”

That gets her a thoughtful once-over. His hand lowers and he then turns back to whatever he’s messing with on his father’s computers.

“Very well,” he concedes. “Father will be back in approximately thirteen minutes. You can leave the papers and I’ll inform him of their… importance.” He smirks, but it’s more like he’s letting her in on a joke than anything else.

Marinette smiles back as she sets the folder on the desk, feeling, oddly, like she’s passed some sort of test.

***

The day after, both Dick and Tim are waiting for her with what looks like an entire bakery laid out in her workspace.

“Uh,” she says eloquently, setting her purse down on her chair because there’s not a single open space on her desk not filled with some kind of pastry. “What’s all this?”

She looks up to find neither Dick nor Tim has stopped staring at her since she walked in. “We heard you met Damian yesterday,” Dick starts warily, like he’s scared of her reaction.

The response does not abate her confusion.

“Yes, I did,” she says slowly. “That does not explain all… this.” She waves a hand, trying to encompass them as well as the state her desk is in.

The two brothers share a look.

“It’s a bribe,” Tim tells her simply and Marinette is taken aback for all of a second before her eyes suddenly narrow.

Dick cuts in hastily before she can say anything. “It’s more of an apology, really. For Damian’s behavior.”

But Marinette is confused and frustrated and just a bit offended by the apparent not-bribe at this point. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, but it only does so much.

“Damain’s behavior was fine,” she tells them with measured neutrality. “You two, on the other hand, are being weird and it’s freaking me out.” She crosses her arms expectantly. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

Appearing from out of nowhere, Selina drapes herself along Marinette’s shoulders and snags a raspberry scone. “I do believe,” she says as if sharing a secret, “That they are trying to keep you from quitting, kitten.”

Marinette wrinkles her nose. “Why would I quit? I like this job.”

She also likes the Waynes (in general, if not right then) and she likes Selina. The woman was a good mentor who didn’t shy away from the dirtier parts of the job and taught Marinette all she knew. (Even the bits, she noticed, that had little to nothing to do with being a personal assistant and were more likely to be found in the repertoire of a thief.

But, Marinette is in possession of her own sticky fingers and knows how to not ask questions, so. You know—curiosity killed the cat and all.)

She doesn’t voice any of that, but Selina, at least, knows it anyway. Marinette isn’t quiet about her gratitude after all.

“First meetings with the youngest Wayne don’t often go well,” Selina tells her. “In fact, I think he has a habit of making the interns cry.”

Dick makes some kind of offended noise. “Hey! He hasn’t done that since he was twelve!”

Tim elbows him in the ribs and Marinette makes a vaguely skeptical face at all three of them before deciding it wasn’t worth it. She has actual work to get done today and pastries to get rid of before she can even start.

She pats affectionately at Selina’s hand before grabbing as many boxes as she can hold. “Come on you two,” she says to the brothers. “You’re going to help me hand these out to the rest of the company.”

Dick immediately starts doing as told but Tim hesitates, humming thoughtfully. “You know that’s not going to help your whole ‘I’m not actually a Wayne’ thing, right?”

She glares at him. It doesn’t stop Tim from grinning like the utterly unrepentant little shit he is.

***

Things are quiet after the Damian Incident for a whole two weeks. It’s the longest lull Marinette has had since she first started and became somehow involved with the Waynes.

It ends because Dick finds out about the crush Marinette has been nursing on the Head of Security for three months now.

The Head of Security who is Jason Todd: second eldest Wayne sibling and Dick’s brother.

He takes it better than expected.

(Almost, she thinks later, a little too well.)

***

Despite her friendship with Dick and Tim—or perhaps because of it?—Jason had never seemed very interested in her. At first, Marinette had shrugged and counted it as a win; there was one Wayne, at least, who neither found her situation funny nor used it to poke fun at her.

They were on friendly terms, she supposed. Security has always been one of her more regular stops in the building, so she’d spoken to him often enough. He liked complaining that she spoiled his team rotten with all her treats.

But she also noticed that he likes her cherry danishes, so.

And then she noticed how crooked his grin was when he smiled. And how he seemed to have an arsenal of nicknames for everyone he knew. And the small collection of classic romance novels filled with sticky notes he tries and fails to hide in his desk. And, and, and.

It was around the time she began unconsciously memorizing his schedule based on when he was and was not there for her pastry deliveries, that she realized she may have made a misstep somewhere.

Jason was stubborn and passionate and flipped between overly proper and crass light a damn light switch. He was also, as stated, very much not interested in her.

Not that she would’ve pursued him anyway. He was a coworker as well as her friends’ brother.

Now if only one of said brothers could understand that.

“You should ask him out,” Dick suggests not for the first time and Marinette sighs, also not for the first time.

She loves Dick—she truly does—but he has been an aggravating level of unhelpful since he found out about Marinette’s latest romantic disaster.

“I’m definitely not doing that.”

Dick groans, like she’s being the unreasonable one. “Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

“Because I don’t like embarrassing myself?” she asks rhetorically. “Not everyone can have a fairy tale romance like you and Wally.”

He throws his coffee stirrer at her. “We are not a fairy tale.”

She shoots him a flat look. She’s heard Dick talk about Wally and Tim’s told her all the stories and she was there when he and Wally finally got their shit together. Dick was unbearable for an entire week with his gooey, lovestruck new lease on life.

“You two are the definition of fairy tale. You two make fairy tales look like trashy romance novels.”

He opens his mouth to argue the point before forcibly cutting himself off. “No. Stop distracting me. We’re not talking about that; we’re talking about you and Jason.”

“There is no ‘me and Jason’,” she reminds him through her clenched teeth.

“Not yet,” he says optimistically. Like it’s a fact, like he knows something she doesn’t.

He makes her want to slam her face into a wall. Truly, he does.

***

Dick stops running his HR papers up to her office. Instead, he’s somehow convinced Jason to play errand boy for him even though he literally never looks happy about it. What used to be a flimsy excuse for Dick to slack off for a few minutes and gossip with her has now turned into awkward silence as Jason drops off the papers and leaves without even a ‘hello’.

During their shared breaks, Dick takes to orchestrating ‘chance encounters’ between her and Jason, all but shoving them into each other (and even actually shoving that one time). She catches Jason shooting dark looks at Dick every time he does it, and if she’d been holding any iota of hope at this point, it’s been smashed to dust. Jason obviously knows of his brother’s meddling and isn’t happy about it.

But Dick just can’t take the hint.

Every failed plan of his makes him steadily worse about it all—more frantic and frustrated and like he wants to strangle her for her stubbornness. (The last feeling being more than mutual.)

Dick’s meddling starts to make her and Jason’s previously friendly, if distant, relationship awkward and embarrassing. With every pointed comment, she gets closer to just punching Dick in the face. Or, maybe, she’ll just tell Wally who really ate all the chocolate strawberry macaroons she made; it’d certainly be more devastating.

***

It all comes to head on a Thursday, after most employees have left for the day.

They run into each other in a breakroom, and she watches as Jason suddenly goes stiff, eyes flicking over her shoulder to no doubt scan for Dick. That single action makes her expression sour and she slams her empty mug down with more force than was necessary.

For Kwamis sake, he looks like a cornered animal. An image not helped by the way he jumps a foot in the air and stares at her like he’s worried she’ll suddenly lunge at him.

“Can we agree this is ridiculous?” she says abruptly. “I don’t know what Dick is trying to accomplish with his wingman schtick, but we both know it’s not going to work. Can we just… agree that he’s an idiot?”

A complicated look crosses Jason’s face before he snorts wryly. “Yeah, we can agree on that. Dickie-boy has always been a few sandwiches short a picnic.”

“I know things have been awkward between us lately, and I’m sorry about that, but I hope we can keep being friends?” she says hopefully.

“What in the world do you have to be sorry about?” he asks before she can start catastrophizing about the bewildered expression he makes at her words. “It’s not your fault.”

The smile she shoots him is rueful and she shakes her hand in an ‘ehh’ type gesture. “Kinda is. And I understand if the-” she makes a vague gesture between them that she hopes properly conveys ‘my giant, stupid crush on you’, “you know, is too much for you. Just say the word I’ll try and keep out of your way.”

She’s trying to be comforting or understanding or something like that, but all her words seem to do is make him upset. “Absolutely not,” he insists. “Sunshine, you are not going to change your routine just to make me feel better.”

Marinette crosses her arms, frowning up at him. “Why shouldn’t I? If I’m making you uncomfortable-”

He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Uncomfort- Marinette. ” She jolts a bit at the use of her name. She doesn’t think he’s used it since her second week at W.E. “I’m not sure who made you think otherwise—and if it was Dick just tell me cause I’ll kick his ass —but barring the fact that I still enjoy your friendship regardless of any… feelings-” Marinette concentrates very hard on not showing emotion when he says that, “-it’s not your responsibility to deal with it.”

Okay, but… that makes no sense. Of course her feelings were her responsibility, that’s the whole point of them being hers.

“If it’s not mine, then whose responsibility is it then?” she asks, wondering where the hell his train of thought is running.

“Mine, obviously.”

She gives him a look, complete with narrowed eyes and thinly veiled judgment. “What? Is this some kind of gentleman’s martyr complex? Is that what’s happening right now?”

Jason huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “If me taking responsibility for my own damn feelings is a martyr complex then sure,” he snarks, not unkindly. More like he’s trying to protect himself by retreating behind a sour attitude.

Her mouth is halfway around a retort when his words catch up to her brain and she freezes.

“Your feelings?” she repeats. “Your feelings for… me?”

His voice is carefully neutral when he says, “Those would be the ones.”

Her mouth opens and closes and opens again. “You like me? Seriously?”

His face spasms at the question, starting at anger before he properly looks at her and the surprised expression on her face. He pales.

“You didn’t know?”

“No!” she squeaks, something she hasn’t done since she was fifteen. “Well Dick said but I didn’t believe him!”

And fuck, she thinks. This means Dick knew the whole damn time, didn’t he? Oh, she is so going to kill him the second she gets the chance.

Jason runs a hand down his face, covering his mouth as he gathers his bearings. Suddenly, his eyes shoot back open and land on her. “Wait. If you didn't know, then what the hell were you talking about just now?”

She blushes to the tips of her ears and buries her face in her hands so she doesn’t have to look at him. It was easy when she thought he’d figured it out himself. It’s harder now that she has to tell him. “I- I was talking about my crush on you.”

He’s quiet for so long that she gets antsy and peeks out from behind her fingers to see his expression. He’s still looking at her, but now there’s a wide, crooked smile on his face. The expression softens something in her chest and she lowers her hands.

“Really?” he asks, leaning closer.

Marinette nods, feeling a small smile spread across her lips.

He jolts forward, hands reaching for her before suddenly stopping just shy of touching. She startles a bit at the motion but doesn’t move away.

Jason licks his lips, smile smaller but no less bright. “I- can I?”

She blinks. “Can you what?”

“Kiss you.”

The blush returns full force, but with it also comes a smile, giddy and bright. She nods and no sooner than she does, is he swooping down to pull her into a toe-curling kiss. His hands cup her face with a tenderness that makes her smile, makes her giddy, and it’s not long before they’re both smiling too wide to actually kiss and are forced to break apart.

His hands fall to her back, practically engulfing her, and his chin drops onto her head. It’s warm and cozy and she thinks she could so very easily get used to this.

Later, they’re going to have to deal with Dick and Tim and Selina and the teasing they’ll no doubt have to endure—not to mention how much worse the rumors are going to get—but right now? Right now Marinette pulls Jason back down for another kiss and very pointedly doesn’t think about it.

#maribatmarch2021 #maribat #mlb x dc #jasonette #my typewriter #platonic dickinette #platonic timari

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gimme-mor · 3 years ago

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ACOTAR THINK PIECE: ELAIN ARCHERON, UNTOUCHABLE

*DISCLAIMER*

This will be a long post.

Please take the time to read this post in its entirety and truly reflect on the message I am trying to send before commenting. My goal is to use my background in Gender and Women’s Studies to deconstruct the comments I have seen on Tumblr and Twitter and bring awareness to the ACOTAR fandom.

The reason I am tagging “Elriel” in this post is to call attention to the arguments in the Elriel fandom that: weaponize Elain’s femalehood to shame real life people for their opinions about Elain’s character and her relationship with Lucien; victimize Elain’s character in fandom discussions; and coddle Elain’s character, which limits fandom discussions about her narrative development and prevents the ACOTAR fandom from holding Elain accountable for her actions and inactions in the same way that the fandom holds other characters accountable for their actions and inactions. It is for these reasons that I WILL NOT remove the “Elriel” tag from this post because all of the above points contribute to the toxic discourse surrounding Elain’s character.

I urge those who use these arguments to understand their implications, why they are problematic, regardless of intent, and reexamine their contributions to the ACOTAR fandom. I WILL NOT tolerate anyone who tries to twist my words and say I am attacking people and their personal shipping preferences. In fact, I AM CRITIQUING THE ARGUMENTS THEMSELVES NOT THE PEOPLE USING THE ARGUMENTS.

Also, I highly encourage the Elriel fandom to read this post because it addresses how the concept of choice as an argument enables arguments to exploit social justice and feminist languge in order to vilify Elucien shippers, among other problematic things.

Elain Archeron is one of the most polarizing characters in the ACOTAR fandom. Though opinions about Elain vary, arguments in the Elriel fandom cite society’s perception of traditional female characters in comparison to non-traditional female characters as the reason behind the hate, and this belief is used to provide an explanation as to why other characters in the series are favored over her. In the series, Elain is portrayed in a wholly positive light and this image carries over into the Elriel fandom, painting her character as a good and kind female who has been unfairly wronged and a victim of circumstances that were out of her control. When arguments in the Elriel fandom oppose other viewpoints in the fandom, they fall into one of three categories:

Category 1: Weaponize Elain’s femalehood to shame real life people for their opinions

Maybe people who hate Elain are just jealous of her in a weird way similar to when someone hates the pretty, nice, and charming girl in school just because she is too perfect

Disliking Elain is misogynistic

What happened to feminism? What happened to women supporting women? What happened to she can say no? All of that disappears the second you force Elain to be with Lucien

Elain antis are misogynistic

All Eluciens are Elain antis

Antis claiming they’re feminists when in reality they hate on Elain and Feyre but love Nesta

Elain antis are such sore losers. Y’all were that bunch of people who could not get over being rejected from hanging out with the cool kids so y’all are projecting your hatred towards pretty people now to get validation

I don’t get how Elain’s love for gardening equals boring for some people. I’m sorry your misogyny finds traditionally feminine activities boring

Why are you attacking a female? What did Elain do? Where are your feminist voices?

The fandom is misogynistic towards Elain

If people loved Elain they would ship Elriel

If you hate Elain it says a lot about your feelings toward women

If you hate Elain because she has no “development” then you must hate Azriel because otherwise you’re misogynistic

Eluciens are turned off by the idea of a woman that has the autonomy to reject a man for the simple reason that it is her choice

Eluciens are all about feminism and “it’s HER choice” until it comes down to females not wanting a male

Eluciens don’t respect Elain’s feelings when they ship her with someone that was part of her trauma and makes her feel uncomfortable

The way some Elucien shippers completely disregard how uncomfortable Elain is around Lucien is so hilariously not funny. Prioritizing being mates over Elain’s feelings is just regressive

It’s hard as a fan of Elain to see someone ship her with a person who makes her physically uncomfortable to be around. Wouldn’t you want both characters to be happy to be around each other

Imagine if SJM saw all the awful things her “stans” had to say about Elain

It’s true that we know comparatively little about her, but is she really boring or do you just not value stereotypically feminine traits?

So y’all are just gonna tell me you prefer Elucien over Elriel? Even though Lucien treats Elain as if she’s something that belongs to him? The only reason he wants to be with her is because she’s his mate, he doesn’t respect her, doesn’t treat her as his equal, even though that’s what mates should be? He doesn’t bother to look past what’s on the outside to see her for who she is. And Elain is obviously repulsed by the idea that she should belong to anyone or have no choice in who she can be with. Azriel is her friend and the only person who sees her quiet strength. He has so much faith in her, in her abilities; he’s the one who kept her company when no one else did, he’s the only one who bothered to see her for more than her brokenness. You’re going to tell me you still prefer Elucien over Elriel?

The more I see Gwynriels that ship Elucien out of their hate for Elain, the less I can understand Elain stans that ship Elucien. Pls Elain has made it very clear that she doesn’t want Lucien, why would you ship her with him? Do you hate her too? Smh

The real question would be, if you care and understand Elain why would you ship her with Lucien (where she canonically shrinks when he is near)?

People crying over Helion and Lucien’s mom not getting to be with each other and her being forced into a relationship she didn’t want, but also ship Elucien? Just say you hate Elain

When Elain’s book is out, Gwyn stans will look like clowns and I will laugh because they set her up by shipping her with Azriel just because they hate Elain. Watch them play the victims now because Elriels are clapping back the hate they’ve sent towards Elain

As romantic as wanting girl who is visibly uncomfortable around a guy who caused her trauma to end up with the said guy. Guess their standards for romance are in hell

Category 2: Victimize Elain’s character

Gwynriels only want Gwyn with Azriel because they despise Elain

Gwyn stans and Gwynriels are Elain antis

No one in the books dislike Elain, so why are there so many people who do?

Elain hasn’t done anything wrong or questionable to warrant the hate she gets

Not having Elain’s POV makes it easy for people to be swayed a certain way about her character if you already don’t relate to her in some way

It’s been years since this series came out and we haven’t gotten a lick of an Elain POV, but people still hate her for what? We don’t know her thoughts, dreams, or aspirations

We haven’t even had Elain’s perspective yet and people are passing these judgments off on her

Elain antis who say she’s boring are just cruel when she has obvious symptoms of PTSD like Feyre and Nesta

Gwyn is one of the most overhyped characters and that’s only because most people hate Elain and they couldn’t wait to find a random girl to ship Azriel with

Nesta was abusive to her sisters but Elain (who has only ever been kind) is painted as the villain

From the text we know that Elain is the epitome of feminine stereotypes (gentle, gardening, baking, non confrontational for the most part). Yet people still call her boring or deny that she has any interesting character traits?

