#i too spend a truly inordinate amount of time just staring at them like!! have you seen them!!!! insane stuff going on there

[queerofthedagger]

the thing is that tolkien was right trees really are that great

[c-optimistic]

forgive

or, it takes sixteen weeks and one day for lena to forgive kara

She’d once had a nightmare about Lena discovering her secret in the worst possible way. It consisted of Kara being outed in the middle of a superhero-villain showdown, with her on her knees and with Lena’s wide-eyed look of betrayal burned into the back of her eyelids.

When she was feeling particularly masochistic, she’d continue the nightmare, trying to twist it and force it to conform to a reality she wanted. Lena would look betrayed, yes, but with Kara’s life on the line, a lie would seem trivial in comparison. (Never mind the fact that it was a series of lies, over the course of years, all despite the fact that Lena had trusted her with everything when Kara couldn’t do the same.)

They’d win in this scenario of Kara’s making, managing to twist the ending such that Lena would choose to vent her emotions by pulling Kara into an angry but relieved kiss and after a few days of space, Kara would reintroduce herself as Kara Danvers/Supergirl with an apology on her lips, and the promise of more shining in Lena’s eyes.

The reality she got, unfortunately, was much worse than her worst nightmares. It was cold eyes and an emotionless, vacant stare after the reveal. It was radio silence, it was a bitterly cold shoulder the one time Kara attempted to make contact, it was learning through Alex that Lena and James had decided to give it another go (and learning through Nia that it had fallen apart), it was blocked phone numbers and the loss of one of the most important people in her life.

Gone, as if she’d never been there—a clean, surgical cut.

And Kara....well, she sort of fell apart.

Week One

She’d never been addicted to anything, but she rather thought that this must have been what withdrawal felt like.

(Shockingly, she’d never quite realized just how integrated her life had become with Lena’s: it wasn’t just lunches and game nights and coffee dates, it was more. It was phone calls after a long day, texting throughout working hours—even if Lena’s responses sometimes came slowly, timed between meetings—and even spontaneous meet ups for Kara’s newest food craving or satisfying Lena’s need for a good work out.

She didn’t realize just how much she and Lena were intertwined until it all came to an end.)

The first day without Lena was agonizing. She kept turning to her phone, willing it to ring, willing it to vibrate with a notification, wondering where on Earth she’d ever gotten the idea that she’d be okay in a world where Lena Luthor hated her.

The second and third day, she spent an inordinate amount of time as Supergirl, purposefully flying past Lena’s building if only to get a hit, needing to hear Lena’s voice.

On the fifth day without Lena, Kara called in sick and laid in bed, staring at the ceiling as she wished for her best friend back.

And at the close of her first week without Lena in her life, Kara found herself in her sister’s arms, sobbing as she realized she really had no one to blame but herself.

Week Five

It wasn’t easier, it could never be that, but it was different.

(Sometimes, when she was least expecting it, she thought her chest rattled with a heaving breath, a repressed sob attempting to shake loose her lungs.

More often than not, however, all she felt was a dull ache, a hole—an emptiness—where her heart was supposed to be.)

She didn’t fly by L-Corp anymore. In fact, she was proud to say she was actually clean, not having watched Lena’s interviews online in order to take in her voice, not having asked Alex how her research project with Lena was going, and even smiling at James (mending her friendship with him, unable to keep pushing him away when he’d done nothing but care about Lena).

Lena’s absence was everywhere. Kara felt it literally all the time. But where it once paralyzed her, made her unable to keep her head on straight, it was now just something that dogged her every step, heavy and cumbersome.

(She wondered, idly, if this was what it meant to get over someone.)

Week Seven

The first time she spoke to Lena since revealing her identity should’ve been a bigger moment than it actually ended up being. She rather thought it should’ve been accompanied with fireworks and other fanfare, but instead it was a quiet moment at the DEO, when the latest threat on Lena’s life had left her no other choice but to call for Supergirl’s help.

“—and you can keep an eye out for anything suspicious from the sky, Supergirl,” Alex was saying, relaying her orders to the DEO agents before turning to Kara. “Provide backup.”

Lena snorted indelicately from where she stood, a large tablet in her hands, her eyes fixated on something on the screen with a focus Kara was sure was being faked. She must have noticed that everyone’s eyes were on her because she cleared her throat as she looked up, shrugging remorselessly. “What? No need to keep up the charade anymore, is there? We all know who’s under that cape, you can use her name.”

“Supergirl’s identity is secret, Lena,” Alex said, her tone harsher than anything Kara could remember her using with Lena before. They had remained friends, despite Kara’s estrangement with Lena (though Alex had assured Kara dozens of times that she would cut off ties as well if it would help—seeming to understand far too well when Kara had insisted Alex maintain her relationship with the Luthor).

“Alex, it’s fine,” Kara tried, placing her hand on Alex’s shoulder in an attempt to placate her. “I’ll just go. My comms are on if you need me.” She forced a smile, only briefly glancing at Lena before striding off.

She wondered if she was only imagining Lena’s gaze burning into her back, and she realized as she struggled with the weight on her back, that she most certainly wasn’t over Lena.

x

The wound she received from Lena’s would-be assassin wasn’t, by any measure, a bad one. In fact, Kara was rather sure it was similar to the papercut she’d gotten after she’d blown out her powers. She didn’t even need to spend any time under the sun lamps at the DEO, choosing instead to stand on the balcony to absorb the last of the sun’s rays as night began to slowly fall.

Thus, she was understandably surprised when she heard someone in heels walk up next to her, leaning against the railing, and even more surprised to realize that that someone was Lena.

“I heard you were hurt,” Lena said curtly, causing Kara to look at her in shock. Not that Lena noticed—her eyes were focused firmly on the setting sun. “Had to make sure that I can’t be blamed for anything that happened to Supergirl,” Lena continued coldly, “so I thought I’d check in.”

“I’m fine,” Kara said softly, unsure if her voice truly sounded so defeated or if that’s what she heard because that’s what she was feeling. Odd, really, after so much that it would be losing Lena that would break Kara down and surrender.

(Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so odd. Perhaps it should’ve been obvious. While Kara wasn’t sure she’d go as far as say that she was in love with Lena—loves her, sure, but in love was another matter entirely—she was in touch with her emotions enough to know that Lena’s presence and friendship was...priceless. It was everything. Even without all the romantic feelings tossed into the mix.

And to lose it? To watch Lena’s eyes grow hard and turn her back on Kara, on everything that was between them, all that history and affection, and yes, love? Well, it was heartbreaking.

All the more heartbreaking because Kara could’ve prevented it all. If only….)

“You’re bleeding,” Lena said dispassionately, gesturing to the small cut above Kara’s left eyebrow. It wasn’t even bleeding, and Kara was rather sure it would disappear in the next few minutes—with or without sun. Yet, with Lena’s eyes on it, Kara couldn’t help but reach up and press her fingers against the small wound, wondering if she was crazy and just imagining the look of concern in Lena’s eyes at the motion.

“I’m honestly fine,” Kara said quietly, dropping her hand and gaze, unable to meet Lena’s eyes anymore. Perhaps that was a good thing, because Lena’s next words nearly brought her to tears.

“Thank you, for saving my life today. I didn’t think you would—I didn’t know if….” She trailed off with a huff, as if unable to finish the sentence, but Kara heard her anyway. She wasn’t sure if Kara would want to help her, protect her, be on her side. And that, more than the disappearance of texts, more than the cold shoulder, more than the hard gaze, it was that that truly broke Kara’s heart.

How could she have strayed, done so much wrong, that it was enough to make Lena think that?

“I know my word doesn’t mean much to you anymore—for good reason,” she added when she could feel Lena take issue with her sentence, “but I promise you, I’m on your side. I’m here for you. Always.” Lena didn’t respond, merely cleared her throat and turned away, clearly about to head back inside. Kara’s eyes followed her and before she was even fully aware of what she was doing, she was speaking again, desperate to say something, desperate to explain somehow, someway. “Lena, wait.” To Kara’s ultimate surprise, Lena actually did pause, even turned back to face her, meeting her gaze evenly, as if merely looking at a stranger. “I...” Kara began, floundering now that she had Lena’s attention (after wishing for it for so long). “I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. You’re my best friend, I love you.”

For a long moment, Lena was silent. Then, so quickly even Kara with her speed and super senses was unsure she saw it, pain flashed in Lena’s eyes. (Pain that she, Kara, caused. That she brought about.)

“That’s funny,” Lena finally said, her voice soft and tinged with so much that went unsaid. Things like, why; things like, how could you? “The only reason it hurt was because I loved you.” She waited just long enough for the words (and oh, the tense) to register, eyes raking over Kara’s face before she turned on her heel and walked away.

And she left Kara feeling as though Kryptonite was hanging on her neck: physically sick and ready to fall to her knees from the pain.

Week Twelve

“I told you she would hate you,” were the first words out of Lillian Luthor’s mouth when Kara visited her in prison, the guard grunting and eying Kara suspiciously before he slid out of the room. “You should have told her sooner.”

“Mrs. Luthor,” Kara tried, swallowing hard, “my name is Kara Danvers, I’m a reporter with CatCo Magazine. We’re publishing an issue about the lasting effects of the recent events involving Lex Luthor’s attempt to take over the world. Again. I was hoping you could answer a few questions about your son for the piece.”

(She had begged James to send someone else. Anyone else. But he’d been adamant: Lillian refused to speak to anyone but Kara and the magazine was desperate for her to go on the record for the first time.)

“I told Lena not to trust you. You’re all the same in the end, you...reporters.” Lillian stressed the word just enough to send a shiver of panic down Kara’s spine, making her itch to somehow find a way to contact Clark and make sure he was okay even off planet and far away from the Luthors.

“Mrs. Luthor—“

“—Dr. Luthor is fine—“

“—Lillian, then,” Kara said, setting her shoulders and raising her eyebrows. For her part, Lillian just seemed amused, leaning back in her chair and smiling, motioning for Kara to speak. “Like I said, I only had a few questions.”

“I’ll answer whatever you like, but only if you answer one question of mine.” Lillian grinned when Kara just nodded stiffly, clutching her notebook a little tighter. “You love like a Luthor, Kara Danvers. Lies, secrets, double-crossing...it’s how we show affection. I did wonder why Lena seemed to warm to you so quickly, you must have reminded her of home.”

“That’s not a question.”

Lillian laughed, every bit as regal and dangerous in the navy inmate outfit as when she was on the outside in thousand dollar dresses and heels. “Well, why waste a question when the answer is already written all over your face?”

Week Fifteen

As it likely was always destined to be, it was Alex who finally sat Kara down and gave her a much needed talk.

“Do you remember when you were fifteen and you broke the snowglobe dad gave me?” Alex asked, handing Kara the potstickers without bothering to ask if she could have one (most likely because she already knew it was a lost cause).

“Vaguely,” Kara mumbled between a mouthful of food.

(That was a lie, of course. The truth was that the memory of breaking that snowglobe was etched deep into her mind, always a point of confusion and pain and guilt.

She’d crushed the snowglobe in a fit of rage, upset over a myriad of things: the loss of her planet, Alex’s obstinance, losing her foster father, the pain of Clark’s emotional and physical distance. And Alex had been so...broken. She hadn’t cried, but had instead taken one look at the crushed globe then one at Kara before just walking away, leaving Kara to drown in silence.

It took nearly a week before Kara managed to get Alex to speak to her again, a week of silence that felt just as damaging as all that time in the Phantom Zone.)

“Do you remember what you did to get me to forgive you?” Alex asked, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m not sure breaking the snowglobe is the same as lying about who I am for years, Alex,” Kara said with a groan, looking at her potstickers dejectedly as she lost her appetite.

“But do you remember what you did?”

“I’m pretty sure I annoyed you until you gave in,” Kara said with a roll of her eyes.

Alex chuckled as she sat down next to her, allowing Kara to lean against her, offering a loose, one-armed hug. “You apologized. In about a million different ways,” Alex whispered against her temple. “I know you want to allow Lena her space, let her dictate the boundaries, and that’s a good thing. But Kara, you didn’t even try to apologize, to show her you’re sorry. You didn’t fight for her at all. Why?”

(Why?

Because Kara wondered at night if Lillian Luthor was right, she wondered about herself and how she’d allowed it to go so wrong. She thought about the pain she caused Lena, the trust she shattered, and the feeling of breaking her own heart through her own actions.

Why?

Well, because Kara didn’t deserve another chance with Lena.)

Maybe she spoke aloud, maybe Alex could read her mind, or most likely, maybe her sister knew her so well that she could see the answer in Kara’s eyes, hear it in Kara’s silence. Because after a moment, she pressed a kiss to Kara’s forehead.

“Maybe,” she said softly as she pulled away, motioning towards the freezer where Kara had stocked up on ice cream to get through the heartache, “it’s okay to ask for another chance and let Lena decide whether or not you’re worth it. And if you ask me, Kara, you’re always worth it.”

Week Sixteen

Four months after her nightmare scenario was realized (and ended up much worse than Kara could’ve even begun to imagine), Kara gathered the courage to seek Lena out.  

She landed on the balcony outside Lena’s office, not as Supergirl, but as Kara Danvers (it was risky, it was stupid, but she thought it was worth it). It took three taps on the glass before Lena noticed her, looking up from her work, brows furrowed. For a long second, Kara didn’t think she would let her in.

But then, miraculously, Lena stood and pushed the glass door open, letting Kara step into her office.

“It’s still not an entrance,” Lena muttered, crossing her arms over her chest defensively as she took Kara in. “What are you doing here? Need my help with DEO business? A quote for Cat Grant? I hope you appreciate how busy I am, so—”

“—to be perfectly honest, I didn’t tell you at first because of your last name,” Kara interrupted, much to Lena’s shock, her arms falling to her sides as she studied Kara with narrowed eyes. “I knew you were different from the second we first met, that you were good and kind and had the biggest heart.” She swallowed, took in a deep breath, and forced herself to look into Lena’s eyes. Needing her to see the truth of what she was saying. “I trusted you from the second we met, Lena Luthor, but between Clark and Lex and your mom and the Alien Amnesty Act and just...it seemed safer for you and me to not say anything.”

“Kara, I—”

“—and then, when it would have made everything easier to just tell you the truth, I...I ruined things. I got scared, I lashed out, and suddenly, you couldn’t stand Supergirl. And with Reign, I figured it was safer for you and me to just...not say anything.” Kara took a step forward, disheartened when Lena took a step back. “And this past year, with the backlash against aliens and the Children of Liberty, I convinced myself it was safer to just not say anything. But the truth is...well, the truth is, I’ve been lying to myself.”

“I don’t understand,” Lena said, shaking her head.

“I haven’t had a good reason to keep who I was from you since Medusa,” Kara admitted quietly. “Probably even before that. I just didn’t want to see you look at me like you’re looking at me now.”

(It was a cold stare. Hard. Unforgiving.

And it broke Kara’s heart.

Again, and again, and again.)

“It was selfish, I knew it was selfish. I even tried to tell you once, but I...I didn’t want to hurt you—I didn’t want you to hate me.” She blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the tears she knew were coming. “I’m sorry, Lena. And I will show you how sorry I am every single day for the rest of my life if I have to, I will earn your trust back. But please, please, don’t shut me out. Don’t hate me.”

Lena’s jaw clenched.

One second.

Two.

She took a deep breath.

(Five seconds passed, Kara counted.)

“I really think you should leave, Kara,” Lena said, her gaze boring into Kara’s.

(It was a confused stare. Perplexed.

Soft.)

Week Sixteen and One Day

Kara opened the door before the knock even came, revealing Lena with her hand still raised, a flicker of amusement on her lips.

“How did you know I was here?” she asked, a clear and obvious test.

“Super-hearing,” Kara shrugged easily, “and I have x-ray vision, you know.”

“Interesting,” Lena said, smiling at Kara for the first time in what felt like centuries. “I thought a lot about what you said yesterday. Maybe let’s start with coffee, a conversation about Krypton, and go from there. What do you say?”

Kara didn’t need five seconds—she didn’t even need one.

“Perfect. Lead the way.”

[hlizr50]

Revelations

Chapter 1: This is Wrong

Hawke eavesdrops on the Duke's lessons with Poppy and realizes what is happening within the walls of castle Teerman

Read on AO3

Casteel… Hawke… stared at the door as it clicked closed, the Maiden having entered the Duke’s office.

“Penellaphe, I am so incredibly disappointed in you.” Duke Teerman always sounded so haughty and condescending.

Something didn’t feel right.

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you. I –“

The Duke cut her off, ���Do you even know what you have done that has disappointed me?”

Was this why she and Tawny had been so apprehensive of the Duke’s summons? A scolding? A dressing down? It couldn’t have been just that, considering how Penellaphe had frozen before the door.

He took up a position not too close to seem suspicious to the two men standing guard. No matter. He was Atlantian, and even though he leaned against the wall a few feet from the door he could hear every word spoken in that office. He didn’t know what he should expect.

“I don’t. But I’m sure whatever it is, I’m at fault. You are never disappointed in me without cause.” Her words were measured. Careful. And careful wasn’t really her style.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t be disappointed for no reason at all. But this time I find myself blindsided by what I have been told.”

Hawke had been her guard for barely a day, but he found it hard to believe that Penellaphe would have committed a crime so egregious to blindside the Duke. Although, if her escapade to the Red Pearl was any indication maybe she had.

“Remove your veil, Penellaphe. You do not want to test my patience.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that we… we are not alone, and the Gods forbad me from showing my face.”

“The Gods will not find fault in today’s proceedings.”

They were not alone? His amber eyes narrowed slightly. Who else was there? Had he not experienced the meeting yesterday he would have also wondered why she was apparently hesitant to remove the veil. But he knew the Duke likely wanted to take the opportunity to comment on her scars.

“Lift your eyes.”

A pause.

“You grow more beautiful each time I see you.”  Hawke grimaced. His insides roiled at the thought of the Duke looking at her with those deep, empty eyes.

“Thank you, your Grace.”

The Duke made a cluck with his tongue. “Such a shame. What do you think Bran?”

It was Lord Brandole Mazeen, then. Gods above, what was he doing in there? His lust and depravity were well-known throughout Castle Teerman. The maids were often warned not to earn his attention, good or bad.

“As you said, such a shame.” The Lord answered.

“The other scars are easy to hide, but this? There will come a time where there will be no veil to hide this unfortunate flaw.”

How many years had Penellaphe been here? How many times had the Teermans and their lackeys taken an opportunity to cut her with those words?

“Do you know what that new guard of hers said? He said she was beautiful. Half of her is truly stunning... You look so much like your mother.”

Hawke had said that. He meant it.

“You knew her?” Penellaphe gasped.

“I did. She was… special. You do realize that the guard wouldn’t have said otherwise. Wouldn’t have spoken the truth. I suppose it’s some small blessing. The damage to your face could have been far worse.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have stayed. It was difficult to for him to keep his expression neutral as the Duke continued to berate her. So he kept his eyes down, studying the stone floor of the hallway. It had likely once been rough and uneven, but the years of scuffing boots had smoothed the cobbles to satin.

“You do have such pretty eyes… And a well-formed mouth. Most will find your body pleasing… For some men, those things will be enough.”

He didn’t like the way the Duke paused between his backhanded compliments. Was he looking at her? Touching her?

“Priestess Annalia came to see me this morning,” Duke Teerman paused, as if waiting for a response. “Do you not have anything to add?”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what Priestess Annalia would have to say. I saw her last a week ago in the second floor parlor and all seemed fine.” Penellaphe sounded confused.

“I’m sure it did, since you only spent half an hour there before leaving unexpectedly. I was advised you didn’t once pick up your embroidery set, nor did you engage in any conversation with the priestesses.”

So… this was the crime? She hadn’t completed any of her needlework? Penellaphe had sounded confused, and Hawke had to admit that he was, as well. With all honesty and due respect (which was none, if he was being honest), who the fuck cared?

“My mind was occupied with my upcoming Rite. I must have been daydreaming.”

“I’m sure you’re very excited about the Rite, and if this had been just one situation I would have easily overlooked your poor conduct. But I’ve learned that you were just in the atrium.”

“Yes, I was. I didn’t know that I wasn’t supposed to be. I don’t go often, but –“ she was interrupted again.

“Spending time in the atrium is not the issue and you’re smart enough to know that. Don’t play coy with me. You were speaking with two of the ladies in wait. You know that is not allowed.”

She had barely spoken two sentences to them! Who had run so quickly to report her to the Duke for that? The ladies had been too busy trying to get Hawke’s attention. He grinned at that, recalling the spilled rhinestones and fainting young women. But Penellaphe, who was not to have any interaction with, well, anyone… she had been in the atrium before anyone was there. The ladies had chosen to sit at the same table. Was she just supposed to just stand up and leave?

“Do you have nothing to say?”

“Such a demure Maiden.” Lord Mazeen’s words dripped like acid against Hawke’s skin. He did not have to know the Lord well to know that he would get an inordinate amount of pleasure in killing him. He felt ill knowing that Penellaphe was alone in that room, with those two beasts.

“I’m sorry. I should have left when they entered, but I didn’t.” He didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone apologize so much in his life. What had happened to the woman from the Red Pearl? That Penellaphe was so full of heart and fire. The girl on the other side of that door was…

Defeated.

“And why not?” The Duke prodded.

“I was… curious. They were talking about the upcoming Rite.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that. You were always an active child with a curious mind that flicked from one thing to the next: something I’ve warned the Duchess you wouldn’t grow out of easily. Priestess Annalia has also informed me that she fears your relationship with your lady’s maid has become far too familiar.”

Good Gods, how many imaginary transgressions could there be? How was she not supposed to be familiar with someone who had literally been tasked to be at her side at all times?

“Tawny has been a wonderful lady’s maid, and if my kindness and gratefulness has been mistaken for anything else then I apologize.”

Hawke knew that had struck a nerve. Penellaphe and Tawny were close, and the Maiden was allowed so little in the way of… of anything that made life bearable.

“I know it may be hard to keep boundaries with someone you spend so much time with, but a Maiden does not seek intimacies of the heart or the mind with those who serve them. Not even those who are to become members of the court. You must never forget that you are not like them. You were chosen by the Gods at birth, and they are chosen at their Rite. You will never be equals. You will never be friends.”

He inwardly scoffed.

“I understand.”

“I don’t think you do. You were chosen at birth, Penellaphe. Only one other has ever been chosen by the Gods. It was why the Dark One sent the Craven after your family. It was why your parents were slaughtered. That hurts, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth. That should have been the only lesson you ever needed,” Duke Teerman had a talent for cutting words, Hawke noted. “But between your lack of awareness regarding overstepping boundaries, your lack of attention with Priestess Annalia, your blatant disregard today for what is expected of you, aaaaand the attitude you displayed yesterday toward me. What? You thought I wouldn’t address your behavior while we discussed Ryan’s replacement? You stared back at me as if you wished to do me physical harm.”

The Duke chuckled then. “The meeting would have ended vastly different if others had not been present, and we weren’t there to discuss Hawke replacing Ryan-“

“Rylan! His name is Rylan, not Ryan!”

There she was, that spirited woman that had so intrigued him.

“THERE it is! Not so demure now!” Lord Mazeen sounded… almost gleeful.

“You mean, his name was Rylan. And does it really matter? He was just a royal guard. He would have been honored that I even thought of him. Either way, you just proved that I must double my attempts to strengthen my commitment to make you more than ready for your Ascension. Apparently I’ve been too easy on you. Unfortunately, that means you require another lesson. Hopefully it will be your last, but somehow I doubt it.”

“Yes. Hopefully.”

Hawke sighed inwardly in relief. How long had been here listening to the Duke ramble on about imaginary transgressions and basic human interactions painted as crimes. They should be finished soon.

“I believe four lashes should suffice.”

He froze.

Lashes.

Hawke could barely breathe. This was no mere dressing down, no raised-voice scolding with some hurtful words.

“Are you sure that’s enough? I wouldn’t want you to feel as if you haven’t done enough.” Gods, Penellaphe’s fire roared to life at the worst possible moment.

“How does seven sound? I see that number agrees with you. What do you think, Bran?”

“I think that is sufficient.”

This was no “lesson”.

“You know where to go,” the Duke directed.

This was abuse.

“You’re not ready, Penellaphe. You should know better by this point.”

Hawke strained to hear. It was far too quiet. The Duke was waiting for something. Could he hear the soft rustle of fabric? His restraint was thinning by the second.

This was torture.

“This is for your own good. This is a necessary lesson, Penellaphe, to ensure that you take your preparations seriously and are committed to them, so you do not dishonor the Gods.”

This is wrong. This is wrong.

“Brace yourself, Penellaphe.”

He heard the faint whistle… then a crack… it had to be a cane that the Duke was using on her.

A cane. Sweet merciless, sleeping Gods.

Swoosh. CRACK.

Two. Was this the fitting punishment for not touching her embroidery set? For speaking a word to a lady in wait who needed to be put in her place?

Swoosh. CRACK.

Three. Was this the fitting punishment for daring to have a friend? For not cowering when the Duke had hoped to humiliate her the day before?

Swoosh. CRACK.

Four. His eyes were wide, but when he looked to the guards at the door they avoided his questioning glare, acting blissfully unaware.

This… this travesty…

It was as if…

As if this happened all the time.

Swoosh. CRACK

Five. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He was back there… in Carsadonia. In his cage. Made to bleed. Made to feed. Forced to take and be taken.

Swoosh. CRACK.

Six. The Blood Queen took pleasure from his pain. For decades. He couldn’t understand how any living being could be so monstrous.

Swoosh. CRACK.

Seven.

He let out an unsteady breath. It was over.

Penellaphe hadn’t made a sound.

How?

“I truly hope, Penellaphe, that this lesson… sinks in.”

His rage was white hot behind his eyes. He had to keep them closed. The guards would have been… disturbed… if they saw how they glowed with his ire.

Duke Teerman had signed his death warrant. And it was not going to be quick and painless.

Breathe. You have to breathe. You have to get ahold of yourself. This is not the time and place.

Hawke took a few measured breaths, and his heart began to slow. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what he’d just witnessed.

The door clicked and his head whipped up, amber gaze falling on the veiled woman who gingerly pulled the door closed behind her. She looked up and saw him, and Hawke could see her entire body tense. He just stared at her, willing her to meet his gaze behind the veil. He could tell that she avoided it. Penellaphe then straightened slowly and did her best to walk toward him, past him, as if nothing had happened.

But it had.

Her breathing was labored and he could tell that every step she took caused her pain. He followed her down the hall, cursing to himself when the effort became too much for her and she started whimpering softly with each pace. They made it to the narrow spiral staircase that would lead them down to the main floor. He opened the door for her to enter, and she dared not look at him as she passed.

She was already attempting the first step, grunting with effort to lower her body down through clenched teeth, when he closed the door behind him.

“Penellaphe,” his voice was low. Cold. Raw.

She continued to work on the next step, acting oblivious to his call.

“Penellaphe.”

She stopped.

“How long?”

“What?” she tried to sound surprised, but he could only hear the pain lacing the word.

“How long. How long has the Duke been doing this to you?”

Silence. It hung heavy over him. He felt like he was being smothered, waiting for an answer that he knew would likely ruin him. He could hear her pain-laden breaths sawing in and out. It had taken such effort for her to go down two steps. He watched her shoulders rise and fall with a deep, calming breath.

“Since Ian returned to the Capitol.”

Gods, why weren’t they somewhere with something he could break? Blood red rage roared in his blood. Hawke could feel himself trembling.

“That’s… that’s been years,” he whispered.

“It has.”

And then she began struggling down the steps again. As if that were the end of the conversation.

It wasn’t. Not even fucking close.

He practically leapt the three steps down to stand in front of her. “Is that all you have to say? Poppy this is wrong. You know that, don’t you?”

“Don’t call me that. Only my friends call me that.”

“Am I not? Do your friends know about this? How have your friends helped you?” Hawke spat, clenching his quaking fists at his side. “From what I can tell, I’m the only person who seems to give a flying fuck about what just happened. Tell me how that doesn’t qualify me as your friend.”

“There’s nothing that can be done to help,” she whispered and turned her head to the side, suddenly finding the stone wall quite interesting. He uttered a curse and reached for the chains that held the veil on top of her head.

“Take this Gods-damned thing off,” he growled as he pulled it away. He couldn’t stand trying to speak with her without seeing into her eyes, seeing her face. She was a person. Her emotions and expressions mattered. But she barely even flinched, keeping her gaze fixed somewhere near his boots. Her face was flushed and her eyes lined silver.

“Look at me.” When she made no move he reached her hand to her. He lightly traced his fingers over her left cheek down to her jaw, pulling gently so her face was lifted to him. “Please, Penellaphe. Look at me.” Her emerald gaze met his, shining with pain and sorrow and shame.

“I… I used to try. I used to do everything I thought I could to fix whatever it is that I’d done that had disappointed him,” she blinked, allowing a couple stray tears fall. “But it was never enough. No matter what I did, no matter how demure I was, no matter the eggshells I walked on and the dedication I tried to show… I realized eventually that my dedication was never the point. It was never about what I did or didn’t do. It didn’t matter how hard I tried. He would find anything-“

“Like not doing your fucking cross-stitch?”

She sucked in a breath and pulled away from his fingers. “How much did you hear?” the fire-haired beauty clasped her hands in front of her heart. He held onto her gaze and her eyes roared at him with hurt.

“Everything.”

She shuddered and bowed her head. Her hands trembled as she brought them up to cover her face. Hawke could feel humiliation rolling from her in waves and saw the tension in her shoulders. She was weeping before him.

“He will find anything that could possibly be an offense. He’s punished me for walking too quickly and breathing too loudly. And I have come to realize that… he only does it because he wants to hurt and humiliate me. He knows that his words make me flinch and his touch make me want to peel the skin from my body. And he relishes that. And I hate that he has that kind of power over me.”

Hawke’s ire sharpened into something cooler, more calculating and thoughtful. He had come to Masadonia to kidnap and ransom the Maiden, a symbol to all of Solis. He’d come to send a message using their precious prize, a privileged brat that was no better than those soulless creatures who had raised her.

He took a measured breath and ran a hand over his face in realization.

She was... innocent. She was a pawn, a possession. She was a victim, kept in a cage just as he had been, albeit far more gilded. And even though there was an illusion of life and choice, she was guilted, berated, and beaten into submission.

And Gods, she was still brave and vivacious enough to risk the Duke’s ire. Reckless enough to step into a brothel and send all of Hawke’s expectations straight to hell.

There is nothing that can be done to help.

There was. He could take her away from this. He had planned to do that, in a way, but now? How could he deliver her back to the Ascended knowing that this is what her life would be? And how could he convince her of the truth? She was smart, and Hawke knew that she didn’t agree with everything the Ascended ordained. Her reactions at the council meeting had been proof of that.

He reached out to her again, taking her hands in his and pulling them away from her tear-streaked cheeks. He stroked his thumbs over her knuckles and spoke her name to draw her gaze.

“This is wrong. You hold no shame in this. He has done this to you, and that is evil and terrible and monstrous. Tell me you realize that, Penellaphe,” he urged. She nodded softly. He gave an encouraging quirk of his lips and continued. “He does these things to make you feel weak and powerless, and you are neither of those things. He knows that you are curious and full of life, and he is afraid that you will be able to see past his façade and into his own weakness if he cannot keep you squashed under his heel.”

Hawke let go of her hands and gingerly held her face between them, using his thumbs to wipe away any remaining dampness that fell there. He looked down for a moment, and then brought his eyes back up, a burning golden stare.

“I need you to make me a promise, Penellaphe. Can you do that?”

“A promise?” she whispered.

