#but then I saw the delicately painted brick work peeking out on the left side to show it was meant to be like graffiti | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hysteriium · 4 years ago

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𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑩𝒍𝒖𝒆;

(𝐆𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞)

(𝐀/𝐧 ): This is the first I’ve posted in ages!!! I can’t recall how long it’s been, life has truly been hectic but I’m getting back on the saddle!!! We’re starting with my boi! I hope you enjoy it as much as I had fun writing this! I’ve been experimenting with the way he talks so it’s not as overt as I’ve previously written! I feel like the intonations may break the flow a bit so I’ve tried to make it more cohesive! Lmk what you guys think! Also shout out to my amazing partner @lilliryth they’re the light of my life and helped me edit this!! They’re such an amazing person and I would not be where I am today without them.

( 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦��𝐫𝐲 ): Wedding. That is all. It’s not what you think.

( 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ): DK! Joker x Reader.

( 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ): 7,600+ k words!

( 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ): Angst (very little), swearing, violence.

The first time you’d asked, he simply stared in disbelief.

“Come again?” The bright red hues of confusion painted his husky voice.

The question had been wreaking havoc in your thoughts for the past month, unsure of how to slip out from ambiguity onto the sureness of the tongue. Such a bold yet silly little request was sure to be large and repugnant to the man hovering above you. While the darkness of his eyes was accentuated by his stygian greasepaint, hints of cocoa peeked through, prompting shy flutters of anxiety in your abdomen.

You can do this.

Your tongue slid across the arid cracks of your lips, wetting them. You cleared your throat, “I need a date to a wed–”

That was all you could get out before he blinked a few times and strode off.

The second time, albeit similar in difficulty, thankfully didn’t result in him running.

You tiptoed into his makeshift office with an air of mischief, his room sombre except for the lamp that spotlighted his desk. Hunched over blueprints which you suspected were his next big scheme, his eyes never drifted from the intricacies on the paper.

“Boo!” You shouted, catching his hips with an unbreakable hold when you closed the distance. While his body tensed, he couldn’t control the breath of amusement that left his nose.

“I can see you really tried there.”

You knew he followed your stare when his long fingers worked to roll the sheet. They were fast – so fast the pinched ends stuck out in layered rings that almost resembled winding mountainous trails. He couldn’t have curious eyes ogling his extra top secret will-have-to-kill-you-if-you-found-out criminal plans, now could he?

“What?” you started, while your hands fell and your footsteps whispered away from him. You felt the creases of your mouth wobble, ready to smile at any moment, and so you bit the inside of your tongue. “Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” he smirked, petting your head.

Curse his height.

“Now, uh, what is it, doll?”

You let your smile leap free, “I need to ask a super dooper big fav–”

“I’m not going.”

“But whyyyyyy? My parents are harassing me! They think their daughter’s going to grow old and grey and be alone forever.”

“Gee, I can’t imagine why.”

You shot him a look, one that only fuelled his amusement.

“J, I can’t just not show up.”

You watched his figure rise slightly as he drew and released a breath.

“I don’t like wed–” his tongue stuck out like he’d tasted something bad before he cleared his throat “–dings, they’re full of false hope, drunks and...” he shuddered, “romance. You see, they’ll end up killing each other in a few years. I can picture it now: dearly beloved wife kills cheating husband. Oh how could this have ever happened?”

He scoffed.

“You’re so dramatic. I promise it would only be for a few hours.”

“And pumpkin, how exactly are you gonna sneak me into a… place like that when I look like this,” he said, hands motioning to his face – mostly his scars.

It broke your heart. You could've sworn you heard it splinter, the downturn of your brows impossible to hold back. If only words were enough to convey complex feelings, to convey the pile of bricks nestled in your chest, to convey the desperate crave to comfort and rebut, the need to protect – even from himself. You had yet to find a way, and so you were stuck behind the thick lock and chain of language with no key in sight; restricted and bound to tools you never thought were enough, but could only hope were enough.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. In his eyes you saw the emotions flicker, almost as tangible as they were transparent – anger, fear, shock. Stood still and stiff, you nodded softly, giving him a smile of equal warmth. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He squinted before hesitantly giving in, shifting so his cheek rested against your palm. He had to lower himself a little more to do so.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with how you look. They’re beautiful, and I’ll keep saying so until there’s no breath left in my lungs.”

You held him ever so gently while he flitted his eyes shut. Your heart galloped then, its swell too big for your body and for a moment, brief as the breeze, the chaos he prided himself in was absent; for a moment there was peace.

“If you weren’t The Joker, I’d say go as is. Though, I have a plan!”

“Oh, do you now?” He said, shaking his head and returning to work. It was clear he was rapidly reaching his patience threshold.

Damn it.

“They have food!” You trailed off unsurely, as if it was a question – pinning your last hope on appealing to his raccoon inclinations.

It didn’t work.

The third, well…

You had just about given up and accepted the fact that it wasn’t his scene, that him meeting your parents would never be an option – a reality you had started to think of as a good thing the more you thought about it.

And so, the third day had been your acceptance. Self-care. Instead of chasing after an ideal, your hands were clutching a book, almost too hard, as the part you had been anticipating since very early had reached its finale. With your legs curled underneath you and practically asleep, your eyes flicked furiously from word to word–

That is until a looming figure shadowed the page completely, concealing all light from the lamp next to you.

Annoyance creased your features as you looked up at the clownish culprit. Your eyes met and a staring contest ensued, the intensity of his eyes beckoning a response until he, uncharacteristically, broke first.

“Will this make you, uh, happy?”

All traces of irritation were washed away by bewilderment, “sorry?”

“My being with you.”

“You mean to the wedding?” You asked, wide-eyed. If you hadn’t been as shocked as you were, you would have snorted at his continuous inability to say the word ‘wedding’.

He shifted on his feet, eyes darting away for a second before he licked his lips. “Yeah.”

“Is this a joke?”

“I’m not that cruel.”

You paused to hum obnoxiously, your finger tapping your chin to challenge the notion.

“Never mind,” he waved his hand in the air and was about to walk off before you grabbed his hand and sprung off your seat. You felt him try to wiggle out of your grasp with a grunt, but it was too late. “Thank you!” You shouted.

You missed the way his surprise melted into a genuine curl of his lips, twitching; the muscles unused. Instead, you were too busy stuffed in his vest, with your arms swathed around him. You both stayed there for a while basking in the warmth of each other, as his hands, which you guessed were hanging awkwardly in the air and unsure of what to do, encircled your waist.

Third time’s the charm.

Shaking fingers twirled sapphire silk, gliding over your cinched waist before finally moving up to the delicate exposed flesh of your neck. You glanced over the spaghetti straps that curved comfortably over your shoulder, and the simple silver circle necklace that laid between them, its chilled presence clashing with the heat of your skin.

Knock knock knock!

“Just a minute!” You said, jumping at the sudden rude intrusion.

“Not even funeral parlors take this long,” you heard J say from the other side, the distinctive departure of footsteps following promptly. They seemed faster than usual.

You puffed air at his complaint after calming your racing heart. Then you scrambled to finish up the final touches of makeup, at last winding the nude colored ribbons of your heels around your calves. Your head felt light, and your shoes only worsened the sudden gelatinous state your legs took on. Never before had you dressed up in such a way, not for years and much less in front of someone you dearly cherished. The line between fashionable and laughable was blurred and never truly had been exercised. Waving away the fuel your anxious thoughts provided, you decided to try and move. Your heels wobbled trying to avoid the flowing material pooled by your ankles, and you’d just managed to slip one foot out through the thigh-high slit. No matter how much you sighed, the pressure remained, weighing like an anvil. And so, with nothing much to lose, you made your way to the door; the dampness of your fingers leaving its foggy signature upon the knob.

This was it.

You breathed in one last time before opening the door.

“Okay, I’m re–”

You exhaled sharply, feeling the earlier intake of air leave you – taking with it the remaining wind in your lungs. You couldn’t control the twinkle of your eyes, nor the flip of your stomach as you gazed upon him.

His form was angled against the wall and his arms were crossed – that was, until he dragged his eyes over to you. His limbs then dropped to their sides and he quickly, almost stumbling over his shoes, righted his position. The bob of his Adam's apple was clear while both of you stood meters from each other with widened eyes. You knew he had the ability to pull off a suit, but the royal blue he donned was stunning. The stark colour complemented his blond locks, while his foulard tie with its blends of pinks, purples, and its navy base matched his socks.

It seemed you were both in the same boat, consumed by swells of giddiness and the need to fidget. The fingers that were dressed in dark brown leather gloves drummed against his thigh, while one of his cedar suede shoes tapped furiously against the floor.

“What.” He finally stated, rather than questioning.

You dropped the necklace your fingers had started circling.

“Nothing! You just look… really nice,” you uttered earnestly, unable to contain the sweet smile that broke through awe.

“Yeah, yeah. Uh… you too,” he said, the last part coming out less steady.

He avoided eye contact when you trotted over to him, fiddling with his cufflinks, though his tending to them immediately vanished when you began to accentuate the swish of your hips.

All fidgeting stopped.

You were sure he was expecting something else, rather than the delicate cupping of his cheek once you reached him, soft lips meeting with roughened skin as you kissed his scars. You took your time with each one, whispering affection, before claiming his mouth. He growled against you, and you could feel him tighten his hold.

The tip of his tongue traced the stain of lipstick, a wordless demand for entry which left you weak. Almost parting your lips to allow the gentle slide of his tongue, he suddenly reared back with a smirk.

“Peach,” he cooed.

You were going to have to reapply later.

With a small smile you extended your arm to the couch, and knowing time was beginning to pass, he complied. As he advanced, you peeked at the orange lining in his blazer. The hue was similar to his purple coat, though slightly lighter. You smiled to yourself, the small detail so characteristically him.

“Alright. Let’s get this over with,” he sighed, bracing himself.

Already a step ahead, you had brought out the makeup needed just prior to getting dressed. Sitting on one of the nearby surfaces, you picked up a small translucent bag with little red hearts on it – a fact he’d snickered to himself at when he first saw it – and walked over to him.

“As you wish, grumpy,” you simpered, “now hold still!”

True to his new title, you heard him mutter something unintelligible under his breath. The tap-tap-tap of his foot against the floor was most of the noise for a good while, and although distracting, the fidgeting of his hands was less noisy. You knew more than anyone he needed to squirm around, some movement at the very least, and so you endured. You deduced that he’d not been this close to someone in so very long, let alone allow them to do his makeup. That task, intimate and personal within itself, was not something others could be trusted with.

“Time to hide these little guys,” you murmured, focused as the beauty blender sat between your fingers and dabbed on concealer. “Not that they need hiding. I’ll miss them.”

“Really?” He chimed in, eyes shut while you did your work.

“Yeah, they’re a part of you and I’d never want you to hide or be ashamed of who you are.”

“Hmm,” he trailed off.

Occasionally his mouth quirked, his tongue darting out to lick his scars; an involuntary movement. You were patient, and even if he wasn’t overt about his guilt of messing up your progress, you reassured him lightly with a kiss on the head, sometimes playing with the dirty blond waves that lacked any sign of green.

The day before he’d washed out the colour in preparation for the big day, groaning until he caught sight of himself in the mirror; contemplative. Ethereal and almost delicate he seemed. How precious it was to witness such cracks in the fortress, where the basking rays of sun illuminated what once was – and still is, only shrouded by shrubbery and thorns, so overgrown and disordered that they had forgotten to take care of even themselves. Forgotten how.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he groaned as you finished blending the concealer on both cheeks. Grabbing the foundation you had colour matched, you dabbed a bit on your hand before applying that too.

“Honestly, me neither,” you replied, feeling no need to sugarcoat the shock from your tone. You knew he appreciated the truth. “But I’m glad you are! You’re doing so well!”

He squirmed a little at the compliment but settled seconds later. Soon after finishing the blending, you reared back and observed your labour. Although it wasn’t perfect, and if you looked hard enough you could still see the intricate crevices in his skin, it passed.

“All done!”

As soon as you spoke, J pushed off his palms. He was halfway off the chair when you stopped him.

“Wait! I have to walk you through something.”

At this, his eyebrows quirked up. You knew you had his attention.

“Conditions!” You announced.

“Ah. Now there are conditions.”

“Yes! I don’t want you to throw a tantrum and blow up the whole reception.”

“My my, aren’t you a little fire stopper.”

“Promise me.”

He flicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. With one hand on his chest and the other raised just next to his head, he bowed a little. “I swear.”

You wrinkled your nose, “I swear there will be no funny business, and I’ll be on my best behaviour – oh and no crossing your toes either!”

“You know me so well,” he sighed, admitting defeat, “Fine. I swear there’ll be no funny business and I’ll be on…” he cleared his throat and brought a closed fist to his mouth, “my best behaviour.” Then he shone his impishly wide grin, one that only intensified the pit of doubt in your stomach.

It would have to do, though.

“Okay,” you whispered.

He stood up now, towering over you.

“Okay,” he mimicked, dropping his hands at the base of your hips.

The last few days had been full of surprises, his agreement to attend trumping all. However, his overt display of affection was a close second. Never before had he been so forthcoming and so comfortable with physical contact.

As his hands laid there, unmoving and making their home in your curves, you inched closer to him; a specific craving only his warmth could ease. Though, those very same hands around you tightened when you tried to step forward, holding you in place. Curiously, you looked up at him, brows furrowed.

“What are you–”

It seemed he couldn’t help himself. The evil laughter he’d been trying to restrain bubbled from his throat and bounced off the walls. The eagerness to ask what he was doing quickly died – hard – when you could no longer feel the ground beneath your feet. It instead morphed into protests and occasional bouts of laughter as your arms dangled along his back, your pelvis against his shoulder. One gloved hand rested crudely just below the curve of your ass, occasionally squeezing your upper thigh and holding you in place, while his other arm hung unobstructed.

“We–” he clicked his tongue, “–wouldn’t want to be late now, would we?” He finished, purring.

The location was a couple hours outside of Gotham on the coastline in an area you’d practically never heard of. If it wasn’t for J’s gift for navigation, and his frustration when you kept leading him down wrong turns, you would have been hours late instead of just missing the ceremony. The last straw had been assuring him the early exit was your turn off despite his gut instinct, despite the countless times he asked ‘are you sure?’ and despite his sneaking glances – something he stopped doing when he almost crashed into the car next to you, too focused on craning his neck. All of this combined had resulted in the brutal demise of your map reading days.

Stopping where he could after taking the wrong exit he held out a gloved hand, a wordless demand for the navigator. Before long, you were back on the freeway, thankfully heading the right way. The directory rested in his lap as he balanced the seemingly breezy tasks of reading and driving.

Clearly safety was his middle name.

Once the two of you arrived at the venue, the first thing you both noticed was the heat. Warm and uncomfortable, the seabreeze made this bearable. The next notable feature was the rambunctious clamour of the crowd; music, laughter and shouting.

After worming your way out of the van, comically wedged between two much smaller cars, you headed towards the reception, stopping short from the asphalt-sand border. J stared at it as if it had foiled his genius villainous plots, as if it was the cause of all his misfortunes, as if it was responsible for the brutal murder of his first pet. Then, he made a face – a mixture between a scowl and disgust.

He sniffed, “it smells like...” he paused to grimace, “high society.”

The ghastly look was then directed ahead to each moving – breathing – organism he could see. There was no doubt in your mind the crowd had already made it on his hit list.

“For once I miss the stink of Gotham.”

“Well at least it’s at the beach!” You exclaimed, not recalling the last time you’d been. Trying to think that far back made your brain hurt, the tingle of overworked cogs and Brain Fog a lethal combination that coerced your forfeit in seconds. At the very least you were happy to be making new memories, hopefully some you’d be able to remember in the future; memories you prayed were not, later too, guarded by the merciless Brain Fog and his ravenous desire to generate headaches.

“I hate the beach,” J delivered flatly, hatred distilled rolling off his person in waves.

“Oh, you hate everything!” You pouted, brushing off his pessimism.

“It’s hard not to.”

“Well…” You stopped to think, wracking your brain to prove him wrong, “what about me?”

That had to get him.

“You especially,” he grinned, eyes twinkling with a mischief that spoke nothing other than ‘you walked right into that one, sweetheart.’

You were unable to help the sigh that sailed past your hued lips, “well, come on sunshine. You can’t stare daggers at them all day.”

“I can try,” he spat sourly.

You rolled your eyes and dragged him along but immediately dropped the act when you quickly realised it hauled unwanted eyes, like metal to magnets. Yet, J followed even though you were certain he saw the cursed asphalt-sand barrier as the very gates of hell themselves. In fact, he seemed a little bit too eager to start his anathematised exploration of the 9 circles as when you looked back, expecting to see his long limbs hanging in defeated protest, you were met with, well, nothing.

One moment he was there, the next he was gone seemingly stalking off into the unknown, hiding among the sea of people. It wasn’t like he was easy to lose either, his height and his aura of absolute discomfort is what set him apart from the rest. He protruded like a broken bone – so why couldn’t you find him?

“Damn it, J!” You harshly whispered to yourself, unknowingly stamping your foot until the insidious specks of sand tumbled their way into your shoe, under your feet and between your toes. Easily conquering your layer of protection, their coarse presence made you want to grind your teeth.

Maybe this was a mistake.

Before you could go off and search for the lost irritating puppy, you heard shouts. At first they seemed like ordinary yells, distinctive deviations from the crowd which happened to catch your attention at the right moment. Though, the more time passed and you wandered around like a newborn giraffe looking for its mother, you realised this was not the case. Most telling was the way those vague cries morphed into the familiar syllables of your name. And then finally in view, the supposed sweet comfort of childhood embodied neared; their worn features staring into your own, different from all those years ago.

You fought the urge to run.

“Hey honey!” Your dad beamed.

Two pairs of smothering arms made their way toward you, enveloping. With your fingers clutching separate materials, each as scratchy and glacial as each other, your head started to spin and you felt yourself holding your breath.

“Hey mum, hey dad, it’s nice to see you two again,” you said, feeling the slow ache from clenching your jaw starting to set in. You quickly swapped this expression for a small smile when they released you.

“How’ve you been?” Your dad inquired, the shimmer in his eyes a sight you couldn’t help but double take at. You noticed there was no glass in his hand.

“Don’t bombard her dear,” your mum rolled her eyes, “where’s this date you were telling me about?”

She lingered on the word with an emotion you couldn’t quite discern while her adjudicating eyes swept over your outfit. Her eyebrows then lifted, scrunching her nose with it. “Not bad.”

Her scanning forced you to shrink into yourself, the automatic motion of your palms relentless in their pursuit of wrinkles, a fact you did not pick up on until your mother cleared her throat at your unprompted staring contest.

“My question dear, it’s rude to ignore your mother,” her thin brows creased and the folds just above them rested along her forehead in a similar fashion.

You scrambled for an acceptable answer, the question just as ambiguous to yourself.

“He’s… um… getting us drinks! I was actually just about to go check up on–”

“Well if a man can’t even fetch you a drink he’s hardly useful,” she scoffed, turning to her husband to whisper, “can’t imagine what this prince charming looks like.”

Anger, lava-like and boiling, rose up in your throat. The pressure seemed unbearable as you tried to keep your mouth closed – tried not to defend the one you loved with your entire being. How dare she judge someone she had yet to even meet? She had yet to see the beauty that radiated in and out.

It had only been minutes and you’d already been zapped of your energy for the day.

“I think I should go check on him now.” “Yes, of course. Come back to me when you have something to show,” your mother smiled. You watched her lips stretch, her wine lipstick as pigmented as the red coating your vision.

Her hand clutched the necklace around her chest. Her fingers traced the glistening diamond which hung overtly, screaming it’s pricelessness to all passersby as she went to go have another sip of her champagne. At the corner of your eye you noticed movement, a pair of worn hands clutching suit pants. Hard. You turned automatically and when you met his eyes your dad shot you a strained smile. It almost looked like an apology.

Your stomach turned.

You tried your best to conceal the stomping as you promptly departed, promising yourself to at least wait until you were out of their view and blending in with the crowd. Once you merged with the patches, you quickly discovered that navigating your way out of it was going to be just as hard as trying to find J. Left and right amalgamated, looking the same no matter how many times you tried to compare differences and so did everyone’s outfits. You could have sworn you’d seen the same red dress three times, though you also could have sworn you went all different directions to the last; the truth was you were no more knowing than a sailor stranded at sea lacking a compass, the same indistinguishable shapelessness stretching out for miles and miles with no end in sight.

Then, a miracle – a clearing of people which shrieked hope and a long portable table with flowing white lace harbouring all kinds of food. Amongst the good news, a blotch of royal blue caught your eye and a flash of blond. Focusing your view on the table and its few inhabitants, one of which was the blue wearing stranger, you quickly realised your missing date was fixed and firm in place at the snack area. No sooner than this revelation processed you dashed over, the anger returning once the relief had run its fleeting course. As you stormed your way over to him he failed to look up, too preoccupied with the food he was collecting. Lacking in subtlety, you grabbed his arm.

“Jesus there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

J, who had been waiting to stuff his face with what you identified as another cupcake, mouth ringed with strawberry frosting, crumbs and sprinkles, dropped it in surprise and turned to you with widened eyes. They shrunk as soon as they showed an inkling of surprise and instead shifted to speckled guilt.

“Cupcake,” he managed to mumble with a full mouth.

Your fiery frustration was immediately put out by how cute he was, and you felt a surge of guilt yourself. It wasn’t fair to be taking out your personal frustrations on him.

After closing your eyes and taking a breath, you reset.

“They think I’m lying about you.”

He swallowed.

“You wanna leave? I, uh, know I want to,” he said much louder than the whisper you wish he’d used.

Such a comment warranted an elbow jab into his waist as you smiled ear to ear and sickly sweet at the passing guest who had clearly heard J. The middle aged woman with short brunette hair, white pom-pom earrings and beady eyes shot you two a blazing look before rutting her nose into the air. The reek of pretension wafted off her. Now you could see what J was saying earlier.

Pee-yew.

Everyone here sucked.

“I’m gonna kill her later,” he murmured, squinting after her.

“J, you promised to be good!”

Even if she was a grandiloquent old bitch who deserved it.

His ominous response was to pour himself some punch, the clown-in-disguise bringing the plastic up to his lips. As the cup masked most of his face, the only thing visible was his deadly gaze which bounced from congregation to congregation.

“How much longer.” Again, it wasn’t phrased as a question, more a statement.

“The bride and groom haven’t even danced yet.”

He scrunched his nose, though dropped the subject. At least verbally.

“You’re so crabby. You do know that you’re drawing even more attention to yourself this way?”

“Hmmph.”

It was silent for a few minutes before, without warning, he grabbed your hand. The hesitant and jagged strokes of his thumb followed and even though they belonged to a novice, the delicacy was still there.

The message was clear:

I’m new to this.

Your lips upturned, the gentle quirk hidden by transient hair flowing along the salty breeze. His touch was warm and paradoxically amiable; his presence a shelter cutting the chilly current that had picked up around noon. Stained lips, of which you had forgotten about until the sticky residue imprinted boldly on his glove, aimed to ease his buzzing mind. Expecting a grumble for the lipstick mark, what you got in return was the soft gaze of dark brown eyes – a sign of taming raging waters. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact the window into his soul for once could be identified as just that – a window; crystal, without the dirtied stains of camouflage and trepidation.

Something had changed.

Before you could get another word in, it was announced the bride and groom were going to have their first dance. The crowd gathered around the newly wedded couple as the music suddenly switched. The speakers were loud as they played a waltz, the couple’s limbs intertwined and swaying to its dramatic pace. They twirled and swayed with the grace of swans tiptoeing and beguiling the creeping ocean on the golden sands. Even though you knew virtually nothing about them, and were convinced that in fact this whole invite was your mother’s scheme to pry, the sight was a beautiful one to behold. The epitome of love – reciprocal trust and utter surrender; it had you wondering where you’d gone wrong previously, and if such a thing was as formulaic as it seemed to be, or if they were freefalling into the abyss as much as everyone else was; blindfolded, but nonetheless with each other. Welded in each other’s hearts.

How long had you projected your yearning at the couple and vicariously lived through their magical moment? You couldn’t say, though it was only the sudden grip on your shoulder that had managed to break your fixed admiration. It was firm, but nowhere near the realm of rough, and it even contained a fraction of gentleness, an action that wordlessly said ‘are you okay?’

At the sudden presence, you looked over your shoulder to find J, his guarded eyes holding a knowledge which only deepened the crawling feeling of embarrassment. Blood rushed to your cheeks. As you rounded your gaze back to the couple, you quickly saw the crowd was beginning to join them, all dancing at their own pace as the music continued its intimate lull. J’s hand slid down your arm while you watched and returned to hold your hand. Content and about to lean into him, your sudden love struck daze pounced away when he started to walk, dragging you along with him.

“Hey– what are you doing?”

No response.

“Let me go!” You said, your tone coming out a lot angrier than you’d expected. You guessed this alerted him because even though you were mere meters away from the rest of the crowd he stopped to explain.

“I saw the way you were looking at them. You know, cupcake, you’re not hard to read,” he drawled.

You pursed your lips, looking away for a moment.

“So what? What are you doing?”

“What does it – ah – look like?”

He’d seemingly taken your lack of response as a positive and continued forward. He grinned once he had you in position and placed his palm on the small of your back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles. He then maneuvered his other hand to grab yours and stretched it forward. From his first few steps you knew immediately it was the Viennese Waltz. The fast tempoed dance was one you weren't all too familiar with, but you’d learned its slower English counterpart.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you gasped, trying your best to conceal your astonishment. You didn’t want to seem rude, though he just didn’t seem like the person interested in such a thing. Nor have the time. You were certainly finding yourself more curious about the origin of such a talent, and all the other potential abilities that were sneakily tucked away.

“Well aren’t I just full of surprises.”

He dipped you slightly in time with the halt of the orchestra. He held you there for a moment before the tune resumed its boisterous charm, climbing steadily to its crescendo.

“Here’s to another,” he said, his smile widening. If you didn’t know him so well you would have believed the expression to be completely innocent and honeyed. Standing there intertwined with his limbs you knew that devilish gleam was anything but.

And, seconds later, this suspicion proved right.

Suddenly he lifted you, twirling you around in such a way that made you feel like you were the bride. You’d only seen such a thing in Disney movies and cheesy rom coms – to be cherished, to be loved and cared for in such a delicate way was a fantasy; a taste of nostalgia and a serenade to the hopeless romantic within.

“J, put me down! Put me down!” You felt yourself swallow when his hands tightly gripped your hips. For a moment the irritation you’d experienced all day from a full face of makeup and wandering had all been worth it.

His laughs slipped out, too; a direct contrast from his often irked facade, a musically heart-warming phenomenon which no instrument could emulate. The whole time you kept your eyes on each other and never once did they deter, focused on drinking in the beauty of each other. The cheers from the crowd you’d gathered fell upon both your deaf ears, transfixed by each other’s magic in your own closed off bubbles.

As you continued to dance, the act itself felt like flying. The crowd separated when you neared – that is, until everything stopped. Sharp and prompt.

Neither of you had much regard for the abrupt bump when it happened, there were people everywhere and mistakes occurred. It was no big deal. At least that’s what you told yourself until such a collision was followed by a violent shriek and a splash.

Loud gasps replaced the background noise of applause.

In a few frightening seconds your brain made the connection – linking who you’d just seen in the same area minutes before, inches from the ocean.

“Oops,” you squeaked, too scared to turn around. However, despite your better judgement you did just that.

The groom stood in shock, evidently unable to come to terms with the sight he was seeing. One moment his new wife was safe within his arms, dancing as if it was only two of them in the universe, the next she was below him, swimming with seaweed. Then, his form began to tremble, a telltale sign that what was to come was nowhere near the realms of good.

He turned around with searing red eyes, a wrinkled nose and bared teeth. The eyes of the bull met the petrified, and his stubby, squared and well-manicured finger pointed directly at you.

“You fucking bitch!” He roared.

You jumped, feeling yourself cling to J. His arm wrapped around you reassuringly and although you trusted him with your life, being confronted by a raging groom was still nonetheless intimidating. The groom who apparently cared more about telling you off than helping his wife, who was still floundering in the crashing waves, began his march over to you.

“Do you know who I am?” He continued, and you wondered if he was still aware there was a crowd around. J almost instantly stood in front of you and had to hunch further to scowl at your aggressor.

“What was that?” J grabbed the man in front of him and slipped the blade hidden in his sleeve between the groom’s lips, angling it against the crease of his mouth.

“Hmm? Why not try your luck, princess. Say it again.”