You can’t love Nesta and hate Elain

People hate Elain because of internalized misogyny and lack of taste. All the girl does is tend to her garden and mind her business and they treat her worse than Tamlin

Does Gwyn deserve all this support? Of course yes! She is amazing! But where’s that support when Elain was in the same situation as she? Where’s that support for her right now? Why do they idolize Gwyn for her interactions with Azriel and hate Elain for having any interaction with him?

It’s not even a ship war anymore, they just hate Elain

People hate Elain for no reason

Some of y’all don’t like feminine traits and it shows

We know less about Eris and Helion but people don’t call them boring. Why would rejecting femininity make Elain more interesting?

Elain has had a lot forced upon her

The main reason I believe most people love Gwyn so much is to get Azriel away from Elain. It’s not a secret that Elain has been a widely hated character for years so suddenly we get a new female who has a minimal amount of interactions with Azriel and BOOM. New ship that once again doesn’t make sense (just like Azriel x Emerie after ACOFAS)

Elain hasn’t done something so terrible for her to get this hate. At this point some of you are just being misogynistic and you don’t want to accept it. Don’t call yourselves feminists and then say bs like this, it’s embarrassing. She’s pretty and everyone agreed to hate on her

Just a personal feeling, but I feel like a lot of the Elain hate stems from internalized misogyny. That to be a strong female lead, you need to pick up a sword and fight. That to be strong, you need to adapt traditionally masculine traits

Elain is feminine. She is beautiful. She loves to bake and garden. She is docile, quiet, observant, and a people-pleaser. All traditionally feminine traits. Yet for some reason, she’s like the worst in these people’s eyes?

I think also maybe a lot of people can’t relate to her femininity? That her being so beautiful and quiet doesn’t allow for the people who dislike her not to self-insert? Most of the hate stems from people not wanting Elain to be with Azriel. It’s mean, but maybe the people who hate Elain literally just can’t self-insert if they have a story and that’s why they’re vehemently against it?

Poor Elain. The Cauldron dealt her a bad deal. Upon emerging as Fae, she is immediately declared by Lucien as his mate, never mind that she was already engaged to a prick. Her love life is not good

It blows my mind how they really think that they can compare all the shit that Elain gets with some dumb jokes about Gwyn on Twitter (and yes, the “hate” towards her started mostly because Elriels are clapping back, it was bound to happen)

I would think of it as anti-feminist with Elain and Lucien because she has consistently stated that she does not want him so if she was forced to embrace the bond that would be taking away her right to have a choice but with Az she feels comfortable around so if they were mates then Elain would be happy and feel safe which again should be the priority for women to feel safe in their relationships with anything and to not be forced into any type of situation aka the mating bond in this

Category 3: Coddle Elain’s character

Elain has value the way she is, in all her domestic girly glory. Not every character has to be badass

We don’t speak of Elain’s flaws frequently because everyone else already speaks badly of her, mainly in an unfair way

There is definitely something deeper going on with Elain but by no means will she ever be evil or any less feminine. That goes against everything we already know about her

It’s ok to critique Elain because she needs growth but y’all keep forgetting the shit her and her sisters went through

The last “bad” thing Elain did in ACOTAR was not help Feyre when they were impoverished and I’m tired of people acting like she’s a terrible character when it was their father’s responsibility. It happened 4 books ago and Feyre has forgiven both Nesta and Elain

Elain’s character and the evil Elain theory are a great example of the trend where people only consider female characters interesting if they reject femininity

We don’t know enough to hate Elain

Many people want Elain to turn evil (which in my opinion seems to come from a place of internalized misogyny)

However we don’t tend to talk about her faults, at least not publicly, as that has been, and still is, done to death, and I--personally, at least--find it much more fun to theorise about potentially interesting aspects of the overall plot, than dwell on negatives

And ultimately, I would be shocked if Elain has a more karmically-charged story than Nesta, considering that Elain’s “wrongs” are so much less severe and bad than Nesta’s, and Elain has already apologized for them (or paid the price in other ways, like through what Graysen did)

I guess I also think Elain has suffered and been punished enough. I hope her story is about finding hope in terrible situations, and learning to love her new life, and choosing her own path after everything that has been done to her. I don’t think she needs to be punished anymore or face any additional trauma

Also, why is she being judged on her decisions as a human at all? Fae are monsters to humans! They enslaved them for thousands of years, and the Wall was erected to keep them out

Like I’m sorry, but think Elain would want to leave her ONLY FAMILY AND FRIENDS for the Spring Court where she has no one because--oh look, lots of flowers!--is the craziest thing I have ever heard

Her sisters are in the Night Court. Her nephew is in the Night Court. Her closest friends (Nuala and Cerridwen) are in the Night Court. Her love interest is in the Night Court. Her extended family is in the Night Court. Her home is in the Night Court

SJM isn’t going to keep two sisters together and split up the third. Especially not keep Feyre and Nesta together and separate Elain. They were either all going to end up in separate places, or together. Not 2 here and 1 there

Compared to the other female characters in the series, Elain is the only character whose femalehood is at the center of conversations; this is because arguments in the Elriel fandom fixate on it when discussing her character. While Elain, Feyre, Nesta, and Mor are all representations of white womanhood and white beauty, Elain epitomizes the most fragile version of white womanhood. It’s easy to blame society’s perception of traditional female characters in comparison to non-traditional female characters when it comes to the discourse surrounding Elain’s character because it: falls in line with the fixation on Elain’s femalehood to silence opposing viewpoints; is a simplistic explanation that fails to tackle the underlying issues with Elain as a character, the same issues that are downplayed in-universe; absolves Elain of her wrongdoings; prevents the ACOTAR fandom from holding Elain accountable for her actions and inactions within the series; and diminishes the impact Elain’s actions and inactions have on those around her. It’s not that Elain is hated in the fandom because she’s a traditional female character; it’s the fact that arguments in the Elriel fandom deflect a critical analysis of Elain’s character because she’s a traditional female character who embodies the ideal white woman in need of protection. White fans and white-aligned fans of color, especially white women, have a tendency to vehemently defend, gatekeep, and coddle white female characters in fandom; this makes it difficult for other fans to engage in critical discussions about these white female characters because they’re viewed as flawless and all around perfect characters despite evidence to the contrary. Since Elain is viewed positively by the other characters in the series, it has rendered her character untouchable to any perceived slight or criticism in fandom discussions because those negative opinions challenge what has been said about her character thus far. And as a result, her character has been placed on a pedestal and implicitly hailed as the epitome of white womanhood; and when she’s criticized, it’s seen as a direct attack against white womanhood. Arguments in the Elriel fandom: exploit feminist language and perpetuate white feminist tactics under the guise of defending Elain’s character; center Elain in conversations about female oppression in the ACOTAR world and uphold white feminist ideologies in their critique of ACOTAR’s patriarchal society; and use the fragile white woman narrative to victimize Elain in Lucien’s presence, playing into racial biases that are associated with white supremacy’s defense of white womanhood.

Feminism is a social movement that seeks to promote equality and equity to all genders, and feminists work toward eradicating gender disparities on a macro-level, in addition to challenging gender biases on a micro-level. As feminism became more mainstream, a flat and oversimplified version of feminism emerged: mainstream feminism. The mainstream feminist movement is meant to represent all women, but rarely does it center conversations around issues that concern most women. The problem with mainstream feminism is that it’s just a popularized version of white feminism. White feminism has relied extensively on an individualized understanding of women’s oppression, exclusively from the lens of privileged white women. White feminism only focuses on the oppression experienced by white, able-bodied, affluent, educated, cishet women; and it views gender as the key mode of privileged white women’s oppression, isolated from the privileges granted by their other social identities. White women can be and are oppressed under the patriarchy but only because they are women; their identity as women does not exempt them from the privileges granted by their whiteness. The term white feminist does not mean any feminist who is white, but refers to feminists who prioritize the concerns of privileged white women as though they are representative of all women. However, the term is not exclusive to white people. Because white feminism is so pervasive, people of other racial and ethnic backgrounds often buy into white feminism, believing that if they work hard enough, they may be able to reap its rewards.

Just like white feminism, mainstream feminism only recognizes the identity of being a woman, assumes that all women share common experiences of gender oppression, fails to address other social identities in relation to overlapping systems of oppression, and disregards privilege in relation to various social identities. Just like white feminism, mainstream feminism is palatable because it doesn’t seek to challenge the systems in place, instead its goal is to succeed within them. Essentially, mainstream feminism and white feminism are extensions of performative feminism. Performative feminism is a type of performative activism that’s used to describe feminist views that are surface level and solely for the benefit of one type of person. It’s a pretense which often has nothing to do with genuine activism. Arguments in the Elriel fandom normalize and promote performative feminism because the topic of feminism is only referenced when discussing Elain. This indicates that these arguments are engaging in disingenuous discourse to push a personal agenda within the ACOTAR fandom, and it becomes more apparent when they use white feminist tactics to shut down opposing viewpoints:

White feminists weaponize and exploit feminist language to silence the opinions of other women, especially when they’re called out for their problematic behaviors

White feminists use the phrase “Women supporting women” to defend other white feminists who exhibit problematic behaviors instead of holding them accountable

White feminists weaponize phrases like “Women supporting women” and “You just hate women” to attack other women who disagree with them on any given topic

White feminists use phrases like “All women face challenges” and “Stop pitting women against each other” to sidestep conversations about privilege

White feminists divert conversations away from privilege and towards the Trauma Olympics to equate their struggles to the oppression of marginalized people

White feminists skirt around the realities of other forms of oppression and discrimination, downplaying the experiences of marginalized people

White feminists diminish or ignore the ways in which gender oppression affects other marginalized people

White feminists paint those they harmed as aggressive, mean, or divisive when confronted with the ways they have harmed a marginalized group

White feminists deflect criticism by focusing on the anger or emotions being expressed rather than the issue that is being discussed, invalidating the concerns of marginalized people

White feminists speak over marginalized voices in an attempt to sound “woke”

White feminists get defensive and insist there’s no way they could be a part of the problem because of what they’ve done to help marginalized groups already

White feminists say they don’t see color in an attempt to obscure racial issues that need to be addressed

White feminists center and victimize themselves in conversations about racism, which derails necessary conversations from taking place

White feminists who are white weaponize the intersectionality of their race and gender to avoid accountability

Feminism is not meant to be approached from an individualistic perspective nor is it only about addressing the experiences of privileged white women, it involves addressing the intersections of race, class, gender, sexuality, (dis)ability, and other social identities as well; and it involves addressing how these social identities relate to privilege. Moreover, feminism is not about women upholding complete loyalty to other women because of a shared gender identity, and to claim that it does implies that women should be held to different emotional standards than men. If men are able to dislike and criticize other individual men, real or fictional, without their characters being compromised, why aren’t women granted that same privilege?

It’s clear that SJM set up the ACOTAR world to mirror a patriarchal society, and that the imbalance of power between males and females stems from sexism. Arguments in the Elriel fandom analyze the ACOTAR world through a feminist lens to show how ACOTAR’s patriarchal society, to which the mating bond is innately tied, contributes to female oppression and limits their agency. When choice and free will are emphasized as part of Elain’s arc, they imply that Elain, through the mating bond, experiences female oppression under ACOTAR’s patriarchal society because of her identity as a female with that identity being the focal point of her oppression in the world. Elain is one of the most privileged characters in the ACOTAR world: she’s High Fae; she’s the sister of the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, which gives her access to wealth and political influence because of that connection; she’s able-bodied; she was magically blessed by the Cauldron; and she lives in Velaris, a place that grants females autonomy and power because of the beliefs of Rhysand and Feyre. Arguments in the Elriel fandom trivialize female oppression in the ACOTAR world because they disregard the fact that Elain’s privileges prevent her from experiencing female oppression in the same way that other marginalized females in the world do. The mating bond being one such example because those around Elain are not forcing the bond on her, instead they’re allowing Elain to reach a decision about the bond for herself; a privilege that other marginalized females in the world probably wouldn’t have. Just because Elain has endured hardships in her life and is a female in a patriarchal society, they do not erase the privileges she holds within the ACOTAR world. The failure to include Elain’s privileges in discussions about Elain being a female in a patriarchal society feeds into white feminist ideologies because white feminism operates from a very narrow perspective; it doesn’t take other intersecting identities into account when it examines gender oppression, leaving no room for discussions about privilege (or lack thereof) in relation to those intersecting identities. When discussing oppression in hierarchical societies, it’s imperative that privilege is also included in the conversation because privilege and oppression are not mutually exclusive; they equally affect the ways in which people navigate those societies through their social identities.

Rather than attributing Elain’s uncomfortability to her new life as a Fae female or the mating bond itself and her trauma to the Cauldron, the King of Hybern, or Ianthe, they’re placed on Lucien to cast his character in a negative light. Moreover, fandom discussions portray Lucien as a possessive character to further emphasize Elain’s discomfort despite the inaccuracy of this characterization in canon. Arguments in the Elriel fandom play into racial biases when it comes to Lucien (a male character of color) because they mischaracterize his character in order to victimize Elain (a white female character), placing her character in the role of the white damsel in distress. In Western society, the concept of womanhood has been conceptualized from a Eurocentric perspective with femininity and feminine attributes favoring white women. It’s the idea that a certain type of femininity is only inherent to white women as they are seen as the embodiment of an ideal womanhood. White womanhood has been a symbol of innocence and purity, and white women have been viewed as fragile beings in need of protection. The reason white womanhood functions within white supremacy is because it’s the same idea that has motivated white men to kill and beat black and brown men. The so-called protection of white women has been used as a justification for the horrific violence committed by white men because black and brown men were stereotyped as aggressive and seen as a threat to the virtue of white women. The white damsel in distress trope considered white women as worthy of protection because of their perceived innocence and purity; women of color were not granted that same treatment because they did not fit into the ideal image of womanhood. Over the years, this trope became a means for white women to exercise limited power in a patriarchal society with white women weaponizing their status as the damsel much to the detriment of black and brown men. It’s through the white damsel in distress trope that white supremacy sustains its dominance in Western society. The misrepresentation of characters of color in fandom, the dismissal of their importance to the overall story, and using them as tools in arguments centered around white characters are the foundation of fandom racism; they’re examples of how racism moves silently in fandom spaces. Instead of examining their behavior and taking constructive criticism from fans of color, white fans will often double down on their bigotry and center their uncomfortability in the conversation when confronted with their complicity in fandom racism. White fans expect fans of color to swallow fandom racism in its many forms in order to not ruin the experience of fandom, dismissing the fact that racism is prevalent in nearly every aspect of society. This mentality ensures that no one is held accountable for the harm they caused and alienates fans of color in fandom spaces.

To reiterate what I mentioned in my first think piece: terms like “oppression”, “the right to choose”, “feminist”, “feminism”, “anti-feminist”, “anti-feminism”, “internalized misogyny”, “misogyny”, “misogynist”, “sexist”, “sexism”, “racist”, “racism”, “classist”, “classism”, “discrimination”, and “patriarchy” are all used in specific ways to draw attention to the plight of marginalized people and challenge those who deny the existence of systems of oppression. Yet these words and their meanings can be twisted to attack, exclude, and invalidate people with differing opinions on any given topic. When social justice and feminist terms are thrown around antagonistically and carelessly to push a personal agenda, it becomes clear that these terms are being used to engage in disingenuous discourse and pursue personal validation rather than being used out of any deep-seated conviction to dismantle systemic oppression. Being an ally, activist, or feminist is not an identity, it’s a practice. It requires: ongoing self-reflection; holding ourselves accountable; listening to marginalized people; educating ourselves; dismantling implicit biases; challenging those around us who are exhibiting problematic behaviors; and action behind our words.

It’s important to be aware of the language that is used within the fandom when defending or critiquing characters and ships. It’s also important to question how an argument is framed and why it’s framed the way that it is to critically examine the intent behind that argument: is it used as a tool to push a personal agenda that reinforces problematic behaviors, or is it used as an opportunity to share, learn, enlighten, and educate?

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Tagging: @spell-cleavers @bookofmirth @m0bulidae @ilya-boltagon

#elain archeron #elriel #acotar fandom #acotar: fandom critical

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thewildwaffle · 3 years ago

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Humans are Weird - Helium

It's been a while since I got a new story up. I'd been working on some other projects, then had some pretty unhappy life events happen. I am doing fine, so don't worry. Hopefully, now my muse is back and will stick around a while :)

This story is from a prompt ao3

*** *** ***

When you bring together a wide variety of races from different planets and environments, you tend to have an equally wide variety of needs that need to be met from species to species. Ships were typically staffed by a food and nutrients safety team. Custodial teams were careful about residual chemical and oil cross-contamination between particular races. Sections of hab suites had controlled ventilation systems that could be set to various atmospheric needs. Outside the hab suites, at work stations or in communal areas, some species have to be fitted with atmospheric filters. Over the years, these devices have gotten less uncomfortable, thankfully. They weren’t the best, they were a bit bulky, noisy, and in some cases obstructive to the wearer, but hey, being able to properly breathe on a ship with beings who had different atmospheric needs than you was more important than comfort. When the humans joined the galactic community, the newer filters started becoming noticeably smaller and less obtrusive. Many were concerned that the changes would make them less effective, but leave it to the humans to tinker around and invent the impossible when they really wanted to. The latest models were supposed to be so small and comfortable, you could sleep with them on. Heck for some races, you could barely tell they were wearing an atmospheric filter at all. Not only that, they were up to 40% more effective at filtration and gas delivery for many species. This opened up crew rosters for ships. Species who couldn't reasonably be stationed in the same ship due to the gases they breathe being dangerous to others, or vice versa could now be on the same crew.

