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divineluce · 4 years ago

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Nothing Left to Lose || Nadia & Luce

Timing: Late March 22nd, 2020

Location: The Vural House

Tagging: @humanmoodring & @divineluce

Description: Luce opens up to Nadia.

TW: Sibling death mentions

Letting out a long sigh, Luce stared down at her latest sketch, her fingertips blackened with charcoal dust. It was shit. She knew it was shit. Her heart wasn’t in it, she was drawing like she was going through the motions. Because she was. Grabbing the nub of charcoal she’d been using, Luce scribbled over the forest scene she’d been drawing and began to aimlessly draw. A circle, an oval, and then more lines appeared without her even thinking of it. Before she realized just what she was drawing, the image materialized before her-- Luce sucked in a harsh breath as she stared down at a ruined, melting eye staring up at her from a burning skull. Lydia. Always Lydia. She pressed her palm against the paper, willing the fire to come. She wanted to let the anger wash over her in the comforting way it always had, she wanted to watch the flames rise from her fingertips and spread across the paper. But nothing came. Not even a smoldering ember rose. And the ruined eye stared back at her.

The charm around her wrist buzzed and Luce flinched, heart practically jumping out of her skin. Her hand instinctively closed around one of the paper cutting knives on her desk, before her eyes darted to her phone. Shit, already? She’d lost track of time. Setting the knife back down, Luce flipped the paper over on her desk before heading to the front door, waving her hand over the charmed bracelet that Bea had given her long ago. Taki was sleeping in the middle of the hallway and she stepped over the large Ovenik before opening the door. That was when she realized that she’d opened it before Nadia even had a chance to knock. “Uh. Hey. I heard you coming up the driveway.” She lied. There were just some things that people didn’t need to know, and the protection spells around the house were one of those.

It was weird getting around without a cast on, but it made driving a stick shift way easier, so Nadia couldn’t complain. Her side still hurt like a bitch, and she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep, but she no longer looked like one of the walking dead. Slowly but surely, she was healing. At least physically. She’d been running late on her way to Luce’s and had forgotten that she was, well, solid. Walking into the doorframe had hurt her pride more than her face, really, and she was just grateful that no one had actually witnessed her mistake except for one very judgemental cat. She headed to Luce’s before she could fuck up and run into anything again. The jump out of her truck reminded her why she didn’t jump much anymore, and she was covering up a wince as she walked to the door. One that was immediately hidden by the slight look of surprise as Luce opened the door. It was so nice to feel emotions again, to not feel alone, even if they were of the more negative variety. “Hey,” Nadia said. Luce felt like residual anger and surprise, and something extra. She was lying. What a strange thing to lie about. Nadia wasn’t one to ask, to pry, as she tried to force her focus inward. She knew Luce was there, could feel another person’s feelings so that her own weren’t cavernously bouncing about in her skull. That was enough. “You said you wanted to… talk, right?”

Luce took the other woman in, eyes flitting from her cast free arm to the bags under her eyes, the slightly drawn lines of her face. Nadia looked like she’d been through hell. Because she had been, Luce reminded herself. Nadia had been shoved from her body for… so fucking long, and she had no idea how much something like that would fuck up a person. The fact Nadia was even standing-- Luce did her best to quell the fresh pangs of guilt that hit her. Nope. No, she was here to explain herself and the baggage she’d carried with her the nights they’d spent together before everything had gone to shit and that bitch Cordelia had taken control. She wasn’t here to add more to Nadia’s plate. She owed Nadia an explanation. Just like she’d owed Remmy one. But, she hadn’t been able to explain things to them, had she? Not in any real kind of way. Not in the way that mattered. Realizing that she was still staring at Nadia, Luce’s default lazy grin slipped across her face. But, it didn’t come as easy as it once had. “Yeah, come on in. Watch out for the cat.” She said, opening the door and stepping over Taki. “He’s napping and if you step on his tail,” Luce gestured with her hand and made a “poof” sound, “He’ll light you up. He melted a lot of my sneakers when I was younger.” Luce headed into the kitchen-- it had been Bea’s space, before she’d left for New York. Their home was divided like that, into designated areas that belonged to each of them. Nell with her greenhouse, Bea with the kitchen, and her with… well, she had her shed. But she’d deferred the outdoors to Nell. And Bea wasn’t here to use it so, kitchen it was. “Want something to drink?”

Nadia knew that Luce was holding something back, that something was weighing on her. Something was always weighing on the other woman, really. She’d figured that out pretty quick. But Nadia was a coward about things like this, always afraid to talk about things that couldn’t be easily controlled, so she always went along with what Luce said as opposed to what she felt. It was easier that way. If they didn’t talk about it, there was less of a chance that Nadia would have to hear something that she didn’t want to, like ‘This isn’t working’ or ‘We shouldn’t hang out’ or ‘You’re impossibly clinging and your concern isn’t needed.’ Can’t be clinging if you do your damnedest to not show that you were attached, Nadia had taught herself that years ago. She had trouble with it, sometimes-- most times-- but it was still a lesson she knew. She returned Luce’s smile as well as she could before looking at the large cat sleeping near the doorway. “Fucking Christ,” she muttered. The cat made Rhiannon, who was pretty fucking big, look like a damn kitten. “Right, shit, okay.” She moved around the cat carefully; she didn’t have a better pair of boots right now. She followed Luce into the kitchen, looking around a bit at the house that three witch sisters had made their home. She looked back at Luce, curious but trying not to let it show. The other woman had asked her out there to talk, but she was stalling. Nadia wasn’t going to stop her. “Sure, I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.”

Grabbing a pair of glasses from the cupboard, Luce filled them up before sliding one across the clean white countertop to Nadia. She wanted to break out a glass of whiskey, honestly, but that… probably wasn’t the right tone to set with things. Nope. No, she just had to… get this shit off her chest. Because Nadia deserved answers, even if she hadn’t questioned why Luce carried so much emotional baggage. “So, uh,” She leaned against the kitchen island, hands wrapped around the glass. She stared at the water, imagining it bubble and froth under her fingers. But, it remained just as cool as ever. Fuck. “I know you’ve been through a lot of shit. And I just wanted to be straight with you about some stuff.” Be straight. What a fucking phrase. A hint of a grin played on Luce’s lips at her word choice, but she forced herself to focus. “So. Like you know, I didn’t realize you were empath when we first started hooking up. And I definitely brought a lot of fucked up emotional baggage into things because,” Luce rubbed the back of her neck, the velvet of her choker pressing against the palm of her skin, “I was going through a lot of shit. And I figured you deserved answers.”

Taking a deep breath, Luce steadied herself. Rip the bandaid, come clean. Explain. In a flat voice, she said, “Someone murdered my sister. And that fucked me up a lot. And I did a lot of really fucked up things to try and feel better about it. I used you. I used someone else I... really cared about.” She said, regret and guilt fresh in her mind at the way she’d treated Remmy. Swallowing, Luce nodded, “I just wanted to say I was sorry. For making you deal with my baggage. I didn’t realize you could feel how much I was hurting and it wasn’t-- I shouldn’t have done that.”

Nadia took a drink of water, waiting for Luce to start. But, when Luce mentioned not knowing that Nadia was an empath, she frowned. “Hey, of course you didn’t-- I didn’t tell you that I was an empath, right? How could you have known? It’s not like I carry around a sign that says ‘Control your emotions around me, please.’” She fidgeted a bit with the cup in her hand before running a hand through her hair, shaking her head. “I’m the one who should-- I should apologize, you know? Because I should’ve told you, and it’s not fair that I just know this shit. I try to turn it off. It’s not fair that I can pry into things.” She didn’t expect Luce to dive right into her sister getting fucking murdered. Nadia was flashed back to the overwhelming grief that she remembered Luce giving off, the incredible pain that the other woman had been in. “What?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your sister-- But they’re both-- How is that--” She blinked harshly. Again, grief. Grief and regret and guilt so thick that she didn’t just feel it but tasted it, too. Was she feeling herself or Luce? Did it matter? Nadia closed her eyes for a second and shook her head. “You don’t have to apologize. You don’t. You didn’t know, and you can’t just stop feeling things. That’s not how it works. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“Still. Even if you weren’t an empath, just… using people like that, it wasn’t okay.” Luce said, thinking back to the nights she’d spent with Remmy, knowing full well how much they cared for her only for her to ignore it. And when she’d finally realized how much they mattered to her, she’d lost them. “You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She said, shaking her head. Nadia had agreed to something casual-- just sex, just something physical. But Luce had been the one to bring her own fucked up feelings into things, not knowing that she wasn’t the only one stuck carrying the weight of them. “Even if you can turn it off, it still wasn’t right of me to do that.”

Luce had anticipated questions, but they hit harder than she’d expected. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d told someone what had happened, what she’d lost. What all three of them had lost, not just with Bea’s death but in the price that came with bringing her back. Lifting her hands to her neck, Luce unclasped her choker. The raised scar that ran along the left side of her neck stood out harsh and jagged under the warm glow of the kitchen lights. “We brought her back. But it cost… a lot.” It’d cost lives. She’d killed. And she’d kept on killing, fuelled by that rage and hate and belief that if she killed people before they could hurt her, then she could be safe. But it hadn’t kept Nell safe, not for very long. It had created an irreparable divide between her and Remmy. And fuck, she didn’t want to lose Nadia too. Which was a… wild thought. “I just wanted to explain. Because you deserve an explanation for what you’d felt. And to let you know that I’m not exactly the person I was before you… were forced out.” She said, the words feeling inadequate compared to just how much the other woman had suffered.

Nadia sighed. “No, it’s not, but the fact that you’re acknowledging that makes it better than half the shit that some people pull.” And it wasn’t like Luce was the only person to ever use others. Fuck, Nadia did it all the time when she was younger, when she needed to get out of her own head and just not feel something. There’s nothing better at helping you push your own feelings to the side than using somewhere else’s. Even if it left you feeling like shit the next morning. Nadia knew about that all too well. “I still should have told you when I found out. It wasn’t fair, not letting you know what you were getting into with someone that kind of knows what you’re feeling.” Nadia knew that Luce was in on the supernatural shit. She should have told her. But then, Luce probably wouldn’t have wanted to be around her, and, damn, she really didn’t like the sound of that. Especially since she couldn’t really turn it off, as much as she tried.

The scar on Luce’s neck made Nadia ache, like secondhand pain to go with secondhand feelings. She reached out and then dropped her hand to the side, jaw clenched. “Fuck,” she whispered. “You-- that could have killed you. You could have almost died.” She felt heavy, heavy and panicked. What the hell would she have done if Luce died? Would she even have known? She was out of her depths here, wasn’t she? In this world full of magic and ghosts and near death experiences lurking around every fucking corner. What the hell could she do? She didn’t know anything? “I’m-- Fuck. I’m glad she’s back. I’m really glad she’s back. You deserve to have your sister, but you could have-- God. You could have died.” She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t deserve an explanation just because I could feel your emotions. Anyone with eyes could tell that you weren’t doing okay. If you tell me anything, it should be because you want to.” She looked at Luce, finally. “I’m not the same person, either.” She wasn’t the same person after the first time she’d been possessed, and then she’d been ripped out of her body, and now she was put back together, but was she really? She’d never be the same. None of them were ever the same.

Luce wasn’t sure if admitting to her fuck ups out of guilt made her better than anyone-- if she was any kind of good person, she wouldn’t have used Nadia and Remmy like that. If she was a good person, she wouldn’t have fucked with their feelings; literally, in Nadia’s case. Shrugging, she shook her head. “Nah. You’re entitled to keep your secrets. I know what it’s like, sort of.” She said, gesturing to herself. “Witch, remember?” Luce said, a slight hint of a sarcastic smile playing at the edge of her lips.

But, it vanished when she saw the expression on Nadia’s face, watched her fingers lift for a moment. Luce swallowed, eyes focusing on the marble of the countertop. The fractal scars that ran across her chest, marking where the lightning had flowed through her veins, they ached at the memory of that night. She pressed a hand against her collar bone, more to remind herself that her heart was still beating than anything else. “It’s alright.” It wasn’t alright. “I’m okay.” She wasn’t okay. As Nadia continued to speak, Luce blinked, surprised and startled by the other woman’s shaky tone. “I could have, but I didn’t. We did what we needed to do and I don’t regret that.” She said. And if there was some part of her that wondered if maybe she should have died, if the pain and death she’d brought into the world would have been stopped, she did her best to push those thoughts aside. She didn’t want Nadia to feel those. She didn’t even want to feel those. “I do. Want to tell you these things. Not just because you deserve answers, but,” Luce paused and shook her head, letting out a sigh as she did so. “I don’t know. I just wanted to tell you. I’ve fucked up a lot by not talking about things.” At the other woman’s admission, Luce glanced over at Nadia and saw she was looking back at her, their eyes meeting for a moment. “And that’s alright. I can't imagine someone going through that and just… popping out as the same person they used to be.”

“Exactly, you’re entitled to your secrets, too,” Nadia said. She gave Luce a slight smile. “It’s not a competition, and you can’t blame yourself for whatever I felt coming off of you. You’re allowed to feel things, even bad things, around me.” She didn’t quite know how to do this, talk about this. It was out of her comfort zone. Anything to do with her own feelings was out of Nadia’s comfort zone, and this whole situation wasn’t helping that. Luce had almost died. She’d almost died, and Nadia had almost died-- had technically been dead-- and everything was fucked, wasn’t it? Luce had almost died. That was kind of a big hang up for Nadia, at the moment. She swallowed tightly as Luce said she was okay, and Nadia wanted to contradict her, but she just wasn’t good at that, not here, not like this. “I’m glad you did what you had to, and I’m glad you saved your sister, and I’m, like, really, really glad you didn’t die.” And maybe if she wished that it could’ve gone any other way, if she wished that Luce hadn’t been hurt in the process, then the fact that she was just relieved that Luce was alive could maybe make up for it. “I want you to know that you can tell me things,” Nadia said quietly. And I want to tell you things, too, but I’m so fucking bad at it unless I just blurt it out and have to deal with the consequences. “You can tell me things.” She raised an eyebrow at the other woman. “And you lost your sister, almost died, and resurrected someone. I can’t imagine someone going through all of that and still being the same. It’s okay not to be.”

