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crossroadsfossil · 4 years ago

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Sunburns

Summary:

Dabi used to have a soulmark on his wrist. He didn’t have one anymore. It had burned off sometime during his teenage years and he hadn’t thought of it since. No longer having a mark didn’t mean he lost his soulmate, however. He still felt them. He was one of those pairs that shared pain and shared pleasure.

The two of them shared both often enough that Dabi had a pretty good idea what sort of man his other half was. Reckless and selfish and covered in as many hurts as Dabi was.

Dabi prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that they would never, ever meet in this lifetime or the next.

A03 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31346459

Prompt: Soulmates

Tags: Soulmate au, Soulmates are different for everyone but dabi has soulmate mark and soulmate pain-sharing, fun right?, oblivious dabi, not so oblivious hawks

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Dabi knows he has a soulmate.

Some people are born with marks. He was not, and it was something his mother told him was a good thing.

He didn’t remember when he got his mark- he just remembers it was sometime before his hair had faded fully to white. It was a small mark, on the inside of his left wrist.

The mark was gone now, having burnt away with the rest of his skin, but it used to be a small, black diamond. Small enough that you could mistake it for a mole or a freckle. It’s probably for the best that it was small. His father would have burnt if off in the hopes that he would forget it.

He rubbed a thumb over where the mark used to be, catching on one of the staples there and sending a familiar zing of pain up his arm.

That was another thing.

He knew he had a soulmate; he knew they could feel his pain. He’d felt theirs often enough growing up.

Hunger pains. Pricking needles in his toes and fingers, not unlike when Fuyumi lost control of her quirk and had almost frozen his fingers. There were times when parts of him ached- throbbing bruises that weren’t his own and backaches. He hated the backaches the most. They weren’t severe, but they felt much like the growing pains he’d had as a teenager, or those long months after the incident on the mountain when he was growing the worst of his muscles back. No matter how good his back-alley doctor was, she couldn’t do much to ease those deep aches.

A shadow crossed overhead, blocking out the light pollution and the dim glow from a nearby building. He glanced up, following the form as the figure banked and came toward him, wings pushing backwards to slow his descent before landing with that strange little hop of his.

“Hey, firebug.” Hawks greeted, wings held awkwardly as the hero shrugged off a backpack.

“What do you want?” Dabi asked, not getting up from his seat. Parts of him were overheating, a combination of the low-fever he had been fighting the entire week combined with the overuse of his quirk from a fight earlier that day.

“To see my favorite asshole.” Hawks said, legs tucking under him as he sat down in front of Dabi, pulling things out of his bag. It took a moment for Dabi to focus on what, exactly, Hawks had been pulling out, but once he had, he realized it was medical supplies and what looked like food. Hawks gestured for Dabi to hold out his arms.

Dabi flipped him off.

“Seriously? I can smell you from here.”

“How the fuck did you get here so fast?”

“The doctor called. The not-league one. Said you missed an appointment. Grumbled something I won’t repeat.”

That caused Dabi’s brows to rise. “What, afraid to repeat filthy words in case your media presence catches it?”

Hawks barked out a laugh, tugging his own gloves off and gesturing for Dabi’s arms again. He relented, shrugging out of his coat and giving Hawks one of his arms. The skin was already pulling back from the seams on his hand. Hawks gently pressed against the skin with his fingertips, gauging the heat that was still trapped within. It wasn’t the first time Hawks had done this- at this point, most of the league has helped Dabi at one point or another. Some, like Spinner and Hawks, because the smell bothered them. Others, like Toga, because she was forever fascinated by the way his seams would bleed. Twice and Shigaraki and oddly enough, Compress, were those who actually seemed sincerely concerned about him, although all three expressed such in wildly different fashions.

“No. I won’t repeat it because I have no idea how to make those sounds with my mouth. I’m a bird, not a cat.” Hawks said before his focus was completely on Dabi’s arms. Dabi let the hero work. It was actually fascinating to watch the switch between the celebrity mask and the hero mask. The true hero mask. The one that settled a little more heavily on his face, that seemed to fit just a smidge better than any other fake expression he wore.

Dabi’s stomach grumbled about halfway into letting Hawks tend to him. Not a breath later one of his feathers was hovering in front of him, carrying a manju on top of it. Dabi’s nose wrinkled.

“Do I want to know where that feather’s been?” Dabi asked, although he still took the manju from them. He bit into it, almost groaning in delight. This was from the store by Nakano station.

“It’s a short list. My back, the shower, my bed. It’s one of my auxiliaries. It doesn’t see much action.” Hawks said as he finished the arm. Dabi didn’t move, more amused to watch Hawks shuffle like a crab around to his other side instead of getting to his feet like a normal person.

By the time Dabi finished all the food in the bag and started working on the bottles of water, Hawks had moved to Dabi’s back, pushing Dabi’s shirt up in order to work on his shoulders. He tutted over them- grumbling about how if Dabi kept this up, the scarring was going to extend again. Dabi tuned him out, staring at the city skyline until more small feathers floated towards him, carrying a familiar pull bottle.

He eyed the pills warily, no matter how tempting it was to down a handful. The pain was starting to ramp up a notch, a residual burn that was quite familiar to him by now. It was also deep enough that there would be inflammation in the rest of his body by morning. It would settle in his joints and make walking and moving painful while his body attempted to heal from the overexertion, and that was before whatever side effects this fever decided to throw at him. He could feel the headache coming on, which was odd as he normally didn’t get headaches when sick.

The feathers shook the pill bottle insistently. He didn’t doubt that they were legit. Hawks probably got him good painkillers, unlike some of the dealers who like to swap out every other pill for a lookalike or grind them up and cut them with other things.

“You should take these,” Hawks said, voice tense. Dabi didn’t reach for the pills, just sipped at the water until it was gone. Another water bottle was offered and he took it.

“I’d rather not.”

“Yeah, well. If I can smell you that means you’re hurting so just take the pills. I can always call your doctor back and let her know.”

Dabi weighed the options. He could take the pain meds and be pain-free and a little out of it for twelve hours or he could piss off his doctor and annoy Hawks all at once. The latter was incredibly tempting, up until Hawks dug a knuckle into his ribcage.

“Fine- fine. See? I’m taking them.” Dabi said, snagging the bottle from the feathers, ignoring the sigh of relief from Hawks. As soon as the hero leaned forward to grab something, he elbowed the hero in the face.

“Fucking hell Dabi-” Hawks hissed, jerking back and gingerly touching his nose. Dabi hadn’t broken it. Hadn’t even bloodied it, the baby. Before he could react, one of the feathers chucked a water bottle at his face. His nose ached, and he was bleeding, although when he reached up to check it seemed to be coming from one of his seams and not his nose, no matter how much his nose was aching. Just what he needed. More pain.

“You’re such a dick.” Hawks grumbled, getting to his feet. Despite his grumbling, he still offered a hand to Dabi.

“Right back at you.” Dabi replied, tentatively feeling his face. None of the staples had popped. Just bleeding. He took Hawks’ hand, letting the hero pull him to his feet while a feather scooped up his coat and offered it to him like one of those gentlemen in the movies Toga’ watched. He shot Hawks a warning look, which the hero ignored.

He watched as Hawks gathered up everything, shoving the trash in one of the store bags and the rest of it in the backpack, which was then held out to him.

Shit, Dabi wasn’t going to say no to free medical supplies.

“Alright, well. I’ll leave you be. Meeting still on Thursday?” Hawks asked, shooting Dabi a quizzical look. “Dabi?”

Dabi wasn’t listening. Not really. He was too busy being frozen in place, eyes locked on Hawks’ bare wrist, at the small diamond that almost looked like a freckle. Hawks followed his gaze down.

“Fuck.” The hero hissed, dropping the backpack.

“HAWKS.” Dabi shouted, chasing after the hero. How Hawks was able to move so fast was beyond him, considering how much pain Dabi was in as he tried to get his muscles to stretch enough to give chase. Hawks glanced at him over a shoulder before taking a leap off the building, wings catching him.

Dabi watched as Hawks flew off, his nose throbbing with pain as he realized it wasn’t his own.

#bnha fic #bnha #dabihawks fic #dabihawks #my fic

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polar534 · 4 years ago

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Hockey AU: Pizza Date Pt. 2

Hey! Fun fact, I wrote this months ago. Does this mean it predates Dana confirming there is no homophobia on the Isles? Yes it does. Very excited about it. :3

Anyways I won't waste your time any longer. I know both of these are pfairly short but it's been a 2-parter ever since I posted it in my discord I'm a part of. (Shout-outs once more to my friends there. Y'all lovely people and know what you did. >.>)

No TW this time. Just some fluff and explanations.

***

“Luz can you slow down a bit? I’m sure the house isn’t going anywhere.” Amity complained as the human led her forcibly down the street.

Her voice seemed to cut through the chaos in Luz’s mind like a knife. She focused on her hand and gave Amity an apologetic squeeze as she slowed down.

“I’m sorry. Look at me, dragging you around at breakneck speed when you’re still tired and run-down from practice.” Luz smiled sheepishly, falling in line with her girlfriend to walk next to her.

“Well, actually the food helped quite a bit.” Amity admitted truthfully, before turning to face Luz sharply. “But don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” Luz grinned back at her.

They walked in silence for a bit, Luz struggling to process exactly what had happened back at the pizza joint. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way, that nothing her and Amity did was wrong, but it didn’t keep the feeling of fear from creeping in.

Amity seemed to pick up on her discomfort though, as she always did, and pulled her girlfriend to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. For a moment, Luz feared she would want to talk about what just happened, and felt the knot rising to her throat but instead Amity simply asked her to come back to the ice rink with her.

“There’s a couple of shots that I could probably use some advice on. Plus, I was really enjoying just getting to spend some time with you. Home can wait a little longer.”

***

Amity was panting as she skated over to Luz who had half a pizza crust hanging out of her mouth. She grinned as Amity took her helmet off and leaned up against the small railing separating the player box from the rink.

“You are looking amazing out there! The other teams aren’t going to know what hit em!" Luz exclaimed excitedly, barely managing to swallow the crust before jumping up to grasp Amity's hands.

Amity laughed as a blush spread across her face. "Thanks Luz, but for the most part I won't be making any shots in-game. My job is going to mostly be defense. That means body checking anyone who comes near my teammate with the puck." She said with a confident grin.

Luz watched her confidence with a wide smile. She got to watch her girlfriend not only have fun, but also slam into other players multiple times in one night? On purpose?!

How lucky could she possibly get?

"But wait, if you aren't really going to have the puck, why'd we come back here to practice your shots?"

It was Amity's turn to smirk as she pointed at the empty pizza box sitting next to Luz.

"Well. You didn't touch your food at the restaurant first of all. And secondly, I knew something was bothering you. And when something bothers Luz Noceda, she needs distractions to make herself feel useful before she can start to feel better." The witch answered plainly, giving Luz's hands a squeeze.

Luz's smile slipped. Amity noticed it fade and pulled her hands forward, yanking Luz up from her sitting position.

"Come on Chaos, let's skate for a bit."

"Oh, Amity, I'm not sure that's the best ide-" Luz tried arguing, but Amity had pulled back just enough that the human had to scramble over the railing or risk being squished into it.

As soon as her feet touched the ice, Luz's legs slipped out from under her. Amity's arms were there to support her in an instant, providing just enough balance that they began to glide backwards, almost peacefully, around the ice. Every once and awhile Luz's limbs would freak out and she would nearly wipe out, but every time Amity was right there, holding her up and the girls would devolve into giggles once again.

When they were both exhausted from fighting Luz's inability to function on ice, Amity guided them both off the rink and they took a seat in the players box once again.

"Ok. I swear. One of these day's I'm finally going to just get it and I'll be able to walk all over the ice. Just you wait." Luz promised Amity as she wrapped an arm around her girlfriend's shoulders.

"I believe you'll keep trying anyways." Amity laughed with her, leaning into the embrace.

Suddenly she stiffened. Turning around, Luz saw it in her amber eyes how serious she was.

"Now, Noceda. You're either going to talk to me about what happened back at the restaurant or I'm going to toss you back onto the ice and you can try again right now." She growled menacingly.

Luz gulped.

"Ok ok! I'll tell you. I'm not really in the mood to go splat right now anyways." She squeaked out in a nervous rush.

Amity's eyes softened as she waited for Luz to continue.

"It's just that, I don't know if you heard or noticed, since you were kinda tired earlier, but those ladies who were sitting by us... they kept raising a fuss. Which is stupid! I shouldn't care what they think, and I don't! But... they kept bothering everyone on the staff and the other customers. I was getting worried that things were going to escalate and I didn't want you to get caught up in all of that."

Amity's face was blank as she puzzled together what Luz had said. Maybe her reaction didn't make sense after all. Luz was probably overreacting anyways...

"Raising a fuss? Why would they raise a fuss over us?" Amity asked curiously.

Luz's eyes widened. It wasn't like Amity to be oblivious, that description mostly fell to the human, but the genuine innocence in her girlfriend's voice worried her.

"About us, because we were there. Together. Being happy." Luz answered bitterly, holding Amity even tighter.

Luz watched as Amity's face twisted into a confused frown. It suddenly occured to her that the witch may not actually know what homophobia really was. In all the time Luz had spent in the Boiling Isles, she never encountered anything like it.

"Amity... they were disgusted by us. There are some people here who think love should only exist between a male and a female." Luz explained grimly, avoiding looking at the witch beside her.

"But.. why? What about, any person not of those genders? I don’t see how they can just limit love like that. Or why."

"You don't have homophobia on the Isles then."

"Homo... what?! Is that some kind of human insult?"

Luz chuckled. "Well, yes and no. It just means people who are afraid of same sex couples, but it can extend to the intolerance of anything 'not straight.'"

"Oh... ok. So the fear leads to hatred. And then you get 3 ladies causing a fuss." Amity nodded, finally understanding. "On the Boiling Isles there's so many different sentient species that it never mattered who you loved. "

"Yeah... well here it seems to matter too much."

Both girl's were quiet. Luz had never felt ashamed of who she was, but for those few minutes in the restaurant she was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if they didn't leave.

"Luz?" Amity asked suddenly.

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me next time something's bothering you like that?"

Luz froze. Amity sounded so hurt. She leaned her head into the crook of her girlfriend's neck and closed her eyes.

"Yeah. I will. I promise."

Amity leaned her head right back into Luz and sighed, content with the answer.

"Thank you."

***

Later that night, before they both went to bed, Luz would curiously check inside the extra box that the man at the counter had slipped her, wondering why it seemed a little bit heavier then the other, empty, boxes.

Inside she'd find a giant cookie and a note written in pen taped to the inside of the lid that read: "Next game the Otter's win, pizza's on us. No old birds or homophobes allowed. :)"

#toh au #the owl house #toh #lumity #hockey au #the owl house au #luz noceda #amity blight

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

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Riding High

Ch25: Keep it Simple

Chapter Summary: The events of Boston behind them, Frank, Fliss and Mary look forward to Christmas…and Frank has a big surprise planned.

Chapter Warnings: Bad Language words. Smut…NSFW and NO UNDER 18s!!!

Chapter Pairings: Frank Adler x OFC Fliss Gallagher

A/N: So here it is, the last in the series Riding High. Thank you to everyone who has helped and re-blogged and commended in any way. Do not fear, Frank and Fliss will be back in the next instalment of their adventure Riding On

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Fliss Gallagher and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Riding High Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 24

If you should ever leave me, thought life would still go on, believe me, the world could show nothing to me, so what good would living do me? God only knows what I’d be without you…