That included duibs like Marvi who breathe large amounts of helium. She’d been serving aboard Galactic Coalition ships for more standard solar rotations than many of her fellow crewmates had been alive. It helped that duibs were long-lived, of course, and in her time, she’d seen many new technologies come and go. If you pressed her hard enough, she’d likely say that the atmospheric filters the humans developed were by far her favorite. Being able to safely and comfortably pass through different atmospheric biomes was an important ability when you had a long list of custodial and maintenance duties each rotation. Marvi huffed a deep sigh as she rounded another corner. Lighting beam replacements weren’t heavy, but maneuvering them around corners like this was a bit of a pain. “Need a helping paw Marvi?” Marvi turned to see a dark gray priso steadying the end lighting beam she was carrying. The furry face was relatively expressionless, but a clear look at his flicking whiskers and triangular, alert ears and bright eyes told her that he was holding back laughter. He must have just come up from around the other corner and seen the small duib struggling. “Oh, hello Aurrin. I definitely would appreciate some aid, though I would understand if you are busy right now,” Marvi replied politely. Honestly, the help would be very nice and she hoped the offer was serious. “I’m waiting for Human Karl, I can help until he gets here,” Aurrin rose to his back paws awkwardly and grabbed the ends of the light beams in his dexterous front paws. Priso were normally quadrupedal on flat ground, but the forested terrains of their homeworld meant they were at least somewhat adept at grabbing and climbing. He followed along, holding on to the light beams and kept them away from the walls and corners as the pair walked. “I was actually just installing something by the hab suites over there,” he tilted his head back to gesture behind them, “I’ve got something I wanted to test before I go off duty. After that, I’m looking forward to two whole cycles of rest and whatever I want to do.” The corridor here was darker and Marvi stopped walking. This was where she needed to replace the light beam. “Two whole cycles, huh?” She set down the light beam carefully, Aurrin following suit. She pulled out a tool from her hip pack and started working on opening the control panel. In order to open the panels to install the new light beams, she had to make sure power was redirected for safety. “What are you going to do with your time off? Any fun plans?” “A few plans. They might change depending on how my experiment goes.” Marvi worked quietly, waiting on the priso to expound, but other than chuckling to himself, he didn’t say anything more on the topic. Well, Marvi supposed it was not really her business, so she changed the subject and chatted cordially until the new light beam was installed and she rerouted power back to the panel. The darkened hall was filled with bright, cheerful light and Marvi let out a satisfied sigh. “Well, that’s that. Another task down.” The old light beam would need to be taken back to her shop for a repair and gas exchange, or refill, or whatever it ended up needing to get it up and running again. “Thank you again for your help. I should be able to get these back alright myself, I don’t want to take up too much of your time if you’ve still got your experiment to run.” From around the corner of the corridor, the distinct sound of a hab suite door opening was followed by approaching footsteps. A light on Aurrin’s comm device flashed and the priso’s long tail flicked excitedly back and forth. “No worries, it looks like my experiment is already underway.” Marvi felt the frills all along her body perk in curiosity, but before she could ask anything else, Human Karl rounded the corner. He grinned without showing his teeth, as it would have been a sign of aggression to many species on the ship, and gave a small wave as he approached. “Hey Karl,” Aurrin started. Marvi only partially listened as he started in on a spiel about his upcoming off-duty

plans. Instead, she was more interested in a quiet hissing noise and was trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. It sounded like… well it sounded almost like an atmospheric filter, one beside her own. Hers was in light operation since she was in a sector of the ship that was tuned to a generalized setting, but this noise sounded like a filter at full power output. Did Human Karl hear it? Could he hear it? Surely Aurrin could? She studied them, they didn’t seem to notice. The noise had started when Karl arrived, did that mean…? Her suspicions were confirmed the moment Karl opened his mouth to reply to Aurrin. “I’m actually on my way to…” What. The. Frewan? Human Karl’s voice, which was usually a calming deep tone, was disturbingly high and unnatural. The surprised expression on his face made Marvi’s core freeze. That meant this vocal change wasn’t some weird human thing? What was going on?! “I, woah,” the squeaky voice stuttered, “is this… helium? What is this? What’s going on?” He looked at the comm device strapped to his wrist and pulled up the readout. Sure enough, it was an increase of helium output from his atmospheric filter. The skin on his forehead wrinkled as he looked from the readout to Marvi and Aurrin, his eyes finally locking on the latter who was fiddling with something on his own comm device readout. “You punk! How did you do this? Change it back!” Karl started laughing a bit, Marvi wasn’t sure if it was directed at the ridiculousness of his voice or if it was because the helium was affecting his cognitive functions. She worried it was the latter. Panicking, Marvi approached to see if there was some sort of override. She had to act fast! Humans didn’t breathe helium, he could die! Before she could do anything though, Aurrin spoke up while trying to muffle his laughter. “Okay, okay, hoooo… I’ve deactivated it, you’re good. Keep talking though while your voice turns back to normal, you’re hilarious.” Karl gave him a look that Marvi couldn’t interpret. “What was that? How did you do that?” His voice was already back to normal and it sounded like a mix between annoyed, intrigued and amused. “When you came out of your hab suite, you passed a sensor I set up that overrode your atmospheric filter controls. My latest invention. Imagine this: a ship gets attacked and boarded. Normal defenses prove insufficient and the crew is in grave danger. As the hostiles pass hidden sensors, their atmospheric filters are overridden and they fall asleep, get loopy and confused, or simply pass out before they can get to and harm any crew.” Marvi and Karl blinked in unison while Aurrin’s tail swept side to side proudly. Marvi was the first to find words. “Your… your experiment?” Marvi glanced between Aurrin and Karl worriedly, “Is this what you were experimenting with? You ran it on a crewmate?!” “Well,” Aurrin’s ears pulled back slightly, but his whiskers still kept their amused look, “I say experiment pretty loosely. This was more of a field test. I ran all the actual experiments long ago. I knew exactly what would happen. And I did research on humans and I found out what effects helium has on them and I had to see it for myself. That’s why I was waiting for Karl.” The human in question was still laughing a bit - of course, a human would be able to laugh after nearly being asphyxiated, they’re crazy - before he ran his hand over his head to compose himself. “So this was a prank?” “For science.” “Of course. For science.” Karl’s smile suddenly morphed into a thoughtful frown. “Wait. Is this payback for the soap thing I pulled on you last week?” Aurrin’s face was statuesque and solemn as he stared silently at the human for a moment. “Yes.” “You’re the worst.” “Thank you.” “Want to go do this again in front of Aylin? She and Maruti-kar would think it’s hilarious.” “I had been planning on it. But only if we can get video evidence of it.” “For science?” “Naturally.” Marvi watched, hearts still beating rapidly from her panic, as Aurrin and Karl deactivated and retrieved the sensor to reenact the stunt she had just been a witness

to. Almost reflexively, she started tracing the side of her atmospheric filter. The quiet hum and hiss were calming. Helium to her was life. She’d thought it was toxic to others. And yet Aurrin thought it fine to use it on a human, and Karl was not only unworried about it but found it funny. Was it not dangerous?! And his voice? Why did it do that? She pulled up a search screen on her comm device and searched in the human database. Helium. Breathing. Voices. Apparently, helium took up space in their lungs that normally would be filled by oxygen, so yes, it was dangerous because they could asphyxiate. It also amplified higher-pitched tones of their vocal tract while simultaneously dampening lower tones because of the gas’s low density. That explained the voice change. And for some reason, the funny noise was enough of a reason to play around with deadly materials. Well, if anything, she supposed humans did keep to their MO pretty well. She picked the spent light beams back up and headed back to her shop, careful to not hit the ends on any walls or corners.

#humans are weird #space orcs #humans #aliens #helium #science #writeblr #original writing #space #spaceships

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satansaidmyturnintheh3llscape · 2 years ago

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Everything Right/Wrong with Ninjago “Legacy of the Green Ninja” E3: Double Trouble

Disclaimers: Show owned by LEGO. This is not a professional review/critique - it’s mainly intended for comedy.

- Intro ✅

- Lloyd is holding that lightbulb way too close to his face. Green Bean’s gonna lose an eye ❌

- “I can’t seem to teach him to control his power!” He’s about to beat up a punching bag because he hit himself in the face with a broom. I don’t think his powers are what he needs to control right now ❌

- “Sometimes the greatest opponent we face is ourselves. That is especially true of Lloyd.” This is a very interesting take on Lloyd’s character and one that not enough people talk about… including the show itself ❌

- “He is the son of Lord Garmadon.” Yeah but Garmadon hasn’t had any place in raising Lloyd yet, so he’s not really the one to blame for Lloyd’s anger problems ❌

- “It’s going to take time for him to embrace the light.” It doesn’t take much time at all, actually. My biggest issue with this season is the fact that they had plenty of episodes to better set up a proper arc and development for Lloyd, but they don’t. Sure, he gets this episode and sort of Child’s Play, but otherwise he’s not that much more focused on than he is in season 1 (in terms of the filler episodes). Sure, a race episode is… well it is there, but give us Lloyd struggling to unlock his powers because he knows he’ll have to use them to hurt his dad, or something like that. A lot of the first half of this season just feels like a missed opportunity. Fluff is fun but I want angst, d*mmit! ❌

- I know showing Kai, Zane, and Cole talking in the background while Jay and Nya talk is supposed to be realistic, but I just find it really distracting, especially since you can hear them whispering ❌

- Isn’t Nya like 15? How did she get a job? ❌

- “They’ve changed to the Darkley’s School for Great Children.” Use of the word “children” implies one of two things: a) the school has opened up to all genders (seems unlikely since all students seem to be boys and there’s no way this show was that progressive considering we’re just now getting pride flags on screen), or b) The writers barely got away with “bad boys” and now “Darkley’s School for Good Boys” would be the censors’ last straw ❌

- “Wait, they’ve turned good?” Yeah yeah, insert joke about astral projecting voices ❌

- “I love ceremonies! That means there’s gonna be cake!” Finally, some realistic representation of asexuals in the media- ✅

- Not enough people acknowledge how hilarious it is to see a warlord h*llbent on destruction organizing a meeting to “brainstorm” ideas to destroy the heroes ✅

- “OVER THE SIDE!” Over the side ✅

- “Can you make a giant ham sandwich?… I would hope not, I’m so hungry.” Am I stereotyping my own community by saying that every character that thinks about food is automatically ace? Maybe. Is it gonna stop me? Nope. ✅

- “How can I defeat ninja who so rudely refuse to be defeated!?” I know some people don’t like that Garmadon was made less scary this season, and I see their point, but I just can’t help but enjoy every moment he’s on screen ✅

- Someone make a gif of Garmadon punting that snake off the ship. Please? ✅

- Why would there be mint-condition extras of the ninja’s suits just lying around the ship? ❌

- “I have made you to be equal to the ninja.” Why? He can create anything, so why didn’t he make the exact same copycat ninja, but make them just a tad bit stronger than the real ninja? That seems like it’d be more effective ❌

- ^ Ya ever just look at someone and KNOW they make TikTok thirst traps? ❌

- “Any sudden what?” “AHHHHHH-“ ✅

- Brad Tudabone? Does every villain here have to name their kid some godawful pun?!?!? ❌

- Building off that, you have Lloyd Garmadon (pun on Lord Garmadon), Brad Tudabone (bad to the bone), and… Gene? Now I’m laughing at the only kid with the normal name because he’s somehow the outlier in this trio ❌

- I know making unique character designs is hard with lego, but did every kid really have to look almost exactly the same? I feel like the plot twist shouldn’t be “hey the kids are evil!” but rather “hey, where the h*ll did someone get a cloning machine???” ❌

- “They overthrew us! They’re monsters!” No, just children, which is 100 times worse

- “With friends like you, who needs enemies?” This line makes Lloyd visibly sad and I think we should talk about that more ✅

- Evil Jay, Cole, and Zane go from across the room to behind Kai for no apparent reason ❌

- “Lloyd is not at the amusement park!” Why would he tell them that? ❌

- “Jay, you back yet? Can’t wait to see you at the auto body shop!” What phone plays a voicemail after a missed call, unprompted? ❌

- Nya falls for this ❌

- D*MN that escalated quickly; consent??? ❌

- Also, this was originally supposed to be the MAIN relationship of the show and the ONLY time throughout these 2 seasons that they kiss on the lips is in this moment, where one of them isn’t even the real person! ❌

- “Call me!” 1: You live together, 2: No. ❌

- “… they’re gonna brainwash Lloyd and undo all the lessons we’ve tried to teach him!” How intelligent and cunning does Kai think this group of 8-10 years olds is? ❌

- If all the teachers quit after the school turned good, then who made the choice to turn the school good in the first place? ❌

- I love every single moment between Lloyd and the Darkley’s boys ✅

- The evil ninja dodge the spitballs but not the smoke bombs for some reason ❌

- Lloyd falls flat against shattered glass and RUBS against it and doesn’t cut himself ❌

- “Why do I always get tied up?” The writers heard Lloyd’s plea and decided to upgrade him to cages for the whole rest of the series! ❌

- “I escaped fair and square!” ✅

- “Which them?” “My friends of course!” Moments like this make it really hard to try to prove you have a braincell, Lloyd ❌

- Gene has an awful complicated way of depicting a basic element of 7th grade math❌

- “When I arrived here on my first day, I didn’t know how things worked around here, and everyone made fun of me. Brad even put fire ants in my bed.” Lloyd’s life really is just one Shakespearean tragedy after another, huh? ❌

- “All of you have a secret good side that stays quiet out of fear, because it thinks it’s alone, but it’s not. And I’m living proof!” ✅

- “Who here can sew?” Everyone, apparently❌

- “My eyes! I can’t see!” Good to know that evil Kai is just as much a baby as real Kai is

- “Normally we’d punish you for holding us captive, but now that we’ve all learned a valuable lesson, I suppose it’s cause for a celebration!” … What? ❌

- “It’s great to have the tank back!” You had it for 5 minutes before it got destroyed! AND IT’S STILL NOT A TANK ❌

- How can Garmadon contact the ninja? ❌

- Love that Nya put a game controller in the Ultra Sonic Raider. She knows them so well ✅

- “You go to school and sometimes you might pick up a thing or two.” Lloyd ✅

- But also, school propaganda ❌ /lh

- The internal conflict in this episode seems to be that Lloyd has some sort of mental block keeping him from controlling his powers, and the resolution had him overcoming it and learning to control them, but… how? What happened during this episode that made Lloyd develop? How did he go from trying to kill a punching bag to spewing stuff about secret good sides in one’s self? ❌

Sentence: Bring back Brad and Gene you cowards

#ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago lloyd #ninjago jay #ninjago kai #ninjago nya #ninjago cole #ninjago zane #ninjago wu #ninjago sins/wins #kid lloyd

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kohanayaki · 3 years ago

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.:Time and Time Again:. (Marauders Era x Reader) Ch 4

Snape looks back on your days at Hogwarts, how your friendship came to be, and how it came to end.

LINKS: CH 1 CH 2 CH 3 CH 4 CH 5 CH 6 CH 7 CH 8

___________________________________________________________

Ch 4 .:Budding Feelings and the Beginning of the End:.

Severus Snape had made a lot of mistakes in his life, and seeing you again after all these years was forcing him to relive every single one of them.

He stared blankly at the wall in front of him, shrouded in the darkness and grim silence of his empty house. He never thought he'd see you again, and certainly not under these circumstances. When he'd laid his eyes on you in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld place he couldn't believe it. He, much like the rest of the Order (except for Molly, apparently) assumed you wouldn't be at these meetings any longer. After James and Lily were murdered and Sirius was thrown into Azkaban, you'd left London and headed to New York under the Ministry's alliance with MACUSA, hoping to help bridge the gap between muggle-borns and purebloods in America. He knew you had been back to meet Harry a handful of times, but he also knew that being in this city brought up painful memories for you, so he was as stunned as anyone else to see you standing there in the doorway, greeting them as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

He could see that traveling had been good for you. He'd heard through the Hogwarts circuit that you were back on auror duty across the world, taking special assignments from Dumbledore and the Minister for Magic himself. You seemed like you were doing better, but when you turned to smile at him he could see the hesitation and the sadness that brewed behind your eyes, likely his doing.

He desperately wanted things to go back to what they were before—

Before he'd ruined it. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1974 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright students,” Professor Slughorn said as everyone finished filing inside the room, “today we're going to be pairing off into new partners for the upcoming project.”

Groans and nervous chatter flooded the sound space immediately, no one very thrilled with having to work with someone new out of their control. You cast a glance over to Lily who looked equally displeased. You liked being her partner, you both excelled at the subject and worked really well together.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Slughorn said, waving the complaints off, “However, I am going to be giving you the luxury of choosing your own partners this time, but everyone—”

The energy in the room instantly shifted, everyone shoving around people to get to their friends.

“—keep in mind, if I see any slacking off or trouble brewing in these new partnerships I will not hesitate to rearrange them!”

Slughorns's words were completely lost among the commotion as people paired off before you could even get your bearings. Snape stalled as he stared at you from across the room; Lily had already been dragged away by Mary, and his brain was trying to work out how to ask you to be his partner.

Suddenly an arm was slung over your shoulder and you turned towards the new presence in surprise. You looked up to see Evan Rosier, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and his Slytherin tie loose around his neck.

Oh, sod it, Snape cursed internally. He was too late.

“Wanna partner up?” Rosier asked, a crooked grin gracing his chiseled features, “It'd be my honor to have the smartest Potions partner in class, not to mention the most attractive.”

