#admittedly this is just a sketch gone too far but I enjoyed it

[professional-d]

top 10 worst brother in laws: #1. The blue reverberation

[lovelywingsart]

Blood of the Lambs (18+)

-- Karl Heisenberg X OC (AFAB, She/They) --

This directly after Mistakes of the Lambs, hence the name, and is literally just a small bit of shameless smut. uwu Short smut in my terms, but smut nonetheless. I actually enjoyed writing this one more than the others that are currently WIPs... And I have quite a few NSFW WIPs :'D They're just hard for me to finish, honestly.

This also takes place with this little chain of sketch events just like 'Mistakes'!

**Remember, check out the Masterlist for more! <3**

-----

*Warnings?: Blood, pain(removal of a bullet), mild bodily harm, NSFW: blood kink, mild choking, overstimulation/drawn out orgasm, light fingering, more implied at the end

Summary: After the bodies are set up to avoid suspicion, Karl helps Emelia with the issue that is the bullet in her arm. But turns out there's a little more he's interested in... And turns out she isn't exactly arguing.

Emelia sat on the chair in the workshop on the surface, her head back against the top as she took deep, wavering breaths. She was still covered in wet blood that barely dried despite the warmth of the factory and workshop, the red liquid staining her shirt and skin. But she didn't care... Her main concern was the pain her body was in as it trembled lightly, even as she sat perfectly still. It was painful to even blink... The full transformations always caused pain during and after... She barely did them for that reason, other than the fact that she could just barely control the Cadou enough to keep the form stable in the first place. But the damage sustained from the bullets of the villagers added a little more pain, and she found it difficult to heal fully even after reverting back. She could still feel the bullet lodged in her shoulder when she moved it... Even if she flexed her arm just slightly. It was there. She could also feel that the muscle had partially healed around it how it could, and she knew damn well it would hurt like hell to get it out. She debated on even telling the man when he returned... That was, if he didn't sense it first.

From going up to the surface-level building and the fact that he went out immediately in the first place, she knew it was night. At what time of night, she had no idea, and it made the thought of him going out a little easier despite still admittedly being worried. He'd be fine... He was a careful man, and would have wanted to wait until nightfall anyway. He'd be safer in the shadows and they both knew it. He was already gone for a while. A little under an hour, maybe... Setting up a bear attack was easier said than done, albeit not hard, and he most certainly allowed the Lycans get to the remains to clear any other trace of her own intervention. Hell, maybe the remains would be picked clean by the surrounding wildlife by sunrise... While he kept two of the bodies for Soldat production and experiments, the others were far too mangled to even attempt it unless he wanted a pain of a job, and she knew better than to suggest it.

It was then that a door opened, making her flinch at the sound as her senses had also been overloaded for a short time. But she couldn't help but feel relief as Heisenberg walked in with a sigh.

"It wasn't easy with those mooching assholes, but the bodies are out there and far the hell away from here." He said simply, shrugging off the jacket he wore. He wasn't tired, but it was evident he had decided not to go back out unless absolutely dire. He looked at her as she moved her hand into a slight thumbs up with a wince, and he frowned. "Still hurts?"

He was met with a tiny nod.

"Like hell..." she managed, her voice soft and somewhat hoarse from her vocal chords being strained. He kept his eyes on her before his attention was drawn to the hole in her shoulder once more. He concentrated for a moment, only to suddenly make his way over.

"It's still in your shoulder." He said simply, stopping in front of her. She grunted in response.

"I'm fine..." she mumbled, but he shook his head.

"Hm. Can you still feel it when you move?"

"... Yes..." she replied hesitantly, frowning as he raised a brow.

"Then it needs to be removed. It'll damage the nerves and bone, and suddenly you won't have an arm."

"It won't, I'll be fine-"

"You'll be handicapped if I don't, Emelia. You know that." He replied, quickly moving for the small bit of medical supplies he always kept around. "While I don't necessarily care of you are or not because you'll work either way, I'd rather you stay whole. Making a fake limb isn't as easy as it looks."

"You would know..." she muttered. He shrugged.

"I do, actually. It would be better for you, too. You're already missing a fucking eye." He couldn't help but smirk as she gave a huff. "Don't think you want a fake arm in your other form, do you?"

She shook her head slowly and watched with a narrowed eye as he neared her again, simply kneeling in front of her. He held out a hand.

"Give me your arm." He demanded, and she just barely complied.

"Dare I ask how you'll get it out..." she mumbled, hesitantly setting her forearm in his hand. She gave a wincing huff as he patted her arm in a near playful manor. He chuckled.

"You don't even need to ask, Doll."

"And exactly how much pain do you plan on causing me...?"

She watched as he pulled her arm towards him, feeling her muscles tense as he inspected the blood covered area. But he couldn't help the slight wandering eye, forcing himself to look back at the hole in her arm instead of the rest of her blood soaked skin. Why did she look... alluring? She was covered in blood, not chocolate... What the hell??

"Well, it'll hurt like hell, I can tell you that much." He said simply, reaching up to prod carefully around the area to get a physical feeling of where the object was located while she flinched. He HAD to ignore those thoughts for now... Not to mention she was still in pain from the mutation. No way in hell she'd do anything... Right? Oh, he almost wished...

It was easy to find in the underside if her arm before he straightened himself. He covered it with his palm for a moment, meeting her eye as he looked up. "Ready?"

"No, but I-" she started, only to stop with a pained cry as he lifted his hand away with a small pulse. She could feel the bullet move in the muscle and against the bone, pulling and tugging its way out as he kept his hand hovering over her arm with a surprising amount of concentration. Even he knew he could do more damage than good by removing it like this, and he needed to prevent that... But this was the easiest way unless either of them wanted to knock her out for a minor surgery, and something told him he'd lose another limb if he even suggested that.

Her free hand flew to keep her arm down from instantly swatting him away, and she bit her lip to avoid fully screaming. Her eye screwed shut with tears and pained whimpers as she felt another rush of pain as he used his power to pull again. It hurt... It hurt more than getting shot initially... Fresh blood began to seep down her already covered arm as the bullet tore through newly healed tissue, and Heisenberg frowned as she started to squirm slightly.

"Stay STILL..." he grumbled, holding her arm steady with a harder grip.

She tried. She really did try as he pushed against the skin, helping to push the small piece of metal out. But she twisted her forearm slightly to grab onto his, and he flinched when she squeezed. The pulses of his power stopped for a moment.

"Break my arm and we're gonna have an issue..." he growled, glancing at her. She nodded.

"N-Not trying to..." She replied simply, her voice strained. He shook his head and looked back at the hole, inspecting it one last time. The silver of the bullet was just slightly visible through the fresh blood, and he knew it was out of the dangerous area of her arm. Any severe damage was avoided, thankfully...

"I can see it." He said, hovering his palm a little closer. "I'm going to go for one last tug. It's gonna hurt like a bitch, but it'll be out..."

"J-Just do it, then."

He couldn't help but arch a brow, but nodded.

"Alright then." He adjusted his grip, holding onto her arm tight enough for the skin to turn red and shifting to the side away from her legs. If he didn't, there was a chance he'd go flying, or get a few broken ribs, at the very least. "One... Two..."

He didn't even say three. She let out a loud, pained cry as he flexed his fingers back, his power ripping the bullet from her flesh in one final tug. He let go and backed away almost instantly as she tried kicking at him, allowing her to curl to herself and press her still bloody palm against the now fresh bleeding wound with a whine and a groan.

"F-... FUCK..." Emelia managed with a gasp, her body shaking from the small bit of adrenaline that shot through her system from the pain. Her arm trembled violently as she flexed her fingers to test feeling in them.

She took deep breaths as Heisenberg slowly returned to his place crouched in front of her, holding out his hand with the bullet in his palm.

"Standard ammo, straight shot out from the muscle. No fragments, no chips... You'll be fine." He assured, watching as she looked at the bullet with more pained tears that she was clearly fighting off.

She glared at the little piece of metal before giving a growling huff.

"I'll melt it down later..." she grumbled, managing to straighten herself out just slightly, albeit shakily. She then ran her tongue against her bitten lip and he froze, his shoulders going stiff. Fuck.

'Blood, not chocolate. BLOOD, NOT CHOCOLATE.' he thought, watching as she finally managed to lean back against the chair with a groan. But it may as well be the same god damn thing!! He simply set the bullet on the table next to them, instead reaching to grab the gauze and green liquid he had retrieved beforehand. His mind ran as he reached forward to wipe away what he could of the blood with a clean rag.

"Need a distraction?" He asked suddenly, unable to keep his mouth from moving as he poured the liquid onto a piece of gauze. She looked at him with a flinch, now suspicious as he pressed the material to her arm.

"'Distraction'?" She asked, moving her hand slightly as she felt the wound heal slowly. "You're not one for 'distractions', Heisenberg..."

"It's an honest question."

Emelia watched him carefully, catching his glances towards her as he worked on her arm. But not her face entirely... No, his gaze wandered over her mouth and neck, all the way down to where the crimson liquid covered her shirt. She licked her lip again slightly, clearing off the small beads of blood from her own teeth, watching his eyes move and his mouth twitch with a small interest. It took her only a moment before she realized exactly what went through the mans head, now somewhat familiar with the spark that appeared in the pale yellow of his eyes. She tilted her head slightly.

"You're find this attractive, don't you?" She said simply, making the man pause his movements. He looked at her, meeting her eye.

"... And if I do?" He asked. She raised a brow.

"That implies a few things."

"It only looks good on you, Doll, not a cold corpse."

He finally turned to fully face her once he wrapped her bicep in some small bandages, setting an arm across her legs once he was finished as he propped himself up. She kept herself back against the chair, still sore, but secretly somewhat amused by the new development as she watched his face.

"And yet you've never come forward when I assist with the Soldats..." she said, watching a smirk cross his features.

"Who's to say I don't 'suffer' in silence, hm?" He chuckled, tapping her thigh lightly. "But I will say there's a little something better about it being fresh compared to an average work day."

"Oh?" She questioned. Well, this was... intriguing. But she couldn't help but be amused enough to enjoy it just slightly. He chuckled again.

"That's not saying I want you to tear those poor bastards apart more often..." he shrugged, but gave a grin. "But I won't stop you if they try again."

"You were angry that I didn't leave Soldat material."

"That was before I came back to this." He reached up and dragged his thumb across her chin, smearing blood across her skin just a little more. "And seeing as you did so to defend us and the factory... Well, I believe the attraction is well deserved. I just wish you hadn't gotten hurt from it."

She let her chin rest in his hand for a moment before sticking out her tongue to lick away the blood his thumb had gathered. The look that entered his features was enough to tell her that he had much more self control than he let on.

"You realize I'm still sore?" She said casually, reaching her hand up to tap along the inside of his arm up to his elbow. It was a common gesture, and one he knew all too well at this point. He suddenly straightened himself, managing to rest in between her knees with a chuckle as he leaned up and held her face.

"Oh, I know."

His reply was simple, and left no time for her to respond as he grabbed the back of her neck and nearly crushed his mouth to hers. Despite wincing with the movements, she returned the kiss as fiercely as it was given, feeling as his other arm snaked around her waist. She could still taste the copper-like substance on her tongue as he nipped at her lip almost immediately, and she could tell he did as well as he paused once the kiss was deepened. But of course it didn't stop him, much to her slowly appearing delight. She held onto him as he leaned up further, ending up somewhat kneeling on the chair between her knees, himself. Was the chair big enough for both of them? Most definitely not. But did the idea of being shoved against it to make room for him bother her? Absolutely not.

That's almost exactly what happened as his hand went from her jaw to around her neck, pressing her into the chair effortlessly. She only grunted in an uncomfortable sore pain, but both ignored it as his other arm moved to roam her shirt and pull it away from her chest. They could hear the sound of the fabric sticking to her skin as it was pulled away, and he chuckled in the kiss.

"Arms up Doll, or it's getting ripped." He purred against her lips, and she gladly obliged, albeit with a pained grunt.

He only pulled away to assist the removal of the shirt, and she paused once she caught sight of the blood on his own lips- blood that promptly disappeared with his tongue trailing over them with a smirk. Her eye widened slightly as her face heated up.

"I'm not the only one then, hm?" He played, glancing down at her now bare, blood-smeared chest. "Don't think I don't catch your eye when we work."

"That would make me a hypocrite then, wouldn't it?" She replied, a nervous smirk appearing as she felt him move to remove his gloves.

"I believe so." He chuckled, kneeling back down in front of her, yet grabbing her hips and tugging them forward. She let out another sore grunt, but held onto his shoulders. "But not just blood, Doll."

"What do you mean...?" She questioned, though was only half serious. She knew exactly what he meant as he leaned to kiss and bite at her neck, though his awareness of it genuinely surprised her.

"You think I look at you now like you're a piece of melted sweets, hm?" He chuckled again, pulling her forward more to press his hips against hers at the edge of the chair. She let out a soft whine. "I see you when you look at me like you've seen a steak. You're not allowed to judge me for this."

"N-Not my fault you can be fun to look at, Metalhead..." she challenged. She felt his smirk at her neck.

"Not my fault you look like an entire goddamn meal like this then, Emmy."

She said nothing as he bit at her neck again, only letting out a surprised gasp as she felt him send pulses through the piercings. Her back arched against him as his hands ran over her skin, smearing what blood she had on her chest down to her hips before tugging at the tied jumpsuit. She managed to move through the pulses with soft whines and whimpers, shakily fumbling with the buttons of his own shirt. He couldn't help but chuckle in mild amusement, simply pausing the pulses for a few moments. He was met with another whine, this time of mild irritation, but she managed to undo the buttons before the pulses started again and before the jumpsuit and everything under it was pulled past her thighs with ease.

She let out a small gasp as one of his hands moved to between her legs, keeping them apart as he rubbed against the piercing and moist warmth around it. His other arm wrapped around her waist as he inserted two fingers immediately, and she gave a gasping whine.

"H-Heis...-" she started, holding onto his shoulders.

It actually hurt with every muscle still sore, but she ignored the light throbbing in favor of the sparks of pleasure that now shot up her spine, which amplified as his mouth left her neck and found its way down to her breast. The thin layer of blood was promptly licked away before he focused in the piercing, his tongue running over it and the sensitive flesh before lightly biting down. He switched to the other piercing within a few seconds, the sounds of her whines and whimpers gracing his ears as his fingers moved quickly. It didn't last long as he let out a low groan, removing his arm from around her to undo his belt and pants. The taste of blood and the feel of the increasing moisture around his fingers drove him insane... She tasted like a dessert, and he fucking wanted it.

He removed his mouth from her chest, kissing and biting up to her neck once more while constantly licking away the blood from his lips. He suddenly removed his fingers, earning an irritated whine, but he caught her eye as he brought them to his lips. He watched her face turn even more red as he dragged his tongue along one of them, though the look in her eye was unwavering. He almost seemed to savor the mixture of her and the blood itself, the combination making him growl almost possessively before he put his fingers to her lips.

"Open." He grumbled, pleased as she did so immediately. She flinched as he pushed his fingers over her tongue, whining at the taste, yet still closing her mouth around them.

He leaned up suddenly, enjoying her surprised noise as he used his hand to press her back against the chair by her chin while moving forward to rub against her roughly. He wasted no time in nearly shoving himself inside of her, earning a surprised moan as he groaned, himself.

"Fuck-" he grumbled, glancing at her as he pulled his fingers from her mouth. She whimpered as she licked her lips, her breaths coming as small pants.

"K-Karl, please-" she started, though she didn't need to finish.

He started moving immediately, gripping her hips with careful force. She nearly wrapped her legs around his waist as he moved. Her whines and whimpers quickly turned into gasps and moans as his pace quickened, the chair creaking under them slightly with the rhythm he set. The taste of blood and her sweetness mixed with sound of her moans filled his senses, feeling her nearly cling to his shoulders.

"H-HEIS- KARL- F-FUCK-!!~" she gasped, feeling the pulses of the piercings increase just slightly.

Her nails dug into the fabric of the shirt he wore. The throbbing pain of her muscles only seemed to amplify the feeling as he suddenly slipped a hand in between them, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves against the piercing. Her back arched against his chest at the feeling, and she suddenly let out quiet, wavering cry as a sudden orgasm flooded through her, making her thighs tremble and nearly trap him against her. He then stopped suddenly, pressing his hips roughly against hers and reaching up to grab her by the neck. He pressed her back against the chair and kept his eyes on her, yet continued moving his thumb.

"Come on, Doll, come on. Keep going." He purred lowly, watching as her hands shot down to grip the armrests as she nearly thrashed and trembled under him. He rubbed quickly and rough, dragging out the orgasm for much, much longer.

"F-FUCK, FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK- KARL-!" She managed, simply repeating his name as she spasms continued. He grunted as he felt the tightness around him, feeling close himself simply by watching her. Fuck, was it a show...

Her nails dug into the arm rests of the chair, staining and tearing apart the fabric while giving him a rather clear view of her chest and trembling muscles. Her lips were parted as higher pitched whines escaped them from the feeling. She nearly had tears in her eye before he started to move again, his thumb still rapidly moving against her.

She couldn't help but shift her legs around his waist, letting him closer. She couldn't keep her eye open... Hell, she could barely think, and she was only one orgasm in. She finally grabbed onto his arm that held her against the chair, needing something to hold on to- No, she needed HIM to hold on to. A needy whine left her parted lips as he suddenly moved his hand from her throat, instead grabbing her jaw and forcing her to look at him.

"What do you want, Emmy?" He growled, his voice strained with each thrust. She barely managed to look at him, moans and whines breaking up her words as she attempted to speak.

"Y-.... Y-You... I-..." She tried, the very sudden overstimulation from the pulsing metals almost stopping her immediately. But she kept a hold on his arm with a shaky grip as if it grounded her thoughts. "M-MORE....-"

"You'll get more, Doll, just do it again."

"P-PLEASE-"

She was interrupted as he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers, only allowing the moans to seep through as he increased the movements of his thumb and thrusts. It was then that she reached and grabbed the back of his shirt with her other hand once more, letting out a multitude of cries and moans against his lips as she was hit by another strong orgasm. Again her legs tightened around his waist, keeping him against her as he finally grunted his own release. The movement of his thumb slowed slightly as he came, and her muscles trembled with numbing pleasure as she clung to him. Few tears rolled down her cheek as she squeezed her eye shut, letting out more whines and whimpers at the warm feeling in the pit of her stomach that only calmed as his thumb finally stopped moving.

The kiss settled down after his own trembling muscles relaxed, and he finally pulled away once he could fully feel her shaking. She slumped into the chair under him, panting and attempting to catch her breath as her body shook. He pressed his forehead to hers in a calming gesture, breathing heavily, himself.

"Are you alright?" He asked quietly, reaching to wipe away the tears on her cheek before setting his hand along her side. She nodded slightly, finally managing to look at him.

"I-It doesn't... Doesn't h-hurt anymore..." she managed, and he chuckled.

"That was part of the plan, Doll." He replied. She kept her hold on him, though lessened her grip just slightly as he removed his other hand from her throat to hold her cheek.

"'Part of'...?"

"Well, the other part was to fuck you senseless until you washed off."

She couldn't help but give a breathy chuckle as he smiled.

"It may have worked..."

"Hm." He hummed, leaning up slightly. "Not completely, Emmy. You're still talking."

"I'm exhausted..."

"You're still awake, too." He grinned. She rolled her eye, managing to shift a bit under him with a quiet grunt.

There was silence as they each caught their breath, and Emelia nearly went limp in the chair. How the hell was she still here? Wouldn't she have slid off by now?? The thought made her chuckle. Heisenberg looked at her with mild amusement.

"What's so funny?" He asked, merely leaning on one of the chair arms. She shook her head.

"I'm amazed you kept me here of all places..." she mused glancing over at the table. "Usually it's up there... Or on the floor..." she nodded to the door- "Or the room."

"Well, I'm not opposed to going to the room anyway." He said simply, suddenly wrapping his arms around her. She watched with suspicion, only to give a yelp in surprise as he lifted her up against his chest.

"HEY-" She started, whining as he gave a quick thrust before standing up, keeping her on and against him as she held onto him tightly.

"We've got a few hours to spare..." he chuckled, making his way to the door. She gave a huff.

"Hours?!" She growled, earning a quick kiss to the cheek that instantly silenced her.

"When I said 'fuck you senseless', I mean to put emphasis on the 'senseless' aspect." He said. "So, in order to not destroy your physical being, I say a bed is easier than a chair or a table."

"And if I don't want to be?!"

"Well, I'd assume you'd be telling me to stop or attempting to walk yourself instead of clinging to me like a damn possum." He played. She gave an annoyed huff, but remained still. Well, maybe she COULD finish her work later... Plus, she really was exhausted, and the thought of ignoring and numbing the slowly returning pain with pleasure was rather appealing.

"... You'll let me sleep afterwards?" She asked quietly, finally nuzzling to his shoulder. He chuckled.

"After I'm done with you, yes."

"And when will that be?"

"Until you either fall asleep or can't speak, Doll."

She was silent for a moment before cracking a smile and giving a light chuckle.

"I look forward to it, then..."

He returned the chuckle, making his way through the door that led into the room.

"Good. And we won't be showering until afterwards, or at least in the middle of it."

"... Deal."

[bitchin-beskar]

Spidey Sense

Fandom: The Old Guard

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: So the original prompt for this was something along the lines of: "hey, what if Joe and Nicky keep pictures of each other in their wallets to remind them of why they're doing this whenever they have to be apart" and this was born from that. Enjoy!

Tags: @theocatkov, @cosmicbug379, @marydjarin @perropascal

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in any of my works!

Please like and reblog! I love feedback!!!

Gazing down at the image of the love of his life, forever immortalized by his hand, never failed to bring a smile to Joe’s lips. His drawings would never be as magnificent, as breathtaking as looking at Nicky with his own two eyes, but whenever they were apart, he had to make do with images drawn by his hand. 

Slipping the small slip of paper back into his wallet, Joe flipped it shut and slid it into one of his many pockets. He hated going on missions without Nicky, but this particular job had required his expertise in infiltrating one building while Nicky’s skills as a sniper were required four blocks away. It was unfortunate, but not the first time it had happened, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. 

When Copley had informed them of the job, he’d made sure they knew that he’d been unable to get any estimates on the number of guards they’d have to deal with. It made Joe uneasy, but they’d gone through with it anyways. Some tech company was trying to use their software to hack into the Pentagon to steal the locations of missile silos located all over the US. The government was very concerned about this threat, and so Copley had called them in.

Joe was supposed to create a distraction at the main headquarters, drawing the company’s attention and thus, allowing Nicky to eliminate guards at the warehouse that housed the company's main servers, which would then allow Nile and Booker to get in and plant explosives. Boom! No more servers, no more threat.

Nicky had been worried about Joe causing a distraction when they didn’t know the amount of guards, but Joe had tried to soothe his beloved’s fears as best he could. 

“Habibi,” he’d said, hand resting on Nicky’s waist, holding him close. “I will be fine. And if anything were to go wrong, I know that you will not allow them to hold me for long.”

Nicky had leaned his forehead against Joe’s, one of his many, silent, I love you’s that he bestowed upon Joe throughout the day. “I would prefer it if nothing goes wrong.”

“As would I.”

***

Nicky had been right to worry, and Joe knew he would never hear the end of it. There had been twice as many guards as Copley’s estimate, and even with Joe’s healing, and centuries worth of experience, he’d quickly been overwhelmed. They’d knocked him out–although, perhaps they’d killed him, Joe wasn’t entirely sure–and when he woke, he was chained to a metal chair, bolted in the middle of an all white room.

His first thought had been something along the lines of how poor of a choice it was to put him in an all white room, as it undoubtedly would become quite the grotesque scene when Nicky arrived. Blood clashed so horribly on white walls, and Nicky could get quite ferocious whenever Joe was threatened. 

His second thought was on the fact that even while bound, he could tell that his wallet was no longer in his pocket. That, in of itself was of no consequence, practically everything in it was fake–it was hard to have valid ID’s and such when you were an immortal warrior born nine hundred years ago–but there was one precious item in that wallet. 

The drawing of Nicky was one of many, but that didn’t mean it was any less special. Joe had saved every single scrap of paper he’d ever drawn Nicky’s likeness on, and while some had aged beyond recognition, he hadn’t had the heart to let any of them go. He knew that Nicky similarly had many, many photographs and paintings of him. Nicky always professed that he wasn’t as artistically inclined as Joe, but every time Nicky sketched him, Joe could see the love and care that went into each piece of art, and he fell in love with Nicky all over again. 

He was jolted out of his musings by the door opening violently, slamming against the wall. He didn’t react outwardly, instead analyzing each of the men that walked into the room. Ten men entered, the last, an older man with grey in his hair, shut the door behind him, making a show of locking it. Joe wanted to scoff. These men didn’t intimidate him in the slightest, and they would have to try a lot harder if they wanted to get a reaction out of him.

“Who sent you?” 

Joe laughed. So this is how they were doing this. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man scowled, the expression twisting his features into a mask of hatred. “I don’t like your attitude, kid.” 

Joe laughed even harder at that, his body shaking with mirth, although his eyes were cold as ice. “I’m not quite as young as I look,” he chuckled under his breath, watching as the other men shuffled awkwardly. They clearly feared the older man, and he could see in some of their eyes that they feared for him if he continued to antagonize their leader. 

There was a sharp crack, and Joe’s head snapped to the side, the backhand delivered with an impressive amount of force. It might’ve hurt, if Joe hadn’t lived as long as he had, and had experienced far worse. Still, he kept up appearances. The longer these men were unaware of his healing and his immortality, the better. 

“Who sent you?” 

Joe grins, the perfect picture of innocence. “Who says anyone sent me? Perhaps I decided to come all by myself?” He probably shouldn’t be antagonizing this man, but he’s having too much fun. 

The man snaps his fingers, and one of the other men rushes forward to hand him something. Joe recognizes it as his wallet, watching as the man flips through it, pulling out his driver’s license. “Joseph Jones? Is that even your name?” The man scoffs. “Why were you trying to break in?”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to break in.” The man looks confused for all of two seconds before Joe opens his mouth again. “I’d already broken in. Your men found me after I got in.” Joe can’t help but brag a little, because, well, their security was shit, but also because he was trying to stall for time, so that Nile and Booker could get in and out without any issues. “You really shouldn’t have picked white walls you know, white stains so easily–”

He gets another backhand for his efforts, and the man in front of him actually growls. He goes back to pawing through Joe’s wallet, and Joe can feel his heart stop when the man pulls out Joe’s drawing of Nicky. 

The man looks at it, and it’s clear he doesn’t know what to think at first. He studies the drawing, and Joe can feel sparks of anger igniting in his chest, although he tries not to show it. The man suddenly laughs, and it’s a cruel, mocking laugh. He shoves the drawing at one of the other men before turning back to Joe, a cruel smirk on his face. 

“How cute,” he sneers. “Mr. Jones keeps a picture of his boyfriend in his wallet.” The man spits on the ground at Joe’s feet. “God, that’s disgusting.”

Anger clouds Joe’s vision, bubbling up in his chest like rising magma before bursting forth from his mouth before he can stop it.

“Boyfriend? Boyfriend? Nicolo is not my boyfriend,” he spits, fire burning in his eyes. “You are a narrow-minded, childish, little man. Nicolo means more to me than all the stars in the sky. He has been my light, my heart, for over nine hundred years, and he will continue to be my light and my heart for nine hundred more. I have fought a thousand battles by his side, I have gone to war to protect him just as he has for me. There will always be those who try to separate us, those who cannot possibly understand the depth of my love for that man, and yet,” he pauses, a dark smirk on his face as some of the men step back in fear. “Those who try always end up dead. No, Nicolo is not my boyfriend. He’s all and he’s more.”

***

Nicky was in the middle of dismantling his rifle when he felt it. It didn’t even take him a moment before he recognized the feeling. It was the feeling he always got whenever Joe would make grand declarations of love, which, admittedly, happened quite often. While Nicky was more reserved when it came to lyrical speeches, Joe had no such qualms, and would gladly shout to the heavens–and had done so, multiple times–about his love for Nicky. 

Just as he was reaching for his phone to call Copley–because clearly something had to be wrong if Joe was waxing poetic about Nicky when Nicky wasn’t even in the same building–the phone buzzed.

Nicky didn’t even have time to greet Copley before the man was launching into an explanation. “Nicky, I’m sorry, there were too many guards, Joe’s been captured. They’re holding him somewhere in the building, but I don’t have eyes inside.” 

“I’m on my way.” 

Sending a quick message to Nile and Booker, informing them of what happened, Nicky finished packing up his gear quickly, leaving his spot on the roof and descending the fire escape as fast–and safely, he’d be no good to Joe if he executed a swan dive off the fifth story–as possible.

***

Joe could feel his mouth filling with blood, so he leaned forward and spat some on the ground. Apparently the older man hadn’t been too pleased with being insulted, and he ordered his men to get answers out of Joe, while he watched. 

The beating, while not one of the worst he’d experienced, had not been pleasant. Thankfully, the men hadn’t seemed to realize Joe was slowly healing from their attacks, but sooner or later they would get suspicious. He hoped one of the others would get here before that happened, he really didn’t like dying alone.

He’d just been punched repeatedly in the stomach when the man doing said punching stopped. Joe was confused, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain about a reprieve. 

“What?” Barked the older man, pushing himself off the wall and stalking forward. “What is it?” The younger man shook his head, looking around. 

“Did anyone else–?” 

He cuts off when a loud bang sounds from outside the door. All of the men turn to look at the door, missing as a smile spreads across Joe’s bloody lips. Another bang sounds, louder than before, closer than before, and some of the men jump.

“What do you think it is?” One of them whispers, and before anyone can answer, something heavy slams into the bolted door from the outside. The whole door seems to shake in it’s frame, and it’s only made worse by the sudden scream of pain. 

There’s a sudden onslaught of noise, bangs, screams, gunshots, and crashes and–was that a cat screeching? The men all back away slowly from the door, hands on their weapons, but nothing could have prepared them for the way the door was blasted off its hinges, flying into the room and taking out two of the men. 

There’s a sudden burst of gunfire, taking out three more of the men before they can react. Watching their companions fall around them, the remaining four men all aim for the door, shooting wildly at a target they can’t even see. The older man, the leader, unlocks Joe’s cuffs only to pull him upright, pressing a knife against his neck, using Joe’s body as a human shield.

Joe rolls his eyes. If only this man knew how ineffective Joe would be at being a human shield. He watches with interest as the men stop firing, only for a knife to fly through the air and embed itself in one of the guard’s skulls. The others start firing again, but even though it's three against one, they’re no match for a furious Nicolo di Genova. Bursting into the room in a flurry of movement, Joe watches, fascinated–and more than a little turned on–as Nicky becomes a whirlwind, attacking violently with his longsword, cutting down the three men–with violent efficiency–who stand between him and Joe. 