At Nadia’s words, Luce glanced down at the choker on the counter, the dark black fabric standing in stark contrast with the white countertop. Maybe she was allowed to feel like shit around Nadia, but that didn’t mean she should subject the other woman to her own baggage like that. Listening to the way Nadia’s voice quieted, the concern in her tone, Luce couldn’t help but reach out and gently squeeze the other woman’s hand with her own. Talking sucked, she’d never been good at it. But, if she could… reassure Nadia that she was still here, still standing, she wanted to do that. Rubbing her thumb against the back of the woman’s hand, Luce’s lips pressed together in a thin line as she weighed all the things she wanted to say. I’ve hurt people. I’ve killed them. I liked it. Until I didn’t, only because I lost someone I cared about because of the pain I’ve caused. She didn’t want to put that on Nadia, but… this was like Remmy all over again, wasn’t it? She hadn’t wanted to tell them anything going on in her mind, she’d hidden behind the flimsy excuse that they didn’t deserve more baggage in their life. But Remmy had wanted to know. And Nadia did too. “I’ve done some pretty fucked up things. I’ve hurt a lot of people. Done… worse than hurt them too. And I’m trying to be better than that,” She said, “But a part of me doesn’t regret what I did and I’m trying… to figure out what that means.” Luce eased her grasp on Nadia’s hand, enough that the woman could slip away if she wanted to. She could leave, if she wanted to.

Nadia couldn’t stop herself from squeezing Luce’s hand back. It was almost stupid how comforting holding someone’s hand could be, especially when it was warm. They just stood there, just for a moment, and the silence was deafening. Nadia could hear Luce. Not really; it wasn’t like she was speaking loudly, and it was quiet, whispered in the back of her head and dripping emotion like a faucet that someone forgot to shut off all the way. She got those, sometimes, words that weren’t hers and weren’t really words at all but spoken connections to the things she felt around her. She didn’t like to think about it; if it was what she thought, then it was another level of prying she didn’t want to consider. So she drowned it out. Truthfully, her thoughts were so loud these days that it wasn’t hard. And it was a lot easier when Luce spoke out loud again. Fucked up things. Fucked up things like killing people, maybe. Nadia took a deep breath and nodded her head a bit.

Where did Nadia draw the line, these days, when it came to fucked up things? Before, she’d been pretty pacifistic. There was always another answer besides murder, hadn’t she told someone that? Death was something that should be avoided. But then she’d settled in here, and she’d been totally unsettled from her life, and now she-- she was responsible for someone’s permanent removal from, well, everything. Cordelia was a shit person, but did she deserve that? Yes. Nadia wanted it. She had to deal with that every night. She removed her hand from Luce’s and moved it to the other woman’s neck instead, her hand lightly ghosting over the scar tissue. “Why did you do it?” she asked. “These fucked up things? Did you have a reason, or was it-- was it just to do it. Because I think there’s a difference.”

The sensation of Nadia’s skin against her own, her hand squeezing softly, it reminded Luce of the last time they’d spoken. But, the touches then had been cautious, tender gestures hidden behind a guise of helping Nadia with her wound. This? Now? It was… different. Real. And that was fucking scary. When the other woman pulled away, Luce swallowed, a lump forming in the back of her throat. She didn’t want to know. She’d chosen to-- but then, Nadia’s fingers were reaching out to skim across the skin of her neck. She could barely feel the sensation, but Luce let her do it all the same. No one had touched the scar that wrapped around her neck, no one. At Nadia’s question, Luce paused. “The first time was because… he stole my sister from me. He destroyed my family and we-- I had the chance to bring her back. And all it would cost me was the man who’d taken her. The second time was-- revenge. Bea wanted it, Nell wanted it, I wanted it too. We were all just so… angry.” Luce cleared her throat, shaking her head free of the memories of that night, when the Hunter had become the hunted. “The next time, I was scared. Scared of losing my sisters after I’d done so much to bring them back. I wanted to protect them.”

Luce paused, bridging her hands together and resting her chin on her hands. “And the last time. I don’t-- I want to say I was protecting people. I want to say that I was doing something right. Because she was a horrible person. She’d kept people trapped in a basement, she was using people, had been using people for so… so long. But I didn’t know that until after. I just knew she was dangerous and when someone,” Some kid, “convinced me that she was too dangerous to live. And I let myself believe them. I let them use me.” Luce bowed her head, forehead pressed against her hands now. “I don’t know if there’s a difference to those things.” It doesn’t change what I’ve done.

Nadia felt Luce’s turbulent emotions give way as she brushed her fingers over the scar before she moved her hand to rest against the other woman’s shoulder. She felt stable, grounded. She nodded her head. “I can understand the first time. That was-- It was a trade, his life for hers, right? And that kind of makes it worth it, if you can get something good from doing something like that.” She closed her eyes tightly. “And revenge, I-- I get revenge. Maybe not like that, but I get revenge.” Satisfaction over watching Cordelia fade, so potent that it drowned out any pain that she’d felt. It was pretty fucking powerful stuff because, Christ, Nadia had been in so much pain. “Fear, too.” As the conversation went on, it was getting harder for her to tell where her emotions stopped and Luce’s started, and she had to work on that, had to figure out whose anger was whose and whose satisfaction and whose guilt and whose pain, like untangling a ball of yarn that had been knotted over time. She needed to socialize more. This probably wouldn’t be so goddamn intense if she learned to control it better.

Opening her eyes to see that Luce had her head in her hands, Nadia gently tugged on the other woman’s chin. “Hey,” she said, her voice just as gentle. “She was a horrible person.” She knew that Luce believed this, could feel it. “And maybe that’s not an excuse for her to die, but I believe you when you say that she was a horrible person. And, like, the fucking guilt is kind of eating at you,” she said. “It’s not like you killed her and then decided not to think about it ever again. You don’t seem to be taking joy in it.” Nadia came to grinning. She stood in the middle of a convenient store looking down, something like pleasure and joy working it’s way through her system. There was a young man behind a cash register. He was dead. Nadia didn’t even have time to scream before she lost control again. She swallowed. This wasn’t about her. “I think there’s a difference.”

Feeling the way Nadia’s fingertips trailed from her neck one last time to press against her shoulder, it took everything in Luce not to lean into the touch. She didn’t want to put more of this on Nadia than she needed to, she didn’t want to test how much more the other woman could bear. And she wanted to be able to handle the rejection, the disgust and the fear that would come. But… it didn’t. Not in the way that Luce had thought. Nadia… understood? Maybe not on every level, but she could understand to a degree why Luce had done these things, why she’d killed. That was far more than Luce had expected.

Letting Nadia tilt her head up, Luce looked back up at her for a moment before averting her eyes. Luce wanted to protest, but then she heard the next words. The guilt was… fucking destroying her. She’d been-- for lack of a better word-- haunted by what she’d done that day. She still remembered the way that Lydia had begged for her life, she could still feel the spear in her hand as it pierced through flesh and bone. She still saw the blue flames consume the woman’s flesh when she closed her eyes. “Maybe not now. But I did, at one point.” She said, memories of tormenting Montgomery, making him writhe and burn on the ground. “And I’m not… I don’t want to be like that. Which is why I figured-- that I should tell you. Because this shit, my… issues, they’re fucked up.” I’m fucked up, was what she wanted to say, but that felt real fucking dramatic. “I’m... trying to figure out where the line in the sand is again. It’s just hard when you’ve crossed it so many times.”

“Now’s kind of what matters, Luce,” Nadia said, letting her eyes fall closed with the other woman’s. She didn’t move her hand, not wanting to pull away unless Luce pushed her. It felt grounding to just touch someone. She rarely felt this present, anymore. Sometimes, Rhiannon would jump on her chest and scare the hell out of her because she’s just been laying there, feeling like she was about to fall through the bed. This was real, this was tangible. “Now is what we live in. Before sucks. And, yeah, okay, you enjoyed it. You don’t still enjoy it. We would both still know if you enjoyed it.” For all of Nadia’s talk about living in the now, in the present, she… wasn’t very good at taking her own advice. But, then again, Nadia had never really taken her own advice. She knew a fucking ton about other people, but when it came to her own shit, she’d never quite figured out how to work through her own problems. But that wouldn’t stop her from trying to help Luce, everything else be damned.

With a nod, Nadia said, “I’m glad you told me. I’m-- you can tell me whatever, okay? Seriously, anything. I’m not going anywhere.” I couldn’t stand to lose you. I’d like to be around you in any way that I can. Thinking about you aches but in a good way. “I, uh, yeah. Yeah, I totally get fucked up shit. Maybe not in the same way, but I fucking get it.” She sighed. “Nothing’s simple, not really. I used to think that everything was super black and white, but, fuck, that was years ago, actual years ago.” Back when she was frustrated by everything and felt like every lie she was ever told, every lie that she knew was a lie, was a slight against her. Back when she thought that justice was real and ghosts weren’t, when fairytales were just fascinating stories and the only thing that could hurt her was cruel actions and crueller words. “Then you find where you want to put your line, what you will or won’t do, and, if you cross it, figure out why before the guilt kills you.”

When Nadia’s hand remained where it was, Luce reached up and pressed her hand against the others, threading their fingers gently together. She wanted her to stay. She didn’t deserve it, didn’t think Nadia should have to deal with her shit. But that mentality-- among all the other mistakes she’d made-- was part of what had cost her Remmy. And she didn’t want to lose Nadia too. “Yeah. Now’s what matters.” Luce echoed. The past was… going to stay with her. The knowledge of just how far she would go, of how terrible she could be? That knowledge was a burden that she would carry for the rest of her life. And maybe she could atone for it. Maybe she could be more than the sum of her parts. She hoped that she could.

Luce lowered their intertwined hands to the counter, squeezing lightly as the woman spoke. “Thanks. And that goes for you too. Shit. I’ve been… I know I said I wanted to talk, but I didn’t… You’ve been through so much too. You can talk to me about it. I’ll be here.” She said with a nod. She’d be here, as long as Nadia wanted her. She still couldn’t help but wonder if she could have helped Nadia escape sooner if she hadn’t been such a fucking coward. And a part of her knew she’d never shake that thought. But, she wanted to be there for Nadia now. While she could. While they were both here. “Yeah. It’d be nice if things were like that.” She sighed, looking down at the black trails of ink under her skin, all neat lines and crisp edges. All of her art was black and white, clear cut and straight forward, while the world around her operated in shades of grey. “Mhm.” She nodded before glancing back up at Nadia. “I…” I’m sorry. I wish I could have saved you. I don’t want to lose you again. I’ve never known how to tell people the things I’ve said to you and that’s scary. I’m so fucking scared of you and for you and of what that means. Her eyes flicked to the clock and she let out a soft curse in Turkish. Time had gotten away from her. It’d been doing that, lately. “It’s, it’s kinda late to be driving. Did you-- you can stay, if you want.” Please still want to. Please still want me.

It would never stop being comforting, Nadia thought, the warmth of Luce’s hand in hers. And maybe it was just that she was fucking touch starved, that she was desperate for any sort of contact. But she didn’t really think that was the case. She liked Luce, way more than she should, way more than felt safe, sometimes, seeing as where they’d started, the boundaries put in place. Because Nadia was an idiot with things like this. She’d allowed this… whatever it was to keep going, and she’d genuinely started caring about Luce, and now she couldn’t stop. It was one of those big fears, up there losing herself again. She was scared of coming off as clingy, had been called that one too many times before, didn’t want to go through that again. But she couldn’t really help it as she rubbed her thumb against Luce’s hands. She craved warmth like a cat seeking out a patch of sunlight. She knew this. It was damning.

“I know,” Nadia said, giving Luce a sad smile. “I swear, as soon as I figure out what the hell to even talk about, I’ll tell you, if you want, okay?” Because where the hell to even begin about all of this, right? Hey, so, I’m not really sleeping, which is saying something because I didn’t sleep much before, but I’m so goddamn tired, and I still feel like she’s there, hanging out in the back of my head even though I watched them destroy her, and I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what I did, and my guilt’s killing me, too, you just can’t feel it like I feel yours. That was a lot to unpack. That was a lot to say. Nadia didn’t know how to get those words. “God, I’d love for something to be simple,” she murmured, more to herself than to Luce. She was startled a bit by Luce bringing up the time, looking out the window and seeing that it was late. Which, yeah, she could drive back. She was a big girl. So she said, “I want, yeah, actually. I’d, uh, really like that.”

The way Nadia looked at her, the way her hand pressed against her own-- Luce swallowed, trying to keep her emotions in check. But, that expression on her face… hurt. Nadia had been through so much. She’d been through so much in the last year alone, not to mention everything in her past. She’d been possessed, exorcised, possessed, exorcised-- that kind of trauma, it couldn’t be easy to deal with. It was a burden that Luce couldn’t fathom. In the same way she could never understand what Remmy had lost, what Bea had lost; there were so many things that she couldn’t understand. But she wanted to try. She wanted to try and-- help. For once in her life, she wanted to do something good for someone other than herself. She wanted to be someone the people around her deserved. A good sister. A good person. A good… whatever she was to Nadia. “I’ll always listen.” She said with a nod before tugging Nadia’s hand. “Yeah, yeah. Sounds good. C’mon.” She said and tugged gently at Nadia’s hand, leading her back to her room.

After they’d settled down in bed, Luce pushed back a lock of Nadia’s hair from her face, eyes cautious even as she stared at the other woman. Words, unspoken, remained in the back of her mind. I’m glad you’re here. I wish I could have done more. I wanted to be there for you, I want to be here for you now. I want to be someone you can rely on. Someone worthy of… anything. Of you. Of this. Those were all the things she wanted to say. Instead, Luce offered a crooked smile. Ignoring the way her heart seemed to stutter-step in her chest, she leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss against Nadia’s temple. “Night.”