You rolled your eyes at the praise. Evan was your friend, and he was nice to look at, but if he thought that you would be willing to do all the work for the both of you in exchange for some cheap compliments, then he had another thing coming. You locked eyes with Snape from across the room

“It would be your honor,” you smirked up at Rosier, “but I already have a partner, sorry.”

It took Snape a few seconds to realize what you were doing, but once he snapped out of it he made his way towards you. You almost chuckled at how robotic he looked as he did, clearly shocked.

Rosier looked between the two of you and rolled his eyes.

“Suit yourself, sweetheart,” he said, letting you go and pushing you lightly in Snape's direction, “but if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He sent a wink your way that left Snape's blood inexplicably boiling,

“Thanks for that,” you grinned, “and just so you know, I would have chosen you even if he didn't come up to me, so don't get all pouty about it, okay?”

Severus just looked at you blankly. Even after four years it was frightening how well you were able to read him; for a moment he was scared that he'd accidentally projected his thoughts to you, but he wasn't anywhere near that level of legillemency yet. He wanted to say something that had some semblance of gratitude but settled on:

“Whatever.”

To which you just laughed and dragged him to your now shared desk.

You really were something else.

“Now then,” Professor Slughorn addressed the room, “today we will be beginning the new unit on toxic concoctions, starting with the Draught of Living Death. If you would all turn to page ten of your books, we will get started presently.”

You turned open your book and Severus did the same. As he did, you noticed that nearly every page was covered in small notes littering the margins, with some of the instructions circled, crossed out, or modified. You were hardly surprised, Snape had been pouring over this book since last year when he'd stolen it from a fifth year Slytherin who'd been speaking poorly of you (that last part you were unaware of).

You turned your attention to the directions, reaching over to preheat the burner so your cauldron would be hot enough by the time you began. However, as soon as you lit the flame with the tip of your wand, your cauldron shot up into the air, hitting the ceiling with a loud BANG! before crashing down back onto your table, breaking several of the glass instruments that were settled there.

Your face burned embarrassment as everyone in the room turned to look at you in shock.

“Snape, (L/n),” Slughorn said, surprised, “whatever happened?”

“I. . .” you began, not knowing what to say, “I don't know, I'm sorry, Professor.”

“Quite all right,” he said uncertainly, restoring your table and equipment with a wave of his wand, “just be sure whatever that was doesn't happen again.”

“Of course,” you mumbled, trying to ignore the snickering around you. If you noticed the way that it stopped as soon as Snape sent a deathly glare at the culprits, you didn't show it. You reached down to grab your cauldron, noticing that the bottom was dusted in some sort of orange powder. As you turned it over, a note fell out of it.

You're welcome, (L/n). Sorry I couldn't be there for the fireworks~

J.P.

“That sneaky little, ugh,” you crumpled the note, growling in frustration.

“What is it?” Severus asked, peering over your shoulder to glance at the paper. However, as soon as you tried to show it to him it vanished in your hands in a wisp of glowing embers. You turned to look at Severus who was still staring at you expectantly.

“It was Potter,” you rolled your eyes.

Anger flashed in Severus' eyes before confusion replaced it momentarily.

“But that was your cauldron, not mine. Why would Potter want to mess with you?”

And now the anger was back again. Snape was used to Potter’s crew targeting him; bullying and suffering through minor hexes had become an everyday occurrence, but when he imagined them doing anything to you it was enough to make him see red.

“Ah, well. . .” you trailed off, deciding that telling him you'd yelled at the group of Gryffindors: 'if you jerks want to have a go at Severus you're gonna have to get through me first!' was a bad idea.

“I sort of, maybe, kind of. . . started it?” you said. Severus raised a brow at you. “Look, Potter was asking for it, okay? It was about time someone messed with him for a change. And besides, it was hilarious, even Lily got a kick out of watching that broom hit him in the head.”

Severus chuckled at that, a hint of pride welling in his chest at yours and Lily's shared distaste for the Potter boy.

“But that was the last straw,” you declared, grabbing a Sopophorus bean from the bowl in front of you and a knife to cut it as per the instructions, “I'm sick and tired of him acting like he's better than everyone else,” you said, stabbing down with your knife for emphasis. The Sopophorus bean jumped as you did, sliding out from under your blade and skidding across your cutting board. You huffed as you grabbed it again, placing it back down and holding it in place. “And he walks around with that little posse of his like he runs this school!” You brought your knife down again, moving your fingers at the last second, but the bean still managed to slip away, trying to bounce back into the bowl.

“This means war!” you seethed, grabbing the runaway legume again, now at your wit's end, and crushing it in your fist. It stopped jumping as the beet-red juice of the plant dripped down your arm, and Severus looked at you with a small smirk on his face.

“Well, that's one way to do it,” he said.

“Shove off,” you said playfully, throwing the bean in his direction. He dodged it easily, his smile growing.

“No, really,” he said, almost more to himself than you as he scribbled out the word 'cut' and replaced it with 'crush' in his notebook, “you might be better at this than you let on.”

You blushed at the unexpected compliment, backhanded as it was.

“Excuse you, I happen to be fantastic at Potions,” you said, grabbing another bean and avoiding his gaze.

“Right, that's why your cauldron exploded.”

“That was sabotage,” you shot back.

“I was talking about last week,” Severus said cheekily, taking in your flustered expression.

You both went back to your ingredients, eventually discovering that crushing the beans with the flat of a knife was the best way to extract the juice without them jumping. You watched Severus out of the corner of your eye as he measured out the African Sea water, adding it gradually as he stirred the mixture counter-clockwise. The elixir turned a bright blue color, shimmering as if light were being reflected off of it. He continued on with the formula, snapping off a few fluxweed sprigs before adding them and lowering the heat with his wand, hardly looking at the instructions at all.

You wondered where this newfound confidence had come from. Severus was usually so rigid and withdrawn, but right now he looked more at ease than you had ever seen him. A spark was present in his eyes as he worked that you rarely ever saw, and it made you smile despite yourself.

The rest of your potion making process went on without a hitch, and you silently applauded yourself as you watched the other students around you struggle to get their concoctions together. Even Lily seemed to be having trouble, though Mary wasn't really helping other than offering moral support.

You turned back to focus on your own potion, stirring it with the ladle and mesmerized by the way it began to turn a deep plum color. Meanwhile, Severus was cleaning up your shared station, looking over at the brew. His brows furrowed as he examined it.

“Just stir it a bit more,” he said, coming up behind you and placing his hand on top of yours, “the color is still off.”

Your face burned at the unexpected contact; Snape certainly wasn't a touchy person, so the act caught you completely off guard, though you'd be lying if you said you didn't like it. Severus nearly jumped backwards, absolutely mortified when he realized what he was doing. It was him micromanaging more than anything; he was so focused on getting the potion right he didn't even notice he was moving his own body as he gave you the instruction.

“Sorry,” he said, feeling quite possibly the lamest he'd ever felt in his life.

“It's okay,” you said, biting the inside of your lip nervously and continuing to stir like he said. Your light response allowed Snape to relax, his shoulders lowering a full three inches. He'd been certain you would have reacted to his mistake with disgust or repulsion, but you didn't. What did that mean? You were utterly confusing. Despite how well you could read him, Severus was unable to get a read on you at all. If he had been, he would have noticed the tiny smile on your face as you stirred, silently wishing his hand were back on yours.

You and Snape stood at attention as Slughorn peered down at your potion, looking mildly impressed. He reached into his robes, procuring an oak leaf from who knows where, and dropped it into your cauldron. The leaf floated on top of the liquid for just a moment before its edges began to burn. It furled from the unseen heat, folding in on itself and disappearing into the inky depths of the liquid. Slughorn's expression lit up, his impression no longer mild.

“Merlin's beard, it's perfect!” he exclaimed, “in all my years I've never seen a pair recreate this potion exactly as you two have done today.”

You beamed at the praise, your smile only widening as you saw your emotions mirrored in Severus' face, albeit more subtly.

Over the course of your fourth year, you and Snape continued to excel in Potions, receiving much praise from Professor Slughorn and a lot of glares from your fellow students. However, there was something else that continued that year, and that was your increasing interactions with James Potter.

“I just don't get why you even bother with him,” Snape had said to you one day while you were in Potions. Your prank war with James was at its peak, and you were sidetracked that day in class coming up with new ideas to get back at him.

“It's a full on battle now, Sev,” you said, “I can't back down! Now, for my next one I was thinking something along the lines of a callback to one of his earlier stunts. Maybe get him back for tampering with my cauldron at the beginning the year.”

“(Y/n)—”

“I've got a few friends in Gryffindor, and apparently he talks about his prank plans way too loudly in the common room, so I have a head start on this one. They mentioned something about my shampoo—“

“(Y/n),” Severus stressed, finally catching your attention. You looked up at him, embarrassed at you rambling. “Why do you keep doing this?” he asked, “he's just baiting you. You know that.”

“It keeps them from doing anything that targets you, right?” you questioned back.

Severus didn't know what to say at that. It was true, ever since you had declared war on James, he and his stupid friends hadn't really bothered with him at all. Were you doing this for him? He didn't know what to do with the thought.

You were, of course, but you thought it better not to mention that in the last few months this had been going on, you'd also begun to find the rivalry and banter between you and James fun.

“Gather 'round students, gather 'round!” Slughorn beckoned the class over, disrupting your train of thought and putting an end to your conversation, “now, would anyone like to identify the potion in this cauldron here?” He gestured to a shockingly pink liquid that seemed to swirl on its own. Plum and periwinkle smoke wafted through the air above it in delicate spirals.

“That's Amortentia,” Lily said, “it's a love potion that's supposed to smell different to everyone depending on what scents attract them.”

“Right you are, Miss Evans,” Slughorn said proudly, “would you like to tell us what you smell?”

“Cinnamon,” she started slowly, “warm spices, butterbeer, sandalwood. . .” her cheeks reddened significantly, as if she'd made some sort of realization. “Th-that's all.” You stared at her quizzically but she just shook her head. You'd have to ask her about this later. . .

“(L/n),” Slughorn said, “would you be so kind as to do the same?”

“Sure,” you said, stepping up to the cauldron. It was captivating, almost drawing you in physically. “Wild lavender,” you said, smiling, your mother had a garden full of them when you were growing up, “rain when it hits the pavement, and old leather books.” Scents you wouldn't realize until much later all correlated with a certain person.

“Very different scents for very different people,” Professor Slughorn said, “thank you for demonstrating, you two. Now, we will not be brewing this potion today for obvious reasons. It is incredibly dangerous, capable of creating not true love, but unhinged obsession. What we will be doing, however, is studying its effects. . .”

“Strongest love potion in the world, huh?” Evan suddenly appeared at your side, “funny, I could have sworn it smelled just like you, although you wouldn't need a potion to reign me in~”

“Put a sock in it, Rosier,” you said, shoving him away playfully.

“Aw, come on, just one date wouldn't hurt,” he said, “I'm pulling out all my best lines here!”

“That's the best you've got?”

“Ouch.”

Snape couldn't help but glare at the Slytherin boy, not liking how close he was to you. Nice as he seemed, Snape knew how he could really be. He didn't think you'd be such good friends with Rosier if you knew he was knee deep in the dark arts as soon as the sun set on the castle. Then again, Severus wasn't one to talk.

Over the course of the year he noticed that you only grew closer to James, something that bothered him immensely. He was grateful that you had gotten his bullying to stop, but he hated that the way you had gone about it was to turn Potter into a friend. . .

“Merlin, he keeps looking over at you, Lils,” you said.

Lily and Severus looked over to where James sat with Sirius, Remus, and Peter in their corner table as usual. Somehow they always managed to be at The Three Broomsticks at the exact same time as your trio, almost as if they knew you were there. James Potter was, in fact, looking towards your table, until your friends not-so-discreetly turned to look at him and he diverted his gaze elsewhere.

“Idiot,” you rolled your eyes as you took another sip of your butterbeer.

Lily looked between you and James' table for a moment before turning back to you.

“Actually, (Y/n), he's staring at you.”

You looked at her like she'd grown a second head but then began to laugh.

“Is he? Jeeze, what a creep,” you said, but with affection in your voice that wasn't missed by Severus, “it's probably because I saved his ass the other day and he's still reeling from it.”

“Oh,” she said, a hint of what you swore was relief in her tone until she realized what you said, “Wait, you what?”

“Sirius and I were talking in the forest and we got ambushed by Malfoy's motley crew,” you said, “and Potter showed up because of course he did. It was just a little duel, no big deal.”

“What?!” Lily said, concern written all over her face, “they fancy the dark arts, (Y/n), you could have been hurt!”

Severus stared into his drink, unable to look at either of you.

“I'm fine, Lils,” you insisted, “and trust me, I don't think Malfoy's going to be bothering anyone anymore. Just show him a picture of a squid and he'll probably screech like a banshee.”

Lily laughed along with you, partially in confusion, until the first part of your statement hit her with a slight delay.

“Hold on, you were in the forest with Black? And did you just call him Sirius?” she asked, her teasing making your face flush.

“We just. . . figured some stuff out. . . It was nothing like what you're thinking, so drop it,” you grumbled, taking another drink to hide your embarrassed face.

“Whatever you say, (Y/n),” Lily sang, taking a sip of her own drink.

Severus felt jealousy bubble up in him like a disease. He cast his gaze upwards, his eyes locking momentarily with James'. His arch rival rose a cocky brow at him, his gaze unmistakably shifting to you and Lily before staring Snape down again. Severus took a sharp breath to steel himself, that feeling in the pit of his stomach never really going away.

That was the beginning of the end.

Read chapter 5 here!

Taglist: @sleep-i-ness, @blackpinkdolan, @parker-natasha, @ornella0910 @undertaker1827 @thatwierdo-koemi @nxstalgicnxbxdy

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forever-rogue · 3 years ago

Note

OH I HAVE AN IDEA like an angsty fic where bucky and reader have a miscommunication and it causes a fight between them and they are both like ???? “we’ve never yelled at each other ??? what is this” AND IDK I JUST WANT ANGST

So, head empty, very little thoughts, but I hope this works and you like it 🥺

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You sang along to the music that was playing softly in the background as you showered and got ready for your day. You’d had a late start, easily giving into Bucky and staying in bed for just five more minutes, which had really turned out to be almost another hour. The good thing about being the boss was that you could afford to be late every once in a while. Bucky was in the kitchen, whipping up a quick breakfast before he too needed to leave and go about his day.

“Sugar,” he called out to you as you washed your hair. You could faintly make out his voice as you carried on, but figured you’d be able to make out what he was saying well enough, “I’ve got everything made and prepared just how you like it!”

You thought nothing of it for a moment and continued to wash your hair; but about halfway through the motions, you stopped in surprise. What had he actually said?

“Bucky? Bub, what did you say?” you quickly rinsed out our hair before pulling back the shower curtain as you tried to listen in. Had he really said he was mad?

“It’s all done! I’m done,” he called back as he covered your plate for you to find once you got out of the shower. He grabbed his travel mug of coffee and headed towards the door, giving Alpine a quick pet before leaving, “bye honey. Running late and gotta go - I’m leaving!”

“Bucky!” you almost slipped and fell as you tore back the shower curtain and almost jumped out of the shower. It was still running as you haphazardly grabbed a towel and darted down the hall and into the kitchen. But he was already gone; the only thing that was left behind was the faint smell of his cologne. Swallowing the nervous lump in your throat, you trudged back down the hall to finish your shower. You were already running late and whatever this was - whatever had just happened - would need to wait until later.

Had Bucky really just broken up with you in the midst of a shower? It sure seemed like it right now.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you sat down and stared at your computer screen. You’d had the same spreadsheets and charts pulled up for the last two hours and made almost no progress. You swore that almost every single interaction you’d had with Bucky over the last week was playing on loop in your mind. You were desperately trying to figure out where you’d gone wrong, what had caused him to snap.

In an effort to alleviate your own fears, you’d texted Bucky to get a response from him and see what was going on. But you hadn’t heard back from him. You’d sent three messages before deciding not to bombard him. But still...if he was just up and leaving you after almost three years together, he owed you at least a small explanation.

You opened google and quickly pulled up an apartment search, already resigned yourself to the idea that you’d need to find a new place fast. Being around for too long would be too hard and you didn’t want to subject to more torture than necessary. And Alpine! You’d need to decide what to do with your beloved cat - Alpine loved you equally, how were you to choose who would get the fluffy little thing? And all the friends in common you shared...who would they side with?

“Fuck,” you groaned at nothing in particular and decided to focus on your work. At least that would keep you distracted and your brain focused on something other than Bucky. You would figure out everything else tonight. It would all be fine. This was no big deal; maybe your world was falling apart...but you would handle it. You always did.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you finally allowed yourself to go home that evening, you were shocked to find the lights on and Bucky in the kitchen. He was on the phone with someone, his new girlfriend or someone like that you immediately presumed, moving about the kitchen as he finished dinner. You choked up as you watched the domestic scene that was so normal to you by now. But this time, it felt so wrong.

You stormed in and for whatever reason, you decided that grabbing a pillow and throwing it at Bucky was a good idea. You picked the soft thing up in your arms and hurled at him, who suddenly realized you were home and yelped in surprise as he dodged the offending object. He raised his eyebrows in surprise as he pointed to the earbuds in ears as he turned back to the stove.

You were seeing red by now as you stormed in the kitchen and ripped his earbuds out. He was so stunned by your sudden actions, he jumped back and offered up a shocked look.

“What the fuck are you doing here!?” you shouted at him as you threw the buds on the floor, half tempted to stomp them, “how fucking dare you!”

“Sugar, what on earth are you talking about?” he grabbed his phone off the counter and ended the call without hesitation. Your chest heaved as you waited for some sort of explanation, “what’s going on? Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not alright! How on earth could I be alright?” you threw your hands up in exasperation as you tried to unsuccessfully hold back your tears. He was so calm and nonchalant about everything it was almost more frustrating than anything else.