The older man presses his blade tighter against Joe’s neck, but Nicky doesn’t even blink. Joe stomps on the man’s foot, and Nicky puts a bullet in his brain, quick as you please. The knife cuts Joe as he moves, but it’s certainly not life-threatening, so he’s unconcerned. 

Joe looked around the room, taking in the blood and guts and gore that decorate the white walls and floor and ceiling. “I told them that white was a bad choice, blood stands out far too much–” Nicky strides across the room, and kisses Joe hard, before he can get another word out. Joe grasps Nicky’s face with his blood covered hands, bringing him even closer, moaning as his beloved steals the breath from his lungs. 

Nicky pulls away, but only just, his forehead resting against Joe’s. “Yusuf, amore mio, are you badly hurt?” His eyes rove over Joe’s face, checking for any and all injuries.

“No, habibi,” Joe sighs. “The marks those men left are quickly fading. I am alright.” Nicky kisses Joe again, uncaring of the fact that Joe’s lips still taste of blood. 

They stand there for longer than they probably should, and when they finally part, Joe asks the question that had been pestering him since he first became aware of Nicky’s arrival. “How did you know so quickly, Nicolo? They’ve had me for less than an hour.”

The look on Nicky’s face is one of fond exasperation, one that Joe has been privy to many, many times. “You were being incurably romantic again, weren’t you?” 

Joe grins, his eyes shining as he looks at his love. “They dared insult you in my presence, hayati. Besides, you love it.”

Nicky sighs. “I do.”

Joe cups his face once more and kisses him, pouring nine hundred years of love and affection and desire into the kiss. He would defend his Nicolo to the ends of the earth, against anyone and anything that dared try to come between them. 

***

“I do not understand, Nile. Why do you keep referring to me as a cross between a human and an arachnid?”

“You have spidey sense Nicky, of course I’m going to call you Spiderman! Except instead of sensing danger, you sense whenever Joe’s delivering a love speech worthy of Shakespeare!”

“Hey! Do not compare me to that jumped-up English playwright–”

“Shut up, Joe!”

[yodawgiherd]

You Were Never Truly Gone ch.5

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Back to plotting.... The pacing is much faster than the previous chapters, but I meant it when I said that this will not be a long work. Just a few more.

Just like the year before the Paradis shore was slowly but surely appearing from behind the horizon. Armin was watching, again, albeit this time he had a cigarette in his hand, not a feather. Taking a drag from it, he felt the smoke filling his lungs. A dreadful habit picked up from Pieck, but the life of a diplomat was a stressful one, and smoking helped.

Especially stressful when the leaders hated each other and the man who flattened eighty percent of the world was secretly alive. Armin couldn’t even count how many times Eren’s name was brought up during the discussions. He was no longer a person, he was an entity - the devil, blamed for each and every bad occasion that happened.

Did the crops die? Damn Eren Yeager.

Are there floods? Damn Eren Yeager.

Then again, if there was one thing that Eren could legitimately be blamed for, it was the Yeagerists. Those were the worst to deal with because their aggressive expansion politics couldn’t be reasoned with. From the letters Armin exchanged with Historia, he knew that the queen was growing more oppressed every single day, the soldiers from Hizuru that used to keep the balance disappearing back into their home country. Kiyomi’s chokehold on Paradis’ stability was an eternal thorn in Armin’s side because he couldn’t see a solution. The old woman would not haggle, didn’t care, all she wanted was Mikasa.

Which was quite a problem, because as far as Armin knew the former soldier had no reason to leave her cabin. She had a home, the love of her life back, and overall was the happiest she ever was, judging from her letters.

Cursing his bad luck and stubbornness of others, Armin threw the burning cigarette into the ocean.

“That was a waste.”, Pieck appeared next to him, her mouth also occupied by one.

“I guess…”

“Tsk.”, she held out her pack, offering the blond a new smoke, “you’re lucky I stashed enough for us both.”

“Why?”

“Jean started smoking too.”

With a chuckle Armin took one, letting Pieck light it up for him, and then they were standing together on the deck and puffed against the wind.

“Are you sure that you want to come with us?”, he asked, knowing that she was far from happy about Eren’s resurrection, “You could stay in the city with Historia.”

“Right, because the sudden change of my routine after four years won’t be suspicious at all.”

“I don’t think people would know that Eren came back from you not visiting Mikasa once…”

“It’s a risk I’m not willing to take, and neither is Reiner.”, she snickered, “Despite how terrified he is of the Ackerman girl.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly smart, threatening Mikasa’s happiness the second it came back to her.”

“Still, he had a point.”, Pieck let out a long grey strip, “I know that, you know that, everyone knows that.”

“We can find a solution.”

“I have one.”

“Yours is killing Eren, right?”

“Exactly!”, Pieck’s fist hit the railing, “Kill him properly this time, bury the body under that damn tree and be done with it. With him gone, Ackerman is free to go to Hizuru, and Kiyomi will renew her support of Historia. Then she can put Yeagerists on a leash and we can work from there!”

It was hard to not see Pieck as a villain after this speech, yet Armin knew that she is only pragmatic. Her solution was the logical one, easiest to execute, but it required him to do something he would never stain his hands with.

“You would hurt Mikasa like this? After what she’s done for us all?”

The next words that left Pieck’s lips were soft yet determined.

“The happiness of a one woman is nothing compared to the happiness of the world.”

Taking the last drag, Armin threw the butt into the ocean, turning to face Pieck head-on.

“That’s where you are wrong. It’s everything.”

She sighed and Armin left, leaving her alone at the railing. The shores of Paradis grew ever so closer…

One of the many things that Mikasa enjoyed in their intimacy was this – taking a bath together. Admittedly the bathtub was a bit cramped, now that Eren was sitting behind her, but she would never trade the heat of his body for the additional space. He was working on her too, currently washing her hair, fingers gently threading through the long raven strands.

Eren had a thing for her long hair, it would seem, the way it flowed behind her anytime Mikasa undid her ponytail fascinated him. The sun could cast such beautiful shine into the midnight cascade, it made his eyes go wide in wonder. Even now he was moving slow, clearly not rushing anywhere, enjoying the activity almost as much as Mikasa.

“Armin will be here in a few hours.”, she reminded him, but didn’t open her eyes, “We should get a move on.”

“Hmmm.”, a kiss on her bare shoulder, followed by a whisper, “I don’t think I can do that.”

But Mikasa should be the strict one, so she turned in the tub, water splashing and Eren making an “Ouch” sound when her wet hair whipped his face.

“We really have to get out.”, to sweeten the deal, she kissed his nose, “Can fool around after…”

With that promise, Eren was willing to leave the bath and soon after they were sitting together at the outside table, waiting for the familiar faces. Those appeared quick, even faster than expected.

“You guys are here early!”, Mikasa exclaimed, standing up to greet them.

“You know how it is, Reiner had no more letters to sniff.”, Connie joked, poking the large blond in the shoulder.

“Sod off…”, Reiner pushed him away, but Jean replaced Connie immediately.

“Don’t sulk, maybe we can ask the queen to write us a new one, so you won’t be alone at night.”

Reiner growled, eyeing Jean with disgust and Pieck had to step in, pulling her grinning boyfriend away.

After the initial catching up, Armin asked if they could go inside for a talk, one that was meant only for the three of them. Or four, since Annie tagged along, and no one questioned it.

It was just the four of them in the cabin, sitting around the table - time to truly discuss what to do with Eren, what to do with this crazy thing that happened and that blissful dream Mikasa and him were enjoying for a year.

“I thought this through,”, Armin began, “And I think that the best we can do is…”

“Wait a second,” Mikasa interrupted him, “hear me out first.”

Giving her the needed space, the blond nodded at her. And just like that, Mikasa dropped the biggest bomb he could ever imagine.

“Me and Eren, we are going to Hizuru.”

“No! You are crazy!”, Armin almost shouted, “How do you think that would even work?”

“It’s an isolated country, and the Hizurian people don’t know how Eren looks like.”, Mikasa explained, calmly for a change, “Sure, they know of the devil and the rumbling, but they have no idea what his appearance is.”

“Kiyomi does!”

“I can deal with Kiyomi, I have a plan.”

“Then, would you be so kind and share it with us?”, Annie asked, mirroring Mikasa’s calmness.

And she did. She told them what she planned to do, making Armin gape at her while Annie chuckled, nodding along. Eren wasn’t sure how to react. It sounded crazy, but also somewhat logical, and did he have a different choice? The way Armin painted it, there was no place in the world where he could live without being pursued, and unless Mikasa did something Paradis would turn into a warmongering nation, as soon as Kiyomi withdrew her support.

“I… I don’t know what to say.”, Armin confessed when the raven finished, “I have tried a hundred different scenarios but the best I could come up with was you two running away and leaving Paradis to fend for itself.”

“We don’t want that.”, Mikasa said, “We didn’t run away before, we won’t do it now.”

“The rumbling was supposed to be the last war.”, Eren agreed, “If this plan can help us achieve that dream, I will go with what Mikasa proposed.”

“Oh please.”, Annie shook her head, “As if you could say no to her.”

Eren blushed, Armin laughed, and Mikasa smiled and patted her boyfriend affectionally.

When no one took the word, Annie continued, laying their cards on the table.

“Let's go over what they can do then – Option 1, they stay here, Kiyomi goes back to Hizuru, Yeagerists take over the government and start planning their global supremacy. Realizing that a retired Ackerman is living on the island, they come knocking on Mikasa’s door, only to find their war god alive and happy. Global fun ensues. Option 2, They run somewhere far away, settle and live together. Yeagerists still take over because Kiyomi will leave, and this Island becomes a death trap. Option 3, We go with Mikasa’s plan – it’s crazy, but it's that crazy that it might just work.

Silence ruled afterward. When Annie reached out and Armin held her hand, Mikasa noticed the lack of ring on the man’s fingers.

“Wait, you guys didn’t marry yet?”

“There was no time!”, Armin explained, “All we do is work, work, and more work…”

“And when he doesn’t work,”, Annie supplemented, “He’s sketching a map and trying to find a location where Eren could disappear to.”

“Mikasa’s plan foiling your hard work?”, the resurrected devil asked.

“It’s risky. I know that it can work but…, but you have no idea if it is a long-time solution. What if someone notices you? What if….”

“Don’t steer away from the topic.”, Mikasa interjected, “A year of engagement and no marriage?”

Armin and Annie exchanged a look, both shrugging.

“Then, why don’t you do it now?”, the raven continued.

Now the engaged couple was staring at her.

“What?”, they asked in unison.

“Here, in Paradis. Have a small wedding, invite a few people you know….”

“We could use it to show Eren to the few people that we trust.”, Armin began but was quickly smacked by Annie.

“Do NOT make OUR wedding about your friend.”

“Right… sorry.”

“It is the perfect excuse though.”, Mikasa defended Armin’s point, “We can’t travel the world.”

Annie looked at Eren and seeing the silent begging in his face she sighed and surrendered. He died for them; this was the least she could do to pay him back.

“Fine, let’s use my own damn wedding to help you. Who do we invite?”

It was Armin’s turn to look surprised.

“Wait, are we seriously doing this?”

“Why not? We are engaged for a year. What better time there is but present?”

When Annie made a decision, it was quickly followed by action. Soon enough, there was a list of people who could be invited and that Eren wanted to meet, rather short but that was quite understandable. And just like that, the preparations began.

A week. That was all Annie needed. Together with Pieck, who turned out to be an incredibly efficient planning genius, they set up everything while Armin and the others hung around Paradis, unsure what was even going on.

Yet the more Armin walked around the city, the more he could feel the tension in the air. Yeagerists were truly almost everywhere, and with no Hizuru army to control them they were growing bolder too. He could see the posters on the walls, calling for the replacement of the “fake” queen, calls to arms, and notes of Paradis supremacy. Something had to change, otherwise there would be hell to pay.

Even with his own wedding coming, it managed to sour his mood.

Eren and Mikasa were back at the cabin for most of the time. Sure, she did go out a few times with Annie to help her, pick out a dress and whatnot, but most of the time it was Pieck’s show. That woman was a machine. On the morning of the wedding, there was a crate at the cabin’s door with a note, stating that Mikasa should put this on before going to the ceremony. Opening it, the former soldier saw that it was a red dress, high heeled shoes and some jewelry, overall things that Mikasa did not own.

“I don’t think that I’ve ever seen you in a dress this pretty before.”

“I didn’t have a reason to wear one.”, Mikasa agreed, fixing her hair in the mirror.

Heavy steps behind her, and suddenly Eren’s hands were at her waist, possessively circling it.

“Makes me want to tear it right off of you.”, he growled into her ear, kissing it after.

“T-That can wait…”, she stuttered, fighting her own treacherous body as she gently pushed him away, “After the ceremony.”

The touch disappeared, and the chair creaked as Eren sat down, admiring her beauty from a short distance.

“Sucks that I can’t be there to see Armin say his “Yes, I do.”

“I know, but he was right. No matter how hard we would try to mask you, people would notice, especially if you were with me for the evening.”

She walked over to him, a bit unsure in those heeled shoes, bending over to kiss him.

“Behave. Once it's over, we will bring the people here so you can meet them.”

“Don’t worry. I and Yams will survive without you somehow.”, squeezing her hands, Eren blessed her with a radiant smile, “You go have fun.”

With a last wave and a kiss, she was indeed gone, leaving Eren alone for what felt like the first time since he came back. Putting his hands in the pockets, he walked over to where Yams was, studying it. The animal looked him straight in the eye, not flinching even when he leaned closer.

“You know, sometimes I think that you are more than just a goat.”

Yams didn’t say anything, surprisingly, chewing the hay.

The wedding was short but sweet, the view of the ocean being everything Armin dreamed of. Annie was given away by her sobbing father, and Mikasa was Armin’s best “man”, stunning in the red dress Pieck got her. Yet it didn’t matter how she looked, because the blond’s eyes were solely for the woman in white. It felt like a dream when they recited their vows, and as Armin slid the ring on Annie’s finger, he considered himself the happiest man alive.

Any worry about world peace, any thought about Eren, anything and everything just flew right out of his head, because it didn’t matter. The world narrowed down to Annie’s smile, and Armin was more than okay with that.

A kiss and they were bound together forever, the cheers loud enough to scare all the birds in the vicinity. The queen handed Ymir over to her husband, clapping and jumping up and down in glee, ignoring the looks the bodyguards shot her way.

Jean also had tears in his eyes, unsure of what came over him. Connie teased him for it but Pieck simply smiled, wrapping him in a hug. It felt unreal to watch his friend and comrade marry the woman they used to fight, their sworn enemy. Yet here they were, any sort of hatred between them forgotten in favor of their love, and he thought that it was beautiful. And looking down at Pieck, Jean knew how Armin felt.

With the ceremony over, the celebration began, taking place on a few tables that were brought out. The evening progressing, Levi was the first who Mikasa approached, saying that she needs to discuss something with the old soldier. She pushed the wheelchair herself because both Gabi and Falco were enjoying the reception, heading towards her cabin. It wasn’t that far but not too close either, yet Levi was silent the whole journey, most likely thinking that whatever she wanted to talk about could wait. Yams watched them approach with his usual interested look as if she knew what was going on.

When the cabin door opened and Eren came out, Levi’s expression froze.

“Hello sir.”, the dead man said, coming to stand in front of him.

That was when Levi took a deep breath. And spoke.

“Eren, my kicking days are sadly over, but I’m now going to stand up and punch you in the face.”, his eyes were cold as he spoke, “Do you have a problem with that?”

Eren back straightened.

“No sir.”

“Good.”

With a scramble of wood against the grass, Levi pushed himself upright with the cane, taking a few steps towards him. He was old and crippled, Eren reasoned, there was no way that….

The punch threw him on the ground, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

“This is far from what you deserve, but it will do for now.”, Levi stated, shuffling back towards the wheelchair.

Mikasa was watching but didn’t intervene, knowing that despite how much she loved Eren, he deserved this. On his own, the former devil pushed himself back to his feet, studying Levi’s unchanging expression.

“I take it that you are not that happy to see me?”

“Happy? No.”, his hands clenched the wheelchair, “You’ve done terrible things Eren, and I hold no love for you. Unlike Mikasa, I think that you should have stayed dead, and if it wasn’t for how much she adores you I would put you in the ground. I don’t know how you came back and frankly, I don’t care, but you don’t deserve it. You have taken too much from the world…”

Erwin, Hange

“Too much from me.”

His eyes shifted to Mikasa.

“You believe that what you two have is special, but how many young lovers were trampled beneath the rumbling? How many lives were lost?”, icy gaze slid back to Eren, “I can’t forgive you. Maybe in time, but not now. Definitely not now.”

With that, he wheeled himself away, heading back towards the celebration, where Gabi and Falco were. The girl was describing something loudly, waving her hands while the boy looked on, a faint glint of adoration in his eyes. But after today, Levi was sick of love.

“Hey brats!”, he called them, “Get me out of here.”

They moved immediately, taking hold of his chair and pushing him back towards the city.

“What did Mikasa want captain?”, Gabi asked, energetic as ever, “Was it important?”

“No. She just… We….”, Levi clenched his teeth against the feeling, “She opened some old wounds, that’s all.”

Gods damn you Eren. If you ever make her unhappy, I will kill you myself.

Queen Reiss was a bit more difficult to separate from her guards, but when Mikasa asked if they could talk, just the two of them, she turned towards the black-suited men with a raised eyebrow.

“I believe that I will be quite safe with a legendary soldier like Mikasa, an Ackerman too. Take a small break.”

With that, she hoisted her daughter up and smiled.

“Lead the way.”

The guards obeyed, knowing better than to try and argue. So, Mikasa led the queen to her cabin, the door creaking open when Eren stepped out.

“The worst girl in the world,”, he greeted the blonde with a crooked smile, “It’s good to see you.”

Historia exploded into tears the second she saw him. She handed little Ymir to Mikasa and hugged him, sobbing into Eren’s chest in a very unqueenlike manner.

But when they tried showing the child to Eren, she hid behind Mikasa and refused to move, even crying when he reached out to her.

“I guess I’m not that good with children.”, he said with a smile, watching Ymir as she clung to the raven’s legs.

“That’s so strange,”, Historia wondered, “She usually loves meeting new people.”

But Ymir wouldn’t let Eren touch her, and because nobody wanted a crying child, Mikasa was the one to hold her while he and the queen sat down to do some much-needed catching up. Quiet gasps left her lips when Eren described his “reincarnation”, the long and perilous journey he had to endure to be reunited with his lover. When his story was done, there were tears in her eyes, and a whisper followed.

“D-do you think that… that Ymir could, you know.. ?”

It was obvious which Ymir she meant, but Eren could offer her no comfort.

“I’m sorry, but they are all gone. The paths collapsed, all the souls that were there are free now, I was the only one that stayed.”

With a slight tremble of her lips, the queen nodded, expecting such an answer. Taking a few deep breaths to stabilize herself, Historia got to the matters at hand.

“Eren, can you help me with the Yeagerists?”

“Not me, but Mikasa has a plan.”

Gently rocking the child in her arms, the Ackerman recited her plan to Historia. When she was done, the queen had a look of concentration on her face, tapping the table.

“It’s insane, but… good insane. I feel like it has a chance.”

Mikasa and Eren exchanged a look.

“That’s all we can hope for.”

After Historia left, taking Ymir with her, the pair was alone again. The celebration moved to the city but Mikasa didn’t feel like attending it, much more content here, lying on the grass with her lover. Together, they stared at the starry sky, basking in the moonlight.

“Do you think that we can ever get married?”, Mikasa wondered, still jittery from witnessing Armin’s and Annie’s wedding.

“I’m not sure. I feel like that if I ever walk into a church, the priest will try to drown me in the holy water.”

Mikasa giggled, hiding the smile in Eren’s shoulder.

“Maybe we don’t need a priest.”, he continued, ripping out a few blades of grass.

Deftly, he made a ring out of them, sliding it on Mikasa’s finger.

“Mikasa Ackerman, will you take me as your lawful husband?”

The answer bubbled out of her throat before she could make a coherent thought.

“Y-Yes.”

Following his example, Mikasa also made a ring, much better than Eren’s, putting it on his hand.

“Eren Yeager, will you take me as your lawful wife?”

“Yes, hundred, thousand times yes.”

Tangled on the ground, they stared into each other’s eyes, ignoring the rest of the world.

“I guess we can kiss now.”, Eren whispered.

Mikasa was the one who closed the distance, pushing her lips on Eren’s. It didn’t matter how many times they kissed, it made them both feel lightheaded, such joy could be found in a simple gesture. And when they broke apart, breathing heavily, Eren could say from the way Mikasa looked at him that this was only the beginning.

“Look at me.”, she said, admiring the grass ring, “Here I am, a married woman, when I thought that I will end up as a crazy bird lady.”

“Bird lady?”

“There was one that kept circling anytime when I visited your grave - it tried taking my scarf once too. You know, I thought that it might be you, living now as a bird or whatnot.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”, Eren pressed a kiss to her knuckles, “But I was never a bird, and I don’t plan on being one. As a human there are things we can do that would be… questionable if done with a bird.”

Now he was speaking Mikasa’s language.

“Do we get a wedding night?”, she drawled, her bedroom eyes and teeth biting the bottom lip making her the hottest being Eren ever saw in his existence.

The smile he gave her back was downright sexy.

“You bet.”

Eren was still sleeping when Mikasa woke up, slipping out of his hands. She stretched, feeling the burn in her muscles from last night’s activities, and looking down she could see faint bruises blooming on her porcelain skin. The dress was gone and forgotten, lost in the heat of passion, so Mikasa picked up Eren’s shirt from the floor, slipping it over her naked form.

Combing her hair, she put it over one shoulder, staring at the rising sun. The light somehow steeled her resolve and soon she was sitting down, pulling out a piece of paper. This had to work, there was no other way. For her and Eren to be together, the world had to be stable. With the pen in her hand, Mikasa thought for a moment before touching the white and beginning to write.

“Dear Kiyomi….”

[secretsofthedarkestkind-arch]

@storieswrittcn from here

My Dearest Heart, Chicago, truly there of all places Katerina? I have never, however, I do hear the stories and rumors of what this war is causing. Whether it be in passing of Father’s acquaintances or discussion among those in town. Chicago is near the front lines. You do love chasing the danger don’t you? Though with everything happening in the city, it would be a place easy enough to hide among others without someone questioning your presence. 

Feeding from the lower end of the food chain is not one I thought I would ever see you do. Even if it does keep you safe and the suspicion of who you are low, I am not completely agreeable to that. But as you have said, you must do what you have to. Do the drugs affect you after you have drank from them? I have only ever seen a few under the influence, only a small number made me laugh at the way their minds were altered. Soon enough you will have the blood of something cleaner, purer, and one that, if by your own reactions tell me, has become your favorite. 

A witch? To have you seeking her out she must be powerful. I hope she can show you what you seek to learn. It warms my soul knowing part of the reason you wish to continue your knowledge in the art of magic is to protect me. I cannot wait to see what you are able to do or the beauty of which you speak. Concepts of light and dark are ones I do not fully believe in. I understand them and begrudgingly admit are there but who has the right to deem what is light or dark? Both can cause harm can they not? Both can provide protection when needed just as well correct? So when then do we always have to label items or actions in categories of ‘good’ or ‘evil’. Actions as people move between the two. Though that is simply my opinion and I may admittedly be naive. 

Though I do not possess the abilities you do, I feel the same way about you. Harper, though a fallen soldier so possibly not the best teacher, has offered to give me a few lessons in self defense when we can slip away. I’ve learned to fire a rifle and small pistol as well. My aim continues to improve and I dare say it’s better than Damon’s. One day I will be able to protect you as you protect me. You may be Katherine Pierce, a survivor and fighter, but everyone needs someone at times to be there in a time of need. I will be that person.

Please, my heart, do not taunt your enemies. I know they are a necessary downfall of the life you are forced to live and they are to be expected. But that does not mean you need to make a situation worse. Tie up the ends you must, do what you need to do, but come back to me unharmed. 

Parties? Hm, I do not envy you in the least. You are correct, dresses and corsets make my skin itch---they made me feel suffocated and trapped. Being forced into them, keeping up appearances and appearing as society states I must...it kills a part inside of me each time, Katerina. I want to scream, break things, tear the dresses to shreds just to be free. But I cannot. I must continue to lie, to kill my soul, and hide a part of myself away just to avoid the wrath and closed mindedness of my family as well as society. My only freedom you, my aunt, and now those you have deemed worthy of our family. 

But for you? I would try. There might be a day when I can go as myself, dressed in a suit only made of the best linens that are appropriate to be seen beside your beauty. That is a dream I will hold on to. That we will find a time, within our eternity, where I can be myself with you on my arm attending events that please you.

My type of food or yours, my heart? I am smirking as I write that question. For with you, it might be both or just yours.

I will not try to pull you here sooner than you see fit. Even if I wish I could. Part of me believes if I set my mind to doing just that I could succeed. I know you have your reasons, that there are things that need to be done before you are here with me. As I have told you before, I will always wait for you and be patient with what you must do. As before, do what you must for I will be here when the time is right. I trust you, Katerina. Which means if you say this wait and your planned time here in Mystic Falls is needed or the only way...then it is. 

Pearl and Annabelle have become people I can see one day as the only family, outside of you, that I will ever need or wish for. I had thoughts that you had sent them here partly for my benefit as I mentioned in my last letter, but knowing those thoughts were correct? I continue to fall more and more in love with you. Constantly, you show me in actions how much you do love me and care for me, that I am wanted. To know my love, loyalty, and feelings are returned just as deeply means more than you will ever know. All I can hope is that I can do the same for you.

You tell me not to worry about vervain but as you say it can harm you if you feed on someone who has consumed it. My Heart, if a vampire ingests vervain, the vampire's throat and digestive tract will be burned. You would become feverish and extremely weak. I have seen what it does to the flesh of your kind if even the plant comes into contact with your skin. You cannot tell me to not worry when it exists in this world. The amount in this town turns my stomach. I have asked Pearl to help me do my best to avoid it for your sake. Though it seems the council here has plans for it, plans my father is a part of as a way to try and get back into the community's good graces. He has no idea that I am aware of that or my knowledge of those that walk among us. Something I plan to always keep from him, it may come in our favor one day. 

I am not certain if it only grows here. It is a plant that grows at the base of white oak trees, we have a higher concentration of those trees but surely it grows elsewhere? If I can I will see what I can learn. I feel that research may have to wait until we are free of this town. But I will still try until then. 

You have never broken a promise to me yet nor given me reason to doubt you, so I will believe in the promise that you will be safe. 

Lavender will now be a smell that I always associate with you, once more you take control of something small in my life. You do consume me and are always in my mind--always a part of everything I do. My anxieties, worries, and darker thoughts are all rooted in this town. They have created them, fed them, and caused their growth as the years have gone by. This town has taken much of me, I just do not wish for it to either take you or harm you. The idea of Vervain is not my only concern but you know that. My worries are always far away when I am with you, however. As silly as it might sound, you chase the demons away. You make me stronger and braver. Or at the very least you show me who I could be, who I could grow to be with your helping hand and love.

The Falls much like my favorite oak tree--not white oak I have checked-- is a place no one ever searches for me. They are peaceful and beautiful. A part of nature that has been untouched and left alone. The sound of the water going over the cliff soothes me. The fall is from what I can guess is at least fifteen foot drop, it’s highest point as tall as some of the trees below it. The pool of water below it is just as deep, if not more. Though I have not swum to the bottom since meeting you or jumped from it’s peak, though Annabelle did try to convince me. I was tempted to jump once more but I know you would not be pleased if something happened when you were not with me or if something more ill fated than being harmed happened. It leads into a river, wide and long. After it rains, the water is too dangerous to get in or be near as it then flows so much quicker. But I do love to watch it. Harper will bring you a few of my sketches of the area so you may see it. I still plan to take you there, my dearest heart. It will be one of our adventures. 

I promise you, there is nothing to be jealous of. No one should ever cause jealousy within you. My heart belongs to you and no how close I become with another--such as Annabelle--that will never change. Some say jealousy is a darker emotion, one that can lead a person to become controlling. I do not believe that. Jealousy, to a point, is healthy. It shows the depth of your love. Others would argue it shows insecurity. Maybe we are both correct. But it just means one does not wish to lose another. I know I will become jealous of others near you, I will not deny it as something that will happen. But I hope you will see it as I do when it happens. I never wish for you to change--dare I say the jealousy you admit to makes me feel ways I didn’t know I could. I enjoy it.

Stefan has never seen me truly be friends with another before, female especially. You know the tale of my first kiss, how Father reacted when Damon told him of catching myself with Abigail Sommers. She had been my only friend, only allowed by both our parents because of our families connections. The view of being me being demonic or a punishment to my parents for the way I was born made it hard to find friends. Now with the town's knowledge of my alignment, makes it even harder. So Stefan simply believes every woman I talk to or try to befriend is someone I seek to have more with. 

His mind believes the way of the church, Katerina. His words and actions over the years showing that. So there is no possible way his mind will ever be able to wrap around the fact two women could be together. It makes me laugh to picture his face when he learns of our love---especially once he has seen your beauty and met you. How could someone as posed, beautiful, and a true lady in the world's eye ever be so sinful and dark as to love me? A question that will no doubt be his as it is no longer one of mine. I will behave how you ask of me in front of the town and do as you ask regarding my brothers, but I will not go as far as to not spend time with you or appear as your friend. Part of your reason for being here is for me, I intend to take advantage of that. Not to mention, could you truly be so close to me and deny yourself my heart? I could not and I will not.

My father’s life is to do with as you please. I know many would recoil from you for those words or thoughts of murder, but I will not. The act of you killing him, torturing him, may actually give me pleasure and peace as well. I am not strong enough, physically, to do it myself. He does not deserve to be a part of this world but yet he acts as if this life is God given right and his actions have no consequences. He is vile and the scum of this earth truly.

Your possessiveness is showing my love. It thrills me. Others might disrespect that claim, but not Pearl nor I. There is nothing in this world that could ever make me drink the blood of a vampire that is not you. I know the offer would only come either at the dire need for me to heal, a situation that is not what we have planned for my time to turn, or if you knew you would be able to insure I was not going to die shortly after. I know to deny any that tries to give me some, you’ve made sure of that. Your friendship and trust in Pearl is well founded and centuries old, she knows better my love.

Speaking of Pearl, she has mentioned the thought of possibly having me wear something with Vervain within it to keep the vampires in this town--one’s that she is unsure of their loyalty to you as the number seems to grow each time we speak-- away from me. I do not know if I agree with this. Could it harm you and is it something that you would want? Only a gift from you will ever find a way to my skin that is potentially dangerous to you.

Enjoy the sketches and I will wait for your reply as always.

Eternally yours, Lee

[caiminnent]

not designed for the cynical [kylux with side phasma/rey, rated T]

PROMPTS: communication suddenly cut off (@badthingshappenbingo​, 8/25) & bed sharing - pet - delivery (@kyluxxoxo​)

SUMMARY:

Whenever Snoke calls upon only Ren’s service, Hux sends word to all his relevant contacts that he’s available. The job offer he accepts turns out to be far more than he's bargained for.