#p: nltl #p: nadia diaz #chatzy #wickedswriting #//luce? opening up? in my chatzy? Its more likely than you'd expect

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bakingbad2020 · 4 years ago

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Failing at Chocolate Chip Cookies

I am bad at baking things.

Let’s iron something out. I am not a baker. I am a scientist. My hobbies include drawing, painting, and yelling at a sewing machine (more commonly known as sewing). Baking is not on the list. I don’t bake. That’s little sister’s job. She’s baked cakes, cookies, brownies, the works. She’s even made macarons. Yeah, the little French things. It’s all hella good. She wants to be a baker when she grows up, and coming from a family of scientists and engineers, how could we disagree?

So what am I doing here? Quarantine happened and mother gave me a jar of sourdough starter. One thing led to another and I gave into peer pressure. For clarity, this is not my first attempt at baking, but it was bad enough that I decided to make a blog about it, and everyone I asked told me to do it. So what was I supposed to do, really? I had to make a blog.

Three little words. Chocolate Chip Cookies. Those words alone make almost anyone’s mouth water. I’ve been craving them for like, three weeks, ever since a professor brought up cookies in Soil’s class (We were talking about clays. Yes it makes sense). So I found a recipe, off that little dinner spinner app by AllRecipes, by someone who goes by Dora. It has 4 and 1/2 stars out of 5, and that’s after 12848 reviews. Seriously, it can’t be bad right? The recipe runs as follows:

BEST CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

1 cup butter, sofened

1 cup white sugar

1 cup packed brown sugar

2 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract (okay, I put like a tablespoon)

1 teaspoon baking soda

2 teaspoons hot water

1/2 teaspoon salt

3 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups semisweet chocolate chips

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F

Cream together butter, white sugar, and brown sugar until smooth. Beat in the eggs one at a time, then stir in vanilla. Add baking soda and salt. Stir in flour and chocolate chips. Drop by large spoonfuls onto pans.

Bake for about 10 minutes in the oven, or until edges are nicely browned.

I did that. Sure I left out the nuts, and added a little (okay a lot) more vanilla. But I followed the recipe. And yeah, well...

The batter was dry. It’s probably my fault because I honestly don’t think about how to put flour into the measuring cups, so it was kinda packed in. It was dryyyyyyy. But I thought maybe it was okay so I baked them anyway.

Actually, they don’t look so bad in that picture. But trust me. They’re hard. Not hard to make, but physically hard, like chocolate chip cement. No, it does not help that I burned them somewhat. I messed up chocolate chip cookies. It’s kind of incredible. Fortunately, I had enough wits about me to think that maybe I shouldn’t plop all the batter down at once and to only make one pan of cookies. I had a bit left over, so I panic-texted little sister:

It certainly moistened the batter a bit, so I went for round 2. The result:

Not too bad, but a bit small. All of the confidence I had at the beginning was deflated, leaving nothing but tiny cookies. I have yet to taste them. I do have batter left rolled up into a log and chillin in the fridge. At least I have another shot.

Of course I had to update little sister on the situation:

You gotta love how supportive family is.

Update: I broke my fast this morning at 7:45 with, that’s right, you guessed it, the cookies. I woke up thinking about them and I figured, if nothing else, I should at least see how bad they were with the hopes of learning from my mistakes. That’s what a good scientist would do, after all. So I got up, showered, and managed to make my way down the stairs without tripping over either of the cats to THE COOKIES.

I tried round 2 first, and I have to say, they’re really not that bad. They are very cakey, but that also seemed to be the point of the initial recipe. I mean, it may have also had something to do with the fact that I put too much flour, but that’s also beside the point. The thing about these cookies that stood out to me was the batter to chocolate chip ratio. For me, the point of the batter is to cement the chocolate chips together, the way a sandstone might cement a conglomerate together. That’s what these did. The chocolate to cookie ratio was perfect. For a cookie that was maybe and inch and a half to two inches in diameter, there were probably 30 chocolate chips. Okay, I exaggerate. Probably like 15, though. It was a mouthful of chocolate chips glued together by sugar paste. Perfect.

After tasting round two, I of course had to give round 1 a shot. I made myself a cup of coffee and afterwards sat down to taste the little monstrosities. Alone, these cookies are hard as rocks. The chocolate chips towards the bottom are rather chard, and honestly more like chocolate flavored charcoal. But after dunking them in the coffee, they softened up immensely and actually tasted good. At least they won’t go to waste now.

So lesson learned. Next time I need to lovingly spoon the flour into the measuring cup before carefully leveling it off with a knife, a process which seems dreadfully monotonous to me. This is why I can never bake French things.

On side note, I made a real breakfast this morning and managed to burn both the bacon and the toast. That’s right. I’m amazing.

#Baking fail #baking #failure #chocolate chip cookies #burned cookies #crunchy #can i really be that bad?

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laurelsofhighever · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 45/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Chapter Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Fereldan Civil War AU, Romance, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort

Chapter Summary: Something’s happened to Rosslyn.

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The dog lay with his head in Alistair’s lap, boneless from the sedative the horsemaster had given him, with only the occasional twitch of an eye as a broad hand passed soothing strokes over his ears. His wound had been treated with charcoal and merrybud oil to draw out the poison, and more oil had been rubbed along his gums so that the rich blood supply there might also be purged. Amell, the healer who had tended both Alistair and Teagan after West Roth and had travelled from South Reach with Rosslyn’s house guard, had offered hope that Cuno would recover, had murmured that if he had been smaller, or slightly longer away from medicine, the outcome might have been different. She had left only moments ago, with an apology that she couldn’t do more – venom was tricky for magical healing, because of the way it acted on the blood, she said. That left only Alistair under the canvas roof of the picket lines, curled up in enough straw that he hardly felt the cold, with one leg numb and his mind far enough away that he barely noticed anyway.

Rosslyn looked harder, sterner than he remembered, dressed formally in embroidered split skirts that matched the elegance of court attire with the practicality needed for the field, with cavalry boots and riding breeches underneath that clung to the shape of her legs. He shouldn’t have noticed. She had barely glanced at him, and when she had, the set of her eyes in her summer-tanned skin had retained all the snap of winter, the aloof cold that had set them so far apart at Aeylesbide, that spoke of worse things than mere offended pride, and that was, at least this time, entirely all his fault.

No, he reminded himself. Not mine. Eamon’s. He had thought himself angry when he confronted the arl in Orzammar, but having seen Rosslyn’s pain with his own eyes, the way she stood out of reach and contracted in around herself as if his very touch might burn, the urge to inflict that same pain on Eamon had curled tight in his fist and surged through his veins.

“At least she had you,” he muttered to the dog, and chuckled. “Although you certainly picked your time to be dramatic. I was this close to telling her everything.”

Cuno slumbered on, oblivious. His nose twitched.

Alistair smiled, his fingers idling in the loose folds of the dog’s ruff. “I can’t let it be like last time,” he confessed. “And I can’t lose her. I can’t –”

A rising tide of noise outside distracted the line of his thoughts. At first he thought the commotion must be some disagreement or excitement among the ranks, but as he listened, he recognised a tinge of alarm in the shouts, and a whisper of dread breathed across the back of his neck.

“No…”

Carefully settling the dog in the straw, and glad he hadn’t been given a chance to remove his sword, he emerged from the lines and set off towards the source of the noise. Others had been roused, too, but he ignored them. The grip on his sword hilt tightened. His pace quickened, until a distant, panicked shout broke him into a run, heart pounding, and he skidded to a stop in front of Rosslyn’s pavilion. The place blazed with light, the entryway thrown open with soldiers prowling about its insides like hounds casting for a scent.

“Your Highness!” one of the guards cried when he was spotted.

“What happened?”

The woman, one of Rosslyn’s house guard, shifted on her feet. “Her Ladyship’s gone, Ser. Someone cut through the back of the tent wall. Looks like there was a canny right ding-dong, but they took her.”

“Where were the guards?” he snapped, already storming through to eye the evidence for himself.

“Drugged, Ser. We’ve put out the word – nobody leaves the bounds of the camp until Her Ladyship is found.”

Alistair had stopped listening. Panic rode high in his throat but he squashed the sick coil of his gut and forced his mind to focus. The back wall of the pavilion sliced; bedclothes scattered over the floor, in a trail towards Talon. The sword lay on the floor next to its stand, half out of its scabbard, as if someone had lunged for it and been interrupted.

And then he spotted a gleam of something underneath the food of a blanket, and his heart stuttered. His dagger, the one he had given her, discarded in the middle of the fight with a congealing line of scarlet along one edge of the blade. Beneath the surge of hope it gave him to see she had kept it, his ears rang, and bile crawled up his throat.

No. No no no no no…

He grabbed a torch and strode into the dark, following the trail of blood.

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

“If you scream, I’ll cut that pretty throat of yours,” the assassin promised, in an accent delicate but unmistakably Orlesian.

Rosslyn snarled. “Why haven’t you already? unless you’ve realised that I’m your only insurance for getting out of here alive.” The words were slurred, a match to the unresponsive drag of her limbs, and the sweet taste in her mouth that remained from whatever paralytic powder her attacker had blown in her face.

Around them, the camp buzzed like a nest of kicked ants, bristling with stings and shouts, and yet somehow the small, slight woman at Rosslyn’s back was managing to stay out of sight, her arms pressing daggers against Rosslyn’s neck and stomach to stop her crying out, the stolen scout armour sharp through the single thin layer of her nightclothes. Feeling was returning, but she pretended otherwise, exaggerating the flail of her arms and the wobble in her legs – her captor was fast, it would take surprise and opportunity to be free of her.

The dagger at her side bit deeper.

“I suggest you be quiet, ma petite,” the assassin hissed.

“You’re the one who poisoned my dog.”

“How clever!” The assassin gave a brittle chuckle. “My employer warned me I could not touch you with that infernal animal on guard, and so I took steps to get it out of the way. Be grateful I am more used to human targets.”

Drizzle collected on Rosslyn’s hair, sheened her face like a cold mask as she swallowed her rage. They would know by now that she was the target, and people would be looking – dogs with her scent – even if the assassin made it to the edge of camp, going further would be near impossible.

“Baudrillard?” she tried, aiming for distraction.

The dagger poked her again. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Marjolane!”

The assassin froze. With precise deliberation, she spun around, dragging Rosslyn with her sharply enough that the blade held at her neck nicked the skin. Ten feet behind them, A figure stepped onto the path from behind a tent, bow nocked and draw-arm half pulled back, ready to loose.

“Ah, Leliana,” the assassin crooned. “How lovely to see you again, chérie.”

“I recognised your trick with the dog,” Leliana replied, casually, though her eyes were trained on Marjolane like a cat’s. “Though I am certain you meant the dosage of the viper’s sting to be lethal. You must be getting sloppy in your dotage.” She drew her arm back further. “Let her go.”

Marjolane chuckled again as she backed away. “Not even you are that good a shot, chérie. I would move her into the path of the arrow before it had a chance to reach me.”

Rosslyn stayed silent. She watched Leliana for any sign of movement, any indication that she would act, but forced her body to remain unresisting, heavy, a burden to her distracted captor, and all the while she measured the slow creep of the tingles up her arms as feeling came back to them.

“You would be left without a bargaining chip,” Leliana pointed out. Her draw arm was starting to shake.

“Perhaps,” the assassin answered. “But your desire for her survival is much greater than mine. You would not dare chance it. And nor would any other fool here,” she added, as another figure came barrelling into view through the nearest row of tents.

Alistair halted behind Leliana when he saw what was happening, his knuckles white on his sword and his face thrown into flickering relief by the torch he held aloft in his other hand. The snarl that contorted his features when his mind processed the details of the scene in front of him sent a shiver down Rosslyn’s back, but when she met his eye and shook her head, he held back.

“Good boy.” Marjolane had turned to him, was still backing away, but with her attention split in an extra direction, her options for escape were thinning.

“Where are you going?” Leliana called. Her blue eyes still burned, but the expression around them had crumpled into something almost desperate, the tension in the drawstring faltering. “You do not seem to realise, we have a score to settle. You framed me, had me caught and tortured. Why did you hate me so much?”

“Hate you?” the assassin repeated. The daggers at Rosslyn’s neck loosened, imperceptibly. “I never hated you. But did you think I did not know where you were, that I watched you? ‘What is she up to?’ I asked myself, as I saw you scrabble around in this country that smells of wet dog.” She snorted. “And then, of course, you wound your way into the confidence of this Falcon of Highever, and I saw – I saw that you planned to use this influence to set yourself against me.”

Rosslyn caught Leliana’s eye, a warning not to be baited, a signal to be ready.

“How fortunate it was that I found another who shared my concerns,” Marjolane continued, smug with her success. “Once I have delivered her to my employer, I will be free once more, and you will be free to crawl out of this filthy mud hole and come back with me, back to the life you were made for.”

Leliana shuddered, but swallowed her resolve. “I came to Ferelden to be free of you. Now I see my mistake. You’ve caused too much pain for too many people, Marjolane. It ends here!”

In an instant, Rosslyn dropped, twisting, her weight an advantage against the smaller woman. Above her, she caught the dull thud of an arrow hitting flesh, the breath of someone knocked back. A dagger came into her hands and she surged upwards again, driving the blade hilt-deep into the cavity beneath the ribs. An eternity passed and Marjolane clawed at her, gasping, her dark eyes wide with confusion then fury by turns, before finally she slipped off the steel and collapsed unmoving in the mud. Silence fell. Rosslyn stood and let the dagger fall from her hands. Her pulse roared in her ears, her breath a laboured rasp, as if her body couldn’t quite believe it was still working, and when she brought her hand to the sting in her neck, her fingers came away sticky with blood.