“Promise me. Promise me that you’ll trust your instincts. Question everything. You are fierce and intelligent, so think about what they do and what they say. Think about it… you are the most important person in the entire kingdom. They should be worshipping at your feet, not taking a cane to your back,” he was afraid he’d said too much; pushed too hard. Would she be suspicious? Would she balk at his request? Her gaze was green as springtime, and her eyes stared into his, trying to process what he was saying.

“Can you promise me that?”

The knight endured her gaze for a few tense moments, her face still in his palms. She closed her eyes after a sigh and placed her hands over his, dipping her chin.

“I promise, Hawke.”

Thank the Gods.

He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and the Maiden inhaled sharply. Chuckling, he let her go and reached down to the discarded veil.

“I will make you a promise, as well,” he extended his hand with the soft fabric. She moved to grab it and he clenched her hand with both of his. Startled, she looked to him again.

“He will never hurt you again.”

She smiled wistfully then, and he could read in her expression that, as much as she wanted that to be true, she didn’t believe that anyone had that power. Then she pulled the veil from his hand and attempted the next step in front of her.

It would take forever to make it down the stairs.

“I have an idea,” Hawke smirked. “I think it will help. But you have to trust me.”

“I… I don’t trust you. Not when you have that look in your eye,” she laughed lightly.

“Here, if I squat down can you climb on my back?” he turned around on the step in front of her. He knew he was still much taller than she was, even on a step below. “It may be painful to get there, but if you can wrap your arms around my shoulders and your legs around my waist we could make it down much more quickly. And hopefully without too much strain on your back.”

Hawke felt a hand on her shoulder, but she hesitated. “That would be… incredibly inappropriate. What if someone sees?”

“You’re hurt. If someone opens one of the doors we’ll hear it and have enough time for me to set you down and throw that Gods-forsaken sheet over your head,” he scoffed over her shoulder. “Now wrap your arms around my neck, and I’ll grab your legs when I stand up.”

He was surprised when she didn’t argue and her forearms crossed in front of him.

“Ready?” He asked, knowing the first time he lifted her up would probably cause her some pain.

“Yes.” Her grip tightened around him. She gasped into his shoulder as he stood straight, putting his hands under her thighs. He waited a moment, listening for her breath to even out as she adjusted to the soreness.

“I’m sorry. Are you alright?” Hawke gave her legs a light squeeze. She nodded against his shoulder, and he started gingerly making his way down the stairs. He thanked the Gods that he was Atlantian, strong and light on his feet. He knew he could practically glide down without causing her any additional discomfort.

They reached the bottom landing and he gently set her down, heart constricting when he saw her wince as she slowly lowered her arms to her sides.

“Here,” he grabbed the veil from her hand and placed it over her head. He studied the tiny chains that were supposed to hold it in place, and he had to admit that he wasn’t sure what to do with those. A giggle escaped from behind the veil.

“Give me that,” she grabbed the chains. “It’s not far to my room. We should be able to make it there without it falling off.”

Hawke grinned and pulled open the door. “After you, Milady.”

They walked down the corridor slowly and silently. He would look down at her from time to time, wondering how she could possibly have the strength to be so spirited and brave knowing the consequences that could await her. What would the Duke do if he’d known about her little trip to the Red Pearl? He frowned to himself and looked forward. That had been reckless, but he understood her need for life. For freedom. She had wanted to experience things that everyone else in the world took for granted. They said she was Chosen, privileged. But she was also alone.

Well, no she wasn’t. Not anymore.

As they stopped in front of her door he turned to her. “Are you alright? Is there anything you need?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Tawny gets an ointment from the healer. It will help, but I may not be… I may stay in my room for a while. But I heal pretty quickly, and this isn’t the worst I’ve had…”

The anger roiled through him as she trailed off. Of course it wasn’t. Of course seven lashes for not touching her embroidery set and her attitude hadn’t been the worst that he’d done to her.

“I… he…” he swallowed and took two deep breaths. “I’m going to calm myself so I don’t do anything reckless about what you just said.”

“I’m sorry,” she answered quietly.

“Don’t you dare apologize, Penellaphe. None of this is your fault. I am simply… staggered by his cruelty,” he managed a soft smile that he knew didn’t reach his eyes. “Get some rest.” Hawke reached down and squeezed her hand before he opened the door and motioned for her to go in. He began to close the door behind her when she stopped.

“Hawke?”

“Yes?” he answered, looking for her eyes behind the veil.

“You can… please, call me Poppy,” she gave a shy grin and shuffled into the room. He pushed the door closed behind her and leaned his forehead against the wood.

He was shaking.

Breathe, Hawke. Breathe.

His ragged breaths seethed out from between his teeth. In for four counts, out for four. In… out… in… out...

After what seemed like ages of breathing exercises he pushed away from the door and stalked down the hall.

He needed to think. And talk to Kieran. He would be none-too-thrilled at the change of plans.

But plans would change.

Duke Teerman would die.

They would have to find another way to get his brother back.

Because nobody was going to hurt Poppy again.

[lesetoilesfous]

you obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you. For fenders?!

Ok this got much longer than planned because??? I don’t have a good reason. I wanted it to be Fenris being looked after but I think he has a lot of hang ups about that, and then it spiralled. I hope you enjoy!

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Fenders

Characters: Fenris, Anders

Tags: urban fantasy, modern AU, established relationship, discussion of past trauma, food-related trauma, mention of past domestic abuse, sometimes your boyfriend is stockpiling because of his Issues but that clashes with your Issues about having control over your life and both of you just have to man up and talk about your feelings, despite that I would categorise this as Fluff

Rating: Mature

“Do you not think this is approaching overkill?” Fenris asks the question lightly, and a little rueful, as he watches Anders begin to unload a quantity of groceries Fenris had not previously thought it was possible to acquire in one trip to the store. Anders huffs, and gestures for him to pick up the rest of the bags as he kicks off his shoes and heads deeper into Fenris’ (their) apartment.

“You obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself, so let me do it for you.” Anders says the words over his shoulder, and Fenris falters in the corridor where neither of them have bothered to switch on the hall light, caught for a moment by the ghost of Danarius’ hand on his shoulder, and the echo of his breath on his ear. (“Allow me, pet. I’ll take care of everything.”)

Fenris starts moving again, and tells himself he isn’t shaking off the cobwebs of his past as he does so, but his heart is thumping hard in his chest when he dumps the groceries with a little more force than necessary onto the counter. Anders, with his back to him, startles before shaking off the flinch and continuing to ram items into the freezer. As Hawke would say, Fenris thinks wryly, looking at the paper bags covering every available surface, they both have a lot of baggage. Both figuratively and, in this moment, literally.

“This is coming from the man who lived on instant coffee and pot noodles.” Fenris observes, dryly, as Anders tries and fails to push one of the freezer drawers shut. Without thinking, Fenris crosses around the counter to crouch beside the mage, shoving the drawer shut. He looks up to see Anders outright staring at his pecs, and tries to ignore the pleased flush that rushes through him at that, even as Anders’ turns away, thrusting a finger into the air as he gets up. 

“That! Is different. I was going through something.”

“Right,” Fenris drawls, taking the icy plastic packages of food as Anders passes them to him, pausing to look at what exactly the mage has decided to fill their kitchen with. So far, a great deal of tofu, and other meat substitutes. Fenris wrinkles his nose. “I suspect that I am about to be going through something.”

Anders’ snorts, stretching to open the top cupboards, and the thin ratty t-shirt he’s wearing pulls up over the sharp v of his hips. Fenris resists the urge to kiss the trail of reddening hair just below his belly button, standing instead to put away a truly inordinate amount of store brand cookies into one of the lower cupboards (that he can reach. When Anders had arrived, one of the first things he’d done was colonise Fenris’ long since abandoned top cupboards. He had complained about the cobwebs for days.)

“You’re about to go through something wonderful,” Anders insists, as if neither of them had paused their conversation for even a moment. He gestures with a cartoon of oat milk as he speaks. “We both know I’m an excellent cook.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow, more to tease the mage than out of any real skepticism. “I know you’re an excellent cook so far. Perhaps all you know how to cook is vegetarian schnitzel.”

Anders grins at him and leans forward to press a kiss to his lips, taking the spring onions out of Fenris’ hands. “You know, you’re being very rude to your house-husband to be.”

Fenris laughs, catching Anders’ hips from behind as he arranges a small mountain in the fruit bowl. Fenris presses a kiss to Anders’ shoulder blade, breathing in the fresh scent of detergent and shutting his eyes for a moment as he feels the warmth of his boyfriend through his shirt. Anders leans back into him, and for a moment Fenris thinks he might have succeed in derailing him. But then Anders tips and whirls away from him like a dancer on a spinning top. 

“No! No, I won’t be distracted. I’m not letting a cent of this go to waste.”

Which raised a question, “How are you paying for this anyway?” Fenris asks the question as non-confrontationally as he can. Anders huffs, stacking egg cartons. On the sofa, Libertas stretches, glossy black fur gleaming in the shaft of sunlight she’s managed to find spilling in through the flat’s narrow windows. 

“Hawke. It’s always Hawke. And don’t worry, nothing unsavoury. Just, a favour.” Anders glances over his shoulder as he says it, transparently furtive, thin shoulders hunching a little. Fenris frowns. His boyfriend is, and has always been, a terrible liar. He’s never sure what to think when he’s lying for Hawke. It makes Fenris even more cautious about his next line of questioning.

“I do not know much of what is to be expected in a stable household,” Fenris traces his fingers over the grey formica countertop as he speaks, carefully keeping his attention away from the mage (Anders, much like his cat, tended to be more comfortable when spoken to indirectly.) “But I think that this is unusual.”

Fenris gestures to the grocery bags, which even now the fridge, freezer and cupboards are filled are still full enough of cans and other long lasting goods that they take up most of the kitchen floor. Anders pauses for a moment, arms full of a bag of cans, his back to Fenris. 

“You know, if you were anyone else I would claim cultural difference.”

Fenris says nothing. After another moment Anders sighs and turns to Fenris. His forearms are bare and wrapped around the bag, the hair on the backs of his arms bleached even more blonde with all the time he spends in the sun, skin beneath it dark with copper freckles. A braided leather cord from Isabela, and a colourful threaded one from Merrill, are tight and worn around his wrist, as well as a few more whose origin Fenris does not yet know. 

He looks up from Anders’ arms to his face, though the mage isn’t looking at him, eyes resting instead on Libertas as he chews the inside of his cheek. “Food was a privilege.” He says, at last, shortly. Anders looks back at Fenris, and his expression is dark with an old, familiar kind of anger. “Days, normally. A week, once. When I was fifteen.” Anders’ voice cracks and he clears his throat, walking past Fenris in a transparent effort to hide his expression. Fenris lets him go, and after a moment Anders returns, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He shrugs, and the movement is awkward and unsure. He swallows, and Fenris watches his throat move as he does so. He doesn’t meet Fenris’ eyes. “I just. I wanted to know we had enough. Just in case.”

Anders does look up, then, hesitant and furtive. Fenris feels the tension leave his body like a wave hitting the shore and sinking sizzling into the sand. He reaches forward, crooking his finger under Anders’ chin as he steps closer to him and looks into his eyes. “You could have told me.” Fenris says, softly.

Anders hums, stepping forward and stooping to wrap his arms around Fenris’ chest and rest his chin on his head. “I know.” He says, miserably. “I just got it in my head that if I did you would stop me.”

Fenris’ arms tighten around his boyfriend’s still too skinny chest. Part of him is tempted to leave it here, in this uneasy peace. But the part of him who has spent more hours than he cares to count with a therapist knows that there are thorns yet to cross before he can resolve this peacefully for both of them. So, with the feeling of coughing up fish bones, Fenris manages to makes himself say, “Danarius was always very particular about what I ate.”

Anders stills, as he always does when Fenris mentions Danarius, careful and cautious as a frightened cat. Reluctantly, Fenris lets his arms fall and steps back, turning to heft a paper bag full of canned beans into his arms as he speaks. Anders is not the only one of them who can misdirect. On the sofa, Libertas makes a soft mrrp of question, and Anders coos something softly to her. Fenris hears the rustle of paper as he picks up his own bag and falls him down the hall.

Fenris opens the door to their pantry with his elbow, and bends to start stacking cans on the shelves as he speaks. Above them, the naked electric light bulb buzzes on its rubber cord. “He would not let me choose my own meals. He used to say that I did not know how to properly take care of myself, and that I should let him do it for me.” Fenris purses his lips, and pushes the cans to the back of the shelf, bending to crumple the paper bag in his hand more for the satisfaction of the gesture than any real urge for violence. 

Outside in the corridor, Libertas meows loudly at them both, and Anders bends to scratch her head before stepping out of Fenris’ way as Fenris walks past him. After a moment, hesitantly, Anders follows. Fenris tells himself that it is through no failing of his own that Anders is so jumpy around him. Anyone who has spent time with the mage knows that he is jumpy around everyone, and that the fault lies on other people in darker times. Still, it makes Fenris unhappy to think that Anders is wary of him now. 

Libertas, oblivious to the turmoil in both of her owners, winds her warm body between Fenris’ legs, purring. Despite himself, Fenris feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he bends to lightly scratch the soft fur behind her ears. When he looks up, he catches Anders watching them both with a soft, dopey kind of smile. Fenris catches his gaze and Anders flushes pink, tugging on the loops of gold in his ear. “We really need to get you a puppy.”

Fenris rolls his eyes and straightens, picking up the two remaining bags of cans. “You cannot deal with every potential conversational misstep by promising me a puppy.”

Anders brightens, falling easily into the familiar to and fro of their banter as he follows Fenris back down the hall. “That’s just because you don’t think I mean it this time. Hawke’s mabari is pregnant, Isabela told me.”

Fenris turns on Anders then, holding a finger in the air between them, “Don’t raise my hopes.”

Anders laughs, and holds up both of his hands in surrender before leaning forward to cradle Fenris’ face between them. He leans forward, and his hair falls across his face, casting it in shadow and butter yellow lamplight. “I’m not.” Anders’ brown eyes are warm as he looks at him, and his hands are cool and soft. Fenris waits, patiently, for him to continue, and after a moment Anders’ smile falls a little, and his hands drop to rest lightly on Fenris’ shoulders as he looks about them at the shelves stacked with cans. “I fucked up again, didn’t I?” Anders turns back to Fenris, expression uncharacteristically sincere. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think, and that’s on me. It was bad phrasing, and sort of shit to just assume I could buy a month’s worth of groceries for both of us without telling you.”

From upstairs, there’s the distant bang of a front door opening and closing. Fenris hooks his arms over Anders’, where they rest on his shoulders, letting his hands hang in the space between them. “You could not have known.” He goes on when Anders’ opens his mouth, speaking over him firmly, but not without humour. “I would ask that in future you ask me, so that I can make my own choices about what fills our cupboards for the next,” Fenris raises his eyebrows at the shelves, and shelves, and shelves of cans, “....six months.” 

Anders snorts, and moves forward to press a kiss to Fenris’ forehead, hands fluttering nervously in the air between them like twin moths before settling again at last, heavy and warm, on Fenris’ shoulders. Fenris wraps his arms around Anders’ belly and squeezes him gently, moving to press a kiss to the base of his throat. He feels Anders’ laughter shiver through his chest. “We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

Fenris hums, and pulls back to grab the v neck of Anders’ shirt, tugging him down. Anders’ obliges him with a crooked grin, and Fenris pushes his fingers into his hair, taking the opportunity to pull it loose from its tie. Anders sighs, but before he can speak Fenris gets onto the balls of his feet to kiss him, fingers sinking into the warm, soft mass of his hair. Anders hums and stumbles back, shoulders hitting the shelf, which rattles with cans. Fenris stops kissing Anders just in time to catch the embarrassment rising pink on his freckled cheeks. Fenris smirks at him, just a little, “Well, we are at least prepared for the impending apocalypse.”

Anders grins, pulling him closer, hands stroking his biceps as he does so. “I’d be your bunker buddy any day of the week.”

Fenris laughs, moving to kiss his neck. “You’re ridiculous, mage.”

Anders laughs too, and the sound echoes around the pantry. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

Fenris snorts, and moves to press a long, slow, lingering kiss to his lips. When he pulls back, Anders is looking at him the way people talk about in movies and romance novels, and Fenris almost quails from the brightness of it. But then Anders gives him a hesitant smile, lips red and wet with kissing, and Fenris returns it without hesitation. “Maker help us, I think it is.”

*

(*Fun fact, Fenris and Anders’ cat is a direct reference to @wanderingnork’s excellent series, One and the Same, which I love with my whole heart and you should read.)

[siarlas-does-words]

Toshi x G/N!Reader

A/N: So this woke me up one weekend at some hour which I barely accept when I have to get up for work. It wouldn’t leave me alone until I got up, got on the computer, and then wrote for, I think, the next two hours. I don’t know why it was so insistent. And now it’s been bugging me to post it for the last few months. So here it is.

This is a younger Toshi.

In the span of about a month, Toshi had saved me five times. Of course, I didn’t know it was Toshi then. He was All Might. The Symbol of Peace. The Number 1 hero. It wasn’t my fault of course. Wrong place, wrong time. You know what it’s like. Living in a world where powered heroes and villains are the norm.

I never had one of those celebrity crushes on All Might. Not like most of the other girls in the office. And a few of the guys. All those muscles did nothing for me. And that corny line he always said when arriving on the scene! What was up with that?? Ok, so the first time he saved me might have… well, I may have developed a little crush. I mean, the guy carried me away from the villains in one arm. I’m not light! The second time, he came out with another corny line. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, ma’am,” he said.

“Not a ma’am,” I grumbled. More than a little red that the Number 1 hero would use such a cheesy line on me.

“My apologies,” he said with that irritatingly humongous smile. “What should I call you?”

“It’s y/n. Just y/n.”

“Well, Just y/n, try not to get in the habit of having me save you!” With his signature laugh, he leapt away. 

I stood there staring after him angrily yelling that I wasn’t doing this on purpose.

The third time, he winked at me. That arrogant little shit. Ok, he’s obviously not little, but YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN! This was getting frustrating.

That night, he turned up at my house. I don’t know how a seven-foot whatever tall muscle-bound idiot can look so small and sheepish, but he did. I was about to yell at him for following me and slam the door in his face. Well, I would have if his hand wasn’t on the door stopping me.

“I uh… I had… my umm…  my assistant do a little research. Um… I-I uh, I just wanted to make sure that you uh, that you were ok,” he said while rubbing his neck.

Was All Might blushing? And stuttering? What happened to all that confidence?

“Uh, yeah. Peachy.”

“I don’t… I mean this isn’t…. Shit… I don’t normally do this! Believe me! It’s just...well… today was the third time and I know this isn’t your fault and I suppose in this city there’s probably other people I’ve saved more than once but I usually don’t notice with all the saving and the villains and the fighting and saving…”

“You said saving already”

He stopped rambling and stared at me. “Huh?”

“You said ‘saving’ twice.”

“Oh… well…”

I had to take pity on this poor idiot. “Would you like to come in?”

Ok, now The Symbol of Peace is just standing, stunned, on my doorstep. I think I might have accidentally short-circuited something in his brain. With a sigh, I reached out for his hand and led him inside. He barely fit. His… what do you call those things?? It’s a fringe, but not a fringe… those two ridiculous bits of hair that stick straight up almost touched the ceiling. Does he use an inordinate amount of gel on them? Why? For what purpose?

As I stared at the not-fringe things, All Might seemed to regain some of his composure. There was a slight tint to his cheeks.

“I apologise for being so forward, y/n. I just wanted to get to know you. Talk to you. Maybe over a coffee?”

Wait, what? Did I hear that right? “Are you asking me on a date?” I asked. Completely in disbelief. Do Pro Heroes date??

“Well, seeing as you invited me into your house, I thought we could just have coffee here and talk, but I’m quite happy to take you on a date. Unfortunately, I don’t think we would be able to get much talking done. I seem to attract a lot of attention.”

Was that a smirk? That bastard is smirking. I’m red, aren’t I?

“Oh, yeah. Of course.”

Not knowing what else to say, I went to the kitchen to make our coffees. After checking how he took his, I sat us on my couch. I didn’t think my poor chairs would handle his… size. They were just old wooden ones. They creaked even with just me on them.

We ended up spending hours talking, moving from one topic to the next without even realising it. About our work (his is way more interesting than mine!), hobbies, family, friends, movies, books…. He was so easy to talk to, I hadn’t realised just how late it was.

It wasn’t until I yawned, that All Might stopped mid-sentence to frown and ask what time it was. Taking out my phone, I saw that it was after one in the morning. We’d even missed dinner.

“Goodness! (who says ‘goodness??) I’m so sorry, my dear (wait… what did he just call me??) I didn’t mean to keep you up so late!”

As he got up from the couch, he took my hand to… I guess to help me up? I was still repeating ‘my dear’ in my head.

Walking us to the door, he opened it before turning back to me.

“I’d like to do this again if that’s ok? Work permitting of course”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

He quickly leaned down and kissed my cheek.

He was gone before I could even register it in my brain.

The fourth time, he got me away from the danger first. After planting me a safe distance from the action, he cupped my face with his, quite honestly, huge hand.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said as his thumb gently rubbed my cheek.

“You too,” I said smiling up at him.

“Wait here for me?”

I nodded and he was off. Back into the action.

I’d never actually stuck around and watched any of the heroes take on the villains before. Not like a lot of others.

He was beautiful to watch. Even if he did come out with those ridiculous phrases.

After the villains were defeated and handed over to the police, All Might walked over to me. At least he tried to. Like he said, he attracts a lot of attention. I think I found a new source of entertainment. Watching All Might get flustered. It was adorable really. I can see he loves his fans even as he tried to extricate himself from them. So many wanting an autograph or a photo while he tried so hard not to be rude.

After watching this for about ten minutes, I decided to turn the tables.

Walking over, I maneuvered my way through the throng of people and positioned myself in front of All Might, facing everyone else.

“Ok, everyone. All Might needs a break after that fight. He’s very appreciative of all your support, thank you.”

I grabbed his hand and led him over to a cafe I’d noticed when I was waiting.

Thankfully his fans were respectful and let us through. I did notice a few holding their phones toward us, taking photos I presume,

Taking in the look of relief on his face, I remarked, “Looks like it was my turn to save you.”

He let out a booming laugh, “Yes, I suppose it was”

After a coffee, he offered to take me home. Let me tell you, his way of travelling is freaking terrifying! He basically leaps, propelling himself to afford a sort of temporary flight. As I clung to him for dear life, my face buried in his chest, I could feel the rumble of his laugh. It was a comforting feeling. So much so that I could almost forget that we were quite a way off the ground. Almost.

Back on my couch, tea in hand, we were talking about the recent fight before moving on to other subjects. After some time of this, he paused and reached out to move some of my hair back behind my ear. This guy was going to be the death of me. I may or may not be a little touch-starved and all these little gestures were slowly killing me.

“I’d like to show you something. I like you, y/n and I think if I want to keep seeing you, I think you should know.”

I’m pretty sure I just stared at him with my mouth open. All Might wants to keep seeing me? All Might likes me?? Next thing I knew, steam was coming off of him. “All Might! Are you…”

In the blink of an eye, he changed. Still tall, , still built, but nowhere near as bulky as All Might… I mean, himself…. Other self?

“What the fuck??”

“This is me. What I truly am. All Might is my powered-up form.”

“So does this form have a name?”

He chuckled. I was really learning to like his laughs. “My name is Yagi Toshinori. Most just call me Toshi.”

“Toshi, huh. I could get used to that.”

And then he kissed me. I may have let a little moan out. He was so warm and soft. I could feel his smile. Pulling away from him, I slapped him on the arm. Holy geezus that’s some hard muscle there.

“Stop that!”

“I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to… I got ca…”

“Not the kiss you idiot. I felt that smirk!”

“Does that mean I can kiss you again?” He had the biggest grin on his face.

Yup, I was definitely red.

We ended up ordering home delivery and cuddled up on the couch watching a movie.

Semi-consciousness came with the morning light. I felt warm and fuzzy and had a grin on my face as I snuggled into the blankets. Remembering what happened last night, I opened my eyes to find myself in bed and a note on my bedside.

You’re adorable when you sleep.

(0422) 75-3765

Goddammit. Reaching for my phone (which I presume he thoughtfully left next to the note), I saved his number before sending a quick text.

[y/n]: I’m so sorry for falling asleep on you!

Then I added:

[y/n]: Also, not adorable 😛

Grumbling, I got out of bed (still in yesterday’s clothes. Obviously. What a gentleman) and headed for the shower. Hooking up my phone to the speaker, I choose one of my favourite playlists.

While absorbed in whatever random thoughts were running through my head, I heard the message tone interrupt the music. Then another a minute later. Then a third one.

With a sigh, I finished up my shower and checked the messages while drying off.

[T] Very much adorable

[T] It’s not a problem. I liked having someone so pretty in my arms

[T] Dinner again? I can pick you up from work?

Definitely going to be the death of me.

[purrincess-chat]

Will You Be My (Fake) Lover? CH7

Here it is! The most tooth rotting fluff to have ever fluffed! Call your dentist now! And get ready for the whirlwind that is next chapter.

Read on AO3

Chapter 7

Adrien smoothed his suit coat for the dozenth time as he made his way up the stairs to Marinette's living room door. Usually he didn't fret so much over these galas, but tonight he felt strangely conscious of every small detail. Every hair out of place, every tiny clump of lint on his pants. He wanted to look perfect which struck him as odd seeing as it's never something he had really worried about. Others, sure, but he himself had never bothered much with the way he looked and left most of the concern to his parents or photographers. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, he was going with Marinette, and although he knew that Marinette was only his fake girlfriend, he was still driven by this innate desire to appeal to her. He wasn't sure why because he had never felt anything like it before, but as he straightened his tie again, he imagined the smile Marinette would give him upon seeing him and felt his face warm a little. More often lately he found himself chasing those smiles, and more than anything he just wanted her to look at him. 

He rang the doorbell and shoved his hands in his pockets, but feeling as though that were improper, he fumbled with how to place them before awkwardly clasping them together behind his back as Mr. Dupain opened the door.

"Good evening, Mr. Dupain," Adrien greeted politely, and Tom offered him a wide grin.

"You look very nice all dressed up, Adrien," Tom said, shaking his hand.

"Thank you. My father always makes sure of it," he chuckled. 

"Well, Marinette is just about ready. Why don't you come in?" Tom stepped aside, and Adrien entered with a nod, running his hands along his coat again. "She was really excited to be invited tonight. I don't think she has ever gotten to dress up like this before."

"I'm glad she's coming. Usually these events are pretty boring, so it will be nice to have someone my age to spend time with," Adrien said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Do you go to events like this often?" Tom asked, and Adrien nodded with a sigh.

"My father doesn't like crowds, and my mother used to go, but now I'm the face of the brand, so I end up going in his place," he said, lowering his gaze.

"That's so much pressure for someone your age," Tom said, eyebrows furrowing, and Adrien shrugged again.

"My father has taken the loss of my mom pretty hard, so I try to do anything I can for him. It's not so bad all the time, and mostly I just have to greet people. Nathalie is the one who talks business with everyone," he said as if it couldn't be helped. 

"Grief certainly makes you grow up fast. You're very mature for 14," Tom said, and Adrien offered him a reassuring smile.

"It's been hard, but my mother would have wanted us to be happy, so I try to live each day in a way that would make her proud," he said, and Tom's face softened. Adrien was used to receiving sympathetic looks from people, but this was different. Instead of sadness or pity, Tom looked at him with love and understanding, and Adrien felt his chest swell a little as Marinette's door opened at the top of the stairs. 

"Sorry to keep you waiting. We wanted to make sure not a single hair was out of place," Sabine said, coming down first, and Adrien felt his heart jolt as pink frills gave way to striking blue eyes framed with flowing dark hair, and her glossy pink lips curled into a timid smile. 

He felt his jaw drop as she descended, and he was so utterly awestruck that all he could do was stare. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and he momentarily forgot where he was or what they were doing. He was no stranger to girls and makeup, but Marinette was already beautiful without it every day. Perhaps he was just used to Chloe and her questionable tastes and experiments, but Marinette's makeup accentuated all of her most beautiful features. Her hair fell in dark waves around her shoulders. Her bright blue eyes sparkled against soft shadow, covered by dark fluttering lashes with every blink, and her lips glistened with light pink gloss that made him long to know how they tasted. 

"Um," she said, tugging at her skirt awkwardly, and he blinked out of his trance, snapping his jaw shut as Tom and Sabine exchanged amused looks. "Do I look weird?"

"I- no! You look...wow. I mean I've never seen you- I just...You look amazing, Marinette. Really," he said, rubbing the back of his neck as heat crept up to his cheeks, and she lowered her gaze to the ground with a shy smile. 

"You look really nice too," she said, and he felt his heart skip a beat. It was a simple declaration, but it made him really happy for some reason. 

"Can we get a picture before you two go?" Sabine requested, and Marinette shot her a glare.

"Mom!"

"Oh, you both just look so cute. Please?" Sabine pleaded, and Adrien gave Marinette a reassuring smile.

"I don't mind," he said with a shrug, and Marinette let out a sigh but stepped into his arms nonetheless. 

"Smile!" Sabine said, snapping several pictures with her phone, and Marinette took the liberty of sticking her tongue out for a few.

Adrien took a few of his own, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and touching his nose to hers. She even smelled amazing, and Adrien could have breathed her in all night. 

"Have fun you two. We'll see you later tonight," Tom said, wrapping an arm around his wife.

"My father usually has me leave early, so I'll have her back by 10," Adrien said, offering her an arm. "Shall we go?"

Marinette smiled, linking her arm through his elbow and allowing him to lead her down to the car. He kept hold of her hand the whole ride over, stealing frequent glances at her and admiring how beautiful she looked. Adrien had always thought Marinette was cute, but tonight he truly couldn't keep his eyes off her. Maybe it was the fact that he'd never seen her with her hair down or with makeup on, or perhaps it was a combination of the two. Whatever hypnotic spell she had him under, he didn't want it to wear off. 

"So," she started, and he jumped a little, shifting his gaze away from her as if to pretend he hadn't been staring for an inordinate amount of time. "Do I need to do anything special tonight?"

"No, I'll handle everything. I mean, you'll likely be in a lot of pictures with me, but you don't need to worry about that. You look incredible," he said, and he curled his shoulders a little, cheeks warming by how easily that had slipped out.

"Thank you. The dress your dad made is really beautiful," she said, running her hands over the ruffles in the skirt. 

"You're the one who designed it," Adrien said with a smile, giving her hand a squeeze. "And personally, I think it's only half as beautiful as you." 

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, biting back a smile, and he found himself lost in her again. Why was everything about her suddenly so adorable, and why did it make his heart beat so fast? 

A hoard of photographers was waiting for them when they arrived, and Marinette seemed to stiffen as they climbed out of the limo. Adrien wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Just stay by me and smile. You’ll be fine,” he said before leading her down the long line of flashing cameras and up the stairs into the gala. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“How do you put up with that all the time? I feel like I can’t see through all the spots in my vision now,” she said, blinking several times.

“You get used to it.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, we have to get all of the boring stuff out of the way first. I have to greet all the guests as they arrive, but as soon as we’re done, we can go dance.”

“No worries. I’m happy just being here with you,” she said, and he felt his cheeks warm, feeling rather pleased by that response.

Having her by his side made all of the formality go by a lot faster. He barely even paid attention as each guest entered and shook his hand for his brain had traveled far away leaving him to operate on autopilot. Though he wasn’t quite sure why Marinette enjoying his company made him so happy, he couldn’t deny that it did. It felt like a great accomplishment and far more rewarding than any medal or trophy he’d ever won.