(This is a low-key Inception AU that requires little to no knowledge of the movie.)

FANDOM: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

TAGS: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Sharing a Bed, Mutual Pining, Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, except not really, Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Kylo Ren and Rey Are Related

NOTES: This was written mostly during commute and/or sleep-deprived within an inch of my life and edited under the same circumstances. As such, I don't have the faintest clue what this is, but I love it.

5K || ALSO ON AO3

Hux isn’t prone to worry.

He is prone to stress, and he’s got the blood pressure to prove it—but that’s a necessity of the life they lead. It’s got its uses. Worry, however, is for when you don’t have an alphabetised, colour-coded list of plans for every situation that may arise. Worry is for the under-prepared.

Worry is a waste of time.

Knowing this doesn’t stop the fist around his heart from squeezing tight every time he hits redial and finds Ren’s phone still switched off, however.

Then again, there’s no real reason to worry about it. It’s a perfectly Ren move to go off the radar for weeks on end and turn up three countries away from where he was supposed to be, shrugging off all reprimand like he can’t understand why they’re so angry about it. It’s just what he does—he disappears, then he shows up at your doorstep when you least expect it.

He will this time, too. He promised—he will be back by Hux’s birthday.

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

Contrary to the popular (re: Ren’s) belief, life doesn’t stop just because Ren is off doing what Ren does somewhere else.

Even with all the safe houses and personas they maintain all across the world, the unreasonable amounts of money Snoke throws at them to be at his beck and call is more than enough to keep them afloat. Ren would be fine with not taking another independent job ever again; but Hux knows better than to rely on Snoke alone. He’s been burned enough times by fickle employers; he’s not ready to bet on the wrong horse and have to build his reputation up from scratch yet again.

That’s part of why, whenever Snoke calls upon only Ren’s service, Hux sends word to all his relevant contacts that he’s available. It keeps him in the game, on the occasion he gets an offer worth considering—and if he doesn’t, he calls it getting a feel for the market and moves on.

Monday morning finds him curled on the sofa, going through the responses on his phone. Most offers he received are below his notice like he expected, some downright insulting—and then there’s the e-mail from Enric Pryde himself.

He sits up so fast he almost knocks over his empty cup.

Among the dreamshare community, the First Order is as revered as it is despised. They reach out to very few and pay three times what they should; but the cost of failure is equally severe, growing proportionately to the project’s worth. Which seems to be a lot, in this case. While he can’t tell from the sparse details in the e-mail whether this Project Starkiller is meant to be a moving city or some sort of weapon—perhaps both, knowing the First Order—he already estimates at least two layers, more likely three, and a special blend of stabiliser for the dreamer and the architect both, who cannot be the same person for this design.

Because they want him on board as the main architect and his dreams never hold steady after the first layer, special blend or no.

Whatever he was looking for as a quick job, this is not it. It’s far more involved and challenging than he could have imagined—and, he’s finding, everything he needed. He could do this for himself. He could work a job he enjoys, instead of running point to Ren or Phasma’s picks all the time to keep them from working with incompetent point men.

Ren and Phasma, who might be working with incompetent point men halfway across the world this very moment.

No. No, he’s not thinking that. His birthday is only three days away. Everything is fine.

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

He e-mails back to say he’s honoured and asks for one week to get his team together. Pryde gives him five days and a thinly-veiled warning that there are others who would jump at this opportunity.

Stomach at his feet, Hux throws his phone on the coffee table and gets up to make more tea.

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

As expected, research gives him little of substance about the First Order’s operations and nothing at all about the Starkiller, although he finds a low-quality close-up of Pryde to glare at as he sketches out some ideas. They will get binned once he gets his hands on the self-destructing dossiers or whatever ridiculous security protocols the First Order may work with; but it keeps him busy. Better than watching the hours tick by.

When the clock turns from 11:59 to midnight on what is now Thursday, he considers texting Rey to ask if she’s heard from Phasma recently—changes his mind before he even picks up the phone. Ren wouldn’t like it. Hux has been accused of being a control freak more times than he can count as it is; he doesn’t want to add clingy to the list of his unattractive qualities.

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

At two in the morning, the doorbell rings.

He is going to murder Ren.

The door had never felt so close or so far as he rushes to it, heart hammering in his chest. He’s going to let Ren in, he’s going to check him for injuries and he’s going to disembowel that infuriating, thoughtless, selfish piece of shite if he’s had Hux fret all this time for no reason—

“Hi,” Rey chirps, looking up at him with damp eyes and a brittle smile. She raises a bottle of whiskey—Phasma’s favourite. “Happy birthday?”

He opens the door wider.

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

Admittedly—not out loud; he would never hear the end of it, from her or her cousin—Rey scores high on the short list of people whose company he enjoys. The booze helps, too. They drink in front of the television Hux hasn’t switched off in days and talk about everything but the aching holes in their chests.

She falls asleep on the sofa. He puts a blanket over her and goes to bed.

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

In the morning—practically afternoon, if he’s being honest—he tells her about the Starkiller. The plan was to pitch it to Ren first, to see what he thinks before bringing in the others. As it is, Ren isn’t here and none of Hux’s messages has gone through since their interrupted conversation and Hux is going to bloody explode if he doesn’t tell someone.

“I’m not sure, Armie,” she says around a spoonful of breakfast cereal he certainly didn’t buy. “He will never agree to work for the First Order.”

“Why the hell not? He works for Snoke.” Rather happily, in fact. Ren never prepares more carefully for a job than one of Snoke’s plentiful errands, no matter how simple. “Why wouldn’t he work for Snoke’s own company?”

She considers him for a long moment, chewing slowly. “He hasn’t told you the story.”

The implication—accusation—stings deep. “What story?” he demands, pushing his tea away to lean closer. The words held the intonation of capital letters, which means missing information that could potentially blindside them down the line. His respect for Ren’s private business isn’t greater than his responsibilities.

“Not mine to tell,” she says sternly, pinching her lips in disappointment like he should be ashamed to have asked to begin with. “Ask him.”

He snorts. Ren is hardly the sharing type, especially where Hux is concerned. Everything he’s ever learned about Ren has come through other means—and vice versa, he imagines.

She frowns, a question rising behind her eyes. He tenses on instinct. “Anyway,” she continues, shaking her head—and he can breathe more easily again. “My point is, if we’re doing this, we’ll need another forger.”

We. He doesn’t suppress his smile, relief coating his insides. “I suspect we won’t need a forger for this one. A chemist, on the other hand…”

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

She doesn’t leave and he doesn’t ask her to. They polish off the whiskey and pretend not to check their phones every ten minutes while binge-watching Star Wars, including the newest releases even their resident space nerd couldn’t finish.

He visualises Ren’s horrified expression when Hux reveals how he and Rey bonded over their shared love for big guns and hot villains in Ren’s absence. Laughter gets stuck in his throat, forming a painful lump instead.

He bids her good night and slinks away into his bedroom to stare at the ceiling.

Barely ten minutes pass before the television switches off in the next room, soft footsteps echoing lightly in the corridor. He turns his back to the door and feigns sleep as it opens and closes—which is a coward’s way, but he’s never claimed to be a particularly brave man. If he were, he would have asked Ren to stop working for Snoke instead of stewing in his misery right now.

Compared to her cousin, Rey’s weight barely shifts the mattress as she climbs in, sliding under the covers without fanfare. He shuts his eyes tighter and allows himself to imagine, just for a moment, that Ren is back.

“I haven’t heard from Phasma in over a month.”

Over a month? Hells, no wonder she sought him out. “Ren and I talked two weeks ago,” he says—realises with a sinking feeling that it sounded like he was rubbing it in. “Closer to three, actually.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much that I could understand. The reception was horrible.” Bits and pieces through constant breaking: Hux, shit, in case, person and, inexplicably, home. “I didn’t get the impression they were in danger—just inconvenienced.” As is often the case with these missions. Snoke’s got a small army of trained private security under his command and he still sends Ren to the most out-of-the-way places.

That Snoke’s hired Phasma as well for this one is a little more concerning, but not overly so. Reckless as they both can be, Ren and Phasma are forces to be reckoned with on the field—Hux would be more inclined to feel sorry for their adversaries.

Rey sighs. “Hope you’re right, Armie.”

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

If Mitaka is surprised to see Rey strut about in Hux’s shortest joggers she still needed to fold at the ankles and an old shirt, he politely doesn’t mention it. He and Rey exchange banal pleasantries over coffee and day-old cake while Hux finishes typing up his notes, then they get to work.

Mitaka listens to the briefing with unwavering attention, his fingers stapled in front of him like a front-row student. Like everyone else in their extended team, Mitaka is an experienced, accomplished dreamer—and yet, Hux can’t help looking at him and seeing the fresh-faced cadet Phasma had dragged in ages ago, barely into his twenties and all the more naive for it.

They’ve gotten old—Hux most so.

Once Hux finishes, “If you both are building this time,” Mitaka starts, looking between the two. “Who will be taking point? The Captain?”

Next to him, Rey inhales sharply, her face mostly hidden behind the curtain of her hair. Shame crosses through Mitaka’s face at the realised misstep.

“She’s otherwise occupied,” Hux responds before Mitaka can break into apologies. No need to make this more painful or awkward than it needs to be. “I will be running point as usual, and Rey is here to help with the heavy-lifting.”

Mitaka nods, glancing at Rey with concern before turning to Hux fully. “Where do I sign?”

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

They sign a heavily-encrypted stack of documents digitally, sending them through the First Order’s own communication system. The next day, they receive a link to a private cloud service with a convoluted unlock sequence that can be accessed by one device at a time, read-only.

Hux alone works on three different devices.

On the bright side, the project they receive is well-worth the inconvenience. Their objective is to design and build a superweapon out of an extensively described ice planet in the dreamspace, which must be capable of hitting five targets simultaneously and obliterating all affected life forms on them without causing a single non-predetermined casualty. Controlled chaos, if you will. The First Order wants a catastrophe they can tame and leash.

Hux can make it happen.

Whether he can make it happen in eight weeks is a different question entirely.

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

Without Ren to drag him away from work, he’s free to divide his waking hours between his screens and the sitting room, which they repurposed into a workshop-slash-dream den. While Hux is a decent architect in a pinch, he could never build the way Rey does—the way she bends the dreamspace to her will and creates cities that feel alive around them. Between the two of them, they have the groundwork laid out within days, quickly moving on to revising the base design according to the specifications in the main file and the numbers Hux runs.

Instead of using pre-mixed batches, Mitaka mixes their Somnacin from scratch on the kitchen table, reworking the formula per the reactions. None he comes up with works to keep Hux’s dreams steady, although a couple seem to ground his control over the dreamspace. Most just turn the dreams into nightmares for everyone involved.

Many of the nightmares are about Ren. Every time they manage to wake up from one of those, he looks at Rey to apologise. She never meets his eyes.

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

Unlike the two of them, Mitaka has family to return to and so he does when it gets late, leaving them to eat take-away and talk around the elephant in the room. On the rare occasion they do talk. Even though Hux gets the most shit for his workaholic tendencies, they all are guilty of it in different degrees; most nights are spent hunched over desks or tablets until they come close to shooting each other over the smallest noise or mistake, then they retire for the night.

The bedroom is where the worst fears come out.

“They might need our help,” she murmurs, lowly enough that the words could get lost among the howling wind outside. “They might be injured or—or lost, waiting for rescue. And we would be here arguing about heat transfer.”

“They aren’t.”

“But how do you know?”

He sighs loudly, turning to face Rey. Her eyes are big and eerily bright in the darkness, shining. “Look, Ren and I have been through this before. We’ve got contingencies in place for any kind of emergency—strategies to scarper and regroup as needed, fake identities with paper trail, codes to slip into lines of communication that will find their way to the other’s ear—all of which tied to systems that would alert us both if ever used. So far?” He gestures vaguely to his phones on the nightstand. “Complete radio silence.”

“Well it might be because he’s—”

His stomach lurching, “Don’t,” he bites out. He’s had enough nights contemplating that possibility himself, reasoning himself out of that line of thinking with more effort each time; he can’t handle someone else saying it.

Especially not Rey, whose unfailing optimism has seen them through many a dark spot.

“They will be back soon,” he says with conviction he forces himself to feel. They always do. This is just taking longer than expected.

Rey’s silence rings in the room.

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

At the end of the third week, Enric Pryde reaches out to him. His voice is as cold and serpent-like as he looks.

They talk for two and a half minutes—more accurately, Pryde relays his demands for two minutes and rebuffs Hux’s protests for the next half, then hangs up unceremoniously on him.

Fuming, Hux tries to glare a hole into his phone for about as long before going to wake Rey up.

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

“What do you mean, they are relocating us?”

Latching his fingers tight to keep from scraping at his already raw palms, “I mean exactly what I said,” Hux grinds out. “They want to move us into some safe house where they will provide us with everything we’ll need for the rest of the project. We don’t have the option to refuse their generosity.”

“They want to monitor us,” Mitaka says on the other end of the line, ever fond of pointing out the obvious. “Can they do that?”

“Would you like to be the one to tell them they can’t?” Hux shakes his head. They are not small fish; but the First Order is big enough to swallow them whole and not suffer for it. He knows to pick his fights. “If you’d like to drop off the face of the earth, now is the time.”

Rey snorts—as much of an answer as Mitaka’s bitter laughter.

“Well,” Rey says, scraping her chair back. “I should pack some clean underwear. When are they coming to get us?”

“As we speak.”

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

Before they leave, they make sure to sketch out First Order insignias on every available place. Just in case.

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

The safe house is, for all intents and purposes, a veritable villa in the middle of nowhere.

“A little excessive,” Mitaka comments as they tour the place, noting the bolted down furniture and darkened windows, locked conspicuously on the outside. The cupboards and the fridge are well-stocked enough to keep them fed for several months.

There is no mobile coverage.

In fact, there is no wireless connection of any sort. The multitude of devices strewn about in the house are all connected to the First Order’s own network and communications system, which provides access to every archive they might need for the project and nothing else.

The dread coiled in Hux’s guts grows heavier.

So much for his alert systems.

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

Progress is much faster with so much information at their fingertips.

Hux is envious of the berths of the First Order databases. Effective as his own methods of gathering intelligence are, his network couldn’t hope to have the same reach as a well-funded PMC—which he could have been a part of, had he not gone freelance instead of corporate after leaving the military.

The idea is tempting, still. He’s ruined for the civilian workforce—has been since childhood, with a father like General Brendol Hux was—but he seeks the structure and order that comes with being part of an organisation. Under different circumstances, he may have considered applying to the First Order after this project.

As their prisoner in everything but name, he wants little more than to be as far away from them as possible.

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

Everything they’ll need doesn’t involve a private chef or buffet, but it involves private delivery people who pick up whatever they want, no matter what they want, in a timely fashion. Because they are spiteful opportunists, they order the most extravagant and unreasonable meals they can think of. The food always arrives hot.

Hux marks the potential restaurants for each food item and how long it took to arrive on a small map every time. Just in case.

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

Sleeping in the same bed while Mitaka is in the next room feels too awkward, so they don’t. They don’t sleep much in general, either—not with the question of how to power a machine of the Starkiller’s scale without it overheating hanging heavy over their heads. Dreamshare mechanics are a lot more forgiving than their real-world counterparts; if they can’t pull it off down there, they sure as hell won’t make it work topside.

They have to make it work topside, they now know. The First Order wouldn’t have poured so much money and resources into what is merely Pryde’s pet design project.

“They probably have people looking into it,” Rey says, spinning her pen around her fingers with smugness dripping from her expression. He’s not petty enough to dare her to replicate it in the real world, but the thought is there. “Some super high-tech R&D division working on preventing a weapon of mass-destruction from exploding instead of, like, climate change.”

Watching her fingers like the secrets of the universe lie between them, “I don’t think so,” Mitaka responds. “It’s too much of a commitment. I bet they just wait for someone else to figure it out, then steal the designs from them.”

Something flares at the back of Hux’s mind like static, a connection he doesn’t want to make forcing itself into his awareness.

He shakes his head hard to clear it. Even with the dilation, he doesn’t have the time to dwell on things he’s got no control over.

“If you two are quite done gossiping,” he cuts in, smoothing over the blueprints in front of him for effect. “We’ve got work to do.”

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

We’re going to take something someone else worked very hard for, was all Ren had said the night before his departure—the only time Hux dared ask about his new job, once it became apparent Ren wasn’t going to say a word about it on his own. It’s such a non-answer that Hux couldn’t tell if Ren wanted to leave him space for plausible deniability or simply didn’t want to tell him.

He still can’t. As a matter of fact, he can’t say for sure Snoke’s job and this project are connected, either; all he’s got is a hunch.

A hunch he desperately wants to see proven wrong.

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

Mitaka’s newest blend is the most successful yet. They go down as far as the third level with only minor tremors under their feet—a huge leap of progress, after weeks of the ground swallowing them up whole.

Knowing better than to push their luck, they call it an early night and celebrate by ordering a feast they’ll have to take their time with. With the dinner table and every other horizontal space that could reasonably hold food covered in their work, they sprawl about the sofa set that hasn’t seen nearly enough use over their involuntary stay.

Once their food arrives and Rey realises what he ordered, a soft look crosses over her face. He ignores it. There’s only one place that serves Ren’s favourite food; it makes for a good reference point on his map. It’s not sentimental if it’s also practical.

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

He knew, from a logical standpoint, that having access to communication systems meant people could communicate with them and vice versa. On account of the fact that Pryde and the delivery people are the only ones to use it, he didn’t particularly care.

When the name Blysma pops up on the main screen, he realises what a gross oversight that was.

Heart at his throat, he accepts the request with shaking hands, grateful that no one is awake to see him like this. “Hux speaking.”

“Hello, Hux.”

Oh.

Oh, the ever-loving—

“Don’t say my name,” Ren adds quickly, as if he sensed that Hux was about to curse his name six ways to Sunday. “Or any other names. They don’t actively monitor your communications, but we’re pretty sure some keywords are flagged. Best not to take any chances.”

“We,” he repeats dumbly. So many questions are buzzing in his head that he doesn’t know which should take priority. “You and—ah, our mutual terrifying friend?”

Phasma’s melodic laughter rings through the other end of the line. Hux’s heart soars.

“Yeah,” Ren says, a little breathy. “Yes, we’re both here. And fine. The job ran late. Where the fuck are you?”

About that… “I don’t actually know,” he admits, the truth of it settling dark and deep into his gut. Trying to map out their location left him with more questions than answers. “Near the ocean. Far north of the city, I think; but we shouldn’t have crossed any borders.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down,” Ren says.

Irritation rising in him, “We were hardly given a tour guide for the road,” he snaps. You should have been there to take notes, is on the tip of his tongue—he swallows the words. Ren is here now, in a way. They’ve found Hux and the others. The insignias must have pointed them in the right direction; but figuring out how to contact Hux through the First Order’s own systems? That’s all their doing.

Taking a long breath to calm himself down, “How did you contact us anyway?” he asks.

“By calling in more favours than your sorry life is worth,” Phasma says, amusement lingering in her tone. He has never been happier to hear her mocking drawl. “So you had better give us something concrete to work with before we decide to leave you to rot there.”

Racking his brain, he takes a deep breath to ground himself. He’s got to focus. However Ren and Phasma managed to get into the First Order’s systems, they are unlikely to remain unnoticed for long. He needs to make the most of it.

The answer is so simple, he wants to smack himself upside the head.

“At noon, we will place an order for three servings of Bivoli tempari from the Hosnian. Track whoever is delivering it. They should lead you to us.”

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

He doesn’t tell the others about it. For one, he’s not fully sure his stress-addled brain didn’t make up the whole interaction—for another, they have a check-in with Pryde scheduled at 3, during which they’re going to disappoint him again with their lack of progress regarding the overheating issue. They are on thin ice as it is; he can’t take a gamble on the quality of the others’ poker faces and risk attracting Pryde’s suspicion.

At exactly noon, he contacts the delivery people and relays the order. In his periphery, Mitaka and Rey share a look.

Once he takes his seat again, “I thought the Hosnian was eat-in only,” Rey says.

Hux shrugs. “They said everything you’ll need.”

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

He orders something different from the Hosnian at the same time for the next four days, just in case. Mitaka is too polite to protest, despite the cuisine clearly not agreeing with him.

Rey eyes him suspiciously every time but says nothing, waiting for him to come to her instead of forcing an explanation out of him. He appreciates it more than he can put into words. He can only hope she understands.

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

Dying in an explosion ten times in a row tends to throw a wrench in group morale.

Unwilling to kill themselves just to wake up in the safe house, they wordlessly agree to wait out the timer. The burnout has settled deep onto their bones; Pryde’s implicit threats after every check-in don’t help their mental state, either. If Ren and Phasma hadn’t made contact, Hux might have considered taking his chances with a desperate escape attempt instead of sticking around to see what punishment the First Order would dole out for their inevitable failure. It might prove the better end, at any rate.

“I am going back to my children after this,” Mitaka says with more conviction than Hux has been able to muster up about anything in months. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t care if they kill me for it—I won’t die without seeing my family again.”

“We are not dying,” Hux reassures him. With three real-world seconds to the scheduled kick, he explains everything—Ren and Phasma making contact, the bare-bones of the plan and Blysma’s carefully vague progress update texts, the precautions they’re taking to keep Mitaka’s family safe should something go wrong.

Mitaka cries silent, happy tears at the news. Rey gives Mitaka a warm smile and pulls him close.

“That’s it,” she tells Hux, rubbing at Mitaka’s arm in sympathy. “I’m not letting her take a job without me ever again.”

Raising a brow, “You would be announcing to everyone in the community that she’s the best leverage against you,” he points out, not unkindly. He understands the sentiment—truly, he does—but it’s woefully impractical. Not to mention the kind of commitment it would take.

Her eyes gleam, smile turning secretive in that way he’s learned not to trust. Reaching into her pocket with her free hand, “I was already going to do that,” she says airily, taking out a small, velvet box.

Ah. Fair enough, then.

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

Hux is above lying to his employers.

Rather, he likes to think he is. Dreamshare, sophisticated as it may be at its heart, is an underground science—as such, it attracts a certain crowd. In a community where lying through one’s teeth is a survival skill, Hux knows to look someone in the eye and spin a tale truer than the truth as well as the next crook; he just prefers to tell the truth as long as it will leave his head connected to his body.

As it happens, this is the last scheduled check-in before the deadline. Giving Pryde bad news now would be signing their death warrant.

When Hux reports their success, Pryde smiles. The sight haunts Hux’s nightmares for days.

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

Blysma’s communication request comes the night before the grand plan, unscheduled.

His mind racing with possibilities, he grabs the tablet sitting on his nightstand before the notification wakes the others, accepting the request with, “Hux speaking.” As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing left to talk about. Phasma has already laid out all she could of the plan without tipping off the First Order; a recap now would do more harm than good.

If this is about a last-minute change—well. Adaptability is another survival skill in their line of work.

“I missed your birthday.”

Hux blinks at the screen in his hands. “I—yes.” By a couple of months, at this stage. Where did that come from? Surely Ren didn’t realise it only now? “If you contacted me to wish me a happy belated birthday…”

“Of course not. I—uh, I called to hear your voice.” Hux’s lungs tighten, all too aware of his heartbeat. “Since we never finished our conversation.”

Their conversation. The handful of words Hux has been turning over in his head for months, to no apparent meaning or answer.

He’s bloody desperate to ask and finally, finally find out; but they’ve waited this long. They can be patient a little longer. “This is neither the time nor the place,” Hux says, as gently as he’s able, biting down on the instinctive Ren at the end. Now would be the absolute worst time for a slip-up. “Whatever it was, you can tell me tomorrow. In person.”

“That’s just it,” Ren mutters. “The last time I tried to tell you, we kept getting cut-off until signal completely went away and I thought, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a few days, I’ll just tell him then. In person.” He laughs, a breathy, bitter sound. “But then…”

But then Ren couldn’t get back until a few weeks after—and when he did, Hux wasn’t there anymore.

He clears his throat to get out the lump lodged there. “Then you’ll just have to be there this time,” he says firmly—his point man voice. “Because I will be, and I won’t accept any excuses.”

After a long beat, “Yes, sir,” Ren says, a smile in his voice. “See you on the other side.”

“Sleep well.”

[harcourtholmesii]

Unintended Purpose (Part III)

Pairings: As Of Yet; Unknown

Warnings: - Swearing - Slavery (Whether Characters Realise It Or Not) - Physical Abuse / Manipulation

Words: 2018

Enjoy!

SMACK!

 Hank’s head was whipped to one side, his mind reeling for a few short seconds as he comprehended the blow to his cheek. A sting had begun to blossom there, the feeling of heat welling up on the right side of his face a minor physical pain.

 It hurt more to see Renee so close to crying.

 ‘Are you kidding me, Hank?’ Her hazel eyes were blinking back tears, her face as red as his felt, gritting her teeth as if to keep herself from screaming. Hank had never seen her in such a state before; nothing had come this close.

 ‘I’m sorry.’ He stepped closer to her, hands raised to rest on her arms or shoulders. Anywhere he might touch and hold her. He didn’t want her upset; he hated seeing her hurt. ‘I didn’t know.’

 ‘Well, you should have!’ She shirked his hands away, putting a few feet between herself and him. Her chest was heaving, the finest traces of her makeup running down from her eyes. The waterworks had broken.

 ‘You should have let me come with you! Not bought some homicidal android and allowed it into our home!’

 ‘Hon, I didn’t know. I thought you would be happy with the surprise; I wasn’t expecting it to have done something… like that.’ Admittedly, Hank was less furious or even upset by the discovery. He knew that machines could miscalculate; he saw it all the time at the precinct.

 They would occasionally have issues with motor control and drop papers, coffee cups and, on the rare occasions, guns. Then, there were those that calculated how best to file or archive evidence, without consulting the officers first. Sometimes, there were others who were given conflicting orders between two sources, and had to determine who best to listen to. Often, those kinds of fuck-ups were the most damning; he had seen a number of assistance androids disappear out of the doors of the precinct and never come back.

 ‘Connor’, however, was a different case entirely.

 Hank had heard the rumours of CyberLife creating police detectives and riot officer androids, but he had ignored it for the most part; secure with his own position. After all, for androids to take such an active role in the police force, it seemed a little too endangering. As if humans didn’t already trust androids enough to care for their young and sick, now they would be forced to trust them with their safety and lives.

 Hank knew too many people that would have rioted for that. Gavin Reed came to mind.

 However, ‘Connor’ had been given an active role by CyberLife, and had caused irreversible damage. He had his mind wiped and his programming for police work overridden with housekeeping duties. But, as ‘Connor’ had proven to them in the car ride home, he was not entirely clean of his previous coding.

 Renee’s lips tightened, forming a thin, trembling line as she kept herself from shouting further. Both she and Hank wanted to avoid upsetting Cole, who Renee had ordered to his room so she could have a private conversation with Hank.

 ‘It’s not safe.’ She huffed, pushing strands of her black hair from her face. ‘I trusted you to buy a simple, housekeeping android. I didn’t much care about the price, so long as it was safe and… And not anything like that… Thing in the kitchen.’ She spat out those words, as if they were poison on her tongue.

 ‘I… I wanted to get someo- Something Cole would like. I let him choose, within reason. Or, at least, I thought it was. I figured, perhaps having an ex-police android would be an extra security measure; something else to keep Cole safe.’ He said, hoping to reason with her. Anything to calm her down even a little.

 ‘You were mistaken, Hank Anderson!’

 Ouch. Never a good sign when she used his name like that. She had pulled away as far as she could from him and turned her back on him, leaving Hank just beside the bedroom door.

 ‘It’s hideous…’ She muttered.

 ‘What?’

 ‘It’s hideous too. You know, I thought we might get something that at least looked human too. How much did you pay for that doll out there?’ He opened his mouth to respond. ‘D-Don’t! Don’t answer that, Hank…’

 ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’

 She turned to face him fully, sniffling a bit. Finally, she approached him. She moved forward until she could rest the crown of her head against his shoulder. He raised his arms again, wrapping them around her body and pulling her close. She was shaking.

 ‘Just tell me what you want me to do.’ His words were soft.

 ‘Get rid of it.’ She looked up at him with wide, wet eyes. She stood up on the tips of her toes, pressing a kiss to the underside of Hank’s jaw. ‘I want it out of our house. Go back to the CyberLife store and replace it. I don’t care what you replace it with, but don’t leave it here, Hank.’

 He let out a breath, nodding his head. A small, sad smile pulled at the corners of her lips. She stepped away and took a seat on the bed, gesturing for him to leave.

 And leave he did.

 He opened the door to the bedroom, turned, and very nearly tripped over Cole. The boy was stood outside, Sumo hoisted up by Cole’s arms under his front legs, both of them looking up at Hank with wide eyes.

 ‘We’re not really getting rid of him, Dad. Are we?’

 Shit.

 Hank knelt down in front of them both, petting Sumo’s brown fur gently, and offering Cole an apologetic look.

 ‘I’m sorry, Cole.’ He felt his heart break when Cole’s lower lip trembled and his eyes filled with tears. ‘Your mom and I- We don’t think ‘Connor’ is… Was a good choice. I’m taking him back to CyberLife.’

 ‘No! Dad, please! Don’t do that.’ Cole pleaded with him. Sumo was gently dropped onto all fours as Cole leaned in to hug tightly to Hank. ‘I don’t want ‘Connor’ gone. I want to keep him!’

 ‘We can’t do that.’

 ‘Why not?!’ He nearly shrieked. ‘Is it something he did? Is- Is it something I did?’

 ‘No!’ Hank pulled Cole’s head to his chest, nearly encompassing him entirely in his arms. ‘You did nothing wrong, Cole. Nothing… But… Your mom and I think that the android you chose may not be safe.’

 ‘But he was a police android…’

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘And police androids protect people…?’ Hank knew where this was going. He lowered his gaze, curtains of silver hiding his eyes from Cole. He couldn’t look him in the eye anymore without caving. Cole had always been very good at getting him to crack under pressure.

 ‘Yes, Cole. But this one didn’t. It hurt someone. Badly.’ His arms tightened around Cole and then released him. Sumo was pawing at the leather of his shoes, whining quietly. ‘The android needs to be returned. If not for your safety, then for your mother’s peace of mind.’

 ‘But I want to keep him.’

 ‘And do you want your mom happy?’ It was a low blow, Hank knew, but he needed to convince Cole to let this thing go. There was a sniffle, and then Cole slowly backed up, picking up Sumo in his arms once more, and began his defeated march back to his room.

 Hank watched him go; watched how he practically slunk inside and shut the graffitied wood behind him, pencil sketches of superhero dad seemingly mocking Hank.