The groom froze, the flicker of fear evident even on your end, though he kept up his brutish facade.

“You’re both going to be 6 feet under when my dad’s through with you.”

“Aww… run along to daddy so he can fix all your problems,” you could hear the pout in your boyfriend’s voice, comfortable and in your eyes even elated, to spit out the toxins he’d been gathering from just being here all day.

“So you do know who I am–” “The second most spoiled kid of Gotham’s underbelly.”

“And yet, you’re still holding the knife.”

“Of course the first would be your brother though, hmm?” J continued, completely ignoring the man's statement.

The groom gritted his teeth.

“I bet it stings to not be the favourite. To not even have him here on your big day.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” The groom spat, bullseyeing J’s shoe. You saw red pooling at the corner of the man’s mouth, the mere act of expectorating on your boyfriend’s shoe more urgent than self-preservation.

Yeesh.

“Now that’s not very hygienic,” J growled, wrinkling his nose. His grip on the knife tightened and in one quick motion, the groom was screaming.

While you couldn’t see the infliction from where you were positioned, the blood dripping onto the sand was clear as crystal. The screams of those around you were piercing, their horror and disgust forcing you to cling tighter to your boyfriend.

“J, please! That’s enough, it’s okay!” You pulled on his blazer. Feeling the hundreds of widened eyes staring holes into your being was no longer a concern. What mattered most was him. Getting out of here.

With a quick glance to his right, J met you, then looked back at the groom.

He smacked his lips.

“Seems you are lucky,” he purred, the shimmer in his eye reflecting nothing of the warmth he concealed so carefully – nothing of the warmth of when your eyes met. Instead, it was serrated and reflected jeopardy. He possessed the force of a hurricane. A gravity; the way in which he commanded the direction of things and uprooted the fortitude of the righteous, the sure, a mothernatured finesse.

He looked back at you again before shifting his hold on the man, fisting his wrinkled and bloodied shirt, then barked, “why don’t you go join your blushing bride?”

With the element of surprise, J raised his knee and shot it between the man’s legs, the man falling down almost as fast as the foreign presence made an impact. You could have sworn someone at the corner of your eye jolted, most likely fearing the worst while others let out shrieks. Fear of the unknown, the seduction of one’s imagination and its ability to fill in blanks was the most manipulatable aspect of consciousness. Rather than bleeding out and rocking lifeless against the cradling waves like so many had thought, the groom sat there, soaking in the shame of defeat and crimson. He hollered while his new wife crawled to his side.

“Tell your precious father I said ‘hi.’”

All eyes now turned to you both as you speedily departed, J dragging you along once more. The colony of sand in your shoe that had begun its formation hours ago was well in its breeding season now, the leathery insole most likely buried along with the newly wed’s marriage. Before you fully exited the cooperative crowd, forever to forget the merging faces of horror, two familiar ones caught your eye.

Hah!

“Some date, huh?” You smiled, staring at your mother straight on. The way her face twisted up in a myriad of emotions – surprise, disgust, embarrassment – was something you’d never forget. You were sure you destroyed her little snobbish social circle by the mere association. Pride swelled in your chest, a childish victory that didn’t seem so childish when you later reflected on your relationship with her.

When the two of you escaped back to the van successfully, there was a moment of contemplation.

“I – heh – think that went well!” J laughed to himself, rounding his body to face you, “you think your parents like me?”

“I think I should be asking the same to myself,” you said.

“Cheer up buttercup, at least your parents know you’re not dying alone anymore.”

“To be honest, after that shitshow they’d probably prefer it,” a sigh left your lips and you began to bite them, unconscious of the small action until the taste of metal blew up your taste buds.

“Eh. Who needs parents, anyway?”

You began to fiddle with your hands, suddenly finding them incredibly interesting. From the lack of interruptions you concluded he knew you were miles away, trapped in the wilderness of your own thoughts.

“So I’m guessing you only came because you found out whose wedding it was.”

It took a lot to break the silence, and the air suddenly shifted to a heaviness. You weren’t sure you were the only one tensing.

J clicked his tongue but didn’t answer.

“It’s okay… I think I’ve had my fill of weddings for a while, anyway. And parents. And honestly, maybe people,” you answered for him, despite the swirl of hurt brewing in your gut.

He breathed out his amusement. The lack of transience had you swallowing, frantic to keep the growing weight on your chest from expanding – from consuming your entire being with emptiness. You didn’t know how long you had until the stampede made its mark, the thunderous thuds of terror already echoing in the distance.

Those were only thoughts you could entertain alone, sunken in the decaying paradise of your bed.

Silence prevailed again.

Dazed and lost of direction, you remained fixated on the lines of your palms.

“The husband had a temper. You know, I thought they were so lovely at first.”

“That’s what they want you to believe. Their little golden castles sparkle in the sun and it’s only until the rain pours that you can see them for what they really are. Wet cardboard. Looks can be deceiving.”

“They certainly can be,” you looked up at him, smiling softly.

Even with the friction, you slowly reached up to cup his face. This time on his end, there was no fear or hesitation. Instead, just an unspoken mutual trust between two wandering souls. You looked down at his lips while your thumbs stroked the hidden lines of his scars. The gentle caresses wore down the makeup until finally they were visible again.

The marks of a survivor – beautiful and bold.

“Wait,” he said, the word simple and yet so labyrinthine. He reared back and looked at his hands while your own moved to rest on your knees. Curled into fists, his slowly unclamped like a blooming flower. What they revealed had your heart thumping, dancing its rhythm in your throat. You felt your eyes widen and the sadness immediately leave you, as if all its colour had been drained from you. You felt like a 1930’s cartoon, so shaken to the core that all you could see was greyscale.

“It wasn’t the only reason,” he whispered, the commanding presence absent.

He cleared his throat and finally looked up at you, “in fact, these were my only reason.”

“You son of a bitch,” you bit your tongue in awe at the binding pieces of metal in his hands. They twinkled in the holiday rays, beckoning, unuttering whispers of fabrication. Was the weight of those dual bands as heavy as his heart? As heavy as the solemn expression as he processed your jabbing words?

“I-I know it’s not much but–” he stuttered, and was promptly interjected.

“Oh! No, no, no! I didn’t mean–”

You both smiled. Yours wide and brazen, his small and seraphic.

“My J. Always starting fights, always getting what he wants,” you took the ring from his finger and darted to your left hand, slipping it on its rightful throne, “how can I resist?”

You kissed him mellowed and full of saccharine and he sighed, his reciprocation just as tender despite the usual dash of coarseness.

“Mine,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. He fluttered his eyes shut and his breathing began to steady.

“Mine,” you whispered.

In all that was and all that ever could be, never would you have believed such a moment possible. Magical and idiosyncratic, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Nothing big and extravagant in front of many eyes. Just the two of you, inside what you now considered the best moment of your life. What many described as a lock and chain, a prison for the rest of one’s life, you would describe as the only thing you had ever wanted. As much as before, everything felt complete.

Supernal.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that, breathing in unison, basking in each other. All you knew was that it was all too soon when you hit the road again, starting the long journey back to Gotham. After a lot of the same scenery – trees, cars, rocks, more cars and occasional bodies of water – your eyes had become leaden. Resting became impossible to oppose and before long your eyes gave into its stinging demand.

Somewhere within the haze of half-consciousness, a mysterious material was draped over you. It was silken on the inside, your arms softly grazing it occasionally, and linen on the outside, your chin brushing over it when passing uneven roads. Subtle ripples of cologne drifted from the fabric as you finally fell prey to sleep’s siren song.

“Sleep well, sweetpea,” lulled a sweet voice.

356 notes · View notes

burnedbyshoto · 5 years ago

Text

eternal love

— A simple love story between a tattoo artist and a flower shop owner. —

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pairing: todoroki shouto x reader

warnings: fluff, cursing

word count: 10,505

a/n: so, ngl... this was something that blew up in my mind at 2 am a few nights ago and after fighting others on whether I should write it, I finally did it!!! I super loved writing this, and I hope you guys will enjoy reading it!!!! a lil fluff for the soul, have fun :D also uh, this works for @bnhabookclub‘s event so huzzah!

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Spring was a season of renewal. The world is going back to what it once was in its beautiful glory. Baby pinks and soft greens illuminated as far as the eyes could see, the morning mist unable to freeze because of the warmth in the ground.

The gentle echoing sounds of animals, insects, and more returning to regular activity, the cold winters finally defeated. Butterflies danced in the air, birds sang in the trees, and love was in the air.

What would be perfect with love?

Flowers.

“Good morning, y/l/n-san,” an elder greeted you.

Your cheeks were already burning with exhaustion, it was only eight in the morning, and you were tired. You wiped the back of your hand to your sweating forehead, your fatigue ignored while you smiled in greeting. “Good morning!”

She stared up at you with kind eyes, her hands holding onto her cane while she cocked her head to the side, “You seem to be quite exhausted this morning.”

There wasn’t much you could say or reply with because it was true.

“Well, we finally have a whole bunch of flowers back, and with White Day approaching us, I’m trying to make sure we’re on track!” you explain, trying to fix the multiple buckets of assorted flowers that you would have outside of your store.

You were a flower shop owner.

Your entire life, you had lived a life where you had grown up working alongside your parents. This was a family business, and with your parents eldering years and you finally back from schooling, they had decided to take an impromptu trip to see the world, leaving you behind to take care of the store. It wasn’t something you minded; after all, they had allowed you to seek all of your own adventures in your life despite only being owners of a flower shop, but it was a lot of work for just yourself.

You couldn’t hire anyone to work at the store, after all, while you had never grown up to live in a moment of discomfort, it was because your parents and yourself busted your backs for this store was why it survived. But now it was just you.

Winter had been fine, the flowers never had to leave the store, but this was spring.

Renewal, return, and romance suffocated the airs of Japan, and your slow winter business was already becoming a quick and demanding spring one.

Brushing your soiled hands onto the relatively clean apron you wore, you sighed at the sight of the elder looking past you. ‘Was she that old that she spaced out in public?’ you couldn’t help but think while staring at her.

“Who’s moving into that shop there?” the elder spoke up, and you hummed, turning around to follow her extended finger.

The shop next to your family’s flower shop had been vacant for years, the last time you remember anyone being there was in middle school. Now in your early twenties, you didn’t even realize that anyone was moving in. There were a lot of men too! How you had so apparently been ignorant to their massive hustle to move things in shocked you. Damn, maybe you were past the point of exhaustion at this point…

“I… I don’t know,” you admitted, your eyes growing when you realized just how neater the store looked. They had obviously been working on repairing the store for some time now, the store was painted in a clean and crisp color, the brick walls scrubbed and glittering like new. It was pretty aesthetic.

“Y/l/n-san! Please help me, it’s my wife’s promotion day, and the flowers I ordered online never arrived!” a voice screamed from a distance away, and your attention turned towards a man who was sobbing while scampering his way over.

And even with your want to just stare at the army of men moving in machines you’ve never seen in your life, you exhaled softly, turning to face the scared customer.

“Of course, follow me!”

You bid your farewells to the elder and hurried inside, ready to create an arrangement of flowers that the customer would enjoy.

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Your exhaustion of the day never seemed to end, the spring day had brought a plethora of customers to your storefront. Many couples, new and old, are surfacing to pick out fresh bouquets together. Their happiness is charming, personalities warming and smiles ever so sweet. They always asked about how you were doing, how your parents were doing — after all, this was a tight community, and they asked about the new business next door.

You couldn’t respond to that last question, your face always burning up in your embarrassment of not knowing. There was no reason for you to not know, after all, it wasn’t as if you were ever doing anything that wasn’t running the store. There was no one to rely on but yourself at this point, but still, exhaustion didn’t mean you could miss the purchase and remodeling of the store right next door to you!

Soon it was nine at night, the now empty wooden carts that were once outdoors dragged back indoors of your store. You took count of your sales today, grinning to see that you had managed to sell everything you had put out today except for a few leftover peonies. You moved back towards the door, ready to turn the Open sign to the Closed side. But you paused when you saw three men walking out of the neighboring shop.

Your eyes focused on the three of them talking comfortably. You had no idea what they were saying, but still, you concentrate on them, curiosity getting the best of you. They talked for a while while you continued to peer through the glass on the door, the conversation must have been lively considering that one of the men was laughing so frequently you almost wished you could hear what they were saying. But alas, eventually, they embraced, and two of the three men entered the large truck that had been parked in the alleyway practically all day and left.

Frowning, you saw that the man was still standing out there. He was unmoving, looking at who knows what with his hands stuffed into his pockets. The night was dark, and the lights on the street did little to help you create what he looked like in your mind. But with a passing car, the soft light illuminating the man with the gentle headlights, you got a clear image of him.

Well, it would have been clear had your guts scrambled into a knot at the sight of his own eyes piercing into yours.

He had noticed you.

With a loud cry, you dove to the floor, your hands pressed against the cool wood while you thought about your next plan of action. Would he come and confront you? Stalking people like this wasn’t cool in the slightest, and if he wanted to walk over and ask you about it, you wouldn’t be able to lie in the slightest. You knew that about yourself. Or maybe it was just you freaking out? There was a solid chance that this was just you freaking out, right?

Your palms sweat while you pushed off the floor, your body trembling as if you were the starring role of some American horror movie. Sucking in your air, and with a hammering heart, you peeked through the glass. No one was out there.

Sighing in relief, you were grateful to believe that it was either your imagination that he stared at you, or he just didn’t care. But still, even with the exhaustion weighing heavy in your bones, you knew you owed him a greeting. Your mother would have your head when she returned if you didn’t. Plus, it helped that the pink peonies still sat in the bucket, their petals still strong and firm, beautiful and lively.

With a nod, you walked over to them. Grabbing the peonies, you organized the delicate flowers into a full and lush looking bouquet. You hoped that he liked flowers, and wouldn’t mind the kind you gave him, primarily because you couldn’t provide him with anything else. Nevertheless, you wrapped the flowers in a tan paper and walked out, ready to give your greetings to a newcomer.

The store felt a world away while you walked towards it, and upon stepping in front of the store, it stole your breath away.

It was a tattoo shop.

Tattoos in Japan were no longer being associated with the Yakuza, years of trying to get everyone to accept this western practice by the younger generations had finally succeeded. Tattoo shops were blooming in numbers across the country, and it seemed that your area was no different.

The outside had large windows, and without even entering the shop, you found it to be quite classy indoors. This wasn’t at all what you were expecting from a tattoo shop! You had always assumed that it was black, something similar to the gates of hell feeling. But with the sign not claiming it was closed, and the store hours showing that it was open until eleven at night, you pushed past the doors. You were glad to see that your pink peonies would make a generous splash of color in the darker colored storefront.

“Hello?” you called out, your voice ever so softly echoing against the unoccupied room. “Is anyone here?”

Cringing at what you said, you groaned. If there was no one here, would that make you a criminal? Oh god, please don’t let that be true! But if there was no one here, why would he leave with the lights on and the door unlocked?! How stupid—

“Can I help you?”

Oh fuck, you’re screwed, was all you could think at first when you turned towards the black curtained hallway.

The man who stood there was tall, his shoulders wide, and legs firm. His arms — which were covered shoulders to wrists in tattoos, his right side containing only black inked tattoos, and his left in the most colorful ink you’d ever seen — were defined with muscle, stretching the fabric of his dark grey t-shirt.

A line of piercings down the cartilage of his ears, identical on both sides of his head. His hair, however, was something you’ve never seen before. Half white, half red, with an undercut and detailed shavings at his temples, it was currently held back with a thin black headband that exposed his eyes to you. He was heterochromatic, you could tell immediately by the piercing blue and dark grey eye color he held. But there was nothing to disguise your reaction when you saw the tattoo — scar? — that covered his eye like an overlarge eyepatch.

There was no smile on his face, just a quirked eyebrow and his lips set in an unamused frown.

“Is that a tattoo?!” you asked your jaw to the floor. Your fingers touched the place where the red skin on his face would be on your own.

“No,” he responded after a beat, his eyes were unbelievably annoyed. Obviously, not at all amused by your intrusion and rude words. “It’s a burn, but again, can I help you, or are you just going to stand there and stare. Not that you look the type to get tattoos, though.”

“I do have piercings, though,” you couldn’t help but defend yourself, your skin feeling like it was burning under his gaze. “But okay, yes. I mean, no! No, you can’t help me because I’m not here for your services.”

His gaze on you only seemed to intensify, a fire and ice storm erupting in his eyes while you wanted to punch yourself in the throat. Good god, be normal.

“I’m your neighbor! Well, I guess I can give you my name. Y/l/n y/n at your service,” you try, your hands thrusting out the peonies in your grasp. His gaze didn’t drop to the flowers, not even a twitch of an eye, which only coursed anxiety through your blood. “I’m the owner slash, not the owner of the flower shop! I hadn’t noticed you ever moving in except today, so I felt super bad! Um, so I just wanted to stop by and say, well, welcome! And uh, well… I just felt bad! These are peonies.”

“I know what flowers those are,” he responds, but his gaze remains unfazed.

What the hell was his problem, you thought, the hairs on the back of your neck rising as if you were being confronted by a deadly predator and not some stupid hot tattoo artist with a bad attitude.

“Oh, cool! Most people think they’re roses for whatever reason,” you laugh, looking at the flowers, your shoulder shrugging.

“I also know they’re the only flowers you had leftover from your sales today,” he spoke again, and your face twisted when you returned to his gaze again.

“Excuse me?”

“I was outside when you were pulling all your carts inside, and they were the only ones who weren’t sold today,” he shrugs, his arms crossing before his chest. The muscles on his arms only seem to expand at this, the ink dancing across his skin, forming new images in your mind while you feel like punching him in the jaw. “Is that what you feel about your new neighbor? I’m deserving of day-old flowers that you were unable to sell?”

“Of course not!” you exclaim, the frustration in your blood climbing while you held his stare. “I mean, are they new and super fresh flowers, no! But they haven’t even wilted yet because I know how to take care of my crap! I just finished the winter season where flower sales are always less than favored, so sorry I couldn’t toss you a thousand yen bouquet!”

There was a silence that floated across the room, his eyes staring into yours, and you could do nothing but stare back at him. Your shoulders rag with your uncontrolled angry breathing, what a fucking asshole he was! Who did he think he was?!

“Well, I guess I’m sorry to hear that you’re broke,” he sighs, finally taking strides over towards you. There’s a part of you that yells to leave the store immediately, and an even larger part of you that screams to step at him too, throw him off his trail! But in your indecisiveness, he stands before you, taking the flowers from your hands. “Todoroki Shouto.”

“That is so obviously not my name,” you roll your eyes, your arms folding across your chest.

There’s a small huff of air from the man, his eyes looking at you full of judgment and the smallest bits of amusement.

“Oh!” you gasp, your hands covering your mouth.

“I’m Todoroki Shouto,” he tries, his eyebrow lifting again, his lip trying perking into a smirk. “But, thanks for confirming we don’t have the same name.”

If there was a god, he would shoot you from this world at this very moment; your fists shoved into the pockets of your apron.

“Okay,” you agree, your lips pursing in your horrible, horrible attempt at masking your hurt pride. “Well, I am utterly exhausted, so I am going to leave now. Have fun with your dumb tattoo shop, Todoroki-san, I am… going to sleep.”

You turned on your heel, ready to run from this shop like the devil was hot on your heels.

“Well, see you around—” he responded, your hands pressing onto the door to leave— “Y/l/n.”

The ringing of your blood in your ears heavily outweighed his voice because you didn’t even stare at him as you continued to walk down the pathway to reenter your shop. Maybe it was a good thing you didn’t look back because had you, you would’ve seen Shouto’s fingers caressing the pink petals of the flower, and his lips moved to say one thing.

“Welcome.”

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It had been a week since you had seen Shouto. The new tattoo shop seemed positively overwhelmed by new customers, countless amount of young people filing into their appointment times, and the few days he had free hours. It, fortunately, did bring you new crowds of customers. Friends and couples alike bringing in the warm spring air into your shop while they bought flowers in commemoration of their new tattoos.

There was no stopping this, it seemed.

“Thank you for your service, please come again,” you called out after the giggling and slightly tipsy group of girls who happened to be your last customers of the day.

Today has been a good day.

You weren’t at all exhausted, in fact, you felt relatively light on your feet still despite it being 8:56 p.m. Since it was so late at night, and with the knowledge of there hardly ever being last-second customers you started cleaning up for the night. But as you grabbed the broom, the familiar bell of the entrance of the shop rang in your ears.

Sighing, you dropped the broom and turned towards the counter, “Welcome!”

The figure at the door shocked you, it was Shouto. He stood there with his fingers hooked in the loops of his black jeans, and the white v-neck did nothing to conceal anything about his tattoos or his dumb muscles.

“Hey!” you smiled, the smile on your face as fake as the festive flowers sitting on the counter — the ironies of working at a flower shop.

“I’m looking for recommendations,” Shouto admitted, his strides stopping him before you. “It’s one of my friends' birthdays coming soon, in a few weeks. He doesn’t like getting presents, but he likes flowers. I was hoping you could help me out here.”

Your jaw drops, words failing you seeing the way that his hair falls so elegantly between his eyes. His eyes are concentrated on the pre-arranged flower arrangements demonstrated on the table as samples and you cough.

“Uh, yes, do you know any of his favorite flowers?”

“No, he’s not really that open about his interests,” Shouto admits, his shoulders shrugging,

“When do you need the arrangement?”

“His birthday is April 20,” Shouto says, a sigh on his lips while he looks up at you. “I’m not sure if there was a time requirement to request things, especially given that you work here alone.”

“I do not work here alone!” you cry, your blood sparking in a fury. “I mean, yes, right now I do, but it’s not always like this! I’m just being a good child and letting my parents have the travels of their lifetime!”

Shouto hums, his face unconvinced, but he seems a bit perplexed, “Did I do something that first night to you?”

That takes you entirely off guard, “Excuse me?”

“Well, after the first night we officially met, you have avoided me very well.”

“I-I’m very busy with this store!”

“I walked out of the store to pick up supplies while you were speaking with your own customer. I saw you run into the door, trying to make your way back indoors.”

“You saw that?!”

“A lot of my friends say I can come off coldly at first, and I know that it’s true, and I’m trying to work on it. I, myself, was exhausted that day too because we put the entire shop together in a single day, so I let myself slip up,” Shouto admits, and you can feel your face beating in time with your embarrassed pulse. Why was this so hard? “I haven’t had the time to come over since opening, so I’m trying now.”

“So the birthday thing is a fake way to get me to talk?” you asked, your lips twitching in your losing battle to keep from smirking.

“Yes and no,” he smiles softly. It almost takes you by surprise, the smile seemed too gentle, too sweet to be on the face of someone who looked like they’d murder you in an alleyway. “I’m not that incompetent to know that I have a few weeks to give until I really need to get those plans under wraps.”

There’s a laugh that bubbles in your throat, and you sigh, unbelieving of what he was doing.

“You’re kind of weird,” you tease, untying your apron for it was now long past the store's open hours. “But since you’re not a customer, I will be asking you to leave at once.”

“But—!”

“No exceptions! I can’t be seen playing favorites, the elders will gossip,” you firmly state, moving from behind the counter to shoo him from your store.

“I want to buy a flower then,” Shouto insists, pulling out a leatherbound wallet.

Your eyes narrow, lucky bitch.

“What flower would you like?” you ask. Your customer service smile painted on your face.

“Do you happen to have any ajisai’s?” Shouto asks, and you think.

You did have some!

Nodding, you pointed your finger towards the pack where small bouquets of ajisai’s sat. Shouto nodded, walking over and grabbing one and making it back.

“That’ll be seven hundred yen,” you say the moment he arrives back.

“The sign said six hundred,” Shouto points out.

“You have me seven minutes over closing time, it’s my gratuity tip,” you tease, grinning when he places seven hundred yen down. You focus back on the cash register, inputting the last sale into it and fixing up the computer before returning your attention back to Shouto, who was staring at the flowers in his hands.

“Here,” he says, thrusting the flowers into your hands and walking away before you could yell at him.

The pink-tipped flowers sat in your hands, ajisai — or hydrangeas — were small and delicate flowers, but they were stunning in your eyes. Rolling your eyes, you put the flowers next to the fake festive ones and went to clean up, the small smile on your own face irreplaceable as you cleaned up.

⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆ Two ⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆

In the following weeks, you and Shouto had begun a strange friendship of sorts. Your breaks during your lunch and dinner times were accompanied by Shouto, who was always over at the time. The tattoo shop was doing exceptionally well, and because of that, he even had other artists there with him, and just gained an official piercer. They were a great crew, all bright and caring people who often had you laughing on the rare occasions you visited his shop. But Shouto always had his time slot blocked out during your breaks, and he would come over with snacks and opinions for the two of you to discuss.

He was definitely an odd person. He was very open about a lot of things, almost too honest. In weeks, you knew more about him than some of your own childhood friends, and you had been involved with most of their stories! Todoroki Shouto was someone to admire though, he was brilliant, a person who never failed to make you smile with his often idiotic tendencies.

He was smart but dumber than a rock.

But as the two of you grew comfortable, there was one thing itching at the back of your mind, the one question you always had when you saw people with tattoos.

“What do your tattoos mean?” you couldn’t help but ask, your eyes shining while looking at his arm that was poised high to deliver the cold soba noodles into his awaiting mouth. “I mean, I know there’s a lot, but one side is colorful and bold, and the other is simple and beautiful.”

Shouto finished the noodles on his chopsticks, his lips soaked with the oils on the noodles. “Do you want to know about a particular one?” he asked, resting the chopsticks down and extending his arms for you to see.

You leaned forward on the stool you were sitting on, observing the lines that created the art on his skin. You were fascinated by both sleeves, and he had incredible artwork on both sides of his arms. There was also some hidden motif behind each side, fire versus ice… But which one to ask about first?

“Can you just tell me why you have two sleeves that are starkly different?” you asked with a curious glint of your eyes. “I mean black ink on one side versus only color? Is there a reason, or was it just something that happened by accident?”

“Oh, there’s a reason for it,” Shouto adjusted on his chair, clearing his throat while he extended his arms. “You can tell just by looking at me, but my left side is what I’ve always associated with my dad: the red hair, blue eyes. My right side is something that I connect with my mom: the white hair, grey eyes. Colored tattoos are always more painful, they tell a very exact story. There isn’t any room for argument because it is seen in one way and one way only. You can deceive, and you can hide, but the truth is there. When I got my first tattoo, I still hated my dad with everything I had, and I wanted to cover every part of my body that I could that would erase him from me. Which is my left side. And like colored tattoos, he was painful, exact, and unchanging. My right side is black ink only because things become confusing, discerning, unknown—” his fingers trace the curving lines on his right arm— “you don’t know where it starts, where it ends, but it’s ever present. It’s comforting because it can change with how you need it to change. You can have other fills in its blanks, to piece together its story, but it has distinct intentions. It’s strong and adaptable.”

You take in his words, unable to think of anything but absorb his words. There’s a soft understanding to his tattoos. Once done in defiant, spoke stories of not only who he was, but who he is today.

“Okay, so I know I’m just a super lame florist, but what do you think about me getting a tattoo?” you asked, your teeth biting into your lower lip with your confusion and hope. “I mean, I’ve never really wanted one before, but that was because of social stigma and all, but seeing yours and your friends all the time… I’m curious.”

Shouto’s brows raise; he doesn’t say anything; however, studying your face.

“What are you thinking about in particular?” he asked his eyebrow scrunching, his head tilting to the side. “Anything at all?”

You blew a raspberry, your hands pressing to your lap, your shoulders falling to your ears.

“I like symbolic things a lot,” you admit with a shrug. “I don’t think I could ever get a sleeve tattoo, so I want it to make sense and have meaning to me. Like… I don’t know a sakura blossom, but maybe not that? I don’t know!”

Shouto laughs softly, the sound pleasant on your ears while you thrash your legs like a child.

“Well, I think I can help you at the very least draw you something,” he suggests, a hand offered out in a deal. “I am a tattoo artist, after all.”

“I’m not sure if I can trust you,” you playfully scoff, your arms folding across your chest while you shake your head. “I might doze off under the needle and wake up to a walking penis on my back!”

“A penis?” Shouto repeated, an award-winning smile gracing his face while you huff, your laughter failing at being masked.

“It’s what happened in middle school to people caught sleeping! Didn’t it happen to you?”

“Not at all.”

“Right, you rich kid middle schools were a breeding ground for far worse. What type of prepubescent hazing did your school do?”

“What makes you think there was hazing?”

“How could there not be!”

The doorbell chimes in the distance and the lively debate is over when you check the time, it was time to reopen it seems.