Maybe it was because it made him think that she liked him even a little. Granted, he knew that she liked him seeing as they were friends, and she’d agreed to do this for him; however, he found himself longing to know whether her feelings ended at the line of friendship, or if perhaps they had wandered a little bit past. The thought made his heart skip. Did Marinette like him like him, or did she only just like him? These were the questions that haunted him with increasing frequency as of late, and to his surprise, he actually hoped that the answer was yes.

“Good evening, Adrien.” His happiness plummeted considerably when Lila walked into the foyer and waltzed up to plant a kiss on each of his cheeks. “I see you brought along your fake girlfriend. How nice.”

“The only thing fake in the room is you,” Marinette grumbled with an eye roll.

“Lila, Marinette and I are really dating, so please be kind this evening,” Adrien said with a wince, and Lila flicked her gaze over to Marinette before flashing him a disingenuous smile.

“Aren’t I always?” She said, running her fingers through his hair before joining the other guests in the ballroom, and Marinette groaned beside him.

“Relax, don’t let her get to you,” Adrien soothed, rubbing her shoulders and touching his nose to hers. “Just focus on me tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath, and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before turning back to his post.

Once the last of the guests were greeted, Adrien led Marinette into the ballroom where everyone mingled, and she glanced around in awe. Adrien bit back a smirk and nudged her with his elbow.

“Daunting, isn’t it?” He chuckled.

“How do you even begin to navigate?” Marinette asked.

“Usually I just walk around and let people approach me. A lot of them are really here to speak to Nathalie to relay messages to my father, so mostly I just get to eat a lot of free food and drink wine,” he said.

“Your father lets you have wine?” Marinette quirked a brow, and he shrugged a little.

“Certain servers have it specifically for me. It’s so watered down that the alcohol content is negligible, and it’s basically just grape juice,” he explained. “But they limit me to two glasses anyway.”

“That sounds right.” Marinette nodded, and Adrien moved in front of her, offering her a hand with a bow.

“Would the lady honor me with a dance?” He asked, and she touched a hand to her lips with a giggle.

“She absolutely would, and she’ll do her best not to step on your toes,” she said, placing her hand in his before he whisked her away to the dancefloor.

They waltzed in circles, and Marinette truly did feel like Cinderella at the grand ball as her skirt kissed the floor with each turn. Adrien was so calm and confident, holding her close, those green eyes never straying from her for a moment. How badly she wanted him to be her prince, but the clock hadn’t struck midnight yet. For now she would just enjoy the ball until all of the glamor faded, and their relationship came to an end. They weren’t pumpkins yet, so she could relax just a little bit. At least, relax as much as she was able to with the whole room looking at them. She felt hundreds of eyes on her back as partygoers whispered about them from the sidelines, and her spine stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” Adrien asked.

“Everyone’s staring at me,” she said, glancing around self-consciously.

“Can you blame them?” Adrien asked with a laugh, and she curled her shoulders a little. “You look beautiful, Marinette. Everyone is just admiring you.”

“I guess, but I feel like they’re all judging me. I mean, I’ve seen what some people say about us. You’re rich and famous, and I’m just a baker’s daughter,” she said, lowering her gaze, and Adrien tightened his grip around her waist.

“And?” He cocked a brow. “You are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

“You’re just saying that.” She rolled her eyes, blinking in surprise when he stopped dancing abruptly.

“I’m not,” he said firmly, reaching a hand up to cup her cheek. “I work with a lot of girls who are pretty, but they’re all self-absorbed and only interested in me because I’m famous and good-looking. Sure, they take good photos, but their hearts are ugly and dull, and I can barely stand to be around them for longer than I have to be. And then there’s you.”

He leaned down to touch his forehead to hers, green eyes bearing into her.

“You give so much of yourself to others, and you care about people. When I look at you, I see someone so vibrant who polishes other people so they can shine too. You are beautiful inside and out, Marinette, and I mean that sincerely,” he said with a smile. “And honestly, for what it’s worth, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all night.”

Marinette seemed to falter at that, her cheeks glowing red as she attempted to assemble a coherent reply, but her efforts were cut short when Nathalie interrupted.

“Adrien, I have a lot of guests with business inquiries for your father. Can you mingle with a few of the more casual guests so they don’t feel shunned?” She asked, and Adrien breathed a reluctant sigh before letting his hands fall to his sides.

“Of course, Nathalie,” he said with a smile. “I’ll be back, I promise. Just enjoy yourself, okay?”

“Kay,” she said with a smile as he kissed her hand before he was forced away.

She let out a breath as she glanced around the room, finding every face unfamiliar and alien. Every face that is, except for one, and the moment Marinette laid eyes on her, she found their gazes locked as it seemed she’d had been watching her from the very moment they entered the room.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Lila said, cocking a hip as Marinette approached with a cutting glare.

"What poor soul did you lie to in order to be let in?" Marinette asked, crossing her arms over her chest, and Lila's lips curled into a smirk.

"I was invited actually. Same as you," she said, swirling her drink before taking a sip.

"Only because you've convinced everyone you're someone important when in reality you're just as fake as those shoes you're wearing." Marinette rolled her eyes.

"You mean as fake as your relationship with Adrien?" Lila quirked a brow, and Marinette shot her another glare.

"Sounds to me like you're just mad because Adrien asked me out before you could go through with your own little scheme. The timing was coincidental, but it worked out so well for us," Marinette said, and Lila's jaw clenched. "Gabriel has even given us his blessing, and he had this beautiful dress made for me to show his approval. It's my design, and he insisted on me getting credit for it."

"That explains why it's so ugly," Lila said with a grunt. "Gabriel only gave you credit because he didn't want his name on something so hideous."

"Is that why everyone keeps complimenting me?" Marinette tapped a finger to her chin, a smirk curling on her lips as Lila tensed. "Face it, Lila. Your lies didn't get you what you wanted this time."

"Oh, Marinette, someday you'll learn that I always get exactly what I want," Lila said, squaring her shoulders, and with a careless flick of her wrist, she splashed red wine down the front of Marinette's dress. "Oops."

Marinette's jaw dropped as Lila sauntered away, pawing at the stains forming in the fabric. Tears welled in her eyes as she glanced between the other guests, her dress, and the smug look on Lila's face before she stormed from the room.

Lila watched her go with a triumphant beam before she slipped over to where Adrien was chatting with a few other models. He examined her smirk before his eyes narrowed into a glare.

"It's really a shame, you know," Lila sighed, examining her nails. "All of this could have been avoided if you weren't such a coward."

"What are you talking about?" Adrien asked, shoulders tensing when Lila shot him another taunting grin. "What did you do?"

"Nothing either of you will be able to prove." She shrugged, and Adrien visibly bristled.

"Where's Marinette?" He demanded, and Lila averted her gaze with a chuckle.

"Probably crying in the bathroom. It's your fault really. You dragged her into this," she said, and Adrien shot off in an instant.

Playing the concerned boyfriend for everyone to see. They were so careful when they thought someone was watching, but Lila had a feeling things were different behind closed doors. She clasped her hands behind her back and paced over to where Nathalie stood in the corner between business inquiries.

"If you want your proof, just go listen to the two of them talk in private. When no one's around, they're sure to drop the act," Lila said, and Nathalie glanced around at all the guests before slinking off after Adrien.

Popping a tiny quiche into her mouth, Lila casually moved among the other guests, awaiting the end of their foolish little game. Marinette picked the wrong opponent to challenge, and she really hoped that this would ruin her chances with Adrien for good.

Marinette dabbed at the stains with a towel, heart hammering in her chest as they only smeared. They were never coming out, and she knew as much. Why did Lila always have to ruin everything? She couldn't go back out there now. What would Gabriel think if he found out she ruined the dress he had made for her? He would probably think she was careless and that she didn't respect him then he would probably decide that she didn't respect Adrien either and force them to break up then she would never be able to see Adrien again, her fashion career would be over before it started, and she would die alone in an apartment with 15 cats and a hamster named-

"Marinette?" It was Adrien knocking at the door, and she sank onto the ottoman in defeat. "Are you okay? Can I come in?"

"Yeah," she said after a moment, dabbing at her dress again as he opened the door.

He observed her tear streaked cheeks, the purple stains on the front of her dress, and the dull emptiness of her expression with a frown before kneeling in front of her.

"What happened?" He asked, and she covered her face as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"It's Lila. She threw wine on me and ruined my dress, and now I can't do anything and it's all ruined and-" she sobbed, and Adrien reached a hand up to brush her hair from her face.

"I'm sorry, Marinette. I should have been there to protect you," he said with a wince.

"It's not your fault," Marinette said with a sniffle, but he shook his head.

"I've let Lila roam free for far too long, and she always finds a way to attack you. I'm so sorry, Marinette," he said, and she reached out to cup his cheek, trailing her thumb along his jaw.

"Lila is a vile person, and that's no one's fault but hers. You are always more than kind to me, Adrien," she said, and he leaned his cheek against her palm before stretching up to kiss her cheek.

"What can I do to help?" He asked, shifting his gaze down to the stains on her skirt, and she shrugged her shoulders.

"There's nothing that can be done. It's never going to come out," she said with a sigh. "I can't go back out there. Not like this."

"I'll go talk to Nathalie, and maybe we can-"

"No, Adrien. I just...I was really proud of this design, and when your dad made it for me, I felt really special. Someone whose skill I admire liked something I designed and told me it was good, and now...now it's ruined, and if I go back out there, people will all talk about how I didn't care about Gabriel giving me something so important and special," she said, pressing her lips into a firm line. "I'm just gonna call my mom and ask her to come pick me up."

"No, Marinette," Adrien pleaded, placing a hand over hers. "Don't go. I want you to stay."

"But-"

"Who cares what anyone says? If anyone gives you grief, we can tell them it was my fault," he said, and she flicked her gaze up to his. "Lila ruined your dress, but that doesn't mean you have to let her ruin your night."

"Adrien…"

"I don't want you to leave. Not yet," he said, giving her hand a squeeze. "Stay. Please?"

She searched his expression before lowering her gaze back to her lap with a sigh. She couldn't say no to him.

"Okay," she said, picking at the fabric, and Adrien pulled her against his chest. "But what am I gonna do?"

"Don't worry. I'll handle everything," Adrien said with a wink, lifting her hand to his lips, and a smile curled on her lips as he pulled her back to her feet. "Come on let's go back together."

Nathalie ducked behind the corner as they left hand-in-hand, and she lifted her phone back to her ear.

"Did you find any incriminating evidence as per Miss Rossi's suggestion?" Gabriel asked.

"No. Their affection for one another seems genuine," she said.

"Keep an eye on them and keep me posted. One of those girls is going to become my masterpiece no matter the outcome," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," Nathalie said then added, "for Adrien's sake, I hope that it ends up being Lila."

"I do too. Be sure to push her if this blows up in her face. Rub salt in the wound. You have my full permission to do whatever you see fit to accomplish that," Gabriel said before hanging up, and Nathalie paced back to the ballroom.

"Everyone is staring at me," Marinette said with a frown as she and Adrien moved back through the room, and Adrien glanced around, pursing his lips.

He hailed a server over and retrieved a glass of wine from the tray, swirling it gently before dumping it onto the front of his tux.

"Adrien!" Marinette gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as he rubbed in the purple stain with his sleeve.

"Wow, I'm so clumsy, but hey, at least now we match," he said with a shrug before flashing her a wink, and she covered her face to suppress a giggle that brought a smile to his own lips. "Now everyone will be talking about me, so don't worry, okay?"

Marinette lowered her hands, bright blue eyes twinkling with gratitude and relief before she stepped forward to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered, and he offered her a hand.

"Would the lovely lady accompany me while I mingle with my father’s clients?" He quirked a brow, and she placed her hand in his with another laugh.

"She would love to," she said with a curtsey before Adrien led her to a group across the room.

Lila watched from across the room with a scowl, arms crossed over her chest and nail tapping in annoyance. Nathalie strolled up behind her with a sly smirk and leaned down to her ear.

"I overheard something interesting, alright," she said, and Lila's eyebrows raised with excitement. "I heard you ruined the dress that Mr. Agreste had made for Marinette."

"I did what I had to," she said with a shrug.

"Marinette was quite upset over it, and Adrien was very protective of her. They seem to care for each other a great deal," Nathalie said.

“Then I’ll just have to try something else to get them to talk. I promise you-” Lila started, but Nathalie cut her off.

“Need I remind you what’s at stake if you cannot provide evidence for your claims? Mr. Agreste is not a patient man,” Nathalie said, and Lila folded her arms over her chest, puffing out her cheeks. “You have until the end of the gala.”

“I understand, and you will get your proof. One way or another.”

***

“You doing okay?” Adrien asked pacing out onto the balcony later where Marinette stood looking out over the garden. “I brought you some cake.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, but upon seeing her sullen expression, he leaned against the railing beside her.

“You still upset about Lila?” She averted her gaze at that, so he nodded in understanding.

“She just always ruins everything! Your dad had this beautiful dress made, and she poured wine all over it,” Marinette said, hands curling into fists. “She’s just always out to ruin my life.”

Adrien eyed her a moment as she crossed her arms over her chest with a huff before reaching out to pull her into his arms. She leaned into his embrace as he rubbed her back and kissed her hair, nuzzling against his shoulder with a pout.

It was strange, but having her in his arms in that moment filled him with a sense of warmth like a small flame was burning in his chest. More than anything he wanted to protect that flame from harm at all cost to preserve that feeling. Marinette was someone precious to him, increasingly more so since all of this had started. She was willing to help him after he’d dragged her into a mess he’d created. She listened to him and made him laugh, but more than anything she made him feel safe.

When he pulled back slightly, she tilted her chin to look up at him, fluttery lashes hooding over bright blue eyes as he leaned down to touch his lips to hers, and the flame in his chest flickered and burned brighter. Kissing her had always stirred up such reactions in him since the very first time, and he was finally starting to understand them for what they were. So often now when he saw her, he found himself breathless and flushed, and whether she was dressed in pink pajamas with her hair in a sloppy bun over video chat or gliding across the ballroom floor in a flowing gown, she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. And Adrien was starting to understand the feelings that had been patiently bubbling inside him all this time, and he realized that he would give Marinette Dupain-Cheng the world if she asked.

“I could tell Nathalie what happened and have her escorted out,” he said after a moment when they pulled away, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “I could tell everyone that she’s a liar, so no one would ever believe her again. Then she wouldn’t both you anymore.”

“You’d really do that for me?” Marinette glanced up at him, and his face softened.

“I’d do anything for you. All you have to do is ask,” he said gently, and she lowered her gaze again.

“No. I couldn’t ask you to do that. As awful as she is, I don’t want you to resort to that.” She shook her head, and Adrien hugged her closer, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s only one of the many things I love about you.”

And he meant it. It had taken him a long time to realize the root of his fascination with Marinette, but now it seemed so painfully obvious. Standing on the balcony with her in his arms, exchanging such delicate affections in soft whispers. Kissing her cheeks, her chin, her eyes, her nose until soft giggles curled her lips into a smile, and she trained those warm blue eyes on him again.

There was no one around to see the adoring gazes shared between them. No one to witness the way he pulled her close and kissed her slowly. Not a soul to see how she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. They were alone, but Adrien liked it that way. These feelings were his, and he only wanted to share them with the girl in his arms. Feelings he finally understood.

He was in love with Marinette.

“Cake?” He asked when they pulled away, and she smiled up at him and opened her mouth as he offered her a forkful.

The two giggled, affectionately feeding each other bites before deciding to head back inside, and Lila ducked behind a plant, clutching her phone with shaking hands. She couldn’t believe how careful they were being. Did they know she was watching? No. They couldn’t have. So how then had they not slipped up? None of it made sense.

She locked eyes with Nathalie across the room then quickly averted her gaze as she approached, turning her back as soon as Nathalie got close.

“I just need a little more time,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It’s time for Adrien and Marinette to leave, so your time is up,” Nathalie said calmly. "The two are in love, and the only obstacle in their relationship seems to be you, so Mr. Agreste has requested that I inform you that all negotiations are hereby terminated."

"What?" Lila spun around. "But I-"

"Mr. Agreste doesn't appreciate when his hard work is ruined or when people threaten his son's happiness," Nathalie said coldly. "He was quite clear when he told you that you were to prove your claims or be removed from your agreement, and seeing as Adrien has a girlfriend to look after him now, we no longer require your services."

"But I can prove it, Ms. Nathalie, I swear!" Lila pleaded. "Please, just give me one more chance."

"You failed to provide evidence of your claims, so your involvement in our affairs is over. Goodbye," Nathalie said before turning and walking away, leaving Lila to seethe as a little black butterfly landed on her phone, and a familiar voice brought a sly grin to her lips.

Gabriel wanted proof? Oh she'd get him proof.

[translucent-at-best]

Processing

“I hide my insecurities on a daily basis by reminding myself of all the things I have that should matter more than my looks.”

Because looks are superficial and can only take you but so far, because real beauty comes from within, because your appearance isn’t the only thing that matters, because my appearance isn’t the only thing that matters, right?

I’m the fat friend. I’m not saying that for pity, I’m saying it because it is what it is. The people I’m cool with are small. I am the opposite of that. It is a fact, I’m the fat friend. Time and time again, my friends would get “chose” and I wouldn’t. When I went to a nearly all-white school, I wondered if it was because of my size, but figured it more so had to do with my race (because I know the rare times I had crushes on white boys, their race most definitely stopped me from taking them seriously). When I started spending more time with my cousins, I started really equating size with attractiveness. A chick is by no means ugly, but I’m not exactly turning heads either. That’s not a self-deprecating dig - again - it just is what it is. 

“I wish I could find a girl like you.” Whole time I’m a girl like me. Countless times. Make it make sense.

Lastly, if we’re getting really real (fuck), I met the first person I ever fell in love with through this site. Things were great until we met. And he told me I was bigger than he expected. Too big to date (mind you, we all know I don’t like ‘em small and he was bigger than me). Too big to be seen with. But not too big to take home and fuck (a direct quote). Whole shit switched because of my looks, which weren’t supposed to be everything. But were.

“I do a good job of faking security, but when I offer someone a real look into my soul - the brokenness, the insecurity, the fear - they then have the power in their hands. They can dig into the wound or passively help me love myself back to life.”

The first part of that first sentence is an understatement. I do an excellent job of faking security. I have a very big problem with possibly being seen as the “woe is me fat girl.” Like I said above, I don’t want nor need to be pitied because of my size. To avoid that, I fake security. It’s not all fake, by any means. But the portion I do have to fake, I fake very well, in my opinion.

I don’t know about the brokenness aspect, but the insecurity comes in because there is some truth to the no one is checking for me sentiment. At least not enough to ever approach me. Every man that’s shown interest in me - after getting to know me, mind you - I’ve been the one to shoot my shot first. That’s not terrible, per se, but after however many years it’s been, it’s irksome. And it plays into the fear I hate admitting exists that I’m not attractive at face value.

That last sentence is a bit too dramatic for my tastes, but it is true that men appreciating certain things about my physical does help me to appreciate those certain things more. I feel like that’s more of a human thing than a Michelle thing though.

I saw a man kissing on his girlfriend’s belly earlier today on Instagram, and before I knew it, my period had me staring at my phone all misty-eyed. It’s been a long time since I’ve had my body appreciated and loved on like that. 

“I let ‘love’ affirm me, which isn’t inherently bad. But when your affirmations/belief of self are not 100% your own, they will crumble in the hands of the people you find your worth in. Example - “He made me feel safe.” “His apprehension made me feel unattractive.” He shouldn’t have had the power to make me feel any kind of way about my own attractiveness. And he didn’t. I subconsciously already felt this way. I just foolishly hoped he’d never affirm that.”

When I tell you those last two sentences fucked me right on up? I hate that I subconsciously feel this way. Still. At my big age. I feel like this is some stupid teen shit that I should’ve been gotten over, as much as I work and have worked to love myself. As a school counselor, I facilitated groups with middle schoolers about negative self-talk and thoughts and shit. How I’m still struggling with it my damn self? 

When getting to know someone, I spend an inordinate amount of time subconsciously waiting for the other shoe to drop - in this case, the shoe being his actual feelings about how I look. Because I got caught completely off guard that first time. And I don’t want to experience being hurt like that again. 

He likes how I look here, but he won’t like it there. He thinks I’m sexy in this lighting, but he won’t from this angle. Or in this outfit. Or without this covered up.

“I need to dive into what it truly means to love myself. And not on a super deep level, on a surface level. I am backwards in my boundaries. I think deep is shallow and allow people to tap into that part of me, which is: a) unsafe, and b) a distraction/defense mechanism. If I’m getting “deep” with someone, we can avoid the “shallow” insecurities that I’m embarrassed to admit exist.”

This the shit that punched me in the gut. That last sentence especially. I didn’t know I was guilty of this until I read it, but I absolutely love myself deeply, and not so much shallowly (fun fact: was not sure if that was a word until I didn’t see the red squiggly line pop up under it). I know that Michelle at her core is a beautiful person, but the shell she resides in second guesses her attractiveness often. 

I love that men I connect with can recognize there’s something different about me. I’ve worked hard to become this cool ass person and I’m proud of her. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m “better” than other women they’ve talked to, I just think the security and comfortability I have in who I am and my genuineness translates well and helps make me easy to talk to. 

I say I’m cute a lot. I default to “cute” often because I feel like that’s the one that’s hard to dispute. Some may not think I’m pretty, most wouldn’t call me fine or sexy, but I have chubby cheeks and a decent smile. Nigga, I’m cute. You can disagree, but you’d be wrong.

I would like it if I were seen as those other descriptors at times too though. Is losing weight the only way to get there? Because that’s how I think about it subconsciously. I can’t be considered sexy with these back rolls. Or fine with this gut. Or pretty with this double chin. But cute? Like a teddy bear or some shit? Look no further.

“If I can truly like myself, then I can fully love myself and stop tripping when someone else does not.”

I have to get to the root of what liking my whole self looks like. I have a lot of internalized fatphobia to unlearn, so much more than I’d like to admit. But I finally admitted it. Didn’t like that shit at all. It was hard forming the words to these thoughts. Harder to write them out and have them looking back at me like this. 

It’s 5:39 AM and I haven’t been to sleep yet because I forced myself to finish this damn post. I hope it makes sense when I wake up.

[tragedybunny]

The Blade’s Edge - A League of Legends Fanfiction - Chapter 9

It’s not much of a chapter, but it is a chapter. 

They had a simple arrangement. She was the weapon to be used on his enemies. Things get more complicated when emotions bleed into what should simple. Now the two of them find themselves on the precipice of something that was entirely unexpected.

I hold up the chain of black diamonds to examine it and watch them shimmer in the gaslight. The largest sits at the front, receding to smaller ones to the back. I’ve always found the cost of shiny rocks to be quite vulgar, but for once it felt worth it.

I’d offended Kat a few days ago and she’d been cold with me since. She wasn’t outright hostile, but it was clear what I’d said stuck with her, even after my apology. I hadn’t even mentioned her little art expenditure, thinking that would appease her. 

Hopefully, this little peace offering would finally put it to rest. It’d been something I had planned before all this anyway after her comments about wearing jewels that didn’t belong to her. Gwen had been an excellent source of intel for her preferences, and of course, her preferences were painfully expensive. 

I finally hear her stirring about in her room, the hour long past morning. While I’m not sure where she was all night, I suspect she was out drinking, given that she came in the front door and not a window. I tuck the necklace in a pocket and approach her door, knocking softly. I know she hates it when I don’t. I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time either avoiding offending her or figuring out how I’ve offended her. Ironic since this situation was arranged to further my influence over her. I suppose I’m only really delaying the inevitable. One day she’ll figure out that she doesn’t need me to survive, especially once she controls the Guild.

“Are you actually knocking?” She sounds half asleep still. 

I take her words as permission and enter, finding her seated at her dressing table, fighting to get a brush through the tangled waves of her hair. “You’ve requested it in the past.” 

“Since when do you ever listen to anything I say?” Of course, we have a very public event tonight and she’s trying to start a fight, definitely still indignant at me. 

“Good morning to you too Kitten.” I lean down and kiss her on the cheek, I’m not taking the bait. Her expression softens and for the moment there’s peace between us. “I have something for you, for tonight. Close your eyes.” 

She mocks annoyance but does as I ask. I withdraw the chain and clasp it around her neck. “Take a look.” I whisper in her ear and then nip it lightly. 

Her eyes get wide as soon as she opens them and her hand reaches up to lightly caress the stones settled around her neck. “It’s incredible. You can’t be serious.” There’s almost a reverence to her voice. 

“Of course I am.” I reach out and let my hand travel through her silken tresses. “You should have something of your own.”

She leans back against me, finally, I believe she is no longer cross with me. I wrap my arms around her, her head resting in the crook of my left elbow, my arm casting its glow against her pale skin. I wonder how she’s never been unnerved by it, treating it as normal. “You spoil me.” 

“Perhaps I should try it more often.” The familiar urges of having her so close start stirring. I contemplate throwing her on the bed and stripping her down to nothing but that necklace. But no, I have some last minute matters to attend to before tonight. I kiss the top of her head. “Until later, Kitten.” 

She makes a small noise of protest as I pull away, making me aware her thoughts had traveled the same path as mine. “Stay.” She purrs at me, taking my hand. 

“Busy.” I squeeze her hand and let go. 

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes but blows me a kiss on my way out.

Several hours and one clandestine meeting later I find myself waiting for her appearance so we can begin this absurdly long evening. I’ve only told her half the truth about why she’s coming with tonight. Having her company is, of course, a welcome addition to the tedium of official functions but there’s something I wish to accomplish tonight. I’m not ignorant to what’s said about her. I know the little nickname that’s trotted out behind my back, Grand Whore of Noxus. Tonight I want them to see her with me, to bow and scrape a little bit when she’s around. They can’t disrespect her in my presence without disrespecting me. Which is really the point, if they do it at all, even behind my back, it reflects on me. 

At the moment though, I’m reconsidering the whole plan since she’s taking an eternity to be ready. I pace the floor of the Hall, listening to my steps echoing off the walls, patience wearing thin. I finally hear her descending the stairs, Gwen trailing close behind her. I snap my head in her direction. “Fin..” The word dies in my throat. 

The scarlet lace clings to every one of her flawless curves, the small crystals sewn into it create a soft glow around her. The necklace is settled around a dramatic high collar, matching perfectly with the tiara set on her pinned-up hair. I involuntarily suck in a breath, the wait was admittedly worth it. 

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and stops before me. “Well, what do you think?” She turns around, letting me appreciate every angle. 

“You look like you’re somehow wearing half my fortune.” Her expressions falls, I didn’t think she’d take the comment seriously. I hurry to smooth it over before she responds. “I’m only teasing. You look lovely Kat.” She always did though, I wonder if she ever truly realized it. “But tell me how many knives have you managed to hide in there?”

Now she smiles so genuinely. When was the last time she smiled at me like that? ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

Gwen wraps her cloak around her shoulders carefully avoiding her hair. I offer her my arm. “Let’s enjoy making everyone talk tonight.” 

Throngs of people from every station and background fill the Temple of the Sun. It feels as though every one of them is staring at us as we make our way toward the balcony that overlooks the temple proper. Every few feet we’re stopped to engage in meaningless pleasantries, whispering consuming the crowd in our wake. We’re successfully causing a scandal, the Grand General and his House pariah mistress. “You’ll crack a molar if you keep your jaw clenched like that all night.” 

“I’m trying to keep smiling. This is the best I can do at being congenial.” She hisses.

I pull her close, give her one quick kiss. “Just relax.” I forgot how much she dislikes crowds. 

Argos parts through the mass to stand by my side. “Greetings, Grand General, Sir.” 

The new rank insignia on display seems to have added a bit of pride to his bearing. “Argos”, I nod. I do owe Kat for that, her words pushed Darius into his part of that promotion, whether either of them knows that or not. Head of Strategic Defense would sound boring to those more interested in the outright “glory” of conquest, but Argos is smart enough to realize it puts him in a position over a rather significant force. And with his established loyalty, I tighten my grasp over the most central parts of the Empire. Too bad for his extremely incompetent predecessor, I heard they had their throat slit in their own home. 

“Will you be joining the festivities later?” He fumbles around for small talk, a true military man adrift in the sea of ceremony and formality.

“For as long as I can tolerate it. It is unfortunately expected of me.” Lady Montrose, a relic of another era, is hosting and nearly the whole of Noxian society will attend. I’ve got plans to be laid, so at least it will serve some purpose. I can’t stomach these vainglorious, ostentatious displays. “I’ll look for you there.” He starts to speak, but another voice draws my attention away. 

“Do you enjoy spreading your legs every night for your father’s murderer?” Of course, she’s here. I whirl around, leaving Argos mid-word, and storm through those pressed in around me to stand behind Kat, putting my hands on her shoulders.

“Soreana, it’s been a while.” Her eyes get even more narrow, leaving her whole pinched expression. I let my hands travel to Kat’s waist and pull her a step closer to me. 

“Good evening, Grand General.” Pure hatred flows through her words. Kat is pointedly looking staring at the ground, her mood from earlier completely evaporated. 

“You know I don’t think I’ve ever properly thanked you for that night at your home. It was good of you to reintroduce Katarina and I, much has come from it.” 

Kat laughs quietly, and finally looks up. “You make an excellent point.” She leans up and kisses my cheek. “We are grateful.” 

Soreana looks like a fish out of water, gasping for air. “We should head inside.” I slide my hand to the small of Kat’s back and guide her forward, lobbing one last parting shot behind me. “Perhaps this new year will see your husband returned to you.” She sounds like she’s choking as we walk away. Good, I always hated Soreana.

“Bit much, don’t you think?” She lets me lead her toward the pew at the front of the balcony. From here those of rank look down on the teeming masses below. 

“No, I heard what she said and I put her in her place.” I put my hand over hers and feel her run her nails along my palm. 

“It had truth to it.” She’s starting to dwell on it. 

I lean over and whisper in her ear. “Nonsense, every night would be a lot to ask of a man with my responsibilities.” I kiss her temple softly. 

“Honestly.” She slaps playfully at my shoulder and I believe she is sufficiently distracted. I hear enough murmuring to know we’re being talked about again, I find that deeply satisfying. 

“They let anyone sit up here these days.” Darius lowers his considerable form into the seat next to Kat. 

“Well, they did let you in.” She’s all smiles for him I note. 

“I kinda wish they hadn’t. The burdens of leadership I suppose.” 

“Poor DarDar, he might get bored.” It’s always like this between them, astoundingly easy. I’ve never seen them fail to get along, even when Kat is in one of her moods. Tonight it grates on me as he leans in and whispers something that has her choking back a laugh. 

Thankfully their banter is interrupted as the ceremony begins and the Priest steps forward. I note the seat next to me where the third of the Trifarix should sit is empty. Just as well, it keeps me from having to deal with LeBlanc in addition to everything else. 

It’s as though she’s summoned by that thought, her veiled figure practically floating as she approaches. She settles in, too close for comfort. “Well, someone brought their little pet with.” Her voice is so low only I can hear it. I shoot her a look and turn back to the ceremony, a sacrificial killing of the old year to bring forth the new. A deserter stands in for the old year, looking to atone for his cowardice by giving his life to satisfy the gods. It’d be meaningful if I believed in gods. 

Kat has turned her attention back to Darius, gesturing and whispering furiously. “What? I admire you, keeping up with that young little thing.” 

I wonder if the demon could strangle the immortal life out of her. “Are you jealous?”