 He stood, turning his eyes down the hall, landing on the problematic android in question, that stood stock-still where they had left him. Those brown eyes turned away from him; it had been watching them both. Hands behind its back, it seemed the part of an innocent bystander, unaware of the goings on at the far end of the hall.

 Hank moved closer to it, standing before the android. In a way, what Renee said rang true; this thing looked much more machine-like than most androids. It seemed almost an amalgamation of shapes that created an uncanny valley look to it. A strong, square jaw, but offset by artificial baby fat in the cheeks. Wide, innocent, brown eyes, but with a furrowed brow, creating half a frown of sorts. The work of a police detective, but not with an athletic body for police chases or self-defence.

 Its design simply didn’t make sense.

 ‘Connor.’ The android just looked at him, eyes flicking about his face as if he was judging Hank just like Hank did him. He stopped. ‘It’s time to go.’

 ‘Back to CyberLife?’

 Hank simply nodded, gesturing to the front door. There was a minor, yellow blink in the LED, but the android simply turned on its heel and headed to the door. It even opened it up for Hank and gestured him out first, like the obedient machine it was made to be.

 Hank had begun to follow it when he heard one of the bedroom doors open and Cole come sprinting back down the hall. He stepped between Hank and the door, holding his arms out wide in a defiant little stance, Sumo yapping up at the three of them.

 ‘Wait! Dad…’ He turned back to ‘Connor’, having tilted its head in curiosity once more. His eyes rested on Hank’s again. ‘Please! Can’t we keep him?’

 Hank rolled his eyes a little, but knelt down before him once more. He rested a hand on Cole’s shoulder, shaking his head.

 ‘No. Cole, now, we just talked about this. I’m taking him back to CyberLife. Today.’ He had to remain firm. Cole shook his head violently, remaining where he was, hands outstretched.

 ‘Don’t take him, Dad!’ Hank heard another pair of feet, peering over his shoulder to see Renee in the hall, watching him. Cole looked between them for a moment, before running backwards and taking a grip on ‘Connor’s’ trouser leg. The android stumbled slightly, but did not otherwise move.

 ‘Please, Dad! Mom! Just…’ His hazel eyes were all over the place, thinking of excuses; any reason he might have to keep ‘Connor’ around.

 ‘No, Cole. That is final.’ Hank rumbled, a little frustrated. He stood once more, and pulled Cole away from ‘Connor’s’ leg, grabbing a hold of it by the lapel of its CyberLife uniform and beginning to drag it to the car.

 Cole had begun to cry again.

 ‘Wait, Dad!’ Hank stopped, just to let Cole know he was listening. The chill of Autumn’s last days stung the skin of his hands and face. He had made up his mind. The android was going back to CyberLife, and nothing Cole said would change that.

 ‘C-Can’t we… Can’t we just keep him until my birthday is over?’ Hank cocked an eyebrow, turning back to look at his son. ‘Connor’ peered between the two of them, eyes locked on Cole’s tiny, trembling form.

 ‘Please! Just until my birthday is done!’ Hank peered between Cole on the doorstep, ‘Connor’s’ curious face, and Renee’s disapproving look. He felt a headache beginning to come on.

 ‘Once your birthday is over?’

 ‘Yes.’

 ‘No more excuses after that, right Cole?’ Cole shook his head again, practically bouncing on his feet; impatient. Hank looked up to Renee, who was giving him a heated look.

 What are you doing? Her lips formed around the silent words with some anger, glaring daggers at Hank. Get rid of it!

 Hank sighed. He would regret his decision either way.

 ‘Once your birthday is over, it’s going back. No more complaints, understand?’ Cole’s face broke into a wide smile as he raced across the icy pavement and hugged tight to Hank’s leg. Hank smiled down at him as Cole pulled away and, with an excited Sumo leaping up at the android, both boy and his dog guided ‘Connor’ back into the house.

 Renee stepped away from the door, arms crossed and in a huff.

 They could live with it for just a week.

 And then it would be gone.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ @sasuhinabigflash2020​​ || Day Four: On A Hill ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, blood, death, gun ] [ Verse: Stockades and Stagecoaches ] [ AO3 Link ]

[ Previous ] [ Next ]

“YAH!”

Kicking spurs into his mount’s side, Sasuke leans up over the horse’s neck, releasing his reins to better keep hold of his rifle. Hooves thunder against the ground, dry and dusty in the dog days of Summer. Ahead of him, his target is just as desperate to build speed, glancing back over his shoulder to his pursuer.

Just a little closer…

Then with a bang and a whiz, a bullet flies by, followed quickly by more as the fiend draws a pistol, firing nearly blind behind himself in a last ditch effort to ward off his foe.

But Sasuke’s been in far too many fire fights to flinch. Instead, he finally launches a bullet of his own with a cracking report.

It flies true, burying into the man’s back with a cry of agony. For a moment he sits stiff in his saddle before falling to the earth. His own horse keeps running, and Sasuke makes no attempt to stop it. Instead, he brings his to a stop with a hold of the reins and a soft, “whoa”.

Blood pooling in the dirt, the rogue beneath him draws a few more rattling breaths before going still.

Seems he won’t be getting a confession, but in truth he doesn’t need one. All he knows is that this one’s face was on a wanted poster...and when Sasuke decides to take down a bounty, nothing stands in his way.

Dead or alive.

Dismounting, he goes through the man’s pockets, taking anything of note that the dead no longer need. A few dollars, a pocket watch, and a half-empty package of cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke, but he might be able to trade them to someone who does.

Making sure the target’s deceased, Sasuke then hauls him up behind his saddle, tying him down to take in to the sheriff’s office. For good measure, he folds the copy of the poster he took and stuffs it in the man’s pocket to make the last step all the easier.

He then climbs up into his seat, surprised to find the other horse come to a stop not too far off. With a flick of his lasso, he manages to catch it, leading it back toward town. Given his owner no longer has need of it...might as well sell it. He trusts his own mount too much to consider trading, and he doesn’t carry enough to need a pack animal.

The less he can get by on, the easier it is to keep moving.

The ride to town takes him until sunset, curious citizens gawking at the scene. Bounty hunters aren’t exactly rare, but a successful haul - let alone a dead one - still draws gazes.

Clearly about ready to call it a day, the sheriff lounges in a rocking chair along the front of the jail, sitting up as Sasuke approaches. “And what have we here?”

Rather than answer, the Uchiha grabs the body and tosses it on the veranda, whipping out the parchment and presenting it without a word.

“Hm…” With a boot, the sheriff turns the body face-up, comparing the face to the sketch. “Seems right to me. Give me a moment and I’ll fetch your reward, mister…?”

“Uchiha. Sasuke Uchiha.”

“Mister Uchiha.” Giving a nod and stepping over the corpse, the other man disappears for a few minutes before returning with a small wad of bills. “Two hundred and fifty dollars, as advertised. And our little town thanks you for your service. One less varmint runnin’ amok.”

Hand at its brim, Sasuke tips his hat respectfully before remounting. With that money, he can easily afford a room, a bath, and to restock on supplies before heading to the next town to see what work they’d have. But first...a little rest and relaxation for a job well done.

His horse plods easily through town, watching as it begins to button up for the evening. Wives scold late-returning husbands, children are ushered in before it gets dark...and patrons flock to the tavern for its late night lights and spirits.

Tempting, but he’ll want a clear head to travel come morning.

His plan, however, soon runs into a snag. Seems the inn is full.

“There’s a boarding house at the west end a’town,” the innkeep offers. “A bit more spendy, but it should do well for ya. Run by a real nice gal. Sits up on a hill, y’can’t miss it.”

Glancing in the offered direction, Sasuke spies what looks to be the building’s silhouette as the sun sets behind it. Giving his thanks, Sasuke follows the scant directions, finding himself at the base of a three story building. Curious eyes rove over it before lowering to the door. Horse tethered in what is clearly the property’s stable, he walks up and knocks.

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the door opens. And standing within it is a woman of shorter stature and fuller features. But what catches his eyes first are her own: a pale color, almost like subdued lilac.

She in turn looks surprised to see him. And given that he sees no evidence of other guests, Sasuke can guess why. “...evening, sir!” she then greets, flashing a demure smile. “Can I help you…?”

“I was told lodging was offered here?” he asks, glancing up behind her.

“Yes, this’s a boarding house. Are you in need of a room?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Thinking to remove his hat, Sasuke then offers, “Wouldn’t turn down a bath and a meal, either.”

That gets her to softly laugh. “Of course. No offense, but...you look like you brought half the road with you.”

“Oh, er…” Stepping back, he dusts at his garments. “Had a long ride.”

“Most who come through do. If you’d like, I can launder those for you.”

He pauses. “...I’d appreciate that, ma’am.”

“Oh, please - miss Hyūga suits me just fine.” She then opens the door wider, and Sasuke steps in, spurs clinking quietly. “I’ll get that bath started for you. Just leave your things outside the door and I’ll tend to them.”

“Sure it’s not a bother?”

“Not at all. I’m...sure you’ve noticed you’re the only patron at the moment,” she notes with a weary sigh. “So I’ve all the time in the world. If anything, a bit more to do would be nice.”

Still feeling a bit awkward at all the offered hospitality, Sasuke just nods, letting her show him to a room and then the bathroom. She heats the water on the stove, filling the tub and leaving soaps for his use.

Taking in his saddlebags, Sasuke unpacks one of few spare outfits he has, stripping down and leaving what’s soiled outside the door before slipping into the water.

Admittedly...he can’t remember the last time he had a proper bath. Mostly just rinsing off in obliging rivers or rain barrels. So this? This is a treat. And he’s going to be damn sure to enjoy it while he can.

Only once clean and the water cold does he emerge, toweling off and dressing. Upon cracking open the door, he does indeed find what he left behind gone.

Feeling a bit standoffish, he eventually makes his way back downstairs, following the scent of food. And there he finds Hinata setting the dining room table before glancing up to him.

“My, looks like you’ve shed ten pounds from lost dirt alone,” she notes, smiling again as he flashes pink across the tops of his ears and the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, it’s...been a while since I’ve had a guest. Seems my manners need some dusting off, too.”

“No harm, ma-...er, miss Hyūga.”

“Well, best have your supper before it gets cold.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes, before you arrived. No need to fuss over me, sir. Though that reminds me...I’ve yet to ask your name.”

“Sasuke Uchiha,” he replies upon taking a seat.

“Well, will you be with us long, mister Uchiha?”

“Just until morning.”

For a moment, disappointment flickers over her face, but is soon replaced by another smile. “Well, I’d best make the most of it, then! If you need anything else, just holler. I’ll be finishing up some chores. If you turn in early, I’ll offer a goodnight now.”

Sasuke just nods, watching her leave before taking a bite.

He’ll admit, it’s damn good.

Once his plate is cleared, he peeks into the kitchen, finding it empty and leaving his cutlery by the sink. Part of him wants to inquire after his clothes, but...well, she’s already doing him a favor. No need to appear pushy. Instead, he follows the lamplight up to his room and tucks into bed for the night.

To his honest surprise, rest comes quickly, and he sleeps well past sunup. He must’ve been more tired than he’d thought. Sitting up, he pauses at the sight of folded clothes atop the chest of drawers nearby.

Seems they’re all taken care of.

Redressing, he makes to pack them only to pause. She even mended a tear in his sleeve from a knife fight he won a few nights back.

Fingering the stitches, he mulls that over before putting everything back in its proper place and hauling the saddlebags down to the main floor.

“Miss Hyūga?” he calls, tone a bit muted in the otherwise-empty building. Sounds come from the kitchen, but he doesn’t want to intrude.

“Breakfast is almost ready!” she replies, offering no further explanation. So, in the meantime, he takes out his bags and greets his mount. Seems they’re just as well-rested, bright-eyed and nickering softly.

“Not much longer and we’ll be back on the road,” he assures them softly.

Back inside, he steps in just as his hostess goes bustling past. “One last meal before you head on your way,” she explains with a smile.

“What’ll I owe you?”

“A dollar typically gets you a day.”

“But you’ve -?”

His counter is waved aside, taking her own seat to dine with him. “As I said, the busywork is a blessing itself. It’s been quiet. The mine that saw so many men come through is all but dried up, so...most of my business is past. A little longer, then I’ll likely move back to the city. It was a fun little venture, but all good things come to an end, I’m afraid.”

Having no retort, Sasuke stands for a moment before joining her. They pass with small talk, the Hyūga woman telling of the town, and Sasuke of his choice in work.

“What an adventure it must be,” she offers wistfully, cradling her mug of tea as the meal comes to a close.

“It’s rarely boring,” he agrees dryly. “But not very steady, or comfortable.”

“I can imagine. But comfortable is often just that: boring,” she replies with a soft smile.

“A happy medium isn’t easy to find.”

“Well...maybe you will someday. At least you’ll have some freedom and excitement. I’ll be heading back to my father’s. Comfortable, but...well, it’s not exactly glamorous under his thumb.”

“Oh…?”

“He’s made his fortune in the oil fields,” she replies with a sigh. “So in reality, there’s little need for me to be here, but...I wanted to try and make my own way. But, as usual...I’ll end up right back where I started.”

Sasuke hesitates. “...I see.”

“But it’s nothing to cry over. I’ll make due. But I’ll miss it here. Meeting so many new people, hearing other stories…”

“Are you...running dry on funds?”

“Yes and no. I could keep pouring money into it, but...there’s just no point, now. Not with no one to pander to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be. It was fun while it lasted. I’ll survive. I’m just thankful I got the opportunity.”

With that, the conversation mostly dries up, and Sasuke finds he has no real reason to linger. The sooner he leaves, the sooner he’ll reach the next town, and his next bounty.

...but part of him is sad to go.

Hinata tidies up after them, walking out to the porch as he mounts up.

“Thank you very much for your hospitality, miss Hyūga,” he offers genuinely.

“Thank you for the business. But more so the company,” she replies, smiling.

“So...where’s home, if not here?”

“My father has a home in the capital. I’ll return there in a few weeks, likely to just get married off. But...I suppose that’s not a bad thing.”

For some reason, his chest tightens...but he offers no retort.

“If you ever find yourself in the big city, maybe we’ll cross paths again,” she then adds, regaining his gaze.

“...maybe. Probably plenty of crime in the city.”

“Where men go, evil follows.”

HIs lips twitch before giving a polite dip of his head. “Miss Hyūga.”

“Safe travels,” she replies, waving as he makes for the town center. Time to stock up, and hit the trail.

...who knows. Maybe sooner or later it’ll lead to the big city.

     Oookay it’s late so I’ma be brief xD      Wild west AU cuz...reasons. While not really a fan of the genre overall, I do live really rural, so...it’s kinda ingrained into me lol. I’ve written one other piece in it but that was for another ship in another event I hosted last year. I’m no expert by any means xD      I doubt I’ll do more but I guess it depends on where the prompt list takes me, and I guess what you guys think? Buuut for now I’m gonna go sleep - thanks for reading!

[arthurmorganthings]

Red Room (2)

Pairing: Pornstar!Arthur/Costar!Fem Reader

Summary: Arthur returns a long awaited favor.

Warning: Contains very detailed depictions of smut.

A/N: for my fellow Arthur hoes @pomini-puttana, @arthursbitch, and @verai-marcel :)

Explicit: +18

You arrive at his condominium promptly after, opting to change into something more fit for the occasion. Your Rolex watch on the wrist and body con dress to compliment the crevices of each curve, cinched tightly to accentuate your hips. Arthur guides you past concierge through the text of his phone. he greets you with a welcoming smile. Comfortably dressed in grey sweatpants and white tank top he pivots his broad self—granting you entry. As you walk past, you can feel his eyes analyzing your choice of wear, sucking in his breath quietly as he shuts the door behind him.

His home was unapologetically modern. Brand new television, white Persian rug with a matching sofa set finish, and a vintage record player. The large windows overlooked the city beautifully though unbeknownst, Arthur was an avid fan of the arts. You'd observe as messy piles of old sketches were scattered in one area in particular. Several studies of contemporary artists filled the off-white walls of his living room. You also notice photos of a child next to what presumably is his mother. His soft blonde locks matched Arthur's, he even has his eyes. 

"It's, it's my son." He confirms, sheepishly. "Isaac."  

You glanced at him as you pondered what to say next. He bears a striking resemblance to his father. Same colored eyes, tan skin complexion, even his locks of hair to the nape of his neck is a painstakingly obvious indicator of Arthur's genetics. 

"How old is he?" You inquire, though you shouldn't—curiosity piques its interest as you observe the woman next to the child in the photo. She looks young, around her mid-twenties. Her brown locks of hair pressed neatly for the family photo; a beat of silence ensues.  

As if hesitant to respond, you add for him. "Unless you're comfortable of course." Another overbearing silence follows causing guilt to wash over you. Arthur returns to the living room with a few candy bars and gummy bears, placing them on the coffee table as he finds comfort next to you.  "Nah, you're alright. He's about five years old. His momma is very protective of 'im. Spoils that kid she does." He mumbles while grabbing the remote. "So, I don't want to seem like some cheesy bastard but I'm about to put on some Netflix. Any recommendations?" 

Giggling on instinct, you nod. "I never pegged you for a Netflix kind of guy." You glance again and you swore that a glint of mischief found him, in that one second. Excitement coursed through your veins at the idea of repeating earlier today. Though he did say he'd be returning the favor, the question would soon come to fruition as to when he'd be able to—perhaps now, or when the movie began to build gradually.   

And it did, Arthur didn't miss a beat to play his favorite western film starring Clint Eastwood. "Well, I ain't too fond of Netflix aside from a few shows. I'm never watchin' TV." Just the way he spoke was enough to voluntarily chafe your thighs together. A gentle reminder of what could potentially happen in a matter of minutes. You nod, reclining even further onto the leather sofa. Arthur isn't as naïve as he may let on, he's a man that slowly builds tension. You'd assume he purposely wore grey sweatpants to tempt you into glancing—your resilience is admirable in that regard, you note mentally. 

"I agree, cable television sucks." You acknowledge, though regretting you worn a dress that ride up to the thighs. It wasn't helping that your slick essence pooled at the center neither, nor you going commando. Almost sure that Arthur seen you sit abruptly, awaiting his response.   

"Sure. Can I ask you a question?" Your heart drops to the center of your stomach before nodding. You glimpse, only to find his emerald-like senses etched to yours. Clearing your throat as you blink.   

"Shoot." Your voice squeaks slightly as you slap yourself mentally for losing your composure in front of Arthur. Admittedly, a man of his stature can be quite intimidating, he is a good man—knowingly.   

"What made you start—uh, you know, filmin?"

You could tell he tried to go about this question respectfully, and you could admire that. You smile at him before releasing a sigh.  

"Nothing too exciting. I felt like life was all about living up to norms, so I figured porn would be a fun way to start." Arthur chuckles, amusingly, admiring your crass language.

"Nothin' too excitin?' you coulda been way off in school than doin' this."  

Again, you shrug, indifferent. "I became an adult film star to rebel against my parents. My father drowned his problems in what money could buy—or what women could charge. My mother never complained, on her way to the bank that is." You reply. "I guess you can say my family is, a bit dysfunctional."  

Arthur blinks, a bit loss for words. He nods in understanding and presses no longer. He averts his attention back to the film. A bit of guilt does linger in his mind, perhaps had he not pressed on about academics, the current tension wouldn't be so awkward.

One thing Arthur could admit to is his wrongs. The last thing he wants is for you to be upset.  

He clears his throat as his eyes stay glued to his high-definition TV. "Listen, I didn't mean to come off as rude. I apologize."  Your brows furrowed before clearing your throat, "Arthur, you've been nothing but good to me."  

"Some things are better left bein' unsaid."   He feels it, your soft, dainty fingers make contact with his thigh. The feel of your hand rub dangerously close to his center.

He balls his fists, in hopes he could keep his brazen side at bay; for a little longer at least. The objective was to make you feel good one way Arthur knew how. You felt his body language grow rigid.

He's holding back. This makes your smirk widen as your fingers finds the outline of his "print," shamelessly hardening at the touch. Palming him, he sucks in a breath before exhaling, his eyes glancing at you in a daze.

"You don't want to do that woman." His voice, a few octaves lower. "Not before I make you feel good first."

"Oh?"  upon initial shock, you find yourself straddling him as if he were some saddle. Your hips gently grinding at where you needed him most. "And what does making me feel good compose of?"

At this point your cunt was throbbing with subdued excitement as you grab Arthur's balled fists, now unraveled against yours, before pressing them onto your breasts. You moan his name softly, but powerful enough for him to grunt. "Tell me, Arthur. How are you going to make me cum?"

You figured it was only a matter of time until Arthur's patience wore thin, surprisingly lasting longer than his set time. You find yourself on your back, atop his expensive couch, devouring your neck while his thick fingers fondle with your pussy.

"You wanna know how I'll make you cum?" Arthur sighs, as his hardened cock grazes your leg. "I've always been a man of action, so why don't I gone head an' show you?"

You gasp, releasing a moan as he encircled your clit with his fingers, teasing you as he trailed down from your neck to your breasts slowly—as if memorizing your body's response to him. He notes how you open yourself to him more when he's at a spot you enjoy, subtle eye contact upon foreplay, and his own response to you.

"Shit." You whisper as his tongue finally reaches where you desperately need them to be. Never mind how drenched your cunt was as Arthur removes your thong with his teeth—when his tongue teases at your inner thigh, he looks up at you to assess the damage.

And oh, was there damage. Your teeth bit painfully deep onto your bottom lip in anticipation. Your neck craned forward while your hand was at the back of Arthur's head.

"Please, ple—oh, fuuuuck." You slurred as his tongue works it's magic at your clit, lapping at your essence while keeping eye contact. Your neck falls back into some pillows while your mouth forms silent 'ohs,' gripping at the locks of his hair, grinding your nether lips into his face.

Your grip on his hair tightened with every painfully slow lap of his mouth, your cries of pleasure only grew in volume, "Yes, keep going just like that."

"Just like that?" he teased. "Or maybe a little more?" He hummed at your lips as he slid his finger inside.

You grew rigid as your jaw fell slack, the squelching of your mound only sounding the room. Your walls tightened as Arthur continued his ministrations, his eyes never leaving yours. Time to time he'd hum, mumbling words like "you taste so good," to push you over the edge.

"Oh fuck, yes." Your voice projects. "Arthurrrr."

His body arises, softly adding another finger as his forehead makes contact with yours. You reached nirvana better than any man could make you reach—you questioned if you'd fallen in love with Arthur with what little time you two spent acquainting yourselves with each other. To make matters worst Arthur uses the pad of his thumb, stimulating your clit as his breath hitches—he knows he has you where he wants you.

Eyes fluttering, clenching of teeth, and hips swiveling in pursuit of your release. You were almost to your peak as you let your body let go, your eyes rolling back as you squirt all over his hands. Your voice was embarrassingly loud, perhaps enough to wake neighbors even.

Arthur didn't allow you intervals of recovery before filling you to the hilt. His cock undeniably hard, you gasp in pleasure as he rams his girth. Your cries of erotic sounds could be heard from far and wide.

Beads of sweat accumulate on your co-stars head as he grunts, his face contorting as his blue eyes find yours. Your heart swirls nearly before your fingers nail his back.

"Fuck." You gasp, "fuck me Arthur—you're so fucking good."

He groans approvingly at your crassness, your ability to tune into your primal mind and let yourself come undone. Arthur smirks as his hands find comfort around your neck, squeezing tenderly as he pistons faster—deeper.

"You like it when I play rough huh darlin'?"

Yes. You loved it, you loved every second of this. His onslaught of rough-play atop his demeanor and bulky self. If you could be underneath Arthur in such a compromising position forever—you would.

Suddenly a change in position shifted as you found yourself on top of Arthur’s body. His hands on the side of your hips as you rode his to bliss. His eyes fluttering close as a familiar tightness in his belly arised. His hands smacked your ass roughly as you slapped your hips harder against his pelvis—his cock grazing the g-spot expeditiously.

“Oh my god, ye—hm, I’m close Arthur.”

“Where do you want me?” You blush at his suggestion, but kept your pace nonetheless. He notes your hesitation, moving his hips at the spot your need him most—you see black.

“Oh fuck–inside me. I want you inside me.”

That was enough to tip the older man over the edge as he pumped his seed deeply, your pussy warm with remnants of him as you remove yourself from his now softening cock.

You collapse on top of him as you both take time to recollect your breathing. There’s a comforting silence as you hear the beat of his heart. His arms wrapped around you tightly as he kisses the back of your head softly. “Not bad for a favor returned Mr. Morgan.”

He chuckles softly before rubbing the small of your back, “Who said anything about the night bein’ done? Darlin’ we just star-“

The conversation cut short by the sound of Arthur’s phone. He apologizes swiftly, motioning for you to sit up as you oblige immediately, though followed by a tinge of curiosity.

“Shit,” He reads the caller ID from his cell.

“What?”

He sighs, a smirk playing on his lips, as if he already knows what’s coming. “It’s the receptionist from the front desk.”

He answers reluctantly, placing the call on speaker. He sighs, “Good evening, Ms. Grimmshaw!”

“Mr. Morgan! Could you please keep it down. Again, I have noise complaints from folk your hall. If you’re going to have company for the love of God control your noise levels. Don’t make me have to kick you and that harlot out!”

Before Arthur could get a word in the line clicked dead, earning an amusing stare from you.

Both of you erupting in a fit of laughter.

=

Debating on if I wanna do the final part but FINALLY, after all of that waiting it’s here :);) enjoy

[upstartpoodle]

Month of AUs Day 2 - Angels & Demons

So I know this is waaaayyy after the second day of the month but I’ve just kind of accepted I’m not a quick enough writer to post a fic a day. So basically, these are just going to get posted when they get posted, and hopefully I’ll be able to get them out a bit quicker once I get more into the swing of writing them. 

But moving on from that, here’s fic no. 2, which is my angels & demons AU. I’ve actually got a long fic in the works for this AU, though the plot and premise for it aren’t quite the same as this fic, but given my writing speed and the number of wips I have at the moment, when it’ll surface from the murky depths of my brain and onto paper is anyone’s guess. But anyway, I hope you enjoy, and maybe there’ll be more of this AU in the future. :D

Time froze the moment Elizabeth, angel of the Overrealm and appointed custodian of Cornwall by the Celestial Court, stepped with her usual delicate poise into the decidedly unholy premises of The Red Lion in Truro. Everyone, everything slowed to a stop at her behest, as if the whole inn were playing out an eerie tableau simply for her benefit. The ale that the bartender had been pouring out for his patrons hung in the air, not even a single drop succumbing to the forces of gravity as it rightly should. A group of raggedy men in the corner by the window were suspended in the midst of playing a game of cards, their weathered faces serious and inscrutable. By the stairs to the side of the bar, a pretty young woman was frozen in the midst of her ascent, her painted face turned back to a well-to-do man below her, whose hand she had clasped in a light grip. From both of their expressions, their intentions were quite plain. Elizabeth, however, barely paid any mind to any of these sights beyond a quick glance. She had been on the earthly plane too long to hold onto any of the squeamishness that some of her kin might have felt upon seeing such things. Humans loved to indulge in simple pleasures of all kinds, and as long as they were not hurting anybody with them, she saw no reason to intervene. And in any case, that was not why she had come here.

Though almost everything about her was completely still, there was one hint of movement in this bizarre scene, and it quickly caught her attention. It had come from a slim, elegant gentleman dressed in a striking red tailcoat, who was perched beside the fire in an old wooden chair. Said fire was flickering merrily in bold defiance of the hold she had on the passage of time, almost giving the man’s blond curls the appearance of being aflame with light as he perused two long scrolls with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, barely taking notice of the fact that everyone around him was completely motionless. It was over to him that Elizabeth headed, gathering up her skirts and lowering herself into the rickety chair opposite him.

“Hello, George” she said, calmly.

The demon’s eyes flickered up to her from the contract he was reading, eyebrows raised. He was wearing his human guise, as he usually did when he spent time on the Surface. She had only seen his true form a handful of times in the centuries of their acquaintance--there he was all horns and wings and claws, sharp-edged and dangerous--but in his human form, he might simply have been a fashionable gentleman from London or Bath or some other such place had it not been for those eyes. Icy blue though they were, she always fancied she could se something of his native realm’s fire in them, something of his Internal Flame which kept him burning and living in place of a soul.

“Elizabeth,” he replied, tone measured, unconcerned by her presence in a way that she knew would lead the members of the Celestial Court, had they been there to witness it, to suppose she must have been greatly remiss in her duties. “How might I assist you? I assume this,” he gestured around them with one pale hand, “is for my benefit?”

Elizabeth inclined her head.

“I do not wish to be overheard by the humans,” she returned, glancing towards his reading material. “Might I ask who has been unfortunate enough to sign those?”

“Foolish enough, you mean,” said George with a derisive snort. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure I should answer that.”

Elizabeth merely raised her eyebrows at him. George was naturally cautious about his dealings, but she knew well enough that he would tell her anyway--even if he had not desired to impress her with his successes, a look from her was often more than enough to melt his resistance.

“Very well,” he sighed after a short moment. “The first is for Agatha Poldark. She wishes to live for a hundred years. The second is for Lord Falmouth. He wishes to win the next election. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he added upon seeing her disapproving frown. “It is their desires that have led them to trade away their souls, not mine. They summoned me. And anyway, they will be damned no matter what I do. The crone is thoroughly unpleasant to all those around her, even to those who show her kindness, and the lord cares for nought but himself and his dwindling prestige. This way, I am simply assured of my payment. That is all.”

And wasn’t that ever so typical of George--cynical and a little cold-blooded, blunt in stating the failings of his debtors, not as a moral judgement, but as a simple statement of fact. But then, this was all just business to him. Souls, after all, were the most valuable currency in Hell.

“You aren’t permitted to involve yourself in human political affairs,” Elizabeth reminded him, allowing a hint of sternness to creep into her tone. “You shouldn’t be influencing the result of the election.”

Despite himself, George looked mildly chastened by her reprimand. Still, she knew that it as not for fear of the wrath of Heaven, but rather for fear of disappointing her. She repressed a sigh--she didn’t much like being disappointed in him either, but as much as they often found a degree of compromise between their contrary missions, her role here was to protect humanity, and she could not allow him to do too much harm in his pursuit of souls to tempt into damnation.

“Human politics is full of corruption,” he argued, though the attempt was half-hearted at best. “What is a little nudge from the Underrealm amid all that?”

“Which is precisely why I do not want Hell interfering. I was placed here to make these people’s lives better.”

“And I to make their lives worse,” replied George with a shrug. “We have been doing this dance far longer than any Lord Falmouth or his ilk has lived on this earth. But if it displeases you so much, then I suppose I could tear up the contract. He will go to Hell anyway in the end.”

Without warning, the contract in his right hand suddenly burst into flames. In a second, it was burnt to nought but cinders. Elizabeth didn’t start at the suddenness of it--she had seen far too many displays of George’s powers to be alarmed by them by now. Then, he rolled up the second contract and tucked it away into his coat, turning back to her with a quizzical look upon his handsome face.