“Okay...something is going on. Care to enlighten me?” he tried to reach up and wipe your tears away but you flinched out of his touch, “sugar?”

“Y-you! It’s you!” you cried softly as he motioned for you to explain just what it was about him that was the problem.

“What about me…?”

“You just break up with me this morning and tell me you’re leaving me and then you just come back like nothing has happened?” as soon as the words left your mouth, Bucky’s mouth dropped open. It was news to him that he’d broken up with you, “and you didn’t answer my texts all day! I deserve some sort of explanation!”

“I didn’t...I didn’t break up with you, Sugar,” he stated simply as you tilted to your head in confusion, trying to decide if he was pulling your leg or being honest, “why would I leave you? That makes no sense. I love you - I’m in love with you!”

“This morning,” you whispered softly, “you said you were done and you were leaving. When I was in the shower.”

His brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what exactly you were talking about. But then it hit him and he struggled not to burst out laughing. He gnawed on his lip as he fervently shook his head, “my sweet girl, you...well you heard me correctly, but incorrectly at the same time.”

“What? I-I swear…”

“What I said was breakfast was done and that I was leaving for work because I was running late too,” he explained as you tried to replay all that you had heard. Maybe...maybe you hadn’t heard him correctly at all - and in turn jumped to the worst possible conclusion, “I had to run...I’m sorry I didn’t come into the bathroom and say goodbye. Maybe that would have solved this whole thing.”

“You’re not..leaving me?” you asked as he just shook his head and took the opportunity to wrap his arms around you, “you still love me?”

“I find it both hilarious and concerning that you so easily thought I would just leave,” he kissed the top of your head as you held onto him as tightly as possible, “of course I’m not leaving. You never have to worry about that, sugar. I love you so much, silly girl. You sweet, silly girl.”

“I’m an absolute idiot,” you mumbled as you buried your face in his shoulder. You couldn’t believe that you jumped from A to Z so quickly and without a moment of hesitation, “I’m sorry, Bub. I feel like I wouldn’t blame you if you did want to leave me now.”

“Never,” he promised softly, “even if you do have moments of being ridiculous. Just like I do.”

“If I ever do something so dumb again,” you huffed as you pulled back and looked at those ocean eyes, “just smack some sense into me. But I...you didn’t answer my texts.”

“Texts?” he seemed genuinely confused as he reached for his phone and correctly scrolled through his messages. You could see that there were none from you, “what are you…I was in bad reception today. Blame Sam, that I was just on the phone with, for that one. They probably never came through. I’m sorry, honey. If they’d come in, maybe we could have avoided this whole situation, huh?"

“Some bad luck on top of it,” you hid your face behind your hands and sighed heavily, “James. I..I’m so sorry for everything. I just downright acted like a fool today. I don’t even know where to begin to apologize. I love you, Bub. I hope you can forgive me, but if not...I would-”

“Hey,” he put his hand under chin and turned your face up to meet his own. His smile was lilting and gentle and his eyes soft, “I love you. It’s alright done and forgotten. Are you hungry? Dinner’s just about finished.”

“I love you more than anything,” you whispered as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, “I just...my emotions were so all over the place today. Like out of control, A to Z. I don’t know what happened.”

“Shit happens,” he dismissed it with a slight scoff as he reached for some dishes, “I��m yours, sugar. Always.”

“Me too,” you agreed as you leaned against the counter, watching him with nothing but adoration. It was then that another realization - and possibly an explanation - hit you. It felt like a punch in the gut, “shit.”

“What?” Bucky asked as he started to plate dinner, “everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you smiled nervously, “just remembered something I forgot to do today.”

“As long as you’re alright…”

“I am,” you promised. You could worry about this later, “hey - I love you so much, Bucky. You know that right?”

“I love you too. Always.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Marvel Taglist (add yourself to a taglist here!)(strike-through means I couldn’t tag you - please check your settings!)

@qhbr2013 @greeneyedblondie44 @april-showers-and-flowers @softboiipascal @im-an-adult-ish @patzammit @niki-xie @xxlovingfandomsxx @startrekkingaroundasgard @welcometothepedroverse @actual-spawn-of-satan @punkerthanpascal @lazybeeches @someday-when-you-leave-me @justgivemethekeys @salome-c @rosiefridayrogersunday @neptunesglow @artsymaddie @haildoodles @amneris21 @star017 @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater @its–fandom–darling @ayamenimthiriel @alyispunk @djarinbarnes @edencherries @ashamed23 @sunsetskywalkerr @nikkixostan @spookispunk @cable-kenobi @ironicfoxes @cc13723things @gooddaykate @natthebattygeologist @sociallyantisocialbutterfly @n3ssm0nique @daughterofthenight117 @riddikulus-obsessions @imaginelover88 @saint-bvcky @sleep-tight1 @missstef23 @moonlacebeam @asylummara @wakandabiitch2 @hoodedbirdie @mysweetlittledesire @reallyloudstarlight @vintagepigeon @froggyy06 @fleurydelacoury @veil-of-time @queenbeean @deedepee @kenzieam @luxeavenger @dobbyjen @bbl32 @frickin-bats @caprisunsister @spacedadmando @bucks-bunny @starlightcrystalline @jensenswinchester @simonedk @keithseabrook27 @cloverrover @jedi-mando @fyeahatised @allforkook @bibliophilewednesday @doozywoozy

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan

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startanewdream · 3 years ago

Text

Captain Potter

Summary: Lily Evans has a secret that the army cannot know and it doesn't help that her captain is trying to be her friend.

Note: So I was watching Mulan and it's Shirtless JP May and this got me into googling shirtless army man, so please enjoy this piece of very much self-indulgence set in another AU. Also, I have no knowledge of military ranks, so bear with me.

Read on AO3 or below:

‘Evans’, the captain calls, and Lily turns to him, slightly afraid as she always feels when she hears her name. Maybe this is the day her secret will be found, this is the day she will be expelled and will fall in disgrace —

But Captain Potter has one of his carefree trademark grins, none at all looking as if he is about to arrest her. He looks at ease, leaning against one of the training posts, arms crossed lazily, watching her with interest shining in his hazel eyes as if she is a puzzle he will understand someday.

Lily truly wishes he won't, so she avoids looking at him directly in the eyes.

‘Captain’, she answers at least, saluting. That seems to amuse him.

‘I have a name, you know’.

‘Hum’, she stops, unsure. Her interactions with the captain have been restricted — well, her interactions with everyone have been limited —, but she has watched him from afar.

He is young and yet he never tries to act bossy with all the other soldiers, never tries to impose himself. He may have a more affinity with three of the soldiers (his friends for a long time, as she gathered), but he tries to treat everyone fairly, encouraging and teaching all soldiers equally, from the weakest of them to the strongest, and it’s not hard for her to see why everyone is willing to follow him into battle. The only one that he hadn’t been able to reach some sort of relationship was with her.

Something that had fit Lily’s plans and worries very well.

‘Captain Potter?’, she tries.

‘I am someone besides a rank’, he suggests.

‘Mr. Potter’.

‘That would be my father. I am James ’, he says at least, as if she is unfamiliar with the name of the youngest captain of the army.

‘I know , but — it would not be proper —’

‘Liam’, he stops her and, just as anytime someone uses that name, Lily wants to look around searching for that person until she remembers her situation. ‘Can I call you Liam?’

‘I’d rather Evans’, she answers, grimacing, and when he looks dismayed, she adds quickly: ‘It’s how everyone calls me. Not… it’s more personal, really’.

‘Fine, Evans’. He grins again. It’s a beautiful smile, so open and inviting, that again Lily has no difficulty understanding the success he makes with all the other soldiers, why their unity is unanimous in praising him. There is something on him that draws people to him — her included. ‘Well, call me James. I can order you to if it will make it more proper’.

Lily lets out a laugh before she stops herself, biting her lips, worried. She shouldn’t laugh; though she can disguise her voice mildly well, her laugh is too thin, too sparkling. It’s not a man’s grave laugh.

Fortunately, the captain doesn’t seem to find anything amiss. He looks just… glad with her reaction.

‘So you are capable of laughing’, he notes teasingly. ‘I had my doubts, you know’.

‘There has never been an occasion, Cap — James ’.

He opens his mouth in an offended expression; it’s so dramatic that, again, she wants to laugh. ‘I beg your pardon? Yesterday, when someone — a very clever someone, I might add — pretended to be shot by an arrow? That was an occasion!’

‘Wasn’t that you?’, she asks, raising her eyebrows. It had been a long tense one minute in which one of the other soldiers, Sirius, had been sure he had shot by mistake the captain and his best friend before James had revealed himself alive, laughing hysterically and showing the fake arrow attached to his badge.

Sirius had punched him, all rank forgotten, but then he was laughing too and everyone thought it was hilarious.

‘It was fun ’.

‘It was terrifying’.

‘Oh, so you were terrified I’d died?’, he jokes, his grin now very smug. ‘And I thought you didn’t like me’.

Lily blushes, lowering her head and hoping he hadn’t noticed it. Truth was she had misjudged him on the first day, annoyed by the way he acted with that captain badge pinned on his chest. He came from a long family of militars, after all, and he was very young, no matter what his father would praise about his grades in military school, so she had truly believed he didn’t deserve to be a captain, that he had only got there for his family name.

In the last few weeks, though, she was forced to admit he was a good captain. He had the vision for it, good ideas, an efficient way of training everyone and, of course, he was a leader.

‘I have nothing against you, sir — James’.

‘I’m glad to know’, he says, sounding earnest. ‘I am worried about you, you know’.

‘Have I done something wrong?’, she asks, surprised, fear involving her again. Lily had taken care of doing all exercises, overworking herself, all to prove that that stupid rule that forbid women in the army did not make any sense. They needed everyone in the fight against Voldemort, after all, and she would not wait patiently, especially when people like her were one of his targets.

‘No, no, you’ve been perfect, really, no one dedicates as much as you’, he assures her. ‘But you don’t socialize. You stay quiet during dinner. You don’t participate in any of the games', he pauses, before adding again dramatically: 'You don’t laugh at my pranks!’

All of it is true. Lily has purposefully gotten away from everyone, afraid they would notice something different about her, though that quiet soldier, Remus, had tried to talk to her. She just feels she can't risk.

‘I do not think it’s time for pranks, James’, she answers, deciding the last point was probably the easiest.

He shakes his head. ‘We are at war, Evans. If we don’t laugh now, we may not laugh after’.

She supposes he is right. And even though he enjoys more pranks than she thinks it’s reasonable, she knows he worries too. More than once, when she is on guard duty, she has noticed the light of his tent is on very late in the night. James may look carefree with everyone else, but he has concerns about the war — and what lies in his shoulder.

‘Your work has been impeccable’, he adds quietly. ‘I just want you to get to know more of your colleagues and for them to know more about you’. Lily presses her lips, hoping her worry doesn’t show on her face. That was all she was trying to avoid. ‘You will need to count on them in the battlefield and they will need to know you have their backs too. And the only way to do that is if we trust each other. Can we do that?’

James is waiting for her answer, his eyes boring into hers firmly, and Lily can’t turn away now. In the light of the morning, with the sun shining on his face, his hazel eyes seem to glint in gold, the pupil barely visible. He has wrinkles on the side of his eyes, and she suddenly wishes they weren’t meeting in the army while she is pretending to be an introverted thin young man.

He seems the kind of guy she would like to meet in college, or to grow up together with, or even in a dancing club with her friends; they would talk and she could be then fully herself, could share with him her witty side and even help him in a prank or two. In that other life she would appreciate how nice and beautiful he is, with that black hair that’s always messy no matter how much he tries to comb, and those hazel eyes that were made for laughing, not to be worried for the war.

But that’s not her life and she is sure that if he ever finds out about her, he will hate her. Somehow, with how much she has learned to admire him in the last weeks, she fears his rejection more than she fears being expelled from the army.

Lily knows she would trust James Potter with her life, knows she would do her duty and die for him if it was needed, and yet she also knows she can't ever tell him her secret.

So she does what she has been doing best ever since she joined the army.

‘We can trust each other’, she lies.

He beams. ‘Great, Evans! And I thought we could start sharing your mourning runs’. He raises one eyebrow when she looks surprised. ‘I’ve noticed you awake at dawn to run’.

‘I like to train’, she admits. ‘I am… thinner than the others, so I am trying to get fitter’.

‘You look a lot better’, he compliments, touching her arm, where her biceps have been evolving nicely. It’s a pat, a soft brush, and yet it sends shivers down Lily’s spine; his hand is warm . ‘Mind if I join you?’

She hesitates just a little. ‘I will stay quiet’, she warns him. ‘I like to think while I run’.

‘Works for me. And if you want to share a thought or another, well, I’m here, Evans’.

He winks at her, again so friendly that she turns her eyes away, wishing she could tell him the truth. But she can’t, so she presses her lips, ties the ribbon around her hair so the bun stays in place, and kneels to make sure her shoes are tied. Then she raises and her heart stops for a full second.

James has taken out his shirt. She knows he is fit — there is no way he can’t be with all the years of training he had — and she has seen before shirtless, but only when she was far away in the line, hoping to get unnoticed as she trained the movements.

Now, it’s only him, his tanned skin glistening under the morning sun, a god coming out of her dreams. She is staring and she knows it, but there is no way she can avoid it; weeks at the army have made her lost a lot of discomfourt around men's body, but this... This doesn't seem fair.

She watches the muscles in his arms, his biceps far more evident than hers will ever be, and it suddenly occurs to Lily that she would like very much to feel them around her, involving her, holding her. There would be only benefits in hugging him, she realizes, as her eyes move to his torso, enjoying the firmness of his chest and the muscles in his abdomen, a six pack that seems drawn perfectly. In his arms, she would glide her hand through his chest, would place a kiss over his heart and then she would raise her head and they would be so close —

And then James stretches his arms, raising them above his head, and she notices the hair on his torso, a few patches near his chest that shine with a few drops of sweat she wouldn’t mind drying, and then the darked patch over his abdomen, in a path that goes on vanishing inside…

When she finds herself staring at his pants, Lily decides she has crossed more limits that it's reasonable.

She turns, all her concentration in avoiding glancing at him again, though she feels it's fruitless. The sight of him seems to be recorded in her mind. He will appear on her dream, she is sure of it.

‘Everything all right, Evans?’, he asks, right behind her, and she jumps. 'You look red'.

Lily knows it; her face is hot, burning even before she has started to run, and she won’t fool herself pretending she doesn’t know the reason.

‘I'm fine, let’s go’, she answers quickly, heart racing in her chest. This was a horrible idea; mourning runs with her very gorgeous hot captain will do no good for her keeping her secret.

She sprints without warning, but he catches up with her easily. She keeps her eyes ahead. Don't look, don't stare, don't ogle.

‘There is something special about you, Evans’, he declares, the run not seeming to disturb his breathing. ‘I will find out one day’.

#Shirtless JP May #Jily #Jily AU #Pining Lily #Captain James Potter #Army James Potter #Lily is a soldier #Lily would never stand out a fight #James would just be smitten with his recruit #oh the pining

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mycrofts-gunbrella · 3 years ago

Text

Caring is the Greatest Advantage- Part 3 (Mycroft Holmes x Reader)

AN- Thank you for the patience for this one! My little boy has been unwell so it has taken a little longer than I had hoped but here is the third instalment! It’s a little shorter than the others but that’s because I wanted to contain the angsty part in one chapter, the next ones will hopefully be longer..

This one is a little more angsty, a lot more emotional, but I’m quite happy with the outcome and I hope you are too! As usual, please let me know any thoughts/feedback! And enjoy!

Word Count: 2510

"Is it just me that finds Stephen Fry a bit.. sexy?" You spoke, watching the television as Young Ones' Scumbag College competed on University Challenge. "I don't know what it is about him. He's just.. got such a lovely voice, and he's so sodding clever and his CLOTHES- got much better looking with age, mind." Mycroft only hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"Hmm.. He's not really my type." You laughed and petted his head fondly.

"You don't have to be gay to find another man attractive Myc." You mused. "Me and Greg talk about it all the time, though he fancies Hugh Laurie more, especially in Blackadder." You laughed, thinking back on the memory of Greg's fondness of George in the Blackadder Goes Forth series.

"I'm aware that sexuality and attraction are not the same, Y/N. I am comfortable enough in my own heterosexuality to appreciate another man's features. In fact, I very much agree with Gregory's view on Mr Laurie. Stephen, however, is not my type. The few people that did speak to me in University used to tell me I reminded them of him in the way I behaved but, and I quote, 'without even a lick of his humour, you miserable bastard.' Thus, I cannot look at him in that way." He laughed a little and you cleared your throat.

"Oh.. uh, yeah I guess that makes sense. Not the humour part though, you're actually hilarious and they missed out big time." You tried to avoid the point where you'd deemed Stephen Fry sexy in every way he was similar to the man who was laying in your lap, and just hoped he wouldn't bring that up.

"He definitely got the looks side of things though, particularly as General Melchett in Goes Forth, though I am not particularly fond of the facial hair." He screwed up his nose in distaste, you fighting every ounce of your control to not say he looked a bit cute. "And certainly didn't have the waistline that 21 year old Mycroft had."

"Speaking in the third person now, are we? Well, Mycroft, Y/N is comfortable enough in her friendship that Y/N thinks Mycroft can be sexy in his own ways too." You teased, partly embarrassed, but equally just trying any way to improve the man's confidence, even by a little. Mycroft choked a little on his own saliva and had to sit up to regain his own breath. Too far? "Sorry." He shook his head 'no' but didn't speak. In his moments of regaining his composure, Mycroft watched you. Processed in his head what you had said- 'was it a joke?', he couldn't read anything on you that would suggest that, though his eyes were glassy from the choking- watched as you panicked, then subsiding the panic to concern as you made sure he was okay. All these things, he thought, he didn't deserve. He took a deep breath and reached for the television remote, pausing the show and settling back on the other side of the sofa. It had to be done now. Done while his brain was allowing it, before he got attached... before he got attached even more. He couldn't keep pretending it was okay, keep accepting your compliments and your kindness, couldn't allow himself to go any further in his.. attraction?