“I’ll figure out what you did back as a pubescent child,” you promise, watching as Shouto rises with you, his own alarm going off. “But would you really draw me a tattoo?”

Shouto nods, following you out to the entrance of the shop, “I will if you ask me to.”

Uncertainty sits in your stomach, you weren’t sure if it was something that you wanted right now, it had, after all, come up as a moment of trying to create conversation more than being an honest truth. But if it was something that Shouto drew for you, maybe you would.

“I’ll let you know if I want it,” you promise, your eyes closing with your warm smile.

Shouto hums in agreement, his head nodding once. He seems to hesitate for a bit and ultimately walks over to where there was a gathering of flowers and picks out a single himawari. Your eyes narrow in silent teasing when he walks it over to the counter, his hands already reaching for his wallet.

You accept the change, giving him back what you owed him, and was once again shocked to see him resting the flower in your hands.

“For you,” he smiled, his shoulders shrugging.

“You’re so weird,” you wrinkle your nose, still accepting the flower from his fingers with a bright smile. “Thank you for the beautiful himawari.”

“Mm, you’re welcome,” Shouto nodded, slipping on the beanie he had removed upon entering the warm flower shop. “See ya later, y/l/n?”

You nod, waving as he left to which he graciously flipped the sign for you to read that you were once again open. “Bye, Todoroki-san!”

Himawari flowers, otherwise known as sunflowers, always filled you with warmth and love. A flower that is known to be a personal sun on this earth without ever once providing a shred of warmth. There was no denying that it was beautiful, but you shook your head, leaving it on the table in the hallway that leads to your home above the shop. You’d dry and press it once the day was over.

Yes, you decided, that’s how it was going to go.

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“I always forget the wedding season is a thing! Stop looking at me like that, and please help me!”

Most people would never expect to see a community staple member who ran the flower shop to be on their hands and knees, holding onto the ankles of one of the most intimidating and newest members of the community while they begged for help. Well, to be honest, no one could even consider what you were doing to be begging. It was a full-on psycho messy bitch cry for help.

“I said I was going to help you already, what else do you possibly need from me?” Shouto groaned, his vans clad foot trying to wiggle you loose from his ankle. “...don’t tell me.”

“Well, you know what I’m asking then!” you whine, your eyes welling with tears at Shouto’s straight face.

Your face had an array of dried petals on your face, dirt caking the undersides of your fingernails, grass, and leaves in your hair, and desperation reeking from your face.

“My parents still aren’t back! My friends are all busy living their own lives too far away to help me properly, and you’re the only person I trust! You’re a tattoo artist, you have to have a delicate hand, right? Please help me and let me use your crew too, I promise I’ll pay!”

Shouto groans, managing to kick you free from his foot, and pulling you up to your feet so that the noisy people watching would hopefully leave. “If you want the others to help you out, you need to ask them. I’m not going to force them to do anything.”

Your eyes blow wide, excitement simmering in your cells while your hands grip onto his biceps for support, and his own hands rested on your hips.

“Really?! You’ll let me do that?!”

Shouto breathed heavily out of his nose, took a second to recompose himself before letting that small smile appear on his face. The grateful squeal that left your lips was something that shocked him, Shouto won’t lie, but it was the hug you threw around his neck that had him stumbling. He watched in a frozen trance as you stormed into his shop, arms waving animatedly above your head while you explained your need for help to his employees. He didn’t follow you in though, choosing to instead watch you from outside the shop because it was his break right now, and he wasn’t going to be spending it inside the shop.

You returned with a smug smirk on your face, dirt-smudged on your cheek while you nodded your head in victory.

“Well, it looks like I have a team,” you say with a mock casualty. “I am, what the cool kids call, persuasive.”

A weird feeling floods to the tips of Shouto’s fingers at your words was this… annoyance? There was no reason for him to be annoyed that his friends would be coming over to help you. You needed the help. So what if you wouldn’t be talking to him and only him.

“Persuasive, or annoying?” Shouto tries you, and the way you focused on him in your flustered state was enough for a small chuckle to escape his lips. Before you could respond in defense to your persuasive tongue, he was already en route towards your shop. “You wasted five minutes of my break, please don’t waste the other ten.”

He wasn’t sure what made him grin more, the loud cry of “you’re an asshole, Todoroki-san,” the childish stomping coming from behind him, or the cheerful laughter that soaked your tongue at your own silly antics. But still, the grin became a soft smile when he turned to face you, the shop door in his hand while he held it for you.

“After you.”

“Damn right, after me.”

“You guys are actually very good at this,” you marvel, peering over Shouto’s shoulder, watching as he and his coworkers assembled the vase of statement flowers.

Todoroki Shouto, Kaminari Denki, Shinsou Hitoshi, Midoriya Izuku, and Bakugou Katsuki.

Five equally large men, decked out in tattoos and piercings, with a punk look to them sat pinched together on tables meant to hold more than five men dainty arranging soft pinks and white-colored flowers with your princess pop music blaring in the background. It was very different to how they were in their shop, but it amused you to see them like this.

They were a group of childhood friends who apparently all had the same dream and worked together to make this tattoo shop. Shouto, being the most wealthy of them, had been the name signed on all the papers, explaining the reasons why he was the one you had first met those many nights ago.

But with five different weddings coming up at the moment, you were more stressed about getting these things done and fast. The good thing, however, was that it seemed most of them were striving perfectionists.

Shouto, Bakugou, Midoriya, and Shinsou were all on top of it, having only needing you to explain the arrangements once for them to get it. Kaminari took two tries, but he was also very, very social, and took his time. They were a bizarre dynamic, but it was something you enjoyed.

“Damn right we are, this shit is so fucking easy,” Bakugou responded back, shoving yet another completed arrangement your way. “And why are you just fucking staring at us? Why aren’t you helping?”

You hummed, grabbing the completed vase, and placing it with the others from this particular wedding. “Because I already met my quota, and I can’t pull out the other arrangement until you guys are done.”

“Oh, there’s another one?” Midoriya asked, handing you a completed vase.

“Well, if you guys don’t mind!” you feel your face heating while they were finishing up their final vases, Bakugou snatching some of Kaminari since he had more leftover. “I just didn’t expect you guys to haul these so quickly! And well, there’s just one left I have to do!”

“We are amazing,” Kaminari says, twirling a stem of baby’s-breath in his fingers. “I can see why you were so eager to sign us to your shop. “I make perfect commentary, Shinsou has that calming effect, Deku is sweet and kind, Shouto is obviously the closest to you, and Bakugou.”

You blinked, as did everyone else, staring at the blond who wove the baby’s-breath into the arrangement with a soft touch. Wasn’t he going to finish that sentence?

“And I what?” Bakugou growls, his ears tinging red with his annoyance.

“Hm?” Kaminari perks his eyebrows, his gaze lazily resting on the ash blond. “Oh, no, that was it!”

There was a loud screech of the chair against the floor, and Midoriya was holding back Bakugou while Kaminari screeched, hiding behind Shinsou.

“Here you go,” Shouto sighed, handing you the prior arrangement for this wedding batch.

“Thank you,” you smile gratefully, the sounds of the raging war between Bakugou and Kaminari fading into background noise while you hold Shouto’s gaze. “For all of this too, you guys are keeping me from a countless amount of all-nighters.”

“Well, as long as they don’t wreck your shop, then I guess the payment will be okay,” Shouto sighed, not bothering to even look at how Midoriya was losing ground on keeping Bakugou back.

“As long as there isn’t any blood or teeth on the floor, I’ll give it to ya,” you grin, gesturing with your head for him to follow you.

While you and Shouto had gone to get the final wedding arrangements, Shinsou had managed to get Bakugou to calm down and sit. This arrangement was simple, and there were only twelve of them you needed to make, and before you knew it, everyone was leaving, waving as they went. Only Shouto stayed behind, helping you put away the chairs and the tables, while also setting the flowers into the freezer until they would be collected.

It was almost midnight by the time the two of you had cleaned up the shop, and Shouto leaned against the counter while you sprawled onto the floor, exhausted.

“I think,” you mumble, exhaustion fluttering through you. “I think Imma just, sleep here.”

“I’m not going to let you do that,” Shouto sighs, walking over to you. “You’re bordering disgusting right now, and you need to shower before sleeping.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone right now,” you point your finger at him definitely. “I think I can become one with the ground right now.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Shouto decided, pulling you up to your feet. Something that made you groan and press your forehead to his chest when you got you up. “Come on, let’s go. I’ll walk you to your stairs.”

Snorting, you shake your head, pushing him away, “No, it’s okay, I was just being annoying. Besides, I need to lock up down here once you leave.”

Shouto frowns, but he doesn’t move to argue with that, because it was true.

“I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning!” you insist, smiling sweetly up at the man who was wearing one of your bandanas.

“Okay,” Shouto finally agreed, moving towards the door.

When you got to the door, ready to see him out, Shouto paused.

He turned to you, his head tilting, and your lips parted to question him, but before any words could fall from your tongue, he raised his hand.

In his hand, he rested a pink arusutoromeria. It was most definitely a leftover from one of the arrangements statement flowers, but it sat daintily in his hand. Under the moonlight, it was almost ethereal in his hold, and you felt a small warmth build in your cheeks.

“That’s called stealing from my clients, ya know,” you tease, the exhaustion in you dying the moment you took the flower from his hand. “I’m going to have to take this out of your paycheck.”

“Don’t pay me,” Shouto insisted softly, his lips peeking into a half-smile. “I would’ve helped, even if you hadn’t asked.”

“That’s ridiculous, I wouldn’t have let you,” you shove his arm, but he went unmoved. His two-colored eyes shining in mirth while continuing to stare at you.

“I know,” he whispers, his gaze holding yours. “Goodnight, y/l/n.”

“Goodnight, Todoroki-san.”

Shouto licked his lips, his face wincing just the smallest bit before shaking his head, “I think you can drop the formality, we’re passed that.”

You didn’t have time to react, only whispering his last name while he exited your shop into the nighttime. But you looked down at the arusutoromeria, otherwise known as the Alstroemeria Peruvian lily. The peachy and pink waxy petals smooth under your fingertip, but it made your heart warm.

Shouto really did pick the most beautiful flowers.

But why was it always for you?

⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆ Four ⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆

“The shop isn’t open today, Todoroki-chan!”

Shouto turned around to see two elders watching him while he had failed to open your shop’s doors.

“Oh, thank you,” he thanked them, bowing in greetings. “Do you know why? Y/l/n didn’t mention anything yesterday?”

“We do, actually! The park hosts the summertime festival, and they’re in charge of the floral arrangements you see going on there! Y/l/n might be there right now!”

Shouto nodded, the banners that had been advertising for the said festival had been up for the past two weeks.

“Thank you,” he said, leaving the two elders to themselves before returning to his own shop.

Today was a busy day, and since he wasn’t going to have time to spend his break with you, he decided he’d just move on to his latest client. Ignoring the questionative and gossiping look of Kaminari, he called on the girl who was here for her last touch up.

He’d go and see you when you returned.

It was three in the morning when you were finally back at your shop. Festivals were indeed something of exhaustion. You spent six hours putting up flowers all over people's booths and stalls in order for things to look beautiful. Then when the festival began at three in the afternoon, you’d be in your own booth handing out single roses, lilies, and tulips to lovers, friends, and family who wanted to cheer others up.

Flower sales have always confused you. Flowers, after all, were almost pointless since most of them were bought without the roots and soil. You were gifting something that was on the verge of death that wouldn’t last longer than twenty-one days if you were lucky. But you couldn’t complain, on the other hand. The people’s faces that exploded with affection and love after receiving the flowers made it worth knowing that these dying presents had meaning to them.

But festivals by yourself were hell.

Restocking the flowers, handling the money, trying to give out the flowers all by yourself had proven to be a handful. This was at the least a two-person job, and with your parents still not returning anytime soon, it was hard. You couldn’t ask anyone to help you because everyone you knew who would accept your money to work had to work until late today too.

But you had survived, as you had been for the past few months. So when you tiredly stabbed your key into the air, trying your best to get it into the lock, a sudden noise scared you.

Turning towards the sound, your tired eyes widened upon seeing Shouto walking out with a young woman next to him. She was tall, grand, and even with your tired, dried out, and blurry eyes, you could tell she was beautiful. You saw the way that politely and effortlessly giggled, her dark eyes warm and sweet while she talked to Shouto.

And Shouto, how you had entirely missed him today. But he was obviously enraptured by this woman, his facial features looking kind and sweet while they talked.

A weird feeling tightened in your stomach, what the hell was that? You blinked multiple times, your head muggy and far too foggy for your liking. This wasn’t your business, you thought, finally succeeding in opening your shop door. But with a strong pull of the wagon you had, you watched in horror as the top bins clattered to the floor.

You hauled the wagon in, desperate to get out there and get the remaining fallen items off the floor. You thought having eaten only breakfast today would have rendered you unable to be as stupidly strong as you were at that moment. But as you went to pick up the boxes, you saw Shouto approaching you, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Oh, hey, Todoroki!” you laugh, trying to lift the boxes, but you were failing at it. “I didn’t see you all day, how are you?”

Shouto shrugged, his lower lips jutting out slightly too.

“Good, I didn’t realize you were working for the festival, all day at that,” he admitted while moving to help you. “How’d it go.”

“Well,” you think about it, watching your friend take the boxes from your hands and holding them with ease despite your own fumbling. “I, um… it was hard.”

Shouto listened to you while you explained how you handled your booth on your own. How this was one of the busiest festivals your city hosted and how you hadn’t had time to relax since the festival began at three. He listened to you without making any input of his own, the occasional chuckle from hearing about entitled customers, or customers who thought buying a red rose for someone they were going to break up with was a bad idea.

Cleaning up with Shouto with you was relaxing and welcoming, his presence was always one you received, and after a long day, it was sweet and soft.

But while in his explanation as to who the lady — Yaoyorozu Momo, as he named her — was doing at his shop so late, your stomach wailed in hunger. Your face burned in embarrassment, your appetite finally remaking its appearance.

Shouto chuckled, finding glee in your horror before nodding towards the hallway that leads to the staircase of your home. He had been up there a handful of times now, and he smirked, “I’ll make you something since we didn’t eat together today.”

“How can I trust you’re a good chef,” you ask, despite already making your way to the upper level of the shop, ready to stay up even longer with Shouto.

The next hour is spent with the two of you eating and talking. The conversation between the two of you is light and flowing smoothly. You’re on the couch with him, a blanket on your laps while you rest your head against his shoulder.

“Tell me about your tattoos,” you mumble, your exhausted body feeling warm and safe against his right side.

“Which one?” he asked, shifting his left arm towards you so that way you could continue resting on him.

“Any,” you sigh, your fingers brushing against his wrist. “They’re all beautiful.”

So he does.

Shouto tells you about the special ones first. The fire on his left wrist, the ice on the right. They were his first tattoos, something he had associated with himself since he could remember, but a symbol of how they were both significant parts, equal in their fury, but gentle, beautiful, and healing when needed. He had dizzying patterns on his right side, something he had always acquitted to being his more assertive side. The designs were distinctive and almost dizzying to look at, but each pattern he had drawn, each twist and turn meaning something. The black ink was daunting, powerful, and reserved. He even admitted to letting his friends color in the spaces where you could still see his pale flesh, it was something that he enjoyed because even being as old as he was, the childlike entertainment never left when someone did it.

His left side was stunning though, every color in the rainbow melting and mixing on his skin. This side was artistic, bold, a creation of vibrant dreams, and they warmed you up while he explained every secret behind them. He was scary on this side if you couldn’t find the outlines of each clashing drawing, but up close, with your breath gently warming his skin while you peered at his skin, you realized just how gentle it really was. It wasn’t scary or overwhelming. It was quiet, warm, and a soft gesture to who he used to be, and who he was now.

The two of you were close friends, nothing could ever say otherwise, but as the two of you lay on the couch together, you positioned between his legs, your head laying on his chest. Sleep was a mere kiss away when you snuggled into his chest, your finger pressing against the t-shirt he wore.

“I think I’m ready… for you to draw me up a tattoo… do you think you can surprise me, though? I have no ideas…” you mumbled into his chest.

“Of course,” Shouto responded back, and before you could blink, the world turned dark, sleep consuming you in a gentle embrace.

You weren’t sure if you imagined the feel of his soft lips on your forehead, but when you woke up the next morning, you were alone. The blanket was tucked around you, pillows resting under your head, and a flower sat on the coffee table before you.

A kaneshon.

A carnation.

Your cheeks warmed at the sight of it, knowing immediately that it was left behind by Shouto. Grabbing the flower within your fingers, you pressed the sweet-smelling flower to your nose. If he continued doing this, there was no stopping the way you felt towards him.

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Two weeks later.

“So, what do you think of this?”

You were sitting in Shouto’s private room where he had his tattoo appointments, you were by the wall, sitting on a stool by a desk where he was showing off his tattoo design for you. It was stunning; honestly, it had everything in the world that you could be asking for.

Simple, elegant, and sophisticated.

It fit your personality, hopes, and dreams.

It was perfect.

“Wow,” you barely managed to breathe, your fingers touching the sketch he had presented to you. Was feeling it okay? You hoped so.

“Do you… do you like it?” Shouto asked, his eyes trying to read your face, but failed to see how you reacted because he was behind you.

“This is amazing, Todoroki,” you shake your head, pulling back to stare at your friend with a great smile. “I mean, I know I said I wanted you to draw me one, but I wasn’t expecting you to make it so… personalized to me.”

“...you’re special to me,” Shouto admitted, his body both relaxing and tensing under your gaze. “I had to make this special for you.”

“Well, you sure did!” you agree with a laugh, your cheeks warm with your grin. “But how much will this be?”

“4,000 yen,” Shouto answered with a straight face.

You laughed in his face, remembering that all their starting prices were much more than that, “Come on, don’t be ridiculous. How much?”

“I wasn’t lying,” Shouto confirms, his gaze unwavering. “I like you a lot, and you mean a lot to me, so I’m giving you a discount.”

Your jaw drops, you’re unable to speak, words failing you with every breath. “A discount, not a free tattoo.”

“It’s not free, I’m still making you pay.”

“Yeah, and even I know that price is absurd!”

The two of you argue for some time, the money you throw down on his desk is immediately slammed back into your wallet. You feel close to victory; that is, until Shouto threatens to make your tattoo actually free. To that, your lips twist, a defeated look in your eyes while you huff.

“Fine,” you spat, turning around ready to leave the shop, given that your break was nearing its end.

“Y/n,” he calls out suddenly, and the way that your name sounds on his lips makes you shiver. He had started to call you by your given name as of late, and to hear his warm and deep voice say your name made you wonder why you two hadn’t done this earlier. After all, the two of you were too close.

“Shouto?”

He looks ready to speak, his tongue wetting his lips while he stares at you, unsure what to say to what to do.

“What did you think of the kaneshon?”

Two weeks later and he had finally spoken about the flower he had left behind.

“It was beautiful, I loved it,” you smiled in return, but you didn’t miss the way that his eyes seemed to cloud at those words. Obviously, those weren’t the words he wanted to hear, but what was it that he wanted? “Another flower to add to my collection.”

Shouto’s lips quirk into a smile, and you watch while he reaches behind his bench and pulls out a tsubaki. You’re silent as he walks it over to you, pressing the gentle stem into your hand.

“For you,” he whispers, and you can feel your heart hammering in your ears at how close he is. The dim lights of his room, the smell of ink, bleach, and, most importantly, Shouto sending your blood into a craze.

Kiss him, your brain told you, but you were frozen, too busy counting the number of eyelashes he had.

“You didn’t buy this from me, what are you doing helping my competition?” were the words that came to your mouth instead of the confession you so wanted to give.

“No,” Shouto laughs softly, and he adjusts his position almost to give you dizzying fantasies of him kissing you. “I’m growing them, actually.”

“Oh, so you’re my competition,” you tease, and Shouto sighs, his eyes rolling and nods.

“Yeah, the tattoo shop was a decoy to us becoming the best flower shop in all of Japan.”

“Sounds like I should be worried.”

“Oh, you should.”

There was no denying the fact that the distance between your bartering lips was disappearing, but the shrill beep of your alarm destroyed the space between the two of you as you stepped away. You had an appointment to get to after all.

“Um, dinner?” you ask, stumbling to the door. “Sounds good?”

Shouto nods, his lips in a small smile, “See you then.”

With the camellia clenched tightly into your hands, your blood boiling in your destroyed passions, and the sounds of the others saying goodbye while you left, you felt weird when entering your flower shop, one thought running repetitively in your mind.

You had feelings for Shouto.

⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆ Six ⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆

You twirled the akaichurippu in your fingers.

It had been two months since you worked out you had feelings for Shouto, one week since he had given you this flower, six days since he started avoiding you, and two days since your parents had finally returned home.

With the three of you now running the shop, you were able to relax a whole bunch more. Your parents had returned on a honeymoon mode, their gazes wistful and in love, finding it almost hard to readjust to the life they had left behind for a year. It had been a year since you had met Todoroki Shouto, and you were baffling in love with him. But you had done something obviously because he was avoiding you like the plague.

He hadn’t been over in six days, and they had been such lonely days without him. Of course, once your parents had come home, it had been grossly lively with their romantic sighs and glees, but it didn’t do much to qualm the Shouto sized hole in you.

Stupid Shouto, stupid feelings, stupid everything.

Tossing the flower onto the counter, you sat up from your slumped state, watching as your dad swung your mom in a circle. Stupid parents with their stupid love, you bitterly added while puffing out your cheeks.

“Wow, what’s that look for!” your dad caught on immediately, staring at your unamused form. He trailed his gaze down to the red akaichurippu, otherwise known as the red tulip, while your mother stood up herself.

There was a shocked gasp coming from them both, and you watched as your parents approached the counter like excited children, the flower being picked up by your mother.

“Who gave you this?!” your mother asked, her eyes sparkling in glee, and your dad seemed conflicted in the same delight, and distinctive stern dad look.

“Shouto,” you sighed, your eyes rolling.

“The one that’s ignoring you?”

“The very same!”

“That’s strange,” your dad’s eyebrows furrowed, his head tilting. “He’s just next door, and he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon… why is he ignoring you after giving you the eternal love flower?”

You froze.

“I’m sorry, what?!”

“The red akaichurippu flower is the symbol of eternal love,” your mom explained as if it was basic knowledge. “They’re much more romantic than a boring red rose, in my opinion. You’re also a florist y/n, why don’t you know these meanings or intentions?”

“Oh my god,” you said in horror, and you stood up, racing upstairs to grab the flowers you had dried and pressed. The flowers he had given you throughout this year.

Your parents were shocked when you slammed down the book with flowers, your fingers shaking excessively.

“What do these mean,” you demand, your fingers shaking while you point at the different flowers.

“Ajisai: apologies and gratitude.”

“Himawari: adoration, loyalty, and longevity.”

“Arusutoromeria: devotion, loyalty, ‘I like you,’ friendship.”

“Pink kaneshon: affection.”

“Tsubaki: humility, discretion, and perfect love.”

Red akaichurippu: eternal love.

“I have to go!” you yelled, racing out of the store, the ringing bell and following shouts of your parents doing nothing as you ran into the tattoo shop.

“Shinsou!” you called at the purple-haired man who was staffing the front desk, obviously having no scheduled appointments today. “Is Shouto—?”

“No, he’s taking his break right now,” Shinsou smirked, his eyes full of amusement, which spoke to his knowledge of what was going on. “You can go in.”

You smiled and went down the hallways of the tattoo shop that you knew intimately. You could hear the buzzing of the tattoo guns going off in Bakugou and Midoriya’s rooms, the light chatter that came with passing Kaminari’s room until you made it to Shouto’s room.

It was quiet inside, and as you opened the door to step inside, the flower in your hand feeling heavier than lead when you saw Shouto sitting at his desk, eating cold soba slowly.

“Shouto?” you called, and Shouto didn’t move, obviously ignoring you.

“Come on, don’t ignore me,” you plead, moving towards the bench only to have him turn towards you, his eyes blank, cold, angry, and burning through you when he faced you. So maybe he wasn’t ignoring you? “Okay, uh, thank you for looking at me, but I need to explain something to you!”

“Make it quick, my break’s done in two minutes.”

A cold sweat erupts in your body, and you thrust the red tulip out.

“Eternal love,” you say quickly, your body shivering at that statement, and Shouto looks at you, then at the flower, then back at you.

“Yeah, I knew that already, idiot.”

Your jaw drops, and the smallest bits of annoyance pricks at you. You often forgot what it was like to be under his calculating words and not being at his side, laughing at the victims of his words.

“Okay, well, I didn’t,” you continue on, your fists dropping at your side, annoyance, fear, happiness, and love flooding through your body. “I’m a florist, I know that. I have lived my life as the child of florists, and I have taken on their trade, but one thing I never knew about was flower meanings.”

“What?”

You shake your head, your gaze dropping to the flower in your embarrassment, “I’ve never known any flower meaning outside of funeral flowers, the red rose, and spider lilies, but that’s because of the culture behind it, not necessarily because of the language of flowers. And I was mad at you today, so I had this flower out, and my parents who do know about flower language told me what this meant, and every other flower you’ve bought for me… I didn’t realize you were confessing to me using flowers… I didn’t ever expect a tattoo artist to know the meanings! Had you been a florist yourself, then maybe I would have thought to look up the meanings behind the flowers, but I just assumed it was you picking flowers out because they were pretty.”

“Flower tattoos are popular,” Shouto breathes, his eyes swimming with flashing emotions while he rises to his feet. “It’s sort of my job to know the difference. I mean… you brought over peonies that first night, and they’re a flower you use to welcome other people, so I figured you knew.”

“No,” you laugh breathlessly. “I only picked those out because they were the only flowers I had leftover from that day… I guess you would make an amazing florist after all,” you chuckle, your heart hammering in your whole being while he stepped closer to you. “I’m a blunt person, straightforward confessions are the only way to deal with me.”

“Most blunt confessions have always ended with rejection from me,” Shouto states, his fingers grabbing onto your waist. “That tends to scare people off.”

“Try it with me,” you whisper, your fingers resting on his broad shoulders, the shiver under your skin electrifying as you knew what was happening.

“I’m in love with you, y/l/n y/n,” Shouto grinned, and you didn’t give yourself a chance at responding because you slammed your lips against his.

It was a passionate kiss, one that had your back arched into him, the flower falling from your fingers and onto the floor. Heads tilted with your dancing lips, and fuck was every gentle caress of his lips, sending your mind in a whirl.

More and more, your lips slanted against each other, and there was no say as to what was going to happen next. You pulled away, a galaxy in both your eyes and a desire, a promise for more when he would meet your lips again.

“Shouto, your three o’clock is here!��

The two of you froze, and you laughed, your lips meeting his that sought after yours for the kiss was too short.

“We’ll talk later.”

#todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #todoroki shoto x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

Text

Hot Blood [2]

Warnings: non-consent sex; oral, intercourse

This is dark! (mob) skinny Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Synopsis: Steve Rogers is on the rise in the New York underground as you’re trying to keep your own place there.

Note: Here’s the second half. I’m TRYING to slow down a bit because I’ve become a bit manic and scrambled and all over the place so hope you guys don’t mind maybe revisiting some of my stuff while I try to clear my mind.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

There was a flurry of activity at the tall brick building you pulled up to in Brooklyn. Bucky drove around the back and killed the engine. Steve sent you a look before he climbed out. You grabbed your small bag and got out as Bucky closed the driver’s door.

Steve led you to the back door of the building as Bucky trailed you and pulled out a cigarette. As you entered, the distant banging of hammers and buzz of voices rose from above. You were surprised by the interior as it did not reflect its facade; the aged brick hid the newly laid layer of decadence.

“Mind the noise,” Steve said as he strode across the lobby. “First two floors are finished but they got a dozen more to do.”

You glanced around at the stone statues and gilted frames. A little Versailles in the heart of New York. No doubt prompted by overcompensation and egoism.

“A borough is an empire on its own, I suppose,” You mused as you neared a bust of a naked woman.

“No, but New York is,” He neared and ran his finger along the curve of the stone woman’s hip. “It will be.”

“Big plans…” You stopped yourself from finishing; for a small man.

“Too many plans,” He drew away and looked at his watch.

“Buck,” He called to his henchman who flicked off his cigarette. “Would you use the goddamn tray?”

“Sorry,” Bucky snickered. “Habit.”

“Mmm,” Steve grumbled. “Take her up to a room. Lock it, will ya?”

You glared at him and gripped your bag tighter. He glanced at you as he felt your anger radiating towards him.