“Is that our business concluded, then?,” he asked, only mildly disgruntled. “It seems to have proved rather more detrimental to me than it has to you.”

Elizabeth smiled at him. She knew he was not nearly as put out as he pretended to be. He wanted to please her--had done almost since the beginning of their acquaintance--and that would not change simply because of a lost deal with a corrupt lord.

“Thank you” she said, gently.

If he were human, he might have blushed in the face of her gratitude, but as it was, he simply ducked his head in that peculiar way of his, as he did whenever she said something which made him happy.

“Yes, well,” he replied, a little awkward despite himself. “Naturally, I expect compensation. Think what would happen to my reputation if it were to be discovered that I had torn up a contract for free.”

He was not being entirely serious, and so she responded in kind.

“Oh, naturally. Shall tea tomorrow at Cusgarne suffice as an apology?”

George tilted his head to one side, as if considering the offer.

“As long as there are crumpets, all shall be forgiven.”

Elizabeth laughed, reminded suddenly of just why she had started their...little arrangement all those centuries ago. Admittedly, she had never quite intended to grow as fond of him as she had, but she had heard it said that life was about change for humans. If so, why could it not be the same for them?

“Crumpets and tea it is, then,” she said. “Now, shall we let these people go about their day? I think I have interrupted it long enough.”

“Please, it isn’t as if they’ll know anything about it.”

“Yes, but I shall know, and I don’t care to be a nuisance to them.”

She rose to her feet at that, and George, though he seemed a little disappointed at her leaving so soon after their business had been wrapped up, stood with her, taking her hand in a gentle grasp and bringing it to his lips in that oddly formal manner of his. There was a familiar look in his eyes, intense yet soft at the same time, that reminded her once again of that thing that stood unspoken between them--the reason why she could so easily persuade him to tear up a contract on her behalf, and the reason why she, who was so alone on this plane, in her earth house shrouded away from humanity and kept away from her kin in the Overrealm by her duties, showed him lenience that she would never dare afford to any other demon. Then, after what, despite her long immortal years, seemed like an age, he let her hand go and stepped back away from her.

“I shall call upon you at Cusgarne on the morrow” he said, sketching her a neat little bow. Then, within a blink of an eye, he was gone, into the fire and away.

As soon as he was gone, Elizabeth let out a breath she barely realised she had been holding, and with it, time moved again. Well, she thought to herself wryly as the bartender finished pouring out a tankard of ale for his patron, one of the raggedy men placed a winning card down on the table, and the lady with the painted face tugged her soon-to-be lover up the stairs, the Celestial Court would no doubt be highly amused to hear that some of her greatest successes here in Cornwall hinged largely on the fact that she had--somehow--managed to persuade a demon to fall in love with her. They would be less amused, however, she thought as she let her fingers brush against where George’s--warm, so very warm--lips had pressed against her skin, to learn that she might well just be falling in love in return.

[hysterialevi]

When the Devil Cries pt. 4

Author’s note: I know I’ve said this already, but thank you so much for reading this story. I wasn’t really sure how this fanfic would go at first, but you guys have been very supportive since part one, and I really appreciate it. Hope you enjoy this part as well :)

From Arthur’s POV

OUTSIDE LEMOYNE NATIONAL BANK

Pacing to the other end of town, Dutch and I slithered our way through the groups of lawmen patrolling around Saint Denis as we hurried to find Hosea at the bank, keeping a low profile and eager to get back to camp.

At this point, the city was entirely awake, and all around us, we could see both men and women calling out to passersby as they advertised their merchandise, campaigns, charities, and more. It was quite the sight. Sure weren’t like anythin’ I’d ever seen.

We had already come across some rich fool by the side of the road who was hollerin’ at people to buy his book that would apparently lead folks to instant success, as well as some waste of space claimin’ that the white race was the only “correct” one, and that the blacks and Indians were nothing but animals. It was science, he said. 

Well, last time I checked, “science” was the same thing trying to turn cannons and bicycles with balloons into forms of transportation. So that didn’t exactly count for much in my book.

On a more pleasant note though, I did also see a woman standing outside City Hall advocating for women’s right to vote. It wasn’t something I could see happening anytime soon, and her ideas of a female president within the next ten years seemed a bit far off, but there weren’t no shame in searching for a better world. I only hoped she had some sort of protection out there in the open. Not everyone was taking her proposals kindly.

As for Dutch -- well, ever since the man found me about an hour ago, he had been chewing my ear off about his plan to pick Saint Denis clean of its money before packin’ our bags and heading off to Tahiti or some place. 

I wasn’t quite sure how that would work exactly, and if I was being perfectly honest, the west sounded like a much better area to lie low, but...I wasn’t really thinkin’ about any of that anyway.

The only thing on my mind at the moment...was Edward.

I couldn’t get that melody he played out of my head, and the man himself wasn’t easy to forget either. 

I didn’t know why, but somethin’ about that boy just stuck with me. His words, his personality, his music...it preoccupied me completely. It almost felt like I was still sittin’ there by his piano.

Despite my pleasant thoughts about him though, I couldn’t deny I was a bit concerned about Dutch’s plans to rob the theater. I mean, I knew there was probably hundreds of dollars sittin’ in there and Edward and I were barely acquaintances, but it still seemed...I dunno, wrong to go behind his back like that. Especially right after doing a favor for him.

But I supposed that was the life of an outlaw. I could never truly befriend honest folk, or get along with them. I could only lie to ‘em.

“Hosea, old man!” Dutch called out suddenly, bringing my attention back to reality.

Hosea was sitting on a bench not too far away from the bank with a newspaper in his hands -- more as a mask than actual reading material -- and waved at us as we approached him, keeping our voices low.

“Ah, Dutch, Arthur,” he greeted, folding the newspaper. “There you are. How did you fellas get along?”

Dutch leaned against a nearby street lamp and crossed his arms. “Arthur here thinks he might be onto somethin’ about an upcoming gala. Heard some woman in the Bastille rambling on about it...and I’ve got a few ideas of my own on that theater as well. What about you? How’s the bank looking?”

Hosea rose to his feet. “Pretty much what you’d expect. Lots of money, and even more security to protect it. It also happens to be in the middle of the city. So if we’re gonna hit it, Dutch, we’ll need every gun we have. But if we can pull it off right, I guarantee it’ll be worth it. The vault’s got thousands of bucks just waitin’ in it. Enough to get us out of here.”

The other man nodded in contemplation. “Alright, then. Well, let’s head back to camp...and I’ll tell you all about this theater once we get there. I really think this could be quite the opportunity for us, but we don’t have too long to plan for it, so we need to move fast. C’mon.”

SHADY BELLE

DUTCH’S OFFICE

“Okay, gentlemen,” Dutch said eagerly, gathering us outside his room. “I have a plan. And this is a good one.”

Hosea and I exchanged looks, feeling both a little nervous and excited at the same time as we took a seat on the ornate couch.

“Well, what’ve you got in mind?” Hosea asked.

Dutch grinned, holding a finger up. “I did some investigating, and apparently there’s gonna be a show at the Râleur in two days. Lots of tourists are gonna come pilin’ in, and all the money will be sitting right at the front door while everyone else inside is distracted by the show. It’s the perfect time for us to slip in and swipe the cash. Which means the best way for us to do this is by makin’ as little noise as possible...”

He glanced at me. “...Arthur.”

I sighed in annoyance. “...Jesus, I get it.”

Dutch let out a hearty laugh. “That is the last time I’ll mention it. I promise. Anyway, I’m thinkin’ we bring in a small group. Go in quick and quiet. We don’t wanna barge into the theater, armed to the teeth. Remember, the goal here is to cause as little alarm as we can. We’ll probably disguise some of you as employees, too -- that way, you can keep watch while the others focus on the robbing.”

Hosea nodded. “And who’s doing what?”

“Hmm. Well, we don’t want anyone too tough looking to dress as the employees,” Dutch explained. “I think I’ll get Kieran to be one of them. You too, Hosea.”

“What ‘bout me?” I questioned.

“You...are gonna be doing the robbing. My plan is for you and Mary-Beth to enter the theater together. Pretend you’re a couple out to see a show. But don’t walk up to the ticket booth until it’s empty. That way, no one will be around to see what you’re really doing.”

I raised a brow. “Me and Mary-Beth?”

Hosea chuckled. “That poor girl has her eyes on you, Arthur. Everyone in camp can see that. Least it’ll make this job easier for her.”

I shrugged. “So, what, we just walk up to the ticket booth and take the money while everyone’s watchin’ the show?”

“That’s the idea for now,” Dutch confirmed. “But I’m still working out the details. In the meantime: Hosea, you keep focusing on that bank. And Arthur, see what else you can learn about the gala -- where it’s located, how we get in...things like that.”

“On it.”  

The man smirked. “Good. Saint Denis will be our ticket outta this country, boys. I can feel it. We just need one, last score...and we’re gone for good. But it won’t help anything if you lose your faith. So stay with me. Both of you. The gang may be strong, but we’re nothing if we don’t work together.”

Hosea and I gave Dutch a firm, honest look.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere, Dutch,” I said. “We got your back.”

Dutch began making his way out of the room, glancing at us over his shoulder before he headed out the door.

“I know.”

A FEW HOURS LATER

THAT NIGHT

Sitting on my bed, I mindlessly doodled in my journal while the rest of the gang chatted at the campfire outside, sketching the night away as I waited for another long day of work tomorrow.

Normally I drew things like horses, plants, landscapes...just stuff I came across while wandering around. But today, I found myself scratching down wobbly images of pianos, random music notes, and of course...Edward. 

By now, it was honestly frustratin’ me that I couldn’t tear my mind away from him. Why the hell was I so captivated by that man? I mean, I had met much more prominent people in the past.

I had seen people who were retired gunslingers, civil war veterans, slave catchers, dinosaur bone hunters -- hell, I’d even come across a couple who were brother and sister. 

Why was one pianist so interesting to me? Ain’t like he was the first musician I’d ever met.

I guessed...I guessed it was because he was so different from everyone else.

Most people I talked to always hid behind some kind of pretense. Acted polite and well-mannered on the outside, and danced around saying what they was really thinking...but Edward, he already seemed to know me better than I even knew myself. Within just a few minutes of talking with the boy, he had already come to the conclusion that I was a better man than I thought. 

And based on what? Ramming into him? Makin’ a mess of his notes? Covering his clothes in mud?

Mister Ryan definitely had a unique idea of “good,” that was certain. I just hoped I could live up to it.

“Um, Arthur?”

Flicking my eyes upward at the sudden intrusion, I paused mid-action when I realized Mary-Beth was standing just outside the doorway, her head poking inside with a puzzled expression as she stared at me. I put my journal down.

“Oh, Mary-Beth. Did you...need something?”

The woman walked into the room. “No. I was just...walkin’ by when I overheard you singing. I was curious, is all. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I froze in confusion. “Singing? What you mean?”

She giggled. “You were humming, Arthur. You didn’t notice? I guess that’s good. When you hum, it means you’re in a good mood.”

I bashfully looked away from the young woman instantly, admittedly a tad embarrassed. 

When did I even start humming? Who else had heard me, if anyone? Christ, I hoped Uncle wasn’t sleepin’ on the floor downstairs again. Otherwise I’d never hear the end of this. That, and his goddamned lumbago.

“I, ah...” my voice faltered sheepishly, “...I didn’t notice. Sorry to disturb you.”

Mary-Beth waved a dismissive hand. “You weren’t disturbin’ me, you silly man. It was a pretty tune. Where’d you hear it?”

I pretended it was nothing. “Ah, just some song I must’ve heard somewhere or the other.”

She smiled in a way that said she knew I was lying, but dropped the subject anyway.

“Well, I’m just glad you’re feelin’ alright. This gang needs you to stay strong, Arthur. Dutch needs you. More than you may think.”

I stood up from the bed, placing my journal on the nightstand.

“Oh, I’m sure Dutch would manage just fine without me, but...that’s kind of you, Mary-Beth.”

She began to take her leave. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Stay safe out there, Arthur. Things is gettin’ pretty crazy -- both inside and outside of camp -- so be careful, okay?”

I escorted Mary-Beth out into the corridor, saying a quick goodbye to her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The woman slid a hand along the staircase’s railing, looking up at me before stepping down.

“Good. I know our situation’s been tough recently, and I can’t deny that I’m scared too...but I know you and Dutch will pull us through. You always do.”

I nodded confidently. “And we will again.”

Mary-Beth descended the stairs, leaving me alone in the hallway.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” she was quiet for a second. “Good night, Arthur. These moments of peace that bore us now, are what we’re gonna be wishin’ for in a bit. Take care of yourself. We ain’t losin’ anybody else.”

I waved her goodbye. 

“...No. We ain’t.”

THE NEXT MORNING

Waking up to the sound of Karen and Grimshaw yelling -- again -- I fluttered my eyes open to a slit, only to be blinded by a strong beam of sunlight that was seeping through the broken window.

I was facedown in my pillow, and judging by the brazen snoring I heard comin’ from downstairs, I weren’t the only one still dreaming. Despite wanting to sleep more though, I decided to head out for Saint Denis now, while the streets were still quiet.

The sun had barely warmed up the sky yet, but all this arguing and fretting at camp right now was makin’ me want to be just about anywhere else. I understood that folks were afraid, and I woulda been lyin’ if I said I wasn’t -- but there was only so much worrying one man could take.

Retrieving my hat, I strapped my belt on and threw my satchel over my shoulder, making sure everything was in place and stretching a bit before striding out of the room.

Fortunately, there weren’t really anyone awake yet to distract me or hold me back from leaving, and the weather seemed clear enough today. 

The clouds were thin and the morning sun was just beginning to float above the purple horizon, painting the world around us with a nice, red tint.

It was the perfect time to ride out.

SAINT DENIS

Urging my horse to slow down, I began trotting into the city ahead of me as I was forced to adjust to civilized life, keeping a mental note that it actually mattered what the hell you was wearin’ out here. 

Usually, I just wore a simple, loose shirt and a roughed-up pair of pants, but for the sake of blending in, I had stuffed myself into some itchy vest this morning along with a nicer set of trousers I didn’t even remember purchasing. 

For a minute I felt like a walking joke on display for everyone to laugh at, but then I remembered the people around me looked even weirder. Women with gowns wider than the streets, and men with hats that made them an entire foot taller...big cities were definitely not the place for me. I didn’t mind the money, though.

Steadily trotting through the roads, I glanced to my side when I noticed the Râleur coming up on the left, the brightly-lit building immediately catching my attention. 

It was indeed quite a view, just like Edward said. Through the tall, glass doors, I could see a luxurious chandelier hanging from the high ceiling, giving the lobby an intense, golden glow as its light reflected off the decorated walls and waxed floors. And browsing through the posters plastered outside the theater, it looked like he weren’t kidding about those fire-breathing people.

Apparently, they had some lady from Bavaria who was stronger than a bull, a duo consisting of a tiny magician and child giant, a man called Benjamin Lazarus who could escape death, and a group of dancers from France who...oh, my.

Well, I didn’t know if it was really my kind of entertainment, but I was definitely considering seeing that show with Edward in it. If the song he performed for me was anythin’ to go by, then his show would be something to remember. I just wished I had the time to stop by.

“Well, hello there, Mister ‘Not a Cowboy!”

Whipping around towards the sound of the voice, I felt a smile sneak its way onto my face when I saw none other than the pianist himself strolling up to me as if on queue...alongside another man whom I hadn’t met yet. I hopped off my mount.

“I see my terrible sarcasm rubs off on people fast,” I greeted Edward with a chuckle, closing the distance between us. “How you doing, Mister Ryan?”

The musician scoffed. “I’m from England, mate. If anything, it was my sarcasm that rubbed off on you. But...I’m doing as well as one can in this city. And what about you, Mister Morgan? I hope Saint Denis is treating you okay.”

I shrugged. “I’m about the same as the last time you saw me.”

Edward seemed pleased. “That’s good to hear.” He turned to the man beside him.

“Err, Mister Middleton, this is the man I told you about earlier. He’s a traveler I ran into yesterday. Quite literally, actually. He’s the one who helped me out with my new composition.”

I brought my focus to Middleton, admittedly feeling somewhat out of place compared to their suits and ties.

“Arthur Morgan.” I introduced casually. The man gave me a stern glare. 

I couldn’t quite pinpoint it just yet, considering I’d only met him, but something about Edward’s companion just...put me off. 

Not only did he have a permanently sour expression hiding behind his groomed mustache, there was also a certain...glint in his dead, gray eyes that reminded me of Strauss. And everyone knew how I felt about that creep. Only difference was, this man actually looked like he was capable of giving out a beating himself.

The man held out a stiff hand.

“...Thatcher Middleton,” he replied bluntly. He had the same accent as Edward. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I reluctantly grabbed his hand, gesturing to the hardened frown on his face. “Try not to smile too hard there, partner. You, uh...another pianist?”

He shook his head, completely ignoring my remark. “No. I have nothing to do with that business. I’m merely a...” there was an odd pause, “...friend of Mister Ryan’s.”

I glanced side to side, not quite sure what to make of that. 

“...I see.”

Picking up on the tension between us, Edward quickly jumped in, changing the subject. 

“I noticed you were checking out the theater, Mister Morgan. Are you thinking about watching one of the shows?”

I gladly took my attention off Middleton, shifting my feet awkwardly. “I am, actually. I was considerin’ that show you mentioned to me. The one tomorrow?”

The pianist’s face radiated with excitement. “Oh, yes. Well, like I said, I’d love to see you there. I won’t be the only act tomorrow night, but it will be the first time I’m performing on my own. I confess I’m a tad nervous.”

I chuckled. “I ain’t heard much of your work, but if that song you showed me is anythin’ like your others...you’ll be fine.”

Edward didn’t appear any less anxious, but hid it nonetheless. “Thank you. You’re too kind, Mister Morgan.”

I laughed at that. “If you say so.”

Flattening this friendly moment with his grumpy tone, Middleton spoke up once more as he threw an almost threatening gaze in Edward’s direction, his eyes piercing through the shadow cast by his bowler hat.

“Well, I can see you’re busy, Edward. We’ll discuss this more later. In the meantime, I’ll be returning to my house if you need me. I have many matters to attend to.” Middleton barely looked at me, briefly bowing his head as a goodbye. “...Mister Morgan.”

I returned the dull farewell. “Middleton.”

Skulking off into the busy city, the man vanished like a phantom in the thick crowds as Edward and I watched him leave, both of us feeling somewhat unnerved after that chat.

“Charmin’ feller, ain’t he?” I muttered.

Edward crossed his arms. “He wouldn’t know charm if it died in his bed. Though, I suppose it already has.”

I smirked at the pianist. “I take it you weren’t waltzin’ around with him by choice?”

He sighed. “Oh, definitely not. You’ve no idea how grateful I am that I found you. In fact, I’d much rather waltz with you, Mister Morgan.” Edward stuttered after that, as if realizing what he just said. “Erm, i-if that’s alright, of course. Want to grab a drink? We did meet at a saloon, after all.”

I shrugged in a “why not” manner.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Oh, and call me Arthur, would you?”

Edward appeared much more relieved now. “And you can call me Edward. Or Eddie, if you prefer. People call me both.”

I beamed at him, the two of us strolling side-by-side as we diverted our path to the Bastille.

“Eddie it is,” I replied. “Y’know, I think you’re the most sensible Englishman I’ve met so far.”

“You’ve met others, have you?”

I adjusted my hat. “Well, aside from you and Middleton, I’ve only met one out here. And his name was Margaret.”

A brief laugh escaped Eddie. “You sound like you’ve had your fair share of adventures. Perhaps it’s your turn to entertain me with story today.”

We hugged a corner, turning onto a new street.

“Ah, I dunno ‘bout that. I ain’t...I ain’t so good with words.”

Eddie persisted. “You don’t need words to tell a story, Arthur. Words...are overrated. In the end, your actions are what speak for you.”

I grinned at him, the two of us stopping at the edge of a sidewalk as we waited to cross. 

“You, sir, possess a wisdom that I have yet to find.”

Eddie remained unconvinced that I was as dumb as I made myself out to be and simply rolled his eyes, beckoning me as we spoke with each other like a pair of old friends. 

For some reason, whenever I was around Eddie, I felt like I didn’t have to hide nothing. The boy seemed to be drawn to me no matter how much I talked down about myself, and every time we crossed paths, he acted as if we’d known each other for a lifetime already.

I...enjoyed the time I spent with him. 

I was only worried that this upcoming robbery would ruin our friendship. I mean, it was obvious how much this meant to Eddie, and lord knew how long he’d been preparing for this, but it was something I just had to go through with.

Then again, I guessed I always had the option to expose the plan, but...I could never do that. Not with the gang counting on me. Or Dutch. The old man was already paranoid we had a rat within the camp. The last thing I needed was to make him think it was me.

Well, I supposed all I could do was enjoy this relationship while it lasted. Eddie was too good of a man to be with me anyway. It was probably for the best if he kept his distant from an outlaw such as myself.

...Probably.

[hannahindie]

I have returned.

I think.

I took a vacation with my family, and though I’ve got some plans (mostly things involving being around the house, crafts, next steps for PopStitch), I think I might be back back. Like, actually writing and posting back.

I appreciate everyone’s patience with me over the past month. Four weeks ago today, my life stopped. Admittedly, it’s not totally going full speed ahead, I am still struggling and I’m exhausted, and flip flop between feeling alright and hating everything...but I’ve survived. I’ve made it far longer than I ever would have guessed, and even though I would have laughed in your face if you had ever told me this would be my life now...I’m somehow still trucking. And the only crazy thing I’ve done is chopped off my hair and pierced my nose.

Not too shabby.

So what does this mean, exactly, being back? Welllll, I’ll tell you. While I was gone, I outlined the next steps for five...you read that correctly...five fics. I’ll put the rest of this under a cut, because it got out of control.

War of Hearts which is part of my 800 follower celebration that is literally taking my entire life to finish. This one went a little crazy and I loved it so much that I wanted to do more than a one shot. It’s coming though. Promise.

Collapse which is part of a challenge @amanda-teaches put on many moons ago, and I’m the literal worst and have never posted any of it. She’s a saint and has allowed this foolishness to continue. Me and challenges lately. -rolls eyes-

We’re No Heroes is still a thing. I promise. It’s about to get real. When I write it. Sorry for those of you super pumped about it. Try to still be pumped, okay? Because it’s gonna be a doozy, I think. A doozy.

The Crazies was something I was super excited about and it got side tracked. It is also still a thing, and I’ve been plotting. Because I can’t write one shots. Oh, no. Everything ever is a series. I can’t stop, I won’t stop. Just call me Miley, I guess.

The fifth thing is not a thing you know exists yet, called Kintsukori. Only I’m pretty sure I just spelled that wrong. Anyway, it’s a thing that is happening. I started writing and it’s cathartic, and you’ll get it when you get it, but I hope it’s pretty good. If anything, it’s a way to get my feelings out.

And then BONUS FIC, Wrong Number. I haven’t really sketched it out, just started writing. Another fun concept I’m excited for. When I write it. There’s that pesky little catch, right? I have to actually write it. It’s a fun little Sam x Reader series, though, so there’s that. I need to write more for Sammy.

Not only that, I’m going to try to get PopStitch up and running better. I’m going to work on some stitches, but I’m also going to add some jewelry. My uncle went through my pappy’s tools and I found a whole set of letter punches, as well as a couple nice, small hammers. I haven’t tried anything yet but I did purchase some washers, beads, and leather cording. Sooooo...you never know.

Okay, that’s it. I love all of you. Again, thank you for your patience. Welcome to the new people that I’ve managed to get during this unexpected hiatus. I hope you guys enjoy my master list, and hopefully there will be some new content soon.

See you soon.

[lirlovesfic]

The Choice

A Doctor Who fanfic Summary: After GitF, the TARDIS brings the Doctor, Rose, and Mickey back to the estate to solve a problem involving the TARDIS herself. But when they see a familiar face, the face of someone who should not exist, they realize the problem is deeper than they thought and could endanger the Doctor’s very existence. Primary characters: Ninth Doctor, Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler, Mickey Smith, Jackie Tyler. Genres: Romance, mystery, adventure, drama, character study, HN AU, fobbed!Nine, sick TARDIS. Pairings: Nine/Rose, Ten/Rose Rating: Adult

Warning: None for this chapter

a/n: I am currently working on editing this chapter-by-chapter, with the hopes of completing a chapter a day until I catch up with myself. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’m doing it to try to get back into the swing of writing and to build some momentum in order to finish this. Also, there have been some tiny things nagging at me for a while (grammar, punctuation, etc.) so I’ll be correcting as many of them as I can find as I go. The story will not change. In fact, most of the changes are going to be so minor that I doubt anyone (besides myself) will notice. But to keep me on target, I’ll be posting it all here as I go, with links to the other websites it’s on. I hope you enjoy it.

This chapter: on AO3, on TSP, on ffnet

Chapter Three—London, 7 July 2007

A holographic image of the younger Doctor appeared. He was lying on the floor, clearly unconscious. As the image flickered, something that looked like a helmet descended from the ceiling and fitted itself neatly onto the younger Doctor's head. There was a flash of light and the hologram vanished for a moment. When it returned, the trio could see the TARDIS door open. A portion of the grating that made up the floor lifted up, causing the Doctor to roll out the door. The door shut again and the image abruptly shut off. Rose and Mickey turned and stared at the Doctor they were with. His jaw had dropped in shock.

"Blimey," the Doctor said under his breath.

"What… what just happened?" Rose asked. "What was that thing?"

"Something I never thought I'd ever have to use," the Doctor said. "And as for what just happened, I'm not entirely sure. But I think I need to see the man who looks like the old me." He ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up. "The question is, how? How to get a good look at him without him seeing me?"

"But if it is him, you, it'll be before you've regenerated, yeah? So he won't know who you are," Rose said.

"I can't count on that," the Doctor told her. "I told you that there's an echo when I meet myself."

"But if that's the case, with you here, shouldn't he be feeling the echo now?" she asked.

"Assuming the person you saw is me," the Doctor said, "we both should be. But it's possible that I'm not feeling one because we're not close enough together." He frowned. "Under normal circumstances, and admittedly these are not normal circumstances, if we met face to face he'd be able to tell I'm a Time Lord, and since there aren't any other Time Lords, and since he wouldn't recognize me, he'd know I was a future version of him…"

"But you said you've met yourself before," Rose said.

"Yeah, I have. But in this case I'm interfering in my own timeline. This has to be handled delicately. If it's not handled carefully enough, the results could be catastrophic. And not just to me... Well, let's just say I don't want to risk it." His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "Mickey said whoever that was may have recognized you, but he didn't know who you were. That would mean he's met you before. If he's me and I've already met you, why wouldn't I know who you were?" He sighed loudly in frustration. "And why don't I remember any of this?"

"I dunno," she said, "but I do have an idea about seeing him. There's a couple of restaurants right across the street from the garage. Maybe we can wait in one of them until the shop closes and he leaves. We should get a good view of him without him seein' us."

"What time is it?" Mickey asked.

"A little after five, local time," the Doctor answered.

Mickey shook his head. "It's Saturday. The shop's probably closed by now." He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. After a brief conversation, he rang off and turned back to them. "He's already gone for the day. Did find out his full name though." He looked at the Doctor evenly. "John Smith. Isn't that the name you used when you were teachin' at Deffrey Vale?"

The Doctor and Rose exchanged glances, with Rose's clearly saying I told you so.

"We need more information about him," the Doctor said. "How long he's been here. Where he lives. Where he was before he got here."

"So you're no longer denyin' he's you?" Mickey asked.

The Doctor yanked on one ear and grimaced. "With the evidence we have so far, let's just say it's… possible he's me. But the jury's still out." Mickey rolled his eyes. "The question is," the Doctor continued, "if we can't talk to him directly, don't even know where he is, how are we going to get the answers we need?"

Rose and Mickey exchanged glances and smirked. "Well, there's one person on the Estate that not only knows everybody but everybody's business too," Mickey said.

The Doctor glanced from one to the other of them. "Who?" he asked. And then it hit him. He got a pained expression on his face. "Oh, no."

~oOo~

John unlocked the door to his flat and carried his dinner straight back into the small space that was his lounge. Not one for cooking, John had picked up a sandwich and crisps from the deli down the street and some beer from Tesco Express on his way home. It was either takeaway or beans on toast, and even the idea of beans on toast made him shudder in disgust.

He set the food down on the beat-up old coffee table and sat down on the threadbare sofa. Not only was the sofa worn, it was ugly. It was covered in a rough, plaid fabric in orange, yellow and black that hadn't been popular since the '70s. The flat had come furnished, which suited him since he hadn't owned anything except a change of clothes when he had arrived back on the Estate, but everything in the place was in bad shape and hadn't been particularly nice when new. The only exceptions were a very expensive new mattress and a state of the art computer system that he had purchased himself. To the outside world they would have seemed like luxuries, particularly in light of his meager salary, but he considered them necessities. The computer system was vital for his continuing search for clues to who he was. And the need for a decent mattress was self-evident. The old one was badly stained and emitted an odor whose source didn't bear thinking about, plus it had had a spring that caught him in the back no matter how he lay down on it.

He flipped on the ancient television before cracking open a beer and unwrapping his sandwich. There was nothing of interest on, nothing that interested him at any rate. He wasn't into sports, the news wasn't new but a rehash of what had happened the previous week, game shows were too easy and thus boring, and dramas? Too domestic. He watched a few minutes of an American science fiction program until he decided the science behind it was so ridiculous that it made the show unwatchable.

Finally he found a channel broadcasting a film he hadn't seen, a recent James Bond film starring an actor he didn't know. He took a swig of his beer and sat back, willing to suspend disbelief for a few minutes. But his mind wandered back to the garage and the girl he had seen. He had seen more than blonde hair. He had caught a glimpse of her face before she had left. He sat back and closed his eyes, trying to recapture the image.

Blonde hair. A wide mouth...

He was startled from his reverie by something jumping onto the sofa next to him. He opened his eyes again. A black cat was sitting next to him, calmly helping itself to his sandwich.

It was not his cat. He did not own a cat. He raised an eyebrow.

"Where did you come from?" he said, figuring it had wandered in from the Estate through the cat flap built into the exterior door. He vaguely recalled someone telling him that the strays would do that but he couldn't remember who, or when he had had that conversation.

The cat did not deign to answer, not with a meow or even a glance in his direction. Instead it continued to focus on trying to eat his dinner.

"Oi, that's mine," he protested. He ripped off a chunk of the sandwich—the portion that had been chewed on by the cat—and put it on the floor. The cat jumped down, pulled the meat and cheese out from between the bread slices, and began to nibble on them.

"You must be thirsty," he said. Shoving the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, he got up and went into the kitchen for a bowl of water. On the way back he retrieved his sketchpad and pencils from the bedroom.

"Now you can stay for a bit," he told the cat as it—no, she—began to drink. "But you can't move in. Don't know how long I'm stayin' here."