A sob roused her from her shock. Leliana had sunk to her knees, her shoulders slumped and shaking, one hand over her mouth, leaning on her bow like it was the only solid thing in the world. She barely seemed to notice when Rosslyn knelt beside her to coax her into an embrace, and only wept harder at her stilted, murmured assurances that everything would be alright.

“It’s over,” she repeated, again and again. “She’s dead. She’s dead.”

“Come on, we can’t stay here.”

Half-entreating and half-hauling her friend upright, Rosslyn finally took stock if where they were. Her limbs still felt heavy from the poison she had been given, the lack of coordination unhelpful given she now supported Leliana’s weight as well as her own, but adrenaline steadied her, and she grit her teeth as she began leading the way towards the healer’s tent. Something warm fell around her shoulders as she took the first steps – Alistair’s cloak. She had forgotten him in the heat of the moment. His hands lingered just a little as he made sure the fabric covered her properly, his eyes tight at the corners, but to her relief he said nothing, only fell into silent step behind her as she led Leliana away. When the first guard found them, he took charge and ordered the man to find somewhere to keep Marjolane’s body, and again she was grateful.

Amell greeted them at the entrance to the modest infirmary, though whether she had been roused by the commotion or just hadn’t gone to bed was impossible to tell. She didn’t say a word as the three of them emerged from the gloom, only hustled them inside and laid gentle hands on Leliana’s shoulders to guide her to the furthest and most private pallet from the opening. The sobs had subsided now, and only the shining tracks across her pale cheeks betrayed the loss of composure.

“She’s had a shock,” Rosslyn explained as the mage ran a brief check of her patient. Without any occupation for her hands, she drew the edges of Alistair’s cloak closer, taking comfort in its fastness and the warmth of his scent on the collar, however much her better judgement warned her not to.

“Someone should send out, and fetch Captain Morrence.”

“Well it’s not going to be you,” Amell replied in clipped tones. “You’re not going anywhere until I look at your feet.”

“My…?”

She was barefoot. She hadn’t noticed before, with the combination of the knife at her throat and the soporific she with which had been dosed, but looking down now, every sensation crowded in at once; her toes burned with cold, her soles were bruised and bleeding, and to top it all, the loose trousers she wore for sleep were caked halfway to the knee in mud. Dazed, she accepted the healer’s fussing without complaint and sank to the nearest pallet, though she had to stifle a hiss as her feet were first rubbed clean of the worst of the dirt, then dipped into a bowl of warm water sharp-scented with herbs and vinegar.

“No lasting harm done,” Amell informed her with a smile as she sent a healing spell twining up her legs.

She was too tired to answer, the pain and the dregs of her resolve stolen away by the magic. “Will Leliana be alright?” she asked instead.

The healer shrugged. “Depends what happened. I gave her a draught so she won’t have to deal with it until the morning, at least.”

The chantry sister’s form, distinguishable only by the red shock of her hair, was already curled under the covers of the farthest bed. With a sigh, Rosslyn turned away and watched in silence as Amell cleaned the worst of the cuts in her feet, trying to ignore the faint headache growing behind her eyes that might have been the day’s stress or the paralytic, or even just the bright wisp-lights of the infirmary. After a moment or two, she realised Alistair had left, and berated herself for missing him. She said nothing, and Amell, satisfied with her work, went to discard the muddied water.

“Oh, Your Highness!”

Rosslyn turned. Alistair stood sheepishly in the opening, with a pair of boots in one hand and some spare clothes thrown over his arm. From what she could tell, he had had a narrow escape from the contents of the bowl

“I think they’re too big,” he apologised when he saw her looking. “But the quartermaster was very grumpy at being woken up. They should do, at least as far as, uh…” his smile faltered as he set them next to her, and she dropped her gaze.

“Thank you,” she said. “And you, Enchanter. It was lucky we brought you along.” Twice over, she added mentally, as her mind drifted to Cuno, resting under the horsemaster’s care. She didn’t dare ask if he was otherwise.

Amell smiled again, a pretty expression that brought out dimples in her cheeks. “I enjoy the excitement, though by all accounts of luck you should’ve had enough for a while. You’re cured, by the way. Off you trot.”

“I’m –? Oh, thank you.” She stood and tried her feet. They were still tender, but the lingering magic in her veins would probably take care of that by morning. The mud caked onto her clothes stuck unpleasantly to her skin, however, and her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“If Your Highness would like to excuse himself?” Amell prompted.

“What?”

“Her Ladyship needs to change.”

“I – oh.” He froze, eyes bugged wide as he gulped back his embarrassment. “I’ll, um – of course… But if I could – I mean, Teyrna Rosslyn should really have someone to escort her back. See she gets there.” His hands twisted together, and he peered at her through hopeful lashes. “May I?”

Her mind was too fogged to craft a proper refusal. She nodded.

And yet she took her time getting changed, making sure the boots were laced with proper tightness in case they slipped and gave her blisters, until she could no longer put off going out to meet him. He was waiting for her in the pool of light outside the tent, and fell into careful step beside her without a word, respecting the space she put between them. Even so, his gaze burned hot against the back of her neck, adding to the weight of the silence with every step they took, but she didn’t turn. When they finally did reach her pavilion and the guard posted outside, she might have cried with relief, because it marked the point where she could get him to leave, to drop her back into her certain loneliness where her actions were prescribed, the requirements of her easy to meet.

One more day, just one, and I’ll suffer through whatever I must.

Servants had tidied away the mess, all the evidence, as if her fight with Marjolane had never happened. Talon stood in its sheath, back in its stand by her armour, with the scattered blankets once more laid neatly over the bed and the shadows chased into the corners by the steady light of lyrium glowstones. Even the tear in the wall had been mended, patched up with neat stitching like a darned sock.

Alistair still hovered behind her.

“Of course,” she realised. “Your cloak.” She shrugged it from her shoulders, ignoring how cold the air suddenly seemed without it, and kept her gaze on the floor as she held it out. “Here – thank you.”

“Maker’s breath, I don’t care about the cloak.” He all but lunged across the space, taking the garment only because it was in the way. “How could I think about that when you might’ve been… Are you alright?”

Startled, she leaned away, shrugged, swallowed back tears. “fine.”

He inhaled as if to say something, but his gaze fell to the line on her neck where the assassin’s blade had broken the skin. Seemingly without thinking, he reached out to touch her, but she flinched away, the graze of his fingertips a shock that brought heat surging to her face. Her head felt squeezed, pressed in a vice, with her throat closing and her limbs held taut to keep from shaking. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She wanted him gone. She wanted to sleep, or to throw herself into his arms, or cry, or run screaming down the mountain that she couldn’t do this anymore, or –

“I’m fine,” she managed for a second time. “A little choked, is all. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

His hand still hung in the air where he had reached for her. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.

Her patience snapped. “I already know.” Grief corded into a jagged lump at the back of her throat and she reeled away to put her desk between them, teeth clenched to calm the rage boiling hot enough to turn her stomach. “I know. Cailan isn’t exactly… reserved with his expectations, he’s made everything about it clear. And… you don’t need to worry, I – I understand. You owe me nothing. I’ll hold you to no obligations.”

The sigh of her name, uttered with a tenderness as if it had been waiting on his lips for months, set like a lance in her gut. But she stood her ground. South Reach had been worse than this, and she had endured.

“Rosslyn,” he said again, firm. “I’m not getting married.” When she didn’t move, a breathy, half-hysterical giggle slipped his tongue. “At least, not to Valesh. Really, I should have worked out sooner that’s what was planned but… well, if I’d gotten your letters…”

“What?” Her mind couldn’t focus, whirled with the chorus of an entire flock of starlings, so bewildered that when he eased a cautious step towards her, she forgot to pull away.

He swallowed. “Your letters – they were intercepted. I didn’t realise until I read the one you sent with Duncan, and then, well…” He turned, and brought something out of a back pocket, a pristine stack of papers tied together with ribbon, which he held out as cautiously as a traveller might offer an apple to a wild deer. “I left as fast as I could to find you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Eamon.” The name escaped as a growl. “He was trying to separate us, for the good of Ferelden, apparently. I am so sorry that I didn’t realise sooner.”

Questions tripped over themselves on her tongue. Uncomprehending, she traced the lines of her name written in a broad, meticulous script as he handed the package to her, as if the action might bring the clarity drowning in the blackened landscapes of her brain. So much had already happened. Her legs wobbled at the end of their strength, so she staggered like a drunkard to the bed and collapsed onto it without ceremony, still marvelling at the treasure in her hands. At least a dozen letters in his hand, hidden away, never sent. She had fortified her heart against his indifference, wrapped it in barbs and palisades and strong iron shields, and yet this one simple revelation was enough to bring the walls of her castle shattering to the earth.

Alistair followed her.

“All this time,” she croaked as he knelt before her, as his fingers brushing tentative across her wrist, the other warm on her thigh. “You wrote all these… even though you thought I wasn’t writing back.”

He smiled like blossom in spring. “I did.”

“You didn’t get my letters?”

“None since the darkspawn attack.”

“I wondered, that’s why I –” She looked up. “And… and you’re not betrothed?”

This time, he laughed. “No – no, I’m not.”

What little air remained in her lungs left her in a lightheaded rush. It didn’t matter which one of them moved first, only that in an instant, she had her arms around his neck, wrapped in an embrace tight enough to block out everything but her relief. The scent of his skin hadn’t changed, nor his warmth, the softness of his hair against her cheek. She dropped the letters as she tightened her grip, buried deeper into his shoulder, because what did they matter next to having him here, real, holding her like he had ached for her just as desperately as she had for him? Her cheeks were wet but she didn’t care, it didn’t matter, he had never stopped writing at all.

“I’ve missed you,” she breathed. “I’ve –”

His breath caught. “I’ve missed you, too. So much.”

She wanted to laugh. “Why do I always end up crying on you?”

“I’ve just got one of those faces.”

She denied it, shook her head, but still the tears kept falling. He hummed and stroked her hair, the most beautiful sound she had ever heard even through the dampness she felt trickling onto her own shoulder. Her breath shuddered. Time stopped. They rocked together in the thin confines of the pavilion, settling into one another’s breathing and the play of idle, self-assuring touches, sagging like winter branches laden down with snow with the weight of what had so nearly been lost. At last, everything lay quiet, and by degrees her grip on him relaxed, soothed along with the fear that he was no more than a wisp of smoke, bound to disappear again. Guards clanked past outside, rain pattered down, and still they didn’t move.

“Rosslyn?” Alistair asked eventually. “Are you asleep?”

For a moment he thought she might have drifted off, but then a tiny headshake and a mumbled no brushed against his pulse, and he had to remind himself where they were.

“You probably should be, it’s so late,” he replied, and pulled away. His hands went to steady at her waist.

Pushing her hair out of her face, she sighed and tried for a smile, but it faltered as her eyes flitted to the patched side of the tent, where the blade of her would-be assassin had first cut through. “I’m not sure I could,” she confessed, and dropped her gaze to her hands twisting in her lap.

“Hey…”

“Will you stay?” she asked. “Please? I – I don’t want to be alone right now, and Cuno…”

He laid a hand against her cheek, torn between wanting to offer comfort and knowing that the entire camp would hear of it by morning if he stayed.

“Please,” she repeated.

He couldn’t stand the sight of the tears on her cheeks. “If you’re sure, I have one condition,” he told her, covering for his uncertainty with the most officious voice he could muster. “You have to promise to get a decent amount of rest.”

She smiled back, but her attention darted to the wall again. “I can promise to try.”

“I suppose that will have to do. Here –”

Carefully, he reached down and unlaced the boots he had borrowed for her, nudging his cheek against her knee when a warm hand landed on his shoulder, and when she was barefoot, he guided her up the bed and under the covers. Their fingers brushed as he retrieved the letters to place on the desk and he smiled at her as she thanked him. After that, there’s was nothing to do but draw the curtains that divided the main area of the pavilion from the sleeping quarters.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He ruffled a hand through his hair. “Uh, do you have any spare blankets?”

“Why do you…?” Her eyes widened. “No. You are not sleeping on the floor.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” he argued.

“That’s a lie.” She sat up straighter, with the covers bunched in her lap. “You’ll catch your death this far up in the mountains. And besides, it’s undignified.”

“I’ve slept on the floor before.”

Her expression darkened. “Not when you were Prince of Ferelden and had a perfectly good bed available. If one of us is going to sleep on the floor, it should be me. You outrank me.”

“And you were nearly killed tonight!”

She flinched. Too far. The gap between them yawned again and he yearned to cross it, but the thought of what that might mean left his stomach tying itself in knots, doubting, giddy, terrified of stepping too far.

“It seems we’re at an impasse,” she said, reading the flustered colour blooming across his face.

“You and your damned protocol,” he huffed. “I don’t – I wouldn’t want to compromise…”

“People will talk no matter where you sleep,” she pointed out, with a blush of her own. She even shuffled sideways to make room for him under the covers. “You… might as well be comfortable. Unless – if you don’t want to do that, I’d understand, forget I said –”

“Hey.” He was by her side in an instant, the touch to her shoulder light but reassuring. “I don’t want to leave you alone. But… are you sure there’s room?”

“Cuno manages, and I swear he doubles in size when he sleeps…”

“He’s alright, you know,” Alistair said. “Just sleeping off the worst of it, I promise. The horsemaster said he’d make a full recovery.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, then unbuckled his belt and the quilted jacket that had seen him warm from Orzammar – any more would be excessive, but this way he wouldn’t overheat, and there wouldn’t be any stray edges of metal to dig into Rosslyn’s skin. When he finally turned, he found her looking demurely away, as if he were taking off more, and for the first time the desperation of seeing her again was subsumed by the possibility of all the things he had imagined in her absence, everything he wanted to say but did not dare. Still, she made room for him, sidling to the far edge of the pallet and waiting for him to lie back on the overstuffed pillow before closing the space once more.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

He smiled. “Come here.”