It was always unspoken between the two of you- your not so subtle hints to Mycroft over the last few years hadn't got unnoticed, Mycroft would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he felt the same way, though this was perhaps the most open you had been; he would always put it off, try to think of reasons why you shouldn't be more than whatever you are now- most of the time it circles back to work, your busy schedule at the Yard and his unpredictable working hours mostly, saying to himself that it would simply be pointless, that you wouldn't see each other. But he knew that was a lie- you see him as often as you can, even if it's just for an hour on lunch, and everyone knows he would do his best to move empires to have you over for dinner had it been a while, quite literally actually.

Then there was age, you were in your mid-to-late twenties, he in his forties, though that argument also fell flat after you had mentioned your last long term relationship had been with a man your elder, amongst many of your interests in celebrity males that you had mentioned being closer to his age than yours- and, on his behalf, it was usual for a Politician to walk into formal dinners with a younger woman on arm. In the end, it all went back to the real reason Mycroft put everything off, a reason he hated admitting to even himself. Mycroft was scared.

Having been the age he is with no sexual experience, no previous relationships, and not even many friendships, he was terrified he would humiliate himself and you would leave him completely. You were both adults, both clever, you both knew there was always 'something' there, but without you ever acting upon it, Mycroft decided to live his life keeping you as a friend rather than risk not having you at all. He felt guilty enough having you here anyway. He couldn't allow you to keep stroking his hair like that, or letting you sleep in his bed with him, hold him as he snored, when it was for completely other desires in his own mind, not without speaking to you. No, that wouldn't be fair- even if he didn't fully understand everything himself and was still incredibly scared. You needed to know the truth, about everything, and, if there were the slightest chance you'd forgive him, he had decided he couldn't wait any longer, couldn't put it off anymore, he wanted you to carry on doing those things, wanted to continue the nights you would stay in his bed. But Mycroft wanted it to change, he wanted to be able to start the night with a ghost of his hand on your hip, without waiting until you were asleep to bring himself to have that courage, to wake up next to you and not feel the awkward need to move so soon, just to stay a little longer. Christ, Mycroft wanted every cliché in the book with you, and it took him until yesterday to realise how much he wanted that, after nearly losing you. And he needed you to know, even if it risked it all.

"Y/N I-"

"I know, I'm sorry, I took it too far I was just messing about.. Not that I didn't mean it, I wasn't joking about you.. You are very attractive, but it was inappropriate.. I shouldn't have said it.. I just wanted to help.. though I don't think it did, might have made it worse, actually.. Didn't want to say anything and let you find out.. like that.. not that it matters.. because I AM happy JUST being your friend, over the moon, actually.. so I don't want you to think I ruined that... Because I know you don't feel.. like that.. and you're not saying anything which is scaring me a little because you're always talking.. Not that I don't like that.. I love you talking to me, you've got a lovely voice.. and.. and I'm going to shut up again.. sorry.. again.." You rambled, a lot, too much.. far too much. Mycroft tried to process everything, his eyes closing at every word. You were making this so much harder for him, admitting everything like that. Mycroft hunched forward in his position and braced his elbows on his knees, index and middle finger of each hand holding the weight of his head by his temples.

"No just.. Just stop talking for a moment." Mycroft snapped, cutting you off as your mouth opened to speak a little, the small jump back made his gaze soften. "Please." He spoke softer, apologetic. "I can't.. talk about that.. not yet. Not until you know.." You went to speak again but his head tilted, eyes containing a rare glaze of vulnerability, trying to stay in contact with your own but constantly dropping back to his lap- a silent plea to stay quiet, be patient and just give him a moment. And you did. Turning your body completely sideways, you crossed your legs on the sofa, hands resting folded in your lap as you encouraged him to continue with a brief nod of your head. "I fear if I don't tell you of yesterday's happenings in this very moment that I never shall, and that is far too selfish, even of me." He took a deep breath in. "But I just.. need a moment. A few, likely, throughout." You nodded your head again.

From there, Mycroft began to explain everything that had happened, told you of his sister, where she had taken him, Sherlock and John, what she spoke about, what she tried to get them to do. His voice cracked every so often, knuckles whitened as his fists clenches, creases formed in his trousers where he squeezed his hand on them, but you listened to every word and stayed silent- eyes welling with small tears. Mycroft spoke of the screen, told you of the snipers that were out there, targeting Ms Hudson and Molly. Your body stiffened as he added Lestrade to the list, feeling your throat tighten a little at the mere thought of losing Greg. Mycroft pressed on, told you about how Eurus tried to make Sherlock choose between him and John, told you how he'd tried to convince Sherlock to just shoot him, how Sherlock refused and threatened to shoot himself. His voice went breathless at the end of that, the idea of losing his brother so easily still fresh in his mind. You loosened your sitting position and leaned over, taking Mycroft's hand in your own and squeezing. He sighed again and closed his eyes.

"Please, don't." He whispered, trying to fold his hand into a fist to escape your embrace. You didn't let go and offered your other hand on his back in support as you watched a stray tear fall down his cheek. "I said don't!" He shouted, moving from your touch and standing up from the sofa, beginning to pace as his face contorted into more pain, another tear following the path of the last. You sat back, watched him, didn't take the anger to heart. "It was my fault! All of it!" He ran his hands through his hair and tugged, moving them after to wipe the droplets from his cheek.

"Myc it's ok-"

"It isn't okay Y/N! No part of any of this is even remotely close to okay!" He stilled now, posture going back rigid as he looked at you, eyes bloodshot and glassy. He told you of his Birthday present to Eurus- five unsupervised minutes with Moriarty- and started his pacing again. "A man died yesterday because of me. Sherlock, John, Greg, Ms Hudson, Molly. They all almost died yesterday. You almost... you almost died yesterday." His breath hitched again, lip softly quivering at the end of his words. You tensed a little and frowned, confused and urging him to elaborate. "They weren't the only people on the screens, not the only ones with a red dot on their heads, Y/N." Gaze avoiding you now, turned completely to face the wall rather than look at you at all- giving him a chance to compose himself, steadying his voice. "I saw you, you were happy, just dancing and making tea, but at any moment you could have... and it would have been my fault. And I know I should have told you yesterday, it was selfish of me using you the way that I have without letting you know everything. You could have been gone before I could tell you everything, before I could explain how I feel about you, and it all came rushing to me the moment I saw your face on that screen. I’m so sorry, for everything, for ignoring everything, for being the reason you almost-" The last thing Mycroft had expected was the feeling of arms around his waist, the feeling of a head resting between his shoulder blades, soaking the shirt with tears. You sniffed, holding onto him tighter as you cried into his back.

"It's okay Mycroft." You spoke, voice croaking from tears. "They're okay.. I'm okay. And you're going to be okay. I'm not going anywhere." The relief Mycroft felt from your words ran through his body as he slumped a little, left hand holding on to where yours joined on his stomach, his right lifting to his eyes where, in a very rare moment, he allowed himself to weep.

***

Neither of you were too sure on how long you stayed like that, Mycroft being held in your arms as he quietly cried into his hand, you into his back, but it was long enough that your feet were beginning to ache and Mycroft had become silent a short while ago. You attempted to loosen your grip but Mycroft quickly grabbed back at your hands, holding them to him again. You changed your tactic and instead circled round until your hands remained together on his back, you now at his front and you gave him one last squeeze before guiding him backwards to the sofa, taking your place next to him but keeping your arms around him.

"I'm sorry." His voice was broken, quieter than usual. You shook your head and fought the urge to cry again.

"Don't." You spoke, sliding a hand down to hold his own that rested on his thigh. "Don't apologise Myc. You didn't do anything on purpose, you were just trying to be a good person.. a good brother. We're both still alive. Sherlock, John, Greg, Ms Hudson, Molly, they're all fine, and I have no doubt that it was partly due to you that they are still okay- whatever the three of you did in there, it worked, and that's all that matters to me." Mycroft shifted, his eyes finding yours once more, scanning, searching, trying to find anything that showed you were lying, that you didn't trust him anymore, but he couldn't find anything.

"But I-" You placed a hand at the back of his neck and leaned forward slightly, your lips meeting his briefly for a few seconds before pulling back. It wasn't desperate, or longing, or out of lust- it was everything Mycroft needed. Everything that let him know that you weren't going anywhere, that you still wanted to be around him, to be with him. He relaxed but didn't speak, his hand beneath yours just turning to allow your fingers to lace together as he let out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. You rested your head against his shoulder, smiling softly as you felt his own rest atop yours before falling into a comfortable silence.

#mycroft #Mycroft Holmes #bbc mycroft #bbc mycroft holmes #mycroft x reader #bbc sherlock #reader insert #mycroft holmes x reader #mycroft holmes x reader smut

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blackspoon99 · 3 years ago

Text

The Sign of Three Pt. 3

Sherlock x Female! Reader

TW: Drinking, Language, Potential Emetophobia (If you’ve seen this episode, you know), Spoilers to Season 3

Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

Part 5

“Of course, there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits.”

Oh god, the stag night. You almost laughed just thinking about it. It was unbelievable that Sherlock was willingly telling this story to an audience. You were fortunate enough to witness some of the events of the night firsthand.

The story began the morning of in Baker Street, 11 am:

It was a Saturday morning, and you were over having tea with Sherlock. For the two of you, “having tea” consisted of you both reading in complete silence while you happened to be drinking tea. It was a common occurrence, and for you, it was a treasured tradition. You were curled up in John’s chair opposite Sherlock. Today, you were reading Emma by Jane Austen. You peeked over at Sherlock to see what he was reading. Sherlock was reading a book titled “Atlas of Forensic Pathology”. Riveting. The book looked so heavy; it would probably go straight through the floor if he dropped it.

You returned to your book. This was probably your third time reading the Jane Austen classic. You were inexplicably drawn to the plot, the message, the love story, all of it. You finally were at your favorite part. When Mr. Knightly said to Emma, “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” You looked at Sherlock over the pages of your book. You couldn’t help but consider the relevance of the quote in your own life.

When you first came to terms with the fact that you were in love with Sherlock, the feeling had burned through you. You couldn’t focus and constantly fought the urge to tell him. Possibly because of the several near-death experiences you'd had. After you made up with Sherlock at the engagement party, the feeling persisted but it was almost duller, easier to live with. You’d slowly regained security in Sherlock’s role in your life and you no longer constantly worried he’d leave again. You returned to your version of mundane and your unrequited feelings for Sherlock became the new normal. It had become more of a consistent ache than a burn.

Sherlock interrupted your thoughts: “Shouldn’t it be relatively easy to find a new book to read if you work in a bookstore?”

“True, but I like this one,” you said without looking up from your book.

“Why? What do you gain from reading a convoluted story of questionable morals that provides no useful information?”

You finally put your book down. “Because, I like to read for fun. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Sherlock smiled and scoffed at you then returned to his book.

You shook your head and downed the rest of your tea. “Okay, I’ve got to go to work.” You got up and took your mug to the kitchen. On your way back to gather your things, you noticed an open file on the kitchen table that looked like a John Watson scrapbook. You pulled the first paper off the stack to see a cutout of John’s head pasted onto the Vitruvian Man. “Sherlock?” you called over your shoulder, “What’s this file for?”

“What file?” He asked.

You picked up the file and carried it back to the living room. You returned to your seat and started thumbing through it.

“Oh. That’s for the stag night,” said Sherlock.

“Stag night? I didn’t think you would want to do that sort of thing”

“Why not?” He swiftly closed his book. If you didn’t know better, you’d take the action as a sign of offense.

“Uh, no reason,” you said hastily. The file was full of peer-reviewed studies on alcohol consumption, detailed chemistry notes, and copies of John’s medical records. The last page was a detailed schedule of where they were going and how much they were going to drink every hour. “This is awfully thorough.”

“I needed to ensure the maximum amount of enjoyment for the both of us for the duration of the night.”

“How considerate of you.” You put the file down and leaned forward. “So, what do you have planned?”

“John and I will be drinking at a pub on every street we ever found a corpse.”

“That is oddly perfect for the both of you.”

“I thought so,” Sherlock said with a grin.

You looked at the time. If you didn’t leave now, you’d be late. “Well, I’m off. See you later, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes, goodbye,” he mumbled and returned to reading. You left the file on the table, gathered your belongings, and left for your shift.

---------------------------------

Later that evening:

You closed the bookshop at 8 pm and headed to the tube station. As you made your way through the crowded streets, you heard your phone ringing. You dug through your bag to find it as you walked. You saw Sherlock’s name on the caller ID and answered it. Your ears were immediately assaulted by electronic dance music.

You heard Sherlock’s voice first “Shut up John, I’m calling her.” He shouted over the music

“Who?” you then recognized John’s voice.

“Her John, I’m calling her!”

You struggled to hear the call over the booming music “Hello?? Sherlock? Why are you calling me?”

“Oh! It’s y/n! Hello!” John shouted into the phone. You winced at the volume.

“John? Where are you? Are you drunk?”

“Stag night! Sherlock tried to measure my piss. Then he got into a fight.”

“Give me that back” Sherlock’s voice “Y/n meet us back at Baker Street. It’s an ‘mergency”

“What did you say? Sherlock? It’s really hard to hear,”

“Baker Street. Now!” He shouted then hung up.

For a moment, you stood in the street, dumbfounded. It was only 8 pm and both Sherlock and John were piss drunk at some club. You couldn’t even begin to process the rest of the information. So much for Sherlock’s plan, although it did seem like they had “maximized their enjoyment”. You weren’t about to miss this.

——————————

You arrived at Baker Street by 8:30 pm. You opened the door to find Sherlock and John laying across the bottom of the stairs. “Hello boys, I’m here.” You announced.

At the sound of your voice, Sherlock and John scrambled to sit upright. Sherlock fell down a step in the process. You tried your best to suppress your laughter. “So, I’m here. What’s the emergency, Sherlock?”

“Right, you,” He said, raising his arm to point at you. “Upstairs.”

You watched Sherlock and John slowly stand up. John lifted one foot to climb the stairs, then stumbled backward.

“Do you need help, John?” You asked.

“Nah,” he said, “‘s alright, I’m fine. I can do it myself.”

You slowly helped Sherlock and John up and into the flat. Sherlock tried to take off his coat, but his arms got stuck behind him. You giggled and gently pulled his coat off him and hung it on the coat rack. You lead Sherlock over to his chair and he flopped down into it.

You went into the kitchen to get some water for him and John. You figured they’d need it. You searched the cabinets, but there wasn’t a clean glass in sight. You resorted to the clean beakers on the countertops instead. You poured two 250mL beakers most of the way with water and walked them back into the living room. When you returned, Sherlock was sitting in his chair. He was drinking from a glass of scotch.

“Sherlock,” you groaned. “Where did you get that?” You attempted to reach for the glass, but he pulled his hand away, spilling it all over himself.

“It’s okay, this is fine,” he said, staring at his scotch-soaked shirt. “Oh,” he started. “I almost forgot,” Sherlock leaned over the side of his chair to grab something off the floor “You left this,” Sherlock said and handed you your copy of Emma. You hadn’t even realized it was gone.

“That was the emergency?”

“I still don’t understand how you could read this 3 times,” Sherlock slurred. “It’s so- what’s the word? Incorrect? ‘There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.’ What an absurd thing to say” He contorted his face into an expression of disgust and took a sip of scotch from the glass in his hand.

“You read it? Today?” The fact that Sherlock had gone out of his way to read your favorite book made you unnaturally happy. You knew not to read into the things with Sherlock, but sometimes you couldn’t help yourself.

“You left it behind and I was so bored. Besides, I had to understand why you liked it so much. I still don’t know.”

You leaned over and snatched the glass of scotch from him. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, do you?” You handed him the beaker of water.

“Thank you,” he said with a goofy grin. In all the years you’d known Sherlock, you had never seen him like this. It was odd to say the least yet decidedly hilarious.

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock didn’t answer but pointed in the general direction of the bathroom. You decided to take the seat opposite Sherlock. As you sat down, Sherlock put his water on the floor. He then leaned forward and put his head in his hands, staring at you.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” you asked.

“You,” he said, pointing at your face “are so hard to figure out sometimes, you know that?”

“Me?”

“It’s soooooo annoying. I can tell what almost everyone is thinking all the time, but not always you.”

“You think I’m hard to read?”

“Yes, you. Y/n L/n.” He waved his hands around while he slightly slurred his words.

“Okay then, how about this: I tell you what I’m thinking right now, and you do the same. Then, for one moment, we can understand each other completely.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow “You first.”

“I’m thinking… that I’m glad you called me.” Sherlock smiled and nodded. You giggled, “Now it’s your turn, and don’t lie to me. What are you thinking in this moment?”

Sherlock paused. “I’m thinking that my shirt’s all wet,” he said with a slight frown.

“That’s your own fault,” you said, putting one hand over your mouth to contain your laughter.

John re-entered the room holding post-it notes and a sharpie. “I’ve just had the best idea,” he said with a sloppy grin.

-----------------------------

The three of you all had post-its stuck to your foreheads, each with names written down. John sat in the client’s seat with the name MADONNA scribbled on the piece of paper stuck to his forehead. Sherlock, much to your enjoyment, had SHERLOCK HOLMES sloppily written on his forehead. As per the game, you had no idea what was written on yours. Sherlock was lounging back in his chair, resting his head on his hand.

“Am I a vegetable?” asked John

“You? Or the thing?” Sherlock asked smiling. The two of them snickered.

“Funny!” said John.