The cat ignored him and returned to eating the cheese. John watched for a minute and then turned to the sketchpad. He flipped through the pages, glancing at his drawings. Monsters, metal men, pepper pots fitted with eye stalks, plungers and whisks—a psychiatrist would have a field day with him. He flipped quickly through those pages, as he did the pictures of planets on fire. Perhaps not typical dream images, but all they were were dream images. They could have nothing to do with his previous life.

He turned the page and saw the sketch of the girl he had been working on that morning. Now he could see what was wrong with it. Her nose was slightly shorter and wider than he had drawn. And her ears… They were smaller, but there was more. Something missing.

Earrings. Big gold-colored hoops.

He made the corrections, just barely adjusting a line here, a shadow there, and then added the earrings. When he was finished, he sat back and stared at the picture.

It was her. The girl he had been dreaming about. But more than that, it was the girl he had seen at the garage. The girl's hair had been shorter, her makeup different, but it was her, he was sure of it.

The cat jumped back up on the sofa and rubbed against him, purring. He absently stroked her head as he puzzled over the drawing.

"Who are you?" he said. "And how can I find you again?"

~oOo~

"Now remember," Rose said, "don't tell Mum we've been here all day."

Both the Doctor and Mickey rolled their eyes. They were carrying a couple of pizzas: part dinner, part peace offering just in case she had heard they were back and hadn't stopped by the flat first.

"As if," Mickey said.

Rose unlocked the door. As they walked in the door, she was struck as always by how tiny the flat was. Despite having recently been repaired from damage it had received at Christmastime and received a fresh coat of paint, the narrow hall looked cramped and dark. Perhaps the flat seemed small because she was comparing it to the grandeur of the TARDIS, she supposed. Or perhaps she had just outgrown it, as she had outgrown estate life while traveling with the Doctor.

Deciding not to dwell on that thought, she called out to her mum.

"Mum, we're home. Are you here?"

Before the words were out of her mouth, Jackie ran out of the lounge and met them in the hall. "Rose!" she exclaimed and pulled her daughter in for a hug. "Why don't you ever call? Why bother even having a mobile when you don't use it?"

Rose knew that her mother really didn't expect an answer. "We brought dinner," she said when her mother let her go.

"Thank goodness," her mother said. "I've got nothing in. Certainly not enough for those two." Jackie cast a disparaging glance towards the lounge. The two women followed them in to find that in the short time she had been hugging Rose, the Doctor and Mickey had gone into the lounge, settled themselves on the white imitation-leather chairs, and begun to eat. Mickey had a slice of pizza in one hand and was using the remote to flip through the channels on the telly with the other.

"Don't get too comfortable," Jackie told them all. "Stuart is comin' over."

"Stuart? Who's Stuart?" Rose asked. "Whatever happened to Dennis?"

"And as far as that's concerned, whatever happened to Howard?" the Doctor added.

"Howard was ages ago, and as for Dennis…" Jackie made a rude noise. "Stuart works over at the Chinese takeaway," she told them.

Rose frowned thoughtfully. "Stuart, Stuart… Oh, I remember! Isn't he the cook over there?"

"Yeah," Jackie said.

"Oh! Is he the one who does the wonderful chips?" the Doctor asked.

"That's him," Jackie said. "Does a gorgeous curry as well."

"You know, you should tell him to put the chips in newspaper," the Doctor told her. "Nothing like chips served the traditional way in newspaper. They taste better than when they're wrapped in foil. The newspaper doesn't trap the moisture like foil does, and it absorbs some of the oil, leaving them crisp instead of soggy."

Rose rolled her eyes. "I think you just like the flavor of newspaper ink," she said.

"Depends on the ink used, Rose," he said. "Some are quite bitter."

"Trust you to know," she muttered.

Jackie retrieved some plates and napkins from the kitchen. She pointedly handed a plate and napkin each to the Doctor and Mickey, warning them not to make a mess. Mickey took both without turning from the television. There was another match on.

After the two women helped themselves to slices of pizza and sat down on the sofa, the Doctor turned to them.

"So, Jackie," he said between bites of extra cheese and pepperoni. "What's new around here?"

Rose's eyes got huge. What are you doing, she mouthed. She knew from long years of experience that asking her mother a leading question like that could set them up for a several hour gossip session despite her mum's new boyfriend coming over.

The Doctor ignored her and grinned at Jackie.

"Well," Jackie said conspiratorially. "Rose, your cousin Lavina is pregnant again. This will be her fourth. Mo got a new job, not sure doin' what though. Bev's sister's daughter got another tattoo. This one winds half up her arm. Looks like a snake." She shuddered. "And someone new just moved in across the way. A real grouch. But that's not all bad. He managed to get Rita and Chuck quiet for once. I thought the row they were having this morning would last into next week…"

As Jackie continued to talk, Rose watched the Doctor take another bite. The cheese stretched, forming a long string between the slice of pizza and his mouth. He wrapped it around his tongue three times before biting it off and pulling it into his mouth. She stared at him, disturbed by how disgusted she was yet at the same time how oddly arousing she found it. As if he knew what she was thinking, he smirked at her and gave her a wink.

"Git," she said under her breath.

An hour later, Rose shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Mickey had switched to watching a movie at some point and was still staring at the screen. And her mother was still talking. The Doctor was pretending to be engrossed in the dramas taking place on the Estate, periodically making sympathetic noises. She didn't know how he could do it. Listening to her mum go on and on like that made her eyes cross.

"And Brian's son what's-his-name is marrying that girl he's been living with the past couple of years," Jackie said.

At that, Rose's ears perked up. "Susie? Rob's marrying Susie?"

"Yeah," her mother answered. "Wasn't she one of the ones that you used to hang out with?"

"Yeah, she was." Mickey answered for Rose without turning from the telly. "It was Rose, Susie, Shareen, Keisha, and Rita. They'd all go out clubbin', then come home absolutely pissed. Sometimes Rose'd stay out all night with 'em and say she'd stayed with Shareen or Keisha and they'd say they had stayed here."

As Jackie raised an eyebrow at her daughter, Rose glared at him. "And thank you so much for sharing that with my mother, Mick. Just wait until I tell Mum and the Doctor about the time you…"

At this, Mickey finally turned from the television. "No!" he said quickly. "Don't need to go into all that."

The Doctor leaned back against the back of the sofa. His eyebrow arched and a small, amused smile played around his lips.

"Anyway, if the two of you were friends, you'd probably be invited to the wedding, Rose. That is, if you were here," Jackie said pointedly.

"We might be able to come back for it," the Doctor said, and Rose looked at him in surprise. Shock was more like. Are you sure, she mouthed. He shrugged indifferently.

"Uh, yeah," she said, turning back to her mother. "We might be able to come back."

"Good," Jackie said vehemently. "People are always askin' about you, what you're doin', when you're comin' back, that sort of thing. I never know what to tell them."

"Tell them I'm traveling," Rose said.

"Traveling? People will only buy traveling for so long, and then they begin to wonder if you're in jail," Jackie replied.

"Or dead," Mickey said with a sharp glance at Jackie. He had never completely gotten over the fact that for a year people had thought he had murdered Rose when she had begun traveling with the Doctor. Rose's mother, who had been behind the rumor of Mickey murdering Rose, didn't have the grace to look shamefaced. She had apologized, and in her mind that was the end of it.

"So, Jackie, Rose and Mickey went past the auto repair shop today…" the Doctor said, changing the subject. He didn't need to say more. It was enough to get Jackie started again.

"Oh, yeah, they've fixed it all up," she said. "They've got a new mechanic, too. He's the one who ended the row between Rita and Chuck." They all looked at her blankly. "I told you, but as usual none of you were listening. He just moved in across the way a few months ago. Works at the shop and does odd jobs around the Estate. Had him in here myself to fix the tap in the kitchen since no one here was around to do it."

"He was here?" Rose asked incredulously. "In the flat? And you didn't mention it?"

"Why would I?" Jackie asked. "'S just a tap."

"Did he look like anyone you know?" Rose asked. "Seem familiar in any way?"

"Not really," she said. She thought for a moment. "Maybe a bit like that American bloke from the Tour de France. Lance something or other."

"Lance Armstrong?" the Doctor asked incredulously.

Jackie nodded. "Yeah, that's the one," she answered. "Not much, mind, but a bit."

"Why would Lance Armstrong be livin' on the Estate?" Mickey asked.

"Didn't say he was, did I?" Jackie said.

"Did he remind you of anyone else?" Rose asked.

"Well, he did look a little like first him," she said. "Just a little bit, though. He's got much longer hair and a scruffy beard half the time, and no leather jacket. Course it is July…"

"And you didn't think to call me?"

"Why would I?" Jackie asked again. "'S not him, after all. He changed. Doesn't look like that anymore. 'S not like he can change back." She paused as if a thought just occurred to her. "You can't change back, can you?"

"No, he can't," Rose answered.

"I don't know why you think I should have called. You know it's not him, Rose. He's sittin' right there next to you."

"Yes, of course I am," the Doctor said smoothly. "And where else would I be?"

Jackie frowned. "Why all the questions?" she asked suspiciously. "'S not like any of you to care one way or the other what happens around here."

They were saved from answering by a knock at the door. Jackie got up. "That'll be Stuart," she said. "I'd invite you to stay…" Her tone indicated that that was the last thing she wanted them to do.

"Nah, we'll be on our way," the Doctor said as they stood. Mickey picked up the pizza boxes. "Things to do, places to go and all that."

They met Stuart on the way out. He was a short Asian man who appeared to be in his mid-forties and smelled vaguely of Chinese takeaway and chips.

"Have you ever considered serving your chips in newspaper, Stuart?" the Doctor asked after they had been introduced. "It really brings out the flavor."

Stuart looked puzzled at the question. "Newspaper?" he asked.

Rose poked the Doctor in the side. When he turned to her she glared at him. "Ignore him," she said to Stuart. "That's what the rest of us do." She turned to give her mother a hug. "We'll be back soon, yeah?"

"Just don't let it be three months this time," Jackie replied.

"Oh, it won't," the Doctor said. "Probably will be tomorrow."

Jackie rolled her eyes. "I'll believe that when I see it."

"Tomorrow?" Rose asked as the door shut behind them.

"I doubt the TARDIS will let us take off yet," the Doctor told her. "Probably won't until we know more about what's going on." He looked across the courtyard. "Hmm. Should have asked Jackie which flat he's in." He glanced back at the door and then grimaced. "Nope. Not going back in there."

"I could ask around, see if anyone else knows what flat he's in," Mickey suggested.

The Doctor scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. "No, I don't want him to find out people have been asking questions about him. Tomorrow is soon enough. With both TARDISes out of commission, it's not like either of us is going anywhere." His voice dwindled off, and he frowned. "I'm still not entirely sure what happened or why. I need to try and get more information from the TARDIS—see if I can clear up some of the interference. Only then can we figure out how to fix all this."

As the Doctor and Mickey began to make their way to the stairwell, Rose hung back, staring at the windows of the building across the courtyard. Lights were just beginning to come on in the windows, and she wondered which one was his.

He was over there somewhere. Her first Doctor. Her heart ached at the thought. Even though the Doctor was still with her, sometimes she missed his old self: beat up leather jacket, big ears and all. She wished she could see him again, just spend time with him, kind of like she had wanted to see her father again, but not. The feelings she had had for her Doctor were nothing like what she had had for her dad.

But look how seeing her father had turned out, with the Earth almost being sterilized by reapers. She couldn't risk the paradox.

But what she wouldn't give to see her first Doctor again.

"Rose, Rose!" The Doctor's voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She turned to him. "We're headed back to the TARDIS. Are you coming, or are you staying here?"

"I'm coming," she said.

He nodded. As he headed down the stairs, she began to follow, but not without a backward glance at the other building again.

[octannibal-blake]

Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers 2/4

By: bellamysdelinquent (ao3:theoneinquisitor)

Rating: mature

Word count: 14,951

Part: 2/4

part ii. never tell the one you love that you do

Read on ao3

part i. 

July 2013

When Clarke was six years old, she got into her first fight. She had been out on the playground, minding her own business, when she saw a group of guys pinning someone to the chainlink fence and reaching into his pocket for, what she presumed, was money. Wells Jaha was a politician’s son, someone they others knew to be rich and privileged and their jealousy constantly made him an easy target. When Clarke had stomped over to the fence and shoved one of the kids to the ground, they quickly scattered, afraid of the tiny blonde with fire in her eyes. Her and Wells stuck together after that, living in their own little bubble in the world. It was good.

She tries to remember the last good moment they had together, tries to cling to it like a lifeforce. They had been eating lunch together and he had been telling her about some science project gone wrong in class. He laughed so hard soda nearly came out of his nose. That’s how she wants to remember him -- all bright smiles and expressive eyes. He was a shining star in the night sky, the kind that draws your attention from all the others. The one that all the other stars want to be.

It’s easy to conjure that vision of him during the day. When something reminds her of him and draws as smile from her lips. The kit-kats at the checkout counter of the corner store, TIME magazine sitting on the newsstand. When she sees Halle Berry on her TV. There are memories of him wrapped in the universe but when she closes her eyes those don’t exist. In the dark shadows of the night, the only thing she can see is the way he looked at her just before the accident. She had been all tears and snot in the passenger's seat, her drunken rage vibrating the entire vehicle. His free hand rubbed circles into her shoulders while his other gripped the wheel firmly. At the red light, he had pulled her into a hug and allowed her to wipe her face into his shoulder.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” was what he said and it was with such conviction, so much that she actually believed him. The light turned green and she’s giving him a watery smile. Then she’s waking up in hospital a week later feeling numb to the world, feeling detached from her own body. And Wells was gone. Just like that.

Nightmares were constant for the first few months. Every night she would wake up screaming his name, reliving that moment over and over. Sometimes it’s like she is watching the accident from above, watching her own body get tossed through the window as the truck crushes the driver’s side. She’d crawl into bed with her dad on those nights and sob into his chest. The thoughts were always the same. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It should have been me.

She wasn’t alone in her loathing. Thelonius Jaha visited her exactly one time while she was in the hospital recovering, a month long process. He walked in and like a coward, she pretended to be asleep.

“I wish it were you,” he spoke his peace, spoke what she had told herself over and over, and as his footsteps disappeared down the hallway, she felt herself fall apart.

She hasn’t seen him again. From what limited information her dad would give her, he finished his mayoral term in December and then retired somewhere to mourn the loss of his son. She doesn’t blame him. She got out of the hospital and did physical therapy to get the strength in her legs back. Like some sick joke, she made a full recovery with only the scars lining her back left as a reminder of what she did.

The nightmares come less frequently. She never knows when, but even when they do they’re less vivid. Sometimes she’s trapped in a bright room and Wells stands in front of her and asks her to help him. Help me. Help me. He says nothing else.

That’s how she wakes up on this particular day. His voice is still echoing in her head when she sits up in bed and glances at the clock. Seven a.m. She clicks on the desk lamp and pulls out her sketchpad, willing herself to draw him the way she wants to remember him. Her biggest fear is that she’ll forget his smile. She’ll forget his laugh. It terrifies her.

As she concentrates on the lines of his face, she can’t help but wonder what he would think about her choices. He had always accepted her for who she was, logical, sometimes too serious. When she wanted to date girls and boys. He never judged her. But what would he say about her now?

“You can’t fuck the guilt away, Clarke,” she imagines him crossing his arms in frustration when she tells him about Bellamy. He would ask her to think about it and tell her to be careful. He wouldn't judge her or insist that she stop -- he always understood that about her. Clarke has never been great at following direction and, admittedly, is as stubborn as they come.

“I just want you to be happy.” He would say. She would give anything to hear him say it.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing with Bellamy. Maybe she is still trying to free herself from the guilt. Maybe she’s trying to heal the only way she knows how. She finds solace in his sheets, a peaceful calm and perhaps she’s using him for that. But does it matter if she’s being used to?

Despite the bluster and cocky confidence he seems to exude, she knows there is more to him than meets the eye. She’s seen the way sometimes he’ll have a distant look in his eyes, like even though he’s in the middle of a bar or surrounded by friends, he’s somewhere completely different. She notices the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the way some days he’ll fuck her without even saying a word like he’s trying to find a release from it all. She knows that’s what it is because she’s doing it too.

It’s become a frequent occurrence. Most nights they spend together end back in his room, tangled up in one another and acting out their dirtiest thoughts while keeping their dirtiest secrets. She still hasn't shown the scars on her back. To his credit, he's not once even hinted at asking about the way she flinches when his hand gets too close. She's also very good at hiding them -- sex in his bedroom happens in the dark and they're usually in his bedroom. A few instances have included dingy bar restrooms but those never really involve clothes removal. He seems to know better than to ask and for that, she’s grateful.

During the day, nothing has changed. They put books away in the library and sometimes bicker among the stacks when they don’t agree on something. She continues to attend weekly outings at the Ark and she loves them, she laughs and it’s natural. They make her laugh. They make her feel like she’s moving forward instead of back. It's strange to her how easy she's adjusted here. In the small amount of time she's found people she clicks with, a routine that she enjoys.

So it goes, normalcy can't keep for long. When she finishes her sketch and resigns herself to being up, she shuffles into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. She finds herself greeted by an already steaming pot and her mom sipping from her own mug in the kitchen. She's home from work, but the work never really ends..

“There’s a benefit, tonight,” she says after a particularly stilted conversation about the weather, “I thought we could go together.”

By no means does Clarke believe this to be some attempt at mother-daughter bonding. It's a chance for her to tell everyone what a great doctor she will be someday. That her daughter got into Northwestern and how proud she is. She wants to tell her NO way. That she has more exciting plans to attend to. But instead she chokes down her coffee and nods her head and the day is consumed by dress shopping and hair appointments.

Very rarely has she truly felt the benefits of having money. Her dad is an environmentalist, having spent years working in D.C for the EPA. For the last few years, he's been teaching at Ark U. He's no stranger to wealth, but he never cared about affording the nicest or newest material things. He prefers modest living and Clarke has to say she agrees.

After taking her out to buy a dress for the occasion (and shoes, because matching is important), she then finds herself at a salon having someone professionally tame her curls and pluck her overgrown eyebrows. She somehow manages to text Bellamy in between these events

Clarke: won't be able to do your job for you today, hope you can keep up.

Bellamy: guess I'll have to convince someone else to do it for me. Research shows there's a correlation between mansplaining art and people offering to help.

She has to bite her lip to suppress her laughter.

Clarke: research is inconclusive. I'll be more impressed when your sample size is >1.

Her mom calls for a driver to pick them up and it feels so freakishly Hollywood to her. Even more so when they arrive and are helped from the vehicle on the outside of some regal building. She thinks back to Bellamy insinuating that she's royalty. He'd sure get a kick out of it now.

The night is as tedious as she expects. It's all firm handshakes and impressive whistles when her mom delicately places her hands on Clarke's shoulders and informs them of her aspirations. Networking, is how her mom classified it. Professional ass kissing seems like a better term.

The most interesting person of the night catches her eye for unexpected reasons. Marcus Kane slips a comfortable arm around her mother and introduces himself as the co-founder of the non-profit benefiting from the event. She watches the way her mom's cheeks flush and she slides from his grasp clearing her throat. She excuses herself to the restroom and it's all very inconspicuous.

“So,” Marcus seems unfazed by the awkward encounter, “Your mom said you're going to school to be doctor?”

She's done well at saying yes thus far but she's beginning to feel exhausted by the constant question and she accidentally says the first thing that comes to mind.

“Apparently,” she says, less than enthused by the prospect. She expects him to seem astounded or at least somewhat surprised by he answer. Instead he gives small chuckle.

“Well, word of advice,” he leans in like he's ready to extend the secrets of the universe, “Don't do anything you aren't passionate about.”

That sticks with her the rest of the night as she listens to people rattle off their accomplishments with little excitement. She notices how some of them, despite their impressive record, seem more sad. The way they drink the champagne a little too fast and offer fake laughter and shitty jokes. Could this be her? Would she be that person ten years from now, with the long winded introduction as the highlight of her Life?

The thought alone gives her anxiety. Half way through the third speaker, she leans over to her mom and tells her she needs to leave. While unknowing to the full extent of her daughter's trauma, she doesn't argue. She assumes, like most would, that she's been triggered by something and needs to get the hell out. It's not a completely inaccurate assumption. The trigger just isn't what she thought it would be.

She doesn't go home. Instead she climbs in the Uber and it takes her to the familiar house on the outskirts of Boston, the red door and quiet neighborhood offering a comfort she doesn't think she'd get at the condo. She didn't even text Bellamy to see if he's home. Her phone died a couple of hours ago.

She sees a light peaking through the front blind and knocks on the door before she can second guess it. Even if it’s Miller, she'll be happy. He has a way of diffusing tension with his subtle humor. She has learned to appreciate it.

She still feels a small relief when Miller isn’t the one to answer the door.

Bellamy’s jaw opens slightly, his eyes sliding down her body and the outfit adorning it. He gains his composure fairly quickly, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Princess?”

When she doesn't crack a smile it seems to register that something isn’t quite right, “Clarke?”

Despite the breeze of the cool summer night and being outside, she feels like things are closing in on her. What if she's been working her entire life for something she doesn't want? What if she won't be happy? What if she doesn't deserve to be happy?

Determined to quiet her mind she surges forward and pulls him into her. His lips dry and rough, hers fierce and determined. He hesitates for a brief moment, like he wants to ask her what's wrong, but he wraps his arms around her waist instead and pulls her into the house.

“Miller is at Bryan’s,” he mumbles in between kisses. She pulls off his t-shirt in response. They fumble down the hall and she reaches behind her to pull the zipper of her dress but he stops her.

“Keep it on,” he growls and before she can react, he hikes the fabric up to her waist and covers her with his hand, palming her over her underwear. She hooks on of her legs on his hip to grant him better access. She kisses his neck, sucking on the spot between his neck and shoulder that she knows gets him hot.

When he feels she's good and wet, he sinks to his knees and delicately removes her underwear and begins to lick at her. She's never been with someone who enjoys going down on her so much. He does it nearly time they're together and he is really fucking good at it. One of her thighs rests on his shoulder and a hand tangles itself into his hair. Her free hand keeps the dress well above her waist.

He doesn't stay down there long, just enough to have her teetering on the edge. When he stands up, he places his hands firmly under ass and lifts her into the wall, pinning her there with his body. He doesn't even bother to take his shorts off. He pulls them down enough to free his cock before entering her with a hard thrust.

He fucks her against the wall in rough strokes while her heels dig into his ass. He tells her how hot she is, how good she feels, and he repeats her name like a prayer. She comes undone with his name on her lips, her body trembling against his. He let's her down gently and she wastes no time sinking to her knees to take him in her mouth. She can taste herself on his cock as she swirls her tongue around the head before taking him in. He gathers her curls into his hand as she goes and he cums deep in her throat with a guttural moan.

She stands and he moves away, grabbing a towel from the nearby kitchen for her to wipe her mouth. She takes it gratefully and follow him into the kitchen. He reaches into the fridge to grab something and hands her a bottle of water.

She slides onto the countertop and kicks off her heels before taking a swig.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks finally, drumming his hands on the counter. She wants to tell him it's nothing, to thank him for the water and be on her way. But she wouldn't still be here if that's what she really wanted. She wouldn't have come at all.

“I don't want to be a doctor,” she whispers, picking at the label on the bottle, “Not even a little bit.”

He still thinks she's already in school. She never corrected him on that. It hasn't really come up again and she thinks maybe she should tell him. But she can't quite get it out.

“Then don't.” he offers the solution like it's the most simple thing in the world. Sure, she could go home tonight and tell her mom that she isn't doing it. But come fall, somehow she'll find herself enrolled in more Bio courses than needed. It's not that easy.

“You don't get it,” she blurts out. It's a mistake. The natural progression of a statement like that is continuing to explain why. Explaining why means revealing something deeply personal. Against the rules.

“Then explain it,” he says before sliding onto the countertop next to and kicking his feet for good measure. He's all ears.

She stares at him for a moment. He's a mess, still shirtless with tousled hair and flushed cheeks. But his eyes, he's watching her with genuine interest, like despite their agreement he truly wants to know these things about her.

Instead she sighs, “My mom is a surgeon.”

She should stop there. Leave it with a simple statement and let him fill in the blanks. However, once she opens her mouth and it's like a dam breaks. She tells him about her mom, how she works herself to the bone. How she put work before her family and how that is the last thing Clarke ever wants to do. In her heart, she doesn't feel anything. She reads the books she's supposed to read, she memorized what she's supposed to know. But it's missing something.

“You don't have passion for it,” he concludes for her when she fumbles on the words she's looking for.

“I really don't.”

Bellamy slides a hand onto her leg and gives it a reassuring squeeze. His fingers warm through the thin fabric of her dress.

“What would you do?” he asks after a moment of comfortable silence, “If you were to pick something else?”

The answer slides off her tongue easier than she anticipates, “Art.”

He doesn't seem surprised by this, he only chuckles lightly, “Of course.”

“What do you mean?”

He just shakes his head with a small grin, “You know Puvis de Chavannes. And don't think I haven't seen the sketch book buried beneath those shitty anatomy books.”

She can't help but smile a little, “Always the observer aren't You?”

He shrugs, “Believe it or not I am actually interested in being friends. And I like knowing things about friends.”

She takes a long drink of her water to process. It’s not that she doesn't want to be friends with Bellamy, but it's so much more complicated than that. Clarke has a tendency to cling to people once she lets them in. Wells. Raven. She doesn't want to cling to him, partially because she has to leave and she knows it will hurt like hell to build up a relationship, even a friendship, just for it to fall apart. The second thing is, and it's only been a fleeting thought but frightening all the same, she doesn't want to replace Wells. It's stupid because it's not what's happening at all but she still feels guilt. She isn't sure that guilt will ever go away.

“Hey,” Bellamy places a hand on her arm and shakes gently, “You okay? You zoned out for a second.”

His friendship wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. She can be friends with him without letting him in. They can talk movies and frustration. They have the added benefit of sex and she feels good around him. Lighter somehow. She doesn't want to push that away.

She hops off the counter a little to enthusiastically, “Okay, friend. Any chance I can borrow some sweatpants and hang out for a while. We can watch one of your stupid documentaries.”

He gasps in faux hurt, “They aren't stupid. They’re educational.”

She actually laughs at that, “God, you are such a nerd.”

He flips her off before going to his room. He comes back with a t shirt and pajama pants for her to put on, “You want a beer or something?”

She doesn't bother going to the bathroom. Just skips the pants on underneath her dress and reaches behind her to pull the zipper, “I'm good.”

When he turns to reach in the fridge she quickly pulls on the t-shirt. She slides the dress of and lays it delicately over the counter before joining him on the couch.

“You looked nice, by the way.”

“Why the past tense? Are you saying I don't look nice now?”

When he gives a small gesture of his hand as if to say so-so, she launches the throw pillow at his head. After a moment of wrestling over it, she finally gives in and just settles into his side. He gives her a victorious grin before pressing play on the docuseries about the Cold War.

It's nearly two a.m when she decides it's time to head home. Part of her is tempted just sleep on his couch because it's so fucking late and she's exhausted. But staying the night is off the table and even if she's tired she isn't going to break it. Her Uber arrives and she grabs her dress from the counter. Bellamy walks her to the door and gives her a quick hug.

“Let me know when you get home.”

She waves goodbye and slides into the backseat. She can do friendship. Definitely.

*

Friendship is just as problematic as she hoped it wouldn't be. With any normal person it would be easy, but it's Bellamy and he's far from normal (which, knowing that is a problem in itself). He's too good a friend. A great friend, really. Supportive. Affectionate. Caring to the point of being a tad bit overbearing, but worst of all, he's observant. And now that they've crossed some metaphorical threshold into an actual friendship, he's much more vocal about the things he notices.

They’re at trivia night the following Wednesday, post friendship declaration, and the typical pitchers of beer adorn their table. It's during the intermission, Miller steps out to smoke while Harper and Gina run to the bathroom. He's running a thumb over her bare knee and she's staring off into space when he catches her off guard.

“How come you don't drink?” He muses and her eyes snap to his. She shouldn't be that surprised, it's not like she makes a show of pretending any more. It's probably quite obvious (it isn't, actually, only someone who genuinely cared to know would notice but she's not ready to admit that).

She tries to shrug it off, “Not a fan of alcohol.”

He sips his beer thoughtfully, “So you use your cleavage to have people buy you a water?”

“Or to pretend I bought the drink for someone else,” she counters with a playful nudge. This is safe, she thinks.

“Ah, so you let someone buy you a drink and then use the free drink to pick up someone else?”

She laughs, “Exactly.”

He watches her for a brief a moment, like she's a riddle he can't quite figure out. Like he knows she's only telling half-truths and avoiding the rest. Which, she is. And it's scary that he's already able to read that.

He let’s it go, thankfully, and they continue on to win trivia -- they are reigning champs three weeks in a row. She doesn't want to brag, but she is definitely a large part of that. She and Wells played trivial pursuit fairly often with her Dad. Her head is full of random facts.

She doesn't begin to worry until he asks her about her back. They’re making out on his couch, per usual, and his hand slides up her hip and move inward. That's something he hasn't done, not since the first time they hooked up and she flinches away. The reaction is very much the same, she jerks away uncomfortably and effectively ruins the moment.

“Is your back okay?” he pulls away, brow furrowed in concern. She slides from his lap and shrinks into the corner. Even in all the times they've fucked, he's never seen it. He's never seen the long, dark scar contrasting her pale skin.

“It's fine,” she whispers and she hates how pathetic she sounds. He places a light touch to her wrist -- she hadn't realized she had closed herself in on the couch, wrapped herself in a tight ball like she's cowering from something.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “You can talk to me, you know.”

She hates the way her heart flutters at that, how her body instinctively relaxes at the sound of his voice, calm and caring. That's too much. She leaves him that night with a kiss on the cheek, a “thank you but I can't” sort of gesture. He gets it, or seems to, because he doesn't push. Just reminds her to let him know she got home safe. It's clear as day, how fucked up things have gotten, but she refuses to see it. Friends, that's all it is. He really cares about his friends. * Things go from fucked to royally fucked almost three weeks into the initial arrangement. She skips the library that Wednesday to hang out with her mom who, shockingly, managed to get a day off. They go to breakfast and shop around town. She’s strangely attentive, asking if she’s nervous for school and how she can help her prepare. They even buy some dorm things while they’re out, particularly a really nice bedspread (she’s into that shit, okay?). She finds that it isn’t a terrible experience and it feels almost like they have a normal relationship. They don’t talk about med school or her mom’s job even once. She supposes it’s her mom’s way of making up for her sudden departure. According to her, some conference popped up and she has to be there. She doesn’t ask for the details, except when she’ll be back. She has the rest of the week to herself, which she isn’t complaining. Not like she’s there much anymore, anyway..