“And if I was?” Now there’s almost a playfulness to her tone. 

Before I can answer I feel Kat’s arm hook through my mine. She carefully lays her head on my shoulder, not disturbing her pinned-up hair. I catch her hand and squeeze it a bit. She smiles up at me before exaggeratedly yawning.”Behave.” I scold and she pouts, her nails again running along my palm. Perhaps the crowd is getting to her, I should have considered that possibility. 

The ceremony is brief enough at least, Noxians don’t tend to prattle on to the gods, even when they do believe in them. Off to the self-indulgence of the nobility and, if fortune smiles, home before long. As we stand Kat turns again to Darius, and like a coiled predator waiting to strike, LeBlanc leans in to whisper to me. “You’ve been so...occupied recently, we haven’t truly spoken in ages. We should remedy that.” And with that she vanishes into the crowd, her invitation lingering behind her as we begin to leave. 

It is tempting. Leblanc can be charming when she wants something. And she most definitely wants something. Though what it is this time, I’m not sure. Perhaps she just needs to reassure herself my attention is hers when she wants it. Still, it’s always been a benefit when she gets what a little of what she wants. It keeps her docile to think she’s winning. 

“Jericho.” There’s a sharp edge of irritation to Kat’s voice.

“Yes?” She turns back to glare at me, halting the crowd a bit around her. 

“Nevermind.” She turns and starts walking away. I try to hurry after her without appearing to and catching up, I take her hand. 

There’s a moment where I feel her almost pull away. “Apologies, I was distracted.” She doesn’t say anything, but she leaves her hand in mine. It seems everything tonight must be difficult.

The crowd parts, some still daring to stare and take in the spectacle or try to whisper covertly to their companions. I stop suddenly and lean down to kiss her deeply, hands around her hips, fueling the fire. 

I’d almost say she was blushing slightly as we pulled apart. “You’re making quite a scene.” 

“That was entirely my intention, my dear.” I take her hand and continue our way out, leaving the masses gawking behind us. 

[metalchick19-blog]

The Bowers Gang: How/Why the Guys Would Break up with Their S/O (Anonymous Request)

* Any and all credit for this idea goes to the requestor.

Belch: Belch would be a nervous wreck about breaking up with someone, regardless of the circumstances - he would sweat, go over what he wanted to say in his head a thousand times, and would probably even plan to do it (and back out) a few times before getting the job done. Because of that, Belch would probably stay in the relationship about a month longer than he wanted to, on average. When he finally got up the nerve to officially break things off, Belch would invite his s/o to his house (home field advantage) and break the news while sitting with them at his dining room table. It would take a while - he’d spend an inordinate amount of time building up to, and dancing around what he wanted to say - but he’d eventually get it out, staring at the ground for a while before looking up to check his partner’s reaction. The chief reasons Belch would break up with someone would be if he felt undervalued by them, or (more likely) if he suspected cheating. He’s very insecure, and so wouldn’t be satisfied with someone that added to, or let him stagnate in that insecurity; Belch would want to know he was loved by the person he was in love with, and, if he felt his s/o was too cold or unclear about their feelings (even though he’d give them a lot of time to improve these things), he’d eventually leave them in hopes of finding someone more tender.

Henry: If Henry were to break up with his s/o, it would most likely be at school in the middle of the day. He’s not the most thoughtful guy, and so probably wouldn’t have considered the fact that his partner would be forced to endure the rest of their classes having just been broken up with - he would just want to do it there because it was the most convenient place. Henry wouldn’t walk up to his partner himself (because procrastination), but would let his s/o come to him, opting to break things off with them the first time they approached him that day. Even though he wouldn’t try to be mean, Henry would probably seem cruel in his straightforwardness, as he’d sum up all of his feelings in one statement: “We need to break up.” His face would stay straight, his voice flat, and he’d look anywhere except his s/o’s eyes. Regardless of their reaction (screaming, crying, or otherwise), Henry would just stand silently and take it, waiting for them to eventually walk away and break the tension. Really though, this would just be because Henry wanted the situation to be over as quickly as possible - any kind of hurt or emotional interaction deeply unsettles him, and he wouldn’t be comfortable with anything about the situation at all. He would feel bad on some level (probably more than most people think) but it wouldn’t show at all on the surface. In terms of reasons, Henry would break up with someone if he felt that, as a couple, they argued too much - considering what his life has been, Henry values peace much more than he realizes, and so wouldn’t want fighting to be the defining factor of another big relationship in his life. In a relationship (though he’d never say it out loud), Henry would want someone that he could feel safe with and understood by, not someone that would remind him of all the things he already doesn’t like about life. Because of that, lots of little fights, coupled with lots of break-ups and make-ups (i.e. a toxic connection) would lead Henry to eventually let a relationship go, regardless of how attached he had become to the person in the meantime. He truly wants something warm and consistent, and, deep down, isn’t willing to settle for less.

Patrick: When it comes to Patrick breaking up with his s/o, he wouldn’t - at least, not explicitly. He would just stop acknowledging them one day, and would never pick it back up again (the original ghost). Because Patrick is such a “never do anything I don’t want to do” type, the second he lost interest in the person he was dating, he would just ditch the relationship on the spot. He wouldn’t see the point in telling his partner about the decision because he really wouldn’t care how they felt about it, and would actually probably find their initial confusion about the situation hilarious (ignores phone calls on purpose, avoids his s/o so they never get an explanation, etc.). In all reality, there’s only one reason Patrick ever breaks up with anyone - boredom. Being the freak and a half that he is, Patrick always needs novelty and intensity, and so often loses interest in people that can’t keep up with his... “unique” appetites. He wants thrills, and excels at finding them with all different kinds of people (he finds certain things fascinating about every single personality type), but Patrick needs a partner that’s truly “off” in some way to be satisfied long-term, as someone with normal morals and boundaries will just hit a wall eventually. Of course, it’s not always the partner’s fault though; more often than not, Patrick just decides he knows everything interesting there is to know about a person, and decides he wants a new toy. However, there’s always a chance he’ll reinsert himself in a past s/o’s life if he decides that’s what he wants for the moment (also the original fuckboi).

Victor: If Victor were to break up with his s/o, he would do it in a place that was “safe” for them - somewhere they could cry and react without a bunch of people seeing them, and where they wouldn’t have to endure any lasting embarrassment. He would most likely come to their house, ask to talk to them in their room, and break things to them there as gently as possible. No matter what, cruelty is not Victor’s style, so he would make every effort to convey his feelings in as kind a way as he could. When it comes to the reason Victor would break up with an s/o, it would probably be because he didn’t feel their personalities were compatible. Even though he hides it well, Victor is a sensitive, thoughtful guy, and wouldn’t want to be with someone he didn’t feel connected with him on a real level - he wants substance out of love, and so would definitely end a relationship if he wasn’t feeling it. Still, he would try to be merciful to the person he was breaking up with, and, even though he doesn’t believe in keeping exs as friends, would still acknowledge them if he saw them in public.

[themythrilhusk]

The Rebuke (Prompt 13: Wax)

The sounds of unsatisfied buzzards mingled with the toll of the bell. Once, twice, nine times it rang out, signalling the end of another day in the desert of Thanalan. Cactuar scuttled their way into their community huddle to prepare for the usual dropping temperatures, the Qiqirn retreated into their tents, and people the region over followed suit. Such was true even in the gated neighborhood known as "The Goblet"- while not every home would be filled tonight, (adventurers had such a curious habit of spending inordinate amounts of money on the plots just to sleep in the Quicksand, if not outright camp out in the wilderness rather than return from their journeys) the streets were still filled with quite a number of people. All races and creeds, dressed in such a manner that a more common outsider might wonder if they were all trying to outdo each other in terms of eccentricity. As neighbors, they all greeted each other with warmth and bid goodnights here and there... sans one.

Y'ahd Tia clattered and clanked down through the Heart of the Goblet as he manifested in front of the Aetheryte, ignoring those around him. The day had been an especially long one for the Paladin, and it was evident on his metal skin. The Storm Blue armor he took such lengths to preserve was coated in a layer of dirt, dented and outright broken in some rather uncomfortable looking regions. An employer had bid him into the Kobold's deepest territory (quite literally, in this case) of U'Ghamaro; watching over the alchemist as he hunted for rare materials for some elixir or other had proven to be quite the workout. The denizens of the Mine were about as happy to see him as he was they, the only difference was that he was alive to grumble about it hours later. Still, the hefty presence of the sack of Gil in his hand had made it all worth it. Repairs to his gear could be made, his holdings wouldn't be seized, and... The armor found his thought process interrupted, realizing a second too late that he had passed the stone fence securing the border of his own home. Y'ahd turned and made his way back, staring up at the house he had claimed as his own. "And my employees won't revolt for at least another month.", he finished out loud. With that, the Miqo'te pushed open the door and into his home.

Calling it a home was only partially the truth. The Ul'dahn, Gridanian, and Lominsan governments were a shrewd sort: they only built these neighborhoods as a way to try and entrap the adventurers who roamed their lands. It wasn't a bad plan, really. Beyond forcing them to enlist in their respective armies to even be eligible for property, the hope was that by owning a piece of the City-State, the adventurers would feel compelled to actually fulfill their obligations to the military and want to protect their homes. It did come with a rather stifling limit of one house per adventurer, however. As such, Y'ahd Tia had to divide his parcel of land into both an office and a living space. The first floor that greeted him was the reception area; cut down the middle between a waiting area (one of his staff members stood at the ready next to a table with a kettle of tea, and gave him a bright smile he was almost entirely certain was fake), and a trophy display. Various skulls and stuffed heads of impressive looking beasts hung on the walls, along with a full stuffed Gagana. At either side of it stood mannequins clad in older versions of his armor: a decidedly drab, basic set of plate armor that boasted blue paint (Woad, to be precise) rather than a dip-dye procedure in the forming of it, like his current gear. A prominent rip across the torso certainly implied what led to the retiring of this armor. The second was more advanced; a full set of the Ironwork's finest. Like his current gear, it glinted a proud Storm Blue... at least, where what little metal was apparent on it. The main chestpiece was a thick, deep-dyed leathery doublet rather than proper metal armor. Y'ahd remembered the relief he felt when such gear had gone out of style.

He never truly felt it was trustworthy.

The Paladin turned his attention away from his armor's predecessors, helmet turning fully to regard the squat table all the way across the room. Settled below a massive, handsome painting of the Sultana and her former General, flanked at either side with a banner featuring the Ul'dahn sigil, stood the head of this reception area: his secretary, Colala Cocola. She didn't seem to have registered his arrival, her head buried in a book, bobbing her head in time with the drinking apkallu on her desk. As such, when the Paladin snapped her book shut in front of her face, she let out an indignant yelp- scowling up at the perpetrator before realizing who he was, face paling. "I should hope you have not greeted any visitors with such inattentiveness.", the armor spoke, an icy tone in his voice. "Have we any business? Do you know?" was the follow-up. Colala flustered but a moment before retrieving a letter off the desk and presenting it to him. "No walk-ins today I'm afraid, but this was in the mailbox Master Tia!", she squeaked. Taking the envelope, Y'ahd grunted as he took the Gil sack in his hand, produced two more, and poured a modest amount into them. "Very well. Take your earnings and be on your way for today, then. Lock the door behind you." he commanded, already on his way to the stairs below. He didn't give his staff a second glance.

The hallway at the bottom of the stairs was narrow- while he could move comfortably, even in his plate, he would feel quite cramped if he had to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with another individual of the same size. A Roegadyn would definitely complain. Various paintings were mounted on either side of the walls, carefully spaced out so that one could appreciate them fully before moving on to the next. The hallway gave way to a door, and behind it was his personal office. The east and west walls of the room were covered fully by bookshelves, and of course, books. If he were being truthful, he had read perhaps a third of his library: most of the tomes were just for ambiance. Everything in Y'ahd's office had been purposefully designed as such. An atmosphere was carefully cultivated here, and he took some measure of pride in it. His desk, covered in maps and parchment and scales (for those who preferred to pay him in precious metals and gems rather than proper Gil) was a fair bit of a mess but implied he was a busy man. The chair he threw himself in was luxurious and comfortable, quite unlike the pair of simple wooden chairs on the other side of the desk. They had their backs to the fireplace across the room, radiating heat that would crawl up anyone's back. The lamp on his desk illuminated himself fairly dimly, casting the features of his helmet and armor into sharp relief. An oppressive air hung in this office in stark contrast to the bright, welcoming atmosphere of the room above- perfect for leaning on the desperation of those that sought him out, and wring more Gil out of them.

However, he was alone now. And as such (along with the task at hand), Y'ahd turned up the brightness of his table's lamp, dispelling the harsh shadows so that he could read without straining his eyes. Tearing open the envelope with a knife kept at his desk, the Miqo'te read out loud. "'Dear Master Tia.'" Already a disinterested tone was apparent in his voice. "'I hope this letter finds you well this day. It was with utmost condolences that I cannot meet you in person, but circumstances have forced my hand. I am a humble resident of the Silver Bazaar. Perhaps you've heard of this place; we used to be a bustling port, but times have grown lean these past years. We make an effort to improve our lot, but with the markets failing, there are those that would take advantage of the city's disinterest in our outpost and do us harm... and unfortunately, my family has come to be a victim of such ruffians.'" Y'ahd paused to pour a glass of orange juice between the slats of his full helmet. "By Oshcon, does this fellow meander. Alright... 'While our port sees little use these days, due to being too small for the larger fishing boats to make port, several days ago kidnappers docked and under cover of night, broke into my home and spirited away my daughter. What few guards we have cannot possibly be sent out to sea to hunt them down. I cannot give chase- i am no warrior, and I fear that without sufficient strength to subdue these fiends, they will do something drastic. Sir, I do not claim much in this world, but I have a modest savings of two thousand Gil that I would be willing to part with for the safe return of my beloved daughter. Warm regards, Hokotsu Totsu.'" At this, the armor seemed to perk up some- setting down the letter and producing a blank sheet to word his own reply. He wrote with a sense of urgency, before folding the paper up and slipping it into a new envelope. With a flourish, he stamped a wax seal to shut it. A handsome sigil, the Eorzean 'Y' was clearly visible in the blue-tinted wax. Satisfied, he briefly left the house to deposit the letter before heading off for bed.

Hokotsu Totsu's daughter did not return the next day. The only correspondence the Lalafell received was not a ransom note, but a curt letter featuring a single sentence: "You must be mad if you think I get out of bed for anything less than ten thousand gil."

[imagine-darksiders]

Can I have a scenario with strife or death when they save a human who has a newborn with her and end up helping her take care of the baby

So, I couldn’t resist doing something where Death has to actually be present for the birth because I kept thinking about that Sims 2 screenshot where the grim reaper turns up when a sim goes into labour like ‘This is not my job! This is the exact opposite of my job!’

So yeah, warning for non graphic child birth, contractions, mentions of blood, Death being perplexed but inquisitive about babies. He has terrible taste in puns. Give the poor woman a break. Also some Reaper form in here ;) 

—

A heavy rain pounds dismally onto the warehouse roof where a lone figure sits cross-legged near the edge, hunched over against the downpour.

In a flurry of sodden, dishevelled feathers, Dust flies down from the dark sky and lands haphazardly beside his master. The abnormally large crow cocks his head to the side, regarding Death for a moment before promptly hopping up onto his knee and then down into the space between his thighs, huddling underneath the broad expanse of the horseman’s chest. For once, Death doesn’t comment on the bird’s cowardly aversion to being caught in the rain, his mind too distracted by the deed he’d committed mere moments ago.

Hunter’s last request - “I can’t live with what I’ve done. Death…as long as you’re here…” - shouldn’t bother the horseman as much as it apparently does.

The pitter-patter of rain hits his back and drips steadily down his bone-white mask, where a fat droplet rolls off its chin and plops right on top of Dust’s beak.

With a vehement hiss, the crow shakes his head from side to side and shuffles closer to Death’s stomach, his feathers sticking out at odd angles. Absentmindedly, the horseman shifts to rub his knuckles up and down the birds feathery chest, eyebrows pulled low into a pensive frown.

’It just seems like such a waste.’ Yes, the human did a bad thing. But he wasn’t a bad person. Death has met truly bad humans before and Hunter was definitely not to be counted among them.

No, he was not bad human. Just a scared one.

And he’d left Death with something of a conundrum. According to Hunter, there’s very little – if any – chance that his group somehow escaped the demon lord, Belial. But one nagging thought taps at the back of Death’s mind, one that drew him up onto this roof in the first place to ponder his next move. ’What if Hunter was wrong?’

If there is a human surviving here who didn’t sell their people out to a demonic entity and thus doesn’t subsequently feel that Death is their only repentance, then he’s duty-bound to find them.

“But to what end?” he murmurs, his bright, orange eyes providing an eerie contrast to the grey cityscape they sweep over. What to do if he does find another one? Hunter was tricky enough to catch up with, who’s to say the next human won’t prove even more elusive?

Could he really afford to spend an inordinate amount of time searching for something that may not even exist when his brother’s innocence is on the line?

As he mulls over his options, his gaze passes lazily over the side of the building on the opposite end of the street. All at once, he snaps his focus back to a window on the fifth floor.

Unless the rain is impairing his immaculate vision, he’d say that it’s the only window that isn’t shrouded in inky blackness. There’s a dull – almost imperceptible – glow flickering from behind it. Death shields his eyes from the rain, ignoring Dust’s objectionable squawk at having lost the gentle scratches of his long fingers, and squints hard at the fluttering, golden light.

He’s almost certain he can make out a shadow-

As luck would have it, mother nature chose that precise moment to flaunt her brilliance across the earthen sky, as if she’d been waiting for Death to be looking at that exact spot at this exact time. A flash of lightening illuminates the entire street and the building that he’s been staring at. In that split second of near-blinding light, the horseman clearly makes out the reclining, vaguely human-shaped figure in the window.

He couldn’t tell much, but for now, it looks human enough and it’s the only lead he’s got.

Witha quick grunt, Death leaps to his feet without a spare thought for Dust, who flaps angrily out of his lap and back into the air, screeching awfully.

“Hush,”he scolds, rolling his shoulders and slinking up to the roof’s edge, eyes never leaving that window. “Keep an eye out for any threats. I’m going in.”  

Dust shoots him an unimpressed glare, but soon, he’s flitting out over the street and climbing above the crumbling buildings, his sharp eyes trained keenly on the ground below.

“Right then.” One of Death’s legs sticks out over the edge. “Let’s try this again.”

Asit turns out, the building is a lot harder to navigate from theinside. There are plenty of demons on the lower floors - though as heascends, he finds fewer of them but more wicked.

Thesetwisted, half-rotten corpses of former humans are so filled withhatred, so woebegone and furious with their lot in the afterlife that theyhurl themselves at Death with reckless abandon, meeting their finalend on Harvester’s curved blade.

“Depravedfools,” Death spits, yanking his weapon out of the last wicked’sskull and throwing his scythe back on its straps, continuing up anunstable staircase until he emerges out into a long, dark corridor. Assoon as the sound of fighting stops ringing in his ears, he picks up anew noise, this one far less familiar than the clashing of metal and flesh.

Senses on high alert, he creeps down the corridor, past dozens of doorways, eachmarked by a small, brass number. Death’s face twists as he tries torecall the name of the building he’s in, realises that he doesn’tactually care, and shrugs it off. At the end of the hallway, he spiesa light shining out from beneath one of the flimsy, wooden doors, behind which he can hear the muffled grunts and strained hums of ahuman in distress. In the silence, they’s so glaringly loud. 

By contrast, quieterthan a ghost, Death leans to press his ear against the door,listening carefully.

Almostimmediately, his eyes widen again, astonished to hear a woman’s voice,groaning and muttering to herself. Suddenly, she cries out. Fearing the worst, Deathwastes no time ramming his shoulder into the door and subsequently knocking theentire thing off it’s hinges. It crashes to the floor with a clamourand Death all but barges into the room, scythe already free andwhirling.

‘CLACK,CLACK.’

Theunmistakable sound of a gun being cocked stops him in his tracks.

“G– get…the… f-ffuck… out…” comes a dangerous, wobbly hissfrom across the room.

Over the course of his long, arduous and often very strange life, Deaththought he could say with absolute confidence that he’s seeneverything there is to see.

Apparently,that’s no longer the case.

Behindhis bone-mask, the horseman’s jaw falls open before he can catch it.

Forthere, on the other side of the room, laying on the skeleton of ametal bed with trembling hands clutched clumsily around the stock of ashotgun, is a human woman who appears to be caught in the very finalstages of giving birth.  

‘Oh no,’ he inwardly gulps. Death hadn’t been sure what to expect when he burst into the room, but this has to be the furthest thing from what he could have hoped for. Ever.

Thin,damp hair clings to her face, stuck fast by the sweat dripping out ofevery pore. Her white, cotton sundress – also drenched with amixture of tears, sweat and blood – is bunched up around her waistin an effort to give her legs more room to stretch out over theratty, green blanket that’s been spread haphazardly under her hips.

Shedoesn’t seem to care about being so exposed, and to be quite frank,neither does Death. After all, he’s seen far more gruesome sightsthan a woman in labor.

Teethbared so fiercely, he’d swear she had demon heritage, the womansuddenly seizes, crying out as a contraction sweeps through herpelvis. Incredibly though, despite the obvious agony she must begoing through, she manages to shakily raise the shotgun and aim it athis chest, breathing out several puffs of air in rapid succession.

“I– s-said, get. OUT!”

Deathhas seen the most fearsome aspects that humanity has to offer.

He’sseen bloodthirsty tyrants pummel innocent men into unrecognisablepulps on the fields of battle. Witnessed barbarians tear the limbsfrom their enemies and leave the torsos twitching in their own blood.He’s seen rage and brutality and savagery in their rawest, mostprimal forms. But there’s nothing – in Death’s opinion –absolutely nothing that comes close to the sheer ferocity with whicha mother protects her child.

Andthis particular very-soon-to-be mother is not only protecting her unbornchild, she’s doing it whilst backed into a corner, hackles raisedand at her most vulnerable.

Heneeds to be cautious. A chest full of buckshot won’t even slow him, but it certainly isn’t comfortable…

When he meets her eyes and looks – really looks at her – he starts to register just how young she is. Her fatigued, grime-coated features disguise her real age and only upon closer inspection does her youth become painfully evident. She can’t have even reached a quarter of a century, surely! He expects to find hopelessness, but instead, there’s a burning determination, a fortitude that he can only accredit to this woman’s desire to survive. 

Alittle humbled by the tiny creature’s unyielding spirit, Death stepsfurther into the room.

“STO-!”she tries to bellow, only to be overtaken by another contraction. Herteeth bite down around a choked scream and she squeezes her eyesshut, simultaneously fighting to keep them open lest he take theinitiative to attack.

“Easy,easy,” he murmurs, an oddly gentle lilt to his once gruff voice,“I’m not a threat.”

Thelook on her face screams ’yeah right.’ Not that he canblame her. Then, her expression shifts again and she tilts her headat him, like she’s only just registered the fact that he spoke toher, in plain english, no less.

Hestarts to move further into the room again, humming at the concerningamount of blood soaking into the blanket under her. In a flash, shethrusts the gun towards him and shouts, “BACK OFF~! I..I’m warningyou! I’ll – I’ll shoot!”

Snorting,Death turns his palms to the ceiling and gestures to himself, up anddown.“You’re welcome to,” he tells her breezily, “though Imight take umbrage to that…”

Anotherstep.

Herfinger flies to the trigger and twitches against it, barely holdingback. “I mean it! I’ll kill you!” she wails.

“No.You won’t.”

Thewoman’s trigger finger shakes so uncontrollably that, for a moment,Death wonders if she might pull it by accident. “You think I don’thave it in me!?”

“It’snot a question of whether you’re prepared to,” he explainspatiently, “but whether it’ll do any good. And besides,one shot from that thing will have every demon within five milesbearing down on our heads. You look like a smart human, think itthrough..”

Shiveringfit to burst, she has to take a moment to swallow down a yelp,jolted by the agony of yet another contraction. It wouldn’t be longnow. The horseman waits for her breathing to even out again.When it does and she can hold the gun steady once more, she rasps,“Who the hell…are you?”

“Iam Death.”

Nosooner had the words left his mouth than the woman suddenly turnedseveral shades paler and her white-knuckled grip on the shotgunincreased enough to nearly dent the metal. “NO!” she cries,struggling to sit up further on the bed, “NO! No you can’t havehim!!”

Hmm.He supposes that’s a fair reaction.

“Trust me, I’m not here for your baby.”

Everso slightly, the shotgun lowers and a fleeting glimpse of reliefflashes across the woman’s features before – not a second later –she inhales sharply and her lower lip begins to quiver rigourously.In a hushed whisper, she says, “Oh God…You’re here for me!”

“Ah,”the horseman holds up a finger. “Well no. I’m not-”

“Isthis it?!” Hysterical, she darts her wide eyes around the dingyroom. “Am I gonna die in here!? A hotel room, giving birth! That’sso!…. So!-”

“Anticlimactic?”Death suggests unhelpfully.

“Iwas about to say shit, but yeah.”

Atiny smile quirks at the corner of his mouth. “I imagine it wouldbe. However, you’ll be pleased to hear that your demise is not on my agenda.”

“I..huh?”

“I’mnot here to killyou.”

“Oh…”she mutters between sharp gasps, “Right.” Then, with a perplexedfrown, she licks her dry lips and squints up at him through tearyeyes. “But then…why are you here?”

Justas he opens his mouth to try and supply an answer he isn’t even sureof himself, a distant, nearly undetectable sound twitches his ear.Death’s head whips back to the door and he reaches up to grab hisscythes, scowling when the woman snaps her gun up as well, barrelpointed at him.

“Something’scoming,” he growls, turning fully to face the door and squaring hisstance.

“Huh?– What’s comiiiIIII-AAARRGH!!!”

Thereaper nearly jumps a mile as the woman suddenly throws her arms outto grab the sides of her bed, unwittingly dropping the shotgun andsending it clattering noisily to the ground in the process. Fromsomewhere beyond the room, down in the darkness of the long hallway,something lets out a triumphant screech.

Thehorseman glances over his shoulder.. “What’s wrong!?” he barksurgently, shifting his gaze back and forth between her and thedoorway.

“The..Helldo you…think is – ah! - wro-wrong!?” she spits andthrows her head back against the wall, nostrils flaring with each,rapid breath.

Dozensof footsteps echo up the hallway, crawling closer and closer everypassing second whilst Death, with an unexpected degree of alarminterwoven in his tone, blurts, “It’s coming? Now?!”

“Yes!” she cries hoarsely, “seeing as how!…it feels like…I’mabout to shit a watermelon!-”

“Oh,Creator.. That’s-”

“-I’mpretty fucking sure, this baby is coming. Right. Now!”

Atthe height of her final word, a Wicked all bound up in bandages and with spittle stretching between its roaring, gnashing teeth, skidsinto the room. The snarling beast lunges at Death with it’s clammyhands curled into vicious talons meant for slashing, only to finditself promptly relieved of both appendages.

Confused,it grunts and stops to look down at the severed stumps where handsonce were, leaving Death the time to sweep harvester throughthe air and separate its head from its shoulders,watching it bounce down onto the floor and roll under the bed.

Nosooner does it bumble to a stop than three more of the foul ex-humanscome barrelling out of the darkness towards him.

Fromher place on the bed, the woman watches, bleary eyed, as thisstranger – this ’Death’ – cuts each of them down as soonas they’re within reach. Through her pain, she realises that he’sparked himself right in the doorway, stance wide so as not to let anyof the assailants get by. His movements are fluid, beautiful - in amacabre way - and precise. He doesn’t utter a single sound for all theeffort he’s putting into each strike.

Halfwaythrough crushing a Wicked’s skull under his boot, Death takes amoment to call over his shoulder, “Still breathing!?”

Inreply, she sucks in a couple of fast breaths, exhaling them again andtensing her abdomen, pushing hard and groaning loudly throughclenched teeth. “God! This is the worst day of my life!”

“Really?”The horseman has the audacity to sound sarcastically cheerful.“I’d’ve thought the worst day of your life was the day the worldended.” He drives Harvester into the chest of a stray Goreclawthat had followed the pack.

“G-goto -AH! Go to Hell!” she manages to snap.

“Funnyyou should mention – that’s the next stop on my list!”

Bodiesare beginning to pile up worryingly high in the doorway when thehorde finally trickles to a stop. Death pulls his scythe from ademon’s gut, lip curling at the resulting squelch and turns his earto the door, listening with rapt attention. In the distance,something approaches. Something much bigger than thesuffering.

Grumbling,he rolls his shoulders, cricks his neck with a loud ‘pop’ and stepsout into the hallway.

“W-wait!”

Surprised, Death pokes his head back into the room, catching theexhausted panic on her face. 

Fora fleeting moment, the reaper’s seldom seen tender nature claws andfights its way to the surface and his red-hot eyes soften somewhat.

“I’llbe right back,” he reassures the frightened young woman.

Herreply is lost as whatever he’d sensed approaching suddenly explodesout of the stairwell and the horseman’s features harden once more.Shooting her one last look, he pulls out of the room again and breaksinto a light jog, ready to meet the beast before it can come anycloser to her and the baby.

“Whereare you going!?” she calls, desperate. Regardlessof her unease, the idea of being alone at this crucial point fillsher with more dread than he does. “DEATH?”

Thetelltale, guttural roar of a stalker urges forth a new wave ofterror. During the end of days, she’d witnessed those things teartanks apart with their clawed hands and although Death had dealt withthe Wicked well enough, she doesn’t fancy his chances against the more relentless of demons.

Growls,grunts and the occasional squeal filter through to the room where sheclenches and pushes, incapable of putting nature on hold even for amoment. Her broken screams are drowned out by a heavy bellow thatrattles the bed-frame and adds to the agony of yet anothercontraction.

Allof a sudden, there’s an almighty screech, followed by the ’shing’ ofsharp metal and then…

…silence.

Itunsettles her. The quiet that had once been such a comfort suddenlyfeels threatening and sinister and sends her already hammering heartinto a frenzy. Tears run tracks through the dirt on her face whileshe can do nothing but sit and wait to see which creature emerges asthe victor.

Shenearly jumps out of her skin when Death abruptly looms out of thedark corridor and strides into the room, speckled with blood from headto toe.

“Jeezus!”she hisses, “I didn’t hear you coming!”

“Lighton my feet,” he shrugs, pulling a colossal fang out of his arm withnary a wince, turning it over once and then tossing it over hisshoulder, forgotten. Approaching the bed, he slows down upon notingthat the woman’s eyes dart down to the shotgun on the floor.

Hummingthoughtfully, Death crouches to pick it up, all too aware of the taut grip she has on the bed. After a tense few seconds, hetaps the barrel in his palm, then places it gently next to her hand.

Shestares – first at the gun and then at him, opening her mouth to saysomething.

Whatevershe’d wanted to say however, is cut off by a torturous spasm thatrips through her womb. Paying no mind to her actions, she shoots outa hand and wraps it like a vice around the closest point of comfort;the hand of the grim, pale Nephilim standing next to her.

Deathtenses when her tiny hand grasps three of his much largerfingers and clamps down with a grip so strong, even he has to marvelat the strength behind it.

Healmost – almost – snatches it away on impulse, but decides thatmaybe just this once, he can allow her some, small comfort.

“I’mscared!” she whimpers, and suddenly, the stoic horseman feelsexceptionally out of his depth. This is a young, human woman, meremoments away from bringing a baby into the world and in herdeliriousness, she’s seeking assuagement from a horseman of theapocalypse.

Thisis not the way he’d envisioned his day going.