The bed really wasn’t made for two people. Designed for light storage and travel, it creaked as they settled themselves, Alistair on his back with Rosslyn tucking herself as best she could into the gap under his arm, her ear settled above the pulse of his heart and her fingers tangled in the loose folds of his shirt. When she finally stopped wriggling, he plucked up the courage to lay his own hand against her waist. She didn’t move away.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Mmmm…” She was looking at the hole in the wall again; he felt her held breath.

“You know I won’t let anything happen to you, right?” he murmured. “If something else is stupid enough to come after you tonight, they’re going to have to get through me.” He threaded their fingers together with his free hand, quietly enthralled by the way her body fitted against his. “And I promise they won’t get through me.”

Some of the tension unwound from her limbs, and quiet seeped into the space around them, the drum of the rain and the dull scent of mud soothing after the fraught hours of the day. Alistair tried to stay awake and be vigilant so Rosslyn might feel safe, but his eyes were scratchy and the weight of her at his side already succumbing to sleep lulled him towards the Fade, and somewhere between one slow blink and the next his last thoughts slid away into slumber.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #da:o #the falcon and the rose #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #cousland #alistair x cousland #anti-eamon #dragon age au

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nevervalentines · 8 years ago

Text

(a soft kimberly and trini fic) (6.4 k)

“i drowned myself (in your holy water)”

If you ask Kimberly, it started at dawn.

She finds Trini at the quarry before sunrise, face tilted against the pearly gray sky, poised at the crest of jagged rock. She is a masterpiece in silhouette, harsh edges smoothed by cool shadow, baggy pants hanging low on curvy hips.

“Hey,” Kimberly says, voice low, hesitant to disturb the quiet. “Been here long?”

Trini turns toward her, shedding shadow as she steps off the ridge. Her face is suddenly cast in the first rays of morning light, dew catching crystal bright on the toes of chunky, repurposed army boots.

“Just since six,” Trini answers shrugging. “You’re right on time.” She reaches Kimberly all at once, stretching out to tug at the hem of Kimberly’s sweatshirt. “Pink. Cute.”

Kimberly reaches out to box at Trini’s ears, a yellow beanie pulled low over her forehead. “I could say the same thing.”

Trini blocks her halfway there, catching at her wrist with careful fingers, pulling her hand close against her chest. “Watch it, Hart.”

Kimberly would say it started here: with her hand against Trini’s collarbone and Trini’s lips curled into that small, just so smile. Though the landscape is a portraiture in charcoal, a gray sky sweeping low over the horizon, ashen quarry rock stretching to meet it, Trini is a marvel of color.

There’s a faint blush clinging to the curve of her cheek now, and she drops Kimberly’s hand abruptly, letting her arm fall back to her side.

“Should we go without the boys?” Kimberly asks, just to dampen the silence. Trini nods quickly, turning away, and Kimberly risks a step closer to the sheer drop. “You first,” she says, peeking at Trini out of the corner of her eye.

Trini grins in response, smile tugging high at her cheeks. “No,” she draws the syllable long, teasing. “You first.”

Kimberly turns toward her, crossing her arms over her chest. “I think after the hell you put me through the first time, this one is on you.”

Trini turns toward her, mouth dropping in mock surprise. “The hell I put you through? You pushed me off a cliff.”

Kimberly smirks and shifts toward her on reflex, “You have to admit, you deserved it.”

Trini narrows those pretty cat-eyes, eyebrows creasing. “Did I?”

Kimberly laughs, the noise loud in the soft post-dawn light. “You so did.”

“Okay,” Trini says, voice pitched low, “Maybe I did.” And then, suddenly, abruptly, she’s stepping impossibly close, her hands landing on Kimberly’s hips, her head knocking into Kimberly’s airspace. Kimberly feels her breath catch high in her throat, oxygen suddenly in a very limited and rare supply.

Trini ducks in close and Kimberly finds herself entirely fixated on the pursed, pout of her lips, the sheen of her lip-gloss.

Kimberly thinks of Jason, broad shouldered and strong, of the flirtations that came before, of their hands pressing fingerprints against the column of her throat, the round of her breasts.

Suddenly, she wants nothing more than Trini’s hands to follow that familiar path, wants to unravel the secrets written on the cards that Trini holds hopelessly close to her chest. She wants Trini pressed hard against her in the backseat of her beat-up, off-white Subaru.

She wants to taste her.

And oh God. She has it way worse than she thought.

“But,” Trini says, “You deserve it, too.”

It takes Kimberly a second to pull back to reality, head reeling and oxygen deprived. By then, it’s too late.

Trini wraps her hands around Kimberly shoulders and bodily throws them both over the edge of the ravine. Kimberly barely has time to scream.

They hit the water still interlocked, and Kimberly shoves away from Trini forcefully, kicking toward the surface. Trini breaks through the water laughing, sputtering water on her exhales. Kimberly feels a flush of shame, face rushing with heady embarrassment. She can’t believe she was ever so fucking stupid.

She slaps a wave of water at Trini, face creased in a scowl. “You asshole.”

Trini shrugs, treading lazily. “You should have seen your fucking face.” She looks at Kimberly and busts out laughing again. “You should honestly see it now, too.”

Kimberly’s response is interrupted by a howl at the top of the cliffs, whooping laughs ringing clear. The boys are here. Because of course.

Trini smirks, reaching out to cup at Kimberly’s chin, smoothing the line that mars her face with a careful thumb. “Fair is fair, Kim.” Then she ducks in, pressing a kiss to the apple of Kimberly’s cheek, pulling away quickly. “Race you.”

She leaves Kimberly breathless and waterlogged at the bottom of the cliff. Kimberly stays there for a moment more before she follows, the boys close at her heels.

Trini wins. But it’s close.

If you ask Trini, it started at twilight.

She dozed off doing homework, books strewn across the bed, pencil still clenched tight in her fist. She pulls free from sleep in a dusk-drenched room, head groggy and eyes heavy. They snap open when she sees the reason she woke: Kimberly Hart, crouched lithe and long on her windowsill.

Kimberly grins when Trini spots her, tilting her head to the side, hair falling in a painfully appealing sweep across her eyes. “Gonna invite me in?”

Trini grumbles, shuffling up onto her forearms, squinting blearily at the window. She must be dreaming.

“Why? Are you a vampire now?”

Kimberly laughs, this low husky thing. “No, just polite.”

Trini shakes her hair free from her face, clearing her throat, trying to regain some semblance of the upper hand. “You know, traditionally people knock.” She glares. “Or text.”

Kimberly lowers herself from the sill though Trini doesn’t remember inviting her in. She eyes Trini’s room curiously, from the un-painted drywall to the broken plaster, still piled in the corner. Trini stifles embarrassment at the bra hanging on her bedpost, her brother’s toys laboring across the carpet.

“I did text.” She tilts an eyebrow in Trini’s direction. “Check your phone, dork.”

Trini mumbles under her breath, scrabbling in the comforter until she finds her phone. It’s dead, the anguished empty battery flickering on the black screen, and she chucks it half-heartedly in Kimberly’s direction. Kimberly catches it easily, turning it in her palms gingerly.

“You should charge it, we might have had an emergency.”

Trini glares. “Did you?”

For the first time Kimberly looks uncertain, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, digging her teeth into the plush of her lip. “No.”

The strangeness of it hits Trini all at once. Kimberly Hart, former cheerleader-mean-girl-extraordinaire and, coincidentally, the hottest girl Trini has ever seen, is standing uninvited in the middle of her bedroom in sinfully short running shorts and a pink tank. Kimberly bends, grabbing one of Trini’s brother’s toys and standing with a smirk. It’s a plastic pink ranger, clutched tight in her palm, and she waves it in the air playfully.

“Looks like you wanted me in your room after all.”

Trini chucks a pillow in her direction. Kimberly doesn’t bother to catch it, just dodges out of the way, still grinning.

“The twins have all of them,” Trini says, creasing her brow in a frown, “And I’ll have you know that Yellow is Jackson’s favorite.”

“Yeah,” Kimberly says quietly, “mine, too.”

She drops the phone and the toy to the floor, shuffling closer to Trini’s recline. She hesitates before she gets on the bed, looking for permission. Trini nods slowly, carefully, and Kimberly sits on the bed before rising onto her knees. Trini’s eyes flash wide and she hefts herself higher on her forearms.

“Who is your favorite?” Kimberly asks, and then she’s moving closer, straddling Trini’s thighs easily, one hand pressing at the center of her chest until Trini falls back into her pillows.

Trini can feel her chest heaving, heart thundering, desperate and aching. Electricity runs, static-sharp and bright, through her veins. Kimberly’s steady, dark gaze breaks her open and Trini thinks she can have everything she finds.

“What are you doing?” she says, more a whisper than anything, words clinging to her lips like a prayer.

Kimberly shakes her head, careless and messy, eyes blinking wide. She wets her lips with her tongue, eyes fixed at Trini’s mouth. “I’m thinking about kissing you.”

Trini’s face crumples in confusion and she balls her hands at her side. “Why?”

Kimberly shrugs, laughs, shoulders rising and falling hopelessly. “I have no idea.” She tilts closer, hands moving to cup at Trini’s cheeks, her palms cold against Trini’s overheated face. “I can’t get you out of my head. Literally. Even when we aren’t at training I can—”

“Feel you,” Trini says, cutting her off, “Yeah, I know. It’s is happening to me, too.”

Kimberly shifts on top of her and Trini can feel the solid warmth of her thighs against her own. Her shorts drag at Trini’s skin and it feels so painfully intimate she has to clench her legs tight, remembering to breathe before the friction makes her explode.

“Do you think the boys feel it, too?” Kimberly asks. Her voice has pitched into a whine and Trini realizes it is killing her, killing her to not have the answer, to not know how to make it go away.

Trini swallows hard. “I hope not.”

Kimberly sits back up, removing her hands from Trini’s face to press them hard against her own forehead, massaging at her temples like she can force the tension from her skin.

Trini knows it won’t work. She’s tried pretty much everything to get the thoughts to go away, to get the sound and smell of Kimberly out of her head.

It’s the worst at practice when she is nearby, stripped down to a sports bra and spanx, sweat-drenched and looking at Trini with that sideways, cocky grin. It’s the worst after they drag themselves out of the pooled water in the ravine, clothes clinging to sun-browned skin, to every ripple of muscle and every curve. It’s the worst when they spar, rapid strikes pressing bruises into the soft skin of Trini’s cheeks, her thighs.

She’s tried mediation, hard rock blaring loud through tinny headphones while she breathes deep on the quarry ridge. She’s tried distracting herself with exercise and training, pushing Zach until he is breathless and angry. She’s tried easing the ache under the cover of midnight darkness, hands slipping below soft sleep-shorts, eyes shut tight against the shame of this empty house.

Kimberly’s eyes are wild now, raking her hair out of her eyes with one hand, the weight of her body pressing hard at Trini’s hips.

“What do we do?”

Trini shrugs, playing at dismissive, unaffected. She catches Kimberly’s narrowed glare and knows it isn’t working.

“We could talk to Zordon?” Trini says, voice tipping into a question. Kimberly is pulling a face before Trini can even finish.

“Yeah, no. I really don’t want to talk about the fact that I am having inappropriate thoughts about one of my Ranger teammates with the giant disembodied head on the wall, thanks.”

Trini arches an eyebrow. “Inappropriate thoughts?”

Kimberly pinches at her side, annoyed. “Shut up, you ass. You basically admitted you are having them, too.”

Trini wriggles back up onto her forearms, catching Kimberly off balance. She centers herself with a tight grip on Trini’s shoulders, bringing them closer than before. She can feel Kimberly’s breath stuttering warm against her lips.

Trini hesitates, debating the consequences of what she says next. The room has been swallowed by inky shadow, swathes of darkness cradling the girls in a careful embrace. It feels otherworldly, fantastical, an oasis from concepts like high school and endangered planets and repercussions.

“So kiss me.”

Trini would say it started here: with Kimberly stooping to meet her, loose hair tickling Trini’s cheeks, her hands curled at her shoulders. It starts with Kimberly licking wet into her mouth, mewling soft as Trini shifts underneath her, thigh fitting between Kimberly’s parted legs.

It starts here: in the dark just after twilight, aching and electric and inevitable.

Kimberly moves to leave at the sound of a whining garage door, headlights washing the side of the house in a watery light. Trini catches at her elbows, pulling her back for a last kiss, teeth knocking and noses pressed tight.

Trini stops Kimberly as she crouches in the open window. She looks back over her shoulder, ethereal and kiss-bruised.

Trini thinks of her parents, now unlocking the front door, thinks of her mother’s broken words, of the size of this town and the shame rooted deep in her gut.

“No one can know,” she says. Her voice sounds harsh, even to her.

Kimberly nods slowly, her face unreadable. “No one will know.”

She’s gone before Trini can explain and her apologies die on her lips.

Kimberly can feel Trini’s gaze on her all bio.

But every time she looks back, Trini is staring steadfastly away, nose buried in a beaten paperback she has propped under the lip of her desk. Kimberly furrows her brow in a frown, turning to face front before she suffers another chastisement from the teacher.

She tries to focus on taking notes, but her mind skips too fast to process the lecture. Symbiosis blurs in favor of the way Trini writhed beneath her last Friday night, all wide-eyed innocence and tempered bite, the way she keened, breathless, when Kimberly sucked over her pulse. She focuses back on the board, scrawling down definitions before she snaps the corner off of another desk.

They haven’t talked since the kiss. At least, not directly. And it would seem Trini likes it that way.

Kimberly chances another glance back and this time she catches Trini looking.

She makes up her mind.

In the many, many fantasies Trini has had about Kimberly Hart, none of them involved the third floor utility closet.

But. She isn’t picky.