"Mary can you just hold on a second, please!" Frank sighed, grabbing the back of her coat to stop her shooting off into the crowd that streamed down the busy Manhattan sidewalk. "But Frank!" she turned and looked at him, her woollen hat jammed down over her ears "I just wanna see the stall!" "Yeah but you can't just run off!" He grumbled and beside him Fliss gave a chuckle. He turned to look at her "who gets so excited about damned wooden tree ornaments?" "Oh hush!" Fliss leaned up to give him a pack, her cold nose brushing his. In retaliation he pulled the front of her baby blue sparkly bobble hat down over her eye and she shoved him in the chest, laughing. "Fuck you!" "Chance would be a fine thing" he grumbled, taking Fliss’ hand as they headed after Mary. "Awww is that why you're grumpy?" Fliss grinned as they walked "Coz you haven't had any in nearly 3 days?" Frank pouted "No." "Liar..." "Ok, look...Frankie has needs..." he whined "I completely over looked the fact hanging out with an 8 year old in the room would be a cock block." "Always the shower..." Fliss teased and Frank snorted. "Yeah, right. Can you imagine? I give it 3 minutes before she came looking for us." "We go home tomorrow. I'll make it up to you then." Fliss grinned and he sighed. "What?" She laughed. "It’s just...you look so hot in all this winter clothing." Frank grinned. And he meant it. Seeing her wrapped up in a coat, hat and scarf had made her look all cute and cozy...and it had done inappropriate things to him for some odd reason. "Hmmm, you know most men get more turned on the less clothing their girls wear." She teased and he grinned. "Yeah, well, I'm not most men" She gave him a smile which he returned with a soft kiss as they stopped by the stall where Mary instantly dived into looking at the array of ornaments. After a few moments of looking she handed Frank one in the shape of a reindeer stag, and a doe for him and Fliss before selecting a robin for herself. "I think they're so pretty." She looked at the bird in her hand "I saw one at Evelyn's over thanks giving." "Ever heard the saying robins appear when loved ones are near?" Fliss asked. Mary shook her head. "No" "Well, I don't know about here but certainly in England we say it because there is an old belief by some people that a robin is a message from heaven, that a loved one is watching over you." "Do you believe that?" Mary looked at Fliss. Fliss hesitated "Well when my Dad's dad died I was 20 and I remember getting up the morning after he died and there was a robin on the fence of the back garden. Bill told me it was my granddad Alex come to check I was ok." "Do you think it was? Really I mean?" "I dunno sweetheart." Fliss sighed "I'd like it to be true..." "Then you should believe it was." Mary said, looking at her "Because isn't that what faith is? Believing something you want to be true?" Fliss looked at Frank who smiled and gave a small shake of his head. She turned back to Mary, smiling softly as she dropped a hand to the back of her head. This kid was unbelievably wise, but with such an innocence behind it all. "Yeah, I suppose it is." Fliss nodded. "Do you think the robin I saw could have been my mom?" She asked, her eyes wide. Frank at that point stepped in, carefully picking an answer that was ambiguous so as not to say yes, but also not dampening her spirits. "If your mom could I'm sure she would come and see you, make sure you're ok." Mary gave a nod, before she turned back to the stall, her attention back on the ornaments. "We need a dog for Thor, and a cat for Fred oh...and a pony for Monty." "What about Cap and Heidi?" Fliss asked, moving to inspect the selection of decorations. "Oh, yeah!" "This is gonna bankrupt me." Frank grumbled, his hands on Fliss' hips, chin resting on her shoulder as he observed the two of them. "Scrooge" Fliss shot back with a smile "Do you think Verity and Bill will like this one?" Mary held up a snowman. "Absolutely" Fliss nodded. "And can I get one for Evelyn?" She asked, selecting a snowflake. Despite the fact that they were now well into the fifty buck range for fucking tree decorations, Frank couldn't help but want to smile at Marys face. She was so thoughtful, the purity behind it all was, as usual, humbling. So he nodded "Sure she will appreciate it." He smiled. He moved to lift her up so she could hand the ones they had picked over to the guy behind the counter who asked Mary what names she wanted on each one. As she told him, he allowed her to sit up on the edge of the little surface, held in place by Frank to watch as he burnt the names into each ornament before he bagged them up and she took them with a thanks. "Our first family tree stuff!" Mary grinned and Fliss smiled, bending down to give her a hug. They set back off towards the hotel, stopping by a burger joint for dinner before they dumped their bags and returned back out for their final evening in the City. Frank had loved every second of their trip, and so had Mary and Fliss. Seeing Mary's reaction to snow and the Christmas lights had been amazing, along with all the bands on street corners, people walking around dressed up. It was magical and he wasn't afraid to let his inner child come out to play either, as Fliss had just found out. "Whose idea was this again?" He asked as Mary was bouncing up and down in the queue. "Yours!" Fliss scoffed as he took Mary's hand in his right "I seem to recall the very visible horror on your face yesterday when I told you I'd never done it before..." "That’s because it's an abomination that someone who's 34 has never been ice skating." "I was a professional athlete." She shrugged "I was banned from doing anything deemed dangerous " Frank looked at her "What do they consider more dangerous than flying a half tonne animal almost 2 meters into the air?" "Bungee jumping, sky diving, jet skiing, water skiing, ice skating.." Fliss shrugged "just to name 5" Frank shook his head as the queue shuffled forward a little. It wasn't too long now, luckily they had timed it right by arriving 20 minutes or so before the next lot of General Admission to the famous Rockefeller rink opened so there weren't too many people ahead. After another 10 minutes they got to the front and Frank nudged Fliss out of the way as she tried to pay. She scowled at him and he simply rolled his eyes and handed his card over. It wasn't cheap but then, he was in New York. What was? Together they headed onto the ice. Frank, having done it a few times as a kid found his legs fairly quickly and didn't stop himself laughing as Mary's completely went from under her and she landed with a thump on her ass. "Here..." he chuckled, offering her his hand. He pulled her up and moved her in front of him. "Give me your hands..." Mary extended her arms to the side and he took her mitten clad hands in his, holding her in front of him. Fliss was moving tentatively behind him, using the sides for support a little. "Ok slide your right foot forward, like on your roller skates..." Frank said. Mary did as she was told "now left...right...left...right..." He continued his chanting and glanced over his shoulder to see Fliss was concentrating on her feet, her tongue poking out slightly. "You good?" "Yup." She said, raising her hand to give him a thumbs up before she skidded slightly and went down in a tangle of limbs. Letting out a laugh he gently pivoted Mary so she could hold onto the side and offered Fliss his hand. Pulling her up into his arms he held her steady for a moment whilst her laughing subsided. He watched her for a second, her face creasing up into those adorable dimples, eyes crinkled so much they were almost shut and her shoulders shook with the force of her giggles. "I fuckin' love you..." he grinned and she smiled at him. "Back at ya sailor" After another few laps Mary and Fliss had managed to get the hand of it which meant Frank could leave them a little bit as he went off for what he called a proper skate. The girls watched calling him a show off as he crossed his feet and turned, skating backwards a little. Both of them debated sabotaging him and tripping him up but they decided not to, instead they simply pretended they didn't know him, resulting in him grabbing Fliss from behind just beneath the large tree, and spinning her round to face him. "Can I help you?" She teased and he gave a snort. "Yeah, you can... Mary?" He called to her where she was trying to perfect a turn and failing as she almost stumbled again. She looked up and headed over. "Can you take our photo?" "Only if you're gonna kiss..." she replied, making smooching noises. "Well we can’t disappoint her..." Frank shrugged and Fliss grinned, her smile turning into a shriek as Frank quickly grabbed her hips before he took one hand, keeping the other round her back and dipped her so she was bending backwards, planting a sloppy kiss on her lips. She laughed against his mouth as he gave her a wink, before kissing her a little deeper and then setting her upright, his eyes boring into hers which were shining in the Christmas lights surrounding the rink. "Oh that was great!" Mary howled and he turned to face her as she handed his phone back. Frank checked the photo and had to smile, it was a dammed good shot. He showed it to Fliss and she beamed. "A framer?" She asked. "A framer." He agreed. It took them ages to get Mary to finally leave the rink. Even a bribe of hot chocolate, marshmallows and cookies wasn't doing it. Eventually Frank put his foot down and told her it was time to go as it was almost 9pm and they still had that tree to go see before they headed to Central Park for one last walk in the lights. After handing their skates back and retrieving their belongings from the lockers they followed the path to the tree. As they round the corner Mary gasped. "It's huge!" She turned to look at Frank and Fliss, her eyes wide "Oh my God!" Frank smiled kissed Fliss' cheek as Mary walked slightly ahead of them down the walkway that was flanked with smaller trees and the famous lit up trumpeting angels . As they caught her up he slipped his spare hand in his pocket, his fingers curling round the small, leather box inside. The damned thing had been burning a hole in his pocket since he had bought it in Boston just after Thanksgiving. Fliss, Verity and Bill had all stayed for a very pleasant week rounded off with a damned good proper Thanksgiving dinner and the three of them had flown home on the Friday, as Fliss was starting to stress about her business. He and Mary followed on the Sunday after she had been given the all clear to fly after a week’s check up at the Hospital. On his spare afternoon, he'd taken a trip into the city with one goal, and it had been surprisingly easy. The first jeweller he has walked into had a perfect ring, and despite the fact he had visited several others none of them caught his eye like that. So he had gone back and asked the assistant for a closer look. It wasn't a huge rock, white gold and emerald cut with in a pave setting, but everything about it had screamed Fliss. It was delicate and feminine but with a wonderful sparkle just like her. He knew that sounded so lame when he had told the assistant but she has just smiled and told him that if he had that much conviction, it must be right. He had been lost when she asked him what size, but in a sudden inspiration he had remembered the Pandora ring he had bought her when he had gotten his first new pay check as supervisor. He mentioned this to the assistant who beamed and said she could easily size it from that by using a simple conversion chart and told him to come back the following day. His sudden good spirit had fallen as he explained he couldn't do and asked her to see if here was anything she could do, even contemplating taking it and having it sizes back in Florida. But, after the shitty run of events over the last week, his luck was in after she returned 5 minutes later with a slip of paper, informing him it would be ready by the end of the day. When he had told Mary he was going to ask Fliss to marry him, she'd been so excited. She'd asked when, where and when he said he didn’t know she'd given him the most exasperated look on the planet. The only one of his friend who he had confided in, Greg, hadn’t been much help either, simply telling him to do it in a way that meant something to them both. Simply put he just hadn't a fucking clue. He had agonized over how to pop the question. On the boat? Or maybe a sunset on their favourite spot at St Pete's beach? Did he wait for New York? As such, Frank had taken to carrying the ring around with him, waiting for that moment when it felt right. So far it hadn't happened at home and as it stood New York wasn’t faring any better. He had thought about it at the top of the Empire state, but it had been too busy. Then there was a moment in Central Park after they had been snowman building that might have worked...until Fliss had nailed him in the face with a snowball. So they'd had a snowball fight instead. Then when walking over Brooklyn Bridge, the skyline behind them… then when they walked back to the Hotel after seeing the Lion King on Broadway, going the long way round to see the display in Macy's window all lit up...and then that moment before when Mary had taken a picture of them kissing under the tree on the ice rink... but none of it felt right. It didn't feel like the moment for them. But now something stirred in his gut. This could be it. It wasn't too busy, the place was gorgeous, right in front of the tree Fliss had been so desperate to see... Ok Adler, you can do this. Taking a deep breath he pulled the box from his pocket when he heard Mary give a squeal. "Oh...wow! Frankie look..." Fliss' voice was a whisper and she nudged him, pointing to the base of the tree. He followed her gaze to see a blonde haired man down on one knee, presenting a ring to a dark haired woman who had her hands clasped over her mouth. Frank slipped the box back into his pocket and stared at the man as he placed the ring onto his now fiancés finger and did his best to look like he cared when Fliss let out a soft "Awwww" The man looked around excitedly, his eyes falling on the three of them before he asked Frank if he or Fliss would mind taking a photo for them. "Course not buddy, congratulations." Frank smiled. Fucking prick... ***** "It was AMAZING!" Mary gushed to Verity as they walked to the car, Fliss' parents having come to pick them up from the airport. "we saw so much stuff but nowhere near all of it but Frank said we could go back next year in the summer maybe and do a bit more." "Looks like someone else had a good time too." Bill smiled, nodding to Fliss who let out a loud yawn. Frank chuckled "She was up all night, I told her not to have more food so close to bed time." "I wanted a hot dog and a pretzel." Fliss mumbled, "Besides, it's nothing to do with the food...we did a lot of walking." Bill gave a snort "You ride horses for a living, you should be fit enough to walk round New York" "I probably skated about 4 miles too..." Fliss said looking at Mary "Someone wouldn't come off the ice rink" "You been sleeping ok otherwise?" Verity looked at her "I'm fine mum." She smiled "No anxiety?" 'V, she said she's fine so leave it" Bill said gently and Fliss shot a grateful look at her dad. She knew her mum was only concerned but she was fed up of assuring people she was fine. After the attack from John she had suffered a bout of delayed shock which had manifested in a few panic attacks, nightmares, and restlessness at night and on one occasion nausea. Luckily Frank had been brilliant at keeping calm when she had an episode, helping her work through it and the last incident she had suffered had been over a week ago. Once they were all in the car, Frank took the passenger seat after Verity offered it to him, Mary continued to chat all the drive home about New York, Fliss and Frank butting in here and there. They arrived home little after 30 minutes later and Fliss headed up the steps with Mary, Thor almost sending the pair of them flying when they opened the door. "Oh puppy I missed you!" Fliss smiled as she gave him plenty of attention and he kept licking her face, whining and emitting quiet little barks. "Did you miss me? Did you?" "Yerress" Frank did his best Scooby Doo impression as he walked past and Fliss let out a laugh, as she stood up and headed into the living room behind Mary, bumping into the girl as she stopped dead, giving a squeal as she saw the Christmas Tree in the corner. "Mum, Dad?" Fliss called, smiling "I take it you did this?" Frank appeared behind them both, smiling as Fliss and Mary exchanged a glance before they all turned to Bill and Verity who were stood in the doorway. "Well we know how much you like to get your tree up as early as you can and, well we were picking one up for ourselves so we got you one. You don’t mind do you?" Verity, looked at Fliss then Frank. "No, of course not!" Fliss grinned. "Saved me a job." Frank nodded "Thanks guys." "Can we decorate it tonight?" Mary asked "Pleeeeeeeaaaasssseee Frank!" Frank glanced at his watch before giving a sigh, he knew she wouldn't go to bed if he said no anyway so what was the point? Plus she was at the University tomorrow which didn’t start until 10 so... "Ok, but if you so much as grumble tomorrow morning when I get you up you'll be in deep trouble." He looked at her sternly as she stooped to pick Fred up. "Cross my heart, hope to die, we all know Fred's got one eye..." she chanted off, nodding. "We brought your box of decorations from the annex." Verity smiled at Fliss, nodding to the box on the floor. "We thought you could pick what you want to keep now you're combining."

“Speaking of decorations…” Frank said, looking at Mary.

“Oh…yeah…hang on…” She said, running to the sofa where she had dumped her little pink rucksack. She fished out the paper bag they had gotten from the stall and found the Snowman they had bought. With a smile she handed it to Verity who looked down at it, her face curling into a smile as her eyes started to prick with tears.

“Fliss said you wouldn’t mind the names Mary wanted on them.” Frank said, watching carefully.

“Of course we don’t mind!” Bill smiled, picking Mary up to give her a hug “We are Nanny V and Poppa B ain’t that right kiddo?” “Yep!” she grinned, hugging him.

“We’ll save it to hang tomorrow when you come over after school.” Verity said as Bill set Mary on the floor and she hugged her tightly.

After a little more chat Verity and Bill left and Frank instructed Mary to change into her Pyjamas before they did the tree. Deciding that was a good idea, Fliss did the same and before long they were all in the living room. Fliss and Mary going through the boxes of decorations, Frank wrestling with the tangle of fairy lights. How they managed to get so fucking knotted up after simply being in a box for 12 months was beyond him.

He had just about managed it when Thor came over to inspect what he was doing, and dropped straight onto his back on top of the string.

“Thor…get out of it…” he grumbled, pushing the dog who simply rolled over, taking half the lights with him, tangling them round his legs and his tails. “Jesus Christ…stand still…for fucks sake…”

Thinking this was a huge game, Thor started to bounce around, barking, and Frank shook his head. “Fliss, sort this mutt out….” Fliss gave a laugh and dropped off the sofa, calling Thor to her. He sat down, allowing Frank to remove the lights before he stood up, shaking them out. Together the 3 of them wound them round the tree before they made a start on the decorations.

“Frank got me this for my first Christmas.” Mary said, hanging a red bauble which had her name on it. “The glitter has all fallen off it now.”

“We can add more if you want.” Fliss looked at her and Mary shrugged.

“I kinda like it.” It didn’t take them long, and their wooden trinkets from New York were the last ones they hung, Mary ensuring they took pride of place. Frank then lifted her up so she could place the star at the top before they stood back.

“Ready for the big turn on?” Frank asked, grinning. Mary and Fliss cheered and began a countdown from 5. When they hit 1 Frank hit the switch and the lights on the tree came to life. He stepped back, looking up at it, his arm curling round Fliss’ shoulder, his other dropping to Mary as she grinned.

“Best Tree ever.” she smiled.

“Yeah, and now it’s time for the best bed ever…” he looked at her.

“Seriously?” Mary complained

“No moaning, remember?” Frank instructed her. “That was in the morning.”

“Well I just extended it to now as well.” he said, shrugging “Because I can, so get…” “Fine, fine, I’m going…” she grumbled. “Night Fliss.” “Night sweetie.” Fliss dropped a kiss to her head before Mary shot a filthy look at Frank who met her with a passive one of his own.

“I’ll be in in a second.” Frank shot after her, watching as she headed down to the hallway. He turned back to Fliss who was watching the tree, a smile on her face.

“Not exactly up to Macey’s standards…” Frank chuckled and she shook her head.

“I love it.” “It looks like an Elf threw up on it.”

“All trees should be like that.” Fliss shrugged, before she gave his cheek a peck. “Now, you go sort Mary and I’ll get us both a beer.” “Actually…” he said, looping his arms round her waist. “I believe there was something else you promised me tonight…” “Oh, yes, of course, Frankie has needs…” she replied with an almost uncanny impersonation, which made him snort. “Does that mean no beer?”

“No beer.” “You want me to wait in bed.” “Yes I do.” he nodded “Go, I’ll let Thor out and lock up.”

Grinning she accepted his kiss and smiled as she turned around, casting him a quite frankly sinful look over her shoulder which almost had him hard right there and then. Not wanting to wait a moment longer he sorted the dog, locked the door, poked his head into Mary’s room to wish her goodnight, and headed into their bedroom. Fliss was hanging her jeans in the closet after having simply discarded them on the bed earlier, and wasting no time Frank pulled off his T-shirt, tossing it to the side before he stepped up behind her, spinning her round to face him. He pressed his lips to hers, deepening the kiss as he slid his hands down to cup her ass and she smirked into the kiss.

“I like your ass.” he muttered. “I like yours too” she said back, “And your arms”

He laughed and pulled back to look down at her as her fingers trailed up his biceps. “My arms?”

“Yeah, your big, strong arms, and your big, broad shoulders and your stupid, handsome face…” she muttered, pulling him back down to her. In between the dizzying kisses Frank steered her towards the bed, and as her legs collided with the edge he stopped to gently trail kisses across her bare collar bone. His lips found her jaw and then, with a wicked quirk of his eyebrow he reached down for her thighs, and grabbing them he pulled them forwards, causing her to fall backwards as he pitched them both onto the bed. As she laughed he chuckled slightly before he kissed her again, and then it was a scramble to get out of his clothes as fast as he could before he fell back on top of his girl, his hands pulling up her camisole top, lips kissing at the spot just below her ear before he slid down her shorts, his mouth gently kissing a trail up from her belly through the middle of her breasts, up her neck and finally back to her mouth.

Fliss was utterly lost now, in the usual whirl of love, and lust and passion and kissed him back, hard as his hand gently dropped between her legs and he felt her slick against the tips of his fingers as he gently coaxed at her clit, continuing until she was nothing short of a writhing mess clawing at his back, aching for him. They locked eyes as he took her left hand in his, and slowly worked into her, both moaning simultaneously at the sensation, Fliss’s eyes rolling back at the exquisite stretch inside. Frank began to move his hips slowly, deeply, his thrusts weren’t measured in the slightest despite the fact he was absolutely aching for her. He wanted to take it slow, end what had been an amazing trip in the same mood it had started in, absolute pure love.

His mouth moved back to Fliss’s neck, nipping gently at her skin and she let out low moan as he picked up the pace ever so slightly, his spare hand kept hold of her hip, keeping her as close to him as she could possibly be.

“Fuck, Frank, right there…” she groaned as he hit her spot and he smirked slightly, he loved the way she got like this with him, ever so demanding at times, such a far cry from the timid woman he had fallen for the previous year.

“Yeah?” he panted as she gave a soft cry, her body tensing underneath him “Good.” “So good…” she moaned, arching her back. His mouth found hers again and his hand slid from her hip to gently tease her nipple and she rolled her hips to grind up against him, changing the angle slightly causing him to go deeper.

“Lissy…” he panted as he drove into her deeply, slowly, and then again and again, his pace increasing ever so slightly. Every single sense Frank possessed was on fire and he broke the long, lazy kiss that they were sharing to stifle a moan against her cheek when he felt her clench around him, a tell-tale sign she was nearing her release. The sheets rustled underneath and around them both as his hips pushed up against hers, and Frank saw Fliss’ head tip back, her throat bared to him in utter bliss as she came hard, her moans soft and breathy into his ear. Frank picked up his pace slightly, chasing his own end as he pushed her through hers, and when he felt that snake in his belly beginning to unravel, he gave a low grunt which morphed into a gasp as he clung to Fliss, spilling himself into her, his hips slowing to a stop as he collapsed forward. Fliss gave a soft chuckle as her hands gently slid up his back and into his hair, as she moved and pressed a soft kiss to his head.

“I know I keep saying it but I really do fuckin’ love you Cowgirl.” he said, voice muffled as his face pressed into her neck.

Fliss gave a chuckle “I’ll never tire of hearing it Sailor. “

He moved to look at her, flashing her a grin before he caught her mouth in a sweet kiss. **** "You still not managed it?" Greg asked as they stood at the bar, waiting for their drinks. Frank sighed and glanced at Fliss who was sat with Bonnie in the booth, the pair of them sniggering at something. "Do you see a ring on her finger?" He looked at Greg. "No" "Well there's your answer." "What's the hold up, man?" Greg frowned. "Nothing has felt right." Frank sighed "she won’t want a huge fuss in front of people so that basically ruled out all of New York...bar one moment when I thought it was time, in front of the tree at Rockefeller...and then some douchebag went and beat me to it, proposing to his girl whilst we watched..." "You're over thinking it." Greg said, looking at Frank "Take a step back. When are the pair of you at your best? The time you enjoy most, I mean" "Honestly?" Frank shrugged "at night when Mary's gone to bed and we finally sit down and just watch TV or joke around." "Well there you go." Greg shrugged "What, at home?" Frank frowned "Why not?" Greg looked at him "the point isn't to be showy or flashy but to show her you wanna spend the rest of your life with her." Frank pondered this for a moment. Greg has a point. They were at their happiest doing the simple things, spending quiet time together, being fucking normal. Fliss loved it when they curled up and Frank would simply cuddle her close and kiss her head, easy signs of affection that she had craved all through her wreck of a marriage. And Frank loved it too, because it made him feel grounded, time for him to simply be Frank in his own right, the very thing he used to use his Friday night drinking sessions for. Now he could feel it every night, thanks to Lissy…

And then, suddenly an idea came to him, out of nowhere.

Oh, it was perfect! "Greg..." he smiled, slapping the man on the back "you are a genius." "Glad I could be of service." Greg smirked "This means I get best man duty, right?"

Frank smirked at him, shrugging, not giving anything away. His eyes flicked back to Fliss who had now stood up, Simon having returned to the table sliding in next to Bonnie. Frank’s eyes travelled up her bare legs, from her high-heels up to the short little pink playsuit she was wearing, which was printed with black palm trees and other patterns, the small straps settling on her tanned shoulders, the front showing him just enough cleavage. She was wearing a black butterfly necklace that she had bought in New York and her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft curls. Her brown eyes locked onto his and he smiled as he remembered the last Circle Of Truth Christmas outing the previous year, when he had told her he loved her for the first time. And here they were, now 5 days away from their second Christmas together.

“Hey beautiful” he smiled as she reached his side. His arm curled round her and he pressed a kiss to her cheek “You ok?” “Yeah, just thirsty.” she smiled. “Can I get a water as well as my gin please?”

“Sure…” he turned to look at the bar tender who was pulling their drinks together. Once he had attracted his attention and added a bottle of water to the order he turned back to her as Greg spoke up.

“Frank said you enjoyed New York.” “Oh, it was fantastic.” she smiled “Every bit as magical as I thought it was going to be.”

“Good, I’m glad you all had a good time.” Greg smiled “You deserved it after everything that went down.” “Yeah well, he’s banged up now. His brother is going to go down for Endangerment or whatever it is you call it, its’ done, it’s over.” Fliss smiled, “We got the rest of our lives ahead of us now.” “Well, if that doesn’t call for shots then I don’t know what does…” Greg smirked as the bar tender placed their drinks in front of them.

“No, Greg…” Fliss started to protest but Greg cut her off.

“Yes Greg!” he smirked, turning to the bar tender, “Can I get a bottle of Tequila pal and 8 glasses.” Fliss groaned “I’m teaching at 9 am!”

“Dumbass…” Greg looked at her and Frank gave a snort.

“I told you to switch them out…”

“I can’t!” she pouted “I already did for Boston and New York…” “Well…” Greg smirked as the bar tender set the bottle and glasses down in front of him “Looks like you’re doing it with a hangover honey.” “Fuck my life…” **** Fuck my life indeed. Fliss spent the following morning throwing up, groaning once more that she was never drinking tequila EVER again. Frank reminded her of how many times she had said that over the time he had known her and she’d simply let out a huge fake sob and thrown herself face down on the bed again declaring that she didn’t want to adult anymore as it sucked.

The days before Christmas passed in the usual chaos. Presents were wrapped and stashed under the tree, more drinks were had with Friends. Evelyn visited for a few days, which had actually almost pleased Frank a little. She wasn’t staying for Christmas, her arrangements having already been made, but she had hinted that maybe next year she could, to which Frank and Fliss had both agreed. She had been taken with Mary’s gift to her and had laughed out loud when Bill and Verity had presented her with a case of Malbec, the same Malbec she’d smashed a bottle of over John’s head. Her gifts to them both had been a substantial chunk of money, in the thousands, and when Frank had protested at the amount on the cheque she had waved it off as 8 years of owed presents. Mary’s was wrapped so it was placed under the tree for Christmas morning. Evelyn headed back to Boston on the morning of Christmas Eve, Frank and Mary driving her to the airport instead of her driver, where they had both bid her a Happy Christmas and waved her goodbye as she headed off to spend it with her friends in Newton.