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll have the tailor come by and get you all set.” He smiled. “Considering that hole you were living in, I think you’ll like it here.”

“You can tell your tailor to fuck off.” You snapped.

“Ah,” Steve’s hand flew up and he grabbed your chin. “That’s not very ladylike language.”

“Get off of me,” You smacked his arm but he didn’t flinch.

“There are gonna be rules, got it? First, you’re gonna start acting like a lady and watch your tongue. Then you’re gonna get rid of these,” He let go and pulled on your lapel, “And mind your place, woman.”

You bit down as you brought your hand up. He reeled at the slap which echoed through the lobby and Bucky’s figure loomed in your peripheral. Steve raised his hand to halt his henchman and touched his cheek. He took a breath.

“That’s the only one you get,” He said slowly. “Understand? Cause I’ve been more than patient with you. You still got your piece.”

“Empty,” You intoned.

“Still,” His eyes flashed. “And your head.” He pointed at you. “And a very clear choice here, doll. This can be easy or difficult. Now it seems you prefer the latter but I don’t think we ‘share that sentiment.”

“No, we don’t,” You said.

“Bucky,” He gestured to his man. “Get her out of my sight.”

Bucky grabbed your arm and drew you away as Steve walked across the marble floor. Your shoes slid over the stone and you were forced up the stairs by the bulky henchman. He dragged you to a pair of double doors and wrenched the right one open. He shoved you inside.

The door slammed and you heard the lock slide into place. You cursed and kicked it before you spun to look around the room. It was as big as, if not bigger, than your apartment.

The walls were decorated in a pale blue paper that bore regal curlicues and the polished floor shone even without the light of the glass lamps. The furniture was carefully arranged and no doubt expensive. You dropped your bag on the side table by the door and inched further in. You removed your hat and played with the brim. You needed to learn to shut your mouth.

🌆

It was about an hour before the lock sounded. The door opened inward and you rose from the chair with the French legs. A man with round glasses struggled to drag in a rolling rack of garments. When he was inside at last, the door closed and the lock slid back into place.

He glanced around as he adjusted his spectacles and seemed taken aback by you. He sniffed as he came closer.

“Oh dear,” He said. “Hmm. Uh, hello, Miss, I was sent for a fitting. I’m Stuart.”

You crossed your arms and scowled. He shook his head and turned back. He grabbed a pale green dress from his collection and faced you again.

“This might fit,” He said. “Miss.”

He nodded to the screen on the other side of the broad bed. You looked between him and the painted divider. You didn’t move.

“Mr. Rogers told me you required a wardrobe,” He said aghast, “And I must agree with him.”

“And if I refuse it?” You challenged.

“You’ll have no protest from me, I have been duly paid to come here and offer my services. However, I know my client well and I am certain you can predict his reaction yourself.” He explained. “Whether or not you go along with this, is not my job.”

You huffed and reached to your belt. The man blanched as you removed your holster, gun still secure, and set it on the side table.

“It’s empty,” You assured him. “If it wasn’t, I’d not be here.”

You took the dress from him and disappeared behind the screen. You swore under your breath as you hooked the hanger over the top of the barrier. You removed your jacket and unclasped your suspenders. You slipped your shoes off and balled your socks inside them. You unbuttoned your shirt and tossed it a top your jacket on the small stool about a foot away. You added your trousers to the pile and stood in your underwear.

You grabbed the dress and pulled it over your head. The a-line skirt fell just to your knee and the delicate embroidery along the panels of the bodice stretched from chest to waist. You hadn’t worn a dress in years and it was just as awkward as you recalled. You stepped out from behind the screen and braced your hips in disapproval.

“Fits quite well,” Stuart mused and neared his rack again. “That means… the red, yes, oh, silver, the lace skirt…” He began to take hangers down and toss each piece on the chaise not far away. “Enough to see you through until I can make adjustments.”

You frowned and shook your head as you watched him. He passed you and you watched him gather up your former clothing. You blocked him before he could return to his rack.

“What are you doing with those?” You asked and reached to your waist instinctively.

“Mr. Rogers bid me take them with me.” He said plainly. “My assistant will be by later with undergarments… I just need your measurements before I go.”

You sneered at him as he dumped your clothing on the side table and stirred around in his pockets.

“I can assure you, miss, given your temperament, this is as unenjoyable for you as me.” He neared with his tape measure and you dropped your arms.

“Doubtful.” You grumbled.

🌆

There was an oval mirror in the corner behind the screen. You spent a while looking at yourself in the ridiculous dress before you distracted yourself with hanging the rest in the long closet. Stuart’s assistant, Olly, was shown in an hour after the tailor had left and gave you a collection of negligee and silk underwear. You hid them in the drawers and tried to forget about them.

Steve, for all your spite, was a man who acted quickly and effectively. And, you guessed, impulsively. You doubted you were the first woman to laugh at him but you didn’t wonder much on his wrath. It was his ilk; yours too. The underworld was run on tempers and wounded pride.

You sat in an armchair as you fiddled with the gun, flipping the chamber in and out, listening to the roll. You heard the door handle and stopped. You spun the gun in your hand and pointed the empty barrel at the man who entered. Steve’s brows drew together as he saw you. His lips twitched and he removed his hat. He left it on the side table beside your bag.

“You waiting on me?” He asked coyly.

“If I had a bullet, perhaps I would be more excited for your arrival,” You set the gun on the small round table beside you.

“Go on,” He stood across from you. “Stand up. Let me get a look.”

You stared at him. You didn’t move. His gaze travelled to your legs and he tapped his toe.

“Hurry up, would ya? We’ve got places to be.” He sneered.

“Places to be? Oh?” You still didn’t rise.

“Look, doll,” He lowered his voice as he stepped a bit closer. “I know you think I’m just a skinny little shit but let me tell you, I’m a whole lot more. You stand up so I can get a peek at you or I’ll get you up myself and do more than look.”

Your nostrils flared and you grabbed the gun. You swung it at him and he dodged it. He caught your hand as you stood and tried again. He twisted your wrist and you gritted your teeth as he forced you to release it. He caught it with his other hand and shoved you back.

“You just can’t help yourself,” He growled as he tucked your gun into his trousers. “You’re lucky I have more self-control than you.”

You crossed you arm as he looked you up and down.

“Nice get-up but not for tonight,” He went to the closet and slid it open. “Even so, you’ve been busy.”

You were silent as he pulled out a pale blue dress that shimmered in the light. Thin straps, low cut, skirt flowing to the floor. You cringed as he turned back to you.

“I am not stupid, doll,” He neared and held out the hanger. “You think I’m a joke. You’re one of the most stubborn gals I’ve ever known. I like that.” He waved the dress until you took it. “But I don’t work alone. You wanna step on my toes, I have no issue calling in back-up.”

You glared at him; silent.

“I’ve seen Bucky do terrible things to men; his own size, bigger. I heard of worse from his years in the war. It changed him and when I tell him to do something, he doesn’t think, he does. He doesn’t see a man or woman, trousers or skirt, he sees a job.” Steve warned. “He’s all smiles til I say ‘sic ‘em’.”

“You must watch a lot of pictures, Mr. Cagney,” You sniped.

“Listen, when it comes down to it, you’ll prefer me to him,” He said. “Me to any man in this city. I could let you go,” He pointed at you. “Could, but I’d have to put a price on that pretty little head.”

You frowned and folded the dress over your arm.

“Where are we going?” You asked quietly.

“A party,” He smiled. “To celebrate my recent victory.”

🌆

You hated the gown and the shoes. The way the woman had done your hair. Steve had left you to change and been quickly replaced by an older woman with fake blonde curls. Once a Jean Harlow fan or merely grasping at her fading youth?

She set your hair and grabbed your chin as she powdered your face and lined your eyes. She was pushy and said her name was Muriel. She talked a lot. You could barely keep track of her gossip. She painted your lips a deep shade of red and looked you over. When she finished, she left you as swiftly as she’d come. You ignored the mirror and the stranger in it.

When the door opened once more, you were at the window. You stared down at the sidewalk, pondering the way down. It would be a painful and slow death. So you had to wear heels; was it worth that?

“Doll,” Steve’ voice made you tense and you turned to face him. “You look… wonderful. Like a real woman.” He neared and his eyes lingered on vee of the dress. “Forgive me, you are a real woman.”

You crossed your arms but quickly dropped them as it only served to push your chest higher. Steve held a velvet box. He placed it on the table between the arm chairs and snapped it open. He lifted the silver chain from it and held it up to sparkle. Small diamonds decorated the slender necklace; the centerpiece a large sapphire.

“I’ve never seen a woman look at a jewel with such disdain.” He mused as he neared.

“Only at you, right?” You japed. He almost smiled.

“Sure, doll,” He seemed calmer as he gestured for you to turn.

You let out a breath and did. He carefully looped the necklace around your neck and clasped it. You spun back to him and wobbled in the heels. You kept yourself from tripping and he smiled as he reached to touch the sapphire.

“Gorgeous,” He said. “If not lacking grace.”

You drew away from him and his hand brushed your arm. He grabbed your hand and stopped you. He came up beside you and hooked your arm through his.

“You behave…” He purred. “And I just might take it easy on you.”

🌆

You recognized many men at the party. It didn’t make it any easier. Once, you had faced them with a gun on your hip. With a sense of dignity. You lowered your head as Steve swept you along and he stopped to push your head up with two fingers.

“Be proud. You’re mine.” He whispered as he turned back to his path. “One day, this whole city will be mine. I might just take you with me.”

You didn’t like that. He spoke of you like a possession. But you shut your mouth and focused on not tripping. As you gained your balance, you struggled to stop as Steve pulled on your arm. The man across from you, Harry Carligne, squinted at you as he greeted your escort. As he tried to take you hand, you just stared.

“I know you,” He pulled back and realisation smoothed the wrinkles in his forehead. “Holy…”

“Where’s Carol?” Steve interjected.

“She found out about Lucille,” Harry laughed. “Who you will find flitting around somewhere.” He glanced at you again. “My, my, how did you tame this creature, Rogers?”

“He didn’t,” You said tersely. “Keep your paws off me.”

“Oh ho,” Harry grinned. “You’re definitely braver than me, Rogers.”

“I told you, I like a challenge,” Harry’s smile fell as he caught the edge in Steve’s voice. “Plus, I’ve heard that women with sharp tongues are the best fucks.”

Your eyes rounded and you gaped at Steve in disgust. You tried to pull away from him and he snaked his arm around you and pulled you closer.

“Besides, I’m sure the mouth is good for more than just talk.” Steve chuckled. Harry joined in loudly and you snarled at both of them.

“I’m thirsty,” You insisted as you tried to wriggle away.

Steve’s arm stayed firm and he waved with his other hand. A server appeared with a tray and Steve took a champagne glass from the lot. He handed it to you.

“Drink up, doll,” He said and returned his attention to the other man. “Now, Harry, we got some clean up to do in Queens…”

🌆

The night was long. You didn’t miss the whispers of the men or the women attached to them. It also didn’t escape you that you looked like one of those women now. Some were wives, some were mistresses, and some were paid by the hour. You weren’t quite sure where you fell yet.

And Bucky hovered ever in your peripheral. He was Steve’s watchdog. Those Steve talked to were also aware of the other man. They were nervous. He had a reputation you had yet to see proven. You could live without the evidence.

You were relieved to be away from the party guests but less than to be once more beside Steve in the back of the ivory roadster. He was close, his fingers tapped on his knee as he was quiet. Bucky drove, yawning here and there. You were tired yourself but antsy due to the man next to you.

You flinched as Steve’s hand fluttered over onto your leg. He felt the fabric of your dress and leaned closer.

“A few slips,” He said. “But you did well, doll.”

“I thoroughly despised it,” You grumbled.

“But you looked good,” He cooed. “I like this dress… makes me think about what’s underneath.”

“You’re a dog.” You snapped.

He chuckled and his hand slid further and crawled along the crease where your thighs met. You pressed your legs together but he didn’t push. He merely traced a line around your hip and his fingers danced along your arm. He grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you to him. He kissed you and you slapped his chest. He winced but didn’t stop.

You shoved him but it only seemed to drive his fervour. He squeezed the back of your neck as he poked his tongue past your lips. The car came to a stop and he finally drew away. He glanced out the window but as he turned back to you, you slapped him.

“Animal.” You hissed.

He touched his cheek and his blue eyes glinted in the dim. He let out a heavy breath and tore his hand away.

“Get her,” He barked at Bucky. “Drag her, if need be.”

Steve got out of the car as the other door opened and you found yourself being ripped out by the henchman. As you found your footing, Steve came to face you.

“We’re gonna go back to the room, doll,” He said curtly. “And this can stay between the two of us or I can have my man hold you down. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the show.”

You glanced over at Bucky. His expression was dull and his grip firm. He shrugged. He tugged you forward as Steve spun and led the way to the tall building. Inside, it didn’t seem so extravagant anymore and your steps echoed on the stairs. The hand on your arm was like a shackle.

The same door, the same room, you were ushered inside and Bucky let go hesitantly. The two men watched you, waiting. You didn’t move and Steve nodded to his henchman.

“Stay close,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky nodded and showed himself out. Steve faced you and brought his hands up to grasp your arms.

“I don’t wanna call him back,” He said. “Do you?”

You shook your head as a chill crept up your spine. You hadn’t felt this way in a very long time. You were afraid. You told yourself it wasn’t the thin man before you, it was the one outside, but deep down, you knew it was both.

“Alright, take the dress off.” He said. “Just the dress.”

You unhooked the back and slid the straps down your arms. Steve walked circles around you. You looked to him as you braced yourself. He loosened his tie as you let the gown fall to your waist. You shimmied out and exposed the creamy lace-trimmed panties and bra beneath.

“Sit. On the bed.” He ordered.

You stepped out of the dress and slowly crossed to the bed. You turned and sat on the end. He neared as he pulled his tie from around his neck. He put it over your eyes and you grabbed his wrist. He shook you off and secured it around your head so you were blind.

“Don’t even think about taking it off,” He warned. You dropped your hand and he stroked your cheek as he backed away.

You listened and shivered in your scant clothing. The underwear, the garters, the sheer stockings, and the strappy heels. You sensed him before you again. He ran his hands over your shoulders and down your arms. He brushed them back up your sides and groped you through your bra.

“Take this off,” His hand dropped and he pulled at the lacy trim at your hip. “And these.”

You stood in the pitch black of the blindfold and carefully undid your bra. You paused and you felt a tug on the front. You swept it away and hooked your thumbs in the top of the panties. He hummed and you rolled them down until they fell to your ankles. You untangled your feet and felt him step closer.

“Turn around. Get on the bed.” He commanded. “On your knees.”

You turned slowly. You stopped yourself from touching the bed.

“No.” You said. “No.”

“If I have to call him in, I won’t stop him from joining.” He rasped.

You bent and felt around. You managed to find your way up, lifting your knees carefully onto the mattress. He slapped your ass and you flinched.

“Further.” You crawled towards the middle. “Just like that.”

You waited there for a time, still on your knees. You felt the bed shift. His hand was suddenly on yours and he pulled it towards him. He pressed your fingers to hot flesh and wrapped your hand around his cock. You were surprised by his girth and as he slid your hand up than down, his length was no less impressive. He squeezed your hand tight.

“Not laughing now, huh?” He taunted.

You stopped and he nudged your hand. You just sat there with your hand around him, unwilling to move. Unwilling to accept this.

“Fine,” He slapped your hand away. “I’ll just use your mouth.”

He moved quickly and grabbed the back of your head. He yanked you forward and you fell onto your hands. He pushed down until you were on your elbows and the head of his cock prodded your lips. He rubbed it back and forth.

“Doll, I won’t tell you one more time.” He snarled. “Bucky’s right outside that door. I’ve seen him break men’s jaws as if it was nothing. What do you think he’d do if I told him to open your mouth for you?”

You gulped and shuddered. Your parted your lips reluctantly and he pushed inside. He grasped the back of your head and held you there as he hit the back of your throat. He urged himself deeper and you slapped his naked thigh. His fingers tangled in the tails of the tie.

You couldn’t help the noise which slipped from you as he pushed himself deeper. You held back a gag and squeezed his slender leg. You shook as he stilled you a lingered in your throat. He wiggled his hips cloyingly.

“Never would’ve known you had such a nice ass in those suits,” He slid back and slammed back in. You choked on him and he repeated the motion. “But that dress… perfect complement.”

You kicked your feet as he thrust steadily. He didn’t seem to notice the constriction of your throat around him as you struggled to hold back the wave of nausea. Or the way you struggled to breath around him. There was only his airy moans and sickly sound of his cock as it glided in and out of your mouth.

He finally pulled out and you struggled not to keel over. You wiped the spit from your lips and he grabbed your hand. He placed it on the mattress and held it there.

“Don’t move,” He said.

You were awe-struck by his pushiness. By the authority that radiated from him. He climbed off the bed and you reached to the tie as the sweat gathered along its edges. You were surprised by a pinch.

“I said don’t move,” He came around behind you and smacked your ass. “You keep those hands on the bed.”

You slapped your hand back down as he climbed up and his legs pushed between yours. Your stockings rubbed against his skin and he ran his hands up and down your back and around your hips then along your thighs. He tickled you and you felt his cock as it poked at you.

“You think you were funny yesterday?” He kneaded your ass as he leaned against you, his smooth length pressed against your cunt. “You really know how to use that pretty little mouth.”

You were, for once, speechless. It was one thing to deal with a man on his level, but to be bent over before him, was another.

“Where’s that voice now, doll?” He drew back and dragged his tip along your folds. “I wanna hear you.”

He pushed along your entrance, the head of his cock dipped in just a little before he pulled out. He rubbed himself along your cunt again and repeated the act several times. When he shoved himself further in, you squeaked and clapped your hand over your mouth. Another pinched on the tender flesh of your thigh.

“You moved,” He growled and impaled you entirely. Your walls were snug around him. “I know listening isn’t your strong suit but we’ll work on that.”

He eased out of you and paused. You let out a breath and he slammed back in. You flinched and grunted through your teeth. Your fingers curled in the thick duvet and he did it again. He thrust into you, each crash of his hips jolted you.

His hands brushed over your back and he grabbed your shoulders so that you arched. He rutted into you without restraint. He panted as you quivered against him. You moaned suddenly and clamped your lips shut. He chuckled and sped up.

“Is that it, doll?” He taunted. “Is that the spot?”

He bent over you and snaked his arm around your front. He pressed his fingers to your clit and dragged his lips along your shoulder. He bit down as he started to draw circles around your bud. You gulped as the ripples spread through you. You whined and finally let loose a sharp cry.

“You’re close, I can’t feel it,” He said and slammed into even harder. “And I know you can feel me.”

You’d lost control. You couldn’t let up and he wouldn’t. You moaned louder and louder, almost snarling for more as your flesh clapped loudly. The bed rocked beneath you and you dropped your head forward as you came. Your walls pulsed around him and you pushed back so you could take him deeper.

His hand never stopped, even as your arms shook and threatened to collapse in your rapture. You were stunned by your second orgasm and the third. Your arms folded and you were on your face as he grasped your hips and guided them firmly against him.

He sank as far as he could and swore. He pulled out quickly and you felt his harried strokes as he pressed his tip to your ass. His hot cum spilled over you and dripped down your thigh. He slowed and sighed as he grazed your throbbing pussy with his fingers.

He backed up off the bed but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You listened to his soft footsteps and felt leather against your ass. He caressed you with the belt and pulled back.

“You moved again, doll,” He rasped as he brought the belt back down and you exclaimed. “You don’t like the easy way, do you?”

294 notes · View notes

kai-n-ali · 5 years ago

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In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter One

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his.

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Season 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 5K

Chapter Two ❀ Chapter Three

Chapter 1: Citron (Ill-natured Beauty)

The bell let out a series of chimes as the door creaked on its hinges, and in a small florist shop tucked between a gelateria and an abandoned butchery, Eleanor Blum officially met the devil of Small Heath.

She wasn’t impressed.

Flora’s, the little florist and botanical shop, had become a haven for the twenty-three-year-old in the time that she’d lived above Cora Evans’ storefront: only a few short weeks. Flora’s, partially named after Cora’s granddaughter, Florence, was a bright spot of color among the grit and grimness of Birmingham, with flower boxes brimming with asters and foxgloves, strawflowers and marigolds. Along the south-facing wall, honeysuckle crawled up the scratched brick, and the thick, sweet scent of the flowers almost washed out the stench of shit wafting up from the nearby horse stables or the sour-milk scent from gone-off gelato dumped in the dumpster, left to fester in the summer heat.

Inside, the shop was cluttered, bouquets dotting the window display and trailing back in colorful bunches all throughout the front of the store, some put in ornate vases, others in ribbon-adorned mason jars, and a few placed into half-rusted buckets. Petals and leaves dotted the floor, and the room reeked of lavender and fresh-cut stems, grassy and clean. In the back of the store where the rare plants were, packets of seeds labelled in Cora’s handwriting, and now in Eleanor’s own scrawl, lined their worktable in rows.

When he first came in, she didn’t bother looking up from her spot bent over one of the tables, hands streaked in dirt from potting snapdragon cuttings—they were very fashionable right now for front gardens, apparently—and the charcoal from her pencils. She’d plucked a honeysuckle bloom off its stem earlier in the morning and was practicing the loose lines of it on paper with strokes of a pencil.

The bell chimed, and Eleanor heard none of it, not until a voice cleared its throat a few paces in front of her. Eleanor jolted up, pushed a few curls out of her eyes.

The man in front of her was beautiful in the way most wild things were when trapped behind glass. The way vines were beautiful when they were confined to the cracks of cobblestone, peeking out in glimpses of brilliant green. With cheekbones that looked like they’d split the pads of her fingers if she reached out to touch, that looked like they were meant for dinner parties as much as they were for being flecked in blood, Eleanor felt herself stiffen. She knew this man. Sort of.

That newsboy cap was just ridiculous.

Thomas Shelby, the husband of Grace Shelby, stood in her new place of employment. The last time she’d seen him, Eleanor had been at a gala in a new dress, gems dripping from her throat and beading trickling off her hem while she grilled his wife on her new orphanage and its living conditions for the second time.

He was a ghost. Some half-wilted thing.

Eleanor tilted her head, taking in the stiff lines of him, the strained civility held in the pale blue of eyes, and thought: how disappointing.

She hadn’t taken Shelby for the kind of man to wilt.

Meanwhile, it seemed Mr. Shelby was studying her as well. The startling blue of his eyes trained on her, cut across by the thicket of his lashes. He swept up and down her form, and she avoided fidgeting just barely. It seemed he recognized her, perhaps from the charity gala for the Shelby Foundation that went so wrong. Eleanor herself had only seen glimpses of him at said event, dressed in a black tux, the cut of his jaw severe and the stretch of his coat across his shoulders making her mouth go dry. She’d seen him as a dark shadow lingering behind his wife, his hand curling around her pale shoulder or tucking a loose, golden curl behind her ear before he was up and off again.

Though, she realized she’d lied before. The last time she’d seen Thomas Shelby, it’d been a black-and-white photo shot from quite a distance, his back ramrod straight as he stood over the coffin of his dead wife. Surrounded by chrysanthemums and hydrangeas. His family stone-faced beside hordes of men in full military garb.

The thought of Mrs. Shelby made her wince, and if anything, that made him stare harder. Something in his eyes questioned, how do I know you? Eleanor wasn’t obliged to answer.

She locked her jaw and crossed her arms over the dirt-streaked cotton of her blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked, “or did you come just to ogle?”

Somewhere from close behind, Eleanor heard a small squeak. She turned to face the noise. Florence, or Flora, sat on one of their many wooden benches, nearly toppling over a vase of petunias with every swing of her feet. Her eyes were very wide. “Ella,” she said, high-pitched, in a more-than-loud whisper. “Ella, that’s Mr. Shelby.”

Flora was a girl of thirteen, with straight, dark hair cut right below her ears, and a smile that grew more lopsided the harder she grinned. When the chores were through and if the shop wasn’t busy, Eleanor would sit down and entertain her with little doodles, half-formed sketches.

Right now, however, she was white as a freshly bleached sheet, her gangly legs jiggling with nerves. She hadn’t grown into them yet, but Eleanor found them endearing—almost coltish. Her eyes darted for her grandmother, but Cora was long gone on an errand.

Mr. Shelby seemed unaffected, clearing his throat again with a cough. One hand rested on his pocket-watch, as though already eager to check the time. “Ella, eh?” She’d never heard him speak before, and the coarseness of his voice made her stomach flip-flop alongside the annoyance burning away at her. “Well, Ella—”

“Eleanor.”

There was a slight furrow to his brow now. It really was painfully fucking charming. He just sort of looked at her, head cocked, considering. Eleanor let out a gust of a sigh.

“It’s Eleanor. My name. Not Ella.” Not to you, she thought. There was a pause, and she heard more than saw Flora place her head into the palms of her hands.

“Tommy Shelby,” he said, as if she didn’t know that, and offered her his hand. Eleanor looked at that hand, the deceptive slimness of his fingers and the narrow taper of his wrist. His callouses were faded, softened with time.

There was dirt under her nails and specks of dried mud up to her wrists, but she shook Mr. Thomas Shelby’s hand like she was wearing silk gloves. All lowered lashes and a coquettish flick of her wrist bone. The high-society ladies back home would surely applaud her if they saw.

Then she ruined it.

“What kind of grown-ass man still goes by the name Tommy?” she blurted before she could stop herself, her hand still in his. His hand had looked almost delicate before, but it engulfed her own. The shocked jerk of it against hers sent a vibration up her arm, and she suppressed a smirk. His eyes narrowed in on her face, a sudden intensity there he hadn’t possessed before. Like he wanted to peel back her skin and look beneath. Off-to-the-side, Flora let out a distressed little sound, akin to a mourner at a funeral. Viewing the body one last time before it lowered into the earth with the worms.

The next sound past his lips was a huff that could’ve been taken for a laugh. If he were any other man. “One without a stick up the ass, I bet.” He tossed a glance Flora’s way, quirked up his mouth. He really had a lovely mouth. “Miss Eleanor.”

And Eleanor couldn’t hold back a grin. “Hm. Agree to disagree, Mr. Shelby.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned over the countertop until her curls swung into her face. They were close enough now she could almost feel his breath ghosting the top of her head. “So, what’re you here for, then? Haven’t got all day.” Now, she sweetened her smile so the next bit wouldn’t bite, only sting. “Not even for the likes of you.”

“Y’ know,” and his voice was a slow drawl that made her spine tingle and her hair stand on end, the way his lips formed around the words with the barest hint of threat, of teeth, “people rarely speak to me this way, Miss Eleanor.”

“Not to your face, I’m sure.” She paused. “Mr. Shelby.”

Was it just her, or was he almost smiling? “Fair enough. Just a bouquet for me.” His eyes hadn’t left her face. “Of your choosing.”

“Right away,” she said, but something nagged at her. Taking a glance at his clothing—well-pressed and well-tailored, with a dark coat that had to be far too hot for the late July humidity and slacks with a crease down each leg—and thought he looked like a man heading to a funeral. Or a gravestone. Eleanor swallowed. Thought back to that black-and-white photo from near a year ago. Chrysanthemums and hydrangeas.

Despite herself, she wondered if those had been Mrs. Shelby’s favorite flowers. They weren’t the flowers of funerals. Of mourning.

Eleanor cast her gaze around the shop, but there was no arrangement that caught her interest, that fit the bill. She worried at her bottom lip. “Gimme a moment,” she muttered, almost to herself, and stepped out from behind the table. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck.

Off-to-the side, pressed against the wall, were paint buckets filled with loose flowers, rows upon rows of color and texture, bunched together and stems kept in nutrient-enriched water. Among them, she found what she was looking for: chrysanthemums, white and ruffled with their pale green centers; hydrangeas, their purple petals in clusters. She also went for baby’s breath, as sparse and dainty as it was. A good filler for a bouquet, with the bonus of a powerful meaning. Everlasting love. Not that Thomas would know that.

From a pail on one of the many counter spaces, she hunted for a ribbon. All knotted up in a ball, it took her a moment before she found the perfect one and managed to untangle it from the rest. Silky, sage green embroidered with indistinguishable little white buds. Perhaps a touch too long. Plucking and tweaking until it formed into a proper flower arrangement, if not a bit of a rustic one, she made a simple bow around the bundle before turning back to her customer. Taking quick steps to get back behind the main counter. “All done,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t look at him. With the heft of one shoulder, an almost-shrug, she offered the bouquet forward, level with his chest. She traced the pattern of his vest with her eyes, the stitching.

The bouquet was smaller than a lot of the ones on display, less elaborate.