Thefingers on his free hand twitch and tap on his thigh until hesitantly,he coughs and wracks his brain for something to say, privatelywishing that he’d been blessed with even a modicum of Azrael’sgenial nature.

Inthe end, he heaves out a great sigh and lowers himself to a kneebeside her bed. “It’s…alright,” he tries lamely, “You’ll befine. The worst is over.” The horseman’s mouth pulls down into a grimace at his meagre powers of consolation.

Shoutingout the human word for fornication – again – she knocksher head against the wall and turns a ferocious glare on him, eyesblazing hotter than a maker’s forge. “And what do!- you knowabout…nnng. Childbirth?”

‘Atleast I don’t have to tell her to push. She seems to have thatcovered,’ he muses.

“Nota lot,” he admits truthfully, “But I was already very old whenyour species had just discovered fire. I was there when you had youroffspring in caves, in the dark and the cold, surrounded by deadlybeasts not so unlike these ones. You humans are resilient.” Hestudies her hand for a moment before tentatively curling his fingers over it, returning the grip and engulfing most of her wrist as well. “If your ancestorscould do that, then so can you.”

“Yeah.But a lot of themdied in childbirth,” she whines, concentrating on the coldness ofhis palm.

“Hmm.Quite so. But I thought it best to focus on the positives. You shouldgive it a try. It’s a useful skill, especially in such laborioustimes.”

“Laborious?”she echoes, gasping for air, “Are you trying to be funny?”

Asmirk tugs at Death’s mouth. “Well, that depends. Do you feel likelaughing?”

Andin spite of her situation, the surrealism of the whole encounterproves to be just a tad too ridiculous for her to keep a straightface. Her laugh is fractured and brief, but it’s still a laugh.Death would call that a small victory.

Suddenly,her jaw snaps shut, the hand under his flinches and she digs herblunt nails into his pallid skin, a strangled noise emanating fromthe back of her throat as she gives one, last tremendous heave.

Andthen, there’s crying.

Deathslowly tears his eyes off her face when she flops her head back, panting furiously and finally releasing her grasp of his hand. Getting to his feet, the horseman cautiously rounds theside of the bed and peers down at the green blanket, upon whichwrithes a very tiny, very noisy human baby.

Eventhe Reaper’s sharp mind sputters to a grinding halt. Pulled bysome, primal force as ancient as life itself, he barely notices thathe’s reached down for the child until the mother lets out a soft gaspand tries to lean forwards. She’s eyeing him warily and her body goesrigid whilst he – as an afterthought – pulls the indigo shroudfrom around his neck and leans down, sliding the relatively cleanfabric under the baby and wrapping it up into a sloppy bundle.Frowning, he pauses to scrutinise his work. It’s shoddy, hedefinitely could have done a better job at swaddling,but it’ll do. Hecan feel the eyes of the woman burning holes into the side of hishead as he picks the baby up, perplexed to find that it’s small enoughto lay across the length of one, enormous palm.

Ahumbling serenity falls over the room as Death stares down at the newlife in his hand, watching it wriggle and squirm and clasp at the airwith fingers no longer than his thumbnail.

Heart pounding in her ears, the woman daren’t say a word, not while thehorseman still has a hold of her child. She waits with baited breath,eyes never once leaving the tiny lump wrapped in a deep, purplescarf.

Then,to Death’s fascination, the baby’s eyes slowly begin to prythemselves open. And, in a moment that could only be described as‘poetic,’ the eyes of one of the oldest beings in Creation meet thoseof the very youngest.

Heisn’t quite fast enough to stop the soft inhale, nor the stab ofwonder that prompts him to lean closer and peer down into the pair ofbright, baby blues. The infant continues to cry, but it’s quieter now,apparently equally as enraptured by the blazing, twin suns that loom overhead - like a tiny pool of water staring into the faceof a raging forest fire.

Evidently,in allowing himself to lean too close, the horseman has openedhimself up to an attack because without warning, the baby’s miniature fingers thrust upwards and find purchase around the ridge of his mask’shollow nose, pulling a surprised grunt from his lips.

Watchingthe display, the woman has to stifle a snicker at the horseman’sexpression and when he doesn’t make an aggressive move on her babyfor the ‘offence,’ she quietly clears her throat, dragging Death’sattention back onto her. “Well? Was I right?” she asks.

“Aboutwhat?” he grumbles, attempting to pry the baby off his mask usingthe index finger and thumb of his free hand.

“DoI have a son?” she whispers.

“Ah,it would appear mothers do know best.” Finally, the childreleases his mask, though Death’s triumphant grin is short-lived asit immediately transfers its grasp to the tip of his thumb. Defeated,he sighs. “Yes, its a boy – with a grip to rival his mother’s,I might add.”

“Oh!”she gasps, a fresh bout of tears trickling down her face and sheholds out her arms to them. “Please, give him to me?” If nothingelse, the horseman appreciates that she kept most of themistrust out of her tone. He looks down at the baby boy for anotherfew seconds before he decides he’s tortured her enough and slidesher son into her waiting hands, astounded that it doesn’t relinquish its hold of him. “Huh, guess he likes you,” she teases softly. 

Frozen in place, the horseman stares at the baby’s hand for a while before he shakes himself out of the trance and tugs his thumb out of its grip, stepping back to allow them amoment to themselves.

Leaningon the window sill next to a flickering candle, he quietly observesmother and son sharing their first moments of life together. It’s abittersweet instance, given that one of the most difficultchallenges of her life lies ahead.. ’What possessed her to bring a child intothis hell-scape?’ he wonders. Rather than voice that thought aloud though, he asks, “Have you been by yourself all this time?” 

“No,” she murmurs distractedly, cooing at her child. “There were others..”

“Where-?”

Her eyes snap up to squint at him suspiciously. “They’re gone,” she says carefully, “there were others but they’re gone now. Demons overran the camp.” Sighing sadly, she strokes her hand through the infant’s wispy strands of hair. “I managed to escape but I didn’t even have time to grab the things you’ll need. I’m sorry little guy…” 

“Things?” Death repeats. 

The woman nods, remorseful. “Yup. Bottles and milk powder, you know..” Hesitating, she frowns up at the horseman and murmurs, “I know what you’re thinking. Why did I get pregnant in an apocalypse?” 

“The thought had….crossed my mind,” he admits. 

“Well, I was already two months gone by the time everything went up shit’s creek.

“Oh.”

Letting out a quick huff, she tucks her baby close against her chest and runs her fingersover Death’s shroud, turning a questioning gaze onto him.

Grunting,he angles his head over his shoulder to peer out the window, sniffingnon-committally.

“What?I have plenty of them.”

“Oh,no! I – I wasn’t complaining!” she quickly shakes her head, tiredsmile and shining eyes smoothing her haggard face, “It’s actuallyvery kind…Thank you, Death.”

Blinking,he stiffens and raises an arm to scratch at the back of his neck and gestures to the green blanket below her. “I– Yes, well. Ahem. It was…softer than that ratty old thing.”

Hergrin widens and she exhales roughly, bumping her head againstthe wall and clinging tightly to her child.

Outof the corner of his eye, Death catches movement on the streetsbelow. Turning to face the window, he squints out of it into therain, cursing in Nephilim when he sees another horde – drawn by thesound of the baby’s cries – scrabbling through the rubble towardsthe building. Amongst them are several more formidable demons, someagiler than others – those are the ones that raise their heads tosniff the air, howling raggedly as they catch the woman’s scent. It’snot like she’s hard to miss. Even by Death’s standards, she reeksof sweat and blood – a tantalising main course for many creaturesin this city – and her baby; the appetiser.

Hehas a decision to make, and fast. On the one hand, killing theoncoming assailants? Easy, even at their numbers. But fighting while protecting a human woman and a human infant? Not so simple.

’Youdon’t have to stay and protect them,’ the vicious voice of reasonslithers into his mind, ’You’ve done enough. You’re not a hero.What about your brother?’

Helooks back at her. She has no idea what’s scaling the walls rightnow…

Belowthe insistence of his common sense, another voice pipes up, fightingto be heard. It’s small and faint, whispering to him urgently, ’They’lldie.’  

Deathhums. ’A lot of humans have died. Why are these two anydifferent?’

Hiskeen ears tell him the horde has reached the stairwell. ’You’renot a hero,’ the first voice repeats. Then, twice as softly, ’Butjust this once, you could be.’

Thewoman takes a hold of her son’s hand and gently waves it at Death.“Say hi!” she beams, sniffing as the baby continues to rove itscurious gaze around the room, oblivious to every bad thing in theworld, just as it should be.

Biting down on the inside of his lip, he feels his fingers twitch in response to the wave and admonishes himself for nearly waving back. Barely catching himself, he heaves out an embittered sigh and bows his head to look at the floor, eyes pinched shut. “….Dammit.”

At last, with a decisive nod, thehorseman pushes himself away from the window and begins to pace,earning an inquisitive glance from the woman. She asks him something,but he’s too busy speculating to respond.

Hecould take her somewhere safe.

Themaker’s realm comes to mind… at least until he finishes his quest.

It’sa shame Eideard had to go and get himself killed. The Old One wouldbe insufferably smug if he ever found out that Death’s resolvefaltered, even for a split second. But in this case, a split secondwas all it took.

“Weneed to go,” he says abruptly and stops at the foot of her bed,“Now.”

“What? God,give me a minute, would you?” she gripes, “I just -”

“Youdon’t have a minute. Neither of you…Look-” He points tothe window. “-Another horde is coming – bigger this time. Andthey will keep coming unless we move!”

Instinctively,she pulls her baby closer and gazes up at him, eyes wide andfrightened. “I – I don’t think I can walk! My legs-!” Sheweakly shifts them to the side of the bed, but he can see they’ll benear to useless for at least a few hours.

He mulls it over. “I’lljust have to carry you, then.”

Scoffing,she replies, “How are you going to carry me, and a baby andfight!?”

Thunderingfootsteps hurtle up the stairwell and the screeches of a veritablearmy of undead moan hungrily, fighting past one another to getthe first bite of fresh, human meat.

“….Ihave an idea,” Death mutters, brows knitted together and he taps afinger against the bedpost, “but you aren’t going to like it.”Even as he speaks, a familiar pulse of dark magic thuds deep in hischest and ripples outwards, extinguishing the candle and casting theroom in an eerie darkness.

Thewoman doesn’t seem to notice, she’s too fixated on curling her bodyaround the baby, who’s wails are starting up again. “Youknow what I’m gonna like even less? Getting ripped apart bythose…those things!!” she hisses urgently.

“Thendo me a favour.”

Justas she was starting to believe that things couldn’t possibly get anymore petrifying, the temperature in the room dips noticeablyand every exhale expels a white cloud of air.Lightening flashes in the sky outside and illuminates the horseman,who – as improbable as it seems – looks to be growing even bigger, his handselongated and inky black hair billowing all around his head. Struckby the supernatural tingle of what can only be described as ‘magic’,it’s all she can do to stammer out a feeble, “Whu-what?”

Underneathhis mask, Death’s grim visage twists into a ghastly smile before hisface disappears completely into the shadow of a tattered, indigo hood. “Trustme.”

The baby’s cries rise to a painful crescendo in response to his mother’s distress, somehow sensing the imminent danger on an instinctive level. Had he been a few years older, he might have recognised a monster for what it was. And she would teach him what they were - what they look and sound like. How monsters can lurk in the people you think you know and burst forth so abruptly, it can leave you reeling and wondering whether you simply imaged it after all. Her haunted eyes would glaze over and she’d stare into the distance as a memory overtakes her; of giant, skeletal hands and a rippling cloak. Of a void in the place where a head ought to be that stared down at her and a low, melancholy hiss flowing out of the blackness to ghost over her face. Then she would tell him, with a gentle frown creasing her world-weary eyes, that she used to think death the most monstrous thing of all. Until it - he - proved her wrong… 

Jaw hanging open impossibly wide, the woman can’t quite find the strength to scream, too spent from her labor, so she simply gapes at the creature that used to be Death. Funnily enough, this giant, hooded form is more reminiscent of the Grim Reaper depictions she’d grown up with. It’s hunched over uncomfortably, too large to fit in the comparatively small room, and its hood tilts to regard the shivering woman and the baby when, without warning, it begins stretching one of its gargantuan hands towards them, hissing softly. 

 All of a sudden, a roar sounds from just outside and ‘Death’s’ head whirls over his shoulder to look. A phantom guard is clawing it’s way through the tight doorframe, staggering over the bodies of fallen Suffering and brandishing a pointed, bloody axe, spittle flying from it’s maw. 

Deciding that they’ve officially run out of time for a more gentle approach, Death’s Reaper form hurriedly reaches for the woman again, his skeletal wings flaring out wide enough to hold the demon back. She shrieks when she sees that hand coming for her again, but selflessly throws her aching body around the baby in her arms all the same.

Not a second later, she feels long, cold fingers slide under her hips with surprising care and scoop both her and her baby up off the bed. Clinging desperately to her child, she’s tucked against a bony chest and the Reaper’s other hand moves to cover her head as he whirls to face the window and hurls himself at it. In an explosion of rubble, concrete and demons, he crashes through the wall, shielding his passengers’ heads from falling debris. 

With a mighty beat of his wings, the Reaper propels himself up, straight through the air in a graceful arc and lands on the roof of another building further down the street. Sparing the hotel one last glance, he glides over to another roof, and another and another, gradually making his way across the city, head swivelling this way and that in search of the woman’s camp. 

From between those skeletal fingers - each as long as her arm - she watches the broken city zip by. The howling wind blows rain through the gaps, pelting her face with fat little droplets of cold water, a surprisingly welcome respite after the burning heat she’d suffered during labor. As the rain drops off her chin, it washes her free of a week’s worth of sweat and dust. Momentarily casting her fear aside, she transfers her newborn to one arm and reaches up with the other, slipping it out through the space above the Reaper’s thumb, stretching her fingers to the sky and closing her bruised eyelids, reinvigorated by the torrent of fresh water rolling down underneath the cuffs of her cardigan. 

Above the din of rain and wind, there comes a low moan, like that of some enormous, ancient tree swaying precariously in a gale. She jumps, emitting a startled yelp as she finds her arm carefully pushed back through the hole by a gentle finger. Once he’s sure she’s no longer exposed to the rain, the Reaper presses his hands together more firmly, closing the gaps and pressing down on the woman’s back until she’s nearly bent double over the baby in her arms, drier but more uncomfortable. Frowning, she huffs, having rather enjoyed the refreshing shower. It felt like a godsend after childbirth. 

There’s no time to be upset however, because the hooded beast suddenly drifts to a smooth halt on top of a ransacked supermarket. Scattered all over the roof are the remnants of green, military grade tents and other inflatable shelters. Barbed wire stretches around the perimeter and several campfires put up thin clouds of smoke, as though they’d only recently been doused by the rain. Death’s head swivels over the area, surveying it for any signs of life even though he can be sure he won’t find any. There are claw marks in the concrete, shells and bullet casings litter the floor and blood covers almost every inch of the site.  There was no mistaking it. This was Hunter’s camp. Death just wonders if it’s her camp too. 

Only when the woman begins to wriggle impatiently in his grasp and he’s sure that there’s no immediate danger does he bend down to unfurl his hands, giving off a series of eerie clicks as he huddles over in such a way that shelters them from the elements. Mindful of her fragility, Death slides the woman off his palm.

No sooner had her feet touched the ground than she staggers backwards away from the Reaper, clutching her crying son to her chest and raking her eyes all over his shroud, no doubt seeking some semblance of a face. 

Unfortunately, she must have overestimated her mobility because her legs begin to wobble dangerously when the enormous hands move to steady her and she tries to dash back, only for her knees to give out from under her, sending her tumbling to the floor, gasping at the jarring impact. 

Thanks to his mother’s stumble, the baby starts to cry with renewed vigour. Quivering with fright, she hushes him, never tearing her round eyes off the horseman’s monstrous reaper form. To her amazement though, it ventures closer and its head bows until it’s looming a mere foot from her face, so close that if she reached out, she could brush her fingers over the frayed edge of its hood. 

In what he hopes is a soothing manner, the Reaper hisses softly. Though judging by the way the human twists her torso around to put some distance between him and the baby tells him it didn’t work. 

‘They’re afraid,’ his rational counterpart breaks through the Reaper’s primal thoughts and prods at the edge of his mind, reminding him that he’d need to turn back soon. Wrath is not an infinite source of power. But to his surprise, the Reaper’s primitive aspect beats back against the intrusion, placing up a thick wall to stop the transformation sequence from kicking in. He can hold out a little longer. All he is is Death, just… amplified. His strength, his size and speed, even his instincts are stronger in this form than they are in the other. And for whatever, ridiculously sentimental reason, the two humans below him are sending those instincts into protective overdrive. 

Perhaps it stems from being the eldest brother - forced to take on the mantle of guardian to three, rambunctious siblings was bound to alter his frosty nature, to a degree. 

Before she can slip away across the ground any further, Death reaches out and plucks her up by the back of her cardigan, setting her on her feet again and holding on until he’s sure she has her footing. She gazes at him, confusion evident in the squint of her eyes and the way she mouths a few, silent words he can’t make out. Eventually, the Reaper releases her and drifts back a few feet, head tipped to the side once more as he brings his hands up to his chest, scratching at the back of a wrist with one, clawed nail. The woman could honestly blanch at the unnerving ‘humanness’ behind the gesture. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he looked…..anxious. 

The thought puts her mind at ease somewhat, rationalising that if he was going to hurt them, he would have by now. 

“Well..I suppose I should thank you,” she says, hoisting the baby higher in her arms, “You saved my life back there.. Both of our lives.” She waits with bated breath for a response. When she doesn’t receive one right away, she coughs, adding timidly, “Thank you, Death.” 

Remaining perfectly silent, the hooded giant considers her for a moment before dipping his head in a slow, careful nod. 

The woman beams, feeling as though their meeting had come to as good a conclusion as is possible, given the circumstances, so she turns her back to him and starts scanning the rooftop for supplies. Most pressingly, dry clothes…

On a whim, she glances over her shoulder and has to stifle a yelp. He’s still floating there, bobbing gently up and down in place like a big, terrifying ghost, his head cocked to the side as though curious as to what she’s doing. “Uh…” Nervous, she licks her lips and gulps audibly, wincing when he seems to perk up at her voice. “I’m gonna grab some supplies and…we’ll be on our way. Seriously, thanks for everything.” She means it as well, without Death…She dreads to think what might’ve happened. For his part, the horseman swings his head around to gaze out over the city and a resonant hum slips from his hood. It looks like he’s about to make a move. 

Honestly, she was so sure that Death to be gone by the time she turned around again, so she imagined it was safe enough to place her baby down in an empty cardboard box, folding the lid over to protect him from the rain and then moving away to shuffle her torso beneath a fallen tent in an attempt at retrieving something from under the fabric. “Aha!” she exclaims, grabbing up some discarded tubs of baby powder she was sure she’d dropped there when the demons attacked. In a much lighter mood, she backs out from under the tent and gets to her unsteady feet, grunting with the effort. “Alright little man,” she calls, turning around, “Time for-”

The tub slips from her grasp in the wake of a sharp inhale. 

Looming over the cardboard box, the enormous Reaper form peers down at her baby, one of his boney fingers nudging the lid up. Her breath catches in her throat and her body goes rigid, eyes wide as saucers while Death slides a hand into the box and scoops up the baby he helped deliver. He holds her son - still wrapped in the shroud - close to his face. A cold gust of air washes out over the baby and his blue eyes squint up into the horseman’s hood, kicking out with this legs. 

And then, to the astonishment of both his mother and the Reaper, his tiny little mouth twists and struggles into a lopsided smile. It’s clumsy but it’s there, and Death’s head draws back before he turns to look at the woman, finding her standing slack-jawed and staring, incapable of speech. 

Death simple stares right back, his mind busy. Finally, releasing another gentle hiss, he carefully places the baby back in the box, even lifting the lid to cover him once more and the mother almost collapses to her knees, weak with relief. 

Suddenly, in a flash of blinding, purple light, the giant reaper disappears and immediately, the air around them begins to feel a lot less chilly. Blinking hard to readjust her vision, the woman’s shoulders slump to find Death - the original Death - standing in the place of his monstrous form. Voice shaking, she unglues her tongue from the roof of her mouth and mutters, “Neat trick.” 

“Did I scare you?” It’s strange, scaring humans shouldn’t bother him. Never had. So then, why was his voice so soft? 

“Uh. Yeah, to be honest. You kind of did.” 

Death looks up at her, his burning eyes subdued and tinged with melancholy. “Mm. I apologise.” 

“It’s fine.” She’s edging closer to the box on the ground. He notices and steps away from it, prompting her to dash forward and pick her baby up, cooing softly when he begins to cry. 

For the first time in a long time, Death finds himself…hesitant. Distractedly, he looks around for Dust, spotting the crow in the distance, circling the city hall that houses the portal to Lost Light. Heaving out a rumbling sigh, the horseman’s face sets and he looks down at the mother and child, eyebrows furrowing deeply in perplexed acquiescence. 

He made up his mind. The boy and she were fighters. If he left them here on Earth, after what he’d saved them from, he’d be the biggest hypocrite this side of Heaven, and Creator only knows Azrael would have a coronary if he learned Death left them here to die when he could have done something.   

‘Fine,’ he relents quietly to himself, like he needed the convincing, ‘I’ll take them.’ 

The trickiest part? Getting her to go willingly. 

[aliciameade]

Baby - Ch. 5

Title: Baby Author: aliciameade Rating: *** M *** Pairing: Stephanie Smothers/Emily Nelson Summary:  That tearful kiss shared between Stephanie and Emily wasn't their first—and it certainly wasn't their last.

(Chapter 1)

Also on AO3.

Stephanie knows she’s in over her head.

She knows it the minute she picks up the phone to call Miles’s grandmother to tell her Miles wants to spend the weekend with her when he has done no such thing. But that doesn’t make her a bad mother! Miles loves his grandmother. He doesn’t get to see her that often being as she lives a few hours away in Boston and she’s more than thrilled to have him visit. So is he.

(She knew she was in over her head the very first day Emily invited her into her home.)

She drives him up to Boston Friday after school—she notably did not see Emily at school—and they have dinner together before she returns to Warfield.

The entirety of her Friday evening is spent pampering herself with as many creams and lotions as she can find in her cabinets. She has a glass of red wine while she soaks in the bath. She exfoliates. She shaves. She moisturizes. She puts fresh linens on her bed and allows herself the luxury of sleeping nude knowing her son isn’t going to burst into her room in the middle of the night needing a hug after a bad dream.

She sleeps in. It’s well past 9:00 am when she finally glances at the clock and then she rolls over and lets herself sleep until 10:00 am.

She cooks breakfast for herself, eggs and bacon and fresh fruit all from the farmer’s market. She tidies up around the house. Makes sure her bed is made. Opens the windows to let the crisp fall breeze air out the place. She showers. Shaves. Moisturizes.

She spends an inordinate amount of time deciding which new lacy thong she should wear and ultimately decides to forego one altogether.

The one she stripped from Emily and kept lays in the drawer amongst her own. It’s inconspicuous; no one would know it doesn’t belong to Stephanie.

But she knows.

She does put on the new black lace bra she purchased specifically for today, though.

She hopes Emily likes it.

Her makeup is light but she has a little fun with her hair, parting it on the side instead of the middle; she doesn’t want to seem as though she’s trying too hard. This is just another Saturday. Laundry day. And she always wears coral-hued dresses that stop at mid-thigh when she’s home alone doing laundry.

When she closes the washing machine lid, she has to lean against it for a moment to slow her pulse. Just being in the laundry room arouses her now.

Once it’s past noon, she decides to make herself a real martini. She’d bought a set of high-end cocktail glasses a few days ago. She keeps them in the freezer next to the bottle of Aviation Gin she bought the same day. Vermouth. Gin. A nice big twist of lemon. She sits on the couch with her feet up as she sips it.

She puts on the playlist she’s spent a few days curating to play through the surround sound system. It’s mostly quiet jazz with as many 60s-sounding French songs as she could find online that reminded her of Emily’s house. She reads the newspaper, an actual, physical copy of the newspaper. It’s yesterday’s; she’d picked it up from Davis’s mother’s house, but she doesn’t mind.

She’s on her way back to the kitchen, mind pleasantly warm, to make a second martini when a shadow outside stops her in her tracks.

It passes the curtained window and comes to a stop in front of her door.

Stephanie holds her breath but nothing happens. No knock, no doorbell. The figure just stands there perfectly still.

It’s enough to make Stephanie shiver. She knows who it is. She has a feeling Emily saw her shadow, too, and is deliberately waiting.

So she sets her glass on the counter. Fluffs her hair. Spritzes a tiny bit of Dennis Nylon’s fragrance, Chastity, down her cleavage.

And she opens the door.

She prides herself in not falling flat on her face as she nearly did the last time Emily showed up at her front door. She’d had time to mentally prepare for today and she thinks she keeps her cool, though she doesn’t try to hide the way she can’t seem to get her eyes to move from Emily’s very bare chest.

Emily’s outdone herself this time. Truly. Her black slacks sit high on her waist and the white blazer she wears conceals her breasts—and that’s it. There is no shirt, no vest, at least not that Stephanie can see, between her body and her coat. It’s skin from her neck to her abdomen where the jacket’s single button closes it. Skin that still has the fading marks Stephanie made with her mouth a few days ago.

She finally manages to look up and feels the need to exhale. Emily is stunning as always. Picture perfect. Emily lifts her head, then, too, and Stephanie can feel her eyes rake over her until they’re staring at her from beneath the brim of a black fedora.

“You look beautiful.”

Stephanie has to blink a few times. That’s what she’d been about to say but Emily said it first. “So do you. Um, come in?” she says as she steps aside to let Emily pass.

She removes her hat once she’s inside and places it on the counter next to Stephanie’s empty glass. “Martinis already?” she says as she picks up the glass and twirls it. “Make me one?” It’s not a question so much as a demand.

“Of course, yeah,” Stephanie says as she closes and locks the front door. She has to approach Emily to retrieve her glass. It feels like gravity pulling her across the room until she’s in front of her to reach for the glass.

Only Emily holds it out of reach.

Stephanie’s about to protest when she feels Emily’s other hand land on her lower back to pull her in until Emily’s leaning down to kiss her.

She hears herself whimper the moment their lips touch and while she maybe should be ashamed by how obvious her desire is, she decides not to care. Emily is the one who’s come to her. The one who invites her in. Invites herself over. Kisses first.

The kiss is slow and Stephanie loops her arms around Emily’s neck. She feels Emily’s free arm wrap around her waist to pull her closer and Emily sighs when Stephanie glides her tongue through her mouth.

“How ‘bout that drink?” Emily says with a smile when they part.

“Yeah, just…” Stephanie says before pulling Emily down to kiss her again, still soft and slow, until she can convince herself to step away from Emily.

She leaves the glass with Emily, remembering she has three more in the freezer and feels Emily’s eyes on her as she places two on the counter to make the drinks.

“I taught you well,” Emily says with a smile as Stephanie tosses out the splashes of vermouth into the sink and pours the frozen gin.

“I like to think I’ve taught you a thing or two, too,” Stephanie says as she finishes with the twist and carries the drinks back to where Emily is waiting.

Emily takes up one of the drinks and gives it a little swirl. “And what have you taught me?”

“How to make a lonely, single mom come harder than any man ever could.” Stephanie taps her glass to Emily’s without waiting for a response. “Cheers.”

Emily’s drink remains untouched as she stares at Stephanie. It feels like an eternity before she sniffs a little in laughter and takes a drink. “You didn’t teach me that, baby.”

“Well, I’m not as smooth with words as you are and it’s the only sexy thing I could come up with on the spot,” Stephanie says with a wave of her hand as she takes another drink.

“You don’t have to try to be sexy, you know.” Emily won’t stop looking at her and it’s almost uncomfortable. “Is that true?” Emily says after another moment.

“Mm. Very.” Stephanie takes another sip, then laces her fingers with Emily’s to lead her through the house.

“Where are we going?”

“You said you wanted to see my bedroom.”

Stephanie expects to be flooded with memories every time she steps into her laundry room. She did not expect to be flooded with desire and anticipation the moment she stepped into her bedroom hand-in-hand with Emily. It makes her stop short and she hears Emily do the same a beat later. She doesn’t know what to say so she says nothing at all, not until she feels Emily’s lips on the bare skin of her left shoulder.

“So...this is it.”

She hears Emily chuckle in her ear before a tongue traces its edge. “This is cute,” Emily says as she breaks away and starts surveying the room as she did the kitchen last weekend. “Like you,” she adds with a wink that makes Stephanie hide her blush behind another sip. “Let’s see...the second drawer of your dresser.” She watches Emily stop in front of the piece of furniture and glance over her shoulder. “This dresser?”

She nods; she’s opened that drawer at least a dozen times to look at it, to remember what it felt like to have Emily inside her that way. She’d been tempted to use it on herself but she’s managed to wait, knowing Saturday—today—was only days away.

“This drawer?” Emily says unnecessarily as she pulls the drawer open. “Oh, my little Stephanie…” she says what seems to be to herself. “You do like to feel sexy.” She turns halfway with a handful of Stephanie’s new lingerie dangling from her fingers.

Stephanie half-expects her to just pocket them all but she drops them back into the drawer and reaches again. This time she closes it and returns, martini in her right hand, harness and toy in the left.

Stephanie finishes her drink and sets her glass on the vanity. She knows she’s staring at it too long by the way Emily shakes it to get her attention and she smiles shyly when she meets Emily’s gaze.

Emily finishes her drink, too, as she tosses the items onto the bed. She places her glass on the vanity with Stephanie’s and suddenly she’s close enough for Stephanie to reach out and touch again, but she refrains.

“House is pretty quiet. I like the music, though. You’re not going to Single White Female me, are you?”

“What? No!” Stephanie wishes could change the music but she’s left her phone in the living room. “I just like it, I would never -”

“Steph, chill,” Emily says with a laugh. “I’m kidding.”

Stephanie takes a breath. “Funny.”

“Is Miles here?” she asks as she steps out of her heels. She still towers over Stephanie by several inches but it’s not as severe now.

“Spending the weekend with his grandmother.”

“Oh?”

Stephanie fidgets for a second until she finds her resolve. “I want you to spend the night. And I don’t want us to worry about waking up our kids.”

“You think I want to spend the night?” Emily asks.

Stephanie can see try she’s trying to be cold, but her eyes haven’t left Stephanie’s cleavage since she put down her glass so Stephanie reaches for her hand. She guides it under her dress, between her legs, higher and higher until she’s pressing Emily’s fingers against her body. The way Emily’s eyes darken betray any attempts at rebuffing Stephanie’s boldness.

“I know you do,” Stephanie breathes as she controls how and where Emily’s fingers touch. “And I want to hear you moan my name.”

She feels Emily come alive at that. Fingers slip into her and an arm wraps around her waist. “No underwear?”

“Didn’t want to slow you down,” Stephanie says, voice a little weak as Emily starts fucking her, right there standing in the middle of her bedroom.

“You’re so wet already.” Emily takes a step forward and it forces Stephanie to take a step back. Closer to the bed.

“Have been since I woke up knowing I’d see you today.” Stephanie keeps stepping backward until she feels the bed behind her.

“You want me that bad, baby?” Emily says with a smirk down at her. She feels fingers playing with the zipper on the back of her dress.