Sherlock looked down and smiled. “Thank you,” he choked out.

“To answer your question, John, no,” you said.

“Your go, Sherlock,” said John.

“Erm…. am I human?” he asked, turning to you.

“Sometimes,” you said with a smirk.

“No, no, it can’t be sometimes, can’t have that…”

“Fine. Yes, you’re human” you confirmed. “My turn. Am I a man?”

“Yeeep” answered John. “Sherlock, you again,” John said, forgetting it was his turn.

“Am I a man?”

John nodded. Sherlock kept going. “Am I a tall man?”

John looked at you and started laughing before he even spoke “Mm, not as tall as people think.” John’s head flopped to the side as he let out a hiccup

“Nice?”

“Ishh,” John said skeptically.

“Clever?”

“I’d say so,” you interjected.

“Do people…” he made air quotes as he spoke the word ‘people’ “... like me?”

“Not really,” you said, chuckling “You tend to rub them the wrong way.” If you had to babysit your adult drunk friends, you might as well have some fun.

“Hm,” Sherlock nodded intently. “Am I the current King of England?”

You and John immediately burst into laughter. “Good guess, Sherlock. But you do know England doesn’t have a king?”

“Don’t we?”

“No,” John said. “Y/n, you go now”

“Right, okay. Am I a friend of ours?”

“Ehh, yes?” Sherlock said.

“Yes, yes they are Sherlock,” said John “Jesus.”

“Well, that narrows it down significantly. Am I Greg?”

“Who’s Greg?” Sherlock asked.

You rolled your eyes and took the post-it off your forehead. The name “Gavin” was written on it in Sherlock’s handwriting. Of course.

“Hey!” Sherlock yelled, “Cheater, that’s cheating. John, did you see that? Y/n’s cheating.” Sherlock got up and took the post-it from your hand. He leaned forward and stuck it back on your forehead. “There. Now it’s John’s turn.”

“Am I a woman?” asked John. He slumped in his seat. Sherlock immediately started giggling. “What?” John asked.

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock

“Am I a pretty woman?”

“Er, beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences, and role models.”

“But am I pretty?” John asked again.

“Yeah, Sherlock? Is John a pretty woman?”

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you’re supposed to be.”

“What?! You picked the name,” John said.

“Ah, but I picked it at random from the papers,” Sherlock said, flailing his arm over to the stack of newspapers in the corner.

“I don’t think you understand the point of this game, Sherlock,” you added.

“So, I am human, I’m not as tall as people think I am ... I’m-I’m nice-ish ... clever, but I tend to rub them up the wrong way.”

“That’s correct,” said John.

“I’m you, aren’t I?” Sherlock asked, pointing to John.

“Ooh-ooh!” Mrs. Hudson chirped as she knocked on the door. “Client!” Behind Mrs. Hudson was a woman wearing a nurse’s outfit with a cardigan over it. You scrambled to take the post-it off your forehead as you stood up.

“Hello, I’m sorry, but this really isn’t a good time—”

Sherlock immediately stood up and interrupted you. “It’s not a bad time, no, no Y/n. We always help a person in need.”

“Do we?” you said with a forced smile and looked over at John for help. John just stared back blankly at you with a goofy drunken smile.

The woman beamed “Thank you,” she said. “Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

John imitated a slide whistle, and pointed to Sherlock’s post-it on his forehead. Sherlock flashed a wide toothy grin. You put your head in your hands in defeat.

----------------------------------------------------------------

A few moments later, you’d made the woman, Tessa, some tea, and you John and Sherlock were sitting on the couch. Sherlock was sat in between you and John. Tessa sat in a chair opposite the three of you.

“I don’t ... a lot ... I mean, I don’t ... date all that much ... and ... he seemed ... nice, you know?”

You looked over at Sherlock and John hoping they could keep it together. John was blinking slowly and heavily while trying to stay awake. Sherlock was listening to Tessa’s story intently.

She continued. “We seemed to automatically connect. We had one night – dinner, such interesting conversation. It was ... lovely. To be honest, I’d love to have gone further ...”

Beside you, Sherlock closed his eyes and began to lean into your shoulder, dozing off. You subtly elbowed him, and he straightened up abruptly.

“But I thought, no, this is special. Let’s take it slowly, exchange numbers. He said he’d get in touch and then ... Maybe he wasn’t quite as keen as I was ...”

You looked over at John who was practically asleep with his eyes open. He had a blank stare and his mouth hung slightly open.

“But I – I just thought ... at least he’d call to say that we were finished,” Tessa concluded, tearing up slightly and looking at the floor. Immediately, Sherlock’s face contorted into an expression of sympathy as he dramatically brought his hand to his mouth. You stared in disbelief and handed Tessa a tissue. “Thank you,” she said to you. “I went round there, to his flat. No trace of him. Mr. Holmes…”

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head on his hands.

“I honestly think I had dinner ... with a ghost.”

You and Tessa waited to hear what Sherlock had to say. You leaned forward to look at Sherlock and John’s faces only to discover they had both fallen asleep.

“With a ghost, Mr. Holmes!” Tessa repeated, louder.

You sharply elbowed Sherlock in the ribs much harder than before, and he sprung awake. “Boring, boring, boring,” he mumbled, then turned to you and put his hands on either side of your head. “No! fascinating!” He exclaimed, his face right up close to yours. Sherlock then turned to John “John – John! Wake up!” John finally stirred awake.

“I’m up,” he mumbled.

“Apologies about my ... you know ... thing,” Sherlock said, pointing at John. “Rude. Rude!” he yelled straight into your ear. You grimaced at the loud noise and put your hand on Sherlock’s forearm to settle him.

“Yes, that’s enough, Sherlock,” you whispered. “Uhm, go on, Tessa.”

“I checked with the landlord, and the man who lived there died. Heart attack. And there we are, having dinner one week on.” She turned and began to rummage through her purse. She pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock. You grabbed it before he could take it. It was a print-out of an online chatroom. “And I found this thing online, sort of chatroom thing for girls who think they’re dating men from the spirit world.”

You nodded. This actually seemed like a decent case. Too bad Sherlock and John probably wouldn’t remember one word of it tomorrow. Sherlock tried to stand up next to you, wobbled, and then put one hand on the top of your head to steady himself. You groaned and struggled to untangle his hand from your hair.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find him in ten minutes,” Sherlock said confidently. Tessa smiled in relief. “What’s your dog’s name?”

You facepalmed and stood up next to Sherlock. He leaned over to wake up John. “John! Wake up! We’re meant to ... The game’s ... something” he said, waving his hand around.

“On!” yelled John.

“Yes, that,” Sherlock said, walking out the door. “Come on, Y/n.”

“Wait, Sherlock. Where are you going?” You protested, following him down the stairs.

“That’s a good question. Where are we going?” he asked Tessa in the foyer.

“Oh! Well, I suppose we ought to go to his flat,” Tessa said.

“Sherlock, no,” you said, “You can’t leave...” you looked off the the side awkwardly “…like this.” He ignored you and dragged John out to the sidewalk by his sweater sleeve. He stepped out into the street and hailed down a cab.

“40a, Jasmine Grove,” interjected Tessa as the cab pulled up.

“Are you coming Y/n?” Sherlock slurred.

“No!” you yelled. “And neither are you.” Before you could reach him, Sherlock climbed into the cab after John and Tessa and slammed the cab door in your face. The car drove off.

“Come on, really?!” you yelled in frustration. Now you had to follow them. You ran to the edge of the sidewalk and decided to call a cab for yourself.

--------------------------------------------------------

You finally made it to the apartment to see Tessa and a man you presumed to be the landlord standing by the door. It was a rather modern apartment with exposed brick and abstract furniture. John was standing in the corner with his hands crossed over his chest and his lips pursed. He was swaying slightly, trying to keep his balance. You pushed past the landlord to see Sherlock kneeling on a shag carpet holding his pocket magnifier. As soon as you walked in, he face-planted into the carpet and passed out.

“He’s clueing for looks” John announced, proudly.

“Oh god,” you said, scrambling over to Sherlock. You grabbed his upper arm and tried to pull him up. God, he was heavy.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police.” The landlord pulled out his cell phone.

“No, no, please, that won’t be necessary,” you protested.

“This is a famous detective. It’s Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Hamish Watson,” Tessa clarified.

You finally managed to get Sherlock to straighten up. “When did you get here?” Sherlock asked, looking up at you. Then, he bent over and immediately threw up on the carpet.

“Ugh why?” you groaned and plugged your nose. Sherlock wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then clicked his magnifier shut.

------------------------------------------------------

The next morning…

The landlord had called the police and the night ended with you watching Sherlock and John being driven away in the back of a police car. You’d immediately called Greg hoping he’d let them go. Greg had said the best he could do was try and let them off with a warning if they spent the night in the drunk tank. When the station opened, Greg sent you a photo of Sherlock and John asleep in a cell with the caption “Come and get ‘em!”

You walked into Scotland Yard and Greg was there to meet you. “Thank you, Greg,” you said, handing him one of the 4 coffees you’d brought.

“God, what on earth happened to them?” Greg asked, taking a sip from the coffee you gave him.

“Stag night got a bit out of hand,” you said. “Afraid I lost control of the situation.”

“You can say that again,” agreed Greg as the two of you walked through the station to the drunk tank.

“Rise and Shine!” Greg bellowed as he swung open the door. John was awake and sitting on the floor. He had his hands on his head while Sherlock was still fast asleep on the bench.

“Oh my god,” John said, grimacing in pain. “Is that Greg?”

“Get up,” he said “Y/n’s come to collect you. Managed to square things with the desk sergeant.” John painfully and slowly got up. “What a couple of lightweights! Y/n said you couldn’t even make it to closing time!”

“Yeah, could you whisper?” John asked.

“NOT REALLY!” Greg shouted straight into his ear. Across the cell, Sherlock jolted awake, mouth wide open in shock. He tried to stand up, then fell backward back onto the bench. You walked over and helped him up.

“There you go, Sherlock. Nice and easy,” you said quietly and handed him one of the coffees. He took it and stumbled out of the cell, head down. He looked like hell, not to mention the way he smelled. You caught up to John and handed him one of the remaining coffees, leaving the last for yourself. You took a sip of your coffee and continued down the hall.

“Well, thanks for a ... you know ... an evening,” John said to Sherlock.

“Oh, it was awful,” Sherlock said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I was gonna pretend, but it was, truly,” said John. He then turned to you. “Y/n, I am so sorry, that was—”

“It’s okay, I had fun,” you said with a smile.

“At least someone did,” said Sherlock. “That woman, Tessa, dated a ghost. The most interesting case for months. What a wasted opportunity.”

“Really? That’s your takeaway from this?” you asked. He shrugged. “Come on, boys, let’s get you home.”

A/N: Stag night! I love this part of the episode, so I hope I did it justice. Funny story. When I was writing this, I was trying to find real book titles for Sherlock to read and I came across a real book titled “Surrounded by Idiots” I wanted to use it in the story SO BAD but it was so perfect, that it sounded cheesy and made up lmao. I’m 100% certain Sherlock would have it in his bookcase though.

Taglist: @the-chaotic-cow @amoeebaa @scorpios-echos @sad-bitch-h0ur @drifting-away-in-space @that-thing-in-the-graveyard

#bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #sherlock imagine #sherlockxreader #sherlock x reader #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #sherlock holmes x you #the sign of three

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whoacanada · 4 years ago

Text

Zimmerbro AU

Summary: Andrew Phillip Rowe could skate before he could walk, and it wasn’t until he was almost twenty and well on his way to becoming a Las Vegas Ace before he knew why.

a/n: that’s right we’ve got a secret zimmermann brother au based on the fact that Bob was an active pro athlete for almost 15 years before Jack was born and almost definitely had relationships before Alicia. This particular one resulted in a secret love child.

When the call finally went out that year — a request for players willing to billet the incoming draftees — Andrew had been the first in line.

His already sparsely decorated guest room had been primed for a new tenant since he’d learned Las Vegas’ abysmal season had earned them the first pick of the 2009 draft. In his mind, Andrew had envisioned a tearful confession. A family reunion nineteen years in the making where he’d finally get a chance to connect with a half-brother he’d grown up learning about through news articles and stats pages.

He wasn’t ready for Jack to pull out of the draft days before the ceremony; wasn’t ready for the claims of an overdose or speculation about suicide attempts. He certainly wasn’t expecting to have to open his home to a young man with limp blonde hair and deep circles under his eyes with the same enthusiasm he’d promised he’d offer to a son of Bob Zimmermann.

Andrew was hoping for a little brother.

He got Kent Parson instead.

______

“You remind me of my boyfriend.” Kent slurs one night, completely gone on Johnny Walker Blue borrowed from Andrew’s wet bar. “It’s your . . . face.”

“Shouldn’t talk about things like that,” Andrew cautions gently, covering his own surprise. “Never know who might be listening.”

“Who fucking cares? He won’t talk to me,” Kent continues, ignoring him and sniffing like he’s on the verge of sobbing or puking, both options equally unwanted. “They wouldn’t tell me if he was even alive.”

Another unwanted puzzle piece locks into place.

“Jack?” Andrew suggests softly, and Kent begins to cry.

“You won’t tell right?”

Andrew shakes his head no, long enough for Kent’s bleary eyes to focus on the gesture and take it seriously.

Things are different, after that conversation. Not worse, or better, just different.

________

“He’s my brother.”

Andrew admits this one night, for no reason other than that he can.

Kent is across the room, backlit by lights from the Strip, his legs dangling off the arm of his favorite couch as he scrolls through his phone looking for distractions. Parse hasn’t lived with Andrew for almost two seasons, but he still turns up like a bad penny whenever he needs to commiserate with someone who knows his more lascivious secrets. Truthfully, Andrew’s grateful for the company. He’s a pretty genial guy, but he’s always kept his distance, a personality trait he likes to think he shares with an unassuming sibling, but there’s no way to know for sure. The farther Andrew gets from the 2009 Draft, the less faith he has in a reunion that won’t just bring crippling sorrow to everyone involved.

A secret Zimmermann son who actually made it in the NHL. Who has his name on the Stanley Cup, not once, but twice, largely thanks to the spitfire forward lounging in Andrew’s living room.

“Who’s your brother?” Kent asks, not looking up from his phone.

“Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent barks a laugh and rolls his head lazily to smirk at Andrew.

“That’s funny. I guess you kinda have the same chin. Was Marky digging for chirps?”

Andrew has no idea what that means, but he sets down his tablet and says, “No, he’s actually my half-brother. My mom dated Bad Bob in ’84 and got pregnant.”

The lackadaisical smile on Kent’s face falters as his gaze sharpens, like he’s actually looking at Andrew for the first time. Andrew responds by gesturing at himself lamely.

“That’s not funny.”

“No.” Andrew agrees. “It isn’t.”

Kent swings his feet down off the couch and braces himself against the overstuffed leather. He doesn’t look mad, but there’s something too close to disbelief for Andrew to convince himself everything’s okay. It takes a moment, but Kent must find what he’s looking for on Andrew’s face.

“Does Bob know?” Kent asks with that familiar overfamiliarity, as if they both still have some personal relationship with the living legend.

“Yeah. When Mom got pregnant she told him she didn’t want the attention since it was only a fling — ”

“Who the fuck doesn’t lock down Bob Zimmermann?” Kent breathes. “Also, why the fuck did she tell you that?”

“No shit, right? She got him to sign away parental rights, set up a trust, never spoke to him again as far as I know. I didn’t find out until after I signed with the Aces. She didn’t want me to get blindsided if it all came out, but the story never broke.”

“I mean, does Bob know who you are?” Kent questions. “Does Jack?”

Andrew shakes his head no, because he doesn’t think so, and Kent flops back against the cushions, face slack with disbelief; it doesn’t take long for his features to shift to anger.

“You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell me? Even after I told you —“

“Okay, there’s a whole-ass difference between you fucking dudes and and me being ‘Bad Bob’s bastard’,” Andrew bites, curtailing Kent’s imminent hissy fit. Appropriately, Kent closes his mouth, almost pouting.

“Fine. But that’s fucked.” Kent says after a loaded moment of silence. “I’m sorry you’re . . . you.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry you’re you, too.”

“You know Jack’s signing with the Falconers, right?” Kent offers like the worst kind of olive branch, unintentionally telling Andrew exactly what he was up to during that stretch of time between New England games a few months prior. “It’s not public but it’s happening. Ink’s dry.”

“I know. That’s why I told you. It’s gonna be weird,” Andrew swallows, thinking about playing Providence in the coming months.

“Fucking right it’s weird.”

_________

For the most part, the Las Vegas Aces are decent, stand up guys. Even with the accusations of gambling debts and mob connections with the ownership group, Andrew’s never been asked to hit a certain player a little too hard, or to take a dive so the other team gets a shot at a power play. A lot of talk, a lot of conspiracies, ‘Typical Aces hockey’, but there’s no malice. Not really.

Andrew thinks it’s hilarious he plays the game a lot like his estranged father, but he’s not a legend in the making, hell, at this point he’s barely regarded as more than a mid-level, reliable center that can bring home 40 points a season.

Carly whips behind Zimmermann’s back to clip his skate with a stick, dropping a ill advised chirp that sets every player in earshot on edge. Parse is close enough to catch the quiet slur, stiffening like he’s been hit, and Andrew watches Zimmermann recover quickly, steely and resolute.

Jack has his mother’s eyes — not the warm brown Andrew catches every time he looks in the mirror.

“He’s a fucking goon,” Andrew breathes, gliding up to Jack’s shoulder in lieu of an apology. Zimmermann doesn’t miss a beat, his gaze flicking to Andrew with the quiet rage of ‘who gives a fuck’. Andrew admires his commitment to the game. Coming back after so much, after so long, to willingly subject himself to the same kind of treatment that Andrew knows likely led to his original fall from grace.