But it felt right.

Reaching into the pocket of her skirts, she rifled for the few spare coins she kept there for emergencies with her spare hand. He’d yet to take the bouquet. She slapped them onto the space in front of him with a clink. Just enough. Flora was strangely silent. “And already paid for.”

Thomas’ eyes felt hot on her face. Almost a brand.

He didn’t say a thank you, just gave a hum under his breath, and when he reached out to grab the flowers, his fingers grazed her own. She wondered what he thought of the scar tissue stretched across her knuckles, her fingers, if he could feel it against his skin, bumpy and rigid. This touch felt different than when he’d shook her hand, and it sent pinpricks of sensation up her forearm. When he let go, she shook out her hand away from view, trying to force the odd tingling away. It lingered.

“Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

“Eleanor.” And when he left, it was with a chime of the shop’s bell.

For a moment, the whole shop was suspended in a hush, as if the world itself had paused, reverberating with that single chime. But then Florence was up in a flurry of movement, flinging herself into Eleanor’s space with a string of expletives that didn’t belong in the mouth of a grown man, not to mention a fourteen-year-old girl. Eleanor laughed despite herself. Threw back her head with the force of it.

“Language,” she chided.

“D’ you ‘ave a death wish?”

Florence’s round eyes were roving over Eleanor’s face, her hands on her hips. She looked very serious—or would’ve, if not for the spot of dirt on the side of her nose.

Eleanor smiled. “Not recently, no.”

The younger girl didn’t seem to find that very funny, and a scowl twisted her features. “That’s Tommy Shelby you just ran your mouth off to, Ella,” she stated, jabbed a finger at her chest. Adorable, Eleanor thought. “Tommy. Shelby.” The stress on these two words was punctuated with another two jabs.

“I know his name.” I’ve met his wife.

“You don’t get it,” she said, and there was a franticness to her voice, her posture. Her hands twitched and fidgeted. “’E’s the leader of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders. People say ‘e’s worse than the devil ‘imself."

“Language.” But Eleanor’s head was already tilted in curiosity. Worse than the devil? “Peaky Blinders, huh?" She snorted. “Cute.”

“Not cute, Ella, not cute. Dangerous. Deadly. They’re the biggest gang in Birmingham. Turned businessmen. They own us.” She puffed a stray hair out of her eyes. “You get a glance at his cap?” At Eleanor’s nod, she continued. “They sew razors into the brim. You fuck with ‘em, they cut out your eyes.”

Huh. “Is that very effective?” she asked, eyebrows raised high on her forehead. “I mean, that’s a bit of an awkward angle, isn’t it?” Flora groaned, flopping onto a stool besides her, propping her elbows on the counter and resting her forehead in her hands. Eleanor rubbed her back. She seemed to do this quite a lot when Eleanor was around.

Her next words came out muffled by her palms. “The Blinders ain’t no joke, Ella. They set fire to The Marquis for messin’ with one of theirs. Their enemies get found in The Cut without their faces.” Her voice became very quiet, near trembling. Almost tearful. “You shoulda never spoken to Mr. Shelby like that.”

Despite her best efforts, Eleanor felt a shiver run through her. Only she could be stupid enough to meet a devil and reach out to shake his hand. With a smile, no less. Well, it was too late now. She leaned until her shoulder pressed into Flora’s own. “Hey,” she soothed. “Look at me, huh?” Eleanor tapped at the girl’s cheek with a nail until she peered up at her, eyes a bit puffy. “Relax, sweetheart. I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon. Not with the warm welcome I gave him.” And she smiled until Florence couldn’t help but smile back.

The second time Eleanor saw the devil of Small Heath, it was a week later. At Flora’s. And it would be the same as the first.

That damn bell chimed.

It was with relief that Eleanor noted Florence was out of the shop when a Mr. Thomas Shelby arrived for the second time, having been sent off by Cora to the gelateria with just enough money for scoop of her favorite, strawberry swirl. This time around, it was just her and Cora in the near silence of the shop, the record player in the back a mere whisper of jazz. Instead of being up to her elbows in damp soil, she had a paintbrush in her mouth and another clutched between her fingers and thumb, making a new display sign with some thick paper and her tin of watercolors. A sketch of Flora, blowing petals out of the palm of her hand. It was as she was halfway through mixing a color for the shadows of her face that the front door opened. At her side, using twine to bind their loose flowers for the paint buckets, Cora gave a sharp intake of breath.

“Mr. Shelby,” the older woman greeted, hurrying to stand. A strong-featured woman of near fifty, Cora Evans wasn’t one to show fear, or much emotion at all beyond a muted amusement at her surroundings. This sort of “why the hell not?” air of being that she'd clearly perfected over her years. Yet, while her own blue eyes were unwavering on Thomas’ own, Eleanor detected the tense line of her broad shoulders, hiked nearly up to her ears and tickling the grey-brown of her hair. Thomas inclined his head at her boss, and if he looked her way, Eleanor didn’t see it, because she had already turned back to her work, watering down a vermilion for the high spots of color on Flora’s youthful cheeks.

If she didn’t look at him, maybe she wouldn’t be compelled by whatever urge had struck her before—a sudden desire to pick at and tease, to wrestle up a smile on that pretty mouth.

Eleanor shook her head, a minuscule gesture, and huffed a curl out of her eyes. Get it together.

“’Ow may I ‘elp you, sir?” And Cora’s voice was polite, restrained, the normal warmth in her Brummie accent stripped into something foreign to Eleanor. “On the ‘ouse, of course.” At that, she felt her lips pinch despite herself.

While Cora hadn’t been upset when her granddaughter had finally told her the story of Eleanor back-talking to a Peaky Blinder, she had gone a bit pale, setting down the pot in her hands with a heavy clunk on their scraped-up work table. Staring at Eleanor with new eyes. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid of you, love,” she’d said. “They’ve set fire to businesses for less.” And she’d shaken her head. “Messin’ with that Blinder Devil—thought you had some wits about you.” In the end, though, Cora shooed her off when she hastened to spill out apologies, holding out a hand to pat her on her shoulder.

“That Thomas Shelby is more sensible than most of ‘em put together. Not like his mad dog brother. It’ll work out for the best, I bet.”

But now he was back yet again, in a suit lighter than the one before, a pale grey waistcoat with no jacket in sight. His tie was missing, she could tell even from where she hunched over her work, the top button of his dress-shirt undone at the throat. Still looking unbearably hot for the weather. Even the thin material of her house dress clung to her skin with the sweat of being trapped in the shop all day. She didn’t know how he bore it.

“No need,” he said in that already familiar rasp, and she ducked her head further down instead of looking up and catching a glimpse of his face like she wanted. “Found myself in need of another bouquet.” And she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Eleanor. If you would.”

The empty space to the upper right of her drawing distracted her. Should she fill it with roses? Lilies? There was a pause that could be felt hanging in the shop, like a physical touch against her skin, but she kept her gaze to that expanse of untouched white.

“Eleanor,” Cora said, touching gentle fingers to the bared skin of her upper arm. She very rarely wore short sleeves, but with the heat, it felt unavoidable. The circular burns that peppered her arms like kisses—they weren’t even that noticeable, not anymore. Still.

(On another August day, one from over a decade ago, she recalled the press and hiss of the cigarette when it hit her skin, and the way the mud never dried in that miserable backyard back in New York. Before her uncle came and packed her off to London. The backs of her knees were slippery with it as she squirmed and kicked. But the older girl kept a firm grip on her, and Eleanor stayed in place, sinking into the mud and dead, yellow grass. The cigarette was pulled back, still fizzling, and with the click of a lighter, was relit again. And again.)

Eleanor blinked. Blinked again and rubbed a hand over her eyes, eyes that felt much more tired than before. She pulled the paintbrush from her mouth, set it on the countertop. “Of course, I can make you another bouquet, Mr. Shelby. Anything in mind?”

She couldn’t see him, no, but she knew his eyes were smirking at her. Her fingers twitched on her remaining paintbrush. Smug bastard. “Oh, just something to brighten up me office, I think.” And Eleanor clenched her jaw, because that sounded like such shit to her. Why’re you here again, Thomas? She nodded nonetheless, kept her eyes down. You make it very hard to behave. She set down the brush with a clatter.

“I can do that.”

She searched for the most spiteful fucking flowers she could think of. Valerian, an herb frequently used for insomnia, green stems bloomed with clusters of white flowers. Readiness. I could take you, Mr. Shelby. Borage, or starflower, brilliant blue with hints of blush from the blooms with their white spines. Rudeness. Bluntness. And buttercups, their delicate yellow blossoms. A personal favorite and a good splash of color against all the blues and whites. Childishness. And, finally, Love-in-a-mist, or Nigella damascena, with their needle-point leaves and rich indigo petals ending in jagged points. A confession more than anything else, not that he’d know it. You puzzle me.

In her youth, she’d gobbled up all the books on plants and herbs that she could find in her botanically obsessed uncle’s extensive library, and that included tomes on the language of flowers. The knowledge had stuck. And now more than ever, she found herself grateful.

Eleanor plucked all the respective flowers out of their different buckets, organized by color, and set to work gathering the right amounts of each. She took a canary yellow ribbon from the ribbon pail with a flourish, flicking it in the air to get the kinks out. Grabbing a random empty vase that had once housed a beautiful but boring bouquet of a dozen roses—bought by a very frantic man in worker’s clothes and sturdy boots an hour prior, who looked like he was running quite late—she set the mass of flowers inside and set to arranging them.

Flora, who hid a chuckle with a cough at the sight of her flowers of choice, left with a quick word to the backroom and a warning glance that burned into the back of Eleanor’s head. She tried not to fidget.

She was wrapping the ribbon around the hunk of stems when a throat cleared from right by her side. Fuck. Eleanor started, spasming fingers losing the ability to form a bow. Fuck.

“What’s a rich socialite like yourself doing in a flower shop in Birmingham, eh?”

But, God, she couldn’t help but spin to face the man now. Thomas stood with his hip propped up against the table she was using, head tilted and pieces of the unshaved part of his hair near falling into his eyes. Seemed he recognized her now. He looked curious. Hungry. Up close as he was, their shoulders near brushing, she saw the hint of freckles beneath his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. It seemed even devils tanned in the sun.

Everything about him was all graceful command, words spoken in a way that showed he expected to be answered, obeyed.

It reminded her of his wife.

The first time she’d ever seen Mrs. Grace Shelby, it had been at a luncheon held at The Midland Hotel, for the sake of convincing the richest of London society to donate to her cause—the Shelby Foundation, whose first action was building an orphanage in Birmingham. When her uncle, Samuel Connolly, had told her the news, alongside the fact that he’d been invited to attend a luncheon on the subject, she’d begged to be brought along.

“If anyone would have a stake in this,” she’d said at their breakfast table, pointing at his chest with a grapefruit spoon, “it’s me, don’t you think? Let me see how genuine this is.” Sam had set his hazel eyes on hers, lips pursed, but he hadn’t disagreed.

“You’ll have to dress up,” he’d warned, and she’d stuck out her tongue at him, taking a stab at a section of fruit.

Eleanor remembered the way the beading of her dress weighted her down that afternoon, and how all she wanted was to be back home in a pair of trousers, lounging with a book in her lap and Fennel, Sam’s Spinone Italiano, laying on the tops of her bare feet. Keeping her warm. But the rich had an ability to do any good works as half-assed as possible, and with all of her blunt Brooklynite manners from childhood, she had sworn to dig out the truth from this Mrs. Grace Shelby even if it meant pulling out the plyers and using some old-fashioned elbow grease.

That hadn’t been necessary.

The waitress that escorted them both to the hotel’s largest dining room was a near-silent woman, who meekly commented on the pale jade color of Eleanor’s dress before showing them to a room with a table longer than she’d ever seen. A rich, dark-colored wood leaning near black. The napkins were a fashionable rose, the plates rimmed in gold and dotted in florals along the edges. All the candles smelled of faint vanilla and sandalwood.

Even for Eleanor, who had spent her teen years and beyond in Sam’s by-no-means-minuscule manor and had attended many a party due to his notoriety, it was extravagant beyond measure.

At the head of the table, not yet seated and chatting with a plastic but pretty smile on her painted lips, was a woman with honeyed hair and aristocratic, well-bred features. She radiated old wealth in a way Eleanor never could, brought into the fold far-too-late.

(“Oh my, it’s the little orphan bastard.” One of the wives of some business mogul whispered to her friends behind a glove. They all tittered away at her remark, and Eleanor, all awkward limbs and pale pink scars at fifteen years old, sunk back into the shadows of the sitting room. Uncomfortable in her new dress. Uncomfortable in her new life. “How quaint. It seems he really did pick up a new stray, after all.”)

Most of the night was a blur, filled with soft, exaggerated laughter and mutual back-patting. In the dining room, the lighting was dim, almost sensual despite it being only two in the afternoon. Flattering everything into a near dream-like state. At the front of the table, Mrs. Shelby had glowed. Almost an hour prior, her hand had been soft and unblemished in Eleanor’s own. Even her handshakes felt soft as silk. But when Eleanor had cornered her later in the evening over a round of drinks, her own whiskey-sour in a fine crystal glass that felt like a paperweight in her hand, she had revealed pure steel beneath the refined veneer. Eleanor could barely recall her barrage of questions now, from over a year ago.

“What of the orphans with surviving family? Will they be entitled to visitation? And the staff—what of them? Would they be receiving proper background checks prior to their employment?” It had gone on-and-on, and Grace Shelby had answered with assurance blanketing her tone, and a blade tucked beneath her tongue, ready to wield. Her eyes steady. Demanding trust. Eleanor had, though begrudgingly, given it. And promised to have more questions the next time they met. Mrs. Shelby had seemed, almost, like she was looking forward to it.

But, well, the second and last time she’d seen Grace Shelby. Well.

In the present, Eleanor zeroed back in on Thomas. He was studying her.

She knew the red of her lipstick must be smudged. That there was surely charcoal streaked on her face from using her pencils earlier in the day. That the nape of her neck was sticky with sweat, soaking the curls there.

Still, Eleanor arched her brow at who, apparently, was the most fearsome man in Birmingham. “I used the wrong fork,” she drawled. “Perilous mistake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They locked eyes, and Eleanor wasn’t going to be the one to blink first. Without looking, she knotted the bow and pulled tight. “All done,” she said. She rambled off a price, perhaps one a little higher than necessary. She couldn’t help herself.

He blinked at her before reaching into his pocket for the money, and Eleanor let out a gust of air when his eyes left her. How were they so blue? Reaching under the table for some tissue paper to wrap the bouquet in, she offered it forward, gripping it by the bottom of the stems. His own fingers grasped it above her own and tugged it out of her hand. He was oddly gentle about it. “Have a nice day, Thomas,” she told him, a clear dismissal, and he quirked a brow at her in a barely-there question. Whether it was because of the curt tone or the usage of his first name—it had just slipped out, she didn’t know why—she wasn’t sure.

Either way, he left. And Eleanor slumped, boneless, against the countertop. What the honest fuck.

Now, she knew better than to believe this would be the last time they saw each other.

And true enough, they met yet again. This time at no fault of their own.

54 notes · View notes

thenafics · 5 years ago

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Evil Author Day -- 2020

I saw this going around and I both wanted to feel included and have several WIPs that are probably not going to see the light of day for a long time. Most of these have titles already because I am incapable of writing a fic without having a title first~~~

1. Trouble in the Henhouse- AKA Red Hood joins the Suicide Squad

Amanda Waller thinks she might have made a mistake with the newest member to her team. She’s let the fox into the hen house, except her hens are insane criminals and her fox is a bat who also happens to be an insane criminal. The metaphor starts to deteriorate quickly, but the point remains, this choice might have been the worst one she’s made in a good long while. He is an accident waiting to happen and one of the most deadly assets she has ever managed to get her hands on. He doesn’t kill for money, like Deadshot, or hunger, like Croc, or even some deranged showmanship, like Harley does or Joker’s Daughter did. He kills when he thinks it’s right, because he thinks the target deserves it and that is the most terrifying thing to find in a highly trained killer she’s putting onto a team with a lot of the same type of people he has a habit of offing. Whoops.

2. Ghosts of our Better Natures

Tim can tell the instant that Scarecrow’s formula really starts to kick in. He sees the way Jason’s body language shifts, his muscles pulling his limbs in tighter, in spite of the restraints holding him down. Judging from the smirk just visible on Scarecrow’s sack-cloth face, he notices too. “Is my new formula finally kicking in?” His high, grating voice overlays over the sounds of Jason’s harsh breathing. “Looks like the big, bad drug lord has a bit of a tolerance. I doubt I’ll even need to use half as much on your little friend over there.” Scarecrow gestures broadly at Tim where he’s tied up against the wall and then claps his hands with fake glee. “I know what we’ll do! We’ll use all of the extra I’m saving on him for you!” Jason wrenches at his restraints, eyes wild behind his domino mask, but he remains uncharacteristically silent. He looks over at Tim and another wave of panic seems to crash over him. His struggles increase in strength to the point where Tim can hear the groaning of the rusty bolts holding Jason down.

3. Rafters for Roustabouts- JayRoy based on a piece of fanart I saw and can no longer find

Roy remembers when Jason was just a skinny little twig of a thing trailing after Nightwing with his spindly limbs and closed off smiles. The first time they’d met, Jason had looked up at him and blushed so hard that Roy was a little worried he might pass out from all the blood rushing to his head. Jason was in the Tower pretty infrequently, but any time he was there, Roy could be sure to find him either abandoning Dick for Donna (who he had immediately latched onto, like a baby bird imprinting on what it thinks is its mother) or acting as Roy’s shadow. Roy could often tell when Jason was visiting well before Dick told him because of the glimpses of inky black hair he would catch out of the corner of his eye. Eventually Roy got tired of waiting for Jason to stop being so shy. “Hey, Jason, I know you’ve got that whole stealth thing going for you, but it’s much easier to make friends if you just talk to people.” There was a muted thump and a little yelp as Jason fell down from the rafter he’d been perched on. Roy made his way over to him and crouched down to look more closely at Jason. The younger boy was blushing furiously and had his hands pressed firmly over his eyes, almost as if he thought if he couldn’t see Roy, Roy might not see him. Roy let out a little huff of laughter. “You’re just a little shy, aren’t you Jaybird?” Jason just burrowed further into his hands and seemed ready to just wait until Roy left so that he could tend to his bruised pride and tailbone.

4. Chapter 2 of Release of Liability- My very self indulgent Dresden Files fusion au that nobody asked for or wanted. *Knowledge of the Dresden Files universe up to like, book one/two is v. helpful*

Wayne manor is steeped in the type of magic that can make a place a living thing. This is the home of one of the most powerful wizards in America and has been the home of an incredibly powerful magical family for centuries. There’s history in these walls beyond what the outside world will ever know. All of the wall fixtures are old fashioned gas lamps retrofitted with lightbulbs. It’s a darker paint job and some cobwebs away from being the house from the Addam’s family.

Bruce Wayne himself leads me further into the house and to what I assume must be his office. An older man appears almost the exact moment we sit down and offers tea in a clipped British accent. He disappears as silently as he appeared and rematerializes just moments later carrying a tray laden with tea and those fancy little sandwiches they always show on the BBC. Wayne thanks him and dismisses him with a soft “Thank you,” before the man is gone again.

“So, Mr.Dresden, I hear you’re good at finding lost things.”

“I tend to be. Though I have to wonder what use a practitioner of your caliber could have for my services. With all of Gotham at your disposal.”

“The situation requires a somewhat delicate approach.” I can’t help but snort in response. Delicate and I go together like oil and water. I am not who anyone should call for delicate, subtle, or any synonyms of that ilk. Wayne gives a wry smile and little laugh of his own.

“I misspoke. Not delicate, detached. I am well known to Gotham. You are not. I’ve heard wildcard is somewhat your area of expertise.”

“I’m not going to take offense at that because it’s true. What’s missing?”

Bruce Wayne fixes me with a paralyzing gaze and speaks two words that let me know this is going to be one of those cases that sticks with me.

“My son.”

Bruce Wayne is famous for several things in the magical community. His childhood trauma of witnessing his parents’ murder would make a YA author weep and left him the sole heir to one of America’s most notable magical lineages. That alone made him a Name, capital letter intended, in the world of the mystical. He also worked hard to actually become one of the most influential wizards in America and run Gotham with an iron fist. The most notable thing about Bruce Wayne however, is not either of those. It is his incredible and almost suspicious number of extremely powerful adopted children. A disturbing number of which share his jet black hair and blue eyes. I hope it’s just a weird narcissistic rich person thing.

He is well known to be very protective of his bevy of apprentices. To the point where he’d actually knocked out another wizard with a vicious right hook for making an untoward comment about his eldest son. It was a glorious day and I am thankful to have been within enough distance of the scene to see it go down. I am also thankful to have been far enough away that his fury didn’t turn to me. If something has happened to one of his beloved children, I have no doubts that Mr. Wayne will do whatever is necessary to save them. After the death of his second apprentice he’d practically torn apart the world at its seams in his grief.

5. Windows for Bricks-

“I’m here to pick up Damian. I guess I’m one of his emergency contacts and the lady on the phone said to sign in here before I could take him home.” Jason says to the nurse by the front of the sterile smelling room.

“Oh, are you,” she looks down at her computer screen “Jason Head?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Jason shifts uncomfortably.

“And you are his … “

“Brother. Same mom.”

“I see. We get Damian in here a lot so I see the resemblance. You have the same eyes”

6. Dialogue Snippet- Dick and Steph on the topic of ass envy

“He’s just jealous of my ass.”

“Yeah, no.”

“What do you mean no?” Dick sounds affronted.

“Have you seen his ass?,” Steph gestures expansively in the shape of an ass. A woman at the next table over glares. “Jay has no reason to be jealous Dick.”

“What.”

“And those thighs… unf.” The lady the next table over glares harder at the noise Steph makes.

“Ohmygod,” Dick buries his head in his hands. “Please stop.”

“What? I'm just saying, he's got no reason to be jealous when the dude is bammin slammin bootylicious”

“I'm pretending I don't know you. Can Tim take you back already?”

“Fine. But take a peek next time you and your ass feel so high and mighty”

7. Innocence for Sinners- JayDick prawn. I wrote this at the request of a friend. Very much not what I usually write, kind of nervous about posting it

*warning for Mature rating*

When he thinks about it, of course it makes sense to Dick that Jason is a virgin. He died before he’d even turned eighteen and spent a few years after that being either brain dead or criminally insane. It was really only in the past three or so years that Jason could be counted among the semi-rational members of the population and he had been so busy during that time span that there was no earthly way he had done anything. Still, Dick couldn’t help but be a little surprised when Jason pushes away from their kiss, while Dick’s hand rubs gentle circles over his crotch, and gasps out “No one’s ever touched me like that before.”

Dick pauses and pulls back fully, his weight between Jason’s spread legs still pinning the younger man to the bed.

“What do you mean Jason?,” he asks, seeking verbal confirmation for his suspicions. Jason blushes prettily and turns his head to one side, as if to escape the weight of Dick’s eyes. Dick reaches out and turns Jason’s face back towards him. His eyes trace the delicate flush that brings out the freckles across the bridge of Jason’s nose and blown out pupils in sea green eyes.

“Jason, are you a virgin?Am I going to be your first?” Jason blushes even further at the questions and nods mutely. Dick feels a rush of possessiveness pass through him at the idea of brash, rebellious, Jason being his. It only makes sense, after all, Jason had spent years wearing Dick’s colors and a month or so trying on the Nightwing suit for size. Of course Jason should be his in some other way. Dick leans back forward and kisses up Jason’s neck, ending up right by his ear.

“I’m going to ruin you for anybody else, little wing.” Jason shudders and lets out a soft moan as Dick scrapes his teeth against his neck in punctuation.

“Please,” Jason breathes out. Dick growls quietly and surges up to kiss Jason. He weaves his fingers through the curls of Jason’s hair and pulls slightly. Immediately, Jason gasps into Dick’s mouth and arches his back up off the bed. Dick chuckles and pulls harder. He is rewarded with a moan and a shudder from Jason.

“You like that Jaybird? When I pull your hair?” Dick laughs against Jason’s mouth when Jason nods with downcast eyes. “Let’s find out what else you like.”

Dick leaves one hand in Jason’s hair and worms the other up under Jason’s shirt, brushing over the hard lines of muscle and scar tissue. He thumbs over one of Jason’s nipples gently and feels a slight shudder run through Jason’s body. Taking that as a positive sign, he rolls it between his index finger and thumb. Jason gasps and tosses his head back, breaking the kiss.

“Dick,” he gasps out, “That feels so, ah, good.” Dick smirks and rolls the nipple again “Aaaaaaah.” Dick pulls his other hand from Jason’s hair and starts using it to push Jason’s shirt up while he brings his mouth down to Jason’s stomach, kissing over the places where his hands had traced over.

“Wait, Dick!,” Jason calls out, panting for breath. Dick looks up at Jason’s flushed face. “I… I have a lot of scars there. Some of them might not be ones that you want to see…” Jason trails off towards the end of his sentence and avoids eye contact with Dick until Dick uses his free hand to gently pull Jason to face him. Dick can see in this flustered and blushing Jason the same boy who had been so shyly admiring of him all those years ago. This shy virginal Jason is far more little red riding hood than the big bad wolf that the Red Hood pretends to be.

“I want all of you Jason. All of you.” Dick says softly. He gently pulls the shirt all the way off of Jason, manipulating the younger man’s arms so that he can remove it. Once the shirt is off, he kisses up Jason’s chest to the top of the Y-shaped scar that stretches from collarbone to collarbone and bisects his body from mid-chest to belly button. Dick mouths gently across the raised tissue and grinds his hips down against Jason’s. Jason can only gasp wordlessly in response as Dick uses his right hand to trace down and past the long tail of the scar to the top of Jason’s jeans. He pops the button and undoes the fly with one hand. When he starts to shimmy Jason’s jeans and boxers down, Jason lifts his hips and practically whines. Dick slides down Jason’s body and sits up in order to pull the pants off all the way before settling himself back between his legs.

“Your thighs are gorgeous.” Dick doesn’t even try to hold back a moan at all the exposed skin before him, some spots criss-crossed with thin lines left from slashes and stab wounds or spotted with starbursts from gunshots. He takes a moment to appreciate the way Jason’s waist cuts in and then flares out to almost feminine hips and thick, muscular thighs. Dick slides his hands under the small of Jason’s back and inches them down to the top of Jason’s ass.

“Really? You like them?” Jason asks, blushing.

“Babe, I love them. It should be against the law for you to wear pants. It’s practically a crime to keep all this hidden under your jeans.” Dick kneads at the soft flesh of Jason’s ass.

“Says the one who’s all covered up,” Jason gasps out. There’s Dick’s Jason, blushing and innocent, but still talking back.

“Let’s fix that then,” Dick chuckles and slowly removes his hands, giving one last squeeze on his way. Dick peels off his t-shirt, deliberately twisting his body and putting on a show for Jason who watches with rapt attention. Dick smiles softly at the awestruck look on Jason’s face before making quick work of the clasps on his pants and shimmying out of them completely. Dick bends down and starts to kiss up Jason’s left leg, starting at his calves and working up to his thighs. Once he gets to the sensitive skin on Jason’s inner thighs, he takes his time pressing open mouthed kisses to the skin there. Dick scrapes his teeth against the skin as he pulls away from a kiss about halfway up Jason’s thigh and feels the strong muscles underneath tremble. Smirking, he repeats the action and looks up to watch Jason. The younger vigilante is struggling to hold his composure, but Dick wants to watch him fall apart completely. So he lowers his mouth back down to Jason’s thighs and bites down. At that, Jason arches off the bed hard and lets out the loudest moan Dick has heard from him so far.

8. Runneth Over and all that Jazz- incomplete work for day 7 of Omega Jason Todd Week -Lactation kink au heavily inspired by @whumpbby and @daemoninwhiteround2 and all their stuff. A little R rated

If it weren’t for his chest, Jason would be nearly impossible to recognise as an omega. He’s taller and more muscular than most omegas so with his deep voice, no one would ever guess. If it weren’t for his body’s absolute betrayal. Jason, like pretty much all adult omegas, produces milk. It’s meant to help reinforce pack bonds and keep pups adopted into a pack fed. That’s not the problem, that part of it is manageable with absorbent pads in shirts and semi-regular use of a breast pump. It sucks, but it’s not the problem. The problem is that Jason’s pack bonds are weak, so his body will let down and start producing milk on a hair trigger. He’s peak fertile age and tangentially part of a mostly alpha pack, but not bonded well enough to balance his hormones, so his body has decided to try and tempt his pack into bonds with milk.