“I’ve never wanted anyone more.” She gasps as Emily’s fingers curl inside her. She thinks she might come, still dressed, still standing, if Emily keeps doing that. She reaches for the button on Emily’s blazer and unbuttons it. Stephanie’s hands move right to her bare breasts, covering them both, then leaning in to capture one in her mouth. She hears Emily’s breathing change and it spurs her on. She unbuttons her pants with her free hand, nipple between her teeth as she shoves them off Emily’s hips to the floor. Her hand roams over the cool flesh of her ass to her waist where she grabs the thong to pull it down one-handed as far as she can reach.

She has Emily undressed in less than a minute.

“Put it on,” she says after letting the nipple slip from her teeth.

“Bossy,” Emily says as she shucks her blazer and kicks her pants aside. She reclaims her hand, then, and Stephanie holds back the groan of loss as she watches Emily suck her off her fingers and strip off her thong before she reaches for the harness to step into it. She slips the toy into place next. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Stephanie dumbly asks before thinking. Then she moves. She turns and climbs onto her bed on her hands and knees and waits there.

She feels Emily following her. “Oh, really?” Hands land on her hips and she has to drop her head; she feels dizzy. “My innocent little Steph isn’t so innocent.”

“You can’t be surprised,” Stephanie manages to tease. “Not after everything.”

“I’m not.” Those hands flip her skirt up and then they’re on her ass, petting her, taking turns slipping between her legs and through all the wetness there, over and over until she’s ready to beg.

But she doesn’t have to.

She feels Emily pressing into her. Slowly. Steady. Completely.

That’s when she finally lets herself moan for the first time. It’s loud and she doesn’t care. She widens her stance a little and presses back, trying to take her even deeper.

“Oh, you sound good, baby,” Emily says and she sounds good, too. Her voice is like velvet and her hands feel like it, too, as they glide over Stephanie’s skin.

She’d intentionally kept her dress on; she wanted to feel like a naughty mistress being taken hard and fast. The only thing, though, is that while Emily is taking her, she’s not taking her hard, nor fast, and all Stephanie wants is to feel her hands on every inch of her body and too much of it is covered.

“Take my dress off,” she breathes before Emily’s even pulled back to thrust in the first true time.

“Little late for that,” Emily replies, though Stephanie feels hands on the zipper again, this time drawing it down all the way. The dress gets pushed up, next, and Stephanie grabs it with one hand to pull it over her head and toss it to the floor.

Emily’s hands feel like they’re petting her as they stroke down her back, between her shoulder blades, once, twice, a third time until they come to rest on her hips. She’s slow. She’s so agonizingly slow every time she pulls back and presses forward that it makes Stephanie groan in frustration as much as it makes her moan in pleasure.

“Faster,” she says through a moan.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so.”

The reply is almost infuriating and Stephanie lifts her head to look over her shoulder. Emily’s smiling at her, as serene as could be while she fucks Stephanie slowly. “Why not?”

“You said I make you come harder than anyone. Don’t question my methods.” Emily says it with a wink and such a genuine smile that it makes Stephanie groan again and give in to however Emily wants to take her. She grabs a pillow and lowers herself to her elbows to rest her head and close her eyes.

Emily’s pace is so steady that it’s maddening. Stephanie thinks she could truly be driven insane with the need for release that she is nowhere near achieving. Every thrust feels like the first, never picking up speed or pushing harder. Giving her a taste but never the meal.

She groans in frustration and tries to speed things up herself, rocking back and forth quickly, only for Emily to tsk at her and move with her instead of against her to negate her efforts.

“Emily…” she says with a whine into the pillow.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“You’re killing me.”

She hears Emily chuckle. “No, I’m fucking you.”

Stephanie flips her middle finger at her. “And killing me. Just—just—”

“Just what?”

“Go faster. Please?”

“Since you asked me nicely…”

She groans when she feels Emily finally, finally begin to speed up. She almost bites the pillow to muffle it but remembers she doesn’t have to. Instead, she lets the sounds spill from her lips freely hoping they spur Emily on, begging without words.

And then she feels Emily pull out.

“No, why -” A hand to her back keeps her in place when she tries to sit up in protest.

“I said don’t question my methods.”

Emily’s slipping back into her a moment later, this time feeling cool and extra slick and the recognition of what it is, that Emily stopped to supplement Stephanie’s own arousal, makes Stephanie reach a hand out to brace against the headboard.

She holds her breath.

And Emily pulls back and thrusts into her.

Again.

And again.

Faster and harder until Stephanie can’t do anything but moan and try to keep her soul from leaving her body.

It does, though. It leaves her the second Emily grinds her fingertips into Stephanie’s clit.

She can’t breathe and she thinks she might die as every muscle in her body tenses. Coils. Prepares.

“You’re so beautiful when come, baby,” Emily pants behind her. “Come for me.”

She does.

Her eyes tear and the fire that’s been burning for so long engulfs her. She can hear herself; she would be embarrassed by it if she didn’t know how much Emily liked hearing her. She feels the tickle of hair brushing her arms, lips on her neck, breasts against her back as Emily holds her, buried deep, fingers still but pressing firmly, as she comes.

“Oh, my God,” she says with a sob when she finally can.

Emily’s still kissing her—her neck, her shoulders, her back. Fingernails trace her skin leaving goosebumps in their wake across her back. “Should I stop?”

“No,” she whines but gasps when Emily starts thrusting again. “Yes, I mean. I can’t...stop. But...don’t.” She knows she’s not making sense but Emily stops and she feels her slip from her body. That’s when Stephanie’s body finally gives out and she falls flat to the bed.

She feels Emily move with her, still over her body but the harness is gone and Stephanie revels in the sensation of every curve fitting over her own so perfectly. She hums as Emily’s hands trace down her arms to pull them out from under the pillow and intertwine with Stephanie’s.

They’re both still, then. Stephanie gathering herself. Emily lying over her, holding her hands, until Emily breaks the silence. “Turn over,” she whispers into Stephanie’s ear as she moves onto her hands and knees to give Stephanie the space to do so.

Her limbs are slow to listen but she gets herself turned onto her back and opens her eyes.

She’s grateful she’s lying down when she does because seeing Emily, disheveled hair, face flushed, and smiling at her would be enough to make her knees weak. Instead of collapsing, she can smile back.

“You don’t want me to stop?” Emily says, still smiling as she settles over Stephanie again, this time lying next to her with a leg thrown casually over one of Stephanie’s. She uses it to pull a little and spread her legs.

“Like I could ever tell you ‘no’?”

Stephanie thinks that response is a little too daring, too honest. If Emily considers it as such, she doesn’t make it known. Instead, she brings their lips together and Stephanie feels her fingers tracing lines down her chest, circling the nipples prominent under the thin lace of her bra, down her stomach until they’re framing her clit. They close against it and pull gently and it makes Stephanie’s hips lift and she forgets how to breathe.

Emily’s kiss disappears just when Stephanie’s growing desperate for air. It disappears because Emily’s mouth is on her neck and making its way lower until it’s sucking on her nipple, through the bra that might as well not exist for how good it feels. It moves lower still, to her stomach, and Stephanie parts her legs and watches Emily settle between them. They hold each other’s gaze as Emily’s tongue draws through Stephanie’s wetness.

She groans at the sight and the sensation and she can see the effect it has on Emily. Her eyelashes flutter and her lips close over swollen, sensitive flesh to gently suck and Stephanie’s head falls back.

She doesn’t even try to reach down and grab Emily’s hair.

She doesn’t have the strength after what she just went through.

Instead, she feels. And she listens to her own moans. To Emily’s that come in response. To the indecent wet sounds of Emily’s mouth on her working her up again, coaxing her toward another orgasm that Stephanie so desperately wants to give her.

At the sensation of Emily’s tongue sliding into her, she finds release again. The moans she hears aren’t hers and it thrills her to know how much Emily enjoys this. How much she must like how it feels as Stephanie clenches around her tongue. Pulls it in. Comes on it.

She squeezes it again, purposefully this time, once it’s passed when she senses Emily about to pull back.

The groan of satisfaction that follows confirms her guess and she relaxes. She feels Emily not stopping, though not really working to start anything new. She’s lapping at her. Teasing a little. She feels her cheek rest on her thigh as her tongue continues to play with her, and Stephanie thinks she could fall asleep from how relaxing it is.

Except it’s the exact opposite of relaxing.

Emily Nelson licking her is anything but relaxing.

She sits up a little to watch it again, how she’s in no hurry, has no apparent plan or pattern or intent to move things along. How content she is to be there, making Stephanie feel good. Apparently oblivious that she’s even being watched, so Stephanie bounces her hips a little.

“Excuse you, I’m busy,” Emily says with a glance before going back to her task.

“It’s my turn.”

“I’m giving you your turn.” Emily’s particularly firm with her tongue and Stephanie’s too sensitive for it; it makes her hiss and she reaches to push her away but ends up grabbing her hair and pulling her away. “Oh. I see.”

It takes a second for her to realize what she’s done. How she’s pulled Emily’s hair, how she still is, holding it tightly so she can’t move. It’s a rush of sexual power just like the moment Emily had submitted to her and her belt.

She gives her a little shake. “I said, it’s my turn.”

She watches Emily’s jaw drop at her tone and then it snaps shut. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I’m open to suggestions.” She smiles at Emily and releases her and they both sit up. Stephanie finally sheds her bra as they seem to size one another up, though Stephanie knows she has been given the upper hand now. “I might not grant your request, but I may consider it. What do you want?”

“I want…” Emily’s eyes flit about the room as though she’s looking for something, but they land on Stephanie and they seem softer. “I want you.”

Stephanie smiles at her and sits up on her knees like Emily is to bring them eye to eye. She frames her face gently, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I’m right here.”

“I don’t want you to fuck me.”

The answer takes her aback a little and she hopes it doesn’t show. As much as she wanted Emily to fuck her senseless tonight, she’d wanted to do the same. “That’s okay, we don’t have to do -”

“No,” Emily interrupts. She takes Stephanie’s hand, the one not touching her face, and starts guiding it between her legs. She’s so wet it takes Stephanie’s breath away. “I don’t want you to fuck me. I want you...to make love to me. Like last time.”

If she hadn’t just forgotten how to breathe, that would have done it for her. She knows she’s in over her head and Emily isn’t making it any easier.

She nods and leans in to kiss Emily gently. She’s soft with her touch, too, when Emily’s hand falls away to allow Stephanie to continue on her own. She focuses more on the kiss than anything, slow and deep and she feels Emily sigh into it.

She’s slow with her fingers, too. They caress and tease and Emily’s so wet she uses three fingers instead of two and Emily’s hands slide through her hair to hold her there, or hold on, as they kiss. As Stephanie touches her slowly.

She doesn’t know Emily’s even close until she’s gasping against her lips and shuddering in her arms.

“Oh, Em,” she whispers as she holds her until she’s still. The moment is dangerous. The silence between them is dangerous and begs to be filled with dangerous words of affection and Stephanie kisses her to prevent that.

Emily shakes her head and starts kissing her back harder. More passionately. More deeply until Emily’s pulling Stephanie down to lay with her.

She feels Emily’s hands roaming her body, grabbing and scratching and it feels needy. It makes Stephanie feel possessed. It makes her hips rock against the lithe body beneath her and she feels Emily’s lift in response. There’s a moan against her lips and it makes Stephanie rock into her more quickly and suddenly they’re on a track again.

That is until Emily catches her hips with her hands and stops her.

“What? What’s wrong?” Stephanie asks, already breathless.

Emily shakes her head and brings her down with a hand to her neck to kiss her again, hard and deep. She feels Emily’s other hand leave her hip and she can tell she’s moving, reaching without looking, and when their kiss breaks, Emily’s smirking at her.

“Now what?” Stephanie says, body on full high alert.

The ting of metal and hush of leather get her attention and she looks to her right to see the harness in Emily’s hand.

“Oh.”

“You still think you can fuck me better than Sean?”

Stephanie feels her heart stop. “I mean…”

“Show me.”

Chapter 6

[tellywoodtrash]

ishqbaaz 13.02.18 lb

aaj mauka bhi hai, dastoor bhi hai, mood bhi hai, aur episode ka title bhi encouraging lag raha hai, toh here goes!

(chorni @rihanahere ko meri special waali hello. the hex of the day is that i hope that your favorite shoes are ruined! rot in peace, loser! mwah! 😚😚😚)

shivaay’s celebrating being back in his bedroom by doing his faaaaaaaavt thing.... 😏😏😏

no, not sexing up his wife. spending an inordinate amount of effort on his hair. 😐😐😐

this poor bedroom though. it’s never seen any sex in it. how many girls have come and gone; mallika was in his bed one night, tia used to regularly come hang out and give him massages, and now he’s been married for 18+ months; par majaaaal hai ki this man uses his bedroom for what it’s supposed to be used for. 😔😔😔😔😔

LMAO SHE JUST CAME AND FUCKING SHOVED HIM OUTTA THE WAY AND WAS LIKE “THIS MY BRUSH, BITCH” AND SNATCHED IT AWAY. oh man, how the mighty have fallen. 😂😂😂

oh snappppppppp, baalon ko insult. mehenga padega. 😬😬😬

yup. baagad billa is back to his old ways.

UGH LITERALLY ALL ANYONE WANTS FROM YOU TWO IS TO SEX. JUST DO IT OR GTFO MY SCREEN. 😤😤😤

ok fuck me, this smile got to me. fuckkkkk. i hate myself for still occassionally swooning for this garbage man. 😭😭😭

oh ho, kasme-vaade of “kabhiiiiii doooor nahi jayenge” are being given. should be fun when he decides fuck all that!!!! and fucking shoots her in the chest! 🙃🙃🙃

FUCKING YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS GET TO IT KIDS 🙌🏽🙌🏽🙌🏽🙌🏽 *BOW CHICKA WOW WOW*

OMFG DADI FUCK YOU WHY AREN’T YOU FUCKING DEAD YET?!?!?!!?!? JUST LET THEM FUCK IN PEACE, LORD. 😡😡😡

lel, anika and her lame excuses. girl, just tell her that yeah you were about to make out with the hubs and could she piss off, please and thanks. 🙄🙄🙄

how many bloody khaandaani haars do these ppl have? ugh, rich ppl.

one: allllll of this jewelry is fug as hell and so not anika’s style. she’s gonna shove it in the back of a wardrobe the second she gets a chance. 🙄🙄🙄 two: don’t be playing sexy hawaa sounds and o jaana and all. i wanna see them make out against the wardrobe. don’t try to placate me with this pg 13 garbage. 😤😤😤

ok won’t deny, heart went little bit awwww at his soft and adoring stare (fuck my stupid heart. it’ll never learn. 😪😪😪)

also lol, body double alert! the one hugging dadi isn’t surbhi, whoever that is, has straight hair, while surbhi has curls in the scene. and whoever surbhi’s hugging has a ratchet-ass dadi wig on.

LMAO YUP, ANIKA GOT RID OF ALLLLLLL THE KHAANDAANI CRAP AND PUT ON HER FASHION STREET KE 100 RS WAALE JHUMKE AND CHOODIYAAN THE SECOND DADI TURNED HER BACK. 😆😆😆

wait, tia’s still pretending to be blind? how the f did she get the tapes to shivaay if she’s still keeping up this schtick? 🤔🤔🤔

also, someone please give navina more clothes? i feel like i’ve seen this skirt 3 times already in the last month. 😑😑😑

tia be barsaoing duas on her otp. oh tia baby. mat jao. the moment your back is turned he’s gonna try and kill her. (again.) 😫😫😫

at least take my girl with ya! 😣😣😣

LOL THIS NONSENSE BATWAARA WAALA LINE IS STILL HERE 😂😂😂

ok shivaay, there’s 10 million OTHER things that you’re ACTUALLY guilty of. how about you take accountability of those, instead of taking on random shit that you have nothing to do with. when i say it’s all or nothing with this man, it’s truly ALLL OR NOTHING. lord. 🙄🙄🙄

jfc, jhanvi. hadh hoti hai irritating hone ki. i liked you better when you were an alcoholic who didn’t give a fuck. 😒😒😒

i’m not really a fan of pinky when she gets all shouty like this, but mummeh be dropping 100% truth bombs today. 😌😌😌

lol shivaay be like FUCK THIS NOISE, I’M OUT!!!!! 😂😂😂

yeah the kadwaahat is BECAUSE you’re all living under one roof. that shit don’t work no more, son. get different houses and you’ll be able to stand each other. 😕😕😕

man i blame dadi for like 85% of shivaay’s fuckd-up-ness with her expectation on him to fix everything all the fucking time. first off, he is just ONE man, ffs. and he handles his brothers and their lives already. why not hold fucking tej and shakti accountable for SOMETHING??? 😡😡😡

LMAO THE THOUGHT OF SHIVAAY SITTING AND READING THE RAMCHARITRAMANAS IS MAKING ME LOL SO HARD. AS IF!!!! 😂😂😂

LOL LOOK AT HIS FACE, IT’S LITERALLY LIKE DADI SRSLY WTF AM I SUPP TO DO WITH THIS, DON’T YOU HAVE ANYTHING FROM THIS CENTURY TO HELP ME OUT????? LIKE SOMETHING PUBLISHED BY HBR? 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

hahahahahahah shivaay being maryaada purshottom. sureeeeeeee. 😆😆😆😆😆

oh shit. bhaiyya be using his stern voice. omRu spring to feet immediately. 😐😐😐

haaaaye, om back in his half-ponytail look to commemorate DBO day. hottttttie. 😍😍😍

(he needs a haircut tho. the hair’s getting a little toooo long.)

LMAO WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS MUSIC??????

man i hate the hindi version of this song so much. the telugu original is a fucking banger (it is my #1 all-time favt. telugu song. i don’t know/understand telugu, but phonetically know all the lyrics to this, and you best believe that i scream-sing them every time it comes on) and allu arjun, him of the rubber-band bones, killllllllllls it with his dance moves. fucking salman khan not only just took and ruined the song, BUT ALSO DISRESPECTS THE SHEER DANCABILITY OF IT, BY JUST STANDING THERE AND SHUFFLING HIS HANDS AROUND IN HIS POCKETS LIKE A FUCKING ROADSIDE PERVERT. 😒😒😒😒😒

sorry not sorry for the rant. this song just reaalllllllllllllly steams my clams. 😡😡😡

LOLOLOLOL OBROS DOING POCHAA. 😂😂😂

ugh fuck fucking bhavya. it’s like it’s july/aug ‘17 all over again and my hatred for her is alllllll back. SHE IS AS GHUSAAAYA HUA IN THIS SHOW AS THAT RAMCHARITRAMANAS INTO SHIVAAY’S HANDS. 😠😠😠

same, girl. #same.

lmaoooooo omRu’s reaction at jhanvi exhorting them to “ask” tej. inhone aaj tak kuch tej se poocha hai, jo aaj poochenge????

damnnnnnnn, every time om gets all righteously angry, i get sooooo hot for him. mmmhmmmm, yas honey, tell off your stupidass mom. 🤤🤤🤤

dude, nehalaxmi’s evil/reaction faces are the fucking best. these split second shots are giving me so much life, i can’t even.... 😍😍😍

matlab kaunse industrial waale paint se marble pe lakeer banaayi hui hai, be? kabse ghise jaa rahe hai aur jaaa hi nahi raha. 😐😐😐

ouff. finally done.

dat tadi waala pocha-throwing by all of them tho. 😎😎😎

haaaaaaye, my boys. bohut dino baad aisa feel aaya hai. 😭😭😭

oh god ab yeh kaun hai manhoos?

oh god shaadi ke card. fuck this nonsense shaadi. someone make this stupid rudra complete a bloody bachelor’s degree first!!!!!!!!! 😠😠😠

what? WHAT? why the face getting utraa hua?

OOOOOH, IT HAS TEJ’S NAME ON IT?

"ismein mistake hai. yeh invitation mere bhai ki taraf se jayega.”

yaaaaaaas son! 🙌🏽🙌🏽🙌🏽

om’s tiny approving smile tho. ouff, my heart. he’s looking too handsome today. that blue is realllllly working on him. 😍😍😍😍😍😍

OMG FUCKKKKK OFFFFFFF JHANVIIIIIII.

“kyun? jab baap ke saare farz bhai adaa kar raha hai, toh baap ki jagah bhai ka naam likhwaane se kya faraq padta hai?”

hahahahahahahahahaha om’s reaction at jhanvi’s “aur tumhaare papa ka kya? unki khushi koi maayne nahi rakhti??”

boy be rolling his eyes so hard, he practically saw into the past and the future simultaneously. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

“mera IQ kam hai lekin ek baat main bhi jaanta hoon; ki sirf janam dene se koi baap nahi ban jaata.”

DAAAAAAAYUM CHILD! YOU TELL HER! 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽

lol fuck off tej no one wants you here. 🙄🙄🙄

these two be like yikessss what have we married into. 😬😬😬

bhavya, you still have the chance. gtfo while the door is still open.

OM’S TURN TO TALK. AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS! IT’S SMACKDOWNNNNNNNNN TIMEEEEEEEE, COZ MY BOIIIIII HERE IS SICK. AND. TIRED. OF HIS PARENTALS’ BS. TAKE IT AWAYYYYYY SON!!!!!!!!!!!!!

shivaay be in the middle of this like

GOD SHIVAAY WHY ARE YOU FOREVER LOOKING TO REDEEM TEJ????? HE’S THE FUCKING WORST. HONESTLY. 😣😣😣

om’s reactions today are just A++++++ and i’ll have to gif alllll of them. 😂😂😂😂

no for real, my man, beat some sense into shivaay already. 🙄🙄🙄

wow, shivaay’s actually taking anika along on one of his little missions? 😯😯😯

anika’s nonsense overconfidence ever since she married into this fam the second time realllllly annoys me. like shivaay se bhi zyaada guroor she has these days. about what, god only knows. 😒😒😒

does it bother no one else how easily distracted shivaay gets when driving? like every single time i’ve seen this man drive, i’m constantly chanting EYES ON ROAD EYES ON ROAD EYES ON THE FUCKING ROAD 😫😫😫

UM SHIVAAY...? 😶😶😶

OH SHIT HE’S GONNA PULL A SALLU AND RUN HIM OVER! 😯😯😯

aaaaand.....

ok i’m actually more worried about the car ki haalat after 8 foot, 300 kilo of pure muscle-mass waala veer hit it, than veer’s wellbeing. 🙈🙈🙈

anika’s split second of pure rage waala look at shivaay tho. lolololol. it’s ~~screaming omfg why are you such a sociopath?!??! 😂😂😂

LMAO AFTER RUNNING HIM OVER, HE’S ASKING HIM “KAHIN LAGI TOH NAHI....? OMG VEER TUM MUMBAI MEIN? THAT’S GREAT!!!!!” AS IF BUTTER WOULDN’T MELT IN HIS MOUTH HAHAHAHA 😂😂😂😂

fuck, sometimes asshole!shivaay really has his moments. 😆😆😆

anika is like fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck this is nooooot goood

she’s right. because when this one makes ☝🏽☝🏽☝🏽 THIS ☝🏽☝🏽☝🏽 face, it’s never good.

(she should know. she’s seen him make it a lot AT HER.)

“mujhe yaqeen hai; humaari khaatirdaari kabhi bhool nahi payenge aap!”

i am kinda lovingggg seeing shivaay in his shark singh oberoi mode after a longgggggg time. 😈😈😈

lolololol.

anika, girl, do you not know your husband even a little bit????? 🙄🙄🙄

so happy that after FOR-EV-ERRRRRRRR, shivaay’s energies are being constructively put to use to fuck up someone who actually deserves it.

i think the last time i enjoyed so much was when he beat the everloving crap outta ranveer. remember that? like when gauri had to physically throw herself onto shivaay to stop him from killing ranveer? oh mannnn, that was the bestttttttttttt! *happily sighs* 😊😊😊

meanwhile veer here be like bitch i’m desi wolverine and these bones be reinforced with adamantium.

ohnoe. he’s completely ok. already! 😯😯😯

ok ngl i was a little charmed by veer’s wink. 😍😍😍 why can’t someone give this dude a role where he’s a good guy? he looks really cute with his irl wife, someone cast them together in something happy and fluffy!

oh ho shivaay ka overconfidence. bhaari padegaaaaa. like, literally. coz look at veer’s size. ouff yaaaaar. 😫😫😫

and ffs, could someone please update omru about this ASAP, so they know to come provide backup!!!!! 😣😣😣

[anonthenullifier]

An Auspice of Scarlet - Ch. 2

An AU Victorian Scarlet Vision story. 

Chapter Title: In which company is sought and revelations are had

Chapter Summary: Wanda settles into life at the manor while attempting to form a connection with the elusive butler.

Word Count: 10k 

A gift for: @atendrilofscarlet

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/28284888

I hope you enjoy!

The house is extravagant, though not ostentatious, just the right amount of excess intermixed with a surprising level of sparseness. Wanda’s room is, so far on her self-guided tour, the one oozing with the most unadulterated flamboyance. The stairway leading down to the main floor is grand, intricate carvings of imps and angels battling for dominance, but the details are subtle from a distance, overpowered by the white, black, and gold checkered floor. Unlike most of the wealthy homes she has seen, this one lacks the clutter of furniture, lacks the requirement to constantly scan the immediate vicinity to ensure no shins are banged on tables or feet trip over upturned rugs. Each room (from the parlor, to the front hall, the bedrooms, and the four different sitting rooms) contains the barest amount of furniture to allow the space to feel content but not overstuffed. What she’d like to do is ask why this is the case, but her day, so far, has been solitary, though not truly alone.

Vision (the name still feels funny in her mouth) and the other servants are clearly in the house as well, their presence ephemeral yet palpable, traces of their existence left to guide her yet she has not actually seen anyone yet. It is infuriating. Wanda unfolds the carefully labeled map that was left on the table in the dining room (a table she is fairly certain has to be at least three times longer than she is tall) and studies the handwriting, turning the map and reorienting herself to her location in the house. According to the schedule written in the bottom left corner, there is supposed to be tea and cucumber sandwiches available on the back veranda in a quarter of an hour. The hope is that if she arrives early then perhaps she will encounter him.

As Wanda moves through the wood-paneled hallway, she can’t help but think about the elusive man. Even though she has never had any desire for a butler, as she is perfectly capable of providing for herself and cannot fathom any reason someone else should have to deal with the tediousness of life in her honor, it does not mean she isn’t inordinately impressed by the forethought shown by Vision. When she woke this morning, she opened her door to find not only a neatly folded pile of clothes (a note attached in his perfectly legible writing - Miss Maximoff, it is my sincerest hope that you find a suitable outfit from these options until I am able to clean your clothing.) and a steaming copper pitcher with a protective towel wrapped around the handle and instructions on using the washbasin in the room (apparently it has a tendency to lean so she needed to check the footings before pouring). Once she had washed up and gotten dressed (even the clothes provided were expensive, the lack of itchiness to the fabric quite refreshing though the dress was quite unique in its construction), she opened the door to find a cup of perfectly drinkable tea atop a dainty, ivory doily. In the dining room there was breakfast waiting for her, and the map. In each room along her journey there were refreshments and suggested activities: books with marks for ideal poetry to match the room, a deck of cards with instructions on how to enjoy a single person game, a carefully constructed and itemized list of the artwork around the house, and a hearty turkey stew with a small yeast roll at lunchtime. Anything she could want was provided before she ever realized she needed it. Except company.

When she opens the stain-glass door to the veranda her mouth immediately curls into a proud grin, eyes drawn to the lanky form of the suit-clad butler. Wanda remains quiet, making sure to hold the handle down to close the door without an audible click, and cautiously approaches the small table set up on the whitewashed wooden deck. The man seems oblivious to her, bent over at the waist as his black-gloved hands shuffle the teapot and plate of sandwiches around on the table, clearly unsatisfied with the positioning of them. Eventually he allows a minuscule shrug of his shoulders before straightening out his spine, briefly pausing to stare beyond the rail of the veranda. Wanda almost allows her curiosity free rein of her body, almost allows her gaze to follow his, but she fights it, worried if she loses focus then he will disappear again. So instead she takes several hurried, albeit quiet, steps forward until she is close enough that she could reach out and tap his shoulder. “Vision?”

No one could describe his response as jumpy since there is no easily discernible flinch of his muscles or flailing of his arms, but his shoulders do stand just a bit taller, arms just a touch more rigid than before. Wanda grins wider at the victory. “Miss,” he turns around, slow and purposeful, every motion of his body from the rotation of his shoulders to the slight swing of his fingers tightly controlled, voice even yet pleasant as he turns the corners of his mouth up into a serviceable smile, “Maximoff. You are ahead of schedule.”

“I’m not too fond of a structured life.”

The smile flinches from serviceable to genuine before settling back to neutrality. “I see. My apologies for attempting to constrain your freedom of time.” He steps around her, hands gripping the back of the chair as he pulls it out with a slight bow, “Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” Wanda sits, hands folding in her lap as she flashes an appreciative smile in his direction, one that he returns while pouring her a cup of tea. Once he has filled her cup he performs another servile bow before turning to leave. Given the solitude of her day, and her enkindled curiosity, the brevity of the interaction is not acceptable. “Would you like to join me?”

Vision hesitates, eyes torn between studying her face, likely attempting to ascertain the seriousness of the request, and the doorway leading back into the manor. The freshly polished tips of his shoes point towards the door, his heel lifting off the ground in preparation to leave, but then his shoulders dip slightly before he pivots on his other heel and joins her at the table, proffering a polite and logical acquiescence to her request. “Since you arrived ahead of your scheduled tea time, I too am slightly ahead of schedule.” His gloved hand rests on the table, fingers tapping a silent melody, the only movement he seems to allow his body. “Have the accommodations been suitable for your needs?”

“Yes, incredibly suitable.”

“Excellent.”

The silence is not nearly as comfortable as the night before, an anxiousness bubbling in the air between them as she cycles through all the possible topics of conversation. Despite thinking about talking to him all day, she finds her tongue deserting her and going dry with indecision. Wanda carefully takes a sip of tea, hoping to whet her verbal skills and grasp one of the many comments whirling through her mind. She determines to start with the most baffling observance of the day. “Where is everyone else? I haven’t seen anyone all day.” 

“Oh,” the question seems to fluster him, fingers tapping more fervently before ceasing to move altogether, his other hand rising to emphasize his words. “There is no one else, at the moment.”

Wanda finds the information incomprehensible, the tasks far too numerous and done with such precision as to be inhuman for one man to accomplish half a day. “That is enough to make a stuffed bird laugh*.”

“I assure you that it is only you and I. Other than Mr. Barton’s intentions to visit for supper, no one else is expected for another couple of days.”

The claim is audacious. She has spent her entire day exploring the manor, and though it is a spacious and dizzying labyrinth of a structure, it is inconceivable for him to have always been three steps ahead. “How have I not seen you then?” Wanda leans closer to him, a conspiratorial finger leveled at his chest, “Can you walk through walls?”

This receives a breathy, perfectly executed laugh. “I never considered the possibility of such an ability. Sadly,” Wanda is mesmerized at the way his persona shifts, still distant, but moving from a cool, detached aloofness to one brimming with warmth and congeniality, “I have not acquired the capability to walk through walls, which is quite unfortunate as it would save me approximately…” he tilts his head in contemplation, eyes focusing on the wispy clouds lazily crawling along the cerulean sky. “I would say two hours each day if I did not have to traverse the hallways.“

“Well if you cannot walk through walls, what is your secret?” Wanda considers not including the next comment, but the notion that she may not be alone, that she has, perhaps, found a kindred spirit convinces her to toss out a waggish** (but utterly hopeful), “Can you read minds?”

He breathes in, lips turning up slightly at the playfulness in her voice, a response she intends to pull from him each time they talk as she finds it exhilarating. “That too would be an incredibly appealing prospect. No, a butler, according to Robert Roberts, is supposed to be unobtrusive and discreet, it is my job to anticipate not only your needs but also your actions and whereabouts so that I can provide for you while remaining out of sight.”