Kimberly has her hand at Trini’s collar, the fabric wrapped so tight around her fist it’s a wonder Trini isn’t choking. She dragged her here after bio, smoldering and feral, stormed her up to two flights of stairs and sealed them in the damp Clorox-scented dark.

“Is this the part where you take my lunch money?” Trini drawls, wrenching free from Kimberly’s grasp, “Because I think I would rather skip right to the wedgies.”

Kimberly’s scowl deepens, and she prods a finger in Trini’s face, centimeters from her nose. “You can’t just ignore me.”

Trini bats her hand out of her face. “Who says?”

Kimberly throws her hands in the air, uprooting three mops and a moth-eaten Swiffer. “Says, like, our primeval galactic duty.” She pouts and God that’s far worse than the glare. “We’re a team.”

Trini ducks her head, burying her hands in her pockets. “Okay.”

Kimberly deflates. “Okay?”

Trini shrugs, feeling guilt settle low in her stomach. “Yeah, okay. I shouldn’t have been such a little bitch about stuff.”

Kimberly looks surprised, but pleased too, and Trini wants to bite the smug smile off of her lips.

“Well,” Kimberly says, drawing the word long, “I’m glad we have that sorted.” She casts a glance around the small space and her smile shifts, sharpens. When she looks at Trini her eyes are half-lidded, pupils wide and dark. “This place brings back memories.”

Trini pulls a face, hating the jealousy that joins the guilt in her stomach, bitter as bile. “Gross.”

There is a beat of silence, transient, before Kimberly moves to cup her chin. She runs a thumb light over Trini’s bottom lip and she feels the touch thrum warm in her stomach, pulsing low between her legs.

“I want to kiss you,” Kimberly says, direct, certain, and this, more likely than any alien threat, is going to be the way Trini Kwan dies.

She can’t even bear to look at her, just closes her eyes, tilts her head up, and waits. The first kiss is soft, a barely-there brush, perfectly aligned. Kimberly nudges in a little harder, the tip of her tongue pressing like wet velvet at Trini’s bottom lip.

She caves, God, she caves.

Trini opens her mouth to her in an easy, pitiful surrender, sighing soft as Kimberly laps into her mouth, sucking light at her tongue. Kimberly hooks her fingers in Trini’s belt loops, backing her into the door. Trini’s hips collide against the thin wood with a muted thud and she whines, kissing back hard, desperate to stoke the coal-hot throb that slicks between her legs.

Kimberly pulls back in increments, moving her lips in sloppy kisses across Trini’s jaw, dragging her teeth at the shell of Trini’s ear. “Do you want this?”

Trini scrabbles her fingers at the collar of Kimberly’s shirt, hooks her finger in the fabric, nodding desperately, chest heaving. “I want this.”

For a little while, Kimberly’s perfume drowns out the smell of bleach and the echoing cavern of empty school hallways. Trini finds a spot below Kimberly’s jaw that makes her shiver and she smiles, wolf sharp and pleased, against Kimberly’s skin and it’s enough.

Kimberly sprawls with Jason on the quad, absently picking sweet-smelling spring grass and stacking it on his knee. He lets her, lazy and compliant, head pillowed on his arms.

“Pass me my sandwich,” he says, squinting at her stoop by his legs, “I can’t reach.”

Kimberly smiles easily, “Nope.”

Jason grumbles but doesn’t get up, just kicks at her absently, not hard enough to upset the grass she has piled on his jeans. Jason tilts his head back in his recline, finding Zach approaching from the East wing, weaving through high schooler strewn picnic benches, paper lunch sack clutched loose in his hand.

“Zach,” Jason calls, low and friendly, “Pass me my sandwich?”

Zach chortles, sliding into the grass next to Kimberly, chucking her shoulder with a closed fist. “Get it yourself, big man.”

Jason groans, lips pulling into a pout. “Why do you guys always do this to me?”

Billy emerges from the cafeteria, lunch tray balanced in his hands. Jason brightens, lifting up his head. “Hey, dude.”

Billy settles at Kimberly’s other side and, without being asked, snags Jason’s sandwich and tosses it to his waiting hands. Jason smirks, smug.

Kimberly shakes her head and brushes the grass off of Jason’s leg, squeezing at his knee until he shakes her free. “Training tonight?”

Jason answers, mouth full. “Not tonight. I have a dinner with my dad.”

Zach groans victoriously, “Thank fuck.”

Trini wanders up thirty minutes into lunch period, thumbs hooked in her backpack straps, looking pointedly dismissive. Kimberly wonders how much time she spends in front of the mirror practicing that trite pout.

It’s cute. Almost.

“Where you been, crazy girl?” Zach asks, “Still acting like you have other friends?”

Trini emphatically ignores him, leaning toward Billy to knock his fist with her own, offering him a smile. “What’s for lunch, man?”

Billy pulls a face, “Fish sticks.”

Trini sticks out her tongue, “Rank.”

Trini drops her backpack to the grass and moves to sit down, intercepted by Zach who grabs her by the waist, pulling her into his lap. She shrieks a laugh despite herself, cheeks dimpling, and Kimberly realizes with a rush of jealousy that might be the first time she’s ever heard Trini laugh outside training.

She chokes it down because they can’t be anything, they aren’t anything, and it’s fine if Trini is pushing into Zach’s shoulder and it’s fine if his hands are on her waist and it’s really just fine.

Trini ducks into his shoulder, whispers something, and his eyes crinkle in a laugh. But then she is pushing away, shoving hard off his chest playfully, and he lets her go, falling back into the grass with a smile.

Trini hesitates, deciding where to sit among the clustered group. Kimberly reaches out her hand, half-unsure, surprised when Trini takes it. She tugs her slowly toward her and Trini settles into her lap, Kimberly’s arms hooked around her waist like a safety belt, nose at the nape of her neck.

Kimberly’s chest presses tight against Trini’s back, the weight of her a solid comfort against her thighs. Kimberly can feel her breathe, the expansion and contraction of her lungs, and she thrills at the animal heat of it.

Trini squirms exaggeratedly, shooting Zach a narrow-eyed look. “This is better,” she says, “Zach smells like boy.”

Jason laughs loud, almost choking on his sandwich. Billy, watching him, joins in. Zach closes his eyes, still smiling as he presses back into the grass. “Whatever, Dee-dee, we all know she’s more your type anyway.”

Trini stiffens, briefly, and Kimberly pretends not to notice.

Trini smells like sticky summer heat and Coppertone, her skin sunbaked and warm. Kimberly hooks her chin at Trini’s shoulder, stroking her thumb in circles below her navel.

“You smell like sunblock,” she murmurs, lips tilting into her neck. Trini shivers at the vibrations, settling her weight more firmly in Kimberly’s lap.

“My mom slathers it on us every morning.”

Kimberly laughs, low and bright, and Trini cranes her neck to shoot her a glare.

“It’s more for the twins,” she insists, “I just get caught in the crossfire.”

“Okay,” Kimberly says, “Whatever you say.”

Trini grumbles but doesn’t move to leave and Kimberly counts it as a victory.

In the sun-dappled shade outside their school, surrounded by her four closest friends, Kimberly presses a soft kiss at the crux of Trini’s neck and she doesn’t pull away.

Trini can feel her smoldering, even from five miles away.

Trini stands, her little brother hanging from her back, and tilts her head toward the window, listening. She squints out at the suburb. Beyond the pristine patches of mowed lawn and the matchbox grid of two story houses, she can sense Kimberly across town in her sprawling country estate.

She’s upset, roiling, and Trini can feel the heady thrum of her energy low in her chest. Jackson is whining, pulling at her hair, but she brushes him off, closing her eyes, trying to concentrate.

Kimberly isn’t in any real danger, that much Trini can tell. She knows how real crisis feels, the high, fluttering panic that rockets to her gut when any of her team has been truly threatened since their first morph.

Billy calls it their “Spidey sense” and she loves him for it.

But this is different: it’s echoes of distress, the remembrance of it more than the thing itself.

Kimberly is having a nightmare.

Trini fishes her cellphone from her pocket and Dante sits up from his slouch on the plush living room rug.

“Who are you calling?” he asks, reaching to tug at Trini’s pants, voice plaintive and high.

“None of your business,” she says, scrolling through her contacts, and Jackson laughs, still clinging round her neck.

He tries to see the screen over her shoulder and she tilts it away, hiding Kimberly’s contact photo from view. It’s one Kimberly snapped of the two of them during lunch, their faces pressed close, cheeks aligned.

It makes Trini feel a particular kind of lightheaded panic and she’s trying not to think about it.

Between utility closet trysts and late-night make outs after practice, she’s found herself doing a lot of that lately.

She presses the call button and brings the phone to her ear, trying to shake Jackson off of her back so she can concentrate. He only laughs louder and Dante joins in, latching onto her leg, tripping up her nervous pacing.

“For the love of—” Trini glares down at him, “get the freaking eff off of my—”

“Off your what?” Trini hears from the other end of the line, sleep hoarse and groggy.

“Oh shit,” Trini says, “Sorry I was—” she pauses again, looking down, voice turning sharp, serious. “I mean it guys, get off.”

They take one look at her face and sprint off at a scramble, Jackson dropping from her back and tripping over Dante as he peels around the corner of the living room.

Trini hears a sharp exhale over the line, and the creak of bedsprings. Kimberly’s voice in her ear makes her shiver. “Do you wake me up just to yell at me, Trin?”

Trini laughs, soft, and look back out the window. “No actually I—” A pause. What does she want? She can’t say she called her to wake her up from a nightmare, she would sound insane. She searches desperately for any excuse, the silence drawing long.

“Is this a booty call?”

Trini laughs again, too loud this time, forced, cheeks flushing red. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come over for dinner.”

Kimberly’s voice curls with interest, syllables rising high. “Really?”

Trini shuts her eyes tight, thumping at her forehead with one palm. “Of course.”

“I would love to.”

“Great,” Trini says, “I’ll tell my mom. Try to use the front door this time.”

She hangs up, the sound of Kimberly’s laugh still ringing in her ears.

Two little boys answer Trini’s front door, swinging it open a crack, their heads poking around the frame. Kimberly smooths her hands down the front of dress, a nervous habit, and tilts her head.

“Is Trini home?”

The boys don’t answer, they just stare. One of them blinks wide up at her and she tries for a smile. His face turns a dangerous red, and he punches at the other. From inside the house she can hear someone descending the stairs in loud stomps and then—

“Jackson, Dante I told you not to open the door.” There’s Trini, wrenching the door out of their grip, towering over them, frown firmly in place. She jerks her head in a nod at Kimberly, before turning her attention to one of the boys now pulling at her arm.

“What, J?”

He beckons for her to lean down and, after rolling her eyes at them for Kimberly’s benefit, she stoops. He curls his hand around her ear, whispering something in rapid Spanish before taking off into the house, the other boy close behind.

Trini rises, grinning now, canines showing at the corner of a candy-sweet smile. “He said you were pretty,” she says laughing. She reaches out to tug Kimberly over the threshold, eyeing her dress. Her eyes get stuck at Kimberly’s cleavage and she tugs her bottom lip into her mouth, biting down hard. Kimberly feels a rush of heat at the attention. She has to stop herself from replacing Trini’s teeth with her tongue, squeezing Trini’s hand tight instead.

“What do you think?” Kimberly asks, watching Trini focus pointedly on her eyes.

“I agree,” she says, blinking slow, eyelashes brushing her cheek.

Trini lets go of her hand, leaning against the ornamented banister of the foyer staircase. Kimberly thrills at the brash scrawl of her, an alien fixture among the sterling silver sconces and cream wallpaper. Skin shows in patches through the ripped knees of her jeans, a piercing flashing below the high hem of her crop top. Kimberly itches to touch and knots her hands behind her back instead, risking a small step forward.

“Are you gonna give me a tour?”

Trini tilts toward her unconsciously, eyes dropping to her lips, one hand moving to trace at the strap of Kimberly’s dress. “Dinner and a tour? Careful, you’re starting to sound needy.”

Kimberly narrows her eyes. “Watch your mouth, Trini Kwan, or I’ll stop holding back during our spars.”

Kimberly can feel the electric shock of energy that bites through Trini’s system, watches her face harden, brow pulling tight. “Don’t test me, Kimmy.”

“Why? Can’t handle it?”

Trini’s jaw jumps, muscles flexing taught in her forearms, lips pressed tight. Kimberly expects Trini to challenge her to a sparring match next practice, or a Zord race when Alpha 5 and Jason aren’t around. She even half-expects Trini to put a fist through the porcelain vase by the door. What she doesn’t expect is—

“I really wish I could kiss you right now.”

Kimberly pulls back, her voice dipping small, young. “Yeah?”

Trini nods, eyes large and soft, chin tilting up to meet Kimberly’s gaze. “Yeah.”

Kimberly reaches out, circling her fingers at Trini’s wrist, pulls her until she stumbles forward, closing the space between them. She strokes fragile at the hummingbird-thrum of Trini’s pulse, nudges closer, noses almost touching.

“So kiss me.”

There’s a clatter from the kitchen, china rattling on stone counters, and Trini flinches away, jumping back into the banister hard enough that Kimberly hears the wood splinter. Trini looks at her like a deer caught mid-flight, panicked and poised to run.

“Trini?” comes the voice from the kitchen, footsteps clicking closer, “Is your friend here?”

Trini looks at Kimberly, flitting and nervous, before she turns to the doorway, arms crossing over her chest. “Yeah, mom. We’re in the front room.”

So Mrs. Kwan isn’t what Kimberly’s expected.

She’s tall and slim, hair falling in a dark sheet over one shoulder with high-arched pouty lips and a dramatic, tilting brow. She stops in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping water off of her hands with a dishtowel. Despite herself, Kimberly’s palms are sweating.

“Oh,” Mrs. Kwan says, lips parting when she sees Kimberly. Kimberly knows she is a picture of obedience, dressed in a pink dress with a modest hemline and classic design, hair tamed by a thin headband, and Mrs. Kwan smiles. “Hi there.”