After the final preparations were made Frank, Fliss and Mary collapsed onto the sofa for a Marathon of Christmas Films. Mary was, as usual, excited and the copious amounts of chocolate and candy she was shovelling down weren’t helping either, but what the hell, it was Christmas after all.

"You ok?" Frank glanced at Fliss as she sat on the other side of the couch. Love Actually was playing, the final film of the evening before Mary went to bed. Fliss, however didn't look like she was paying attention. "Huh?" She looked at him, blinking. "I said are you ok? You look like you were miles away"

“Yeah, sorry, I was errr…just running through things in my head, making sure nothing was forgotten.” Frank smiled. They were hosting Verity and Bill tomorrow as Steven and his family were at his wife’s parents for this year, flying out instead of the 28th to spend New Year’s with them all. Fliss had asked Frank if they could host, as she’d never had the chance to do that before and of course he had agreed, not least because of the excited look on her face when she had asked.

“The table is set, food and everything is ready to go…” he chuckled, looking at her “Just relax…”

He reached round Mary, his hand gently rubbing at Fliss’ back and she smiled at him, turning her attention to the TV.

20 minutes or so later the film finished and Mary jumped up, grabbing Frank’s hand to make him dance to God Only Knows as the final closing scenes played out. He smiled and picked her up, resting her on his hip as he twirled her round to the song, the pair of them laughing before he eventually dropped her down and told her it was bed time. She scooted off, Fred trotting behind her, his tail swishing as she skipped and Frank headed in about 5 minutes later to tuck her in, before he came back to the living room.

“She wants you to go and say goodnight.” he smiled,

Fliss nodded and stood up.

“You sure you’re ok?” Frank asked.

“Yeah, honestly, I’m just tired.” she assured him. Giving him a kiss she headed up the hall and Frank watched her go before he smiled to himself, and set about quickly putting the last touches to his plan.

She came back about 10 minutes later and he smiled at her as she walked into the room.

“OK, now she’s out of the way…I got something for you...” Frank smiled.

Fliss looked at him before she shook her head, chuckling a little “I got something for you too…Frank, I have-” “Me first.” Frank cut her off.

She looked at him for a second, his bright blue eyes were shining as he grinned at her and she rolled her eyes.

“Fine…” she smiled, “Ok, you first.” He grinned and then folded his arms “You gotta find it.” “What?”

“It’s hidden, on the tree, and you gotta find it.” Her face lit up as she gave a laugh “You are such a dork!” “Yeah, I know…” Narrowing her eyes playfully she moved to the tree, glancing at it. “Ok so it’s not very big then, seeing as I can’t see it straight away.” Frank shrugged as she continued her search.

“I haven’t put it high up, seeing as you’re a short ass…” “I’m perfectly average for a woman thank you.” “Trust me baby girl, nothing about you is average.” he winked and she let out a snort.

“Charmer.” she grinned, turning back to the tree.

“Ok, you’re miles off…” he said, and she moved to her right “Gettin’ warmer…warmer…ok, yep, nearly there…” Fliss continued to search, and then something caught her eye. There was something shiny handing from the nose of her Doe ornament. She stepped forward slightly, and when she realised what it was her right hand flew to her mouth. Frank’s breath caught in his throat as she spun to face him, her eyes wide.

"You, me and Mary have been hanging out together since August last year now...” he said, clearing his throat slightly “How do you feel about hanging with us forever?" He watched, holding his breath as Fliss' chest heaved with emotion as she looked at him, those brown eyes he could happily stare at all day were full of tears, the hand which had flown to her mouth in surprise was now shaking as it slid to the spot beneath her throat, that dip in her neck that he could nuzzle at forever. "I'll hang with you for as long as you'll have me..." she whispered, taking a deep breath. "Is that a yes?" Frank inhaled sharply and a watery laugh burst through her tears. "Yes. Yes, a thousand times yes!" Frank's face split into a huge grin "shit..." he sputtered before she threw herself into his arms and he lifted her up easily, her legs wrapping around his waist as he held her close, kissing her neck. She pulled back and placed a kiss to his lips, long and short pecks being shared as she laughed and he laughed, the pair of them simply lost in the moment until eventually he set her down and with a shaking hand he reached out to retrieve the ring from where it was hanging. Taking her left hand in his, with a deep breath he slipped the diamond onto her finger.

Fliss looked at it, admiring the way the delicate band sat underneath her knuckle, the beautiful diamond twinkling in the lights of the tree.

"Oh Frankie...it’s gorgeous..." she whispered, before she looked at him, taking his face in both his hands and pulling him down for a deep kiss. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." He smiled, kissing her again before he pulled away, his hands linking behind her back.

"I err, got us some champagne." He smiled, "I know it was presumptive of me but figured we could have it tomorrow if you turned me down." Fliss looked up at him, blinking before she took a deep breath “First I need to get you…just wait here…” He released her from his hold and she turned and headed out of the room, Frank watched her go, blinking for a moment before he shrugged and headed to the fridge, the smile still plastered on his face. She said yes!

Not that he had doubted she would, not really, but there had always been that little bit of fright she may have done. But that was all gone now. As he popped the cork on the bottle he found himself thinking about how he would be doing that soon enough on his wedding day. He poured 2 glassed and headed into the living room with them wondering if maybe a late Autumn wedding next year would be nice, October perhaps when it started to cool off slightly. They could do the beach wedding she always wanted, hire a marquee... Lost in his thoughts completely he jumped a little when Fliss spoke his name and turned to look at her as she stood in front of him, the back of his thighs brushing against the sofa slightly. He noticed her hand was in her pocket, clutching something. Playfully he nodded towards it “I assume that’s not a spanner." He chuckled, referencing the joke they often shared and Fliss shook her head, biting her lip. "No it’s a bit bigger than that" With a shaky hand she pulled out a small, white stick of plastic and held it towards him. It took Frank a moment to understand what it was and as soon as he did his eyes widened and he looked at her, then it, then back again.

"You're...we're...no!." he stuttered, reaching out to take it from her. "I found out this morning." Fliss whispered, watching his reaction carefully "I suspected last week but thought it might all be down to stress and stuff but..." "How, I mean..." "I should have started a new pill packet when we went to Boston but I forgot to take it with me. I thought I'd be ok if I started as soon as I got back but..." "There's a baby in there?" Frank cut her off as he stumbled over his words, nodding to her stomach "Yeah" Fliss nodded. "You put it there." Frank's legs grew shaky and he dropped onto the sofa, staring down at the test in his hands.

2 blue lines. 2 blue lines that had just changed his world forever. "I'm sorry, I know this is sudden and I should have been more careful..." Fliss took a tentative step towards him and he reached out, his hands on either side of her hips, gently pulling her t-shirt up. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to her belly, his forehead resting just above her navel. "I'm gonna be a dad." he pulled back, his eyes watering. "Frankie, you already are." Fliss said, her own tears once more springing forth. "I know you hate it when I say that about Mary but it's true." He looked at her, a dazed smile split his face into two as he pulled her onto his lap, where she straddled him, and he kissed her, hard, leaving her slightly breathless before he rest his forehead against hers. "Fuck, Lissy." he whispered, his eyes closed "You're cooking a little person..." She spluttered a laugh, nodding, her forehead brushing his as she did. "Was it made in Boston...is that the right word?" He pulled back to look at her and she laughed, brushing her hand through his fluffy hair as his gently reached out to rest against her stomach. "Yeah and most likely." "It's a little Boston Bean" he grinned and she laughed again, pressing her lips to his. "You're ok with it then? I know it's probably not what you would have planned but..." "Ok? Of course I'm ok!" He smiled "I love you and the thought of us making a little person that's half me, half you...fuck, it's amazing." She smiled and nodded, her voice a whisper "I know..."

"There is one problem." Franks said, his arms wrapping tightly around her. "What?" "You just ruined Christmas forever...because nothing is ever gonna live up to this ever again."

****** Fliss, Frank and Mary’s adventure continues in RIDING ON

#riding high #frank adler #frank adler x ofc #frank adler x original female character #gifted #gifted fan fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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erazonpo3 · 4 years ago

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(This is a written collaboration between myself and Hemlock/pathygen in the ‘Cassandra’s Tangled Adventure’ AU verse, featuring our characters Alphecca and Violante. This was just a fun little back-and-forth with our two villains set in the period in which Violante has possession of Alphecca’s phylactery.

The formatting is based on our replies, it was really fun to get to write together and watch Violante flex on Alphecca. I’d recommend reading it on my blog’s desktop page for the formatting)

The Eagle and The Mole

Ever since her rebirth in flame and ash, Alphecca hasn’t known the icy grip of cold; yet Countess Violante’s chateau inspires it in her bones. It’s a monument of stone, glass, and drapery, and at this time of night the torchlight in the hallways are extinguished; malingerers are unwelcome. Even the ever-present ache in her chest takes its leave here, something she would have been thankful for if it weren’t Violante’s doing. Her soul burned like a dying star, but since her phylactery fell into Violante’s hands all she has known is its absence— numb apathy— the closest thing she knows to cold.

She’s sure to school her features before entering Violante’s parlour, smoothing out the notch between her eyebrows and the curl of her lips that may as well have been sculpted into her flesh these days. Trinket shrieks at her as she walks past, aggrieved that her delicious bones are today wrapped in the illusion of skin and, on top of that, a stupid uniform. It’s stiff and it pinches in ways she can’t feel but is nonetheless frustrated by, and whenever she catches her reflection in the silverware she can’t help but grimace at the militant emblems and pageantry she advertises. All that’s missing from her marionette costume is the strings.

The Countess is waiting for her as expected, perched perfectly poised on the gaudy piece of furniture she likes to pretend is a throne. She resists the urge to sneer at the pretentious display, if only because Violante would find it so amusing.

“I’m back,” she announces flatly, absently picking at the cuff of her jacket.

“Yes, I noticed.” Violante replies, crystal and calm as a winter morning.

The countess has a quill pinched between her fingers; sharp motions carry the crimson plume across the page laid out in front of her, scratching. The chamber swallows sound and bounces it back. Dim moonlight ekes through tall, arched windows of blue stained glass, and casts a watery pattern against the polished floor.

Violante does not look up at the dead woman.

A minute and a half passes before she finally caps the tiny, neat scrawl on the parchment with a looping signature, rolls it into a neat cylinder, and sets it aside. The feathered end of the quill finds its way between her lips, ponderously. She tilts her head up and her smile is delicate. There’s something of a spider in it.

“That certainly took you long enough. One little village could hardly have been all the effort.” The Countess of Solanales stands with a fluid motion, and folds her arms loosely across her chest. A cigarette smolders in it’s holder on the edge of the desk, filling the room with an oily, herbal smell. She inspects Alpchecca like one might a mannequin stuck in a display, lips pursed.

“Well, at least you kept everything in order this time. See? You can look nice. I knew the collar would be a nice touch. The color accents your eyes, now that you have them in.”

Trinket croaks from her perch. The monochrome vulture returns to preening, bored now that the arguably edible bits of the lich aren’t on display. Violante leans back against the edge of her gilded seat. “So how did it go? Did you make any friends?”

This time Alphecca doesn’t withhold the grimace that curls back her lip to expose a yellowed canine. She’s aware of the way the moonlight makes her pale skin seem especially waxy and sallow, which typically serves to unnerve humans- all save the Countess. Violante’s eyes glitter like a cut diamond as she appraises her, and Alphecca forces her gaze away in a show of deliberate disregard. She stares through the blue washed windowpane to speak to the waxing moon, but keeps an eye on Violante’s figure in her periphery.

“I was just being thorough, I’m sure you can appreciate that. No stone left unturned, no building left standing, everything razed just right, just for you,” she says, flashing Violante a quick, sardonic smirk before returning her gaze to the window. “I don’t imagine you’ll have much of a problem marching your people down there and claiming a new pile of dirt, or whatever it is you do with the ashes. There’s nothing left.”

The moon’s bright glow begins to burn a spot into her vision, but facing the window makes it easier for her to keep her face blank. Her excursion today would be considered a success by Violante’s standards, but she had been sure to cause enough of a racket as she tore through the streets that most villagers had ample time to flee before she tore into the place. If they couldn’t escape even after all the time she gave them, well, Cassandra can’t say she didn’t try.

Under the scrutiny she can’t help but scratch at the briarthorn collar, and she chances another glance back at Violante.

“Thoughtful. I can’t say I have much use for more dirt than I already seem to own, but,” Violante gestures and Trinket stretches her neck. The vulture flaps off the stand and onto the desk with a crooked hop, and remains still while the countess fastens the scroll to her leg. “I’m sure whoever is left will be happy to accept all the aid Solanales is willing to provide, in the wake of their unfortunate devastation.”

Eyes glittering, she crooks a gloved finger under the large bird’s beak and hums. “The world is lousy with monsters, after all.”

And in the end, it was only a barrier town. But every little bit counts, every scrap of seizure. Scraps still. But these were things that couldn’t be rushed. Or shouldn’t have been, if she had been able to stick to her original schedule. Plans were important, but the ability to adapt to a situation was worth even more. Put attention in the right places, stress on the right joints, poison in the right tea.

Or get creative, and toss a skeleton into a henhouse. Ho hum.

“Go on.” Violante says to the bird. Trinket makes a clicking noise low in her throat, and takes off without a backwards glance at Alphecca, winging towards some high and hidden exit. Violante watches her go in silence. She doesn’t expect it will take long for a response, in some capacity, but she doesn’t really plan to wait for one either. Aldara is out in the field somewhere, hopefully stalking her other quarry, but there’s a decent chance both situations will muddle together eventually.

“Now, what to do with you?” Violante turns back to face the dead woman, who looks hilariously unsure. It’s already late, and she needs to keep some space between the raids, as she creeps them closer to the borders of the Iron Kingdom.

Alphecca scowls at the vulture’s retreating form, however glad she’d normally be to see it leave. With Trinket gone, only the two of them remain. It didn’t exactly make for a good buffer, yet in the leering bird’s absence the room tightens with intimacy. Violante and intimacy are her two least favourite things, and combined they manifest as the bane of her existence. The only thing that can make it worse is Violante’s voyeuristic shadow who is thankfully out on her master’s orders tonight, likely committing her own fill of atrocities.

The Countess’ icy veneer betrays nothing of her intentions. In a game where information is everything, Alphecca knows she’s at a woeful disadvantage. If she tries fishing, Violante will know what she’s doing the minute she speaks, no matter how vague or disinterested she comes across— but she might be indulged. It begs the question of whether it’s better to stumble around blindly or sniff out a trail she can’t trust. Either way, she needs to say something- the longer she concedes to silence, the further the scales tip in Violante’s favour.

“How about giving these old bones a rest? You’ll find a siesta does wonderful things for the constitution,” she quips. “I’m assuming you don’t want to cause too much of a stir, anyhow,” she adds, unable to deny the temptation of the gamble. Now she forces herself to keep her eyes trained on the Countess, and settles into a smirk.

“You’re dead, you don’t have a constitution,” Violante drawls.

She glances away towards the window, the picture of disinterest, thinking. Ghostly evening light blankets the room, and flows over the silent collection of statues and armor bordering the walls, the curtained archways. Rooting out the location of the lich’s phylactery had been more of an effort of time and money than anything else. She had a number of contacts stretched over the continent, from tomb takers to Morcant to disgruntled former servants who had once swept the halls of the Spire. The crumbling little ruin of a shrine had seemed like a forgotten afterthought, nestled on the edge of an icy valley north of Ingvarr. The pendant had been wrapped in hay and rue. The plain little goat skull carved into the stone that boxed it had worn smooth with time. It was imagery that had become much more frequent among the information she lately received. So many old stories seemed to be pulling themselves up out of the grave these days. Even keeping the new ones in the ground was proving to be a challenge.

No one died like they used to. The lich had certainly been involved in that most recent of frustrations.

Although, maybe, her decision to poison Cassandra had been a little hasty. She had maybe been a little angry. A little perturbed. Corpses and memories were generally less useful than breathing attendants, even if they were less trouble. People were so stubborn. Still, even there the lich might prove..useful. If that was the way things shook out in the end.

“Besides, we both know rest isn’t really in your cards.” The countess says, stepping down away from the desk, towards Alphecca. Reaching up, she adjusts the collar the lich keeps fiddling with, smooths down the epaulettes on her shoulders. The illusion of flesh truly was impressive. Almost as much as the facade of confidence. “You know, I once heard that a long life eventually deprives you of optimism. They also say that time heals all wounds. People never seem to be able to make up their minds about just how sad they think they’re supposed to be.”

Alphecca wraps her grimace up into a wry grin, though the fury in her eyes burns a palpable heat in the gelid room. Violante ignores said look as she smooths out the creases in her uniform, abusing all sentiment of personal space. The woman isn’t physically intimidating in the slightest; even wearing stilettos Alphecca has to look down her nose at her. But the proximity is unnerving. If her physical body is merely an extension of her soul, then Violante owns both, and she isn’t shy about making it known— so Alphecca does her best to ignore it, training her eyes on the wall in front of her instead of the head of perfectly coiffed curls only a breath away and the nails that cross her clavicle to smooth over her shoulders.

“In my experience, more time is just an avenue for more procrastination,” she admits. It’s the truth, or at least it’s her truth, and there’s no harm in admitting it- the information has no value to Violante. If the Countess got her claws on immortality, the last thing anyone should be concerned with is if she were happy or sad.

“People also say that destroying people’s lives and livelihoods won’t make you happy, but we both know that’s not true,” she adds. She hasn’t actually heard anyone say that, but it’s one of those unspoken things- and it’s wrong. Schadenfreude and victory are one hell of a cocktail.

“A common adage, is that?” Violante hums, stepping back. “Stagnation is hideous. And regret is a waste of energy. If you’ve really wasted all this time waiting for a death that’s never going to come, then it’s fortunate I came along to make better use of your… afterlife.” She tilts her head. “Especially considering that I found you rooting around in a cave, talking to bones. I can’t imagine skeletons make for very good conversation.”

For once, Alphecca isn’t bothered by the barb. She wastes her time however she pleases, spending her years harassing new villages until she gets bored and moves on, or searching for new fossils to reanimate, playing in the dirt. She knows she’s a disappointment but that’s how she’s come to like it— fuelled by the spite of those more ambitious than her who have to watch her gnaw on the unending life they can’t have. That is, until Violante took it from her.

With more distance between them now, Alphecca releases a breath; it’s unnecessary, but calming all the same.

“They make better company than your pets, at least,” she says. They don’t talk back, for one thing, but she’ll keep that part to herself. All the bones she finds have very interesting stories to tell, but unfortunately Violante’s dreadful companions only find them useful for teething.

“Tsk. Oh, kettle.” Violante says, sotto voce. She has very little interest in making any argument about the quality of company Aldara or anyone else brings to her circle. She doesn’t keep them around for their people skills. Mostly. The countess reaches out to tap the bottom of her jaw. “You’re so uncertain for a corpse. You chatter so much for a tool. But if that’s the way you feel…” A thoughtful pause, wintry silence. Violante steps past her, the dark pool of her gown trailing on the floor. “Come.”

“What, you’re not a fan of our stimulating discussions?” Alphecca jeers, cocking her head. Blunt as they are, words are the last weapons she has in this fight, but she turns to follow her nonetheless. She kicks her feet up off the ground to hang a foot in the air to let the click of Violante’s heels echo down the hollow hallways alone, creeping behind her like a spectre.

She’s hesitates, trailing behind at a healthy distance, but she can’t deny her curiosity is piqued.

“I think your talents lie elsewhere.” Violante answers without turning around, wry. The castle is large and cold and strikingly empty of people. There are servants, courtiers, of course, but this late at night the work has gone to ground. Most of them, having been around this long, have learned to work out of sight, or in silence. Violante lifts a low burning candelabra from a table in the tapestried hall, wax dripping into the filagree crevices that tomorrow will be picked clean again before she wakes. The halls stretch on, half covered portraits lining the walls, tall arched windows that continue to leak in cool evening light. Violante takes them down, towards the ground floor, and eventually comes to rest in front of a heavy, ornate door set back far from the main vestibule.

“Wait here.” she commands, and without stopping, the countess takes off down another hall and vanishes around the corner. She returns about ten minutes later, unchanged and smiling. In her hand is a small pouch, dangling with a loop of cord that she drapes around her neck. She nods at the door. “Shall we?”

Alphecca lingers back as she follows Violante through the chateau. She’s no stranger to silence, and she can even appreciate the servants’ scarce presence; humans can be such annoying creatures. However, there’s a hostility that comes with the quiet— an unspoken threat that has butlers and maids scurrying away like rats in the corner of her eye, only daring to move when the Countess strides past.

She halts when instructed, taking the time to inspect the portraits of Violante’s ancestors while she waits. The dim light is no obstacle as she takes in the details, sneering at the pompous Lords and Ladies that line the walls. The different fashion styles over the centuries blend together in her mind, but she recognises the distinct ruffles that predate the Shampanier Era crossing over to the more modern style of headdress, evolving across the row of portraits. They have matching brutal, patrician features and cold eyes, and their arrogance is palpable even through the oils. She wonders if Violante sees them as an inspiration or an embarrassment.