The explanation is disappointing in its commonness, but she brushes off her dismay, replacing it with a cutting smile and pointed look. “I will interpret that to mean you spend a lot of your time hiding behind corners and doors.”

Another laugh escapes his lungs, this one loose and unexpected, louder than his last one and far more authentic. “That is a fair interpretation, though the most parsimonious explanation would be my use service passages.” His hand leaves the table, dipping into his coat and removing his pocket watch. “I do apologize but I must check on the laundry.”

Wanda watches him stand, feels her heart tumble from her chest all the way to the pit of her stomach at the notion of losing his presence, a troubling realization that she determines to scrutinize later, and finds words racing out of her mouth without contemplating exactly what she might be willingly agreeing to do.  “Can I help you?”

“You are a guest.”

The tone clearly conveys that this piece of information is enough to keep her in her seat, but Wanda has never been one to adhere to social rules, and so she stands, placing her hands resolutely on her hips as she levels a challenging gaze in his direction. The simple fact of her defiance to rules, however, does not mean she cannot use them to her advantage. “Would Mr. Roberts condone the notion of denying a guest’s request?”

Vision narrows his eyes, hands lifting in the air while he prepares to counter back, use logic and manners to insist she not join him. But then his hand stops moving, a smile threatening to break the serious line of his lips, and he glances down, bringing his hands together in a thoughtful clasp. He is almost successful at vanquishing the effects of her well-played manipulation, features solemn minus a twinkle of delight in his eyes. “My apologies for acting contrary to your wishes, Miss Maximoff. Though I do not require nor insist on aid, you are welcome to shadow me, if that is a sufficient compromise to your request.”

“It is.”

A slight bow of his head obscures his face long enough for him to reset to his emotionless baseline, his voice posh and steady as he says, “Then please, follow me.”  

The journey is mostly silent as he leads her through several hallways, occasional comments are tossed over his shoulder informing her of the history of the woodwork or the means by which the artwork was acquired. Eventually they stop in front of a bookcase and he reaches out to select a pristinely kept edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. “Since you inquired as to my furtiveness…” the book only partially strays from the shelf, clicking back in place as a low groan shakes the surrounding books and the shelves open into a passageway.

“That’s dramatic.” 

A slight, proud arc forms on his mouth as he nods in agreement. “It is perhaps the fourth least dramatic one.”

Wanda glances at him, assuming he is joking but the sincerity in his voice matches the earnestness of his face. “Fascinating.”

She follows close behind him, somewhat disappointed that the passageway is dim and undecorated, a stark contrast to the extravagance of its entrance. But this disappointed flees at the wonderment (and a negligible trace of trepidation) that overtakes her mind when they enter the back hall, the space filled with steam and the echo of metal churning relentlessly from an enormous contraption. “This,” Vision raises his voice slightly, compensating for the whine and whistle of the pistons. “Is,” he leaves her side to grip a long metal rod, expanding the width between his feet as he bends his knees, bracing himself to pull the metal tube towards him. Suddenly the commotion stops, the last of the rattling vibrations dissipating until the air is calm though oppressively wet. “Friday.”

“Friday?” 

“Yes,” four long strides bring him to her side, a small hand towel grasped in his fingers that he uses to wipe down the leather palms of his gloves. “The first successful completion of a laundry cycle using the machine was completed on a Friday, hence the name.” 

Wanda gives a distracted hmm, feet carrying her closer to the machine, eyes taking in the ten wide wheels laced with a tough fabric, the grated panels of the conveyer belt and how it dips into a vat of water over which hangs fist sized balls of metal attached to thick metal rods. “It is quite impressive,” the butler joins her, the facade of disinterest fading as he excitedly explains the process using words she cannot comprehend like hydraulics and reciprocating engine, but what she’s drawn to the most, and what, besides the stifling humidity in the room, is the likely culprit for the heat budding in her cheeks, is the passion in his hands as he mirrors the movement of the machine to better help her understand the workings.

Nothing quite measures up to Friday for the duration of her shadowing, moving from the machine to the kitchen to throw vegetables into a pot for supper, then on to the stables where they feed the horses and Wanda watches in fascination at the way the water pump is set up to ensure Vision does not sully his suit. The walk back to the manor from the stables is her favorite part, a peaceful stroll against the backdrop of rolling, green mountains, the man next to her quiet, yet conversational beyond what she assumes his holy book of butlering would allow. Yet his conversation depends on one small aggravation - she must always choose the topic. If she remains silent, so does he, but if she asks him a question or makes a trailing comment, then, and only then, will he respond. It is as he is finishing informing her on the intricacies of collecting eggs each morning without the (his voice becomes quite distant and laced with disdain) bricky*** beasts pecking apart the threads of his pants, that Wanda attempts to formulate the next topic, eager to keep him speaking. Her mind fixates on the gentle lilt of his accent, particularly in its purity as compared to butchered and harsher cadence she is more likely to hear in every tavern in every town since coming to this country. “Are you originally from England?”

The inquiry surprises him, blonde eyebrows raising as disbelief creates lines around his slightly agape mouth. “Yes, London, though technically-.” His lips remain parted, hands toying with the idea of lifting to add more information, but then he shuts his mouth, glances towards the mountains, and once he turns his attention towards her again she senses that he has realigned his train of thought to what might be a more acceptable follow-up, an assumption that stokes her curiosity and almost convinces her to reach for his mind. “I consider myself quite skilled at placing accents, and yet, I find myself uncertain as to your nation of origin beyond simply belonging to the Russian Empire.”

“You are correct, broadly.” She redirects her attention away from the intensity of his anticipatory gaze and stares at the rings adorning her fingers. Thoughts of her home country and the memories of a lost life are typically kept locked within her subconscious. It is easier that way. A deep breath ensures she only pulls out the barest, most necessary information to answer the question before shuttering the opening from further disturbances. “Sokovia. Novi Grad, specifically.” Her next question is fueled by the comfort of his presence and her distaste for his name. “So, was your name Vision on the ship list?”

The man almost stops walking, fingers curling into fists at his side and she worries that the question is a step too far given the paucity of their interactions. But whatever ire manifested is dissolved by a tiny smirk and a shake of his head. “It was not, though, quite unfortunately for,” he sends a deliberate, and what she might almost describe as mischievous, look in her direction, “curious minds, such records are currently not made public.”

“That is quite unfortunate,” her voice shifts from jocular to serious, recalling the protests recently about the sharing of ship lists, ”though perhaps for the best given the Nativists****.” Vision nods, a grim line forming on his lips, even out here, in such an isolated spot, clearly aware of the smatterings of rumors spreading about a planned increase in regulating immigration, which for some would simply be deportation. 

“Indeed.”

Clint is waiting for her when they arrive back at the manor and as soon as Wanda greets him, Vision vanishes. His presence is still keenly felt but only as a wraith. This, Wanda determines, is more distracting than if the man stood in the corner waiting on them, because she cannot seem to concentrate on Clint’s questions and stories, her mind wandering continuously back to the butler as an unmistakable itch of curiosity to unravel the enigma of his being takes root in her mind.

The next day Wanda resolves to take action.

Upon waking she opens her door, unsurprised to find another pile of clothing (this one with her own sole surviving, freshly cleaned and mended outfit on top) and a steaming copper pitcher. For this step of her plan, Wanda plays along, scooping the clothes into her arm and carefully lifting the pitcher, balancing the bottom against her hip as she closes the door. A tendril of scarlet wraps around the pitcher, removing it from her hand and carrying it to the wash basin, while a second, smaller strand exits the door, feeling the hallway for any buzz of thoughts that might approach. Wanda unties her dressing gown, allowing it to fall to the floor along with the pile of dresses, smiling as she slips on her familiar, though somewhat itchy, patchwork skirt and blouse. Her hands work without thought, twisting her hair up into a loose, swooping knot, held together with pins. Moments later she can sense orderly thoughts, each marching in a line, ticking off the various tasks for the day, the current image at the front of the mind a tea cup and a doily. When the mind stops in front of her door, Wanda allows a wicked smile to part her lips as she yanks on the handle. “Good morning.”

Credit must be given to the fact he does not drop the tea cup or the doily, in fact, the only sign of his complete surprise is the painfully slow blink of his brilliant blue eyes and the longer than polite pause between her greeting and his, “Good morning, Miss Maximoff.” The tea cup is brought to rest between them, “Tea?”

“Thank you.”  The porcelain cup passes into her hand, fingers curling around the welcome heat as she smiles innocently up at him. “Hypothetically, what would happen if you, through the quite voluntary and eagerly offered help of another person, managed to complete all of your chores earlier than scheduled?”

If the door opening unexpectedly shocked him, this question appears to decimate his understanding of the world, eyes darting away from her face as his feet shuffle in discomfort. It is endearing in the same way as watching a shy kitten approach a foreign ball of yarn, all she needs now is for him to pounce. Each syllable is elongated as he forms his thoughts. “Hypothetically,” he pauses, eyes sliding to the side before snapping back to her face, “if I allowed such an offer, despite the blatant disregard it would have for the comfort of my guest’s well-being, then I would be able to fill that time with whatever activity or task is deemed most appealing.” 

Wanda beams up at him as she sips her tea, “Such as that peculiar game you pointed out on the lawn yesterday?” It had been on their way to feed the fish in the pond, iron hoops rising out of the ground in a haphazard fashion as one of the ugliest gardens Wanda had ever seen.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff, pale-maille*****certainly is always an appealing option.”

“Excellent.”

His, “excellent,” is not nearly as enthusiastic but he doesn’t verbalize his disdain at her request.

They start with the candlesticks, Vision reluctantly setting a bowl of sudsy water between them as he grips a piece of felt in his hands, which are adorned not with his typical leather gloves, but instead with thicker hydrophobic fabric. “Simply dip the felt in the water and clean in a clockwise pattern to expurgate the filth. Do not,” his voice drops an octave as he tilts the candlestick in his hand to show her a green fabric base, “get the baize wet, it will spoil the material and require mending.”

Wanda inspects the materials in front of them, “Understood.”

Once the candlesticks are done she watches him demonstrate the quick, small movements required to polish the mahogany serving trays, yet her eyes keep trailing away from the demonstration to instead linger on the angles of his face and the adorable squint of concentration when he works.  After the trays they move on to the silverware, which Wanda finds increasingly bizarre, particularly when he instructs her to stab the forks repeatedly into wet sand, explaining, with a twinge of defensiveness in the face of her disbelief, “Mr. Roberts swears by this technique and it has never failed me.” 

They clean the plates, the decanters, the tea pots, and the cruets; refill the lanterns (“You are quite fortunate I cleaned those several days ago, the process is quite unpleasant and one I would not subject you to regardless of your desire to help”); and polish the steel grates in each hallway. Vision completes his portion of each task much quicker than her, the precision, efficiency, and uniformity of his movements stupefying. At the moment his pile of brushed blankets is at least three times higher than hers and she finds her mind crafting an amusing image that she believes he’d enjoy as well. “Vision?”

His hand does not stop its circular motion as he cocks his head to indicate she has his attention, “Yes, Miss Maximoff?”

“Are you, by any chance, related to Friday?”

The assumption is that he will, with a fine-tuned deadpan, respond with a playfully logical explanation, as he has for all her other comments, but instead he drops the blanket to the ground, an almost imperceptible tremble to his hand as he picks the item back up. The brush hovers in the air, horsehair bristles hooking into the fibers just enough keep the blanket steady, and his face pales as he swallows. “Pardon me, Miss Maximoff.” The blanket is delicately placed on the pile, the brush next to it as he stands, eyes never quite returning to her face. “I somehow forgot I need to run to town. I shall be sure to expedite my errands so that we can maximize the three-quarters of an hour your aid has made available for me to teach you pale-maille.” With an unusual abruptness he is gone, leaving Wanda to stew in confusion, the strokes of the brush in her hand half-hearted and likely ineffective at removing the grime from the blankets.

With no tasks to complete and not another living soul around, Wanda wanders the hallways, fingers brushing the walls and toying with every sconce, frame, and book she touches in hopes of discovering more secrets of the manor, yet nothing happens. Slowly her feet bring her to the veranda, heart dropping at the absence of a teapot. Wanda sits, taking in the expanse of green grass that climbs slowly up into distant, tree blanketed mountains, mind churning through their last interaction, attempting to determine why he seemed so disconcerted by her question. When the click of footfalls sound behind her, Wanda stands, ready to apologize as she turns but freezes at the sight of a red-haired, well-dressed woman. “Who are you?” 

The woman tilts her head, her lips following suit into a half-smile that gives the impression of a recently sharpened dagger. “I believe that is a question more suitable for me to ask. So who are you?”

Scarlet courses through Wanda’s veins at the threat in the woman’s voice, a readiness forming in her hands and feet to attack or flee, depending on whatever happens next. “I am Wanda Maximoff.”

The smile dulls, now matching what might be flashed to the only other stranger on the road for the day, a look that is congenial enough but does not offer an invitation for further contact. “Clint tells me you are a spiritualist.”

“Clint?” 

“Yes, Barton.” It is not until the woman sits down that Wanda even processes how quickly she traveled across the veranda. Slowly Wanda shifts one chair over and sits as well, palms pressed firmly against her thighs to hide the shimmer of red pulsing in unison with the erratic drumming of her heart. “I’m Natasha Romanov.”

A hand is held aloft between them. Wanda eyes the black glove adorning the hand, noting it is expensive yet practical, a elegance in the way the fabric stretches along the fingers but there is also a surety in the seams that this is a hand to be grasped with precaution. Wanda tightens her fingers into a fist to dispel the last of the scarlet before unfurling her fingers and gripping the gloved hand long enough to say, “Pleasure.” 

“Sorry for surprising you,” there is no apology in the tone, “but it is not often a spiritualist has an actual reputation for talking to the dead.”

Wanda calculates all the possible responses, an uneasiness pricking at the back of her neck, the same uneasiness she feels when a swim in the river is impending. “For such a reputation, you would think people would not respond so poorly.”

The rise and fall of Natasha’s shoulders is almost as dangerous as her smile, an indifference so palpable Wanda has to fight against allowing it to reduce her own opinion of herself. “It is not surprising, people rarely want what they say.” When Wanda met the Fox Sisters she knew instantly they were cons, yet there was still power in their presence, in their words and their falsehoods. The same power exudes from the woman next to her. “So, Wanda Maximoff, what is it that you want from staying here?”

“Simply a safe place while I decide where to go next.”

“Have you found that here?”

Wanda considers the question for only a moment before reaching a conclusion. “Yes, Vision has been more than accommodating.”

A meaningful, “Hmm,” vibrates in the woman’s throat, but her next thoughts are silenced by a thudding of feet and the tap of wood behind them. Their heads turn to take in the shifting gaze of the butler as he stands halfway on the deck holding a wooden mallet in each hand. “Hello, Vision.”

His gaze finally comes to a halt, eyes falling on the red-haired woman as he takes the final six steps to stand a respectable distance from the table. “Miss Romanov, I was not expecting you.”

“Have I ever shown up when expected?”

The pause is the perfect length to be polite as to show consideration of the question, but short enough to imply the answer was already known and that he is playing along with her wishes. “Not once, Miss Romanov.”

Wanda decides to alleviate the tension in the air, shaking the last of her nerves from her fingers as she indicates the mallets in his hands. “Are those for pale-maille?”

The man lifts the mallets up, inspecting them with an odd detachment as if he had forgotten they were in his hands. “Oh, yes, they are, Miss Maximoff.” The mallets lower down to his side, the movement seeming to draw his lips in a similar downward arc. “Unfortunately, I believe I need to prepare Miss Romanov her coffee,” Natasha opens her mouth to talk, but is quieted by a nod of Vision’s head, “with a splash of vodka.”

“Perfect.”

“My apologies, Miss Maximoff, I shall endeavor to allot more time tomorrow, if you wish.”

He does not wait for her response before he disappears through the stained-glass door, a subtle and incisive clearing of a throat requiring her attention. “Pale-maille?” Natasha touches the tips of her fingers conspiratorially to Wanda’s wrist. “With the butler?”

Immediately her voice becomes defensive, unappreciative of the scandal in the woman’s voice. “Yes, I helped him earlier today so he would have time to show me.”

The thing is, Wanda has, quite unfortunately, discovered that her words usually incite more scandal than they dispel, Natasha sitting up straighter with a keen smirk. “That man barely allows guests to lift their own cup.” An amused huff follows the sentence, hanging in the air as she stands from her seat. “Will you please pass my apologies on to Vision, I forgot I promised Clint my company.” Natasha does not wink but the expression on her face, once the memory of the day fades and distorts, will no doubt be recalled as a wink.  “May you find your safe place here, Wanda.”

As evening falls, Wanda finds herself alone again, Vision far more removed and distant after the discovery of his improprietous decision to potentially socialize with a guest. She’s embarrassed at the anticipatory hope that tightens her chest each time she approaches a corner or door, but none are hiding the butler. There is, once she retires for the night, a cup of hot chocolate on the desk of her room, a billowing stream of steam confirms the recency of its delivery.  Cautiously she curves her palms around the porcelain cup, breathing in the sweetness, her fingers flinching slightly at the heated ceramic against her skin. If this is still hot it means he is likely awake. 

The schedule on the map from the day before stopped at bedtime, no indications given as to where or when she might be able to show up to intersect with his own schedule. Which means she has to resort to other methods. Hesitantly Wanda extends her index finger, eyes closing in concentration as a mist of scarlet releases into the air, sending out a beacon for other minds, the energy spreading and then rebounding back with information. A smile crawls along her lips when she locates the stir of thoughts. Cup still in hand, she allows her body to follow the murmur of his mind, engrossed by the neat and orderly nature of his thoughts, each one following at even intervals before disappearing into different sections of his mind. It is not until muggy air engulfs her body that she opens her eyes, finds that she is on a smaller, more enclosed balcony, not nearly as impressive as the veranda.

Vision is there, just as she suspected based on the mental link, though the details are difficult to parse out, the gaslamp on the table illuminates enough of the balcony for her to study the general appearance of him from a distance. It is evident he is not anticipating her company, his jacket and waistcoat gone, leaving him only in a slightly wrinkled shirt and black pants. He is reclined in a chair, feet resting on a wicker footstool and Wanda is enamored with how relaxed he appears, his hands working in methodical patterns to clean whatever is gripped between his fingers, a slight gleam from the gaslamp makes her think he is polishing metal of some kind. There is a war waging in her body, her heart yearning to call out his name, sit in the empty chair next to him, to bask in the honeyed tone of his voice, but her mind quickly points out all of the cues that he would not welcome company. A man of order, one who favors a pristine and ambivalent appearance, might not appreciate a surprise attack when he is at his least controlled, particularly after the embarrassment on the veranda.

Yet somehow, with his preternatural butler abilities, he senses her before she has a chance to back away. “Miss Maximoff, is something the matter?” The concern is evident in his voice, but more so in the quickness of the motion from sitting to standing, the casualness of his attire contrasting the seriousness pulling his lips into a frown.

Wanda shakes her head, though his frown remains, whether it is because he is unable to accept her answer or because it is clear now that she has simply decided to intrude upon his evening. “I,” at one point in her life, Wanda truly believed in honesty and forthrightness, but for the sake of survival she has become accustomed to providing legitimate, albeit false, reasons for her actions. What she should proclaim right now is that, since his presence rescinded for the day, she has only been able to think about his company, cannot explain why she wishes to delve into his thoughts, feel his soul, discover who this man is, but her instincts prohibit such a confession. “I could not sleep.”

The dull light of the gaslamp emphasizes the softening of his features, the frown retracting, replaced with an understanding nod. “It cannot be easy adjusting to a new accommodation, particularly given the circumstances.” 

“No, it is not.”

A sympathetic tilt forms on his mouth, “If there is any assistance I can offer, please do not hesitate to inform me.” 

This friendly but strained back and forth is exhausting, and Wanda can’t seem to temper her impatience and annoyance with the requirement, based on the recommendations of some other butler who happened to write a book, that she must initiate all conversations beyond offers of help.   “Are you ever not a butler?”

“I-” shadows form on his face as he shifts his feet, brows furrowing and casting his features with a mask of indecision, “am not certain that is possible, given the nature of my employment.”

“So you are saying you are no longer a man? Only a butler?” Her mind instantly goes back to the veranda and the discussion of wants and how Wanda seemingly can never parse out the true wants of her clients. Perhaps she has misread this man as well, maybe his kindness is simply due to the code of the butler and nothing more. A possibility that renders her lungs unable to function at their full capacity. “You have no wants other than to serve?” 

The oppressive silence coils her stomach into uncomfortable knots and Wanda turns to leave, deciding this is her last night in the manor, unwilling to deal with the dehumanization of servitude and the possibility that any gentleness from this man was simply part of his job. She’d rather wander the countryside for the next town then accept that notion. “Miss Maximoff?”

Her fingernails dig into the palm of her hand as she turns around with an exasperated, “What?”

He takes a step around the chair, body falling into the light of the lamp, revealing that the cuffs of his shirt are unexpectedly rolled up twice and that his hands are bare. It is the first part of his skin she has spied beyond his face and there is a humanizing quality to it, until he follows her gaze and hurriedly shoves his hands into his pockets. “I want,” uncertainty mars his forehead, bunching the skin in erratic patterns, and his eyes fall to the ground. Then he raises his head and a sheepish lift of his shoulders produces a funny, fluttering feeling in her heart, “I would very much fancy your company, if you are not opposed to such a tête-à-tête.”

The tightness unravels as her eyes revolve before she can stop them, almost as defiant as the grin that forms instantaneously on her face and the zealousness of her, “Not opposed.” 

An uncharacteristically free smile dances across his face, though she wonders, briefly, if it is simply a trick of the lighting. He waves a hand at the other chair, remains standing as he waits for her to sit down, to twist and shimmy into the chair until she is comfortable, and then he returns to his prior position, but this time his feet don’t dare go too casual and thus remain on the ground. “Miss Maximoff-” 

“You don’t need to formally address me every time you say something.”

The man nods, lips tight as he processes the information. “I understand, thank you. Did you enjoy your time with Natasha?”

The conversation from earlier replays in her mind, it was not terribly different from speaking with Vision in that both he and Natasha guard their words carefully. But where they do diverge is in the general demeanor and air, Vision polite and caring while it felt as if Natasha was interrogating her. “It was not unpleasant, though quite unusual.” One of the many thoughts that has remained with her since meeting the woman is a curiosity, perhaps more of an inkling to make a connection. “The dress from yesterday-”

“Yes, Miss-” he cuts himself off before he finishes her name, an impressive display of his attempt to remove the influence of being a butler for the sake of the moment, though she is still not certain if it is truly him or simply him following her order. “Yes?”

“Was that dress Natasha’s?”

A quick “Yes,” confirms her suspicions.

“Does she always keep a dagger in her bodice?” It was a surprising discovery when she first put on the dress, but, for some reason, it never seemed the correct time to inquire about the weapon.

Vision glances at her without moving his body, the lack of surprise on his face far more amusing, she finds, than if the comment had rattled him. “Yes,” his voice grows distant, eyes traveling to stare into the darkness over the railing, “the few times she has forgotten to remove all of her armaments from her clothing has caused severe malfunctions in Friday.”

The plurality of the admission does not go unnoticed and Wanda recalls the confusion, in addition to the confounding discovery of the dagger, at the five holsters she found in the dress along with several slits in the fabric to increase the ease of accessing the holsters and the numerous hidden pockets that presumably hold dangerous objects. “Why does she require an arsenal?”

“Miss Romanov is involved with,” his mouth shuts, lips clasped in a thin line as he contemplates the next words, “covert political operations between the Russian Empire and the United States.”

“Are you implying she’s a spy?”

A shrug and a nervous puff of air is answer enough, but he still verbalizes it as well, just to be clear. “That is the implication, though I cannot speak to the directionality of her allegiance nor do I believe it is in the favor of my livelihood to inquire.” Wanda releases an amused snort, the glimpse of pride in his eyes clear even in the dim lighting. Silence descends around them, but tonight, she vows, if he wishes to converse, then he must direct the flow of topics. Thankfully, it does not take long for a tentative, “Miss Maximoff?”

Both his habit of inquiring if he can make an inquiry and using her name are still strong, but Wanda decides to let this one escape a retort, instead angling to throw him off in another way. “You may call me Wanda, if you” the confidence she had going into the comment dissipates almost immediately, getting caught in the humid breeze that stirs the air around her. So she finishes her thought on a weakened, anxious, “like.”

“Wanda.” He tests her name slowly, holding out the Wan and overemphasizing the duh in the second syllable, but he does so with an awed, almost boyish exuberance. The second, “Wanda,” returns to the cadence and tone of his Miss Maximoff, “I have been reading many works concerning the spiritualist movement.”  He pauses as if what he has just said is a question, but Wanda isn’t sure what he is expecting, and so she waits, eyes glancing away from him briefly to try to identify the location of a distant boom of thunder. The hesitant but rich inflection of his words draws her attention back to him. “I am aware of your proclivity for séances,” the and ending up in a river is left unspoken but hovers quite clearly in the air, “but was curious if you offer other readings in line with the spiritualist movement.”

“I occasionally do tarot readings, though,” the image of her wrecked quarters and the torn up and charred cards immediately flashes through her mind, “my tarot deck was ruined with the rest of my belongings.”

A flash of anger crosses his face, lips drooping into a scowl before lifting just enough to erase the brief ire. “Unacceptable.”

Wanda nods, agreeing with his assessment but aware nothing can be done at this point. “I used to also have a small table set up for palm reading outside of Castle Garden.” The location was ideal, particularly on days when there was a play or performance, the giddiness of rich socialites to learn of their impending love lives provided her with a lot of food and decent housing while she lived in the city, even if she does not particularly believe in the method. But, as with all good things, it ended abruptly and not in her favor the day she was visited by a man in a bowler hat. Wanda shakes the memory, narrowing her eyes as a dangerously appealing idea forms in her head. “Would you like your palm read? You were gracious enough to show me your trade today, I would enjoy the chance to repay the favor.” 

Predictably the offer is met with resistance, his body seizing up just enough to be noticeable and his eyes bouncing to every object and item except her. “Oh, I do not think that is necessary.”

“Why? Are you scared?”

He hesitates and the fear is palpable, though it does not have its intended consequence of quelling her curiosity, instead stoking the fire of her interest. “No,” with a single word she knows he is a terrible liar because she does not even have to reach out and brush his mind to know the truth. “I personally view, with no offense meant to you or your livelihood, the spiritualist movement as pure balderdash.” 

Typically, offense would be felt at such a statement, but the fact he was willing to say it directly to her is proof that she is interacting with Vision as a person and not a butler, and she determines to ensnare this side of him for a bit longer. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

“No.”

A deceptively innocent grin forms on her face, “Well how can you make such a claim if you have never determined the veracity of the technique?”

He freezes, lips parted slightly in contemplation while his eyes focus on a point just above her shoulder and she can almost imagine tiny gears clicking in his eyes as he attempts to counter her claim. “I suppose it is empirically impossible to support my claim without evidence.” The words come out slowly, a pause inserted at every third word.

Wanda smiles, lifting her arm so that her hand hovers between them, palm up, “I am glad you have seen reason, may I?”

The disconcerting gaze moves from just above her shoulder to her palm, his own hands delving deeper into his pockets as she stares at him. “It is quite late.”

“It will not take long.”

“You are a-”

Wanda glares at him, flexing her fingers in an attempt to encourage his compliance, “If you attempt to rationalize your refusal on the basis of me being a guest in this house then I will turn it right back on you and insist, as a guest, that you comply. But,” the glare softens as she offers him a smirk, “I would much prefer to avoid such awkwardness.”

Momentarily the fear leaves his face, replaced by a gleam of fascination that almost derails her plans. Thankfully, his voice breaks the spell, “My hands…”

It is undeniable, based on her experience so far with him, that his job requires a great deal of work with his hands, some of the liquids corrosive, and so she assumes he is going to attempt to argue that she should not have to touch such hands. “The only way that sentence can end with my agreement is if you inform me you are actually an avian beast with talons for hands. Because then,” she sends him another smile, “you would have no palm to read.”  Vision remains silent, eyes boring into her own, creases of deep contemplation forming on his face and her heart drops at the fear on his face, concerned she is pushing him too far. “But if you truly do not want it, that is fine too.”

He holds her gaze for a small eternity before he sighs and a spike of exuberance bursts from her stomach as she watches him remove his hand from his pocket. Haltingly he moves it to her own hand and whispers an apologetic, “I am not sure you will be able to read it,” that does not make sense until she touches him, notices a subtle texture to his skin that she has not felt before. Wanda reaches out to turn the knob of the lamp, increasing the light, and hates herself for gasping when she takes in the deep, wrinkled red scarring of his skin. Immediately he pulls his hand back, but she lunges forward enough to grab it and gently guide it back to the area between them. Fingers lightly brushing along his skin, trying desperately to assure him that it does not bother her.

“What happened?”

His face becomes stoic, closed off, and the action constricts her heart, a deep, aching pain forming in her chest as he simply states, “An unfortunate event in my past.”

Nothing else is added nor is there any sign that he wishes to divulge more and so Wanda brings his hand closer to her face. “Please let me know if you are ever uncomfortable.”

“Of course.”

The order in which the major lines are assessed varies based on the reader, or so Wanda determined when she bounced from tent to tent back in Sokovia as she learned the art of palmistry. Typically, she begins with whatever the person is least interested in learning, understanding that you must keep them invested in order to receive the full payment. But, since he isn’t exactly a client, she determines to move from least interesting to her to most, hoping to ease him into the reading, make him feel more comfortable, since currently the muscles in his hand are taut and trembling. “You can relax your hand, it increases the accuracy of the reading.” A quirked eyebrow meets her words, his disbelief in the reading presenting an exhilarating challenge more so than an annoyance. His hand does relax slightly, and she brings her index finger to his palm, placing the tip of her nail between his thumb and index finger.  Gently she traces the indents in his skin, searching for the head line and doing her best not to smile at the twitch in his fingers with each pass over his skin. “I am inspecting your head line.” 

“What does that tell you?”

This time her smile breaks loose, eyebrows raising as she meets his gaze, “Patience, Vision.” Slowly she follows the line, noting how it does not curve even as it traverses almost his entire palm. “It is straight, which implies you approach life with logic and practicality, that you are meticulous.”

“How can I determine that is due to the line and not your observance of my meticulousness the past two days.”

Wanda glances up at him, expecting to find a seriousness in his brow at his defiance, but instead his features are relaxed, amused, and oddly intrigued. “I suppose you cannot know for sure.”

A triumphant arc forms on the right side of his mouth. “That is unfortunate.”

She ignores his boastfulness, angling her face down to hide her smirk. “Your line is also long, stretching from one side to the other which means you are a more methodical thinker, not terribly impulsive.” Her finger swipes across the line two more times, exerting a slight pressure as she examines the depth of the line. “You also have a good memory as your line is deep.”

“So far you are correct, but,” a slight shrug and another smile from the man spurs a warmth to grow in the pit of her stomach, “I am not convinced.”

“Would you be willing to save your judgment until the end?”

His other hand escapes his pocket long enough to wave her on, “Of course.”