“Hey,” Kent ducks his head as he slides up a little while later, mouthguard clenched between his teeth, and asks, “You see his twink?”

At Andrew’s obvious confusion, Kent jerks his head toward the glass behind the Falconers’ bench, to a raucous group of fans all sporting fresh Zimmermann jerseys. Andrew’s gaze drifts along the row of faces, lingering longer on the familiar, handsome couple beside the blonde young man. He may be imagining things — the stadium lights catching a bad angle — but for the briefest moment, Andrew holds eye contact with his father.

“He’s cute, right?” Kent says bitterly, like he doesn’t have a partner of his own back home.

“Yeah, he is. You gonna do anything about the slurs, Captain?” Andrew counters, earning a stern look from Parson.

“I’ll deal with Carly.”

“Oh, you will? Because I’ve never seen you shut him down before.”

“I’ll handle it.”

Kent’s expression goes stormy, and he gives Andrew a hard shove before skating off to set up for the next shift. To his credit, he does grab Carly by the arm and tell him something that earns a look of displeasure from the larger man, but Andrew knows a verbal warning won’t curtail someone as dead-set in his conservatism as Carly.

The next play, Carly flashes Andrew a toothy smile over the lineman’s shoulder, as if they’re in on the same joke, and his vision goes red.

__________

“Bad Bob’s outside,” Scraps rasps, like whatever brief interaction he’s just had has physically winded him. “He wants to talk to Flip.”

Andrew blinks up from the water bottle in his hands, previously concerned with the pink-stained gauze wrapped around his knuckles. A few of the guys start chirping, but most of them remain silent, still processing the fact that Andrew assaulted one of their own without clear motivation, in defense of an opponent.

“That’s what this was all about? You gunning for a trade?” Sorenson spits from his stall. “Needed to impress Bad Bob by beating the snot out of Carly?”

“Maybe I am,” Andrew sighs, pushing himself to his feet, wincing at the way his jaw aches from the few good hits Carly had managed to squeeze in before he went down. “What the fuck are you gonna do about it.”

_______

Andrew’s grateful he kept his skates on. He needs the boost of confidence that comes with the added height, especially when he finds Bob Zimmermann waiting patiently in the corridor like he’s just another staff member and not the second most recognizable figure in modern hockey.

“Hey kid,” Bob greets, casting an approving, overly-familiar eye over Andrew’s padded bulk and sweat-slick hair. “You can throw a hell of a punch. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy beat the piss out of a teammate before. Off ice, sure, but never during a game.”

His accent is just as thick in private as every interview Andrew’s ever caught live — but his tone is unexpectedly warm, even grateful — when Bob laughs at his own recounting of Andrew’s assault attempt, the sound is light and joyous like nothing in the world comes easier to this titan of a man.

Andrew wonders if Bob can recognize the chin they share beneath a his playoff beard; if there’s any resemblance left in a nose that’s been reset a half-dozen times.

Andrew grew up loved and never wanted for anything. His step-fathers, both of them, had been good men who never left him looking for a father figure. It wasn’t until his twenties that Andrew even realized there was hole where his bio-dad should have been, and not just a regular hole, a yawning sinkhole threatening to devour his entire sense of self, because his biological father turned out to be a man he grew up idolizing as a personal hero.

He’s not mad at his mother, but when Andrew struggles to find his voice — which is bullshit seeing as he’s almost thirty-five and a god-damned professional athlete — he can’t stop himself from feeling like a misplaced child.

“Do you,” Andrew swallows, looking over Bob’s shoulder to see if anyone’s watching them. Finding they’re alone, he rallies quietly, “Do you know who I am?”

Bob’s jovial expression softens into something remorseful, but unfathomably kind. “I do, buddy,” he acknowledges, somehow squeezing three decades of affection into one term of endearment. “I’ve known for some time, now. The whole time, actually.”

That hurts more than expected.

“Does your wife? Does Jack?”

Bob shakes his head, but it isn’t a hard no.

“Alicia knows, and Jack has some idea he’s got a half-brother, but it’s all in the abstract. No specifics. Definitely doesn’t know you play. I wanted to respect your privacy and your mother’s wishes. She let me know she’d told you the truth a few years back and I wanted to give you the space you needed if you decided to reach out. When you didn’t, well, a man makes assumptions.”

Andrew looks down at the concrete beneath his skates and sniffs hard, fighting nasal drip from the smelling salts he’d needed in the third period; or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. “I had a plan, back when — ” he stops himself, looking down at his skates. Bob’s eyebrows lift in curiosity, leaving room for Andrew to gather his thoughts, but he doesn’t take the bait, unable to bring up what could have been just yet. Bob seems to grasp the context after the moment.

“2009,” he acknowledges softly. “Hell of a year.”

“Yeah. It was. Is he okay?”

“What, Jack? He’s leagues ahead of where he was then —”

“No, I mean, tonight. Carly clipped him pretty hard before I got in there.”

“Oh, a little bruised up, but he’ll live. Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Okay.”

Andrew looks down at his bandaged fist and realizes he’s completely forgotten how gnarly his face must look.

“Trainer says I’m alright, but I’m gonna get leveled with a wicked fine, I know it.”

“Was it worth it?” There’s a look of guilty pride on Bob’s face, like the man’s enjoying himself a little too much when he leans in and whispers, “You just did something I’ve wanted to do since Jack was in mites. Fucking lay out one of those fuckers that’s got nothing better to do than bitch because they can’t play,” there’s a moment of hesitation, as if he’s worried about pushing a boundary, before he adds, “How’d it feel to look out for your little brother?”

Pride, it turns out, in contagious, and Andrew feels like he could go back on the ice and do it all over again. “Pretty fucking great,” Andrew can’t help a smile, wincing when the gesture pulls at his split lip.

Bob slaps a hand on Andrew’s shoulder pads, then gets a grip on the back of his head, heedless of his sweaty hair.

“Crisse, you’re a fuckin’ beaut, kid. I’ve wanted to tell you that for years.”

Andrew can’t blame the smelling salts anymore.

__________

Jack clearly doesn’t see his father standing there with red-rimmed eyes, or Andrew in an equally unkempt state, and has no reason to think anything untoward has happened when he offers a handshake and pulls Andrew into a hug, bouncing his free fist off the back of Andrew’s pads. “I owe you a drink,” Jack says decisively when he pulls back, shooting a grin between his father and Andrew. “Can’t believe you did that.”

“More than a drink, I think,” the blonde guy Andrew saw behind the bench pipes up. Jack’s ‘twink’. Boyfriend. Whatever. “Dinner at least.”

“A pie,” Bob suggests tightly, keeping his voice even as he turns to quickly scrub his fist over his eyes. Andrew recognizes the statuesque woman who strides up beside Bob, and one quick look tells him she definitely knows who he is.

“Hello, Andrew,” Alicia greets softly, genuinely. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” he says, the tightness in his throat coming out as gruffness rather than emotion. “This is great, but I should go shower and, uh, it was nice meeting you all.”

Bob’s hand whips out and fists the sleeve of Andrew’s sweater, keeping him in place.

“You have plans tonight?”

Andrew debates lying, because he doesn’t know how to move forward from this point, but they’re all looking at him. Waiting. Expectant. There’s too much at stake, and yet somehow — A sharp whistle drags Andrew’s attention back to the locker room. Kent is peeking his head out, and god knows how long he’s been eavesdropping.

“Yo, Zimmermanns. Bittle.”

“Parson.” The blonde says curtly, earning a wry smirk from Kent.

“Flip, we got a presser if you feel like putting a bow on the evening,” Kent’s gaze drifts to Bob’s flushed face, and he adds, “Or, you can shower and slip out the loading bay while I cover for your aggro ass because this is not going to be fun. Your call.”

Andrew looks at the small family surrounding him, his family, and says, “I don’t want to explain.” Kent shrugs and ducks back inside while Bob’s brow furrows in confusion. “I can do dinner, but I don’t want to,” Andrew holds his hands out in front of him, trying to gesture what he means, and Bob snaps his fingers in understanding.

“Ah, ha, I got you, kid.”

“Neat. I’m gonna go shower.”

“We will be here when you’re ready,” Alicia offers. “Take your time.”

“Oh, I will,” Andrew replies before he can stop himself, cringing the second his back is turned because what the fuck could he be any more awkward?

Time will tell.

_____________

#zimbits #jack / bitty #omgcp #check please #my fic #my stuff #lost zimmermann brother au #bob's got another kid and I named him andrew again!#kent is not a bad guy #only carly is a bad guy and we hate him #long post #because it's a mini fic!

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blackbat05 · 3 years ago

Text

Day by Day

Shangqi x Reader

A/N: My love for this man has hit an all time high so let me capitalize on it while I still can! If you read everything, I sincerely thank you for doing so!!! And holy cow 2 fics in 2 days have I gone back into my prime days?

Genre: PG-13

Notes: As the title mentioned, I’ll probably set it some time after endgame. You could see it as a prequel to my first post! Reader is a social worker and she’s just dealing with all the mess that the snap bought back. The reader’s name as Jen Lee. I also apologize in advance for the potentially long fic.

***

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for my child? Her name’s Wang Yiman and she’s seven.’ Another frazzled-looking parent fought her way to the front of the receptionist, approaching the helpless intern who looked like she was going to be on the verge of tears if another request came in.

‘I got this,’ a hand calmly reassured the young intern as she beckoned the relief parent. ‘Mrs Wang? My name is Jen Lee and I’m the social worker here.’ I offered my hand for the anxious mother. ‘Oh thank god! Is Yiman ok? She must have been so scared!’ I slowed to a stop outside the room at the end of the corridor, gently sitting her down.

‘Yiman has been a very brave girl Mrs Wang, but I will not lie to you. The sudden disappearance of their parents has traumatized a lot of kids. We’ve managed to explain to them what was going on but they will need a lot of support.’ I gave a glance over Mrs Wang’s shoulder, nodding to my colleague, Tammy who was holding the hand of a little girl in pigtails and a floral dress.

妈妈! mā ma (mommy!)

The young girl ran into her mother’s open arms, allowing the floodgates to open from both ends. I turn to Tammy as we shared a silent agreement to leave the area. ‘That’s the last one for the day,’ Tammy unceremoniously plops herself onto the chair, letting out a groan. ‘Thanks for your hard work Jen.’

‘Right back at you.’ I entered the last bit of paperwork before uploading Yiman’s case file onto the portal. Yiman’s reunion with her parents meant the Children and Youth Centre were halfway in getting every displaced child back to their parents. Looking at the dingy television that was hung on the walls at the waiting room, despite not being able to hear anything, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. S.W.O.R.D was apparently in a stand-off against Wanda Maximoff? Reported rumors that Sam Wilson didn’t want anything to do with the shield? It’s been a crazy few weeks but that was utter-

‘Bullshit! If anything it’s the government. They must have psyched him into giving up the shield.’ My chair swiveled to face Tammy who returned a nonchalant shrug. ‘What? You know I’m right. Doesn’t matter if half the world’s gone or our universe gets split into two - they’re the true evil here. I’m still struggling to find a place after I found a couple making out in my apartment! And you know what the global repatriation council told me? We’re only dealing with urgent cases right now. Well I say f-’

The incessant ringing of the bell interrupted our conversation, replacing Tammy’s tirade into a cheeky grin. ‘Look who’s here!’

Shangqi stands behind the counter, dressed in his usual red varsity jacket and jeans, holding bags of what I could only make out as takeout from the Chinese restaurant that was run by a friendly Singaporean couple. ‘Did I interrupt something?’ He scratches his head nervously. ‘Nope, in fact you just saved me from Tammy’s monologue, any further and she’ll explicitly tell me what she saw in her apartment when she got dusted back that day,’ I shivered in mock fear. ‘Still haunts me up till today.’ Tammy meets us by the door, bag in her hand.

‘I thought you were staying? We got fried dumplings and 泡饭 pào fàn (poached rice).’

‘Last minute duty - A parent called, gotta run! Enjoy your dinner date.’ She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, much to our embarrassment. ‘What? It’s not...’ Shangqi stutters, trying to form intelligible sentences. ‘Get out before I throw a fried dumpling at your face Tammy!’ She winks at me, before darting out of the door. Once my nosy colleague was out, I turn towards a red-faced Shangqi. ‘I’m so sorry... just don’t mind her.’

‘Huh?’ The man was knocked out of his stupor. ‘Oh yeah... sure,’ in an attempt to forget everything that had just happened, he opened the packets of fried dumplings. ‘Ready for war?’

‘I was born ready.’

Thirty-five minutes later, all that was left were the remnants of fried dumplings and three empty containers.

‘This should be illegal,’ I patted my stomach in satisfaction to his amusement. ‘Laugh at yourself! You lost track of how many dumplings you had and ended up taking my share!’

Raising his hands in defeat, Shangqi starts to clear the table up. ‘So how’s the center? Everything alright?’ I nodded numbly.

The past five years had been a blur. Hazy, even. All I remembered was a kid running into the office telling me that half of the staff disappeared during a school holiday program that we were running with a dozen other kids. Parents who survived the snap rushed to our center, demanding to see their children. We couldn’t give them any answer as we too, were equally perplexed. Maybe the only thing that made sense was Shangqi and Katy bursting into the center to help us with the chaos.

Coming back from what could be the 1000th phone call, I got a glimpse in the children’s playroom where the five years old kids were at, treating myself to an amusing sight. They all had red cloths draped around their neck, each holding a stick that was from the abandoned prop box. Katy wasn’t spared to as she was wearing her own red cloth that seemed a few sizes to small for her. Not that she didn’t seem to mind.

‘Alright my warriors! Chargeeeeee!!!!!!’

In unison, little pairs of feet pattered across the room towards their ‘enemy’, a cardboard cutout of a monstrous creature who was really just Shangqi in disguise.

‘RAWR! I’ll eat anyone who stands in my way!’ He stands up, mimicking a dinosaur that was about to trample an entire city. I decided that the paperwork could wait, standing near the door to watch an Oscar-worthy performance. With great effort and bravery from the kids, they finally managed to take down 5 foot 10 worth of muscle.

‘Again! Again!’

I chuckled upon seeing Shangqi on the floor, about to drift off into wonderland. It was time for me to step in. ‘Alright kids that’s enough for today! Dinner’s here.’ As the kids dispersed with the help of Katy, it was just the two of us left to clear up the mess. ‘Thank you so much, both of you. I honestly can’t think of what would happen if you guys didn’t come to help.’

Perhaps my body language was screaming ‘I’m dead tired, please just knock me out’ as Shangqi takes a cloth from me, folding it back into the box. ‘It’s what we would have done, this place, it means a lot to us - to me.’

A small knock on the door diverts our attention away from the trash. Little Yiman stands at the door, as she stares at the both of us with big round eyes.

‘Yiman, it’s late, what are you doing here?’ I squat down to her eye level. The little girl beams, ‘ 妈妈 said that I could give this to you!’ She passes me a juice box together with a handmade card with colorful scribbles. Maybe I was carrying too much on my shoulders, as I suddenly felt a boulder lifted off me. ‘Thank you,’ I smile at her sweetly, ‘I love apple juice.’ Happy with the response, she runs to Shangqi. ‘Shangqi 哥哥 gē ge (brother)!’

He breaks out into a smile, opening his arms wide. Yiman nuzzles her head into his shoulder before breaking out into uncontrollable giggles from his sudden attack of tickles. ‘Are you hear to help Miss Jen?’ I took the trash from his hands, giving him some time with the girl.

‘Yes I am. Miss Jen needs some help so I’m here today!’

‘Are you her boyfriend?’

Shangqi freezes on the spot. He had undergone what could be the toughest training by his father, fought the greatest assassins in the world and here he was - stumped by a question from a seven year old. ‘Well... I’m her close friend since when we were very young,’ Yiman looks at him expectantly. ‘She helped me when I was in trouble so I had to be a good friend when she was in trouble too.’

‘Like how Ningning helped me when I injured my knee?’

‘Yeah... something like that.’ He breathes a sigh of relief, thankful to escape his first crisis. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if he was telling himself the truth.

‘Yiman! Your mother’s here!’ The little girl gives him one last hug before running to the waiting room. Shangqi takes a moment to recollect himself. ‘Here I am thinking that you finally managed to have some stamina while interacting with young children, maybe I was wrong.’ I teased as I sat beside him.

‘Har har, hilarious.’ He tosses me a straw for our peach teas, as we were greeted by the amazing night view of San Francisco. ‘Enough about me, you good though?’ Looks like he didn’t forget the conversation that was cut off earlier. My mind goes back to a few minutes earlier, eavesdropping on the conversation.

‘I had to be a good friend when she was in trouble too.’

Life has been so unpredictable, I don’t even want to think too far into the future. With appearances from more superpowered beings, I don’t know what’s real anymore.

‘Yeah. To be honest, it’s been so crazy and overwhelming but I’ll get through it. I have you don’t I?’ Giving him a wink, I slowly sipped on the sweetness of the tea, savoring the pearls. He pauses for a moment, nodding thoughtfully.

Life isn’t the same as it was before. But maybe, just maybe... if I had Shangqi, I’ll take each day on one at a time. Day by day.

[END]

A/N: Hoho! I literally spent the whole afternoon writing because I just had to get this idea out and also because work was pretty slow today. I have no idea what is up with my first two fics hinting at unrequited love? I guess I got inspired by Shangqi’s and Katy’s platonic relationship because I thought it was so well written but I also love Shangqi so I guess is a compromise kinda thing. Again, do like and comment if you wish! Really thankful that y’all have been so kind to me so far!

Perhaps I’ll try my hand at shorter ones like headcannons before this girl exhausts herself out and I don’t want to do that because I believe I have more to show!

#xu shangqi #shangqi imagine #shangqi x reader #katy shang chi #shang chi #shang chi x reader

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