Apparently she isn’t what Mrs. Kwan was expecting either.

Kimberly steps forward before Trini can introduce them, holding out her hand. “I’m Kimberly, It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Kimberly keeps her hand on Trini’s thigh the entire meal, tracing circles over thin denim, scratching her nails over the fabric and watching Trini’s ears flare red. Kimberly pinches Trini’s leg as a penalty for every snarky comment while Trini laughs in protest, looking caught and affectionate and young.

Afterward, Trini walks Kimberly to her car and, under the cover of a lightning-bug-lit cul-de-sac night, Kimberly pins her against the passenger side door and kisses her neck until the skin is mottled with strawberry-red bites.

Jason is at the grill, bare-chested and broad-shouldered, wielding a spatula in one hand, a watchful eye on the ground meat.

Kimberly walks up behind him and puts her hands on his shoulders, tilting onto tiptoe to see the burgers. “God,” she laughs, “You are such a dad.”

He grins, sloppy and wide, turning his head to rest his brow at her temple. “What?”

She turns her smile to meet his grin, pinching at his shoulder. “At the grill making burgers, I mean.” She rolls back onto the soles of her feet, jostling him with her shoulder. “All that’s missing is an apron and your ‘50s era wife.”

He shrugs, gesturing at the pool with his spatula. “It’s a pool cookout, Kim, there’s gotta be burgers.”

She laughs. “Agreed.”

He swats at her with the flat of the spatula. “I should thank you again for letting us crash your pool.”

“Oh my god, that’s like the fifth time you’ve thanked me,” she laughs and turns to walk away, only pausing to shout “such a dad!” over her shoulder.

She finds Trini at the poolside, eyes closed, resting back on her forearms, her feet dangling in the lucid blue water. Kimberly hesitates before sitting next to her, settling onto the pool deck of aggregate stone, pressing close enough to feel Trini’s heat. Trini doesn’t open her eyes, but scoffs when Kimberly sits, the corner of her mouth turning into a sneer.

“Planning your impending nuptials to our benevolent leader?”

Kimberly hums in response, tilting sideways to press her shoulder against Trini’s. “Jealous, cutie?”

Trini does open her eyes at this, squints at her to combat the harsh noon-day sun. “Maybe.”

Kimberly ducks in close, brushing her nose at Trini’s cheek, pressing close enough to smell the sharp notes of her tangerine facewash, the fruity musk of her shampoo. “Well you don’t have to be.”

She nuzzles into Trini’s hairline, her neck, the burnished sun-soaked heat of Trini’s skin licking through her ribs, burning like whisky in her stomach, a low, simmering ache.

Trini whines but doesn’t pull away, just tilts closer until their bare sides and shoulders and thighs are all aligned. “You should stop,” Trini says, low, rough. Her head lolls back, neck relaxed, hair falling in a dark sheen behind her.

Kimberly smiles against the skin of her shoulder, head ducked low. “Why? Can’t handle it?”

Kimberly checks to make sure the boys are otherwise occupied—Jason at the grill, Billy drifting weightlessly in the deep end, and Zach poised on the diving board—before she puckers her lips, dragging a kiss from the hard line of Trini’s jaw to the dip in her collarbone. She laps her tongue once, tasting sweat and chlorine, bites down lightly over her throat.

“Fuck,” Trini says, teeth gritted, legs splaying open wider at the pool’s edge, “I’m—”

Kimberly presses another kiss below her ear. “Maybe you need to cool off.”

Trini’s eyes flash open, alarmed. “If you push me into the pool right now, Kimberly Hart, I swear I will drown.”

Kimberly laughs, loud enough to draw Zach’s attention. She shifts away incrementally, trying not to spook Trini. “I make you forget how to swim?” she says, “Romantic.” Kimberly pauses, eyeing the boys carefully before she leans in close to Trini’s ear. “Wanna see my room?”

Trini’s got her pinned against the door, kissing her messy and deep, Kimberly’s bikini top skewed to the side. Trini’s hands are covering her chest instead, massaging her carefully, thumbing over her nipples.

Kimberly splays her hands across Trini’s bare back, fingers dimpling her skin. She moves to cup at the back of Trini’s thighs, urging her to straddle her leg. Kimberly can feel her slick through her bikini bottom and moans into her mouth, coaxing her into a slow grind.

Trini keens, the kiss stalling as her mouth falls open, staccato breaths punctuating the space between their lips.

“Is this okay?” Kimberly says, so high pitched and breathy she hardly recognizes her voice. Trini nods desperately, pressing in again, nipping at Kimberly’s bottom lip.

“Jesus, yes.”

Jason’s voice reaches them like a bucket of cold water, a distant echo from downstairs. “Uh, guys? We need a fourth for our game of chicken?” A pause. “This has been a very long bikini malfunction.”

Trini bites hard at her own palm and Kimberly can’t tell if she’s trying to restrain a groan or a laugh. Kimberly lets her head fall back against her bedroom door with a muted thud, and calls back.

“It was urgent you asshole, we’ll be down in a second!” She adjusts her bikini and straightens, cupping Trini’s face in her palms. “You good?”

Trini pouts, turning her face to press a kiss against Kimberly’s palm. “I’m considering murdering Jason but besides that.”

Kimberly laughs, opening her door and taking Trini’s hand, tugging toward the stairs. “I’ll help.”

Trini and Kimberly absolutely destroy the boys at chicken and no one mentions the line of hickeys blossoming across Kimberly’s chest.

Jason burns the burgers but they eat them anyway, smothered in ketchup and mustard and tasting faintly like chlorine. The sun is setting now, casting golden ripples across the surface of the pool, the rays shimmering into translucence as a breeze stirs the waters.

They all pile on the grass, water-worn and drowsy, watching the sky twist and darken over the picturesque, gabled sweep of Angel Grove. Trini wipes a smudge of ketchup from the corner of Kimberly’s mouth before coaxing her head onto her stomach, hooking her fingers around Jason’s palm.

They lay in silence, listening to the town breathe, the expanse, the grid, as much a part of them as blood and sinew and bone. Trini feels a warmth settle in her chest, gilded and still, a sense of belonging, found pillowed under the old, broad-branched elm in Kimberly Hart’s backyard.

Trini wants to tell them that she loves them, wants to explain what all this means to her: that she has never felt more like herself than she does now. That for the first time in her life, through countless schools and homes and towns, she has finally found somewhere she wants to stay.

The words won’t come, like gems lodged in stubborn quarry rock, they stick fast in her throat, a declaration for another day. She settles for something easier, sifting her free hand through Kimberly’s hair absently to give her the strength.

“You guys,” she says, startling away the silence, “I really love it here.”

Billy hums his assent, reaching out to tug at a lock of her hair. Zack grins, stretching over Billy to pinch at her cheek. Jason turns his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, and Kimberly just smiles, catching at the hand that cards through her hair.

“We know, Trini,” Billy finally says. “Us too.”

They lay there until the sun goes down, and then a little bit longer, just because.

Kimberly makes a habit of coming to Friday night dinners, roughhousing with the boys after dessert and helping Trini’s mom with the dishes, buried elbow deep in soapsuds at the kitchen sink while Trini dries.

They go up to Trini’s bedroom after, splay on her rug and do homework, swapping answers and laughing over the hideously outdated bio textbook. Sometimes they just kiss, lazy and long and patient, mouthing over necks and chests, kissing soft at wrists and foreheads and cheeks.

Kimberly leaves before it gets dark, saying bye to Mrs. and Mr. Kwan and the twins on the way out.

Later, in a few days or weeks or months, Trini will take her hand in the hallway after bio and press a kiss to the dimple of her cheek when she drops Kimberly off at calculus. Jason will ban them from sparring at training, saying it turns too explicit for even an omniscient, ageless disembodied head who has presumably seen everything anyway.

But for now she stops by her beat-up Subaru in the driveway and looks back, finds Trini leaning out her bedroom window watching, and blows her a kiss.

And it’s enough.

#trimberly #power rangers #trini x kimberly #trini kwan #kimberly hart #my writing #trimberly fic #the prompt was to base it on the song dont be so shy by imany which as a terrific idea!!!#thank you!!#theres a lot of kissing and groping so.........be warned