It’s a nuisance. He hears Bruce’s voice on the radio and a little dribble of milk escapes. Dick and Tim get into an argument and he can feel his breasts swelling with more milk. Cass gets injured and he ends up having to sneak off to change his shirt when she cuddles up to him for comfort. He saw Damian cry once and that was enough to get him leaking like a fountain and avoiding the bats for a few days. He knows at least one of them can probably smell the milk on him, but they have the good graces not to mention it so long as he doesn’t.

So Jason distances himself from the pack. He figures if he doesn’t see them, his body won’t decide to go into hormone overdrive. Except it just ends up compounding the problem. More time away from the pack means even weaker pack bonds, which ends up kicking his hormones into even higher gear than they would have been. Soon, Jason’s having to empty his milk every day, then twice a day, then eventually he has to break in the middle of patrol to empty his breasts so they aren’t incredibly sore as he’s flipping around rooftops. He switches from plain absorbent undershirts to nursing undershirts in all black so that if he leaks it won’t show. It’s gotten way out of hand but the only way to fix it is to either break his pack bonds entirely, which might make it worse, or go to the pack and suffer through some potentially very embarrassing bonding.

He shudders at the thought of his pack finally drinking from him. The vulnerability it would bring stirs up something like panic in his stomach mixed equally with want. Letting them know that he can be manipulated just because of a biological response would put him at a huge disadvantage. If they knew he could be made to let down and go into a pheromone drenched haze with some carefully chosen vocalizations they could use it to their advantage when Jason inevitably pisses one of them off. Still, something has to be done, his chest hurts so much that when he got hit there on patrol, he almost blacked out.

He decides to go to Tim first. The slightly younger man is the easiest for Jason to get along with, and despite his tendency for general sneakery, he has enough respect for what Jason does that he probably won’t use it against him too much. It’s a risk, but the potential for relief from the pain of his swollen nipples and frequent breast pump use are enough to take it. Tim is practical and doesn’t seem like the type to get physically aggressive. Even if he does, his small stature means that Jason should be able to escape. Hopefully he won’t be weird about it. Fingers crossed.

Jason knocks on the door of Tim’s apartment, about an hour before patrol typically starts. Tim answers the door looking sleep deprived as always with a mug of coffee in one hand. Jason gives him a sheepish smile and a half hearted wave, after which Tim gestures him into the apartment, one eyebrow raised in question. He shuts and locks the door behind him.

“Hi Jason. It’s been awhile. What are you doing here?” Just the sound of Tim’s voice is making his chest swell a little.

“Can’t I just come visit?”

“Of course you can, you know I like your company. You just usually … don’t. So… ”

Tim pins Jason in place with his calculating stare as he waits for a response. The silence is incredibly awkward for Jason because every second that passes he can feel the slight swelling inch closer and closer to potential leakage. He finally breaks when he feels a small dribble of milk start to leak from one nipple.

“I need your help.”

“A case?”

“No… “ Jason trails off, still unsure.

“Are you okay Jason?” Tim sets his coffee down and sits next to Jason on the couch. Their arms brush and Jason fucking gushes. If Tim couldn’t smell the milk on him before, he sure as hell can now if the way he sniffs the air is any indication.

“What’s wrong Jay? Why are you, umm, … “

“Leaking?”

Tim nods, nostrils flaring as a blush steals across his face.

“I’m letting down at the drop of a hat right now. I’m overproducing so much that I have to stop in the middle of patrols to pump. It hurts real bad.” Jason couldn't stop the whine from leaking into his tone if he tried. Tim unconsciously responds with a swell of alpha scent. The pheromones set Jason off again and he gasps as he involuntarily lets even more milk escape.

“Jason,” Tim’s voice is practically a whisper. “How can I help?” Jason takes a moment to steady himself under the force of Tim’s gaze, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see his reaction to the answer.

“ I need you to drink enough to solidify our pack bond.”

Tim makes an interested little noise in the back of his throat and places one delicate hand over Jason’s on his lap. He gives a gentle squeeze

“Are you making enough to do it in one go?”

“Were you even paying attention? Yes. I’m producing enough for the whole pack.”

“Why me? If you go off pack hierarchy aren’t you supposed to go to Bruce? Even if you don’t trust Bruce, you could have gone to Dick or Barbara.”

“If you’re not willing, I won’t pressure you.” Jason’s voice is flat as he starts to stand, but he’s stopped by Tim’s suddenly much stronger grip pulling him back to the couch.

“I never said that. I just want to know why you chose me before I potentially upset pack structure.”

“ ‘M more comfortable,” Jason mumbles, avoiding eye contact. “Dick’s too clingy and Babs still thinks I’m crazy most of the time. You’re … nice to me. Helpful.”

“You’re nice to me too Jason. We take care of each other.”

An unfamiliar throaty purr starts up in the back of Jason’s throat as Tim gently presses his shoulders back into the couch. He pushes up Jason’s shirt, making sure to be extra careful right around the chest area. An accidental brush from the back of his hand as he pulls the shirt off causes a whimper to interrupt Jason’s purring. Tim shushes him gently as he sets the shirt to the side in a crumpled ball. Jason glares at him until Tim sighs and folds the shirt semi-neatly. He rearranges himself until he’s draped halfway over Jason’s lap, face centimeters from touching Jason’s chest. Tim stares unashamedly at the plump flesh where he can see the wetness where milk has already escaped.

#thenafics #thenawrites #writing prompt #wip #wips #Jason Todd #Tim Drake #bruce wayne #dick grayson #Stephanie Brown #Damian Wayne #alternate universe #dresden files #harry dresden #roy harper #batfam #evil author day #evil author day 2020

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orderofthefanfic · 6 years ago

Text

The Subway: The First of Many

It's All Over But The Laughing: Chapter Two

The walk to the subway was relatively short, and the two of them left it to vague silence until they got to the station. It was bustling, as usual, people from every walk pushing past each other, lost in their own little heads or invading those of others. She was wringing her fingers together as they made their way to the train, Arthur keeping a minuscule radius between the two. He wasn't quite sure the best distance to keep, worried he'd make her uncomfortable being too close, but if he was too far, she may feel just as nervous as she would had she been here alone. So he fluctuated a bit, falling behind before awkwardly shuffling so far forward he nearly bumped into her in a repeating rhythm. She seemed unaware, but she was studying his movements the whole way, intrigued by the way he moved with musical fluidity despite its discomfiture. It was entirely unique and she smiled to herself at the sheer amount of personality he seemed to exude in everything he did.

When they got into the car and, luckily, found a seat, Arthur stepped aside and gestured towards the empty chair, nodding to her with a smile. (Y/N) returned the expression but hesitated as she sat. His eyes darted around quickly before he finally eased into the seat next to her.

When he noticed the furrowed brows, he leaned to her and hushed, "You never know when some jerk is going to steal any empty chair they see. I just wanted to make sure you got one at least."

She held his gaze for a moment, a bewildered smile tugging at the corners of her nude-tinted lips. He had taken some time, in the hall, observing her appearance, from her decaying running shoes and gently worn sweater all the way to her well-placed makeup. Although not theatrical, it was applied in a way that your attention was drawn to her eyes, a small pop of delicate color highlighting her lid, her smile painted with a dull shade that muted her lips. It looked well-practiced and he assumed it was her daily routine.

“You really are kind, A-Arthur,” She struggled on his name the most but seemed personally determined to force it out, scrunching her face a few times as she did, “Does a-a-anybody e-ever..Does anybody tell you that?”

“Only my mother.”

She almost laughed, perceiving the statement as an intended joke, but stopped short at the solemn sincerity behind his tight-lipped smile. So she hummed, nodding her head as her gaze drifted back forward.

With a tilt of her head towards him, she mused, “Well they should.”

Arthur didn’t say anything for a moment, his knee bouncing ever so slightly as he mulled over her words. Kind was not a common word directed towards him. Usually, it never deviated far from creep or freak. Never, as best he could remember, had anybody else called him kind. As his mind ran on a small tangent on the subject, anxiety began to fill his chest. Perhaps it never would have developed past that, had he not attempted to hold it back, building the sensation stronger the more he focused on it. When he felt the onset of laughter, he wanted to panic. The subway cart they chose was not entirely packed, but even one person was enough, and he wholly did not want to have a fit in front of her.

(Y/N) was still staring off, unsure why he had become unusually quiet but, having just met him all the same, not wanted to push him. From the corner of her eye, his hand shot up to cover his mouth. As she was turning with a furrowed brow to see just what was wrong, he burst into forceful laughter. He saw he nearly jump out of her seat, her hand pressed to her heart as she looked to him with shocked confusion.

“What? What is it?” Her voice had risen in pitch, urgency in her question as she watched the strange man guffawed painfully.

When his hand held his throat, coughing roughly through his fit, her panic rose and she repeated her question again. His hand was smacking his pants pockets, fingers sliding into a few of them frantically before he pulled out a card with a shaking hand. He did his best to calm himself as he gestured it towards her.

She hesitated to take it, becoming unsure in him entirely as the realization hit that she truly didn’t know this man at all before she jumped on a subway with him. She was disappointed in herself for the thought the moment she read the card.

Forgive my laughter. I have a condition. (more on back)

Her heart sank. The card nearly flew out of her hand with how fast she turned it, scanning the words as fast as she could before she turned back to Arthur.

“I’m sorry, I h-had no idea. Are you okay?” Her nerves were getting the best of her and she wasn’t even sure he understood a thing from her lips.

But he struggled through a nod, sucking in deep breaths as the sound subsided. The car was dead silent now, most heads turned with distaste towards the two and she caught the judging eyes of them. She watched as Arthur slowly seemed to slip into himself, an unimaginable embarrassment flushing his gaunt cheeks as he pinched his hands between his legs and lowered his head.

“It’s okay.” She suddenly shot out. The last thing she wanted him to do was feel judged by her, so she did her best to normalize the situation. “It’s not like you can help it. It doesn’t b-bother me at all.”

He had grown very shy, posture huddled slightly, but his head timidly angled towards her. He relaxed his legs just slightly. A comforting smile peeked on her face and she continued.

“We can just keep talking if that’s what you want.”

That had to be the first time in her life that sentence left her lips. A remark she spoke aloud in slight disbelief as a small, tension-breaking chuckle tumbled into the air. He lifted himself again, slowly straightening as he met her eyes and infectious smile. He'd never had anybody just except his condition in such a nonchalant way. After her initial startle, it was as if he didn't have a fit at all, just brushing it off and moving forward. Arthur decided he preferred that. Clearing his throat, he nodded, rubbing his neck once or twice before he settled back into the seat. The rest of the passengers fell back into relative normality, determining the situation wasn't something to gawk at anymore, and the murmur of side conversations began again.

"I a-a..suppose your condition is one of the reasons you go to the office?" She started cautiously, but her tone lightened quickly, "I've never seen you there before. We must not have the same schedule."

Arthur took a moment to reply, still gathering himself. With a few glances around and finding himself content with the lack of attention from the other passengers, he did his best to move past his fit.

“We must not. I’ve never seen your face there before either.”

She chuckled softly, furrowing her brows in a playful manner and teased, “What, you know every face in that office?”

“Yes, mostly.”

The assured and factual way he answered stopped her abruptly, and when he noticed her intrigued look he added with a shrug, “You never know when you’ll need to remember somebody’s face. It’s a habit for me to focus on things like that.”

In a quirky little way, there seemed to be the hint of a genius behind his unusual dull green eyes. (Y/N) wondered just how much was hidden under his nervous exterior. His face looked worn, but a gentleness settled in his energy. With a nod of agreement, she buffered for a moment, wondering what to ask before her finger shot up as her lips parted.

"What do you do for a living, A-"

She paused, her nose scrunching in her uniquely personal way as she seemed to choke over his name. She tried again, getting no further than the r before she squeezed her fist and let out a frustrated huff. All the while, Arthur stayed quiet, unbothered by her inability to get her words out and merely sat and waited. The whole time they'd been talking, she never felt rushed to get through her words, or looked down on for struggling with them, and for that, she was eternally grateful. (Y/N) reminded herself to thank him later.

When she managed to finish her question, Arthur gave a smile and started, "Well, I'm a party clown," he rubbed his palms on his knees, straightening as a genuine display of delight played in his eyes as he talked about his work, "It's a good way to make people smile."

"I bet," the true joy he seemed to feel for his job brought a grin to your face.

"What do you do?"

It was funny. They had not been asked that question before, and in just a span of less than an hour, it was one of the many firsts they had. A shared expression bloomed on their cheeks and they relaxed a little more.

"I'm a singer, in truth," (Y/N) chuckled out, watching Arthur tilt his head at it, "I know, I know, someone who can't even speak sings for a living. But a-actually, I don't stutter when I sing. So I enjoy it."

They talked like that for the rest of the ride, getting to know each other in the amount of time before the subway arrived at the station. Falling back into almost silence, they walked side by side to her uncle's apartment, hands in their pockets and smiles on their faces. Arthur relished in the true feeling of enjoyment but felt a twang of disappointment when her building loomed over them.

Although it was by no means extravagant, with its aging walls and scaling door, it still put his own building to shame. It was smaller overall, but the bricks managed to remain vaguely inviting, their red tones prevailing over the grunge and bringing a sense of life to the complex, one his own lacked entirely. Even the street itself was less cramped, as much as it could be for Gotham anyway, with small shops on the ground level and more apartments lining the rest of the open spaces. Less cars passed and it felt as though the beeping and groaning of traffic was muted where they stood.

Stopping just short of the steps, they rocked awkwardly on their feet. (Y/N), with her hands now wringing in front of her, twisted the ball of her foot into the concrete, lips pressed together as she looked up her building and shyly over to Arthur.

"This is me," she gestured towards the door.

"So, it is."

They went quiet again for a moment.

"H-Hey, so," Arthur perked up immediately when she began to speak again as she smiled, "It was really nice to meet you. You really made my day."

His grin widened and his head nodded strongly, "I hope we see each other again."

She was very quick to agree, laughing at her speed, but when her eyes drifted back towards the door, her gleam died. Her voice dulled, and an exhaustion filled her features.

"I should probably head inside. Seems like I have some packing to do."

He mirrored the change, nodded sympathetically before he suddenly jolted, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a worn notebook with a pencil stuck in the rings. Folding it open, he gingerly tore a corner from a back page and began to scribble on it.

"I understand if you'd rather not, i-if you think it's strange, but there's a vacancy at, well at my apartment building if you have trouble finding another place. It's not great but its cheap."

Thrusting the note into her hand, he bounced nervously. His hand briefly pushed his hair behind his ear as she read the address off.

"Oh, I can't th-thank you enough. That means a lot." Her teeth bared themselves again and relief spread through him. When she glanced back down, her brow furrowed before she shot her eyes back to his and exclaimed, "now, hold on, this building's on the other side of town. You said you always take the subway. You don't need it to get back from the office!"

"Yeah, I lied," he rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish look and she sat her fist on her hips, "But you looked like you really needed the company. And I do take the subway a lot. Just not for that."

"Damn you," she crossed her arms, but her lips fought to turn upwards, "Thank you. Even though you lied."

He shook his head, showing his palm and then shoving them back in the pouch of his hoodie. He popped onto the balls of his feet before plopping his weight back down onto his heel.

"No need. My number is on there, too, if you need anything. But I shouldn't hold you up anymore."

And with that, they said their goodbyes, (Y/N) promising to give him a call sometime and thanking him once more for his kindness. Her thumb was grazing over the graphite writing, as she waved with her other hand and started towards the steps. They glanced to each other again, exchanging another short wave before she finally disappeared behind the door.

Arthur stood for a moment, watching (Y/N)'s back as she left him alone, and smiled to himself. The chill of Gotham's air didn't bite him so hard this afternoon, the stench and weight of smog wasn't clinging to his airways, and with another pop onto his toes, he began his journey home, a slightly stronger dance to his step as he daydreamed about the next time he'd see her face

#arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck #joker reader insert #joker 2019 #joker x reader #joker fanfic #joker #dc #dcu #fanficiton #fanfics #writing #platonic #platonic Arthur fleck

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convivialcamera · 6 years ago

Text

On Deadline: Jump

Previously

My entire universe had shrunk to the tip of a pin.

Every atom in my body was attuned only to the spot where Jamie’s blunt finger was delicately but insistently caressing my clitoris as I lay spread before him, feet dangling off the side of the bed and into oblivion. My blood rushed and my skin heated. My entire body tensed in a desperate attempt to keep still enough that the sudden jerking of my hips wouldn’t dislodge his finger. I held my breath deep in my lungs, straining, wanting, needing, burning.

Elbow tucked into my side, I reached up and grabbed at my shoulder, digging my fingernails into my collarbone in a last-ditch attempt to hold on.

And then, the chaos I was reigning in broke free. I exhaled on a small moan, and as I sucked in air the first wave of release hit me. After that I was lost.

When I came-to moments later, Jamie was gently running a finger down the inside of my splayed thigh and grinning like a cat that got the canary.

“You’re way too easy,” he said, a smirk barely concealed in the corner of his mouth.

“Shut up.” But I couldn’t help but grin myself, buoyed by the pleasure and contentment of orgasm. Jamie curled up beside me, resting his red mop just above my navel. I ran my fingers through his curls and caressed the curve of his ear. We stayed there, silent, for a long time.

As I gently floated in a state of semi-consciousness, Jamie’s breath tickled my stomach. Through the fog, it occured to me that he was talking.

“...that we could hit this wine bar later,” he said, “and maybe make a night of it.”

“What? Like a date?” I raised my head to look at him, propping myself up on my elbow.

He twisted his neck to look back at me. “Yes, like a date.”

I flopped back, a silly, wide smile overtaking my face. “Alright, then.”

I had the day off, having worked the Sunday before, but Jamie soon slinked away from my bed and back to the newsroom. I languished between the sheets, carefully cataloging every single moment that had passed between us. There was an easy intimacy between us that went beyond all the sex or even our shared profession, and I admitted to myself that I reveled in it.

I spent the day napping, mostly, although I did run out to buy a vacuum, since I had left the marital vacuum with my almost-ex-husband. I was loathe to think of Frank, I smugly told myself, as there really should only be two people in a new relationship. I tried to put him out of my mind, but he lingered. Why had I fallen in love with him? I wondered as I stood in front of the vacuum display, comparing models. What had made Frank stray? I pondered as I paid the clerk and lugged my purchase out to my car. Was it my work, or was it something irreparably wrong with me? I questioned as I drove back to my apartment. I didn’t have any answers, but something told me that with Jamie, everything was different.

Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Beauchamp, or maybe you just like fucking him, I thought.

By the time Jamie arrived at my door that evening, beautifully windswept from his ride over with just a hint of helmet hair, I had showered, shaved, plucked and primped within an inch of my life. To my distinct pleasure, my date looked like he had been temporairly struck dumb.

“Dude, it’s just a nice top.” I handed him a bourbon, neat, as he openly stared at my chest. It was a vibrant red and rather more low-cut than what I wore on assignment.

He sucked down the drink like it was water. “Is that what you call it?”

“Yep.” I sipped my own drink like I had all the time in the world. I raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to say anything else about it. He immediately recognized the challenge, and demurred with a shrug.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.” I glugged down the last of the bourbon and grabbed my black moto jacket. “Let’s go.”

The bar was in an old candy shop in a small historic district downtown Leoch. The walls were brick with the paint flaking off, and it was filled with little nooks and industrial furniture and illuminated only with candles. A sprightly little hipster seated us at a tiny table beneath an arch in a secluded corner with a single votive candle and two of the tiniest glasses of water I’d ever seen. Menus were attached to clipboards, and I studiously examined mine, avoiding Jamie’s gaze.

I picked a pinot noir at random when the server came around, while Jamie ordered a sweet rosé and the biggest cheese plate on the menu.

“It’s refreshing,” he said at my smirk.

“I’m sure.” I swirled my own wine and took a sip. The alcohol rushed through my bloodstream and heated my stomach.

Jamie rolled his eyes at me, and put his hand on mine. “It’s easier if we touch, isn’t it?”

It was a startling observation. I squeezed his hand, and felt the nervous energy between us dissipate into the ether.

“Well, why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” I asked.

“What do you want to know?”

I cast about for a subject while I cut a hunk of Brie and smooshed it into a slice of baguette. “What’s your family like? Other than your uncles,” I qualified quickly. “Like, your mom and dad.”

“My parents are dead, Claire.” He said this softly; it pained him to tell me.

“Oh.” I exhaled. “Mine too. Car crash when I was five.” It was an old wound but a deep one that still ached when pressed. The warmth of his hand sustained me. He paused, as if deciding. When he opened his mouth to speak, I blurted: “You don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s OK. My mom died when I was eight. And Dad, he had a massive stroke my first year of college.”

“Sucks,” I said without thinking. Jamie gave me a look that clearly said “duh,” and I giggled. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“I think you’re the only one that could have said that to me and not get punched in the face,” he said contemplatively, drinking his wine. “Because you know what it’s like.”

I gave him my own look. “It’s a shitty club.”

Jamie loaded a baguette slice with blue cheese and a dried apricot and stuffed it in his mouth. “You told me a while back that you’re not from anywhere. What the hell does that mean?”

I smiled. I had told him that the day we met, the first time he called me Sassenach. “My uncle raised me. He was a photographer too — on staff at Nat Geo.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, and in, like, the ‘80s, when the job was basically globetrotting with a camera. I refused to go to boarding school so I went with him, just about everywhere.”

“You come by all this naturally?” Jamie waved at me, indicating tip to toenails.

“Sure. All my belongings fit in a duffel bag and I didn’t go to a real school until college. So, yeah, I’m not really from anywhere.”

“That’s a hell of a childhood. I just grew up on a farm.”

“Like, cows and corn fields?”

“And horses,” he said.

“Race horses?”

He blushed. “Some. My sister Jenny and her husband breed and train them. She breeds merino sheep too.”

I could tell he was downplaying the race horses. “Are you and Jenny close?”

“As close as we can be, since I live here now,” Jamie said, but he evaded my gaze, which made me think there was more to that story. I itched to press him further, but didn’t want to bring the specter of tragedy back into our conversation so I turned to lighter things.

I told him about my uncle, Quenten Lambert Beauchamp, the archaeologist-turned-photographer who raised me, and my wandering childhood that spanned six of the seven continents (we went to Antarctica, but hadn’t made it to Australia). As I talked, Jamie listened intently, asking questions now and then, especially about Uncle Lamb’s assignments. As the cheese plate slowly disappeared between us and another round of drinks arrived, Jamie spoke of his sister and her husband, who was also Jamie’s oldest friend, and the trouble they got into as kids on the farm. He was a born storyteller, charming and funny.

I was telling Jamie about the time Uncle Lamb locked me in a temple to the Roman Goddess Vesta when I was 16, when Jamie’s eyes suddenly went wide and his ears turned so crimson I could see it even in the dim candlelight of the bar.

“Don’t turn around, but I’m pretty sure Geillis just walked in,” Jamie said in a low voice, as if he was afraid speaking her name aloud would summon her to us.

Unable to help myself, I peeked over my shoulder, and sure enough I could see Geillis’s bright blonde curtain of hair as she chatted with the hostess and was led to a table for two on the other side of the bar. I turned back and rolled my eyes at Jamie to tease him a bit. “Yep, that’s her. What of it?”

“Don’t you think it might not be the best idea for the entire newsroom to know we’re, you know…” He made an indistinct noise in his throat that made his meaning perfectly clear.

I raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, deciding if I should say the thought that immediately popped into my mind. “I’m sorry,” I said, the devil on my shoulder winning out. “I watched you slobber all over an intern in front of the whole staff and you’re worried about being spotted having a glass of wine with a colleague?” I smiled innocently at him.

Jamie opened and closed his wide mouth a few times, flabbergasted. “Geillis is an opportunistic gossip.”

“I don’t have anything to hide.”

“And anyone who saw you in that shirt would know this is more than a glass of wine.” He suddenly looked smug.

I began to roll my eyes at him, but I was distracted by a tall man with dark hair and strong bones walking into the bar through the back door. I leaned back, and pulled Jamie into the shadows. Dougal MacKenzie made a beeline for Geillis’s table, and Geillis smiled broadly when she spotted him.

“What are we looking at?” Jamie whispered in my ear, sounding bewildered.

“Any reason why your uncle is macking on Gellis at the most romantic spot in town?” I whispered back, as we watched our boss greet our colleague with a very familiar kiss and sit down.

“Can’t think of any, other than the obvious,” Jamie said. “Maybe we should get out of here.” He flagged down the server with one hand, and ran a suggestive finger up my thigh under the table with the other.

“Maybe head back to my place?”

“I’d like nothing better.”

#On Deadline fic #outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie x claire

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nialledfromfics · 6 years ago

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Chapter Six – Why Do Fools Fall In Love

(make sure you click the link in the title for an instant musical throwback~enjoy!)

If Niall had felt out of place in that town before, he hadn’t the slightest what to call how he felt standing out front of Bluemont Manor. The house–if that was even what one would refer to it as–was incredible. It was by far, the biggest home he had ever seen in all his life. It was three stories high, every floor complete with its own wrap around porch and the front built up with brick and white carved columns offsetting the expansive front door. It was a mansion, an estate. A massive home built only for the rich and powerful.

Niall looked back over his shoulder at his scratched and dented motorcycle, parked right out front by the fountain, before peeking down at his attire. His only good pleated dress pants and, of course, his trusty leather jacket; he felt massively underdressed. Niall cocked a brow, settling on the fact that there was nothing he could do about it before slipping his comb out of his back pocket and gliding it through the side of his slicked back hair. He had no choice but to make the best of his situation and with the small gift box and a bouquet of flowers in his hand, he took a deep breath and began to make the rest of his way up the front steps.

He was greeted at the front door by whom he could only assume was their butler, and was eagerly encouraged to give up his jacket. As the butler stepped away, Niall lowered his head, nerves riddling his body as he stood in the middle of the marbled foyer, his feet practically stuck to the floor. He could hear the busy sounds of idle chatter and string music emerging from the main room just around the corner.

“Niall…”

Her voice, still hauntingly innocent and sweet, sprang across his ears as if it was suddenly the only sound in the entire house. His blue eyes slowly teetered upwards, caught by the enchanting sight of the girl who had captured his heart. Vivian had hoped the person coming through the front door was him, she felt as if she had been waiting all night for him to show and the pleased grin on her face was evident of that. Niall was almost studded immobile by the vision of her. He wasn’t even sure where to look first; the lavender colored strapless gown she was wearing with its pearl-beaded bodice and chiffon tulle that fell to her mid calf, or the delicate show of her neckline, her skin silky and adorned with a single strand of pearls. Or her hair, gentle waves that swept across her bare shoulders and was pinned back just at the sides. Her lips, painted a soft hue of pink and her green eyes, modestly done up and smiling so sincerely at him.

He was left breathless. “Wow.”

“I was hopin’ that was you!” she exclaimed, bounding over to him and throwing her arms around his shoulders. Niall let his eyes fall closed, tipping his face downwards into the soft slope of her neck. His arms wrapped around her middle, holding dear to her as he faintly breathed in the intricate scent of her perfume. Vivian pulled back slightly, grabbing Niall’s free hand to hold in her own. “You look so handsome.”

Breathing out a smile, Niall took a moment to immerse himself in the beauty of her. “I’ve never seen anyone look so pretty,” he finally said, his voice soft. “Here, I brought this for ya.”

Handing Vivian the small box, she whispered a low ‘thank you’ as she looked down and took it from him. There was a tiny pink ribbon tied around it and Vivian felt as if the world was spinning faster and faster the longer she stared down at the gift. He really didn’t have to get her anything, but even the thought, it made her cheeks flush with excitement. She couldn’t believe that anyone could ever make her feel that way.

Peering back up at him, Niall gave her a boyish smirk, and they lasted another few moments letting their racing heartbeats subside before they heard someone behind them clear their throat. Vivian reluctantly looked over her shoulder, easing away to stand next to Niall but keeping her hand within his. “Daddy...” she said.

Tightening his fingers around hers, Vivian took note of the slight trembling of Niall’s palm against her own as she had slowly begun to drag him towards her parents, who were standing right at the foot of the staircase. She fought to nibble at her bottom lip, not wanting to smudge her lipstick but the nerves inside her were bubbling up so fast, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to hold them for long. Her father’s stare was narrowed, studying and glaring at the boy who was beside his daughter and Vivian quickly glanced to her mother, feeling a tinge of relief from the kind smile she was offering them.