Alphecca drops to her feet when Violante arrives, eyeing the new fashion accessory.

“Ladies first,” she gestures in a parody of an usher, trying to avoid the sense of dread that accompanies the sight of the heavy wooden door.

“True.” Violante says agreeably, placing her gloved hand on the door. In the other she still clutches the flickering candelabra, and the light plays shadows against its surface. The front of it is carved with vines and flowers, mountains and snowflakes. It opens with a heavy grinding sound when she tries the handles, with some effort. Cobwebs stick and pull between the gap, and Violante sneers a little at the dust that collects on her fingertips. A staircase leads down into darkness. It reeks of earth, dry and undisturbed.

Violante’s face remains impassive as she starts down the steps, the click of her heels ringing against the stone. The walls are featureless rock, and roots start to press through the gaps the farther down they travel. Eventually the stairs level out onto a narrow, dark, landing. Violante moves with a caution in the dark that relaxes when she finds the torches set into thick pillars that frame the entrance, and she lights them with the candle flame. Orange light fills the cavern.

“Homey, I imagine.” she says. “But still better than what you were used to.”

It is a tomb, of course. More a mausoleum, seemingly built into the naturally limestone cavern underneath the castle. The roof of the crypt rises up high above the chamber, arched ribs and all angles like the inside of a cathedral. Violante doesn’t pause in her intrusion, gliding down the center aisle with a curious fervor, idly stroking the covered parcel around her neck. She finally stops as they near the back of the chamber, in front of a stone dais that elevates two, long, solid coffins. Side by side, in their lofty place of honor. Violante sets the candles down. She looks back at the lich.

She says, “You’re going to wake them up.”

Violante isn’t wrong to assume that the cavernous underbelly of the castle is more comforting to Alphecca than the bleak architecture and furnishing upstairs, but it’s still far from homely. The crypt is stale and azoic, lacking the warm smell of rot and soil that accompanies her usual hovels. Nonetheless she does feel more at ease here, and it takes the tension out of her shoulders.

“Is this mum and dad? I didn’t really take you for the mournful orphan type,” Alphecca says, her smirk eking into her voice. She approaches the left coffin and slides a hand over the lacquered wood, which is stained with black and ornately carved. The golden filigree is finely engraved and the craftsmanship of the coffin itself is masterful. A thrill runs through her bones; as disinterested as she is in the coffin’s inhabitants, she’s eager to see what bijous and tchotchkes she’ll find inside.

It takes her mind off of Violante’s request. Resurrecting one body, one soul, takes more effort than she is usually willing to expend. Two isn’t out of the question, but it’s going to take time. There are shortcuts she could take-

No. She’ll take all the time she needs.

“I can do it for you, but it’s not going to be quick or easy. I’m assuming you want more than just a couple of braindead puppets, after all,” Alphecca states, glancing carefully at Violante.

Violante watches the dead mingle, the old and the ancient. There’s a stone bench opposite the dais, maybe long ago a place meant for prayer or meeting. The back of it curves up into a chiseled swan’s head, with the beak broken off. She sits, and crosses her legs, eyes lidded, observing Alphecca as she circles the caskets. The lich’s interest is evident, undisguised. She’s being so nice.

“Mmm.” she confirms, very calm. “Lady Fiore and Count Viator. I poisoned them when I was seventeen.”

She draws a finger across the jagged beak of the swan and rubs the grit between her thumb and forefinger. The black fabric of her gloves are already powdered with dust. Idly, she pinches one finger and slips it the long glove off, stretching her hand in the cool, dry air of the crypt. The tips of her fingers are stained purplish-black, even deep under her nails.

“They need to be able to speak, and answer questions truthfully. I’m not especially worried about mobility, but memory is important.” She tilts her head, dark eyes focused on the bone witch. “How long? Describe the process for me.”

Alphecca’s lips twist as Violante confesses to her parents’ murder, but continues to investigate the coffins.

“Well, the process involves bartering with Death, binding the soul to an anchor and then binding said anchor to your will- it’s something that can take months, depending on how long it takes to get the reagents, and that’s just for one soul. Doubling up will save time, but even you don’t have infinite resources,” she explains.

Without asking Alphecca lifts the nearest coffin lid, and lets out an involuntary whoop at the burst of pungent aroma. There’s not much left of the carcass itself, despite what she’s sure was a vigorous embalming. Corpses are meant to return to the earth, and the ones buried above ground have a messier time of trying to find it. Lady Fiore’s robes are completely soiled with corpse juice, but she’s surrounded by a few glinting baubles that could still be disinfected- although she’s sure Violante won’t let her play with them.

“A fresh corpse is always easier to work with, but it’s just as well you kept the remains at all- souls will anchor to their own bodies with less of a fuss,” she says, disregarding all the loopholes that come to mind. With a snap of her fingers Fiore’s bones glow a pale blue, battling the orange torchlight for a moment before it subsides. It’s a basic preservation spell that she uses on all her creatures to protect their bones from the elements, which she hopes Violante will take as a sign of her veracity.

“You’ll find my resources will more than suffice.” Violanate says. “Considering the state of your previous arrangement, and what you’re used to.” Scrounging around in the shadows and the muck couldn’t have been all that profitable for the lich. Procuring things, especially things of an elusive nature, is not usually a problem for her.

The stench that emanates from her mother’s coffin is certainly vile enough. Violante’s nose wrinkles, and she nearly rolls her eyes at the bone witch’s obvious enthusiasm for it. For a moment she has to tilt her head to the side, and she brings the pouch around her neck closer to her face. There’s baby’s breath and rosemary inside: a good dampener, or so she’s been told. The Countess is not unfamiliar with corpses, but they’re usually less decayed, and less in her face. She could have used a stronger perfume.

“Useful little spell.” She says, turning back to face the dais.

And then, “..bartering with death.” Violante drawls, stretching the words out slowly. That has her curiosity piqued. Something about it, a string to tug. “Like it’s a person.”

Alphecca hums absently, neither in agreement or disagreement.

“I suppose we’ll see,” she says. She swipes a thumb over Lady Fiore’s cheekbone, imagining how the muscle would have wrapped across it and how the skin might have sat on top. Her sharp jawline mirrors Violante’s, and she’s willing to bet they shared the same nose. She was no doubt a very attractive woman in her prime, and Alphecca finds herself almost frustrated that she’ll be deliberately prolonging the reconstruction process.

She crosses over to the coffin on the left but her fingers tapdance across the lid, and her head perks up at the mention of Death.

“Well, yeah- okay, she’s not really a person, but she’s the shepherd between this realm and the realm where lost souls are... supposed to go, and you’re not going to get a soul back from the realm of the dead without her noticing,” she explains, smiling at the memory of the spectre. Absently she traces shapes in the dust of the coffin lid as she continues.

“It’s far simpler to make a trade with her than to try and steal one, but that’s still easier said than done.”

Having to watch the lich inspect and handle her parents' remains doesn’t seem to phase the Countess very much. Legs crossed, she sits back on the mourning bench, and rests her chin on the back of her fingers.

“‘She’. You make a trade with death.” Violante repeats, not a question. “What could..death-the-entity possibly want in exchange for a soul?”

There’s a visible sneer on her face at the word soul. It’s not that she doesn’t believe in spectres or spirits: she’s essentially speaking to one, even if it’s trapped in a bone. The concept of anything trying to tell her what to do, even after death, dissatisfies. Even at a young age, playing with her first herbs and poisons and staining her skin, Violante knew that she wasn’t going to go until she was good and ready.

She can guess what the lich might think of her. The many things, every terrible notion. Most she’s probably right about. But Violante has no interest in living forever. Cavorting around for centuries as a moldering corpse isn’t an appealing notion, and it obviously hasn’t done the witch any favours. No. She is going to build something great. Something right, something hers.

In the end, if it is really worthy, it will outlast her.

And if it’s not...well.

Violante hums, “Longing for death is a bit of a cliche, even for you.”

“Depends,” Alphecca shrugs. “Sometimes she asks for help wrangling the ghosts that refuse to let go, or she has a specific soul in mind, or sometimes she just wants a favour to keep in her pocket. There’s always some kind of catch though, because she’s hardly going to ask for something she can get herself.”

Even if she weren’t already planning on delaying the process, she anticipates bargaining for two souls will be the most difficult part. Bartering with Death isn’t exactly something she makes a habit of; she can count on one hand the amount of times she’s made the deal, and every time had brought its own headache. Just the memory of it is enough to make her head hurt, so she turns her attention back to Violante.

“Yeah, well. Even you’d be begging her to come take you after long enough. You and I both know Death can be a mercy,” she says with a smirk, and cracks open dear father’s casket.

Help, promises, wayward souls. “That’s a lot out of death’s reach.” More than one would think, for such a definite force. Violante listens to the dead woman without looking up, thinking, rubbing the pad of her thumb across the velvet pouch dangling from her neck. There is another wave of foul scent, all earth and rot. The sound of heavy stone dragging on stone. Her father had been a count of some notable prowess. He had been good at getting people to listen, and always spoke with confidence. Curt at times, but he shared a warmth with her mother that would have seemed anathema to the traditional Solanales chill, to anyone outside of their family. They were a private people. Violante had loved her parents. She had loved them even when she was putting them in the ground.

“Who said anything about mercy?” The countess murmurs, tilting her head, a silver-dark curl of hair sliding over one side of her face. Wintry, she says, “How long is this going to take you? Approximately, for one body?”

Alphecca rakes a finger down Count Viator’s sternum, making a mental note of his measurements. She’s sure there’s a portrait somewhere in the castle she can look to as a reference for their bodies, which are clearly tall but perhaps wider than their frames let on. Violante’s voice echoes in the cavernous room, yet the words themselves float around in the air. There’s a few trinkets scattered in the coffin, rings and jewels and heirlooms; they’re gaudy and expensive, but far from valuable to the dead. The sudden change in the intonation of Violante’s voice catches her attention, and she only catches the tail end of her question.

“Hm? Oh- well, for one? It’d normally take around a month or so to source all the reagents- meat, ivory, rare herbs and spices and whathaveyou- then somewhere between one to two weeks to build the body itself. After that it really depends on what I need to do to recover the soul,” Alphecca explains, finally dragging her eyes away from the remains.

“And of course, I wouldn’t want to rush perfection.”

“How thoughtful,” Violante drawls. “But they don’t need to be perfect, just functional. Enough to answer what I want to ask of them. You fare well enough without lungs. Or gray matter.” The countess tilts her head again. “They’re going right back in the ground after I’m finished with them.”

Pushing away from the bench, Violante stands with fluid, gossamer grace. Holding one arm loosely tucked around her waist, she climbs the steps and despite the reek, peers slowly into each of the caskets, expression unreadable. Swipes one stained fingers against the dust collected on the stone lip, rubbing.

Almost conversationally, she looks back and says, “Tell me what you need, and you’ll have it within a week. If not sooner. We have the merits of civilization here.” With a surprising amount of ease, Violante leans back against her mother’s grave and lifts herself into a sitting position on the skewed cover, ankles crossed. She smiles, her mouth a sharp, dark slash. “Three weeks, I think, is more than enough time for you to finish the work.”

Very slowly, she lifts the velvet pouch and threads it open. The amulet is heavy, and Violante curls it’s chain delicately around her fingers, thumb hooked under one of the horns. Scarlet light suffuses her from below.

Coy, Violante hums, “If you put your mind to it.”

Alphecca scowls at Count Viator, cursing him for ever procreating.

“If you want a botched job, then fine,” she sneers, bristling at the intrusion on her oasis. The presence of the phylactery is like a sneeze sitting at the back of her nose, painless and yet impossible to ignore. However, the Countess has extended her a favour in the same token, providing her the irritation necessary to redirect her attention elsewhere.

“The souls of the dead don’t tend to like being torn from their peace and shoved back inside their corpses, and the further the vessel is from their actual flesh and blood, the harder it is to attach them. And if a soul doesn’t attach properly, then you’re going to have a very uncooperative, likely half-braindead, pale imitation of your dearly departed loved one. So it’s your call,” Alphecca explains, drumming her fingers on the coffin lid.

It’s a gambit for more time, but the phenomenon of corrupted souls isn’t unheard of. And it’s not exactly something she’s keen on dealing with.

And then there was silence. It was followed by the shrill whistle of a lofty wind, swiftly swallowed by the cavern, sucked down. Above, a jagged crack in the apex of the cave opened up to mountain air and evening sky. Snow-melt had formed thin icicles which dripped with languid precision onto the old stone. There were some places within the cavern where if you listened close enough you could hear the sounds of running water; more runoff that was kept flowing by the warm channels that ran all underneath Solanales. The recessed thermal rivers: mineral rich, were responsible for the health and diversity of the medicinal herbs the county was able to cultivate. Her father had shown her maps, long ago.

Violante regards the lich cooly. The sneer; the constant flow of excuses, the obstinance. There is a moment before she speaks, where the slick consideration in her dark eyes slides towards bored. Just as quickly, the flat stare is replaced with a knifelike flash of malice, penetrative and acute—then a return to hawkish study.

“You’re right,” The countess says smoothly, examining the blemished fingers of her free hand, “it is my call.” She tilts her head, and wrly continues, “..and if I cared about what they liked, I wouldn’t have killed them in the first place.”

The glow from the amulet gives her skin a rosy tincture it doesn’t usually possess. Violante places her empty hand back on the coffin lid behind her, relaxing back into a lounge.

“Alphecca…” her voice is deadly soft. She rarely uses the corpse’s name. She’s never seen much point. The countess peers down at the phylactery, slim fingers curled under the horns and through the chains.

“You know, this really was remarkably easy to find. Time; a few simple exchanges of gold, a barter with a like-minded contact—who will no doubt realise, eventually, the true cost of that information, and likewise, the great loss she would accrue attempting to take it back.”

Calm, easy, her posture is that of a woman relaxing in a parlor; not an arm's reach away from her mother’s seeping skeleton. Violante runs her thumb up the side of the crystal. It’s warm, with a steady, pulse-like thrum.

“That is a part of what it means to have dominion—to have dominance. Laying the foundation. Control over people and their emotions, so that they don’t go spinning them out into actions they haven’t thought over properly. Something always there, in the back of their minds.”

With a sly smile, Violante tilts the amulet. “Like this.” Her fingers tighten, squeeze around the pulse.

“Come here.” she commands.

The Countess’ silence brings the familiar weight of dread, the coils of her contemplation winding and tensing before their inevitable release. The use of her name, soft as it is, is like the snap of a twig; the arrow is coming next, but she has nowhere to run. When Violante speaks, her words are dripping with nightshade, and Alphecca pays less attention to the words as she does those eyes and the way they peel back the illusion of her flesh. How long ago was it that Zhan Tiri had stood in her place, holding the phylactery that they’d created together, swinging it before her like an aberrant hypnotist? The image lingers in her mind, branded into her being, and it burns again now. Violante holds her ransom with equal avarice and even more capriciousness.

She doesn’t fight the command.

One foot drags after the other, pulling her away from Viator’s putrid remains towards his fetid offspring. The ends of her hair dance in the waves of heat that surge from her body, casting her pallid skin in the same glow mirrored in her bottled soul, and her sclera seeps with augural ink. She looks down her nose at the Countess, but stays mute; her glare speaks for itself.

“Oh, that face again,” Violante smiles slyly as the lich draws near. “You looked at me like that the last time you tried to get me to break this. For all that trite dribble about souls, they pack rather nicely into tight spots, hm?” She lifts the phylactery and lets it dangle from her fingers again. The carved crystal twists, shedding ruby light.

Tilting her head, the countess adds, “..though honestly the sheep-theme is a little provincial for my taste.”

From her perch on the coffin lid, she and the lich are almost at eye level. Idly, she taps the curled horns of the amulet against her lips, and takes a moment to inspect the flickering hair, warmed by the unnatural heat in the cold center of the crypt. She’s seen the witch dressed in bone before, skeletal, human then very much not. She hasn’t yet been able to divine whether the flesh is an illusion, or a simulacrum.

“...you know, it’s almost funny,” she says after another moment, musing. Gently, Violante reaches up to take Alphecca’s chin between her fingers, feeling for bone or for the presence of a seam. Without much force, she tilts her face left, then right. “The creature that made you this way got to die before you, didn’t it? Whether it wanted to or not. And even though it’s gone, you’re still here. That’s an impressive act of malice I’m not even sure I could aspire to.”

She brushes a strand of winding hair behind the dead woman’s ear, the fingers of her other hand wrapped around the amulet. They rest there, lingering.

“Mercy,” she hums, “Death. Do you really think that force regards you as anything more than a vague afterthought? Do you know why?”

Close, her eyes are dark and flat. When she smirks, her lips part, and there’s something of a serpent in it. The fingers set behind the corpse's ear hook suddenly, sharply. “It’s because you’re a commodity.” Softly, “A body. It was a waste having you be as you were before: running loose, childish and deranged. Whatever worth you had was decided on ages ago by something greater, and then discarded in one instant, only to be defined again, now, by me. That’s the only thing that matters here.”

Drawing her hand back, Violante twines another piece of fiery hair around her stained, lacy fingers. The amulet beats a rhythm against her palm. “Like that little village you destroyed. Garbage, right? But now, it’ll be built up again into something useful—desirable. Not only as a consequence of my birthright, but because I have the power to make that happen, and the will to speak through it. Because that’s the zeal the world recognizes. In the end, it doesn’t matter who you are or who you’re trying to be. Whether you’re a shambling monster… or a wayward sword, I’ll use the power I have; my proof of conquest, to assert my will—” a rough tug on the strand of hair, closer “—and change the meaning of value.”

Silence, and the drip of distant water. Violante lets the strand slide free from her hair, and inspects her hand with distant disinterest.

“Three weeks,” she says cooly. The phylactery thrums in her grip. “Don’t ever try to argue with me again.”

Alphecca’s phantom heart thumps in her hollow chest. Words intended to cut to the quick come close to their mark, but nothing Violante says can slice deeper than the futility of her situation. She can’t remember needing to gasp for air like this, not for a long time. And yet for all her vast networks of contacts and flies on the walls, Violante doesn’t know everything. She clutches that thought like a final matchstick in the dark, for all its limited warmth. The Countess doesn’t know Death; not like she does. And she’ll get those souls that she wants, and she’ll do her finest job— but Violante’s not the only one that has strings worth pulling.

For as tainted as Violante’s hands are, they’re still warm. Blood pulses right to the tips of her fingers and beats against her false skin, and she feels its absence when her hand draws away. Alphecca responds with a cock of the head, and a sneer.

“I’d better get going, then.”

#cta au #alphecca #violante #my art #my writing #and also hemlock's but that's just my fic tag

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bbq-hawks-wings · 4 years ago

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Am I seeing things, or are Hawks’ legs in his Shifuku page kinda odd looking? Those baggy pants really hide how thin they are, they appear sorta crooked and curved??? Is it just me, or do you see it too? I’m squinting so hard to see where the pants and shoes end, it’s around the thin-belt like perimeter on the shoe right? Are his pants outside the shoe or inside it, is the white stuff part of the shoe too? That’s an odd design, I’m so sorry I’m still on the bird feet agenda-

You know what, I've been craving writing some slightly meatier meta lately, and this is just the kind of topic to scratch the itch. Spoilers ahead for the manga.

Now, I've mentioned before that I don't think Hawks canonically has bird feet. I do like the idea of him having more obviously avian traits, but besides his wings, eye markings, and hair texture I think anything else is all subliminal in canon. That is to say, this isn't "Haha, you're wrong" but more of a, "It is with a heavy heart I regret to inform you" kind of deal.

And with that, I regret to inform you his Shifuki page leads me to believe he has very lean human looking anatomy in what looks like wide-legged straight jeans that are bunching around the neck of his high-tops. Nevertheless, I do posses an explanation for what you're seeing as well as my evidence Hawks has normal human feet.

To address his curvy legs, it's simply a quirk of human anatomy that at the right angle the human shin appears to angle inward. In drawing - especially gesture drawing - a common principle is to stagger "curved" and "straight" lines to create a natural and organic flow to the body. This picture I found of a male and female dancer demonstrates that very well.

Thanks to the calf and knee muscles anchored around the joint and tapering out to more sinew and ligament tissues which lie close to bone around the ankle you can get this curvy shape (usually between 3/4 and 7/8 rotation like in his left foot pictured below) and the whole leg tends to generally slope backwards at the knee when standing straight. The clothes he's wearing also play into this illusion because of the way fabric will fall and bunch when influenced by gravity and friction with itself and the body.

Likely, he just has a very lean kind of muscular build unlike the beefcake Endeavor or peak All Might are sporting. He's built to be fast and light, not powerful and immoveable.

As for his feet -

[Sketch updated thanks to an inaccuracy caught by someone who brought it to my attention]

I've traced over his anatomy and roughly sketched typical bird anatomy next to it. Now, the severity of that backward angle has plenty of play in it seeing as we're talking about fantasy Frankenstein anatomy and the fact that some birds do sport very tall, straight legs such as this fancy, leggy, showboy:

(The world of show pigeons is wild, y'all.) But more important to me is the structure of the toes.

Most birds are anisodactyl, meaning that they have three toes pointed forward and one toe pointing back. Birds of prey - hawks and eagles in particular - are, exclusively anisodactyl to my knowledge. Relatively few types of birds have toes that all point forward, and those that do are usually adapted for a specific lifestyle.