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sarahdrewthat · 8 years ago

Text

Sweet Vintage

Summary: Telenova is here hehe

Rating: T

Word Count: GOODBYE

A/N- @illneverrecover @omgawkward @windy-scribbles Dinner with Jumin Han, mmm

~~~~~~

Dinner soon passed and you were in awe at what kinds of steak this man ate and still seemed to fit perfectly into his dry-cleaned suit. The same waiter that attended you that night whisked away your plates, leaving you both with only glasses of champagne. Thank God the wine was quickly rid of during the course of the meal. A wine that strong needed to be swallowed down with some meat.

Lifting his cloth napkin to the corner of his lips, Jumin patted down any remaining stains from the meal before. You smiled as you raised your sparkling champagne to your lips, examining his actions. For some strange reason, you found his hands to be absolutely captivating.

HIs fingers were manly in a very slim form that created swift, almost flowing, motions when he used his hands to talk. The alcohol had done you some, you think to yourself. Why were you suddenly thinking about his fingers of all things? You usually concentrated on other parts of the body language if the person so happened to interest you.

Jumin set his napkin down neatly. “I thank you, MC, for agreeing to attend dinner with me before settling to business matters straightaway.”

Your eyes watched carefully as his fingers disappeared under the table to touch his belt. After a few swift motions and a click, Jumin carefully loosened his belt to allow his slightly bloated stomach to breathe. Your gaze grew soft as his abdomen leaned to the side, resting his elbow on the armrest and those lovely fingers of his held up his chin.

That chin...how solid.

“...it was nothing,” you hesitated before drawing the rim of the cordial glass back to your lips to hide your heavy breath. “Jumin.”

Jumin blinked a smile at the mention of his moniker being tried on your tongue. Through your eyes, he saw you were tired and possibly intoxicated, but they held an emotion he never thought he would see in a woman like you: absolute ardor.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued. Jumin would have to pay his respects to the wine later on, should anything exciting enough happen. He was a virgin, no doubt, but losing it to you--

Oh, what was he thinking?

Fantasizing? When you were right here? Had he gone mad? Too much wine perhaps, but Jumin wasn’t complaining.

You held each other’s gaze for a moment before placing your glass down. “Right. As pleasant as this dinner was, I was not sent for fancy meat tasting.”

Jumin chuckled. No matter how polite you were, you somehow managed to sneak in a truthful fact that would have injured his ego had he been soft. Luckily, he was not. That was Yoosung’s job.

“Of course.”

With this small permission, you turned to your satchel you had abandoned to the side earlier. Pushing a few clicks on the belt of the flap, your delicate fingers raised the mouth of the bad open to reach in for an inky folder. Jumin’s charcoal eyes followed carefully as you gently slid aside the cordial glass along with its near-empty bottle to make space for your folder.

This folder, too, had a small belt and with a flip of a nail, the folder sprung open and allowed you to catch it before the files inside flew everywhere. After scrolling through seemingly endless papers, your face lit up at finding your prized file and pulled it out swiftly before closing the folder.

A deep breath as you examined the words. “I suppose you are familiar with the stock drop recently?”

“Yes.” Jumin’s baritone voice rang out suddenly. You had missed its warm comforting tone. “ Over a thousand businesses have lost their workers and revenue dropped at an alarming rate.”

You looked up. “You speak of small businesses. Rallies and protests have been sound over the past week. Streets were blocked, windows smashed,” you took another sigh as if reading off of your mind. “And many were arrested.”

“This is not my problem.”

You narrowed your eyes. The Jumin you met at the beginning of the dinner had evolved into another man. Perhaps the wine spoke for him.

“I am not stating that this is yours to control, Mr. Han. However, you do realize the huge corporations affect the market and whether you see it or not, your business will not escape the evident crash the economy will experience.”

Jumin smiled and leaned back into his plush leather seat. You were feisty, a trait he did not seem to see over food and wine. You were another person over monetary matters. Interesting…

“I help the economy with my businesses.” He stated, cockiness resonating with his words.

You raised an eyebrow. “By initiating cat businesses and propositions for feline comfort?”

Closing his eyes, Jumin’s smile disappeared slowly as he smoothed out his collar. “What I bring into my corporation is not based on whims. It’s discovering ways to give people new jobs and exciting experiences to a work environment.”

“I am not sure why my boss allowed himself to agree to collaborate with C&R in the first place.” You proceeded to shuffle through the pages to hand the businessman for himself to see. “Our compromise to work with your corporation will possibly lead us to an even greater downfall than before.”

You slipped a few pages of numbers and marks of your business corporation from the past four years across the table. Jumin brought the papers closer to him with two slim fingers, to which you allowed your gaze to lift for only this sight.

Jumin hummed when he saw the marks, flipping through the pages as his eyes scanned each one meticulously. “Do you think perhaps he sent you was because you knew how to get your way around people?”

You shot your head up to stare at him. He did not meet your gaze, but after a few moments of feeling a pair of eyes on him, Jumin glanced up with a small playing on his lips. Your heartbeat increased at the was his head was positioned to look at you; his eyes shadowed by ebony locks, eyebrows showing no emotion, his lips twitching playfully.

“What makes you assume that?” you cursed internally when you heard your voie cracked at the end of your question. Jumin lowered his eyes to the paper once more.

“I’m a people person.” He said softly. “I know how to read emotions, motives, and desires of every partner I meet. It’s simply the way I was raised to observe others.”

“Rumor has it you have a sole companion at home, this being a cat.”

He chuckled. “This is true. For courtesy's sake, I will not ask you where you received that information.”

You smiled a little, gently tugging at your bottom lip in thought, not caring if the lipstick stained your teeth. “I have associates here and there. Don’t you worry, Mr. Han, I have my secrets as well.”

His eyes met your own in a simultaneous stare. “I have no secrets to keep.”

You raised an eyebrow, putting on a saucy expression. With one hand leaving the clutch of papers in your left hand, you reached for the cordial glass filled with the expensive white wine you ordered at the brink of the flight. “Oho? An unusual answer for an enigmatic man such as yourself.”

A tug at the corner of his lips. “You think me enigmatic?”

“Who wouldn’t?” You raised the rim to your lips, ignoring the stinging that enveloped your taste buds. You probably shouldn’t drink more alcohol than necessary, but you needed an escape. This man was making you jittery than you normally were. No man has ever had this effect on you before.

A small laugh escaped his throat, startling your brain. His laugh was as rich, if not richer, than his monetary value itself. Deep, pausing, and genuine. He must have found you humourous.

Shaking his head as his laughter died down, Jumin sighed and turned back to the paper in his hand. “Well, I have a few friends--or maybe I should say a certain acquaintance of mine-- who may think otherwise.”

You placed your glass down. “Would this acquaintance happen to be the popular actor Hyun Ryu?”

He visibly froze. Here come the questions, you sighed internally. Jumin’s silver irises pierced into your own as he stared at you with a slightly shocked expression. You carefully set your papers down and rubbed your knuckles, preparing for the bombardment of questions.

“How did you know?”

You lowered your gaze to watch your own, uninteresting fingers rub your knuckles for comfort and warmth. “I think you mean to ask who told me rather than how I know.”

“Both will suffice.” His cold tone scared you, but you were glad your bangs hid your knitting brows.

You dimpled slightly. Such an ignorant man. “Had you simply read what lay before you, Mr. Han, you would have received the answer to your questions.”

Jumin glared at you slightly, or at least you thought his strong gaze was an angry one. Too much wine, you chanted. Too much wine. Cautiously, Jumin turned back to his papers, but not before giving you a suspicious look. You watched as his eyes scanned the page quickly as if looking for a remedy. Nearly two minutes later, his eyes widened and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

He found it.

Kyssena’s has been in collaboration with several companies and has even gone so far as to meeting with grass-root organizations and fundraisers, such as MADD, KID, APA, ASAP, FML, and….

RFA.

Rika’s

Fundraising

Association.

#sweet vintage #jumin han x mc #jumin han #mc #mystic messenger #omgawkward #illneverrecover #windy-scribbles #my writing #dinner

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nicksstoryvault · 8 years ago

Photo

Brennen Barnes didn't like girls. Unlike the monumental sum of boys his age, he didn't think they had cooties or some weird jinx that came with getting too close to them. But as an only son growing up with what was now a trio of daughters—siblings—he thought girls were annoying and bossy. He didn't like to be bossed around. He hated it in fact. Each time he heard Rora's pushy voice telling him what to do or not to do, the young wolf felt a scratching sensation against his back, as if nails were being dragged up and down his body.

So the fact that all the young girls at the party kept following him to pull him into silly games like patty-cake, made him all the more frustrated. He hated this party. He hated the uncomfortable clothes daddy made him wear. He hated these girls who looked at him with stars in their eyes. And most of all, he hated the little punk who was the celebrating his birthday at this party. A pretty boy who was used to having everyone gush over him, and having everything. He was skinny, prissy and Brennen wanted to punch his face. But he promised daddy he'd behave. Sitting at a chair at a table with Rora and some of the other kids, he taps his foot impatiently, just waiting for the stupid cake to be served so they can go home. Dressed in the elegance of a young princess, with her virbrant chestnut whorls hair done up into a chignon that had a white rose pushed attached to the clip, Aurora embraced the air of royalty, wearing a sleeves crimson flower beaded dress, and matching ballet slippers; she truly carried the visage of a princess, caging her brazen fire as she tried to engage the other kids attention. That soon became obstructed when she gazed at her moody and irritable twin brother, ignoring the protesting growls that he emitted against his clenched teeth. Brennen looked menacingly adorable like a cantankerous kitten with unkempt fur and piercing frosted azure eyes.His wolfish mane of dark chestnut was tied back into a knotted ponytail, his slender and hardened body of chiseled muscle garbed in a tailored charcoal gray suit, with a few buttons undone. He carried the distinct and boyish visage of his father, the same lethal edge and stubborn temper --he was a dwarf sized version of the Winter Soldier; on the outside, he wore a semblance of a Brooklyn charm, behind that guise, he was little roguish pup who desired to roam back into the darkness. Smirking beautifully at his temperamental display, Aurora couldn't restrain a giggle, as she watched Brennen tighten a little hand into an effectual fist. She nudged him forcibly in the shoulder, feeling the vicious pulse teeming in his rigid body. "Bren, you gotta stop," she urged lowly, saddling him with an imploring stare of icy sapphire. "Daddy wants us to play nice, so no puttin' anyone crossed in your sights on the ropes tonight, kay?" Hearing the bossy voice of his twin, Brennen's eyes squint into a pinching frown. Rora wouldn't let up, even for one night. "Stop bossin' me. We're at a party, and it sucks," he felt the need to voice his displeasure, uncaring if any of the other kids heard him and decided to tell a grown-up. He glances at Aurora beside him with something resembling a pout. "I just wanna go already. Why can't they hurry up and serve this cake!" He whines, dropping his head back dramatically which seemed to incite the group of kids sitting with them. "Don't go eating the end piece, that's mine! I call dibs!" One of the kids, an enthusiastic Asian boy with glasses yells from over the table. Brennen glares at him as if spotting a challenger. "I wasn't talkin' to you! I don't even want cake!" Brennen huffs with agitation. This drew the attention of the son of the esteemed host. A snobby brat who thought he was so pretty and better than everyone. "Good because you're not getting any, chubby. It's my cake, and I decide who gets a piece." The little brat smirks cheekily, feeling as if he were a little prince among a crowd of peasants who didn't even deserve to be here. Brennen's face began to turn a shade of red, a throbbing pulse of fire ran through his veins that began to fuel his movements as he rose from his chair. "Oh yeah? I'll tell you what you can do with that cake you little—" "Bren, that's enough," Aurora growled tersely while flashing a kittenish smile at the arrogant raven haired host, who twirled a pale finger over the rim of his raspberry punch. Her chance of making friends was vanquished by her brother's sourness and untamed temper. He was a power keg of raw emotions, any little thing would trigger an explosive reaction. Extending an arm over Brennen's waist, she desperately tried to restrain him. "He's not worth it, Bren, back down..."

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

The outdoors was a spacious arena of calm and levity for Bucky Barnes compared to the turbulent noise that waged inside the estate. Parties weren't his idea of fun, despite how outgoing and lively he had been as a kid in Brooklyn who took pretty dames out to dance. He wasn't sure if it was old age setting in, or the fact that he had changed so much in so little biological years that stretched to decades in history. But somehow, the sight of little children, so innocent and full of life, reminded him of happier times. They were the light which sparked a beacon from within, drawing his inner-child back into the older shell. He loved kids—to be exact—he loved HIS kids, which were by far his primary mission in his modern life he'd built for himself. The soft coos and baby gibberish in his ears warmed his heart while the smell of mint and baby formula touched his nostrils. Shifting his stare to the precious bundle he held against his chest, he smiles warmly at the sight of his 1 year old daughter, Frost, just beginning to come out of her small nap with a cute yawn. "Hey there, snowflake, did you sleep all right?" He whispers against her brunette locks.

Listening to her father's soothing timbre, so deep and jovial, the baby girl cooed in a hushed response, fluttering open her tiny eyelids, revealing the vivid shades of frosted azure, that were bright as distant starlight. She tilted her head against the crook of Bucky's angled cybertronic metallic arm, still nestled cozily against the solid planes of his thick chest, where the steady thump of his heartbeat served as a pacifying rhythm. Now, she was alert-fully engaged and ready to take on the night--wiggling slightly against the wake of hunger, she fussed and thrusted her fisting hands upwards, seizing his long dark tresses with a firm grip. "Dada..." she gurgled out, staring into his mirroring steel-blue depths.

A hearty chuckle blew past Bucky's lips as they pulled into a breathtaking grin. "Moroznyy (Frosty)…" he chimes, lifting up his little angel until she's carefully nestled against his chest. "Hope my little snowflake, had a nice rest. The party is just beginning." He says to her. Frost had only started talking a little over a month ago, tiny word fragments in the usual baby-talk pattern, but her first word had been clear as he just heard it seconds ago. She had been full of surprises since the moment she'd came into this world. The many people who saw her tonight were in awe of her natural pale skin and her icy blue eyes. They complemented her name as being quite fitting. He dressed her in a small baby-sized dress that was entirely cotton on the inside to keep her warm and cozy. Her growing length of hair was still short, but thickening strands were pulled into twin pigtails that rose off the top of the left and right of her head. Her tiny head bobs slightly as she gazes out with big blue eyes at their surroundings. They were in the garden of the estate, which was awash by the radiant colors of twilight. They sit against a stone stairway and watching the numerous little kids play with each other on the grass, among them being his precious Mattie. A few adults stood by also watching their children while catting among themselves. Bucky had politely withdrawn from a number of conversations, particularly with a few singles women who were enamored with his good-looks and the very sight of him being such a joy with children. He didn't come to make new friends. Which was why he and his kids were just enjoying their own company until the festivities came to their conclusion. "Look at your big sister, snezhinka (snowflake)." Bucky coos against Frost's ear, watching just as numerous kids were as little Mattie Barnes sways across the grass and stone floor with the grace and poise of a ballerina.

Evading herself from the cacophony of the opulent party goers inside the mansion, Madison carved to feel the soft caresses of the night air and the luminescent power of the moonlight. She welcomingly cherished the contrasts of darkness, an element she effortlessly mastered when she strayed away from parties. She was considered an outsider in social groups since her angelic and enchanting beauty was incomparable to most girls her age. She was a dark little swan, friendless and gracefully elegant in her lithe kittenish form. Tonight, Mattie wanted to sit with her twined siblings, pretend to wore the visage of a princess, but she had an audience to impress, watching her perform her balletic twirls with fluid precision and feline grace. Her movements flowed in sync as she balanced her lithe weight on an arched foot, hoisting the other with unfaltering control until she reached her acquired stance. Her Auntie Tasha would be so proud of her. Spinning around on a pivoted heel, she gazed at her father stood near an arched stone gate, looking dangerously alluring in the shadows, as he cradled little Frost in his arms, rocking with a gentle sway.

"Snova! (Encore!)" Bucky cheers with genuine awe at his little girl's natural display of grace and agility. Her form and skills had improved greatly over the last couple of years, especially since she had begun to practice with Romanoff each time he and the kids visited the Avengers compound in New York. His former Russian rival had even complimented Mattie as being a prodigy whose talent should be explored to its fullest potential, something that had thrilled his little girl and likewise, made Bucky proud. To show his encouragement, he softly claps his hands while keeping Frost secured in his arms. Surrounding them, even a few adults and kids shared in his support and appreciation of Mattie's display.

Performing a climactic bow, Mattie smiled brightly at her father's echoing applause, whipping her head up as long silken mahogany strands lashed over her cool alabaster features; suddenly her mother's cunning and hyper-aware instincts detected ominous danger, while her inner wolf spirit vigorously caught a wafting and reachable stench of rank fat coming from the other side of the lavish estate. Her delicate nose crinkled against the distinct redolence of distressed pig. Her uncertainty betrayed the delighted glints shining in her dark eyes, as she quickly grabbed her slippered shoes and raced towards Bucky. "Daddy, what's that smell?" she asked, her lyrical voice held an edge of alarming dread.

Confused at his daughter's question, Bucky concentrates on the scents surrounding them. At first, he could detect nothing unusual behind the smell of baby formula, pine and mint. "I don't smell…" Then there was the smell of something that reminded him of a filthy barnhouse where animals lived in squalor. That was when Bucky's sharp ears registered the sudden commotion that was as alarming as a sea of panic, and devastating as a car crash. It was coming from inside the estate. Dread clawed in his gut, one that he loathed as it brought him nothing but fear against the most terrifying of possibilities. His blue eyes are wide and unblinking as he sees a horde of guests exchanging shocked looks with each other.

His sense of danger and foreboding triggered inside of him, and that had Bucky rising to his feet and gesturing for Mattie to take Frost. "Hold your sister, Mattie." He is quick but careful to rest his baby into her arms before he makes a beeline for the inside of estate.

Feeling her little infant sister writhing stubbornly against her secure embrace, Mattie was dueling with rampant emotions, she refused to stay outside with the group of strangers, not when she detected an impending presence looming over the estate. Veering her dark eyes towards the patio, she watched Bucky slip back inside the glass doors, his movements frantic and unhinged. Gearing herself up to sprint across the grass, she cradled her hand delicately over Frost's tiny head, breathed deeply and then gunned with momentum to the glass door, instincts shot off an alarm, haphazardly as she felt an unnatural coldness rake over her svelte body. The apparitions of danger were close, as she resolved to call after her father."Daddy, wait, don't..."

Five minutes earlier… The mounting sense of irritation and anger had neared the tipping point for Brennen as he felt himself being dragged, like dead weight, towards the large banquet table where a crowd of kids and adults gathered just in time to see the rich snob get his precious cake. His little hands tightened into fists, but he made no move to fight back as Rora pulled him to join her and the others kids watchin'. "I can walk, Rora," Brennen scowled with a shrug as he forces himself to match her pace. He bumps into a fat man's stomach, then proceeds to glare at him as if he would eat him alive. "Hey, watch it," he grumbles, still following Rora's lead.

"Bren, stop actin' like a jerk," Aurora seethed against gritted teeth, her grip tightening with a pulse of urgency as she continued to drag him away from the chair before he unleashed his extent of his anger on the smug brat. His steel-blue irises radiated with an arresting gleam of predatory malice exhibiting a notch of his unrestrained aggression, as he sneered darkly at his target. She needed to cool him off. "C'mon, don't rise up to it, Bren, remember Uncle Stevie told us that stupid bullies are always lookin' for a fight?"

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