“Momma…daddy...” Vivian spoke with a softness as the two young lovers stepped up to face her parents. She still had a firm grasp on Niall, thankfully both her small hands now encompassing his one as he felt so lightheaded he was sure he was going to drop to the floor at any second. “This is Niall.”

Niall cleared his throat, swallowing down the heaviness that had unintentionally settled there and he peered over at Vivian’s father, aware of the stoic glare that was upon him before he shifted his attention to the girl’s mother. “Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am,” he stuttered, rolling his shoulders back a bit as he held out the bouquet of flowers to the older woman, “these are for you.”

“Oh my!” she beamed, taking the flowers from him with a smile before leaning her head down to take a small sniff. “These are fabulous, Niall, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Ma’am, thank you for invitin’ me to your home. It’s quite lovely.” Niall could hear the shakiness in his own voice as he spoke, and he knew it was just as obvious to everyone else. He glanced over at Vivian and saw the softest smile on her face, and while that warmth did calm him a bit, there was still one more important introduction to be made.

Licking across his lips, Niall felt the subtle rub of Vivian’s thumb across his knuckles as he turned to her father. “Mr. Prescott,” he greeted, fumbling to reach out his hand for him to shake, “it’s nice to finally meet you, Sir.”

Every single breath was held in that second as all eyes watched Vivian’s father slowly peer down at Niall’s outthrust hand, the heat boiling up to the young man’s cheeks the longer he stood there and waited. It was like torture and Vivian stood in horror just waiting for her father to do something, anything. “Daddy…” she whispered.

Cocking his jaw to the side, her father looked back up at the young man and puffed out his chest, clasping his hands in front of his body. Niall got the hint and slowly let his arm drop back to his side. Vivian held tighter to him. “Where are you from, Niall?”

Niall reached up and wiped across his clammy brow with the side of his finger. It definitely had raised about twenty degrees in the house it seemed. “Um, well sir, I’m from Ireland, but immigrated here when I was a wee one around ‘39? And was raised in New York City.”

Her father kept staring. “And I’m assuming you work.”

It came out more of a statement than a question and Niall swallowed hard and peeked over at Vivian. Her large green eyes were staring up at him, tender and sweet and wave of ease came over him before he flicked his stare back to her father. “Yes, sir.”

“Your trade?”

“I...uh, I’m a mechanic, sir?” Niall muttered, raising a shoulder. “Cars and motorcycles and such.”

Her father nodded. The first acknowledgment that he had shown Niall all night before he tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. “And what are your intentions with my daughter?”

“Daddy!”

“Thomas!”

Both ladies chimed in with their disapproval of the question asked and Niall confidently tipped his chin up. “I have no ill intentions, sir, none that are of a worry for you.” Niall paused and looked over at his side, his stare darting over the beautiful girl that stood next to him. “I’ve grown very fond of your daughter, I care about her very much.”

Vivian could not contain the smile that had swept over her face upon hearing his words, and she squeezed her hands around his, bouncing on the balls of her feet just as the front door swung open. Everyone’s attention flew behind the young couple, watching as Cliff and his broad of mischief sauntered on through the doorway. Vivian’s brows furrowed with anger, her painted lips pursed tight as Cliff and the others shook off their suit jackets and tossed them to the butler who was waiting.

Catching her gaze, Cliff gave Vivian a nod and a stupid smirk slipped across his face as he started to walk right towards them. Niall’s grip on Vivian tightened as he drew closer and it was like a punch to his gut when he saw Vivian’s father heartily welcome Cliff in, with a handshake and all. “Good to see you, son,” her father bellowed out.

Vivian shook her head at the blatant act of discourtesy that her father was showing to Niall and she glanced up at her boyfriend, seeing the stout clench of his jaw as his downturned eyes remained glued to the interaction between the two men. Taking in a low breath, Vivian leaned in towards him, placing her mouth right at the round of his shoulder. “C’mon,” she said, giving his arm a little tug, “I want you to meet my friends.”

Sliding his eyes down to meet hers, he knew she was trying to save him from the embarrassment of the situation and he was beyond grateful for that. No matter what her father thought of him, it was Niall that was there with Vivian, not Cliff. He quietly nodded at her, giving her a half-hearted grin.

Smiling at the two of them, Vivian’s mother reached out and rubbed at the top of Niall’s arm. “It was nice to meet you, dear,” she said to him, Niall noticing that Vivian had much of a likeness to her. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers. It was very thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Niall said back to her, “Nice to meet you, too.”

*****

Vivian waltzed into the grand ballroom with a heart-stopping smile, never more proud to be on Niall’s arm. After introducing him to a few of her close friends, the two went and grabbed some drinks and cookies from the other room before coming back and occupying a quiet corner, Niall taking the time to soak everything in. He had never in his life been in a place that fancy, and it quickly dawned on him that this place, this grand place with its twenty foot vaulted ceilings and more rooms than he could count, was in fact, Vivian’s actual home. This was where she lived, where she had grown up and he knew he could never rival that. He huffed out a breath, inadequacy seeping like hot lava through his veins as he stared down at the clear plastic cup in his hand.

Vivian glanced over at the handsome young man that stood beside her, drifting her stare between the perfect sharp lines of his profile and a slight dark curl that had come undone from his slicked back hair and laid across his forehead. She had no idea what was going through his mind, his brows crinkled and his eyes transfixed down at his cup, but decided to take the reserved moment to apologize for what had transpired with her parents. “I’m really sorry, Niall, about my father. I had no idea Cliff–”

“It’s fine, love.”

But it wasn’t fine. Vivian could tell by the crackle in his voice, and in the way his eyes shot up to frantically search around the room. She could see the tension by the way his jaw clicked as he sipped on his punch. She reached over and lightly slid her fingertips down the side of his face, hoping her touch would bring him back to her. It worked. Niall caught her stare and showed her a sweet smile, lifting his brows. “I promise, it’s fine. He’d be a fool to start anythin’ here anyway.”

Vivian nodded, running her tongue over her bottom lip as she pulled in a breath. She peered out into the vast room–appropriately decorated in pink streamers and balloons with the string band playing in the opposite corner–and let her eyes settle on all of her friends and schoolmates that were gathered around. Some were dancing to the music, some chatting to one another, she got a few waves and quick hugs from those just arriving and wishing her a Happy Birthday, but it wasn’t until Cherry finally appeared that Vivian felt a rush of delight come over her. She was, by far, the one person that Vivian couldn’t wait for Niall to meet.

Fashionably late to her best friends party–Vivian was far from surprised–the young woman was a sight to behold as she headed over towards them, not even Vivian could look away. She looked like a movie star. A form-fitting red dress with a pair of black kitten heels, she had her raven colored hair curled and pinned up, and long black satin gloves that rose above her elbows. The cunningly bright smile on her face as she stepped up to the pair was no match for anyone else in the room. Vivian smirked, knowing how much Cherry could steal the spotlight from anyone without even trying. It was one of her many talents. “And, who is this handsome little devil?” Cherry teased as she stepped up to the pair and hooked her hands on her hips. Her brown eyes dragged up and down the length of Niall as he just silently stared back at her, nonchalantly tossing back the rest of his drink. He was all too familiar with girls like Cherry. She was quite amusing, to say the least.

“Cherry…” Vivian said, locking her arm around Niall’s elbow, “this is Niall.”

Her brows raised, followed by the corner of her lip. “Mmm, so this is the elusive boy-toy that you’ve been hidin’ from me,” Cherry joked with a soft giggle, rolling her tongue in her mouth as she kept her stare locked on Niall. Reaching out to him, Cherry gently dragged her fingertip down the front of Niall’s chest, the young man watching her movements, but not reacting in the slightest. Vivian faintly shook her head, aware of the game her friend was trying to play. Nothing was lost on Vivian, as naive as she seemed, and she was pleased that the man beside her didn’t seemed fazed.

“He’s not for you to play with…” Vivian snickered with a light slap to Cherry’s hand. She looked over at Niall. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Letting her act fall and happy that Niall seemed to pass her little test, Cherry gave him a sweet smile and held out her hand. “Well, then, it’s good to meet you, Niall. Officially anyway.

Niall grinned at the young woman’s prowess and reached out to shake her hand. “You too, Cherry. Heard a lot about ya.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she purred, causing Vivian to roll her eyes. “Though, I do hope there are no hard feelin’s about what happened at Sunday’s. Not my finest moment as Viv’s friend.”

He shook his head, his mouth turning down slightly. “No worries, it’s all in the past.”

“That it is then,” the girl agreed with a nod.

Rocking his empty cup back and forth in his fingers, Niall looked over at Vivian. “I’m gonna go get more punch,” he said, “either of you ladies want anythin’?”

Both girls shook their heads and Niall nodded. “Good to meet you, Cherry.”

“You too!” she eagerly replied as he stepped away, weaving through the groups of partygoers to make his way out of the ballroom. Her brown eyes went big. “He is an absolute catch, Viv. I really do like him.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she giggled before reaching out to grab at Cherry’s wrist. “Hey...did you ever talk to Cliff like I asked?”

“Yeah, I did. I saw him here when I walked in, too.

Vivian twisted her lips to the side in contemplation. “But you told him what I said, right? Told him I didn’t want him comin’?”

Cherry nodded with a rise of her brow. “Yeah, I swear it, I told him that next day. He asked me why, but I just said that your Momma had changed the guest list.”

Sighing out, Vivian chewed at the corner of her mouth. “Okay, well….I gotta figure out how to get him outta here. With Niall here and all...it’s just not good.”

“I doubt he’s gonna cause a fuss, Viv, he knows it’s your party,” Cherry told her, “besides, with your parents here, he’ll behave himself, I’m sure of it.”

Swallowing hard, Vivian crossed her arms over her chest and slowly gazed around the room. There were at least fifty guests there–family and friends–and the last thing on earth that she wanted, was to cause a scene in front of all of them and completely embarrass herself. She really hoped Cliff wouldn’t either. “I really hope you’re right.”

*****

Niall had wandered his way into the dining room, transformed for Vivian’s party, there were many decorated tables set up around the space with troves of finger hors d’oeuvres and small delectable desserts. Walking over towards the drink table, the young man picked up the ladle and began to spoon the bright red bubbly liquid into his small cup. No sooner had Niall hooked the ladle back onto the edge of large bowl and taken a sip of the refreshing beverage, did he hear the arrogant click of a tongue from behind him.

“And who do we got here?”

The brutish voice was familiar. And not a good familiar. It made Niall’s jaw clench as he lifted his head up, keeping his stare forward at the patterned wall in front of him. Taking in a deep breath, he rolled his eyes closed and felt his fingers tightening a little too hard around that plastic cup. “Not lookin’ for any trouble, Cliff,” he grumbled.

“Is that so?”

Turning around to face him, Niall was met with the taller and slightly larger oaf, along with three of his imbecile buddies. Cliff pushed out a chuckle as he saw the agitation already rising in Niall and he stepped closer to the Irish lad, plucking a potato chip from a bowl as he passed and tossing it into his mouth. The crunch was beyond irritating for Niall, so much so that it was making his skin crawl. But he couldn’t let Cliff know that. As callow as he was, Niall had to believe he had some sense in him. So he cleared his throat and tipped his head back. “Just tryin’ to enjoy me girlfriends party, is all,” Niall stated with conviction, following it up with a sip of his tasty punch.

Niall watched as Cliff’s nostrils flared in apparent rage as he pulled in a deep breath. He did not seem to like Niall’s flippant attitude. “See, that’s where we have a problem,” Cliff barked as he crossed his arms over his chest, the intention one of instinctual male behavior in attempt to make himself look even bigger, meaner. It worked. “ ‘Cause…she’s really not your girlfriend at all.”

Niall rolled his head to the side, cocking his jaw out. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he said, lifting his brows. “I asked her and she said yes, so I’m pretty sure that does make her me girlfriend.”

“That’s what she wants ya to think,” Cliff replied, “but in reality, you ain’t nothin’ to her. Just a steppin’ stone to somethin’ better.”

Niall snorted. “Lemme guess, that somethin’ better, is...you?”

“If the shoe fits, am I right?”

Cliff bounced his shoulders in a disturbing laugh, his friends following suit. It was a pack mentality, Niall knew that, but he kept his glare dead tight on the only one in the room that he was worried about. “You don’t belong here,” Cliff continued, “we all know that. So, why don’t ya do everyone a favor and just...go back to wherever it is ya came from.”

“I think I’m good where I’m at, but thanks for your concern,” Niall shot back, tucking his lips into his mouth as he gave the other young man a hefty nod.

With his brows furrowing deep, Cliff had become overly aggravated with what he thought was going to be a rather one sided altercation and he stepped flush up to Niall. There was barely an inch of space between the two young men and it was getting harder by the second for Niall to keep his cool. But he had to, he had to for Viv. The anger was pulsing through his body like a lit bottle rocket ready to explode, and the tips of his fingers curled into his fist as Cliff stared him in the eye, challenging him with every labored breath he took. “Listen to me, you piece of shit,” Cliff sneered, tapping his pointer finger against the front of Niall’s shoulder with each word, “I warned ya to stay away from her and I told ya what would happen if you didn’t. Now, I ain’t gonna start nothin’ here on account of it bein’ Vivian’s party and all, but you better fuckin’ sleep with one eye open, ya hear me? ‘Cause this shit ain’t over.”

Reaching up, Cliff roughly patted across Niall’s cheek a few times, causing the young man’s face to shift over to his right. His eyes blinked shut with each harsh tap over his skin, his jaw pinching as he heard the laughter of the group of boys fluctuate past his ears as they left the room. Niall slowly opened his eyes and swallowed hard. It was in that moment that he had caught the sight of Vivian’s father standing in an open doorway off to the side of the dining room. Their stares met, briefly, as her father casually blew out a puff of billowy white smoke, before he wordlessly stepped away.

Niall rolled his eyes closed in a sigh, and fought off the heavy beating of his heart as he tipped his head down and ran a shaky hand through the side of his greased hair.

*****

Vivian had no idea what was taking Niall so long to get more punch. Cherry had walked off–surely using her feminine wiles to see which boy she could get a kiss from–which left Vivian standing alone in the back corner of the room, watching her guests dancing and laughing as she not-so-patiently waited for her boyfriend to return. The toe of her shoe tapped along with the uptempo beat of the song, her arms hooked over her chest and her bottom lip nearly chewed off. Her stare skipped around the room and she glanced to her right, hoping to see Niall entering the room with those big blue eyes and that charming smirk of his, but instead was met with the likes of someone else coming right towards her.

Vivian’s mood could not have changed any quicker. “What are you doin’ here, Cliff?” she hissed as the boy in question stopped right next to her. She rolled her eyes in a huff at the presence of him, leaning away as his close proximity was making an uncomfortable knot cinch in her belly.

“What do ya mean, baby, it’s your birthday,” Cliff wooed, easing a hand around her lower back, “I wasn’t gonna miss your party…”

Crinkling her brows in a gasp, Vivian’s eyes snapped down to where his touch lay upon her and quickly whipped around to look at him. “Don’t you dare call me that!” she scolded him with a pointed finger, trying her very best to keep her voice low, “And I didn’t want you here, I know Cherry told ya! Why, after all the trouble you caused–”

“Trouble I caused?” Cliff interjected with a snuff, “I dunno if you remember correctly, but I’m the one who took a lickin’ from him!”

Vivian pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest in defense. “You deserved it,” she told him, “you started this whole mess, you were the one lookin’ for a fight that night, Clifford Wilson. He just ended it.”

Rolling his eyes to the side, his head followed as he huffed out a breath. “Look, Viv, I’m not here to argue.”

“Then why are you here?” Viv asked, raising her brows.

“ ‘Cause I want you back.”

The young woman let out a snort at his ridiculous proclamation, tossing her hand up to cover her lips with her fingertips. “We belong together, Viv,” Cliff went on, “you know it, everyone knows it. Your parents, the whole town. I really dunno why you fight it so much.”

Perching her hands on her hips, Vivian’s mouth dropped open. “ ‘Cause I want nothin’ to do with you,” she spit back with a bite in her tone, “I don’t love you, Cliff. I have never loved you and I never will. And you don’t love me neither. You just want me back ‘cause someone else has me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true,” she said, letting out a sigh as she ran her hand over her forehead in annoyance. “Look, I am done with all this nonsense. With you, with everythin’. We are over, so please, just leave me and Niall alone.”

Cliff stood there in awkward silence, unsure what to say back to her, his eyes stuck to the girl that once was his as she walked off in search of the new man that had stolen her heart.

*****

“Niall!”

Her soft voice echoed off the tall cathedral-like ceilings of her home as she rushed in and out of each room. “Niall? Niall, where are you?” Her heart was racing, thumping wild against the back of her ears as if it was taunting her. Evil, sick little taunts. She had checked the dining room, first place she had went expecting him to still be there. Maybe he had gotten hungry and decided to have a few bites of food, she told herself. But he wasn’t there. Then the knot that had started to form earlier got even worse, tightening like a wrench on a socket with each second that she couldn’t find him. Where had he gone? Did he leave? Without even saying goodbye?

“Niall?” she called out again, her high heeled shoes clicking against the marble floors of her foyer and hallways as she peeked her head into each dark room. It wasn’t until she came to the last room on the ground floor that she eased to a stop. Her father's study. The door was half ajar, a dim glow of a light on, but no sound. Placing her palm against the door, Vivian slowly pushed it open.

There he was. Standing over to the right side of the large room, with his hands stuffed down in his pockets and his head tilted back. His eyes were drifted upwards towards the very tippy top of the book-lined shelves. “Niall? What are you doin’ in here?” she quietly asked him as she made her way into the space.

“You’ve read all of these?” he plainly asked.

Vivian wrinkled her brow at him slightly before following his line sight with her own stare. “Some, yeah,” she chuckled, “a lot, actually.”

Niall nodded. He kept his gaze upon the books, reaching up with one hand to delicately run his fingers along the binds of a few. Scraping her teeth across her bottom lip, Vivian watched him for a moment before she spoke up again. “Niall, are you alright?”

Letting his hand drop to his side in a low sigh, Niall peered down at his feet before he turned to face Vivian. “You weren’t ever gonna tell him, were ya?”

“What?”

“Vivian…”

She knew exactly what he was referring to, but nothing inside her wanted to admit it. Her mouth started to dry up and she struggled to breath, the air in her lungs clamping to her rib cage. Her green eyes, fluttering with the emotions she was trying to hold back, danced over his blue ones and she stumbled with an excuse. “I...was gonna tell him, Niall, I was, I just didn’t get a chance to, he was really busy and–”

“Viv,” Niall gently cut her off, her name sounding like a sweet lullaby in his gravelly voice. “Are you ashamed of me?”

Wildly shaking her head, Vivian took a step closer to him. “No,” she told him, her voice firm, “no, I’m not ashamed of you.”

“Then why were ya so scared to tell him about me?”

Vivian’s eyes searched his face before they fell to the floor at his feet. “I don’t know,” she shrugged.

“If you’re ashamed of me bein’ here–”

“I’m not ashamed of you bein’ here!” she quickly disputed, flicking her stare back up to his face. “Stop sayin’ that! I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you here with me.”

Niall tossed up his hands. “Then why do I feel like that! I saw the way your father looked at Cliff, the way he talked to him,” he paused, licking across his lips. “Viv, I’m never gonna be what he wants me to be, I’m never gonna be like Cliff.”

“I don’t want you to be like Cliff,” Vivian assured Niall, shaking her head as she spoke. “It’s one of the reasons why I like you so much, you’re nothin’ like him! You’re nothin’ like anyone I have ever met. You’re kind and smart, and gentle and...you have a good heart.”

Nodding at her words as they wafted over him like a fleeting warmth, Niall shifted his stare over the beautiful girl that was standing in front of him. He had never had anyone say those kinds of things to him before, let alone someone he cared so deeply about.

“You’re a good man, Niall Horan,” Viv went on, “and I am not ashamed of you. I care about you. My father...he just...he wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand anythin’!”

He knew why she hadn’t told her father, why she was so scared to do so, but he was just hurt that she hadn’t. And it hurt him to know the truth. No matter how much she disparaged it, he knew. He knew, deep down, he was never going to be enough for her. Taking a few steps over towards Vivian, Niall reached out and softly rubbed his palms down the length of her arms. He could feel her trembling and he gave her a soft smile. “It’s okay, Viv, I get it, ya know,” he told her. “I don’t fit in…and we both know I don’t belong here. We both know I won’t ever be able to give ya...any of this.”

“What?” she spat out, crinkling her brow in confusion, “No, this is just stuff, Niall...it’s just stuff, it doesn’t matter, that’s not what I was–”

“It’s alright now. I don’t wanna make any trouble for ya, with your family and all,” he said to her, his eyes darting over hers, “really, I know that’s how it’s gotta be…”

Vivian shook her head in disbelief of what Niall was saying to her. “No, I don’t understand–….that’s not true...”

“I should go,” Niall stuttered out, swallowing back the constriction in his throat.

“No,” Vivian said, “I don’t want you to go. Please…”

Vivian peered up at Niall with those big innocent green eyes, and reached out to grab ahold of his shirt. Her fists twisted into the material and she pulled him closer to her, the room becoming blurry with the swell of her tears. Niall pushed out a sigh and cradled her face in his big hands, faintly shushing her. “I don’t wanna, but I have to. It’s for the best, you know that.”

The tears had started to spill from the corners of her eyes and Niall lovingly stared down at her, gently swiping the wetness off her tepid skin with his thumbs. “Please…” she sniffled, holding tighter to him.

His chin trembled as he fought to smile at her. “Thank you for invitin’ me,” he whispered, placing a kiss to her forehead. “Happy Birthday, my love, you’re an angel.”

Slipping his hands from her face, Vivian choked back her cries as Niall forced her grip from him and brushed past her. “Niall! Wait, please!” she begged as he walked out of the study and headed towards the front door. Her heart plummeted to the heavy pit of her stomach and Vivian almost tripped over her own feet, catching herself on her father's armchair as she began to chase after him. Her heels hit the marble floor of the foyer just as he opened the front door. “Niall, please...please don’t go!”

It was silent. So silent that Vivian was sure Niall could hear her heart nearly splitting in two. “I’m...I’m so sorry, Viv,” Niall finally mumbled without even turning around. Her mouth fell open in a gasp as he rushed out of the door, slamming it closed behind him.

With the hot tears sliding down her cheeks, Vivian twisted around and was surprised to see her father standing at the foot of the staircase, having witnessed the entire interaction. “Daddy, please!” Vivian screamed, shaking her head through her desperate pleas as she couldn’t believe this was actually happening. “Please, you have to stop him!”

“Let the boy go.”

“No, I don’t want him to go, I want him to come back, I want–” Her words stop cold, halting on the tip of her tongue. Her father was standing there, watching his own daughter cry and plead for the boy that she loved and he was emotionless. Cold and stoic. As if he didn’t even care. As if he had wanted Niall to leave. “Daddy?”

His jaw clenched as he shifted his stare from the closed front door over to his daughter’s face. “Let him go, Vivian,” he insisted, taking a puff from his pipe, “it’s best you let him go.”

The young woman’s chin trembled as she darted her eyes over her father's impassive face. She had never felt so much disdain for him in her life as she did in that very moment. Shaking her head, Vivian wiped the tears from her cheeks before taking off out of the front door, hoping to catch Niall.

Already on his bike and halfway down the long winding driveway of her estate, Vivian paused right at the edge of her brick front steps. “Niall!” her voice cracked as she yelled for him, knowing all too well that he couldn’t hear her.

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kusunogatari · 6 years ago

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[ Plague || Chapter Three ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Blood, vomit ] [ Verse: When Dead Walk ] [ Previous || Next ]

With the samples in hand, Ryū makes her way to her room where a desk is littered with her own research, and that of the small village medic. To start, she makes a few more small seals, affixing them to the spare vials to take in chakra and keep the cells alive. Removing the stopper from the first, she withdraws the blood with her energy, hovering it in a small, floating, undulating orb. Both hands lift to stabilize it, eyes closing in concentration as she lets her chakra reach into the plasma. Like feeling her way through organs with her hands, she lets the chakra ‘see’ for her - focusing to the most minute degree she can manage.

For a time, Kakashi stands and watches...but there’s little for him to glean as she simply works in still silence. Eventually he takes to wandering the manor as a whole, mentally mapping the entire building before moving on to the surrounding yards, gardens, and forest. True, they aren’t exactly expecting any guests - wanted or unwanted - but it gives him something to do...and a way to prepare should something go wrong.

The last thing he wants is to just...stand here and feel idle. Might as well be useful.

Ryū, all the while, attempts to take the first step in her research: to isolate a virus sample, and begin to look into its blueprint. From there...it’ll be a matter of guessing and checking what pieces accomplish what, and how best to unravel them until they’re no longer able to multiply.

To put it simply...it’s going to take hours, and hours...and hours...and time isn’t exactly on her side.

Loathe to stop, she eventually caves after several consecutive hours, pulling herself back from her work and almost feeling woozy for a moment at the change of perspective. Replacing the sample, she takes a moment to recover before retreating to the lower floor to eat...and also feed Kakashi.

Which also brings up the notion of finding Obito something to sate him.

Pushing that aside for now, she’s surprised to find the Hatake in the building, examining the painted walls. “...place is pretty fancy, huh?”

That earns a short huff of a laugh. “I guess...then again, they had a lot of time to work on it. Suigin-sama says the original villagers built this place huge with plans for my clan to grow. But...that never really happened. So instead, it sort of became a village hub. During things like...severe weather, or floods, or fires...everyone would come here. It’s big enough, and the village small enough, everyone could come here in times of emergency and be relatively comfortable. And I guess, with nothing else to do with it...they took time to make it pretty over the years. All the beams are carved, the fusuma are painted...it’s really very beautiful.”

“...and so empty.”

“...a shame, isn’t it?”

Kakashi turns to her, taking a moment to mull that over. “...you don’t find it...odd to be here?”

She hums in thought. “...not really. It’s home, even if I spent most of my life in Konoha. Iwa attacked when I was four...and I came back to train when I was eighteen. It’s very...quiet. But also very peaceful. It’s nothing like Konoha.”

That earns a snort. “No...definitely not. But I mean…” He gestures a hand. “...you don’t find it unsettling? Given all that happened here?”

Ryū gives a small, wry smile. “...do you mean if I think it’s haunted?”

He shrugs. “...if you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Our teachings revolve much around souls...I know that they exist. I’ve even held one.”

Kakashi’s brows lift.

“So, do I believe they can linger, and haunt a place…? Sure. Do I think any are here…?” Her gaze moves to the front door. “...some of them. But very...faintly. Maybe more like impressions than full hauntings.” Her expression sobers. “...after all...most of them died horribly...and without warning. Surely they all had regrets, fear, confusion...I wouldn’t doubt that some became lost and attached themselves to the one place they knew best.”

Something about Kakashi’s expression seems to...unnerve. “...not sure I could stay in a place like this for very long. It’s beautiful, peaceful...but you can just...feel that something is off.”

Ryū gives a nod of understanding. “...someday I’d like to try to cleanse it. I just...don’t know how. I’ve just always had something more pressing, as horrible as that sounds. I had to focus on my training, and then my work...I hardly get to come here anymore.” A soft sigh escapes her. “...until then...it’s still home. Still the place I feel most...comfortable. Most like myself.”

He eyes her thoughtfully, but doesn’t press the subject. “...well, I suppose for now, it’s a bit haunted for me too.”

Her head tilts in question.

Giving a jerk of his head toward the upper floor, he murmurs, “...Obito’s a bit of a ghost for me. I thought he was dead. And now...I’ve got so many questions. How he survived, why he never came back...why he’s involved with people like Akatsuki. And until he’s cured, well...I guess there’s no use in wondering.”

Ryū wilts somberly. “...well, I’m not going to quit until I figure this out. Then you can ask him whatever you want, I suppose...but first…” She tries a hint of a smile. “I think we both need something to eat."

“When in doubt...take a lunch break.”

They let the subject lie, working together to make something halfway edible. The rice stores are still in decent shape, and the overgrown garden still has a few vegetables to be found. And in hardly any time, Kakashi magics a few fish from the river, giving an eye-crinkling smile.

Nearly finished with her serving, Ryū takes a moment to think. “...I’m not sure how to go about feeding Obito.”

That earns a pause from Kakashi as well. “Well...I doubt he’d sit with us and be polite.”

Deadpanning for a tick, she offers, “I can open a gap in the barrier...but I’m not sure if he’ll eat anything like this. The only thing they seem interested in is raw meat…”

“Well, I can rustle up a few more fish. Give that a try.”

“...all right.”