Glance back up at the shape of his foot that I've outlined. The shape is completely flat in the back where his ankles connect to his feet and his sneakers don't look any different from a standard shoe for human feet which would make me wonder where that rear-facing toe is supposed to go. Even if this toe was supposed to be small, I'd be concerned for space as well as his center of balance given how tightly long, thin toes would have to be bunched up in that shoe and then support his whole weight as he walks and is generally active. His shoes are also consistently shaped and behave human throughout the series and in any frame we see of him. If anything, the fact his feet appear so small further supports the idea they're boring old people feet.

Further evidence are his hands. Hands and feet are normally radically different body parts to begin with, but my point comes from a character design perspective. Hands are much more visible so if Horikoshi wanted to make Hawks' design to be "a little bit of bird everywhere" as the bird feet would support it would make sense that we'd probably see the presence of talons, scales, longer and bonier fingers, etc. But once again, his hands are no different than yours or mine so it doesn't make much sense to think Horikoshi is secretly hiding these bird feet in his shoes where it's harder to make an excuse to show them off when there's nothing to see under his gloves.

If Horikoshi really wanted to push the bird anatomy hybridization he probably would have gone with something a lot more like this picture Kadeart drew which combines more feather interspersed across his body with scales and talons integrated into more otherwise human anatomy. (Seriously, go check out her stuff if you haven't already. It's a gold mine of quality Hawks content.)

In other words, I'm not against Hawks having more hybrid anatomy, I just refuse to believe it's canon because if turns out to be true that's some weak sauce and we were robbed when we could have had THAT. 👆

#spoiler!hawks #bnha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #bnha hawks #hawks #hawks bnha #hawks mha #mha hawks #takami keigo #keigo tamaki #she speaks #let's talk hawks

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that-house · 4 years ago

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here’s an old story I posted back when my blog was smol. It’s a reinterpretation of a scene from Fahrenheit 451, in which I shift the genre to horror. Montag has just killed Chief Beatty with a flamethrower.

The Hound

Beatty’s screams, while silent, had not yet quite faded from the air. The memory of them, of the quiet night they’d filled, hung above Montag, floated around the waxy thing steaming on the lawn, claws sunk into the ears of all present. They were harsh, discordant, flickering, like dying birds, but they seemed satisfied. Beatty’s work was done, and his screams knew that.

The other firemen were pale and still, barely standing. At Montag’s urging and looking down the barrel of the flamethrower, they turned. Montag struck them across the heads, and they fell to the ground.

Montag let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Despite the heat of the fire, it was a cold autumn night, and Montag found himself shivering. All down the endless street on both sides, the weak glow of the street lamps illuminated empty sidewalks. Discounting the unconscious firemen and the charred doll lying beside him, Montag was the only person in sight.

Across the street, barely visible, a shape stood watching him through a window. It seemed to stare, unmoving, and Montag stared back. Without turning, he knew that each window on the street held its own shape, looking, if not at him and the burnt thing which he could not think of, then at least looking at the burning house just now beginning to go out.

And yet despite the onlooking figures all down the endless street, Montag was alone. Mildred had left, and the only other people on the streets were at his feet, unconscious. Other than what was illuminated by the lights, Montag could see nothing but black emptiness.

A soft breeze whispered down the endless street. On the street’s few trees, the leaves gently shook and rattled, filling the silence with a sudden papery rustling. Montag knew the sound they made. They sounded like burning books.

In the distance, a long way down the street, a lamp flickered out.

Montag stood alone and quiet. The wind died out, leaving him once more alone in the silence, illuminated by a single circle of lamplight. The moon and stars were blocked by heavy clouds, and Montag couldn’t see far past the light around him. He was, as far as he could tell, standing on the street in total solitude.

The cool breeze slowly picked up speed once more. Somewhere in the dark, a single fallen leaf skittered across the pavement, crawling noisily down the street. Or was it something else?

Could the thing behind him, that awful burned thing, not be entirely dead? Was it not possible that the rasp of the leaf was its scorched fingernails clawing at the ground, dragging itself towards him? Could that unthinkable mannequin have survived, torched though it was? Was it moving?

Montag didn’t want to check, didn’t want to see the thing lying still in its charred circle on the grass, didn’t want to see the thing insidiously creeping its way towards him.

Without looking, he imagined its movement, plotted the tortured shape’s trajectory. It would be clawing at the ground, trying to pull itself up to stand. Its burnt flesh would flake and crumble as it scrabbled at the ground. It would be silent only because it had no throat with which to scream.

Maybe now it was standing, painfully lurching towards him on unsteady feet. Or maybe, unable to rise, it was dragging itself towards him, hand over hand, slowly approaching.

And what would it do when it reached him? Montag couldn’t bear to wonder what horror lurked behind him anymore. He turned around, prepared to run from the terrible thing he had created.

It lay on the grass. A curl of smoke reached up into the sky like a crooked finger from its back.

Montag breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe. It really was dead. He was still alone. The leaf was nothing more than a solitary autumn leaf.

Montag heard another rustling, this time a multitude of whispering leaves rubbing against metal. The bush next to his house twitched, flinched away from some lean shape shouldering its way through. It recoiled from this new presence, this creature cold and dead, and yet very much alive.

Montag knew it was the Hound, emerged from wherever it had been hiding to hunt him. The light of the streetlamp reflected off its smooth metal face, so like a dog and yet so unspeakably different. The expressionless mask of the Hound turned to Montag.

It had no eyes, no real ears or nose. At the front of its metallic snout, a bristling array of sensors were clustered there. Montag knew that it was blindly picking up his heat signature, his heartbeat, and the precise collection of smells that marked him as its target.

Its open mouth had no teeth within it, just a single needle, extended now that it had tracked down its prey. The tip of the needle glistened with a hungry and waiting drop of procaine.

The rest of its body began making its way into view. A single deadly leg, spiderlike, pointed, and elegant, snuck its way out of the bush and onto the lawn. Its pointed foot sank an inch into the soft ground. A second leg followed, and so did the rest of the eight.

Its body was long and sinuous, snaking behind the head. It was low to the ground, tense. It would jump when it detected motion, when it knew for sure that Montag needed to be hunted.

Montag stood as still as he could, barely breathing, in the circle of light. He and the Hound watched each other, waiting for the other to move. Montag remembered the Hound hunting animals for the firemen’s entertainment, remembered how it would spring towards them, almost too fast to see, plunging the needle into its terrified target and immobilizing it. He knew no animal could match the speed of this living metal corpse.

Its legs extended and it leapt towards him, crossing the twenty-foot gap between them in a single blurred jump. It landed on top of him, its weight forcing him to the ground, sinking its needle three inches into his leg.

Despite the weight of the Hound and the burning numbness of the procaine, Montag staggered into a standing position, pushing the Hound off, its razor feet cutting him as it scrabbled for a grip on his body. It landed on its back, and its legs convulsed, the joints bending backwards to enable it to leap to its feet again.

It crouched again to leap at Montag, but he’d swung the flamethrower about, pointing the nozzle at the Hound. The harsh, hungry flames caught it just as it was about to leave the ground, and the Hound was wreathed in fire.

Unlike Beatty, it burned silently, its metal frame melting, falling to the ground, spasming frantically. Steam rose from its joints. Montag kept the fire going until it stopped moving, its legs curled up like a dead spider.

Montag took off down the street as fast as he could, his leg refusing to move, bleeding from the injuries the Hound inflicted. If the Hound had impaled his torso, he would be paralyzed with numbness now, easily arrested or made to disappear. He had barely escaped with his life.

On the far side of the city, an assembly line produced its thousandth Hound, prompting some small celebration from the people who worked it.

#neon-grey-writing #fahrenheit 451 #please reblog #horror

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ivanshatov · 4 years ago

Text

our happy ending, pt. 1

wc: 3.3k

think about a demons sequel where (mostly) everyone lives and involving some reality manipulation, time travel, and revenge. i’m bored okay and i want my favorites to be happy and live and to piss on dostoevskys grave

tw for blood, gore, drowning, gun mention, suicide mention

As soon as he awoke, water filled his lungs, and he screamed.

That wasn’t the way he died, no. It couldn’t have been. Sure, his arms felt heavy from his sodden clothes and the blocks strapped to his arms, but there was something else. A pinch in the space between his eyes. Something that rang in the back of his skull. He closed his eyes, tight, fighting against the weight of his own body as he struggled to the surface. It was there, splattered with pale sunlight, just out of arms reach, and he couldn’t help but open his mouth again. He needed to breathe. Murky water filled his mouth yet again, and he struggled helplessly to the surface, finally breaking through the prison of the water. He gagged and paddled his arms, desperate to stay afloat as water poured from his nose and mouth. Just barely, behind the tears that blurred his vision, he could see the matted coastline. With an exhausted gasp, he wrestled towards it, water still trickling down his chin as his body filled with replenishing oxygen.

At last, he crawled to the surface, soaking wet and clinging to consciousness. He rolled in the grasp, coughing up the last of the water in his lungs, reorienting himself with the dizzying earth. Tips of trees stretched out before him, meeting a grey sky, and he closed his eyes again. Where am I?

He forced out another wail, a desperate plea for help, and he heard the panicked fluttering of birds.

Who am I?

The pinch in his skull came back, and he winced, pounding the earth with his pruned fist. “It hurts,” he moaned to himself. “Hurts...”

With great effort and shallow breaths, he lifted his hand to the sky, a black shadow against the graying clouds. He put down his fingers, held them into his fist, glad to feel the pins and needles slipping away and regain control of his hand. He closed his fingers, opened them, stared at his wrinkled palm and pruned fingertips. Who am I? he wondered again. At last, his vision became clear and he stared at his torso, his feet. His chest had been bound with rope, weighed down by rocks. His ankles were tied together, too, but his brown shoes were still on his feet, their laces tied as if he had done them up that very day.

His chest rose and fell in a sad smattering of breaths, still struggling back to health after the mess they had been through. An unpleasant taste filled his mouth, and he rolled over again, hiding his pounding head in the dirt and grass. The pain between his eyes spasmed yet again, and his arms went limp, unable to even pry the ropes from his waist or from his ankles, or even to shift his position yet again. Birds chattered above his head, and the water in the lake, his murderous warden, trickled, hummed with bugs, lapped up against the tiny shoreline. His temple throbbed, his fingers went numb, and he wheezed, eyes fluttering in and out of the darkness of the earth.

Then, as he battled the urge to sleep, the warmth of another person brushed against his ear. “Get up, Ivan.”

Ivan.

Ivan who?

“Stand up,” the voice hissed again. It was harsh, feminine, splintered by the hammering in his head and the sounds of nature around him.

He pressed his hands down into the earth, trying to pull himself from the ground. “I can’t,” he gasped. “I can’t. Help me.”

The voice brushed against him again, warm and furious. “You can do it. Go.”

Urged on by the subtle and unfamiliar voice, he sat up, leaned forward, started to undo the ropes from his ankles. He clenched his teeth as he pulled the ropes away, still feeling the grooves and marks burning into his skin even as they fell away. It took minutes for him to undo the knots, tied so tight and harder to unravel with the numbness in his fingers. It thudded to the ground and he pressed his knees into the damp earth, blood rushing to his face as he got to his feet.

He swayed momentarily, and the dizziness returned. Slamming his hand to his forehead, he suddenly recoiled upon feeling a dent between his eyebrows. Opening and closing his fingers again, he pressed one into the dented space. When he pulled it back, blinking away his bleary vision, a ring of dried blood stared back at him, and a hitch entered his throat.

Warm hands pressed against his shoulders, the heat of the voice touching his ear. “Do you see what he did to you?”

“He...?”

The voice and warmth melted away, and, with a stumble, he moved towards the murky lake water, hands shaking. As he got to the rim of the water, falling to his knees yet again, his face was reflected in the murky lake. It was round, with plump cheeks, and hollowed eyes. Beneath his eyes were smudged dark circles, and a mess of red facial hair smattered his chin and mouth. His hair was blonde and untamed, still wet and dripping from the lake. And, directly between his dark and wild eyes, was a bullet hole. Blood was smeared over his forehead and nose, barely washed by the water from the lake. He touched his face, felt his cheekbones and nose, the arch of his brows and the wrinkles on his forehead, and steadied his breaths as a familiar warmth poured over him.

“Who am I?” he asked, desperate and hoarse.

A pair of arms wrapped around him, and he found himself on his feet, shivering and pounding his chest as he gasped for more air.

“Ivan Shatov,” the voice whispered. “Your name is Ivan Shatov.” Warm hands caressed his cold face, and as he reached up to touch them, he felt nothing but cold air. “My husband,” the voice said, melting away into the wind.

As the voice faded, his head pounded with thousands of colors and sounds, a tapestry of a short life weaving itself in front of him.

You are Ivan Pavlovich Shatov.

You were born to a valet of a short, severe woman. You don’t remember your father’s face. Your sister doesn’t look like you, but you remember her teardrop face and blue eyes. The laughter you shared in childhood and the glee you got from running in the yard or racing up the stairs.

You remember Switzerland, and a hodgepodge of faces, a patchwork of dozens of names who you can’t recall. You remember caring for a child, the humiliation of meager pay, and a woman’s smiling face.

You remember America. You remember the gnawing hunger and the shared looks with another man who’s name you have on the tip of your tongue, the way you linked hands and shared small kisses under haylofts and in alleyways.

And then it hits you.

You are Ivan Pavlovich Shatov. You were dead, and now you’re not.

Something feels different, as though this world is rejecting him. His head reels and he stumbles back from the lake, hardly keeping his balance as he backs into the darkness of the woods.

You were supposed to be dead, the world says to him. Faces appear in the bark and the branches and pine needles cut dark wounds in the gray sky. You were supposed to be dead, they scream at him. Why are you here?

Why are you alive?

***

When he awoke, his head slammed backwards into the wall and blood filled his throat, nearly drowning him. He rose to his feet in a haste, though his entire body screamed in pure resistance. Blood filled his mouth, first staining his teeth and pouring from his nose and dribbling down his chin. He spat out the blood, wiped his nose, slammed his hands on the wall as he looked around, mind racing and eyes wild.

He’s been here before, he knows it, yet he can’t remember his name, or this town, or anything, for that matter. First, he tastes the metallic tinge of blood in his mouth, and then feels the weight of cold metal in his hands. He raises up his hand to the light, and studies a silver revolver. The light from the open window bounces off of its finish, and he shakes it, eyes wild with confusion and horror. A single empty casing pops out of the barrel, plopping into a pool of blood on the floor. He steps forward, and the redness stains the tops of his brown shoes. Next, he lets the gun slip from his fingers as he turns around.

Across the wall behind him is a splattering of blood, arching across from the corner up to the ceiling, staining the peeling wallpaper a sickly red. Just as everything around him has turned red, bloodstains coating the furniture and pooling in the cracks between the floorboards, his hands and clothing have done the same. Blood stains his unbuttoned undershirt and undone waistcoat, and his hands are dripping with it. Strangely enough, underneath his fingernails, blood has congealed, and the tips of his knuckles are bruised purple, as if he had just been in a fight. Had he been shot?

No, he argues with himself. The gun was in my hand. I have shot myself.

He paced the small room, paying no mind to the carnage that surrounded him, or his own brains splayed across the wallpaper and floor. No, instead, his hand is on his mouth, and he thinks. What could have happened here?

And why am I alive?

He rubbed his mouth in confusion, and suddenly felt soreness on his lip and cheek. Bruising, again. Blood pooled on his tongue again, but he spat and marched out of the room, fighting with the doorknob and stumbling out into another familiar room. A coffee table sat in the middle of the room, with an unfinished plate of chicken and a samovar still waiting atop it.

The room seemed to be distorted as he paced, changing in height, depth, shape, dimension, as he tried to orient himself in the brightness and confusion. His temples were howling, as were his joints, his legs, his whole body. The room was a funhouse imitation of what reality should have been, and as he stretched out a shaking, bloodstained hand, a piercing noise rang out in his ear. His hand dropped to his side, and he grumbled, frustrated, hurting, sick with confusion and vertigo. Another thought entered his mind at that moment, and he started down a corridor. I need a mirror.

He pushed open every door and peeped into every room, finding undone sheets and raided cabinets. Drawings and paintings seemed to be strewn about the floor. As he guided himself down the hall, leaving a long handprint of blood on the wall, he searched every room until he at last found the bathroom in the far corner. Pleased, he scampered inside, pushing dust from the sink and running the water as he met his gaze in the mirror. Then, seeing his own face, his expression fell.

It was almost recognizable, at least, to him. His own likeness seemed a distant relative or friend one sees on rare occasions, some faint memory of the wrinkles, shapes, eyes. His face is long and sullen, his brown eyes sunken in his skull, bloodshot and dilated. His cheekbones and jawline are that of an athlete, strong, high, and defined, and he had an aquiline nose that bumped in the middle and hooked down at the front. Across his handsome face, though, were dried bloodstains and a series of bruises, bloodstains, and fresh scratches. His cheeks, obviously once rosy and pink, were black and purple, throbbing with pain. As he turned his head, massaging his jaw and neck with his gangly fingers, he nearly collided in the mirror as he saw the tiny wound.

The bullet must have gone right through his head, leaving only a faint entry wound on his temple, but nonetheless matting his brown hair and face with dark blood and carnage. That was his own blood on the wall back there, his own blood. He winced as he wrapped his hands around his neck, feeling his Adam’s apple and resting them on his collarbone. He tensed as he squeezed his neck, and his hands went limp and numb. The sensation of vertigo and distortion came back, and he found himself once again submerged in an unfamiliar palace of funhouse mirrors and sickly distortion. He stumbled out of the room, across the hall and onto his knees. Papers and drawings flew up as he collided with the floor, and he grabbed one as it drifted through the air, hands shaking as he held it up to the pale ceiling.

It seemed to be a simple drawing of a bridge, precise, simple, lifeless. Yet, written plainly on the corner in a handwriting so familiar to him, was a name. Alexei Kirillov.

His hand went to his mouth, and the paper dropped to his waistcoat. His chest heaved, and his jaw dropped open. “Alexei Kirillov,” he said, playing with the name on his tongue as if he had just met the beholder for the first time “Alexei Kirillov,” he repeated in a mumble, dragging his hands down his face. “I am Alexei Kirillov.”

Then, as he tried to rise to his feet, he was struck back down as a wave of memories hit him. He saw the face of somebody he knew and loved, a brother, perhaps, smiling with permanent childhood naivete. Permanent, he thought, because moments later he remembered holding onto that boy’s hand as he succumbed to illness. He remembered school and travel, friendship and young adulthood, America, and...

Lips against his, hands on his cheeks, undoing his shirts and singing softly to him as they lay against the hard dirt, stomachs rumbling. This memory eats at him, yet he is pushed away from it a second later, back to this shanty shack and back to drawing and architecture and nihilism, to tea and exercise and ramblings of a self-proclaimed godhood he was to ascend at one point. A grin crossed his face, then, as he rose to his feet. He grasped the paper in his hands and headed back into the center room, crossing by the table and towards a window. He slid it open, peering out at an empty lot that appeared to be overrun with trees and foliage. He tasted smoke on his lips, then the metallic sting of blood that merged with it, and he coughed. Then, in a decisive swing, he slammed the windows shut. Anybody who came across him would certainly be horrified.

Confused, bothered, knowing nothing but his name, Alexei Kirillov intended to cross back to the bathroom before pausing. On the counter, just beside the door, was a framed photograph.

He picked it up, holding it with great care and tenderness he had until then had not realized he had. With a delicate stroke of his fingers, he cleared away some dust and debris and held the yellowing photograph to his face. Two men, one of which was himself— that same oval face, jawline, aquiline nose— and the other, a man he had once loved. The man who sang and jested and kept him strong and happy throughout their time in the plains, despite the poverty they lived in, the prejudice they faced, the emptiness of their stomachs. The name waited on the tip of his tongue, yet he could not seem to find it.

With gentle earnestness, he removed the photo from its frame, and carefully placed it in his back pocket, folding it down the middle. He stormed back into the bathroom, threw water on his face and cleaned the blood off of it, though the stubborn bruising remained. He discarded the bloodstained shirt and waistcoat on the floor and scampered into what he remembered to be his room. He searched in an old dresser, threw on an old sweater that had been chewed by moths and aged by disuse, and grabbed a cap from a nightstand. Pressing his hand against the wound on the side of his head, he made certain to pull the cap down over it. Then, stealing a coat left dangling on a rack, he fiddled with the doorknob, and escaped down the stairs.

Sure, his vision was wild, blurred, confused. The ringing in his ears was chiming in the back of his skull, and anyone to come across him would have instantly noticed he was disoriented. He searched in his pocket as he drifted past the exterior of the cottage in which he lived. Just past his cottage was the skeleton of another, larger house, still smoldering and pungent with soot and smoke. He gripped the photo between his fingers. Smoke curled past his face as he followed his weakened memory out onto a dirt road, and began walking towards a place he didn’t know.

***

The town had burned millions of times. Millions of times, the ball descended into chaos as the governor descended into insanity, and millions of times he had placed the gun between Shatov’s eyes and pulled the trigger. And after that, his conspirators had always begun to scream in a demented chorus. Every time, Kirillov fought him back valiantly, in some meager act of resistance, and bit down on his finger before blowing his brains out against the wall. Every time, a noose cracked Nikolai Stavrogin’s neck. And every time, he had escaped the town by the skin of his teeth, hurrying to Petersburg and leaving behind his dying father, bloodstained streets, skies and snow dirtied with ash and smoke.