After dropping her things back at the apartment and sending her mom off in a cab with the reassurance that she would definitely not trash the apartment, she changes into the dress she had bought, a blue and white striped cotton dress with an A-neckline and heads out for the night. She picked it because the weather had been miserably hot and she couldn’t stand to keep wearing jeans when she was sweating her ass off. Also, it may or may not have made her boobs look amazing and lately, well, she just enjoys dressing up a little more.

She gets to the Ark around six and greets the familiar group as she slides into the booth. Gina pats her on the back and Miller tips his beer towards her. It isn’t until trivia begins that she realizes Bellamy hasn’t shown up yet. He normally rolls in right before it starts but no one seems to be expecting him and come to think of it, they haven’t spoken at all today. She’d been tied up and he had been working, though even then he usually sends a text or two to tell her about what she’s missing.

“Is Bellamy not coming?” she asks and she’s met with apprehensive stares. Harper looks at her drink like it’s the most interesting thing in the world while the others glance at Miller.

“What happened?” she feels herself start to panic for a moment. Surely if something bad happened to him, they wouldn’t all be at fucking trivia.

“He’s fine,” Miller reassures her and takes a long sip. He’s stalling. She knows because she’s the queen of stalling.

“What don’t I know?”

“I’m gonna grab a drink,” Gina comments and Harper follows suit, leaving her and Miller alone in the booth.

“Miller…”she eggs him on. Clearly there’s something but he doesn’t want her to know what.

“If he wanted you to know, he would have told you, okay?”

It’s not an answer she expects and it isn’t like he says it harshly, but it seems to give her whiplash all the same. She understands what he’s saying, though. It’s personal and the whole point of them is to not get personal. Miller has definitely been made aware of their...arrangement. She doesn’t mean to be loud when he’s home, but Bellamy really knows how to work her and sometimes she can’t help it.

“Okay.” and that’s all she can say really. She won’t push it any further because she has no right. She knows he’s alive and healthy and that’s all that matters. She finishes trivia with them and they come in fourth. None of them were particularly into it this week and. It's about time someone else won. They’re about to head back to Harper’s for their pizza and beer Netflix marathon but she decides to head out. She’s not much in the mood for pizza and admittedly, it would feel weird to be there without Bellamy. It shouldn't, she considers them all friends, but she knows it would. They don’t push her and she calls an Uber to take her back to the apartment. For the first time in almost two months she finds herself going home by nine p.m.

The apartment is eerily quiet, especially knowing her mom won’t be there for the next five days. It feels empty. She turns on the big screen for some noise, throwing on reruns of the Office to try and perk up the place. She heats up some leftover lasagna that her mom made earlier in the week and plops onto the couch. Still not feeling quite satisfied and frankly, a bit lonely, she calls her Dad. When he answers, she immediately feels bad because he sounds exhausted and she had probably woke him up. She just tells him she misses him and loves him, letting him get back to sleep. He doesn’t protest that. She shoots a text to Raven to see if she’s busy. When she says she's available, Clarke opts for FaceTime.

“Hello, stranger,” Raven says cheerily from her end of the phone. She looks like she’s just rolled out of bed, hair sticking out at awkward angles and eyes squinting to adjust to the light she had turned on.

“Did I wake you up, Grandma?” she retorts and Raven rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Says the girl who spends free time at the library.”

She snorts, “Yeah, but that was so I could get laid.”

Raven’s eyes widen at that, “Tell me everything!”

She does. She tells her all about Bellamy and their, er, friendship.. She thought it would feel strange to talk about it, especially as the girl who had broke up Raven’s last relationship (unintentional, but still). But Raven listens intently, even smiling when Clarke tells her all about how good it is.

“He's good in bed, huh?” she asks with a grin.

“Definitely,” She confirms. And he really is. Attentive and selfless, always making sure she gets off at least once but goes the extra mile to make it twice. He also tends to talk nasty with her which has become one of her favorite things.

As if on cue, her phone buzzes in her hand. A text drops down from the top and Bellamy’s name pops up.

“Hang on,” she tells her friend and opens the text. It’s short and to the point.

Bellamy: you home?

She types a quick reply before switching back to FaceTime.

Clarke: yep

“So friends with benefits, huh?” Raven muses aloud before turning serious, “Are you okay with that?”

“Absolutely,” She answers automatically, “He's cool and I like hanging out with him. He's also great in bed. But at the end of the day he doesn't have to know anything about me I don't want him to.”

Raven sighs, “And this doesn't have anything to do with Finn?”

“Raven,” She warns but the girl cuts her off.

“Just hear me out. I know we haven't talked about it much but I know you cared about him and he broke your heart. I know it takes a lot for you to trust someone and you're afraid to do that again…”

Her phone vibrates and interrupts Ravens totally inappropriate (though somewhat accurate) monologue about her fear of dating.

Bellamy: i need you

As far as texts go, it’s the most candid he’s ever been with her. Normally they don’t text each other for booty calls late at night, or really in general. They’re together quite a bit and they usually end up back at his place on those days. Yet, his text his pretty straightforward. He’s bootycalling her and she isn’t opposed, except this time they don’t have to worry about making Miller’s ears bleed.

                          Clarke: mom’s gone for a couple of days if you want a change of scenery.

She doesn’t even get to close her messages before he replies.

                                                                                          Bellamy: be there in 10.

“Wow, thanks for ignoring me. I'm trying to have a serious conversation here.”

“I'm sorry,” she gives her an apologetic smile, “I hear what you're saying and you're right, I'm still reluctant to trust other people. But Raven, you know it's more than that.”

It's not wanting to depend on other people. It's still dealing with the grief of losing her best friend. Of reconciling her guilt. It's her inevitable move to a different city, a place to start over. She's in limbo right now. The best thing she can offer in the way of emotional attachments extends to Raven and her Dad.

“I know.”

She and Raven continue to talk, mostly about her job at the shop and how much she hates her boss. She's sticking it through because the experience will look good on her resume but she is definitely ready for a new job.

She almost forgets she's expecting someone until the doorbell rings.

“Isn’t it like almost ten up there?” Raven asks squinting into the camera, “Who the hell is out this late?”

She just grins at the camera and Raven rolls her eyes, “Ugh. Go get laid or whatever. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

She beams, “Love you, Reyes.”

“Yeah, you too, Griffin.”

She opens the door as she hangs up, the blanket drooping from her shoulders. She barely gets a good look at him before his hands are on her face and he’s pushing her back with a ferocious kiss. She manages to kick the door shut as they stumble back into the wall. His hands are everywhere. Her ass, her waist, her hair. She doesn’t mind. She likes when he’s a bit rough (a kink they discovered not long into their sexual relationship). He pins her hands to the wall and runs his tongue along her throat and collarbone.

“Bellamy,” she groans as he presses into her, his want for her already very much obvious. Her hip hits the foyer table and she has to throw her hand out to catch the vase that began to tilt.

“As much as I’d love to be taken against the wall, I don’t feel like explaining to my mom why her vases are broken,” she manages to get out as his hand grazes her through her underwear, very much under the dress she's been wearing.

He lets her move away from the wall and she takes his hand, guiding him to the guest bedroom. While she’d be fine against the wall or even on the couch, it feels weird to do it on her mom’s furniture. At least she can change the sheets on the bed. When she pulls him into the bedroom, he’s on her again before she can react. She allows him to yank the dress over her head before they fall onto the bed, a flurry of limbs and lips. He shucks his own clothes rather quickly, making sure to grab the condom from his wallet before tossing it all to the side. Even in the rough quiet of it all, he still throws a leg over his shoulder and goes down on her. His mouth is forceful, burying into her like can’t get close enough and it’s fierce enough to bring one of the most intense orgasms of her life. He doesn’t even wait for her to finish before he flips on her on her stomach and enters her from behind. It’s one of her favorite positions and he knows it. The angle hits all of her best spots and gives him the best leverage to go as deep as possible.

“Fuck, yes!” she moans into the darkness and he grips her ass tightly as he pounds into her. He slides one hand into her hair and tugs on it, not forcefully but just hard enough to cause her to cry out in pleasure.Within minutes she’s screaming his name a second time. Part of what makes being with Bellamy addicting is that somehow, he gets her off quicker and more times than anyone. It’s not uncommon for her to cum twice and three times on a good day. He’s fucking talented.

Tonight is a good night for her. Though it’s the least vocal he’s ever been, the bedroom absent of his normal expletives and dirty talk, he still lets out low moans and it’s enough for her at this point. She’s on the cusp of cumming for a third time when she finally feels him pick up pace and stiffen inside her. As if knowing she had almost reached the third peak, he pulls out but reaches around her and rubs at the nub between her legs. Her entire body begins to tremble under his hand, but with the magic touch he’s able to push her over the edge one more time.

They collapse next to each other, their breaths ragged and the intensity of the moment hanging in the air. By the time her lust filled haze is gone, she realizes he hasn’t spoken a single word and that bothers her. More than that, it worries her.

“Bellamy?” she questions softly and she feels him stiffen in the bed. She moves a hand over carefully, grazing his wrist with her fingertips as a semblance of comfort. Something is wrong. She can feel it.

“Talk to me,” her voice is gentle. She doesn’t want to push him. She doesn’t want to force him in revealing parts of himself he doesn’t want to. They set boundaries and she, of all people, should respect them.

“I’m okay,” his voice is broken, not in a sad way but like it’s hoarse from lack of use. It’s not a believable statement by any means.

“You can talk to me, you know?” she’s mirroring his same sentiments when she had showed up at his house unannounced to unload her personal baggage in a moment of weakness. It's opening the floor up for something dangerous, she knows, but if they’re going to be friends, she has to offer support of some kind. It seems big, bigger than something sex can fix.

He turns his palm over, where her fingers had been idly moving and grips them in his hand. His voice is softer when he speaks. Vulnerable, “I know.”

He knows. He isn’t ready, at least, not right now. So instead of pressing, she moves over and nuzzles her head into the crook of his neck. Instinctively, his arm moves behind her. They lay there, just like that. Naked. Together.

And that’s how they manage to break two rules in one night.

*

When she wakes up the following morning she becomes acutely aware of two things. She is still very much naked and there is a heavy arm currently weighing down on her waist. She should feel guilty for letting him stay and crossing one of the few boundaries they had, but he had made the choice to stay. As long as they’re on the same page about things, she thinks, then they have nothing to worry about.

She grabs her phone off the nightstand to check the time and at first it doesn’t register how late it is, but then as she’s scrolling through Facebook, she realizes that it’s a weekday. Ten a.m on a weekday.

She places a hand on his shoulder, gripping the muscle gently, and shakes, “Bellamy?”

He stirs, eyes twitching but not opening.

She shakes a little harder this time, “Bell?”

He grunts in response, “That’s what my sister calls me. It’s weird.”

So he has a sister. That’s interesting, she thinks. She’s curious, but keeps her thoughts to herself.

“You have a really exhausting name to say,” she replies instead.

He opens his eyes and she gives him a guilty smile, “You realize you’re late for work?”

If he cares at all, he doesn’t show it. He slides his arm down her side and onto her thigh, giving it a quick squeeze before closing his eyes again.

“Unless you just said fuck their books and quit?” she questions and he shakes his head.

“I have the rest of the week off.”

“Lucky you,” she says innocently and his eyes open again, a strange emotion flickering across. He quickly composes himself.

“Seriously,” concern creeping into her otherwise neutral voice, “Are you okay?”

He sighs, like he would really like her to stop asking but she can’t help it. Something is clearly off with him. It doesn’t take a genius to know that.

“You really wanna know?”

She shrugs, not wanting to push him,“That’s up to you. Do you really wanna tell me?”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, “I think so.”

They're lying face to face, and she brushes a curl from his eye before letting her hand fall to rest on his cheek, stroking at the newly formed stubble. He takes a deep breath, trying to allow her touch to soothe him.

“My mom died,” he tells her and she freezes, “I mean, yesterday was the anniversary. It’s been four years.”

There’s never a right thing to say in these moments, so she decides to keep it simple, “I’m sorry, Bellamy.”

He shakes his head, “It still hits me, even now. She had gone out to the grocery to grab some stuff and it was raining. I guess on the way home she lost control of the car...:”

She lets him take as long as he needs to fill the silence, stroking his arms with her nails, offering comfort in the best way she can, “I just feel guilty about it. She had gone to get stuff for me, to celebrate going to school and what not.”

“It’s not your fault,” she whispers stupidly. She’s sure he knows that but it still feels necessary to say.

“I know,” he gives her a half-smile, “But after she died, I told my sister I would take care of her. My sister, my responsibility. She’s younger than me and she needed me.”

She stays quiet, knowing it’s not reassurance he’s looking for but someone to listen. She can give him that.

“And instead I chose to go off to college while she had to stay with a family friend.”

She can hear the guilt in his voice, the way it seems to weigh heavy on him, “Is she happy there?”

He nods and she gives him a reassuring squeeze, “I bet she’s so happy to see you doing something for yourself.”

“She is. At least, that’s what she tells me. But I still feel guilty, you know?”

“Yeah,” she answers truthfully, “I know.”

He doesn’t say anything else and for a moment she thinks he fell back asleep. But the he reaches up and runs his thumb along her cheek, “I’m sorry about last night.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she responds immediately. And he doesn’t. She’s glad she could help, even if was just being an outlet for his emotion.

“I was rough,” he moves his thumb down to her wrist were a small, faint bruise has appeared. She’s comfortable with it. She is a consenting adult and she, admittedly, likes it a bit rough.

“You know I like it that way,” she smiles and she feels the tension start to slowly dissipate.

“True,” he responds. They lie together and she thinks about bringing up the fact that staying the night was violation of boundaries but he interrupts her.

“Does your mom keep food here or does she survive on take-out like you?”

She laughs, “She’s probably got something. But you’re cooking. Unless toast is enough for you. I’m a shit cook.”

They get dressed and wander into the kitchen. She sits on the counter as he cooks and they talk idly about his best memories of his mom and she tells him a bit about her own family. It’s strange because she still doesn’t even know his last name. Doesn’t know his birthday, but she knows some of his deepest secrets. She’s seen him at his most vulnerable.

She can feel the third rule withering away, cracking beneath everything they’ve done, beneath the weight of their longing stares, damage from every touch they share. She doesn't know it yet, but they're creating a perfect storm and perfect storms have to make landfall eventually.

*

She should put a stop to it. She should send him home that afternoon if only to keep their boundaries firmly in place. Letting him stay the night was a fluke, something she did because he is her friend and he needed comfort. It won’t happen again, she tells herself.

They go out that night for their weekly karaoke get together and things are relatively normal. She joins Miller for their amazing rendition Tango Maureen from Rent. Bellamy sings his usual (a dramatic interpretation of Losing my Religion), and when Harper shows up with Roma, she introduces Clarke as a friend. Everyone’s friend. But when the night ends, and they go their separate ways, she finds herself asking if he wants to walk her home. He agrees and they wake up the next morning the same way they did the day before.

They spend the entire five days like that. Every day she wakes up and reminds herself that she can’t get used to this, that she needs to be careful. But then she stumbles into the kitchen and he’s got a fresh pot of coffee ready and is sitting at the counter reading the newspaper and it’s like she can’t breathe. She can’t do anything because his glasses are sliding down his nose and his forehead is creased in concentration and he’s filling in the crossword puzzle. She blows him just like that, in the middle of the kitchen, and he tells her he needs a shower and once again they’re tangled up in one another and the day is half over before they’re even ready to leave the apartment. They start finding excuses not to.

It rains on Saturday so they spend their time indoors on the couch, binging Netflix documentaries while he rattles off interesting facts about the time period or becomes so engaged that he doesn’t say a word throughout the entire thing. She never knows how it’s going to go, but she finds herself enjoying it either way. He manages to find something for them to eat, cooking a random assortment of ingredients left around the house and making them a meal. It’s probably the first time she’s had three consecutive meals since she was younger.

“Where did you learn to cook?” she can’t help but ask, curious to know how he manages to come up with a dish with a random assortment of items.

He’s stirring a pot of noodles while she sits on the counter next to him. He squeezes her leg affectionately, “My mom wasn’t around much growing up. I was usually in charge of making sure my sister ate.”

It’s another clip of who he is, some other piece of the puzzle she’s been collecting over time. He never reveals much, the most he’s ever told her had been the first night, the anniversary of his mom's death. But she catches small tidbits -- his sister is four years younger than him and he cares about her more than anyone in the world, sometimes he feels guilty about going off to college and leaving her in their hometown. Much of him is still a mystery and she’s glad to keep it that way. What she’s afraid of is that if he reveals to much of himself, she won’t be ready to walk away. What she’s more afraid of is that she might already be there.

That same night, in the midst of their documentary marathon, they end up watching one about the porn industry and find themselves arguing about the pros and cons of porn.

“It gives unrealistic expectations!” she is saying over the movie as a younger woman with a very large, and evidently fake, chest is speaking, “That’s not what sex is like in real life!”

“I think you’re having sex with the wrong people,” he challenges and he gives her mischievous smile.

“So you’re telling me that this is usually what sex is like for you?” she asks, gesturing to the current scene flashing across the screen. It’s a clip of one of the dramatic pornos, the kind that start with shitty dialogue and contain overly compensating moans. The girl on the screen is cleaning floors in a maids outfit, the kind of outfit seen often on Halloween in an effort to get laid. The guy comes in and starts beating it right in front of her and tells her to “clean it”. It’s fucking weird and she has no idea how people get off to this.

“You’ve never had sexual fantasies before?”

They never finish the documentary. She mentions her fantasy of being dominant, tying someone up and just wrecking their body. He volunteers to be her test subject very quickly. She’s hesitant at first, suddenly feeling self-conscious about what she does and how she does it. But then he whispers how much he wants her in her ear, sending shiver of anticipation down her spine and she can’t control it. They make due with what’s lying around the house (mostly belts she packed in her suitcase) and she doesn’t think she’ll ever experience anything like it again. She taunts him, hovering over his mouth so he can smell her and almost graze his tongue along her dripping cunt and he is begging for her by the time she gives it to him. She cums to the sound of him pleading her name as she rides him, her ass smacking against his thighs. It's the closest thing to heaven she thinks she'll ever get.

For him, he tells her his fantasy always involves a beach. They leave the apartment that night, backpacks filled with flashlights and blankets and make their way to Carson Beach. It's empty and he takes her to his favorite spot, one he says he comes to when he needs to clear his head because it has the best view of the galaxy. The sand is still wet from the afternoon storm, but the sky is filled with a million shining stars and he fucks her, slow and gentle, and they sink into the sand together.

He tells her about his favorite constellations. To her, they're abstract stars-- balls of gas suspended in space and time. But he rattles off their names, telling her the history behind each one. Some hold deep meaning, she learns. Deriving from Greek mythology and Latin history. Others are simple. She finds her favorite one he tells her about is the one whose name means swan. She isn’t sure how long they spend like that, but it's late when they shuffle home and finally fall into bed together to sleep.

He goes quickly, his soft breathing turned to gentle snores almost as soon as he hits the pillow. She lies awake, wondering just how much longer she'll be able to pretend she hasn't already broken rule three.

It's a restless sleep and she gives up once she sees sunlight begins to peek in between her blinds. Bellamy remains fast asleep, his arms pillows under his head and the muscles of his bare back flexing with every breath.

She slips out from next to him, pulling on the sweatshirts draped around the chair. She moves to sit in the desk next to them, pulling her sketchpad from its forgotten place in the drawer. She wants to remember him like this, she decides, all sharp edges and beautiful angles. He really is something to behold, beautiful on the outside and on the inside.

She draws him as he is, lying on his stomach with the covers falling off his hips but covering the more delicate parts of him. She works the charcoal onto the page, sketching each detail as best as she can, trying to get everything right. His curls, each defined line of his body, even the small dimples that grace his lower back. She’s still working diligently when she hears him stir.

“Don’t move,” she tells him, eyes remaining glued to her paper as she tries to get his hair perfected.

“Should I be worried?” he asks warily. She glances up to see him starting to push himself up. She flips the sketch around to show him.

“I’m almost finished,” she huffs, “Don’t move.”

He settles into his previous position as demanded, “So demanding.”

She responds with a simple hum, scratching into the paper with precision and concentration like never before. Another ten minutes pass before she tosses her charcoal down with finality. She’s quite proud of her finished product and shows it to him. He grabs the sketchpad from her hands and examines it, his thumb brushing over the portrait reverently.

“It’s amazing, Clarke,” he compliments her quietly and she nearly blushes. She’s never been great at receiving compliments on her art, maybe because it's always been so personal to her.

“Can I?”he asks, moving the page for permission to look. Perhaps it's her pre-coffee fog, or maybe something more, but she nods without thinking.

“Seriously,” he says when he comes across a landscape of the park she had done. She spent the entire morning on it when she drew it, “These are really good. Why aren’t you doing it professionally or something?”

She scoffs, “They aren’t that good.”

He sits up at that, completely comfortable being naked in front of her, having her sketchpad the only thing covering his lower region. It’s a funny sight, but the laughter dies in her throat. He’s looking at her like she holds the sky and the moon and it’s fucking terrifying.

“I told you, they're amazing. You’re amazing.”

She feels heat rise in her cheeks and has to look away, the intensity of it all making her slightly uncomfortable. She knows she's good but it's still strange to hear people say it. She's still not looking at him when his breath hitches.

“Wow, this one is really good.” He breathes and when she sees which one he's talking about, she feels like she might throw up. It's one closer to the front of the sketch pad, one she drew not long after Wells’ death. It's him at the wheel of his car, his soft smile and kind eyes.

“Who is he?” Bellamy asks and there is nothing but genuine curiosity. He has no idea, maybe thinks it's a former boyfriend or something. Just wonders who one of her subjects was. He flips the page and there is another. And another. She can't breathe.

“Clarke?” He asks and she hadn't even realized she had begun gasping for air. Fuck. Fuck. It's been so long since she's had one of these.

She shakes her head at him but he lays the sketch pad down and crawls over to her. She lets him pull her to his chest and stroke her hair, “It's okay, you're okay.”

She's trying to take deep breaths but they're shallow and raspy.

“Breathe with me,” he commands and begins taking long, deep breaths. She listens, tries to follow. His hand is stroking her hair softly and she tries to focus. She's here with Bellamy, he just asked a question. Just an innocent question. Get a grip, Griffin.

It takes a couple of minutes but she feels her heartbeat slow down, her breathing even out. He's patient with her, holding her close even though she knows this position can't be comfortable for him. When she pulls away, she finds it hard to look at him. She's embarrassed because her entire facade had been wrecked. Now he's seen her, seen her greatest weakness. Seem her vulnerability.

“Sorry about that,” she whispers, scooting to the edge of the bed, “I...just...sorry.”

“Hey,” he plays a hand in between her shoulder blades and rubs soothingly, “I've been there, don't worry about it. I'm sorry I asked,”

“You shouldn't be,” she says without thinking. She pauses for a moment. She never wanted to cross this line with him. With anyone, really. But she just had a fucking panic attack in front of him. He probably thinks she's crazy, especially knowing that it was because of a sketch. And at this point, maybe this is what she needs. Maybe she needs to talk about it because lord knows keeping it pent up isn't exactly healthy.

“You don't have to talk about it,” he tells her firmly, “Don't feel like you do.”

She takes a shaky breath, “I want to, I think.”

She grabs the sketch pad from the bed and runs her fingertips along the portrait. This could be therapeutic. She trusts him.

“He was my best friend,” she says softly. She doesn't want to look at him, it's easier not to. Just like talking into an empty space and he just so happens to be listening, “He died this past year. He died and it was my fault.”

She tells him the entire sob story. About the party, about walking in on Finn and Raven. She leaves out most of the grueling details of the accident, but she tells him of survivors guilt. She knows he gets it in a twisted way.

“They thought I wouldn't be able to walk again,” she scoffs at that, “It feels fucked up. Like not only did I live but made a full recovery. At least if I hadn't recovered, it would feel like I was punished in some way.”

To his credit, he listened to the entire story without interruption. He kept his hand on her back as he did, but this time he responds quickly, “It's not your fault, Clarke.”

She almost smiles at that, especially knowing his own guilt often weighs him down, “I know that. Most days.”

He's thoughtful for a moment, “Is that why you don't drink?”

Pointless to lie about it now, isn't it? She nods, “I can't drink the pain away. Believe me I've tried.”

“We all cope in our own ways,” he replies, “But for what it's worth, I'm happy you don't use alcohol to do it.”

No. She uses people. It brings a whole new guilt to the equation. But they're having an intimate conversation now, might as well clear the table.

“But you're happy I used you?”

It's quiet for a moment, almost too quiet. She thinks maybe she overstepped, revealed too much and now he's going to take off on her. But suddenly he laughs, soft and she turns to face him.

“I can't exactly be mad at that,” he tells her when she gives him a confused look, “I was doing the same thing.”

It's not a shocking revelation, yet she's surprised to hear it all the same. But then she actually cracks a smile as well, “We’re just two peas in a fucking pod aren't we?”

They fall into a comfortable silence. She feels lighter now, somehow. Talking about everything was hard but cathartic. Needed. For the first time she thinks someone might get it, and Bellamy does. He knows pain and loss. He knows guilt, but most of all, he doesn't judge her for any of it. It feels good.

“Thank you,” she says, finally turning to him with a soft smile.

He picks the sketch pad up and flips through it some more, “Anytime, and seriously, these are all amazing. Your friend would be proud of you.”

She takes the sketchpad from him and climbs into his lap, giving him a deep kiss. His hands wrap around her instinctively, “I appreciate you saying that.”

He smiles, “And you can draw me like one of your french girls anytime.”

“Nice,” she giggles into his neck grateful for the natural change into their usual banter, “Quoting one of your least favorite movies.”

“All I said is that it wasn’t entirely accurate in how it sank,” he sighs, clearly perturbed by the way James Cameron chose to wreck the boat. The funny thing is, he really does get upset about it sometimes.

“I seriously can’t stand you,” she tells him with a shake of her head and he laughs, sliding his hand up the back of her shirt to rest on her back. She doesn't flinch this time.

“Don’t lie, Princess,” the old nickname falling easily off his tongue, a teasing lilt to it. She leans up and kisses him, pressing herself into him.

“I hate you,” she sighs when he begins to run his lips over her exposed neck, “You’re the worst.”

“Mmmm,” he mumbles, pulling his shirt off her, leaving her fully exposed once more. His hands travel over her slowly, like they’re trying to memorize every inch of her. She threads her fingers into his hair, raking her fingernails over his neck, something she knows drives him crazy.

“I hate you, too,” he states before pulling her into a slow kiss.

It’s a strange exchange, and somewhere deep in her mind she knows they don’t mean it. In fact, it’s like they’re trying to tell each other something without saying it. They weren’t supposed to fall in love, but she's never been one to follow rules.

*

Clarke can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Her mom returns home and seems tired, but more than that she seems sad. She takes the rest of the week off to spend time with Clarke, leaving her ability to do much else limited. She wants to see Bellamy, but she tells herself they need a break. He needs a break, though he makes no indication of it. He texts her more frequently, even asking how her day is going with her mom. He doesn't know much, but knows their relationship is strained and awkward at best.

But her mom is putting in an effort. She's offered to take her to a baseball game, knowing Clarke had always been a fan and they actually have fun together. Turns out her mom isn't completely clueless when it comes to sports. She even helps order her textbooks online with no mention of her course schedule and it's lack of biology classes. She's happy that they're trying to build some semblance of a relationship but her gut is telling her it isn't right. She tries to ask if she's okay, and she pulls out her Dr. GRIFFIN voice and explains she's simply exhausted.

She manages to sneak away at the end of the week and finds herself at Bellamy's house. He pulls her into a hug when he opens the door and she knows exactly what he's saying. He missed her. Miller hangs out for awhile before drifting off to bed, requesting they keep it down that night. She blushes and curls into Bellamy’s side, fixing her attention on the move they're watching.

“I can't tonight,” she buries her face in his shoulder once Miller leaves the room.

“Hmm?” his attention is focused on the big budget fight scene. Marvel is his guilty pleasure, she's discovered.

“Sex…” she says sheepishly, “It's..I’m on my period.”

He finally turns to focus on her and rolls his eyes, playfully poking her in the ribs, “That's it. Get out. How dare you?”

She presses her hand against his forehead and gives it a small push with a laugh, feeling instantly less embarrassed about the whole thing.

“There was a time where we used to hang out without the sex, Clarke,” he pulls her into his lap and she finds her favorite crook in neck to rest. Her body relaxes instantly.

“I don't recall,” she mumbles. Her eyes fall closed listening to the sound of his heartbeat. His hand is tracing idle circles on her back and it feels like everything is right in the world.

*

It doesn't take long for reality to hit her like a bucket of cold water. She’s eating breakfast with her mom when he sends her a text about an art contest and tells her she should enter. He even offers to be her model. She sends him back something snarky, complete with the eye roll emoji. He responds instantly. Bellamy: Just encouraging you to follow your dreams, Princess.

It's like the winds is knocked out of her when she Reads it.

She fucking loves him.

She doesn’t come to the conclusion on her own. It comes to her in flashes but when she finally meets up with Harper for their neglected coffee and walk meet up, she finally realizes the extent of it all. They’re talking about her and Roma, who she’s been dating since their hookup on Gina’s birthday.

“I’m just not cut out for one night stands,” Harper concludes.

“They aren’t for everyone,” she consoles the girl on this and they laugh about it. It’s when Harper asks about Bellamy that things become serious.

“I know you guys are hooking up,” she chooses her words carefully, “But...I don’t know, Clarke, it seems like a lot more than you all are making it out to be.”

Her heart thuds in her chest, “What do you mean?”

You know what she means, a small voice tells her. It’s the same one she’s been trying to ignore for weeks now.

“I’ve never seen Bellamy this way with anyone,” she admits, watching Clarke warily, “I mean, the way he acts around you. He’s hooked up with plenty of people before, but nothing like this.”

“Like this?” she echoes.

“He’s...I don't know,” she says, frustration evident in her voice, “Just be careful, okay? I know you all are just supposed to be having fun or whatever, but it feels like more than that.”

She doesn’t say anything, instead picking at the coffee cup in her hands and doing her best to keep her breathing even. It doesn’t surprise her. In fact, she knows Harper is right. IT does feel like more than that and it has for a long time. The lust aspect had been their primary driving force in the beginning. They pleasured each other and were comfortable enough to continue doing it. But then it got personal, on both sides. She wants to know more about him and she wants him to know more about her. She can’t pinpoint the exact moment her feelings changed. Maybe they’ve been there all along, buried deep in denial and her want to just let loose for the summer. This wasn’t the plan. And yet it happened.

“Thanks, Harper,” she tells the girl, hoping she sounds neutral. While Harper might be right, she definitely doesn’t want her to know that. It’s a conversation she needs to have with Bellamy. She’s going to tell him how she feels because it’s the right thing to do. They’re supposed to end it because she got feelings, but she’s hoping maybe they can change that. Maybe he feels the same and they won’t have to end it at all. Maybe they can start a new beginning.