She takes to tidying as Kakashi raids the river again, returning with a few decent catches. Giving him an uncertain look, Ryū leads the way to Obito’s room.

By now, he’s regained consciousness. A careful peek around the corner shows him just...standing in the middle of the room beside the futon, exactly where they left him. Fresh regurgitated blood has dribbled down his chin, twitching and occasional grunting...or retching. But without anyone nearby to target, he’s almost...passive.

...something tells her that’s about to change. And very quickly.

...well, might as well give the barrier a test… Slowly stepping into the doorway, Ryū watches as his gaze snaps to her.

...like before, it’s completely devoid of any recognition. Just alighting with fervor at the sight of prey. Of a new host to infect. With a scream, he runs to the doorway, crashing into the barrier with a thudding gong of sound.

It holds. The seals flare for a moment as the reserve is sapped, but she feels only a slight drop in the chakra contained in the wall. Each subsequent strike takes a little more chakra, but overall, the gathering of the seals keeps up. It helps that his time unconscious allowed it to build a buffer.

Watching him carefully, Ryū tries to be objective, studying what she can observe as he tries to make it through the doorway. The same gauntness hollows his face slightly, eyes still filmed yellow. Overall...little has changed.

“...all right. I’ll keep his attention and make a small gap along the floor,” she then says aloud to her companion. “Just big enough to get the tray through.”

“Got it.” Crouched just out of sight, Kakashi waits.

Hand signs allow her to manipulate the barrier, creating a hole he wastes no time in using. She then lets the chakra fuse back into place, and steps further down the hall, dulling her chakra and waiting.

For a time, Obito continues his screeching and banging even with the pair beyond his field of vision. But then he slowly quiets, interest lost.

Breath held and teeth nibbling her lip, Ryū waits...and then brightens at the rather visceral sounds of him finding and consuming their little gift for him. Good! That should give his body something to process...though I doubt much will be absorbed before he vomits again… But at least it’s something.

With that out of the way, she takes another hallway around (thankful, for once, that this place is such a maze) and meets back up with Kakashi. “Well...that went better than I expected.”

“Any progress is good progress. Hopefully he keeps some of it down.”

“Time will tell.”

Until then...it’s back to the same old thing.

Ryū spends nearly all of her time trying to isolate the virus. Her only breaks are to sleep, eat, relieve herself, and check on Obito. He, at least, changes very little. The same aggression, the same appetite, the same instability and mess. But though she analyzes that part logically, the rest of her doesn’t see it. The rest of her clings to the memory of the last time she saw him before he got sick, using it as motivation to keep working, keep trying, just a little more…

It takes three days before she manages to be delicate enough to extract a virus from the sample. There’s a rushing sigh of relief as she does so, which makes a nearby napping Kakashi jump in alarm. “Finally…!”

“...what happened?”

“I got ahold of a virus. Now...to start breaking it down and finding its weak points.”

“...oh! Uh...good.”

Snorting even as she keeps working, she assures him, “It’s a big step. It’s like...I found the place the intel is being hidden. Now I just have to navigate a long hallway with many, many doors. And keep opening every door and seeing what my chakra does to it until I find one that lets me find the intel.”

The comparison for his understanding’s sake makes him snort. “That...is a lot easier for me to comprehend.”

“You’re welcome.”

That big step, however, is soon dogged by a brick wall. Deciphering genetic code isn’t exactly the quickest thing a medic can do. So, yet again, hours and hours pour into a quiet concentration. Kakashi takes to wandering again, checking and double checking their surroundings...if only for something to do.

After four solid days of code checking...Ryū is at a breaking point. Dark circles rest under her eyes, skin paling after over a week straight without a lick of sunlight. She’s even lost a bit of weight under the combined stress and minimal diet. Needing a break, she takes to standing outside Obito’s room.

Whenever he’s left alone, there’s no violence. He just...stands. Twitches. Pukes. Occasionally has random fits of yelling or thrashing, but his aggression otherwise disappears until someone comes within view. Then he’s a maniac. Pounding against the barrier and hollering until his vocal cords wear with stress.

Utterly spent, Ryū just...leans her brow against the barrier, unable to feel his impacts, his yelling muffled behind the wall. Eyes close as exhaustion begs her eyelids down. She’s so tired...but she can’t stop. Can’t give up. She has to be getting closer...but the process is so tedious, so time-consuming, so...frustratingly without results, it’s almost maddening. Her patience is typically saint-like...but with all that rides on this work, it’s fraying under the strain.

“...I’m not stopping,” she murmurs as though he can hear her. “I’m just...taking a little break. I wanted to come see you…”

All the while, his relentless strikes continue.

“Don’t worry...I’m getting close. I can feel it. I know it...I just…” A heavy sigh wilts her shoulders. “I just...need more time. Okay…?”

No reply beyond the typical shrieking.

“...all right. I’ll...go try again. It’s almost time for dinner. We’ll see what Kakashi-senpai found for you, okay…? Okay…” Straightening, she looks to him wearily before resting a palm along the chakra.

She can’t wait to feel his hand on hers again…

Letting it slip, Ryū then retreats down the hall to her room, fetching the proper phial containing the virus she’s working on. Bringing it out and regathering her focus, it narrows to the tiny organism in her grip.

Several doors down, Obito has yet to calm. The seals along the corners burn bright red. The pulse of their warning beats faster and faster. Downstairs, in another wing, Kakashi listens idly to the muffled sounds of his old friend’s struggles.

Along the barrier, cracks begin to bloom. The chakra reserve drains to its last dredges. Ryū is unaware in the master quarters, senses reduced to the tiny speck in her chakra.

When the shield shatters...she doesn’t feel it.

Several things happen in quick succession.

Obito slams into the wall opposite his doorway, stunned as he finally finds the freedom he was wanting. Head shaking, he gives a few grunts of animalistic curiosity. He’s loose...he can look for the light...where? Where did it go? Giving a holler, he moves down the hall a few steps in the other direction.

Below, Kakashi’s keen hearing brings him to a halt. That...that was louder than before. He picks up footsteps. The next sound is further down the corridor.

...oh shit.

Ryū!

Manor layout memorized, he makes for the quickest route up: out the nearest window, up the wall, and into the hallway that intersects the one Obito is in...just in time to see him go streaking by in a blur of red and black.

“Ryū!”

Eyes snapping open at Kakashi’s shouted warning, Ryū’s senses expand back outward, and in the strange vertigo that follows, she picks up Obito’s chakra, coming in fast…! Panicking, she shoves the virus into the phial, sealing it shut just as he comes hurtling through the doorway.

As she looks up, he meets her gaze, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze.

Then, with a bellow, he barrels through any furniture in his way. Papers scatter, wood snaps, and Ryū barely manages to erect another barrier just as he reaches her. The momentum throws her back atop a chair that splinters beneath her, earning a cry as it digs into her back. The phial remains clutched in her hand even as the new shield fades.

Obito, stunned for a moment at the impact, recoils just long enough to let her bring up another over her person as he dives atop her, teeth gnashing and hands clawing. The added weight presses splintered wood into her back, jaw tightening as she splits her focus between her barrier and numbing the sensation remotely.

Skidding into the room, Kakashi wastes no time in dragging Obito back, locking him by the crooks of his elbows. “Knock it...off…!” he grunts, struggling against his old teammate’s surprising strength.

Bringing herself up off the floor, Ryū catches her breath for a moment before trying to find a way to incapacitate the Uchiha...but his unpredictable flailing makes that nearly impossible.

It only gets worse when he turns on Kakashi instead.

“Senpai!”

Doing his best to grapple Obito, he orders, “Stay back! I can handle -!”

Before his sentence can end, he cuts off as Obito stiffens and vomits a mixture of blood and half-rotten fish all over his front. The pair stumble apart, Obito twitching violently and Kakashi flinching in revulsion.

And before anyone can act...Obito takes off out of the room, stumbling and gasping.

Pulling the door closed, Ryū hesitates to approach Kakashi. “Are...are you all right?”

“Fine, just...disgusted,” he assures her, peeling off his flak jacket. “That is the rankest vomit I think I’ve ever had the displeasure to smell.”

“You don’t have any open wounds, do you? None got in your nose or mouth?”

“No, no I’m fine...though I might have to puke myself here in a second.”

“There’s no time! We have to bring him back!” Before he can reply, she tugs the door back open, taking off down the hall.

The sight makes Kakashi stiffen as he spies the unmistakable stain of crimson along the back of her coat. “...Ryū…!”

The pair make to follow the escapee, pausing to listen. The front door of the manor is thrown open, and a jog outside reveals Obito in the front garden, on his hands and knees, digging in the ground…?

Holding out an arm, Ryū brings them both to a stop. “...what is he…?”

“Ryū, your back -”

“I know, just...hold on.”

Together, they watch in careful silence as he keeps digging, pausing to vomit again before continuing his work. A moment later, there’s an ear-splitting squeal, and...he hauls up some kind of rodent…?

Brow furrowing, Ryū then cringes as Obito tears the creature’s head off, stuffing it into his mouth as quickly as he can. “...he’s hunting…”

“...guess we proved to be too much of a match…?”

“Maybe...that, combined with losing what he had in his stomach must have been enough.”

Sat on his knees, Obito sways for a moment, seemingly passive again before simply...slumping to the ground, unconscious.

...that rings an alarm.

“...come on, we have to get him inside.”

“But -?”

“We don’t know when he’ll wake up!”

“Ryū, you really think that’s a good idea? He almost bit you!”

“I -! I know that, but -!”

“It’s too dangerous having him in the house. If I hadn’t -?” He cuts off with a curt sigh. “...we at least have to keep him farther away from you. It can’t be that easy for him to catch you off-guard if this happens again. Is there a basement?”

Still looking indignant, she hesitates. “...yes.”

“Then we’ll take him there. Set up new seals. Keep your visits to him to a minimum. All right?”

Almost feeling like a scolded child, Ryū glances bitterly aside. “...fine.”

More sealing paper. More seals. More chakra. An alcove in the underground floor of the manor is set aside for his new quarters. Beyond the shrinking pile of coal for the boiler and stored away furniture, Ryū applies more sedative chakra to keep him under a while longer as the seals gather more energy.

“...how’s your back?”

“Fine.”

“...can you...heal it?”

Ryū heaves a small sigh. “...not directly. And do so indirectly takes more time and focus than I’d like.”

“Well you can’t just leave it open.”

Finally turning to look to him, she manages a hint of amusement in her gaze. “Now who’s the chiding medic?”

“There’s a dangerous virus going around. I’m a little more worried than usual.”

“Well, I’m not about to get any of his fluids on my back...but fine. I’ll...do something about it.”

“I could patch it up.”

A white brow perks.

“Hey, I know basic first aid. Enough to tend to a puncture wound, all right?”

“Okay, okay…”

Retreating to the main floor, Ryū fetches a first aid box that looks almost untouched. Shrugging out of her coat with a slight hiss, she does her best to stand patiently as Kakashi rolls up her shirt to give the wound a look.

“Well, doesn’t look like there’s any debris, at least.”

“Anything small probably just stuck in the coat.”

Giving it a dousing of alcohol nonetheless, he glances up as she tenses. “...think I’ll put a stitch or two in just to be safe.”

“Whatever you think.”

Needle and thread cleaned, he passes it through until the wound mostly pinches shut. Antiseptic is applied to some gauze, pressed to the puncture and held in place by a few wrapped layers around her ribcage. “Well...it’s not as good a job as you could do, but it should suffice.”

“Thanks…” Tugging her shirt back down, Ryū considers her coat. “...better wash it before it stains...stitch that hole shut.”

“All right. I’ll be...around.”

Giving him a flicker of a smile, the healer makes her way back upstairs to the master quarters.

...what a mess.

There’s a weight of guilt in her gut at the now-ruined antiques. Eyeing the chair warily, she just...tosses everything broken into a corner before sitting atop the bed and sewing her coat. It’s far from its first patch job...and this is far from her first coat. Saline digging into the fibers at her command loosens the blood, the soiled liquid tossed down the sink in the attached bathroom. Stubbornly, she puts the coat back on, buckling the belt over the middle.

...there.

Kneeling on the floor, she then slowly picks up her scattered research notes, reading them over briefly and wondering why she hasn’t heard anything from the other medics yet. Have any made any headway? Is she behind, ahead, on-pace?

...part of her fears that the rest of the world has been overrun. That the three of them - well...two - might be all that’s left. Tucked away in this remote little corner of the world.

Sitting on her knees with a kind of numbness in her chest, Ryū just...lingers for a while. What happens if they fail…? If she fails? What if the plague spreads too quickly? What if they never find a cure? What if -?!

Hands lift to cup over her face. No...no, she can’t afford to think like that. No matter what, she has to keep trying. Even if it’s up until the very end...she can’t give up…! She’ll find a way. She has to!

...she has to…

Heaving a curt breath, she stands, replacing her notes atop the desk and taking the phial out of her leg pack.

...back to work.

As much as she hates it...she does her best to avoid going to the basement. Kakashi checks on him, and their shifts to bring him something to eat are kept quick and quiet. The less they stress the barrier, the better.

...but even then...it doesn’t take Ryū long to notice something.

“...I think he’s sick.”

The incredulous look Kakashi gives her is met with a glare. “I mean besides the plague. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“His breath is rattling. And he hasn’t been as active. He’s still aggressive, but...it seems almost...muted somehow.” She nibbles a thumbnail, thinking. “...Suigin-sama said his immune system felt weak. That it would be easier to contract something on top of what he already has.”

“What, you think he’s got a cold or something?”

“No...worse. It seems like some kind of pneumonia. He definitely has liquid in his lungs.”

“Well...what are we supposed to do about it?”

“...I have to treat it.”

“But -?”

“If I don’t, he’ll only get worse, and he might -” The word sticks in her throat. “...I can’t not do something about it. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

Kakashi heaves a heavy sigh. “...so, what? You knock him out and work on him?”

“That’s seemingly the only way.”

“...wonderful.”

The pair make their way down to the lowest manor level, lights dull and flickering. Approaching him quietly, Ryū listens, gesturing for Kakashi to do the same. To her, it’s plain as day: the wheezing, wet breaths. He must have picked something up while outside...damn it, I shouldn’t have let him get that far…!

But there’s no time for regrets now. Stepping into view, she watches him carefully. For a moment, he weaves as though dizzy before making to attack the barrier. As she thought, his strikes seem to lack the power they had before. There’s a lethargy to his form and his movements that tells he’s doing worse.

Either he’s sick on top of the plague...or the plague is getting worse.

She prays it’s just the former.

“...are you sure about this?”

“Positive. I have to, Kakashi. The more that ravages at his body, the weaker he’ll get, until…”

The Hatake sighs, head bowing with hands in his pockets. Beside him, Ryū lets her gaze fall.

...and then...they both notice something.

It’s...quiet.

Bringing her eyes back up, Ryū feels her heart still at what she sees. Palms pressed to the barrier, Obito stares at her, as per usual. And yet…

And yet…!

For a moment - just a moment - there’s something...human in his eyes. A kind of somber recognition tempered with...longing…

...is he -?

But as soon as it starts, the calm stops, and she can’t help a flinch as he resumes his attack. Her heart jumps back into action, and it’s only then she realizes the wetness along her cheeks.

Kakashi gives her a careful glance from the corner of his eye. “...Ryū…?”

Turning aside for a moment, she doesn’t reply. He...he saw her, didn’t he? Knew her! It was just for a heartbeat, but...it was there. She saw it!

“...Ryū, I -”

“I’m fine. Just...get ready in case something goes wrong.”

Watching her carefully, he then wilts with a sigh. “...all right.

Connecting the barrier’s chakra reserve to her own, Ryū begins readying to manipulate it. Keeping one hand flat against the wall, Obito’s eyes drawn to it, she carefully sneaks the other through a gap she tears in the chakra. Gripping along his side, she quickly floods his system with anesthetic chakra.

Like a puppet with his strings cut, Obito suddenly goes limp, slumping against the barrier before crumpling to the floor.

“All right...I’ll get to work. Just, um...stay nearby in case he wakes up. It should keep him out for a good while, but...better safe than sorry.”

“Right.”

Laying Obito on his back, Ryū rolls back his shirt to bare his chest, chakra glowing as she gets to work.

“...what is...that?”

Glancing up, she sees Kakashi’s gaze at Obito’s right side. “...in all honesty? I’m not sure. I haven’t ever looked too close. But if what you told me is true - about him being crushed - it might be some kind of...replacement flesh for what was affected.”

“...huh…”

“Another mystery to ask him about later,” she murmurs.

“...guess so.”

With that, they fade into a companionable silence as she tries to repair what damage she can.

Chapter three! Obito got to go for a bit of an adventure! But, oh boy...looks like his immune system isn't quite keeping up. Hopefully Ryū can get him patched up, and then finish off this disease for good!

#abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #hatake kakashi #blood //#vomit //#when dead walk [ au ]

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jackscrutchie · 8 years ago

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10 AND 44 FOR JACKCRUTCHIE HELL YEAH (Jack would totally let Crutchie stand on his toes while they dance around the room)

A shy kiss and a slow dance! <33 Take some cheese. This is literally awful, but it’s something! Thanks for the request love. I hope you enjoy it at least a little!!

There was a small dance studio on the way to Medda's theater. Most of the time when Crutchie would walk by, the curtain would be hanging low in the window -- Blocking curious and wandering eyes from the outside. Crutchie loved to peek in, gazing between the fabric of the curtains to see small glimpses of the people dancing inside. He leaned his crutch against the brick and crouched down, pressing his freckled nose to the glass.

It was the waltz again. 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3 -- They always seemed to glide so effortlessly across the floor. It was graceful, beautiful, elegant. Oh, how he envied them. To be able to do something that lovely. To be able to hypnotize someone as he'd been hypnotized by them. He could watch them for hours. He longed to see a show in a big fancy theater... A click from the door snapped him out of the daze. His breath hitched. He'd been caught.

"You!" An older woman, wire thin pointed a finger at him. "Shoo, shoo!" She hollered, flapping her hands at him.

Crutchie stumbled to his feet, grabbing his crutch. "I - Sorry, ma'am! I just --"

"No! Get out of here! You're distracting my patrons! Get!"

"Yes, ma'am!" He pulled his hat from his head and gave a quick bow. "Sorry!" He spun on his heel -- And fell. He felt the skin on his knee break, sucking in a sharp breath.

The old woman scoffed, turning her back on him. "Vermin."

"Goodness! Are you alright?" A girl's voice rang out. It was like music.

Crutchie turned his head, his face pink from embarassment and saw... A princess? The sun made her brown eyes shine. Her skin glowed. Strands of her dark hair fell into her face. She was a star. "Oh! Uh... Yeah. I'm uh --"

She pushed by the old woman and floated to Crutchie's side. She had been one of the people he'd been watching inside. "Are you sure?" She offered her hand, her sparkling eyes welled with concern.

He nodded slowly, once again hypnotized by the wonder of her. "I --" He reached for her hand, but pulled it back. His were rough and dirty. He couldn't make a princess touch his grubby hands... When was the last time he had had a bath? "I'm okay!" He smiled up at her, using his crutch to pull himself back to his feet. It was as far from graceful as you could get. His crutch wobbled under his weight. He muscles strained. "There --" He stood, and hopped to face her once more. He tilted his head up to meet her eyes and grinned. "Good as new!"

She smiled, and set her delicate hand on his shoulder. "Come watch us dance any time you'd like, darling. I'll take care of that woman."

"Charlotte!" The old woman poked her head around the corner once more. "Come!"

"Yes, madame." Charlotte grimaced, sticking her tongue out. "A man woman. I work with a mad woman."

Crutchie chuckled then bit his lip as he caught the woman's cold gaze. "Good luck, miss."

"Take care." And just like that, Charlotte spun and glided back inside. She was gone in the blink of an eye, the door slamming shut behind her.

Crutchie stood frozen for moment, stuck in the stupor Charlotte had trapped him in. Grace, elegance, beauty... Three qualities Crutchie would never possess. Qualities he couldn't even begin to dream of. He was clumsy. He only had one working leg, and despite that, two left feet. Sometimes he stuttered, sometimes he spoke without thinking. He sighed, setting the dusty hat back on his head and walked -- Slower this time, his limp a tad more pronounced. Jack would ask him what happened...

Jack! He was supposed to be at the theater by now! "Son of a --" He cursed under his breath and moved. The last thing he wanted was for Jack to worry about him -- Again. So he ran. He forgot about grace and elegance. He forgot about Charlotte. He ran until he got to the stage door -- And walked inside. He moved carefully, avoiding any pieces of set that happened to be lying about back stage and stuck his head out from behind the curtain.

The theater was empty, as it usually was when Jack painted his backdrops. The only sounds came from the lone pianist as he practiced a piece of music. It echoed off the walls of the theater, engulfing Crutchie in it's story. He wondered what the words were... He turned and --

There was Jack. In a world completely of his own, adding stroke after stroke of paint on to his canvas. There was a castle peering out from behind trees, a path leading into the woods. Flowers littered the bushes. Crutchie could almost hear the bird in the painting sing. His eyes found their way back to the artist. Jack was graceful in his own way although it may not immediately seem that way. The way his brush moves on the canvas, the way he's so gentle and delicate with not only his paintings but -- Crutchie felt his cheeks flush.

"Heya, Jack." He let himself step out from back stage. "Sorry I'm uh -- A bit late."

"Hm?" Jack tilted his head, but didn't look back. His focus still on the painting.

"Right, yeah. You're uh -- You're still in... In your head. Sorry!" He stumbled for words, almost with the rhythm of the music. He shouldn't have said anything.

"Huh?" Jack snapped out of it and turned his head, paint smeared his forehead. His hands were covered in different colors -- "Oh! Sorry, Crutchie." He smiled.

Crutchie's heart skipped a beat. His smile was elegant. "It's... It's okay! I didn't mean to interrupt or nothin'!" He gestured with his hands. Awkward.

"Don't worry about it!" He reached out his hand. "I'm glad you're here."

Crutchie moved slowly, trying to hide the extra bit of limp from his skinned up knee. "What're you paintin' today?" He let Jack wrap his arm around his waist as he reached him, his head finding Jack's shoulder without second thought. They'd been far more... Affectionate lately.

"A maaagical forest." He drew out the word and grinned. "Is it magical enough?"

"It needs more fairies. Or fireflies."

"Fairies and fireflies. Got'cha." Jack pulled him close. "But uh - Don't think I didn't notice. What happened?" He didn't look away from his painting.

"Oh." He sighed. "It wasn't anythin' serious. I just moved too quick and fell over." He knew what was coming next --

A gentle laugh. "Charlie, you clumsy thing... Be more careful." His voice was music. Just like Charlotte's had been. It was full of sincerity and full of love. Jack deserved someone graceful. Someone elegant and beautiful. Not someone like...

"Yeah, yeah." Crutchie forced a laugh and nudged him. "I can't help it! I got two left feet!"

Jack, satisfied with his reply nuzzled his cheek against the top of Crutchie's hat. "You said you was late... What kept you?"

"Jack Kelly if you get paint on my hat again, I'm going to make you regret it."

"Oh yeah? And what exactly does that entail?"

"Believe me, Kelly. You don't want to know." Crutchie turned his head slowly upwards to give Jack the most intimidating face he could muster.

"Oh, spare me! I've done nothin'!" Jack clasped at his chest, wounded.

"Don't make fun of me, you bastard!" Crutchie laughed, swinging his crutch around to smack Jack gently in the foot.

"Ah! Freddie! I'm being attacked!" Jack shouted, grabbing his knee.

Freddie, the pianist, smiled and ignored the calls for help. His music continued, drowning out Jack's cries.

"I didn't even hit you in the knee, you buffoon!"

"The hit was so powerful I think it shattered my entire leg. I'm suffering Charlie Morris. Show some mercy."

"Oh! You want mercy?" Crutchie laughed and took a step, "I don't know what that wor -" His crutch slipped from under him and he was falling again.

"Hey!" Jack lunged forward and grabbed him, putting him back to his feet. "What's the matter with you today, huh?" A smile.

"D - Damn these legs..." Crutchie chuckled. "Always makin' a mess of somethin'."

"I don't know 'bout that..." Jack pulled him close, lacing his paint stained hand with Crutchie's freckled one. "So you're a little clumsy. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. Remember that time I fell down the stairs? I ain't ever seen you fall down any stairs."

Crutchie smiled and tilted his head down. He had a point. So what if he was clumsy? It didn't make him any less... Crutchie. "Jack?" He looked up at Jack's smiling face and squeezed his hand. Bravery -- "I want..." He took a breath. "I wish I could dance."

"Dance?" Jack raised a brow. "What brought that up?"

"I was... Watching people dance at that studio down the street today and -- I want to learn how to do it." He studied his face, looking for any sign of harsh judgement. Of course, there was none. "It's so graceful and... Pretty, you know? I just wish I could be like that once."

Jack smiled, pushing hair away from Crutchie's eyes. "I ain't a real good teacher, but... Here." He gently took the crutch from the boy and set it on the ground, carefully scooting it away with his foot. "Step up."

"What?" Crutchie raised a brow, confused.

"Step on my feet."

"What... Are you talkin' 'about, Jack. I ain't steppin' on your feet." Crutchie laughed, shaking his head up at him. He was crazy. This was crazy.

"Aw, come on Charlie." He grabbed his hand and set it against his own shoulder. His right on the small of Crutchie's back. "Now.." He grabbed his other hand, holding it tight. "Step up!"

This was... A terrible idea. An awful and terrible idea. A disaster waiting to happen. But -- Crutchie knew better than to keep denying Jack of something silly like this. He would whine and whine and whine until he either got his way, found something else to whine about or fell asleep. So - Here goes nothing.

With a heavy sigh of defeat, Crutchie pulled himself onto Jack's feet - Straining a bit with his bad leg, but in the end...

"See? That ain't too bad, huh?" Jack pressed his lips softly against Crutchie's forehead.

"What are you gettin' at, Jack? Ain't no way you're goin' to -- Ah!" He clung to Jack as his feet began to move. Jack's feet carried Crutchie's in a slow dance, gliding across the floor to the music still flowing from the piano.

"See? You're dancin'!" Jack beamed down at him, moving with ease around the stage. "One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three..."

Crutchie looked down at his own feet, supported by Jack's own. He focused on Jack's voice, counting out the steps. His voice soft and sweet, blending with the song that carried in the air. He'd never felt so --

"Beautiful, huh?" Jack whispered against his hair. "You're doin' a good job."

"Don't... I ain't... You're doin' all the work." He looked up, his cheeks flushed.

"Maybe so. But you're enjoyin' it, right? It's what you wanted." Jack held him close, making sure to keep him balanced as they moved.

Crutchie bit his lip and smiled. He was right... It is what he wanted. He let himself get lost in the music once more, laying his head against Jack's chest. He let his eyes close, imagining himself dancing in front of a crowd. His leg at full health, Jack as his partner. A crowd of people smiling, being moved to tears by their performance. He imagined himself inspiring other children with disabilities. He imagined a wedding.

"Charlie?" Jack breathed out, squeezing his hand -- Their feet still moving together. "Hey."

"Hm?" Crutchie snapped out of his daze, and looked up at him. The music had stopped. "Oh. Hah.. Sorry?" He stumbled back and off of Jack's feet.

A laugh. "Don't be sorry! Ain't nothin' to be sorry for." He reached up to straighten his hat, despite it not needing to be fixed. It was something he did a lot. Crutchie recognized it now as a nervous habit... A bit of his shyness showing through. "Freddie left a few minutes ago but -- You looked so..."

"I was." Crutchie smiled. It lit up the room.

"Ah.. Good." He reached behind himself, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I thought you might... Like that."

Crutchie nodded, stretching his fingers out by his sides. His own shyness. "It was... Good."

That's when he realized. He had elegance. Elegance in his energy. Elegance in his smile and in even in his clumsiness. Just as Jack had his awkwardness -- In his nervous ticks, in his jumbled flirting. They loved each other as they were. Love.

"Jack you..." Crutchie laughed a little under his breath, "how do you... Always know what to do? Or what to say?" He wrapped his arms around Jack's center, nuzzling his freckled nose into the fabric of his shirt. "You --" He flushed, chewing on his lip once more. "If you want..." He tilted his head up, his eyes lingering on Jack's lips for a fleeting moment.

"Hah..." Jack's own face flushed, his lips curling into one of his signature grins. "Don't uh - Mind if I do." Jack leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. It was slow. Graceful. Down to his nose. It was sweet. Elegant. Finally their lips pressed together, full and passionate. Beauty.

#newsies #jackcrutchie #jack kelly #crutchie #hiccup writes

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