And this time, it had not gone to plan.

Something went wrong.

He had maintained it for years now, repeating his little game. Perhaps some subtle things would change. A line was spoken differently, or an action described in a new way. In some versions, some people would even have different names, or were sometimes erased completely from the harrowing tale. But each time, the story would always end the same, and he would always end up free, still alive and kicking. It had no longer been about revolution, nor about atheism, nihilism, whatever. No, it had become about the death, the pattern, the repetition, the joy of being in control and having complete power over the outcome every single time. It seemed, however, that he had let himself get lazy. Or perhaps his thralls had turned on him at last. Likely story! They’d never defeat him either way, not at this point. Yet, his legs brought him out of the city, preserved forever in its Victorian coffin, and out into Petersburg.

Tourists clamored the city streets, sipping coffee and chatting, taking the subways or talking on the phone. He had tried to update his wardrobe, too, but the cashier seemed shocked when he presented his rainbow-colored rubles. “From 1860?” the cashier had asked, eyes wide. “Where have you found these?” The bank refused to take them, too. So at last, he had pawned them off at some corner store, and now carried a few dozen bundles of hundred-rubles in his suitcase. Now, he faced the arrival and departure board of the train station, two screens staring him in the face and featuring clusters of cities. Vladivostok, Moscow, Novosibirsk, Helsinki, Vilnius, Minsk. His eyes scanned the board then met the uniformed woman who stared at him coldly from her seat.

Pyotr Verkhovensky smiled at her, revealing two rows of white teeth and crinkling two bright, charming blue eyes. “Is there a train to Switzerland, ma’am?”

#does this give a good general vibe of my plan #i hope it does #ive been reading too much abstracist fiction #alexei kirillov #ivan shatov #pyotr verkhovensky #demons #the possessed #liza marya and dasha will all make appearences later #fyodor dostoyevsky #dostoevsky tag #books #my writes #бесы #writing #writeblr #shatov x kirillov

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what-is-your-plan-today · 5 years ago

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Riding High Ch 25: Keep It Simple

Chapter Summary: The events of Boston behind them, Frank, Fliss and Mary look forward to Christmas…and Frank has a big surprise planned.

Chapter Warnings: Bad Language words. Smut…NSFW and NO UNDER 18s!!!

Chapter Pairings: Frank Adler x OFC Fliss Gallagher

And yes, I know it ain’t Christmas but…well, in my mind it should be Christmas every day!

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter Song: God Only Knows by the Beach Boys

If you should ever leave me, thought life would still go on, believe me, the world could show nothing to me, so what good would living do me? God only knows what I’d be without you…

"Mary can you just hold on a second, please!" Frank sighed, grabbing the back of her coat to stop her shooting off into the crowd that streamed down the busy Manhattan sidewalk. "But Frank!" she turned and looked at him, her woollen hat jammed down over her ears "I just wanna see the stall!" "Yeah but you can't just run off!" He grumbled and besides him Fliss gave a chuckle. He turned to look at her "who gets so excited about damned wooden tree ornaments?" "Oh hush!" Fliss leaned up to give him a pack, her cold nose brushing his. In retaliation he pulled the front of her baby blue sparkly bobble hat down over her eye and she shoved him in the chest, laughing. "Fuck you!" "Chance would be a fine thing" he grumbled, taking Fliss’ hand as they headed after Mary. "Awww is that why you're grumpy?" Fliss grinned as they walked "Coz you haven't had any in nearly 3 days?" Frank pouted "No." "Liar..." "Ok, look...Frankie has needs..." he whined "I completely over looked the fact hanging out with an 8 year old in the room would be a cock block." "Always the shower..." Fliss teased and Frank snorted. "Yeah, right. Can you imagine? I give it 3 minutes before she came looking for us." "We go home tomorrow. I'll make it up to you then." Fliss grinned and he sighed. "What?" She laughed. "It’s just...you look so hot in all this winter clothing." Frank grinned. And he meant it. Seeing her wrapped up in a coat, hat and scarf had made her look all cute and cozy...and it had done inappropriate things to him for some odd reason. "Hmmm, you know most men get more turned on the less clothing their girls wear." She teased and he grinned. "Yeah, well, I'm not most men" She gave him a smile which he returned with a soft kiss as they stopped by the stall where Mary instantly dived into looking at the array of ornaments. After a few moments of looking she handed Frank one in the shape of a reindeer stag, and a doe for him and Fliss before selecting a robin for herself. "I think they're so pretty." She looked at the bird in her hand "I saw one at Evelyn's over thanks giving." "Ever heard the saying robins appear when loved ones are near?" Fliss asked. Mary shook her head. "No" "Well, I don't know about here but certainly in England we say it because there is an old belief by some people that a robin is a message from heaven, that a loved one is watching over you." "Do you believe that?" Mary looked at Fliss. Fliss hesitated "Well when my mum's dad died I was 20 and I remember getting up the morning after he died and there was a robin on the fence of the back garden. Bill told me it was my granddad Alex come to check I was ok." "Do you think it was? Really I mean?" "I dunno sweetheart." Fliss sighed "I'd like it to be true..." "Then you should believe it was." Mary said, looking at her "Because isn't that what faith is? Believing something you want to be true?" Fliss looked at Frank who smiled and gave a small shake of his head. She turned back to Mary, smiling softly as she dropped a hand to the back of her head. This kid was unbelievably wise, but with such an innocence behind it all. "Yeah, I suppose it is." Fliss nodded. "Do you think the robin I saw could have been my mom?" She asked, her eyes wide. Frank at that point stepped in, carefully picking an answer that was ambiguous so as not to say yes, but also not dampening her spirits. "If your mom could I'm sure she would come and see you, make sure you're ok." Mary gave a nod, before she turned back to the stall, her attention back on the ornaments. "We need a dog for Thor, and a cat for Fred oh...and a pony for Monty." "What about Cap and Heidi?" Fliss asked, moving to inspect the selection of decorations. "Oh, yeah!" "This is gonna bankrupt me." Frank grumbled, his hands on Fliss' hips, chin resting on her shoulder as he observed the two of them. "Scrooge" Fliss shot back with a smile "Do you think Verity and Bill will like this one?" Mary held up a snowman. "Absolutely" Fliss nodded. "And can I get one for Evelyn?" She asked, selecting a snowflake. Despite the fact that they were now well into the fifty buck range for fucking tree decorations, Frank couldn't help but want to smile at Marys face. She was so thoughtful, the purity behind it all was as usual humbling. So he nodded "Sure she will appreciate it." He smiled. He moved to lift her up so she could hand the ones they had picked over to the guy behind the counter who asked Mary what names she wanted on each one. As she told him, he allowed her to sit up on the edge of the little surface, held in place by Frank to watch as he burnt the names into each ornament before he bagged them up and she took them with a thanks. "Our first family tree stuff!" Mary grinned and Fliss smiled, bending down to give her a hug. They set back off towards the hotel, stopping by a burger joint for dinner before they dumped their bags and returned back out for their final evening in the City. Frank had loved every second of their trip, and so had Mary and Fliss. Seeing Mary's reaction to snow and the Christmas lights had been amazing, along with all the bands on street corners, people walking around dressed up. It was magical and he wasn't afraid to let his inner child come out to play either, as Fliss had just found out. "Whose idea was this again?" He asked as Mary was bouncing up and down in the queue. "Yours!" Fliss scoffed as he took Mary's hand in his right "I seem to recall the very visible horror on your face yesterday when I told you I'd never done it before..." "That’s because it's an abomination that someone who's 34 has never been ice skating." "I was a professional athlete." She shrugged "I was banned from doing anything deemed dangerous " Frank looked at her "What do they consider more dangerous than flying a half tonne animal almost 2 meters into the air?" "Bungee jumping, sky diving, jet skiing, water skiing, ice skating.." Fliss shrugged "just to name 5" Frank shook his head as the queue shuffled forward a little. It wasn't too long now, luckily they had timed it right by arriving 20 minutes or so before the next lot of General Admission to the famous Rockefeller rink opened so there weren't too many people ahead. After another 10 minutes they got to the front and Frank nudged Fliss out of the way as she tried to pay. She scowled at him and he simply rolled his eyes and handed his card over. It wasn't cheap but then, he was in New York. What was? Together they headed onto the ice. Frank, having done it a few times as a kid found his legs fairly quickly and didn't stop himself laughing as Mary's completely went from under her and she landed with a thump on her ass. "Here..." he chuckled, offering her his hand. He pulled her up and moved her in front of him. "Give me your hands..." Mary extended her arms to the side and he took her mitten clad hands in his, holding her in front of him. Fliss was moving tentatively behind him, using the sides for support a little. "Ok slide your right foot forward, like on your roller skates..." Frank said. Mary did as she was told "now left...right...left...right..." He continued his chanting and glanced over his shoulder to see Fliss was concentrating on her feet, her tongue poking out slightly. "You good?" "Yup." She said, raising her hand to give him a thumbs up before she skidded slightly and went down in a tangle of limbs. Letting out a laugh he gently pivoted Mary so she could hold onto the side and offered Fliss his hand. Pulling her up into his arms he held her steady for a moment whilst her laughing subsided. He watched her for a second, her face creasing up into those adorable dimples, eyes crinkled so much they were almost shut and her shoulders shook with the force of her giggles. "I fuckin' love you..." he grinned and she smiled at him. "Back at ya sailor" After another few laps Mary and Fliss had managed to get the hand of it which meant Frank could leave them a little bit as he went off for what he called a proper skate. The girls watched calling him a show off as he crossed his feet and turned, skating backwards a little. Both of them debated sabotaging him and tripping him up but they decided not to, instead they simply pretended they didn't know him, resulting in him grabbing Fliss from behind just beneath the large tree, and spinning her round to face him. "Can I help you?" She teased and he gave a snort. "Yeah, you can... Mary?" He called to her where she was trying to perfect a turn and failing as she almost stumbled again. She looked up and headed over. "Can you take our photo?" "Only if you're gonna kiss..." she replied, making smooching noises. "Well we can’t disappoint her..." Frank shrugged and Fliss grinned, her smile turning into a shriek as Frank quickly grabbed her hips before he took one hand, keeping the other round her back and dipped her so she was bending backwards, planting a sloppy kiss on her lips. She laughed against his mouth as he gave her a wink, before kissing her a little deeper and then setting her upright, his eyes boring into hers which were shining in the Christmas lights surrounding the rink. "Oh that was great!" Mary howled and he turned to face her as she handed his phone back. Frank checked the photo and had to smile, it was a dammed good shot. He showed it to Fliss and she beamed. "A framer?" She asked. "A framer." He agreed. It took them ages to get Mary to finally leave the rink. Even a bribe of hot chocolate, marshmallows and cookies wasn't doing it. Eventually Frank put his foot down and told her it was time to go as it was almost 9pm and they still had that tree to go see before they headed to Central Park for one last walk in the lights. After handing their skates back and retrieving their belongings from the lockers they followed the path to the tree. As they round the corner Mary gasped. "It's huge!" She turned to look at Frank and Fliss, her eyes wide "Oh my God!" Frank smiled kissed Fliss' cheek as Mary walked slightly ahead of them down the walkway that was flanked with smaller trees and the famous lit up trumpeting angels . As they caught her up he slipped his spare hand in his pocket, his fingers curling round the small, leather box inside. The damned thing had been burning a hole in his pocket since he had bought it in Boston just after Thanksgiving. Fliss, Verity and Bill had all stayed for a very pleasant week rounded off with a damned good proper Thanksgiving dinner and the three of them had flown home on the Friday, as Fliss was starting to stress about her business. He and Mary followed on the Sunday after she had been given the all clear to fly after a week’s check up at the Hospital. On his spare afternoon, he'd taken a trip into the city with one goal, and it had been surprisingly easy. The first jeweller he has walked into had a perfect ring, and despite the fact he had visited several others none of them caught his eye like that. So he had gone back and asked the assistant for a closer look. It wasn't a huge rock, white gold and emerald cut with in a pave setting, but everything about it had screamed Fliss. It was delicate and feminine but with a wonderful sparkle just like her. He knew that sounded so lame when he had told the assistant but she has just smiled and told him that if he had that much conviction, it must be right. He had been lost when she asked him what size, but in a sudden inspiration he had remembered the Pandora ring he had bought her when he had gotten his first new pay check as supervisor. He mentioned this to the assistant who beamed and said she could easily size it from that by using a simple conversion chart and told him to come back the following day. His sudden good spirit had fallen as he explained he couldn't do and asked her to see if here was anything she could do, even contemplating taking it and having it sizes back in Florida. But, after the shitty run of events over the last week, his luck was in after she returned 5 minutes later with a slip of paper, informing him it would be ready by the end of the day. When he had told Mary he was going to ask Fliss to marry him, she'd been so excited. She'd asked when, where and when he said he didn’t know she'd given him the most exasperated look on the planet. The only one of his friend who he had confided in, Greg, hadn’t been much help either, simply telling him to do it in a way that meant something to them both. Simply put he just hadn't a fucking clue. He had agonized over how to pop the question. On the boat? Or maybe a sunset on their favourite spot at St Pete's beach? Did he wait for New York? As such, Frank had taken to carrying the ring around with him, waiting for that moment when it felt right. So far it hadn't happened at home and as it stood New York wasn’t faring any better. He had thought about it at the top of the Empire state, but it had been too busy. Then there was a moment in Central Park after they had been snowman building that might have worked...until Fliss had nailed him in the face with a snowball. So they'd had a snowball fight instead. Then when walking over Brooklyn Bridge, the skyline behind them… then when they walked back to the Hotel after seeing the Lion King on Broadway, going the long way round to see the display in Macy's window all lit up...and then that moment before when Mary had taken a picture of them kissing under the tree on the ice rink... but none of it felt right. It didn't feel like the moment for them. But now something stirred in his gut. This could be it. It wasn't too busy, the place was gorgeous, right in front of the tree Fliss had been so desperate to see... Ok Adler, you can do this. Taking a deep breath he pulled the box from his pocket when he heard Mary give a squeal. "Oh...wow! Frankie look..." Fliss' voice was a whisper and she nudged him, pointing to the base of the tree. He followed her gaze to see a blonde haired man down on one knee, presenting a ring to a dark haired woman who had her hands clasped over her mouth. Frank slipped the box back into his pocket and stared at the man as he placed the ring onto his now fiancés finger and did his best to look like he cared when Fliss let out a soft "Awwww" The man looked around excitedly, his eyes falling on the three of them before he asked Frank if he or Fliss would mind taking a photo for them. "Course not buddy, congratulations." Frank smiled. Fucking prick... ***** "It was AMAZING!" Mary gushed to Verity as they walked to the car, Fliss' parents having come to pick them up from the airport. "we saw so much stuff but nowhere near all of it but Frank said we could go back next year in the summer maybe and do a bit more." "Looks like someone else had a good time too." Bill smiled, nodding to Fliss who let out a loud yawn. Frank chuckled "She was up all night, I told her not to have more food so close to bed time." "I wanted a hot dog and a pretzel." Fliss mumbled, "Besides, it's nothing to do with the food...we did a lot of walking." Bill gave a snort "You ride horses for a living, you should be fit enough to walk round New York" "I probably skated about 4 miles too..." Fliss said looking at Mary "Someone wouldn't come off the ice rink" "You been sleeping ok otherwise?" Verity looked at her "I'm fine mum." She smiled "No anxiety?" 'V, she said she's fine so leave it" Bill said gently and Fliss shot a grateful look at her dad. She knew her mum was only concerned but she was fed up of assuring people she was fine. After the attack from John she had suffered a bout of delayed shock which had manifested in a few panic attacks, nightmares, and restlessness at night and on one occasion nausea. Luckily Frank had been brilliant at keeping calm when she had an episode, helping her work through it and the last incident she had suffered had been over a week ago. Once they were all in the car, Frank took the passenger seat after Verity offered it to him, Mary continued to chat all the drive home about New York, Fliss and Frank butting in here and there. They arrived home little after 30 minutes later and Fliss headed up the steps with Mary, Thor almost sending the pair of them flying when they opened the door. "Oh puppy I missed you!" Fliss smiled as she gave him plenty of attention and he kept licking her face, whining and emitting quiet little barks. "Did you miss me? Did you?" "Yerress" Frank did his best Scooby Doo impression as he walked past and Fliss let out a laugh, as she stood up and headed into the living room behind Mary, bumping into the girl as she stopped dead, giving a squeal as she saw the Christmas Tree in the corner. "Mum, Dad?" Fliss called, smiling "I take it you did this?" Frank appeared behind them both, smiling as Fliss and Mary exchanged a glance before they all turned to Bill and Verity who were stood in the doorway. "Well we know how much you like to get your tree up as early as you can and, well we were picking one up for ourselves so we got you one. You don’t mind do you?" Verity, looked at Fliss then Frank. "No, of course not!" Fliss grinned. "Saved me a job." Frank nodded "Thanks guys." "Can we decorate it tonight?" Mary asked "Pleeeeeeeaaaasssseee Frank!" Frank glanced at his watch before giving a sigh, he knew she wouldn't go to bed if he said no anyway so what was the point? Plus she was at the University tomorrow which didn’t start until 10 so... "Ok, but if you so much as grumble tomorrow morning when I get you up you'll be in deep trouble." He looked at her sternly as she stooped to pick Fred up. "Cross my heart, hope to die, we all know Fred's got one eye..." she chanted off, nodding. "We brought your box of decorations from the annex." Verity smiled at Fliss, nodding to the box on the floor. "We thought you could pick what you want to keep now you're combining."

“Speaking of decorations…” Frank said, looking at Mary.

“Fliss said you wouldn’t mind the names Mary wanted on them.” Frank said, watching carefully.

“Of course we don’t mind!” Bill smiled, picking Mary up to give her a hug “We are Nanny V and Poppa B ain’t that right kiddo?” “Yep!” she grinned, hugging him.

“We’ll save it to hang tomorrow when you come over after school.” Verity said as Bill set Mary on the floor and she hugged her tightly.

He had just about managed it when Thor came over to inspect what he was doing, and dropped straight onto his back on top of the string.

“Frank got me this for my first Christmas.” Mary said, hanging a red bauble which had her name on it. “The glitter has all fallen off it now.”

“We can add more if you want.” Fliss looked at her and Mary shrugged.

“Best Tree ever.” she smiled.

“Yeah, and now it’s time for the best bed ever…” he looked at her.

“Seriously?” Mary complained

“No moaning, remember?” Frank instructed her. “That was in the morning.”

“I’ll be in in a second.” Frank shot after her, watching as she headed down to the hallway. He turned back to Fliss who was watching the tree, a smile on her face.

“Not exactly up to Macey’s standards…” Frank chuckled and she shook her head.

“I love it.” “It looks like an Elf threw up on it.”

“No beer.” “You want me to wait in bed.” “Yes I do.” he nodded “Go, I’ll let Thor out and lock up.”

“I like your ass.” he muttered. “I like yours too” she said back, “And your arms”

He laughed and pulled back to look down at her as her fingers trailed up his biceps. “My arms?”

“I know I keep saying it but I really do fuckin’ love you Cowgirl.” he said, voice muffled as his face pressed into her neck.

Fliss gave a chuckle “I’ll never tire of hearing it Sailor. “

And then, suddenly an idea came to him, out of nowhere.

Oh, it was perfect! "Greg..." he smiled, slapping the man on the back "you are a genius." "Glad I could be of service." Greg smirked "This means I get best man duty, right?"

“Frank said you enjoyed New York.” “Oh, it was fantastic.” she smiled “Every bit as magical as I thought it was going to be.”

“No, Greg…” Fliss started to protest but Greg cut her off.

“Yes Greg!” he smirked, turning to the bar tender, “Can I get a bottle of Tequila pal and 8 glasses.” Fliss groaned “I’m teaching at 9 am!”

“Dumbass…” Greg looked at her and Frank gave a snort.

“I told you to switch them out…”

“The table is set, food and everything is ready to go…” he chuckled, looking at her “Just relax…”

He reached round Mary, his hand gently rubbing at Fliss’ back and she smiled at him, turning her attention to the TV.

“She wants you to go and say goodnight.” he smiled,

Fliss nodded and stood up.

“You sure you’re ok?” Frank asked.

She came back about 10 minutes later and he smiled at her as she walked into the room.

“OK, now she’s out of the way…I got something for you...” Frank smiled.

Fliss looked at him before she shook her head, chuckling a little “I got something for you too…Frank, I have-” “Me first.” Frank cut her off.

She looked at him for a second, his bright blue eyes were shining as he grinned at her and she rolled her eyes.

“Fine…” she smiled, “Ok, you first.” He grinned and then folded his arms “You gotta find it.” “What?”

“Charmer.” she grinned, turning back to the tree.

Fliss looked at it, admiring the way the delicate band sat underneath her knuckle, the beautiful diamond twinkling in the lights of the tree.

"Oh Frankie...it’s gorgeous..." she whispered, before she looked at him, taking his face in both his hands and pulling him down for a deep kiss. "I love you so much."

"I love you too." He smiled, kissing her again before he pulled away, his hands linking behind her back.