Now, all she has to do is figure out the right time.

August 2013

The right time never comes. He ends up going to visit his sister the last week of July and she’s actually happy about it. It gives her time to figure out what to say, how to approach the subject in the best way she can. She knows she’s probably overthinking it, it’s what she does, but she has to tell him. She knows the first thing she should do is lay out all the basic stuff first.

“I’m Clarke Griffin, I’m 18, and I have an irrational fear of getting attached to people but I got attached to you.”

That’s what she wants to say but she knows there has to be a better way to phrase it, though he tends to be more personable when she’s up front with him. She didn’t intend to come to Boston and meet someone like him, but fate had other plans. Fate is a stone cold bitch.

She feels like she finally has it figured out by the time he returns and asks him to meet her in front of the library that Monday night when he returns. SHe’s hoping if she tells him in public, he’ll be less liable to freak out. Rejection is easier to handle in public than private, in her opinion. She’s less likely to let her emotions get the best of her in public, that is.

She never makes it to the library that night. As she’s getting ready in her room, she hears her mom come through the front door. It’s a strange time for her to be getting home from work, normally working a solid 12 hour shift, at least. It’s only now coming up on her usual eighth hour. She walks into the living room and freezes. Standing in the foyer is none other than Jake Griffin.

“Dad?”

He gives her a tired smile and holds out his arms. She runs into them, feeling overwhelmed by how much she really did miss him. She knows he’s been working a lot lately and hasn’t been able to talk to him as much.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice muffled by his shoulder. It feels a little bonier than she remembers.

“Came to see you,” he tells her as he pulls back, “I missed you, kiddo.”

She should have realized something was wrong, the way her mom watched the exchange with tears in her eyes, the way Jake Griffin, former elite soccer player and college wrestler, seemed so fragile. Their reunion is short lived.

“We need to talk, Clarke,” he tells her softly when she notices her mom standing at the door. She follows them into the living room and sits down. Her dad keeps her hand firmly in his, rubbing soothing circles into her knuckles.

“Is everything okay?” she questions when they sit down, worry lacing every inch of her voice. She feels like she’s on the edge of something, a ledge or a cliff, and is close to being dropped off. Her head is swimming.

“I’m sick, baby.”

Things become hazy after that. He tells her something about having headaches and finally going to the doctor after she left for Boston in May. He was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. Inoperable. The doctors gave him six months to live, and that’s with treatment.

“They’re wrong,” she cries, refusing to believe that he could possibly be so close to the end, “There has to be something they can do.”

Her mom finally speaks, “There isn’t. We’ve gotten multiple opinions.”

She feels anger start to swell within her, a fire ready to burn everything in its wake, “You knew?”

Jake sighs, “She came to visit me a couple of weeks ago. Took me to some fancy specialists she knew. They confirmed it.”

She stands from the couch, her entire body beginning to shake, “You can’t...this can’t.”

“Clarke,” he stands, his voice cracking with her name, “Look at me.”

Her frantic eyes find his own, her own blue irises staring back at her, “I need you.”

He holds her in his arms as she cries, and it feels like the ground is slowly cracking beneath her. Her father is dying and there isn’t anything anyone can do. She can’t be sure how long they sit like that, him cradling her to his chest like a child, her mom sitting next to her, a hand firmly on her knee. It’s the first time they’ve been together as a family in five years and it’s because one of them is dying.

When the tears no longer fall, when her brain feels numb and he body exhausted, she leans up.

“I want to stay with you,” she tells him, her mind already made up, “Every step of the way.”

She tells him she’ll defer school for a year, so she can go to every appointment and take him wherever he needs to go. She wants to spend as much time as possible with him because on day, he won’t be there anymore. Her parents try to talk her out of it, try to tell her school will be the best thing for her but she won’t listen.

“I won’t be able to concentrate on fucking anatomy while you lay at home withering away,” she says bluntly and they don’t argue anymore. It’s late when she finally shuffles into her room and climbs into bed. Her mom is planning on taking him to a few more doctors tomorrow, just to confirm there are no treatment options available for him to at least give him more time. Even despite their divorce, she can tell her mom still cares for him deeply and she is just as distraught about his death as she is.

His death. It’s inevitable for everyone, it’s part of living. But it hurts all the same. How is she supposed to move on with life knowing the most important person in it won’t be there? She can’t fathom it.

*

She has four missed calls and seventeen text messages when she wakes up. She had turned her phone on silent before passing out last night, reluctant to talk to anyone or even hear her phone go off. All of the missed calls are from Bellamy, no doubt worried she got kidnapped on the way to the library. They always joke about it, though it’s a pretty fucked up thing to joke about. The texts are from a flurry of people. Raven drunk texting about her stupid boss. The others are from Bellamy and his friends. Even Miller all just asking if she’s okay, probably in the hopes that she’ll respond to one of them and they can conclude she simply ditched Bellamy and is still alive. She doesn’t feel alive.

She opens the texts to get rid of the notification. Miller asking if she's good. Harper asking her to call her. Bellamy freaking out in his typical fashion.

5:45pm: I’m here. You close? 5:57 pm: Tried to call you. You okay? 6:15pm: seriously clarke, you’re never this late at least let me know you’re alive 7 pm: if you don’t answer me i’m coming by your house 7:03pm: Miller said that’s really creepy and I shouldn’t so I won’t. But please answer me so I can stop thinking you're dead. We joked one too many times about the kidnapping thing. 9pm: i’m worried. Please be okay. Please.

She doesn’t answer him. She gets out of bed and wanders out into the living room. Her parents are awake, chatting over a cup of coffee like it’s just another normal day. It isn’t. There won’t be a normal day ever again.

* It's an appropriately gloomy day in Boston, rain constantly coming down as morning fades into afternoon. They're sitting in the waiting room of her mom's hospital. Her dad is being looked over, no doubt being told the same thing he's been told four different times. Her hopes aren't high and she feels strangely empty. Notifications continue to pop up on her phone and she turns it on silent. She's almost ready to launch it out the window.

She isn't sure how long she stays there but it's dinner time when they shuffle into the apartment. Her parents ask her what she wants for dinner. She just goes to bed. Her phone is off and things are so quiet.

She cries herself to sleep wondering how, when things seem to be getting better, they could possibly get worse? * They book the earliest flight home, which isn't until tomorrow evening, it feels so far away. They talk with her mom about care and the woman desperately tries to convince her ex-husband to get treatment. Clarke listens for approximately a half hour before she stands abruptly from the table.

“Clarke?” Her mom calls. Without thinking she slips on her shoes, grabs her bag, and heads out the door.

It's crazy to her how normal things felt for the last few weeks, how life seemed to be on track and the grief began to feel natural rather than suffocating. It's not fair, not to her. Not to her father. Not to Bellamy. Especially not to him.

She's at his house before she even realizes where she's going. It feels fucked up to show up after almost four days of radio silence. He probably thought she was dead, or ghosting him. He didn't deserve it but she didn't know what else to do. Doesn't know what else to do. He deserves more than some girl who fucks her way through grief. Who can't give him anything more. The saddest part is that she could have. She was so willing. But now? Everything is different now.

Before she can think anymore, she knocks softly. She probably should have at least texted first to make sure he's home. It's late evening and he's typically off work by now, but he doesn't always come home after work. She wouldn't blame him for not answering either. But she can't leave without saying goodbye, no matter how terrible a goodbye it may be.

She knocks one more time and is about to call it when the door opens. He looks a mess, hair sticking up wildly and eyes red. The bags under them tell her he hasn't been sleeping and she's prays it wasn't because of her. She thought he might be angry. Not...distraught.

He looks her up and down like he's trying to assess her well being. He runs a hand through his hair nervously, “I called the hospital to find you, thinking you were hurt or something and then I realized I don't even know your last name. Or your birthday…”

She doesn't respond, tries to ignore the way her hurt thuds painfully in her chest. She forces a wall in place and he laughs bitterly,

“I'm happy you're okay,” he says stiffly and then let's out a bitter laugh, “I just wished you would have told me something. Even if it was ‘hey Bellamy, I don't want to see you any more.’”

She didn't want to hurt him. Never was that her intention, hell, she made a list of rules to prevent this from happening, but it did anyway. Fuck, she wants nothing more than to crumble in his arms and have him tell her everything will be okay. But it's not fair, to either of them. Not fair to him that he have to spend his time trying to fix something, someone that's broken or to invest himself who can't fully reciprocate. Not when she has to worry about everything else.

So she holds it all in.

“I'm leaving,” she tells him flatly. It scares her, how her voice sounds so hollow. Like the flame within her has been extinguished. In a way, it feels like it has.

He seems taken aback by this, his arms fall to his side and he stands a little straighter,

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

He probably thinks she's known this all along, that's she's springing it on him because she doesn't care. It's best to let him think this way. Any chance they may have had is gone now. She has to be with her dad, she can't let herself worry about relationships especially one that wouldn't work out anyway. Distance never works.

“Jesus, Clarke,” he sighs, running his hand over his face, “You disappear for a week and show up at my door to tell me that?”

She says nothing.

“You don't even care, do you? He laughs bitterly and this is what she expected. He has a right to be angry and she deserves to hear it.

She cares. More than she ever wanted to. More than she should. But she can't tell him that. It'll only make it hurt worse.

“Tell me then,” he says and he grabs a her shoulder forcing her toward him, his hand is gently tilting her chin so she's looking at him, “Tell me you don't care and you can walk away right now. I won't chase you.”

“I don't care.” She tries but even to her she sounds pathetic. Small and unconvincing. Her wall is too transparent.

He leans in and presses his forehead against hers, “I don't believe you.”

He captures her lips in a searing kiss. She doesn't respond at first, willing herself to pull away and stop making things more painful than they already are. But then he wraps his arms around her, cradling her to his chest and she feels safe. She sags into him, twining her arms around his neck.

It all comes back to the idea that she shouldn't do this with him, but she finds herself out of control. With one kiss, he manages to help her forget for a moment. Forget that the next six months will be the hardest of her life. Forget that she's being faced with impossible choices and awful results. And that's what she needs, she decides. She needs to forget and if it means getting to bask in that feeling she had before all this, she'll do it.

He makes love to her that night. She knows it. It's in the way he takes his time feeling her, attentive to every inch of skin, delicate in movement. The way he tries to memorize her, the planes of her back, the dip of her hips, the curve of her ass. He runs his fingertips along the scar on her back bravely, eye locking into hers.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, “Every fucking inch of you.”

It's powerful and it makes her want to break down because she doesn't deserve him and she is just going to break his heart. He deserves the moon and the stars and she can never give it to him.

He tells her how good she feels, how beautiful and amazing and perfect she is. He tells her how much he wants her, he doesn't think about anyone else. Anything else. He tells her how much he cares about her in so many ways and yet avoids telling her that directly so as to protect whatever is left of their initial agreement, thought they both know the agreement has been meaningless for sometime. He's still trying to respect her choices while simultaneously telling her how fucked he is.

She leaves after he's well asleep, after enjoying the last few moments with him. In another life maybe this could have worked. Maybe they could have made the distance happen, maybe they would have failed. She won't know because life is funny sometimes. The timing is wrong, reality is wrong. She's happy to have spent time this bubble with him.

“I love you,” she whispers into the night, happy to get it out there just once even if he can't hear her. It's better that he doesn't.

She doesn't have it in her to cry herself to sleep that night. There are too many battles to come for her to exhaust herself so early. She'll hold on to the feeling, the memories Bellamy has given her for the rest of her life, or at least, when things become overwhelming. She hopes he finds the happiness he so deserves,

She turns her phone off before going to bed,

*

She's on a plane the following day, holding her Father's hand and flying into what will, undoubtedly, be the hardest months of her short life.

[the-opal-dragons-roost]

Warm: a short drabble about a perfect day

featuring August and Cairo

           The sun is rising and the room is full of light. Warm rays color the walls and blankets with shades of gold so vibrant that the space almost looks like sunset. Sleepiness hangs in the air like suspended dust particles. All is quiet and still.

           August is curled up in a tangled nest of blankets. He’s awake, but his eyes are closed. There’s no need to move from where he was, no duty or responsibility to drag him from this state of utter peace. He stretches leisurely, limbs extended as far as they would go (which, admittedly, isn’t very far), and then rolls over and curls up again, turning the other side of his face to the rising sun.

           Beside him, Cairo is similarly caught in that dream state between sleep and awake. He dozes near August’s feet, his larger form catching more of the sunlight as it streams in through the window. A breeze stirs his hair as he shifts, head resting at the small of August’s back. For once, he too feels no need to move. The day is new and has barely begun. Later, they would need to rise and get food, but there was no rush and no other responsibilities that needed tending to.

           Outside, birds sang, filling the stillness with music.

             The trail is silent save for the sound of birdsong overhead. This stillness should probably be concerning, though August and Cairo take it as a sign of people already arriving wherever they are headed.

           Tree branches arc overhead, sending shadows speckling the ground below. Squirrels dart across the trail and around the tree trunks. A rabbit runs for cover as the two pass by.

           The sun was still rising and the air hadn’t yet warmed completely. The smell of morning mist still clung to the air, having not yet been blown away by the wind or burned off by the sun.

           August points out the flowers that bloom on the edges of the trail. He wonders if the same flowers had bloomed the year before.

           Cairo has no answer to this: he doesn’t remember seeing them, though he appreciates their presence now.

           Fat bumblebees land on flowers and roll around until they are dusted yellow with pollen. They buzz quietly as they rise, flew a few yards, and then repeat the process.

           August and Cairo’s steps tap quietly as they wander. They have a destination in mind but there’s no timeframe in which to arrive. In fact, there’s no pressure to get there at all. So they continue to meander, feet following the trail out of habit rather than intent. Their conversation alternates between lighthearted chatter (“I bet there will be a lot of people at the park today”) and more though provoking subjects (I don’t know if the future I’m pursuing is worth it,”), but mostly they walk in silence and bask in the knowledge that they have all day to arrive (or not arrive) wherever they’re headed.

             The day is bright and bold, splashed with colors all across the rainbow. The sky is a rich blue, dotted only by a few of the brightest and puffiest of clouds. The grass is long and thick, overgrown in some places, cool and springy underfoot. There is the sweet smell of plants and living things, brushed with a crisp breeze that keeps the midday heat at bay.

           August and Cairo lay beneath the wide branches of an ancient oak tree. Shadows dapple beams of light across their shoulders and backs as the leaves sway in the wind. The blanket beneath them is cushioned by the thick grass that creeps nearly all the way to the base of the tree’s trunk.

           Around them, the fields are filled with other people who are also enjoying the weather. Children run and play, shrieking with joy as they chase each other around the grassy slopes. Bikers zoom by, racing down the narrow-paved paths that wind through the park. Others are walking, talking, or simply standing and marveling at the day.

           Paper rustles as August flips the page of a well-loved book. His voice is quiet as he reads aloud passages that both he and Cairo had read many times before. They both knew the words by heart, but there was something comforting about reading them again, saying them out loud.

           The chapter closes and August reaches for his thermos of peach iced tea. Cairo shifts from where he’d been laying, his head lazily propped up by August’s shoulder. He moves just enough so he can see the book himself and picks up where August had left off.

             The sky turns pale gold again when the sun begins to sink. The air is cooler and long shadows are beginning to stretch across the world. The birds are singing their final tunes of the evening and the frogs are slowly beginning their nightly chorus.

           Book and blanket and iced tea are packed away to be retrieved later. The world is quieter than it had been before, many of the people and families of the day had gone home hours ago. Still, a few remained. Teens played a game of frisbee, a young couple walked a pair of dogs. There were still a few children running about as the sun began to sink toward the horizon.

           August runs across the field with the wild exhilaration of a child. His feet patter across the shorter stretch of grass and motion-driven wind whips through his hair. He has no destination in mind, his body moving wherever it will. When he reaches the end of the park, he turns on a dime and heads back the way he’d come, taking an ever so slightly different path so his circuit doesn’t get boring.

           Cairo is on his heels. His legs are much longer, so he lopes along at a leisurely pace as August sprints on ahead. Still, Cairo isn’t fully left behind. When he feels he’s too far back, he lowers his head and leans just a bit more into his stride. Soon he’s caught up and then overtaking his companion.

           The two race across the grass, too energized by the wind and the coming night to feel tired or out of breath. The ground is warm beneath them and the air is now cool. Crickets join the frogs in their nightly song and the first few stars dot the horizon.

           The game ends when August stumbles. He’s caught by the thick grass and is unhurt even as his momentum sends him rolling partway down the slope. He’s dizzy and laughing at his own ridiculousness by the time Cairo stops and returns to his side.

           Cairo sits beside him and the two catch their breath as the sun eventually disappears and the evening slowly melts into twilight.

             The rain came out of nowhere, but they are back home now, so it doesn’t matter. There is a fire in the hearth, blazing with orange and red light. The flames flicker, sending the shadows scattering back into the darkness. The crackle of burning logs mixes with the soft hiss of the distant rain.

           August sits with his back against the couch. His knees are drawn to his chest, laptop and drawing tablet both braced against his legs as he sketches out the beginnings of another picture. His stylus scratches quietly against the plastic tablet, the sound interrupted by the occasional click of the trackpad or the momentary pause in artistic inspiration.

           Cairo lays nearby, stretched out in front of the fire. August’s non-drawing elbow nudges his head every once in a while, but he can’t find the will to move. The rug beneath him is thick and soft and his body sinks into it.

           A small set of speakers sits on the couch cushions and a quiet piano melody plays. It’s a familiar tune, one that both know very well. It plays during a specific setting (the song is from a video game), but there’s something about the melody that August has always associated with a warm fire on a dark night. It’s set on repeat, and never ends even as the night goes on.

             The stillness is back as rain continues to fall. Outside, the scenery is blurred by the rain, and the ground glitters in the streetlights. It’s too late for anyone to be out, and few are awake.

           The room is dark and quiet. Only August’s face is visible from the pile of blankets he’s under. Dark eyes lazily watch the rain as he takes in the air. The entire world smells like it’s being scrubbed clean, like a cold shower after a hot day. The heat had long since burned off and the rain-washed air that is blown in through the window is cold.

           Cairo curls around August’s smaller form and he shoves his head under the folded edge of a blanket. He listens to the rain though the cold burns his nose. The rest of him is warm, though he still appreciates the gesture when August tosses another fold of blanket over his shoulders.

           Both are quiet and still as sleep slowly settles over them like another blanket. The exercise of the day makes limbs and eyelids feel heavy, and the familiar hiss of the rain chases away any thought of staying awake. A few vague ideas and thoughts of the following day flit around like snowflakes; pretty and bright, but melting before they can settle and stick. Whatever the next day would bring would be dealt with in the morning.

           The long silence is eventually broken by a quiet voice. “Goodnight, Cairoo,” August says. There is a world of affection in those two words, words spoken to his lifelong protector, confidante, and friend.

           “Goodnight, August,” Cairo responds in turn, addressing the friend, ward, and master he’s known since his first day of existence.

           The two return to silence and the rain continues to fall.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Eighty-Five: An Artist ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uchiha Itachi ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ]

He’s never been one much for the arts. That’s always been more his brother’s calling, despite their father’s begrudging acceptance. While Itachi pursued music, Sasuke took to filling Fugaku’s expectations and going to school to major in business.

Granted, Itachi’s doing quite well - arguably better than his younger brother. Lessons from age four, of course, give him a little edge. Add in natural dexterity and talent, and he’s already playing in recital halls packed to the brim to hear him play his melancholy notes.

But Sasuke can’t bring himself to be jealous. Sure, he’s still hanging from a rather low rung of the corporate ladder, but it’s stuff he finds fairly mindless and easy. While many hate their jobs, Sasuke simply...does his, neither actively enjoying or disliking it. It’s just something he does for about eight hours a day, five days a week. So far he’s managing a rather frugal lifestyle just fine.

Granted, it’s also a rather lonesome lifestyle. Sasuke’s not much of a socializer to begin with, but occasionally a friend will drag him out for something. But mostly, he enjoys doing things either with his family, or on his own.

Today is one of the latter days.

Just down the street from his apartment is a niche little coffee shop he frequents. Itachi teases him about how hipster it seems, but Sasuke just brushes the comments aside. He doesn’t much care what it’s like besides being quiet, quaint, and hosting (in his opinion) perfectly brewed black coffee.

Which is why he’s currently seated at his favorite corner table, sipping a cup and going over a presentation he needs to deliver next week. It’s already finished, but it’s an excuse to get out of his living quarters and get some liquid energy. While he can’t practice the auditory part here, he can tinker a few details and...mostly spend the afternoon browsing his favorite sites.

...that is...until he feels eyes on him.

His own flicker up, the only part of him moving as they search for the intruder. But every other face is turned away - either browsing their own laptops or phones, reading, talking to a table mate, or...scribbling on a rather large pad of paper.

Dark eyes squint just a hair, watching.

It’s a young woman - about his age, maybe a little younger...her face is rather soft, so it’s hard to tell. Seated in a booth along the opposite wall, she has her knees brought up to rest against the lip of her table, and a sizeable sketchbook is propped atop them. He can tell she’s not writing - her hand flies across the paper far too much to be anything but drawing.

Huh...he has to wonder what she’s sketching. Not that he knows much about it, but surely the setting is quite nice. A still life, maybe - seems like something rather eye-catching to draw. Or so he’ll guess. Itachi would have far more idea about than he. His talents might lie in music, but he knows the artistic side of things in general better than Sasuke ever will.

After a minute or so, he goes back to his laptop screen, sipping his coffee and absorbing back into the work.

When he starts packing up to head home, she’s already gone.

The work week passes, and it’s not until the following Saturday he can make it back. Unlike his last visit, it’s pouring rain this time. A wet umbrella rests against his chair. The same project - to be presented Monday - is back on his laptop screen...but mostly just as an excuse. He told Naruto he couldn’t go to some local league basketball game he’s playing in due to work.

It’s...half true. He hasn’t given the presentation yet. It’s still a work in progress. But he also hasn’t touched it in three days because the powerpoint part is done. While he could be home rehearsing it...Naruto has a nasty habit of dropping in even when told no. Hence hiding out here.

Besides, he’s got it memorized already. He’s not missing much by loligagging here.

The shop’s a bit more crowded today - probably because warm drinks are the perfect staple for a cool, rainy Spring day. And who wants to be out in the weather? Better to just...cozy up here until the rain stops.

The numbers don’t bother him - he got here early enough to claim his table, and no one’s dared ask to steal a chair or join him. Whether he intends it or not (though usually he does), Sasuke has a rather distance-inducing aura. Or at least, that’s how his brother oh so politely puts it.

Sasuke, on the other hand, knows he just has a major case of resting bitch face. And he’s more than glad for the annoyances it spares him...at least, with anyone intelligent enough to read it. Hence why Naruto still hangs around...he just doesn’t quite get it.

Today he’s indulging in a bitter cup of sugarless hot cocoa when that same feeling returns: like someone’s watching him. Looking up, he still doesn’t catch anyone staring.

...but he does notice she’s back. Sketchbook lady. Returned to the same spot, shying a bit from her neighbors but still scribbling away. This time it’s not just a pencil - some colored...somethings sit in a neat tray atop her table. Not pencils, and...he doesn’t think they’re crayons? Oh, who cares what they are. Either way, she must be coloring her previous shot, given her same vantage point and what looks to be the same sketchbook.

Huh.

A bit more curious this time, Sasuke takes to watching her. Every so often, she looks up and studies the wall behind him: the one directly across from her. Shrewd, pale eyes squint as she examines it before going back to her coloring.

...he sort of wants to see it.

Sasuke also can’t help but wonder how she’s accounting for the change of people. There’s more of them, and they’re surely different than last weekend. Did she just...go over what she had? Or is she improvising? He’s never really given such things a thought before, but...watching someone in the act of creating, admittedly, piques his interest.

But after a little while, it gets a bit repetitive...and he can’t exactly see what she’s doing. A little disappointed, Sasuke goes back to his procrastinating, eventually noting that the rain has stopped. Should he risk going back home…?

Maybe not yet.

He stays a few hours more, ordering another cup and an everything bagel to pass the time. Not the best lunch he could have, but...meh. He can have something better for him for dinner. Only once he gets a text from the knucklehead proclaiming victory (and whining he didn’t show up) does Sasuke deem it safe to head home.

The next morning, he wakes to his phone vibrating against his nightstand. Groggily he grabs it, swiping to answer and mumbling, “Hullo?”

“Sasuke, good morning.”

He blinks slowly. “...’tachi?”

“Forgive me for calling so early, but I wanted you to be the first to know: I’m going to be back in town for the week. I’ll be flying in this afternoon.”

Dark eyes quickly brighten, sitting up. “Really?”

“Yes. I was going to tell Mother and Father tomorrow morning - I thought, for today, it could just be the two of us.”

A kind of childish glee at both the falsehood (his brother never lies) and his indulging of Sasuke’s constant pining to see him beget a smile. “Yeah, sure - got anything in mind?”

“Oh, I thought we’d just wander around downtown and see what jumps out at us. I haven’t been back in almost a year, I want to see what’s changed.”

“Okay, yeah - sure.”

“I’ll meet you at your building - I’ve got a rental car arranged. I should be there about three?”

“I’ll be waiting!”

Hanging up, Sasuke can’t help but grin at his brother’s number before it fades back to the homescreen. Well...talk about a great start to a week!

By the time Itachi makes it, he’s been bored for hours, having little else to do on a Sunday but wait around. They immediately leave again, going on foot to simply explore.

“I’ve missed this city,” Itachi admits wistfully, hands in his coat’s pockets and simply looking around.

“And we’ve missed you - how’re all your gigs going?”

“Wonderfully. I’ve been planning a little tour with another artist: a vocalist who’s been practicing with me the past few weeks.”

“Any stops near here?”

“In here, as a matter of fact - but not for a few months. We’ve got quite a bit of practice and arranging to do. But I will let you know.” Slowing to a stop, Itachi cocks his head curiously at an open door. “...Sasuke, care to go in?”

“Huh? What is it?”

“Apparently an art exhibition - locals, seems like.”

It might not be his scene, but...well, Itachi’s the guest, and it’ll make him happy. “Yeah, sure.”

The pair enter, quickly seeing a variety of works and mediums by a vast array of artists. While Itachi speaks to the host, Sasuke starts wandering, not as invested as he’s sure Itachi will be. Thumbs hooked in his belt loops, he glances over several pieces before coming to a standstill.

Wait...but that’s…?

Still staring as Itachi joins him, Sasuke barely hears his question. “...huh?”

“I asked if you found something you like…? Oh...well that looks an awful lot like -”

“It’s me.”

“...are you sure?”

“Yeah, I…” A bit flabbergasted, Sasuke shifts his weight, gesturing. “I go there all the time. That’s my table, and my laptop -” His umbrella even made it in the shot. There’s no doubt about it: even the angle matches. This has to be that woman, from before! She was drawing...him…?

“Can I help -? Oh!”

Both brothers turn to an approaching figure, and Sasuke locks surprised eyes with none other than the artist. Her own are wide, and color lightly tints her cheeks.

“It...it’s you!”

“Yeah...me,” Sasuke replies. Now it makes sense: why he kept feeling watched.

“I...I-I hope you don’t mind me using you as a model, I...I mostly do street drawing. I just...draw what I see. I was lucky to catch you twice, and so quickly! I just finished this piece this morning, I almost couldn’t bring it…” A hand tucks stray hair behind her ear. “...I’m Hinata.”

“Sasuke. Nice to actually meet you, I guess.”

“L-likewise!”

Behind him, Itachi gives a knowing smile. “May I ask, are your works for sale?”

“Oh, well...no, technically not.”

“Ah...forgive me.”

“No no, that’s okay! Would you...like to buy it…?”

“It’s rare to see my brother captured in such a way,” Itachi muses, earning an embarrassed glower from Sasuke. “You truly did a fantastic job. Of course, if you’d like to keep it -”

“No, I understand! I’m just delighted you f-found it! This city’s rather big, after all…”

“As am I. And I’m always a fan of supporting local creators. So, may we negotiate…?”

As the talk turns to money, Sasuke scowls and sulks off to one side, eyeing her other works. True to her word, most are just...captures of various local places and people. Though stylized to a point, he can still recognize quite a few places just at a glance, and further looking shows a great amount of detail.

Signing a check, Itachi hands it over with a smile. “A pleasure, miss Hyūga. I do hope you keep creating - your works are lovely.”

She ducks her head shyly, and then glances to the slip, eyes going wide. “...but you said -?”

“Please, consider it a well-deserved tip. I know enough artists to know they often undersell themselves. And yours is a talent worth supporting.”

Looking awed, Hinata breaks into a soft smile. “I’ll...go see about packaging this for you. Thank you s-so much.”

Itachi nods, turning as his brother steps back up. “Are you truly so opposed to the piece?”

“No...I’m not. It’s just kinda weird.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Just is.”

“Well, it’s clear your territories overlap - perhaps she’ll be able to draw you again, hm?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that.

Returning with the framed artwork carefully wrapped and bagged, Hinata hands it over with another thank you. “Um...s-sorry again for stealing your visage.”

“Don’t worry about it. I guess now I get to see what you were working so hard on.”

Another light blush pinkens her cheeks. “I’ve wanted to do a portrait in there for ages...you just had the right...look, I guess.”

That earns a small snort. “Suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Miss Hyūga, might I have your cell number in case I find any other potential investors in you and your work?”

“Oh! Um...sure!”

“Sasuke, you should do the same.”

“What?”

His brother gives him a look that clearly says not to question him. “It’s never a bad idea to stay connected. Besides, given I’ve taken her only copy, Hinata might want to arrange another portrait.”

Squinting suspiciously, Sasuke nonetheless agrees, exchanging digits.

“Thank you so much, miss Hyūga.”

“Oh, please just call me Hinata.”

“Very well - I hope you enjoy your evening.”

Once the brothers take their leave, Sasuke rounds on Itachi. “What was that all about?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“All of that!”

“What, I can’t buy art of you?”

“No, that’s - you were - and the number -”

“It’s clear she finds you intriguing,” Itachi replies briskly. “And not just in a superficial way. She could have captured anyone in that shop, but she chose you. Hinata saw something that caught her eye about you that no one else had managed. I just thought keeping a person with that impression of you close might be...wise.”

“...you’re setting me up.”

“Connections, Sasuke - they’re important.” Itachi gives him a smile, eyes twinkling. “Don’t they teach you that in your line of work?”

Having no retort, Sasuke just stuffs his hands in his pockets. “...c’mon, we’ve still got daylight to burn.”

“If you insist.”

     Oof, this is...very very long compared to most entries, and now it's super late, I gotta get hopping to bed xD      I got the idea not long after reading the prompt, and honestly thought it wouldn't be long enough...and then it ended up twice as long as most drabbles I've done for this challenge! But it was a cute concept, even when I realized it was gonna sop up the rest of my evening, haha!      Anyway, I'm wiped, so I better call it. Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for reading!