Not that he had doubted she would, not really, but there had always been that little bit of fright she may have done. But that was all gone now. As he popped the cork on the bottle he found himself thinking about how he would be doing that soon enough on his wedding day. He poured 2 glassed and headed into the living room with them wondering if maybe a late Autumn wedding next year would be nice, October perhaps when it started to cool off slightly. They could do the beach wedding she always wanted, hire a marquee... Lost in his thoughts completely he jumped a little when Fliss spoke his name and turned to look at her as she stood in front of him, the back of his thighs brushing against the sofa slightly. He noticed her hand was in her pocket, clutching something. Playfully he nodded towards it “I assume that’s not a spanner." He chuckled, referencing the joke they often shared and Fliss shook her head, biting her lip. "No...it’s...a bit bigger than that" With a shaky hand she pulled out a small, white stick of plastic and held it towards him. It took Frank a moment to understand what it was and as soon as he did his eyes widened and he looked at her, then it, then back again.

"You're...we're...no...that's..." he stuttered, reaching out to take it from her. "I found out this morning." Fliss whispered, watching hair reaction carefully "I suspected last week but thought it might all be down to stress and stuff but..." "How, I mean..." "I should have started a new pill packet when we went to Boston but I forgot to take it with me. I thought I'd be ok if I started as soon as I got back but..." "There's a baby in there?" Frank cut her off as he stumbled over his words, nodding to her stomach "Yeah" Fliss nodded. "You put it there." Frank's legs grew shaky and he dropped onto the sofa, staring down at the test in his hands.

2 blue lines.

2 blue lines that had just changed his world forever. "I'm sorry, I know this is sudden and I should have been more careful..." Fliss took a tentative step towards him and he reached out, his hands on either side of her hips, gently pulling her t-shirt up. He leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to her belly, his forehead resting just above her navel. "I'm gonna be a dad..." he said, pulling back, his eyes watering. "Frankie, you already are..." Fliss said, her own tears once more springing forth. "I know you hate it when I say that about Mary but it's true." He looked at her, a dazed smile split his face into two as he pulled her onto his lap, where she straddled him, and he kissed her, hard, leaving her slightly breathless before he rest his forehead against hers. "Fuck, Lissy..." he whispered, his eyes closed "You're cooking a little person..." She spluttered a laugh, nodding, her forehead brushing his as she did. "Was it made in Boston...is that the right word?" He pulled back to look at her and she laughed, brushing her hand through his fluffy hair as his gently reached out to rest against her stomach. "Yeah and most likely." "It's a little Boston Bean" he grinned and she laughed again, pressing her lips to his. "You're ok with it then? I know it's probably not what you would have planned but..." "Ok? Of course I'm ok!" He smiled "I love you and the thought of us making a little person that's half me, half you...fuck, it's amazing." She smiled and nodded, her voice a whisper "I know..."

"There is one problem." Franks said, his arms wrapping tightly around her. "What?" "You just ruined Christmas forever...because nothing is ever gonna live up to this ever again."

#riding high #frank adler #frank adler x ofc #gifted #gifted fan fic

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jadekitty777 · 5 years ago

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Transmission Error

Fun fact - I have written two stories within four days. Even funner fact - the other one is much cuter than this one but I can’t reveal it quite yet as it’s for the Qrow shipwreck fanzine.

Word Count: 4k

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Ao3 Link: Transmission Error

Summary: With the end of the world on the horizon, nothing is certain. Loyalties and ideals clash as Qrow and Clover fight between what is right and what is just. With a city threatening to crumble around them, something has to win the day. But will it be their individual interests… or the one thing holding them together?

Note: This is a What-If scenario for the events in the plane right after V7C11

In the wake of the transmission, the air in the transport was tense and heavy. Stiflingly, so.

Robyn acted first, jerking around and pointing her weapon at him. Clover looked between the crossbow and her unshakable gaze and saw the huntress he’d had a chance to watch grow into her own. She was several years his junior, who’d entered the academy strong-willed and defiant, with high opinions and a disobedient attitude that truly didn’t mesh well with the militant attitude of her peers. He’d been granted the chance to be her corrective tutor, once upon a time, but he knew within five minutes of them meeting that there was no hope changing her. Nor was she someone who needed to be. She was a shining example of the incoming generation, those with big ideas on how to better the world and willing to take the risks to make those ideas happen.

Now, staring down the barrel of her weapon and understanding that she was seeing him as a hurdle to cross to that better world, Clover had never felt so betrayed.

The minimal tang of moving metal made him look slightly to the right, where Qrow sat with his hand on Harbinger’s hilt – not extended but threatening to.

Okay now he never felt so betrayed.

He kept his hands right where they were, resting on either thigh. While he had luck on his side, he didn’t bet his chances on winning a fight against two skilled fighters in the middle of a closed area wherein his own weapon was ultimately useless. So he used the only one he had left – his voice. “Let’s just take a second and calm down.”

Robyn scoffed. “I think we’re way past calm, shamrock.”

Back to that old nickname? That was a bad sign.

“We’re not.” Clover insisted. “Look, we don’t know what’s going on and-”

“My niece just told us what’s going on.” Qrow butt in. “Your boss is going off the deep end and my kids are in the crossfire.”

He almost reminded the other huntsman that General Ironwood was, technically, his boss as well. He couldn’t imagine how scandalized he’d be if he dared.

He took a slow, steadying breath and tried again “The general wouldn’t suddenly switch tactics like this without reason. We need to get back to the academy and-”

“And what?!” Robyn was on her feet now, the crossbow nearly touching his nose. “How does this end? Mantle has been the sacrifice this entire time and you’ve done nothing but blindly stand by it! Now Ironwood’s signed its death warrant, so why should I believe you wouldn’t betray your own home now?”

Few things could get him to surge to his feet, but that accusation was too much. “I never-!”

Anything more he wished to say was interrupted by a round of screams from the cockpit, before an explosion rocked the airship, fire and heat blasting from the front. There was no Elm or Weiss to catch them, so the four of them were tossed about the cabin like ragdolls. Clover cried out as his spine impacted the bench with enough force to hurt, only for another undulation to throw him to the floor, his shoulder and head smacking in quick succession.

Somewhere, he heard Tyrian’s maniacal laughter. “I knew she’d come for me!”

He struggled against his fuzzy head to lift himself up, blinking away the haze in his vision to truly take in the unbelievable sight before him. The entire front of the airship was just gone, nothing but a gaping hole where the cockpit once was, opening up the view to the stomach-dropping site of Mantle below. The edges of the metal that had been torn off were still super-heated and glowing orange, smoke filling the cabin at an alarming rate and choking the air.

As the aircraft rapidly started to nosedive, he grabbed onto the leg of the bench to ground himself. Between the dark clouds and his watery eyes, he saw Tyrian go slipping out the front. Heard his psychotic giggling as he disappeared over the edge. Another shout made his gut twist, and he saw Robyn going next, nothing to catch her.

He scrambled for Kingfisher, swung it desperately – but the line caught nothing.

“Clover!”

Under the tumultuous noise of the failing craft and the screech of the winds, it was a true wonder how he managed to hear the yell that had him looking to the back where the last occupant was. Qrow had his sword embedded in the wall, using it to anchor himself in place. He reached out a hand for him, which Clover didn’t hesitate to take, feet scrambling for purchase as the other huntsman yanked him over. His hand curled partially over Qrow’s as he grabbed for a hold on Harbinger.

“The door!” The huntsman cried, indicating with a jerk of his head towards the hatch at the rear of the vehicle.

Clover nodded, planting his heels in so he could slide himself back against the wall, and slammed his fist into the door. Nothing happened. Without the cockpit, there was no tech to control them into opening.

Qrow was coughing. They were suffocating on smoke. The buildings of Mantle were rapidly getting closer.

They were going to die if they didn’t get out now.

He shut his eyes. Focused everything he had into the hatch beside him, willed his semblance into opening them, and slammed his fist back again.

It didn’t just open – it entirely detached, breaking off with a screech and getting lost somewhere in the night sky.

Clover spared Qrow a look, just long enough to make sure he would be able to get out on his own, before he grabbed onto the edge of the frame and yanked himself out. Suddenly, he was flying, the rooftops of Mantle rapidly stretching up to meet him. He swung Kingfisher in a wide arc, catching around a chimney stack behind him and using it to propel himself backwards so that he was over an alleyway. Another swing and another hook, this time around a fire escape, had him swinging into his fall, controlling his descent.

The ground still came up quickly and hit hard even as he tucked and rolled into it. He didn’t get up immediately. His back was screaming, despite his aura miraculously still holding, and his head felt like one big ache. He gingerly pressed his palm against his temple, feeling the knot growing there, as he pulled out his scroll to check his teammates’ statuses.

Robyn was in the yellow, which meant wherever she ended up, she’d landed okay and in one piece. His own was on the verge of snapping, though he could feel that.

But his eyes were quickly drawn to the pulsing red meter over Qrow, panic rising. With all the other noise, he hadn’t heard the alert. The other man must have collided with something too hard during the explosion, and with his aura already taxed from battling waves of Grimm and Tyrian, it was no wonder it gave in.

He should have helped him out of the plane.

Clover quickly got to his feet, hissing as he did so. He ignored it in favor of searching the area. He couldn’t have landed far, right?

It was hard to see anything. The area was pitch black, most of the district’s electricity having been knocked out during the attack. But a light caught his eye and he started to jog down the alley towards it – only to quickly ease up into a quick walk. Once he’d stepped onto the sidewalk, he looked around, but saw no sign of Qrow anywhere.

But just as he was about to head down the street, something out of place caught his eye.

A falling feather.

He watched it flutter to the ground, before craning his head back, spotting a crow clinging to the only lamppost still on. “Qrow?” He called to it hopefully.

It cawed back, before hopping from its perch. Clover saw the problem immediately as he tried to flap with just one working wing, spiraling out of control. He rushed to catch him, raising his cupped hands towards the sky and biting down on his tongue when his shoulder protested loudly against the movement. Still, it felt worth the pain when the nearly weightless bird landed in his palms. He knelt down, setting him on the floor.

A second later, Qrow was next to him, stifling a groan as he held his right arm tightly. The elbow was at an odd angle.

He could have kicked himself for not noticing.

“Is it broken?” Clover asked, reaching out for it.

“Don’t think so – Ah, careful!” He hissed, fingers twitching. “Think I just knocked it outta place.”

Upon further inspection, he found the assessment was correct. A full dislocation. It was a wonder how he’d managed to keep hold of his sword with such an injury. Though, experience told him it was probably just pure adrenaline.

Clover looked up, meeting Qrow’s pained gaze. “I can set it, but it’s going to hurt.”

“I know.” He turned his face away. “Do it.”

“Okay.” He held onto his wrist with one hand, and the bone of his protruding elbow with the other, carefully pulling his arm into a 90-degree angle as he tried to guide the joint back into place as he rotated the wrist.

The worst part was how slow the reduction maneuver was, dragging out the pain. Qrow did his best to hide it, only short, sharp exhales escaping between his teeth. Until there was a click as the bone finally snapped back into place; then he doubled over and let out a wordless cry.

Clover guided the arm down, resting it in Qrow’s lap, before reaching out to run a soothing hand through the other man’s hair. “Any other injuries?” He asked once it seemed he’d had caught his breath.

He shook his head, straightening up. He tested the movement of his arm, flinching as the torn and swollen ligaments undoubtably objected. It didn’t appear to weaken his resolve though, as he used his good arm to help him get back to his feet, turning towards the sky. Towards Atlas.

Clover felt like his soul and body were pulling in different directions, because as he got to his feet, his heart sank. “You’re going?”

“Where else is there to be?” He questioned emptily as he walked forward.

As if Kingfisher’s line was tied between them, Clover found himself surging after him, grabbing onto his shoulder. “Wait!”

In all the time they’d gotten to know each other, Qrow had never looked back at him so spitefully before. “Going to stop me?”

What? Clover tried to work his jaw into the word, but nothing escaped him.

Because… that’s what he was supposed to do, wasn’t he? He was Atlas’ top Ace-Op, meant to protect the people and his Kingdom. Tasked in securing the deeper secrets of Remnant and protecting his General’s interests. Above all else, it was his duty to subdue anyone intent on hindering or delaying those interests.

When had Qrow become such a liability to him that the thought of stopping him didn’t even cross his mind?

“I-” He pulled his hand back, staring at it as if it had betrayed him.

“I get it, you know.”

He looked up. “Huh?”

Some of the heat in Qrow’s eyes had gone away. “Back when Beacon started to fall, I forgot too. I ran to Ozpin’s office, more intent on the relic and the maiden then I was on the people being torn apart in the streets. Oz didn’t even hesitate – actually he seemed pissed I was there at all.” He chuckled, a bitter, hollow sound. “He ordered me to leave, because even though he knew it was a risk, to him the people always came first. There are those in this world far better than me who never forget that. And those are the people I choose to follow.” He looked back, towards the city floating in the clouds. “And that’s what’s different between Oz and James. Oz always protected the people first. James always protected his ideals first.” Before he could formulate a retort, Qrow was looking at him now. “And from how you talked back there, it seems your ideals are what come first too.”

Clover curled one of his hands into a fist. “It’s not about ideals Qrow!”

“Isn’t it?!” He shot back, gesturing towards the buildings around them. “How else can you justify leaving an entire city to die?”

“How can you justify risking the world for one city?” He shouted right back.

Qrow got right in his face, eyes ablaze. “Because a huntsman always puts his life on the line for the people in need! Even if costs him his life.”

“Not when we could fail so many others!” Fury boiled up in him as well. “Do you think it’s satisfactory enough to say ‘Well I might be dead, but at least I did my best?’ Death isn’t an apology!”

“Neither is sacrificing the few for the many!”

“It’s not just the many! The numbers can’t even compare.” He jabbed his finger towards the sky, at the city he used to stare up at with wonder and jealousy. “If Salem gets that staff, that city will fall. Mantle, Atlas. All of it will be destroyed! So instead of saving who we can, we will lose everyone.”

“That makes it okay!?”

“Of course it doesn’t! I’d never say that.” His words trailed off into a rasp from his smoke-irritated throat. “This is the worst possible scenario and if I could go out there and stop Salem myself, I would. I’d give everything if I could do that. But that’s not an option and we have to make a decision.”

“You’re right. We do.” That red-eyed glare hardly lessened, even as Qrow took several steps backwards. Held up his arms like an offering. “So stop me.”

The challenge caught him off guard. “What?”

“You’re so certain about your path, right lucky charm? Then stop me.” He let his hands fall back to his sides, expression immovable. “Because I promise you, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure James’ plan fails.”

Clover was sure if his jaw tightened any more, his molars would crack. “I’m not going to fight you Qrow.”

“You’re gonna have to. You can’t have it both ways.”

He squared his shoulders and rose his chin up, granting the first punch. They’d played too many rounds of poker for him not to know the signs when Qrow was bluffing. “You first.”

Something shimmered across the other’s face, a brief second of regret, before his expression hardened once more.

But he didn’t move.

As the seconds passed, the tension eased out of him, until Clover’s heart broke open into something softer, warmer. “Qrow…”

The utterance of his own name erased his resolve and he lowered his head to scowl at the sidewalk. “Just, stay out of this one, okay?”

“You know I can’t do that. But we can figure this out together.” He stepped forward.

The gesture only made Qrow back away further. “Now who’s spouting off idealistic bullshit?”

Clover snorted. “According to you, it’s still me.”

That actually cracked a smile, though it was fleeting. “Look, you have to understand, this isn’t just about Mantle or Salem or any of that. It’s about those kids. My kids. I have to go.” He looked up, his imploring gaze begging him to understand. “I have to.”

“Qrow,” He started, reaching for the man – but something moving in the shadows behind him drew his attention.

“I know you don’t get it, but-”

The words faded into background noise, Clover turning his head to get a better look at the figure slinking towards them.

Glowing gold eyes gleamed back at him.

His heart stopped.

Knowing he was spotted, Tyrian sprinted forward to clear the rest of the distance, wrist blades aimed for Qrow’s unprotected back.

Clover didn’t hesitate, reaching for Kingfisher and extending it in one quick movement. “Qrow!”

“What are you-?!” Misunderstanding, Qrow jerked back in sudden alarm, hand reaching for his own weapon, but his injury made him slow.

It was also the thing that saved him, as Clover managed to hook his line around the other’s torso and yank him to the ground by his side just as Tyrian’s blades cut through the air where he once was. The murderer’s malicious grin glinted like fangs in the light as he changed targets and struck towards him. Clover ducked under it, twisting the fishing rod around and jabbing the pointed end towards his face.

The iron grip of the other’s metallic tail closing around his wrist cut his attack short.

Tyrian cackled at the trembling end of the spearhead that was just centimeters from his now violet eyeball, looking at him almost gleefully. “Nice try. How about I return the favor?”

The words registered with the swing of the weapon at his face. In desperation, Clover threw himself as far back as he could go – expecting resistance from the hold on his arm.

But it let go.

Unprepared and unsteady, his feet fumbled for balance – and it was just the mistake Tyrian was looking for.

The other’s hand clawed down his front and he felt his aura rip at the seams as if made of paper.

And then all that was left was burning agony as the knife-edged point of the scorpion tail sliced across his stomach up to his chest.

Clover stumbled backwards, hands shakily pressing against his body as bright red blood flowed from the wound. His blood.

All he could think was, That’s not right.

He couldn’t breathe.

His legs started to shake.

A weak whisper of his name made him look to his right.

“Clover?”

The last thing he saw was Qrow’s horrified expression as he collapsed to the ground and everything went dark.

“Clover!!”

“So, how d-?”

“I don’t-”

Voices. He heard voices. They were distant and muddled, like he was hearing them from underwater. But as he grasped for them, fighting through the fog in his head and the numbness of his senses, it slammed awareness back into him violently and he became acutely aware of the searing pain roaring across his torso like fire.

A noise escaped him, a choked off cry.

“-ver? Clover?”

Qrow. He tried to focus on his voice, on the hand gripping his own. He squeezed it, maybe too tightly, feeling like it was the only thing grounding him.

“-Needs a medic.” Someone else’s voice faded in again, but he recognized it too. Robyn. How was she here? He felt her more dainty fingers pressing down against his wrist. “His pulse is stable, but he’s losing a lot of blood.”

“That poison’s no joke either.” Qrow sounded panicked. “How are we even going to find anyone right now?”

He wanted to reach out to him, to reassure him he was going to be fine. He’d had worse, surely. But when he tried to speak, the air was punched right out of his lungs as another wave of agony rolled over him.

He only noticed the hand running through his hair once it subsided and the sensation encouraged his eyes open. Everything around him was fuzzy, except the bright red orbs staring back at him.

Had he ever told Qrow how pretty his eyes were?

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re gonna be just fine.” His voice flowed like honey and was just as sweet. He wanted to listen to it forever.

“’Row.” He slurred around his heavy tongue.

It was worth the effort, as it rewarded him a smile.

“I’ve got him.” Robyn. Right she was here. Somewhere to his left. “You need to get going Qrow.”

“What?” Those eyes turned away from him. He wanted them back.

“If Ironwood knows Clover’s down here and that he can’t get back on his own, he might hold off. Might even restart the evacuation efforts.”

The memories resurfaced slowly. Right… Right. Mantle. Atlas. Salem. What happened to Tyrian? Did they-?

Unaware of his worries, the conversation continued around him, unhindered. “But I can’t just-” Qrow tried to argue.

“I won’t let him die. I promise.”

He frowned at that, deadpanning. “You were going to shoot him in the face twenty minutes ago.”

“Only if he pissed me off enough.” Her face finally came into view as she leaned over, peering down at him. “He’s an idiot. But he’s also part of Mantle. He just needs to be reminded of that sometimes.”

He made a weak protest in the back of his throat. He wasn’t ready for Qrow to know any of that.

Luckily, she didn’t elaborate further, turning her gaze back to the other huntsman. “Get out of here. At this point, you’re our only hope.”

Qrow stared between them, before he sighed in defeat and his hand slipped away.

“No-!“ Clover gasped, blindly trying to take it back and latching onto his wristband. His body shrieked in protest from the sharp movement, but he didn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” Qrow soothed. “I’ll be back.”

He shook his head, or at least he imagined he did, using what strength he had left to shakily pull his arm up until his fingers brushed over the clover always stuck to his chest. He couldn’t find it in him to speak anymore, so he just stared back at him, pleading for him to understand.

It wasn’t enough. “What? I don’t-?”

“I think he wants you to take it five o’ clock.” Robyn translated, voice uncharacteristically gentle. Until she added, “You can use it as proof.”

Had he not been bleeding out on the streets of his old hometown, Clover might have laughed.

No, he knew his commander wouldn’t halt his path. Not even for him.

But, at least this way, if Qrow made it out of here, he’d have something left of him to remind him by.

If the other man’s twisting expression told him anything, it didn’t seem that meaning was escaping him. The badge was carefully unpinned, Qrow looking down at it as his fingers closed over it securely.

Good.

Clover’s eyes slipped shut.

Good…

He felt something warm against his forehead. Qrow’s voice was closer than ever. “This isn’t goodbye lucky charm. I swear it.”

He wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating or not when he felt the tender press of lips against his own. He felt the loss of their warmth all the same when Qrow backed away. Heard his rapid footsteps that turned into wingbeats as he took off down the street. Almost faded away completely, when Robyn pulled him upwards and the agony wrenched him from blissful unconsciousness.

“Stay with me a bit longer shamrock.” She told him, securing his arm around her neck and letting him rest most of his weight on her. “Can’t die now when you just fell in love.”

“M’not n’love.” He mumbled disjointedly, head lolling against her shoulder.

Her smug smile was only highlighted by the glow where her hand met his wrist. The color caught his attention as seamlessly as Qrow’s eyes.

For they were both red and, in a way, wonderful.

His laugh left him in nothing more than a sharp but joyful exhale.

So, Qrow was that kind of liability huh?

Well now.

Lucky him.

#clover ebi #qrow branwen #Fair Game #RWBY #RWBY 7 #RWBY spoilers #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

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yourdeepestfathoms · 5 years ago

Text

Aegis of the Crow

[Wings AU]

Wing Reference

Another revamped fic because i didn’t like the original

Consider: Mamagon AND Mama Jane taking care of a fellow Mom Friend

———————

She just always had bad wings. Just like her terrible luck. Just like her unsteady stride. Just like her impossibly low self-esteem. Bessie Blount, the crow with every flaw known to man. Probably some that haven’t even been named yet.

She didn’t always feel that way. As a child, Bessie’s feet rarely touched the ground. She flew everywhere—across the hall, up the stairs, around the backyard, through the castle corridors. She was the only one in her family to have pitch black crow wings, her parents and siblings all had flashy, colorful wings, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about the whispers and stares she got, either. She loved her wings.

And then she went to court, where the other avians weren’t as accepting of her wings. Aragon would always say the other people were just jealous of the way her black wings would gleam rainbows on the feathers in the sunlight, but even she couldn’t ignore the injuries Bessie would get- feathers forcibly plucked, wings stepped on, bruises all over her body.

Over time, she became more and more quiet and aggressive, keeping to herself after years of torment in the castle. Whenever she got excited or upset, her wings want to spread, so she’s learned to suppress those feelings. She doesn’t want to call attention to herself anymore than she already did.

Back to the wings, though. They fucking sucked. From a technical standpoint, they could fit into her costume, they weren’t very big, but…suffice it to say that would do more harm than good. Even pushing them through her normal clothing was fine. But, depending on material (which was almost all of them), the base of her wings tended to ache. The worst thing, however, was her costume, which sucked because it was the only thing she was allowed to wear during performances. The effects of that hell-suit went like this: The base of her wings got itchy and raw after twenty minutes. Joints start swelling thirty minutes in. At forty-five minutes they’d go numb and heavy, forcing her to strain her back muscles to keep them from drooping on the floor. An hour in, feeling would return in the form of deep, slicing pain that lingered long into the show.

The weight and pain it put on her back is constant. It creates pain in her shoulders and down her spine. During the show, she’s constantly having to adjust how she stands and plays so she doesn’t completely tip over backward. Trips to massage therapists and physios become regular and expensive. A lot of the time they’re too scared to even touch her. Usually because she was a crow, but many also think her ugly, patchy plumage is from Drop Feather Fever, an avian illness. She’s been refused a fair share of times, despite swearing up and down that she wasn’t sick.

Just recently, she relearned to fly (not well, but it’s better than being grounded all her life). It doesn’t help the issue either. She has to actively pull her legs back behind her using her hips and lower back. The longer she flies, the more strain there is against her shoulder blades. The way it pulls around her chest, putting stress on her ribs creates both pain and breathing difficulty. It can become searing.

There is a reason birds don’t have long bodies and arms. Anything else would end in extinction.

If the wings weren’t bad enough, though… The fact she had to constantly deal with what felt like physical torture day to day wasn’t enough of a burden for one person. She had also been burdened with being an eyesore. She could feel the fear and disgust people felt when they saw her. It came to the point where fans of the show actually requested one of the deps to go on for her simply because of the color of her plumage, even when she stood in the back and played the bass. There had even been a short petition to get her fired, although that died within a week. Still, the scars it left on her mental health lingered.

It was just pain. All the time. Even things like buying clothes and sleeping couldn’t be taken for granted. There was nothing good about her wings.

But, in the end, it didn’t really matter much one way or another because she suffers in silence. She strains her back when she keeps her wings tipped up straight so one of the queens or other ladies in waiting wouldn’t worry about her, especially Maria and Aragon. She forced herself to go on flying trips even though she knew she couldn’t go for long before it felt like her skin was ripping open. She tortured herself just to make her flock happy, but there was nothing she could do about it. She was in too deep to do anything now.

This week has been especially brutal. There were multiple days when they did two shows and Bessie was starting to curse the costume designer for using such a terrible material for her outfit. It has come to the point where it hurts when she simply turns her body ever so slightly. What made it worse? When she slipped on a feather during Get Down.

Get Down was usually her favorite song and she always liked to dance during it, or at least sway in her spot. But this was enough to make it her second favorite and put Heart of Stone in the lead.

Try as she might, Bessie couldn’t bite back the painful gasp when she fell onto her back. Her wings instinctively snap outwards, the tips flapping and fluttering and spewing fuzz and black feathers into the air. Then, she’s rolling over and scrambling upwards, trying her best to continue on with the song, despite all the gasps that had been elicited from her slip up.

The only thing Bessie could focus on was the white hot agony in her wings. Her teeth sink into her lip to hold back any other cries, as it wouldn’t sound too good for the crowd of hundreds of people to hear.

Get Down ends eventually, but her silent tears don’t. She can’t stop herself from crying softly because the pain has become too much for her to handle. She isn’t sure if anyone else notices, but she hopes they haven’t.

Somehow, she makes it to the end of the show. Instantly, she’s shuffling off of the stage.

While walking to the dressing room to get out of her damned costume, her stride falters. Fresh tears prick in Bessie’s eyes and she doesn’t have time to grab for anything before she falls backwards.

To say the least, the tumble would have been disastrous if Aragon hadn’t caught her.

“Woah there,” The golden pheasant says, and her hand on Bessie’s shoulder is hurting more than helping, “Easy does it. You okay, honey?”

Bessie feels less shame in admitting things to the queens because she doesn’t live with them, but Aragon is different. And yet, she still shakes her head, whimpering weakly as tears slip down her cheeks.

Jane, who had been chatting with Aragon when Bessie fell, joins the huddle over on the staircase. Her harpy eagle feathers ruffle in worry when she sees the state the crow is in.

“What’s going on?” She asks.

“I don’t know,” Aragon says before turning her attention back to Bessie. “Let’s get you upstairs, okay? Then you can tell us. Can you walk?”

Bessie nods. Although her legs were uninjured, in fact she could use them just fine, but each step sent bolts of pain up her spine. She fights the urge to cry out, instead just whimpering again, which makes Aragon and Jane exchange worried looks at how unlike her this was. The Bessie they knew would usually never show so much weakness in front of people...

Carefully, Aragon helps her sit down in Jane’s shared dressing room with Cathy and Kitty, but she hunches forward so her back won’t touch the chair. Aragon crouches in front of her to meet her gaze.

“What’s wrong, Bessie?” She asks.

Bessie opened her mouth to answer, but just ended up gritting her teeth and screwing her eyes shut. A strangled sob rattled her whole body. Aragon’s eyes widened in concern. Jane frowns.

“Poor thing,” Jane murmurs .

“Darling, you have to tell us what’s wrong or we can’t help you.” Aragon says.

“Get it off..”

Aragon furrows her eyebrows. She tilts her head a little.

“What?”

“C-costume,” Bessie chokes out. “Please. Please, get it off.”

Aragon immediately launches into action. However, her process was halted instantly the minute she unzipped Bessie’s costume and saw the mess on her back.

“Oh my god,” The pheasant muttered, covering her gaping mouth with one hand. “Oh, sweetie…”

Jane jumps up to see what was causing Aragon to look so stunned.

The entirety of Bessie’s back was red with even darker red splotches. Hues of purple and blue have appeared beneath, bruises formed from constant strain. The flesh is rubbed raw, cracked and peeling in some areas, but the base of her wings are the worst. The skin there is dark crimson with hints of indigo and black, swollen and inflamed. No wonder Bessie was in tears.

“Bessie,” Jane whispers in shock, “Oh, love, how long have you been like this?”

It takes Bessie a moment to answer, as she was currently gasping and wheezing. Aragon kneels beside her again, setting one hand on her knee to ground her.

“I don’t…ah…” Bessie’s eyes become glossy from the pain. Sweat rolls down her face. “Weeks?” She looks up at Jane and she had never looked so vulnerable before.

“That’s not good for you,” Jane murmurs.

“Your back doesn’t look too good, honey.” Aragon agrees. “Why didn’t you tell one of us? Or Maria? We might have been able to help. We have wing strain from time to time.”

However, she knew that this was much worse than a little “wing strain from time to time.”

Bessie whimpered and shook her head.

“I didn’t...want to worry you…” She mumbles.

“If anything, love, waiting and getting worse will make us even more worried.” Jane informs and Bessie goes pale at realization.

From down the hall, they can hear the bustle of the others. Cathy and Kitty would come inside the room soon to change. Bessie tenses up and tries to stand, but the pain in her back was too much and she collapses forward. Aragon rushes to catch her before she could hit the ground.

“Easy, easy,” The pheasant says, propping the crow up against her. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

“They can’t know,” Bessie rasps, “Please. Everyone is already burdened enough by me. Because if it isn’t me being a crow, it’s me not being able to fly that well or-”

“Shh, shh,” Aragon hushes her, stroking back her sweaty hair. She gently tugs it out of the ponytail, letting the locks that were as black as her feathers free to spill down her shoulders. “We won’t tell anyone else. For now. But can we get you cleaned up? You can think over what you want to do after that.”

Bessie nods shakily and Aragon smiles slightly. She looks up at Jane, who said she was going to go get some water before leaving the room.

“Alright, honey,” Aragon says, “That’s gonna have to come off.” She nods at the costume.

Bessie’s ears burn bright red, but she has to oblige. At least Aragon turns away so she could wrangle off the costume.

If only it was that easy.

Bessie accidentally lets a scream slip when the fabric gets tangled in one of her wings, causing her to accidentally pull on it. Tears explode from her eyes and she hunches over, chest heaving.

“Elizabeth!”

Aragon is immediately by her side and she doesn’t know whether to be humiliated or grateful. The pheasant appears to be fretting over her before finally touching her shoulder.

“Elizabeth, Elizabeth,” She says, trying to get through to the crow, “Elizabeth, it’s okay. Your shirt is just caught, that’s all. Alright? Nod to me if you can hear me, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

Bessie sucks in a sharp breath and nods. Aragon praises her.

“That’s good, sweetie, that’s very good.”

Aragon grabs the hem of the costume, which was halfway awkwardly dangling off of Bessie’s shuddering wings. She hesitates.

“I’m going to get this off of you, okay? Just relax for me.”

Slowly, Aragon slides the blasted costume off of the feathery appendages. She throws it aside and takes another look at Bessie’s back. The bruises look more apparent now. A sheen of sweat is slick over her raw skin.

“Joan, you stupid wingless idiot, get over here!” Jane shouts from outside the room. “Stop flapping your buds around and help me!

Aragon shakes her head and laughs slightly at the squawking going on. A second later, Jane enters with a bowl of water and a rag and Joan on her heels.

“Woah,” Joan says, blinking at Bessie’s half-naked form hunched on the floor. “Oh wow. Her back looks terrible.” Her awkward little wingbuds shudder. They start to feel weird just by looking at the mess of bruises and strained skin.

“Yeah,” Jane says slowly. “Can you keep watch? Bessie doesn’t want the other queens knowing.”

Joan frowns at that, but brightens slightly when she gets the opportunity to be useful. She nods and skitters out of the rooms, clipping one of her wingbuds on the doorframe in the process, but careening to the side with a, “I’m okay!” on her way out. Jane shakes her head.

“Do you mind moving to the couch, love? I’m going to clean your back.” Aragon says, dipping the rag into the bowl of water.

Bessie nods and, with the help of Jane, clambers onto the couch in the room. Almost instantly, she turtles again, curling up into a ball with her back to the other hens. She hisses softly when the rag comes in contact with her sore back.

With each gentle stroke, the pain became a little more bearable. But the ache…the ache was what made her want to give up and die. Or, at the very least, black out.

Oh how she wants to be rid of this deep-seeded agony that was not only tearing her body apart, but her life, too.

The way the shock from each throb made her fingers start to go numb if she had a grip too tight on her bass for too long, and she didn’t even know if she would be able to speak when she opened her mouth. The way her neck knots up until it felt wooden. The way her wings scream when she flew, with an agony that seemed to echo in her more than her joints at some point. The way she would lie in bed and try not to shriek along with every muscle in her body, the way her body didn’t seem to belong to her anymore.

She aches when she’s lying down.

She aches when she’s standing.

She aches when she’s playing her bass.

She aches on days she did nothing and she aches on the two show days. She aches because she aches.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she sometimes found herself making a litany of her pain. A whisper of suffering that she tries to focus on so she wasn’t focused on the actual feeling. Anything but the feeling.

The veins threading through her back were full of liquid fire. Every little movement stokes the flames burning in her tendons, shoveled more hot coals into her joints. But her wings? Her wings were just a blaze. Constantly. All the time.

Bessie blinks out of her daze when she caught a scent of something minty. She raised her head a little, only to wince at the tightness in her neck. Jane eases her back down.

“Wing oil,” Aragon informs, assuming that the crow had been curious (which she was). “This one’s mine.”

Bessie nods slowly, shutting her eyes again. The cold lotion glides through her feathers as Aragon rubs it in. Her touch is as gentle and caring as ever, and that helps Bessie relax a little bit more. She may have even cooed.

But then she hears the voice of a certain green macaw and all her stress comes rushing back.

“Joan? Everything okay?” Anne’s voice sounded from behind the door.

“Did you jam your wingbud again?” There was Kitty, with the natural titter that laced her tone.

“No!!” Joan barked, defensive. “Not this time!” Even from inside the room, Bessie could hear the scraping sound caused by Joan‘s wingbuds scratching against the door. And then there was a flap of actual wings, followed by a slight thump on the door.

“You can’t go in there!”

There was a second of silence; the others were probably exchanging confused looks.

“Why?” Cathy asks.

Joan’s wingbuds are doing that jittery thing they do when she gets anxious. Bessie can hear them scratching up against the door.

“Catalina’s naked.”

Aragon’s head snapped up from where she’s stroking Bessie’s wings comfortingly.

“In…our dressing room?” Cathy says with a confused tone.

“Yes,” Joan replied slowly, “She’s a very confused bird, you know. Probably lost one too many braincells while giving birth to all those kids!”

Jane bit her lip to keep from laughing, especially when she saw Aragon’s reaction. She even thought she felt Bessie’s body jump a little with quiet laughter, but that quickly morphs into a strangled whine when the wing oil drizzles into a particularly raw area on her back. Her spine arches at the sting, wings (very painfully) instinctively stretching open in response. That didn’t help her at all. Aragon is quick to soothe her.

“What was that sound?” Cathy says, as keen as ever.

“Nothing! I-I mean- Aragon! It was Aragon.” Joan stutters. She was getting anxious.

Jane presses her hand to her forehead, clearly trying to calm herself so she doesn’t go out there and pummel the wingless music director blabbering about the first queen like she was a prostitute or something. Her head whips back up when she sees the door open slightly, followed by Joan warbling for whoever it was to stop and then the door slamming on her arm. Jane and Aragon both wince at how forceful it was, and wondered if it was supposed to be a distraction or was actually done on complete accident.

“Ow…!” Joan squeaks from outside the room, so quiet the three inside almost missed it. Still, it makes Bessie’s stomach twist in guilt and she pushes herself up, despite her arms trembling in exhaustion and resistance.

“I’m fine now,” She mumbles, but was clearly still pretty out of it. “Where’s-where’s my shirt?”

“You’re not okay, Bessie.” Jane says, steadying her, “What makes you think you’re okay?”

Bessie opens and closes her mouth a few times, which probably looked pretty stupid.

“I am.”

But she still burns.

Bessie’s body rocks to a rhythm that feels like it’s being conducted by her soul, but it does nothing to ease the fire in her veins.

She wishes it was fire. That’s what she had thought it was, at first. A little while ago.

Fire burned, but not in the same way. Fire was detached, impersonal. It didn’t care what got in the way. It burned and charred and devoured everything in minutes and went on its way, leaving the scorched corpses in its wake. Fire was powerful and murderous but it wasn’t torturous. Sulfur on the other hand…well, falling into a burning pool of that stuff was a different beast entirely.

Sulfur clung in a way that fire did not. It wrapped its monstrous hands around you, drawing you in closer, exposing more of you to its touch until it framed each piece of you intimately, until it was every much a part of you as your skin.

Fire would leave. Sulfur stayed.

It stayed for hundreds of years ever since your first life. It made you burn until you lost yourself, until there was nothing left except the fiery red afterglow and the screams inside your head. It branded you, so that you and the whole fucking universe knew that you were being burned. Being roasted alive. Being cauterized, like an open wound. You were something that was wrong, something bad, something that needed to be fixed or punished.

Bessie would have much preferred fire.

It wasn’t Aragon’s voice or Jane shaking her shoulder that roused her. The sulfur had burned her consciousness away, seared her eyes until all she saw was black spots. Filled her lungs until her chest felt like it was an open furnace. Blistered through her wings until they became sick rendition of what they were supposed to be, like one big fucking cosmic joke. Bessie was so sick of being the fucking punchline, that she almost succumbed to the firestorm spreading from her back.

But then she heard the whimper.

Joan was struggling at the doorway, her arm still jammed.

“Go,” Bessie whispers. “Please. Joan’s…in a bit of a situation. She needs some help.”

“We’re not leaving you, Elizabeth.” Aragon says firmly.

“I have my flock,” Bessie smirks wryly, although it was clear it was quite forced.

Aragon and Jane exchange looks before standing up. Aragon kisses the top of her head before walking to the door and freeing the trapped music director, who tumbled down in front of her feet.

“Look at that! She got dressed!” Joan announces.

Aragon shook her head and hauls the girl to her feet. She gave the bewildered queens an apologetic look before pulling Joan away, followed by Jane.

Inside the room, Bessie folds her wings, tensed her body, and awaited the worried reactions of her flock.

———

Maria was going downstairs in the middle of the night to get a glass of water when she saw the crow curled up in one of the corners of the couch, earbuds blasting music so loudly the kookaburra could hear it from where she was standing at the staircase. Looking upon Bessie like this made Maria frown and remember what had happened only a few hours earlier.

Everyone had been worrying and panicking when they saw the state of Bessie’s back. They all tried their best to help and even though Bessie said she started to feel a little bit better with all of them there with her, Maria thought differently. The poor bird was still in a lot of pain; her fetal position on the couch practically screamed that.

Maria didn’t want to frighten the crow, but her eyes were closed and she wouldn’t be able to hear her calling out with her music up so loudly, so she very carefully approached and set a hand on Bessie’s shoulder. Naturally, Bessie flinches and her eyes pop open wide.

“Easy, love. It’s just me.” Maria calms her.

Bessie gives a small noise. It’s all she can manage, huffing out in tense breaths afterward, trying to still the godawful agony in her shoulder blades. Everything hurts now, not just her wings. Her fatigued body aches alongside an oncoming headache and now nausea has set in. Her stomach churns like restless snakes.

“What’s wrong? Bad dream?”

No, it’s not a “bad dream”, they both know this. It’s a much more familiar agony. Bad dreams were among the side effects of the trauma, but wing pains have been Bessie’s mortal enemy since her early teens in her past life.

“No..” Bessie wheezes out. Then, she coughs, and it sends her into another fit of pain, pain, pain! Her wings protest the jerky movement of her body with scraping, terrorizing torment. A sledgehammer is now a butcher’s knife, punctured just above the base of her wings with malice. The erupting geyser of throb that keeps her from saying anything else doesn’t manage to make her yell, but her gasp of agony seems to be enough to worry Maria.

“Let me get you some w-”

“No,” Bessie whimpers. “H-hold me? Please…”

A moment later, warm kookaburra wings are bundling her up, cradling her against Maria’s chest. Bessie snuggles into the embrace, trying to use the coziness to distract her. A tight whimper escaped her lips.

“I-it hurts…” She began to sob into Maria’s chest, “It hurts so fucking much, Maria. Please make it stop!”

Maria’s heart broke at the pleads. She pulls her wings tighter around Bessie, moving her closer until she’s balled up against her like she used to when she was little in their past life. She rocks the crow, cooing to her like a mother bird would to her chicks.

“I’ve got you, Bee, I’ve got you,” She soothes. “I’ll help you get better, okay? We all will. It won’t hurt forever. You’re so strong, Bessie.”

Bessie whimpers again as tears continue to flow. Maria kisses the top of her head, threading her fingers through her hair until the sensation overcame the prickling in her back. It wasn’t long before Bessie completely exhausted herself, fast asleep in Maria’s arms. Even then, Maria did not let go, holding her like she used to.

#wings au #bird wings au #six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfic #six fanfiction #catherine of aragon #jane seymour #bessie on the bass #maria on the drums #joan on the keys #katherine howard #anne boleyn #anna of cleves #catherine parr #soft aragon #mamagon

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