Wanda is torn which line to assess next, an unusual trepidation associated with either one. Her finger hovers above his hand before dropping down just below his fingers. “The heart line,” her own heart is racing, much to her annoyance, as her finger brushes his hand, attempting to locate the beginning of the line, a smile forming on her face once she finds it, which is odd given her own qualms with this methodology. “Your heart line begins here,” her finger presses just under his index finger, “that implies you are quite selective in choosing your romantic partners, but that once you select a partner, it is a satisfying relationship.” Wanda’s eyes turn up, glancing at him to assess his response, which is a barely decipherable hmm and a tension in his face as he deliberately does not glance at her.  Her finger follows the line, noting the way it branches, one part traveling down and the other curving up towards his ring finger. “It branches.”

“What does that mean?”

Finally, he looks at her but whatever is going through his mind is unreadable based on merely looking, her own mind itching to connect with his to determine his thoughts. Yet, for some reason, she feels as if now is not an acceptable time that, in fact, the thought of entering his mind again without asking would be an unspeakable act. “It means you are quite skilled at balancing your logic and emotions, you are not driven exclusively by emotions nor do you wear them on your sleeve.” The line is also deep, a fact she intends to tell him but instead internalizes it with a slight grin, understanding it means that once a romantic relationship begins it is deeply satisfying due to an intense commitment. “Lastly,” Wanda breathes out, the pad of her index finger not leaving his palm as she moves back to the area between his thumb and index finger, “the life line.”

Vision shuffles slightly, bending forward at his waist which brings his face closer to hers as he watches her search for the line. “Are you about to tell me when I die?”

A laugh falls from her lips, this question a common misconception, although some readers assert the length of the line is related to the length of the life, but she never interprets it that way.  “No, I am not in the business of soothsaying. Now,” she grips his hand a bit tighter, rotating his wrist to allow her a better view of the line as she tries desperately to ignore how much closer he is to her now than he has been since they met. “It is quite shallow which means you have not moved through life easily.” She waits for a response, but is only provided with a nod and a release of air from his lungs. Gently she allows the tip of her nail to traverse the line, noting two places where the line stops and then starts again, one seems to be from the scarring the other, she is unable to tell. “There are two breaks, which implies unfortunate accidents or major changes.”

“I, so far, am only aware of one.” The words revert back to his utter, unemotional seriousness and it breaks her heart. “Perhaps we will have to determine if you are a soothsayer for the other.”

Wanda turns her full attention to his face, eyes locking with his blue irises. “Have I convinced you then?”

The serious from before falls away with a chuckle and a shake of his head, “Not at all, but I am willing to entertain the notion until it is utterly proven false. Given you predict something else in my future, I suppose I must wait to make my final determination until then."

“Thank you for your partial openness.”

“Of course.”

Wanda flashes him a grin before returning her attention to his palm, drawing her finger the rest of the way along the line, content and relieved at the fact it is long, so long in fact she can follow it from his palm to the base of his wrist, which is where she is met with a new texture, one that is cold and smooth, akin to the feel of the silverware they cleaned earlier in the day. “What is-” he immediately yanks his hand from her grip, nervously rolling the sleeve down to cover his wrist.

“It is nothing.”

The atmosphere around them grows denser as her eyes narrow, attempting to ascertain the new reason for his demeanor to shift, now not the calm yet confident man nor the intensely focused and unemotional butler, but his body taking on the airs of nervousness, feet unable to remain still as he shifts in his seat. Even his eyes cannot determine what to focus on. “Vision?” Wanda reaches out, grips his hand in hopes it induces a sense of calm. 

“Wanda, I,” slowly he regains his typical poise, body stilling as he straightens his spine and tilts his chin up, a move she believes might be an attempt to convince himself more so than her that everything is fine. “I believe it is about to rain.” A flash of lightning illuminates the balcony. “It is also quite late.” An admission that breeds disdain deep within her, her desire is to remain with him, figure out what is wrong, but she also recognizes that whatever is bothering him might need time, and that she worries about pushing the issue.

“It is.”

Vision stands, fingers expertly buttoning the cuff of his shirt, ensuring it cannot ride up and reveal whatever he is hiding, and then he surprises her, reaching out his hand in assistance out of the chair. The offer is accepted, her fingers curling over the edge of his hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Would you like to be accompanied to your room?” Wanda is stunned at the connotation, as is Vision, who pauses, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “I meant would you like me to walk you back to your room?”

The corners of her mouth rise into a simper, heart beating quite quickly as she strives not to read too much into the fumbled offer. “I think I can manage on my own. Thank you, though.” Wanda gives his hand one more squeeze, allowing her fingers to linger on his skin as she pulls away. “This was nice, are you here every night?”

“It was,” a bashfulness overtakes his body, hands clasped nervously in front of him as his mouth attempts to decide if he provides a small smile or a broad one. “Yes, I am here each night and you are always welcome to join.”  

Wanda’s grin grows wider at the offer. “Good night, Vision.”

She exits the balcony, eyes finally taking in her surroundings and notes this area is far less richly decorated, even the materials seem more common and she realizes this might actually be where Vision lives. A door to her right beckons her but she determines to inquire about it later, perhaps several nights in a row of meeting with the man instead of the butler will illuminate this aspect of the manor. Then she hears footsteps behind her and a, “Wanda." 

Wanda turns to find Vision in the hallway, the row of lighting on the walls providing her with a more complete view of his casual attire, his shirt even scandalously undone three buttons down which reveals a similar pattern to his skin as his hands and her heart breaks all over again. She steps towards him with a, “Vision?”

“Wanda,” he cocks his head to the side in confusion at the tremble in her voice. “I meant to inform you earlier that Mr. Stark will be arriving tomorrow.”

Everything freezes around her, heart and lungs constricting as she struggles to breathe, managing only a stuttered, “St-stark?”

His head remains tilted, but now his eyes join his confusion. “Correct, Mr. Stark, the owner of the manor.”

There must be a multitude of individuals with the name Stark, and so Wanda attempts to clamp down her panic long enough to inquire, to make sure it is a different Stark. “Tony Stark? 

Vision nods and her heart drops to her feet as her head swims, “Correct.”

Perhaps there are multiple Tony Starks. “Tony Stark, of Stark Industries?”

“Technically the eponymous Stark of Stark industries is the late Howard but yes, Mr. Stark owns and operates it now.”

The straightforward, logically playful response is not appreciated right now, her body developing a tremble as her eyes dart around her surroundings. Then she breathes in and locks her eyes on the blonde-haired man in front of her, releasing an accusatory, “You work for Tony Stark?”

The ire in her voice must not be clear, since he doesn’t seem to be responding to the horror of the question, doesn’t seem to understand why this is information that should be rattling his very existence as much as it is hers. “That is the most logical and parsimonious connection, yes.” 

Wanda can feel the panic rising up from where her heart still lays at her feet, can hear the reverberations of explosions in her memory, the heat of the fire that destroyed her life. But much more prominent than even that, is the complete betrayal of the man in front of her. “Excuse me.” 

A hurried, concerned, “Wanda?” barely registers as she turns to leave.

And Wanda runs.

Victorian language decoder: *Make a stuffed bird laugh = Ridiculous **Waggish = Playful ***Bricky = Fearless ****Nativists = A political movement at the time that was anti-immigration, demanding the United States cut off its borders to others *****Pale-maille = Croquet…but it wasn’t called croquet yet.

Next time expect some melodramatic encounters and a thickening of the plot.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

[allthevmff]

Haunted

by Scandalpants

I'm trying not to think about you Can't you just let me be?

~Almost Lover, by A Fine Frenzy

Chapter One - Monk

The deep blue spreads slowly, herding the sun over the horizon. Tonight's sunset isn't Midas; it grants only a touch of pink and orange before its benefactor slinks off to light up another part of the world. He picks a memory to match in tone, staying away from any after he moved to Neptune. He's not in the mood for those tonight.

He lets himself remember his mom, and a dreary day when he'd been ten and they were still living in Los Angeles. Just his mom and dad were home, his sister thankfully gone, staying with a friend for the weekend. The sky was a slate gray, the deluge of rain keeping him stuck in the house.

But he'd been so bored. His father, Aaron, was in one of his moods, the kind that usually kept Logan outside even when his stomach growled for food. Logan ran toward his room to get another Hot Wheel for the chase scene he was putting together on the living room rug.

Aaron lay on the couch, reading a script with his feet resting in Lynn's lap, and looked up. "Logan! When you come back here you will walk. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." It didn't take a genius to hear the threat in his dad's voice. Logan forced his feet to slow, and made his way quietly to his room. He considered moving his setup to the bedroom, but it had already taken an hour to get just how he wanted it and didn't feel like starting over. He just had to remember to walk.

Moving in measured steps on the way back, he dropped to the rug and put the car in place, smiling at what he'd created. He started to execute the scene he pictured, making what he thought were realistic siren and explosion sounds in a low voice.

Logan was surprised when he felt his mom drop to the carpet behind him, curving herself over his back and whispering in his ear. "I have a great idea. Let's go build a fort in your room. Then I'll make popcorn and hot cocoa and we'll have a picnic in it."

He wanted to say no so he could finish his car chase idea but, catching the tight, angry expression his father wore, he realized he messed up. Maybe it was the noises he made, or the way he'd spread his toys over the carpet. It didn't matter why; Dad was mad again and it was his fault.

So, instead of arguing, he asked his mom to help him clean up his cars and they did just as she'd said. The fort they built was cozy and private, using chairs borrowed from the guest bedrooms to create a circle enclosed with sheets. They enjoyed the picnic she'd promised while playing hours of Go-Fish and War, marooned on their own island where Aaron didn't live.

That night she tucked him in and, like always, brushed the hair off his forehead before placing a kiss on it and whispering, "I love you, Logan."

Another memory tries to invade his mind. A night in a hotel lobby when he truly realized his mom was dead. He had bent over and grabbed his knees, and then—

No. Not tonight. Go back. Remember Mom tucking you in.

And he does. Remembers again the motion of her brushing back his hair and then laying a kiss on his forehead. How both gestures made him feel loved. He remembers the soft way she looked at him when she said his name.

The sky now dark, he tucks the memory away where it belongs, with the name. He isn't Logan anymore. He hasn't been for a long time.

Heading down the stairs, he evaluates his options for the evening. He's not tired. There isn't a lot of entertainment on the Penelope to begin with, and this is the last night of an extra- long run. Their route usually takes them on a three-week circuit; however, another tub in their four-reefer fleet is laid up for repairs so they've been going straight for almost six.

All the time at sea has exhausted the crew's meager options for amusement. He's read every book he brought at least twice, and is saving a third reread of Lonesome Dove for tomorrow. The large flatscreen broke about a week ago so group movies are out, and he's not in the mood to watch one alone. There are a few games on the shelf in the mess, but he's played more chess with Carlos this month than he'd ever thought possible. As for the rest, this isn't the kind of crew that considers Milton Bradley a good time guy. Since payday isn't until tomorrow, everyone is too broke to play poker.

Not wanting to head for his berth just yet, he walks to the mess to see if there's any coffee. Most of the seventeen-man crew is hanging out in there, restless like he is. Once they drop off their load at Coquimbo in the morning, it will take the day to reach their home base in Antofagasta, in northern Chile. They'll get a week of freedom before it all starts again.

As he enters the room, only Carlos calls outs "Monk" in greeting. Nobody else looks up.

His first week on the ship some cleversmith teased him about taking a vow of silence and called him 'Monk'. The cleversmith left to work on another boat, but the name stuck.

He doesn't mind; it's as authentic as the name on his passport.

The coffee is fresh and hot. Monk grabs his java, then sits on the couch, closes his eyes and tilts his head back while listening to the others in the room.

Predictably, the guys' conversation is focused on how they will spend the time off. Captain Diego runs a dry ship so, as usual, the talk is as much about getting drunk as it is about getting laid. Monk hasn't had a drink in over eleven years, nor does he want one, so the discussion about alcohol bores him. As for getting laid, he doesn't get a lot of charge hearing about other people's sexual exploits. He seemed to outgrow that vicarious thrill about the time he watched the video of his—

No. No. If you can't keep your head straight, go to bed.

Nobody says anything to him as he swallows down the last of his coffee and puts the mug in the bus bin. That doesn't bother him; he's used to slipping in and out of these rooms unacknowledged.

Though, when they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, somehow corporeal ghost never made it to the top of the list.

He hesitates a minute before going into his room. The evening is beautiful, though chilly. The cold doesn't bother him and he's spent more than one night sleeping on deck, staring up at the stars until he can't keep his eyes open. He discards that notion tonight, though. The mood the other men are in, they won't be settling in any time soon and their laughter carries.

He attempts to read a little, but gives up after a few minutes and turns out the light. His memories want to come to the surface and it's taking an inordinate amount of concentration to keep them locked away where they belong.

So he turns his thoughts to Eva. She's his salvation on nights like these, when he would otherwise give in to every thought that tries to pull him backward. Knowing he'll be with her tomorrow is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. This job, this lifestyle, works for him on many levels, but he's happiest during the one week a month he gets to spend at home with her.

Nine years as lovers; hard to believe it's been that long. Monk feels content knowing he'll be with her soon. He'll stroke that dark skin and kiss those sweet, pink lips. He'll sink into her softness and fall asleep holding her sturdy form in his arms.

One more day, sweetheart.

Moving his hand down, he strokes himself; sometimes that's all that's needed to help him sleep. He imagines Eva's large, warm hands touching him as his own hand moves. He pictures her soft, warm mouth lowering down on him. As the pressure builds he envisions that mouth replaced with her straddling him, dropping down and bucking her hips until he calls out her name.

As often happens when he's doing this alone, he has to push away memories of a smaller woman, one with fine, silky hair and petite hands that were always a little cold. The name that falls from his lips begins as Eva, but extends into something else. Saying it aloud is as much of a release as the rest of this act.

Sated, his mind finally stills and he drifts into a quiet sleep.

The next morning, they pull into Coquimbo and unload the shipment of Argentinian beef they're carrying. As reefer ships go, theirs is moderately sized, only about sixty meters long. The cargo doors are built into the side of the ship, and the stock is removed by forklifts, hand trucks, and a lot of old-style muscle. It takes a couple hours, but knowing they're almost home puts everyone in a last-day-of-school mood. Their planned replacement cargo is small, but before they begin loading it Diego waves Monk over.

Though he spent a fair amount of time at home with his mother, Diego also traveled the world on his father's ship. His accent is slight, and he oddly sounds more like he's from Southern California than South America.

"I've been fighting with Manny in the business office. We just got pulled for another job, and I couldn't get us out of it. Dammit! It'll add another five or six days between picking up our cargo, taking it to Los Angeles, and coming home. We'll drive straight through, with no stops. To pull that off, I need both you and Carlos to help me with taking shifts at the wheel. Es Bueno?"

No. No "es bueno". You're from El Salvador, dude. I'd think you'd know what bueno means and use it correctly..

Shit. Monk's been looking forward to spending the next week at his La Culpa beach house, surfing and hanging out with Eva. But he also knows that they need three helmsmen, so there's not a lot of options. He nods - Eva will understand. Diego rarely asks much of him beyond the norm, so he can delay his homecoming by five days.

"Ok. We only need a small crew; three for bow watch, and three to handle navigation and engine checks. There'll be help with the loading and unloading at both ends. I know Carlos will help drive, and Javier will stay on as cook."

Javier cooking is a good thing? Tell me our cargo is frozen rats again and I may die of starvation.

Diego and Monk walk over to where the other men mill around, wondering why they aren't loading up their cargo yet. With a loud whistle, Monk gets their attention so Diego can speak.

"Change of plans. We got a one-time job. It means another five day stretch."

The resultant moans sound like the death rattles of a herd of zombies. Diego raises his hands and bobs them up and down as he lowers them.

"I know, I know. A couple navigators assigned to the Angelica live here and agreed to help us out, but I need four more, three for bow watch and one navigator. There's good news and bad news. Good news, is double pay, and you'll get two weeks off when we're done. Whoever doesn't work it, another boat is coming through in an hour to take you home."

The men look more appeased and the grumbling lessens. Monk sees a couple of the crew raise their hands, and then lower them when Diego talks again.

"Now the bad news. Something went down; there is an American yacht about 45 knots from here. The crew and all the passengers are dead. The bodies need to go into cold storage and be transported to L.A. We just got hired for the job."

Oh. That's one delightful little detail Diego left out. Who knew rat cargo could be topped?

The men shift and shuffle their feet, looking at each other and whispering. This time no hands are raised. The desire to go home is pretty strong, but Monk suspects it isn't why the majority are hesitating. When they are out at sea conversation often turns to ghosts and legends. Spending even a few days with a boatload of bodies is enough to unsettle anyone, but especially a bunch of superstitious sailors. Monk feels a little queasy himself at the thought.

I think I just figured out the perfect setting for another Reanimator sequel, though.

Diego nods, knowing their concerns as well as Monk does. "Come on guys. Double pay? Two weeks off? No volunteers?"

Not surprisingly, only a handful of guys put up their hands. Monk groans at the slim pickings. The navigator, Louis, is an okay guy. He's just a young man who doesn't yet have a family, so the extra sea time isn't an inconvenience. But the others are ones who drifted into this job because a conventional life just didn't suit them. They bring brawn, rather than brains, to the crew; Chuck is a braggart and an asshole, and George follows Chuck like he's a messiah. Winston, though a hell of a nice guy, has the IQ of a mollusk with special needs.

And, oh yeah, there's that whole gullible, hypochondriac thing. I swear I could convince him he had water-elf disease.

They have to wait for the other two navigators to show up, and spend the time filling the freshwater tanks, disposing of garbage, and loading the food stock to get them through the next week. Since this jaunt wasn't planned, their choices are limited to what they can exchange with other ships docking, and the supplies loaned to them by their sister ship, La Concepción, when it comes to pick up their leftover crew.

Awesome, ragtag rations. What the hell are we going to do with currants? I have to remember to tell Javier not to get creative.

When they finally get underway, Monk hangs out in the helm while Diego points the ship toward their destination. Anxiety laces his boss' voice. "What the hell, Monk. It's good money and we just have to tell ourselves its meat, right? We transport meat all the time. There's no difference, right?"

Nope. Absolutely no difference between people who were walking, talking, thinking human beings, and a bovine whose best skill was sticking its tongue entirely up its nose.

Monk shrugs; he won't interfere with this need to rationalize. They're three hours away from picking up their cargo regardless of how they feel about it, and it's obviously freaking Diego out a little. The guy is in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looks like it was taken off, put out in the sun to dry, and then stretched back on. He's been a sailor most of his life and believes in much of the lore and legends that come with the life.

Diego lets out a huge sigh, and looks over at Monk. "They say it's over thirty bodies. I want the large port bay lined with visqueen to keep it from getting contamined."

In case they leak? Okay, that's just gross.

Grimacing, Monk heads off to find his help. It's just after lunch, and at this time of day the crew that isn't working is usually hanging out in the mess. He can find a few loafers for the task.

Monk enters the room to a round of raucous laughter from four men sitting, their bodies oriented to face a portly fifth man, Chuck, who's standing with one foot on a chair, leaning toward the group. "…so I came home, naked, staggerin' drunk, and covered in puke. With a parrot I got, who knows where, sitting on my shoulder." His shoulders shake with laughter. "That's when she finally decided it was time to throw my ass out."

Stifling an audible snort, Monk avoids eye contact with anyone until he's sure he can keep his face from showing the derision he feels.

I've seen you naked, Chuck. Something tells me the parrot wasn't the deciding factor in that decision.

He's heard this story before, as have most of the other men. But time moves slowly when you're trapped on a boat with the same people, travelling the same familiar waters, and even repeated stories break the monotony.

It's Chuck that notices him first. They aren't friends; Monk can't stand the man, but Chuck doesn't know that. Every snarky comment Monk's ever thought has been held back and, since Chuck understands subtlety about as well as he understands women, the other man is under the illusion they are actually friends. No matter, it makes things easier since they have to work together.

"Monk, hey man! We're talking about things we've done to piss off broads. Got a story to throw down?"

How about I throw down a helpful tip, instead? Calling them broads might be what's pissing them off.

Monk stares at the man in answer. He has many stories to throw down but he won't allow himself to think of them. Most of the time he doesn't even allow himself to think of the names of any of the women he's angered, except for Eva. Instead he distracts himself in these moments by imagining all the ways he'd like to hand Chuck's ass to him.

Shoving a handful of live, baby eels into that hole on his faces. Make him keep his mouth closed until he swallows them. At least he'd be quiet for a few minutes.

After a couple of seconds of waiting, Chuck shakes his head. "Nah? Well, makes sense. Women are harder to piss off when you aren't talking to them or nailing them, right Monk?" Chuck laughter follows his own statement, as he looks at the other men to join in.

Hmmm…with women, my tongue has gotten me out of as much trouble as it's gotten me into. One more thing Chuck hasn't figured out, I guess.

No one else laughs at Chuck's taunt, instead shifting their eyes away and shuffling uncomfortably. Monk's used to this, too. He knows there's speculation about him. The crew accepts his muteness; it's not the strangest trait a sailor can have. They respect that he's a hard worker and Captain Diego's right hand. But that's all they know, and that bothers them. Rumors have gone around that he's everything from an assassin, to a descendent of Black Bart.

Whenever there's a new theory, Diego tells him and they share a laugh. The most recent is that he is a government spy. Why Monk would spend eleven years working on a refrigerated cargo boat, or which government he's working for, doesn't seem to matter.

But Diego keeps his secrets, the few he knows. Thinks the crew being scared keeps them in line. They initially bonded over their alcoholism, though Diego told let on he banned booze from the ship for religious reasons; no one wants to know their Captain and First Officer are drunks. Diego is the only one that knows about Eva and the beach house. And, due to a long night spent reading the abbreviated story Monk wrote down for him, Diego is the only one that knows Monk never leaves the ship when they're in the U.S. because he is an American, and his passport says something different.

Monk points to three men, George and the two navigators loaned to them by the other ship, and indicates they should follow him. George isn't bright, but the job ahead of them is easy. Though he doesn't know Connor or Vincente, he wants the opportunity to find out what kind of workers they are.

They grab the visqueen he indicates on the way, then follow him to the refrigeration bay and watch while he makes their needs clear. He's gotten good at using pantomime to give instructions. With the four of them working, they have the bay cleared and prepped like a kill room in just under two hours.

It's another hour before they spot a ship. It's a large luxury yacht, the kind that carries as many crew members as it does passengers. The Chilean police force is anchored nearby. Diego anchors the Penelope as close as possible, though they are still several hundred yards away. Even a moderate sized reefer like theirs needs some lead room for stopping.

They use the winch to lower the smaller boat from the deck to the water. Diego selects two guys, Javier and Louis, to accompany him. Connor stays by the radio, relaying the plan after Diego reaches the other ship and checks in. The bodies are being photographed, tagged and bagged, then will be loaded six at a time onto the smaller boat Diego took with him. The rest of the crew stay on their reefer to unload and place the corpses into the refrigeration bay.

The day is beautiful; sunny and hot, with enough of a breeze to make it comfortable to stay outside. The guys start up a shuffleboard game, interrupted briefly when a helicopter flies over their head to land on the yacht. Within a few minutes Connor tells Monk that two FBI agents will accompany the bodies back to L.A. Berths need to be cleared and cleaned for them.

The FBI. Fuck. A yachtful of dead Americans. Rich, dead Americans. Monk should have realized the U.S. feds would be involved. A wake of fear goes through him, and he forces it down.

There's no reason they should care, or even ask about him; they're coming on the ship for the bodies and nothing else. Nobody pays attention to the bus driver. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut, which isn't a problem. His quiet, hidden life will stay just that.

Logan Echolls has been gone for a long time. He can damn well stay gone.

The ship's central hub consists of a four-story rectangle. The entire fourth story is a glass encased wheelhouse, with an upper deck that allows the bow watchman a 360 degree view around the ship. On the second and third levels are several berths that sleep two to three people each, and the master head and shower room. Lastly, the main deck level has another head, a mess, and a galley on one side. On the other side are a few storage rooms, and three private berths with outside entrances, one occupied by Monk, one normally occupied by their third driver, Carlos, and the last by Andy, a senior crew member who has gone home during this trip.

It's Carlos' and the Andy's rooms that will be used by the feds playing body escorts. Monk assigns Chuck the room prep since it will keep the guy out of his way for a while. Little is required other than making up the beds and going over the rooms with a dust cloth, but it takes five minutes to make this clear with motions. However, from experience Monk knows written instructions are wasted on Chuck.

Incredible. Chuck can barely read, but acts like he's smarter than me because he can recite a limerick.

In another hour the first boatload comes over, accompanied by a couple of the cops from the Carabineros de Chile, and they spend the rest of the afternoon in staggered shifts. The fragrant, black body bags are unloaded from Diego's small boat via a net and pully system, then placed side by side on the floor in the cold storage.

It's surprising, the weight of a body after death, which makes the work hard. Also, their unfortunate guests have been gone long enough that there is no rigor. They have to have a man on each end of the bag, pulling as well as lifting, or it tends to sag at the middle. It takes a few awkward tries to figure this out, but they soon work out a rhythm.

The gruesome work naturally leads to talk of death; other bodies they've seen, family members who've died. Monk tunes them out.

No way, man. Think about Eva or book. Think about surfing. DO NOT think about that.

After the last body is loaded, while the cops take the small boat back to the yacht, Monk and the other men go clean up, taking extra-long showers to wash away the imagined contamination of death.

Monk returns to his berth and his books. The smell from the bodies is still in his nasal cavities, removing any appetite for dinner. He pulls out a book at random and retreats into a fantasy world until it's time to watch the sun set.

Climbing the final flight of stairs to his spot, a small observation deck on the third level, Monk is irritated to see a pair of dark boots on the floor above his head. This is unprecedented. Everyone knows he has staked out this corner to watch the sunset. Eleven years on this ship and he's been out here, alone, every fucking evening. And he likes it that way.

He doesn't ask for a lot. He gets the job done and keeps to himself, doesn't complain or cause any trouble. Diego depends on him to run the crew and he always delivers. The least they can do is leave him alone for thirty minutes a night. Just because they aren't doing their usual work right now doesn't mean this has changed.

Taking the last few steps, he comes around the wall to toss overboard whoever is sitting on his bench. But it's not a member of the crew. Instead its confirmation he's finally managed to make himself go crazy. He'd thought allowing himself only this time each day to dwell on the past would keep him within the lines of sanity, but apparently he was wrong. Because if that were true, he wouldn't be imagining Veronica sitting there.

But, as frightened as he is for the trick his brain is playing on him, he's also grateful. She's been just a memory for so long that the mirage is welcome. Even if she looks different. Her hair is shorter and straighter than the last time he saw her, and a little darker. She's rounded out a bit more, adding a slight fullness to her face. There are faint lines at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks are wet with tears, and she wears a familiar, irritated expression.

Funny, you'd think when I finally got around to hallucinating about her, she'd be smiling at me. But this actually makes sense, since the last time I saw her she was also crying.

Just as he's about to give her a smile, she snaps at him. "Trying to have a private moment here. Do you mind?"

Her talking is what makes him realize she's real. Thirteen years since he's heard her voice, and he's been remembering it wrong. In his mind it was just a decibel higher, and friendlier. But no, it was always like this; just low enough to be sexy, and brimming with snark.

He can't move. It's as if his feet are soldered to the floor and, instead of watching the sky, he's watching the golden, fading light on her skin.

You found me. How did you find me? After everything I did to disappear! What the hell are you doing here?

The words are caught, panic snagging them in his brain before they can ever attempt to leave his mouth.

She glares at him, her eyes narrowing in anger. Her hands wipe at her cheeks. "If you're going to insist on being here, can you at least turn around? You didn't pay for the show."

He has no idea what to say to her. She's owed an apology, but if he apologizes for one thing he'll have to apologize for a thousand. Better to wait for her to lay into him, and deal with her accusations individually.

But instead of the tirade he expects from her, she turns her head slightly, enabling her to avoid his gaze but still keep an eye on him. When she lifts her right hand to wipe at her cheek again her jacket falls open, revealing the gold badge on her hip.

You're FBI? Shit. I don't know if I should be proud of you, or scared. Is this some fucked-up twist of fate, or did a little Mars-nipulation get you here?

Either way she doesn't seem surprised to see him now. He doesn't know what to do with a Veronica that hesitates to yell a list of her grievances at him. Even the amount of time and distance that has separated them shouldn't make her treat him with the coldness of a stranger.

Come on, Veronica. You always come into a fight with a set idea of how you want to bring me to heel. Let me know what you want from me.

While he's just continued to stare at her, not saying anything, color has filled her cheeks, creating a blush made of pique. Her silence, combined with obvious fury, has him impatient to get this started. Just as he's about to end this standoff, she stands up and stomps toward the stairs.

"Fine. It's all yours tonight. But I call dibs tomorrow."

He's frozen by this unexpected turn, watching as she glares at him for the first couple steps of her descent. Their eyes don't connect, and he doesn't know if it's because of the sunglasses he's still wearing, or because she's so angry at him. Long after she's gone he continues to watch the stairs, both hoping and dreading that she'll come back.

Is this your game, Mars? Track me down in a place where you have me captive for the next three days, then make me sweat it out? If I know you, and I still might, I bet you won't make any part of this easy.

A/N: A huge debt of gratitude to nevertothethird for so many things: Encouraging me to continue with this story, your brilliant beta advice, not holding back on either praise or criticism, and for suggesting the song Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy as the accompaniment to this story. Not only does it fit perfectly, you've played cupid between me and a new favorite artist.

A/N: I am finally on tumblr (link is in my profile) so maybe I'll catch you there as well. As always, please review. Even if it's to tell me this story line is completely bonkers. I may not argue with you, but plot bunnies have to be fed or they start eating your brain.

via FanFiction.Net: Veronica Mars, Last Updated https://ift.tt/1xolg6i March 25, 2019 at 05:20PM

[lady-divine-writes]

Coldflash one-shot - “Unusual Bedfellows” (Rated NC17)

Len doesn't think that the man he's let into his Buick is a professional, but he seems eager enough to please. Their arrangement's simple - first, Len gets what he wants, then this man gets something in return. (2068 words)

Warning for implied sex work and sexual content.

Read on AO3.

“Hey. You looking for some company?”

Len peers up from his cell phone at the man talking through the rolled-up window of his blue Buick Regal. It’s not the most stylish car Len’s ever boosted, but it does the job. It’s low profile, meant to keep him under the radar. Several patrol cars have passed him by already without their drivers looking too concerned, and some foot traffic, too.

But it didn’t seem to work on this man.

“Possibly,” Len says. “You a cop?”

“Nah.” The man smiles bashfully. “Just a college student, trying to get by.”

“Yeah, I guess with that baby face of yours, you couldn’t be a cop, could you?”

“Exactly.” The man chuckles. It’s light, natural, flirty. “So, uh, why don’t you let me in? It’s gettin’ kinda cold out here.” The man wraps his arms around his torso and shivers to emphasize his point. Len glances past him at the trees behind him. None of their branches sway, none of their leaves flutter.

Len shrugs. “Sure.” He leans across the passenger seat and unlocks the door. “Why not?”

“Great,” the man says, that giant smile of his ever a fixture on his face. Men must like that about him. His cheerfulness. His youthful exuberance.

It gives a man the impression that he’s eager to please.

“So …” Len watches the man slip into the passenger seat and settle in “… what did you have in mind?”

“I guess that depends on you.” The man turns his body Len’s way, staring at him beneath long lashes. “I need something, and you need something. I’ll give you what you need if you give me what I need.”

“Really?” Len’s sarcastic, but the man’s eyes go dark.

“Really. Just tell me what to do,” he says, looking older, more dangerous, when those words rolls off his tongue, hot like moonshine.

Len’s grin burns slow, curls sinisterly up his cheeks. He might just have to snag a taste for himself and see how hot this man truly is.

“Well, why don’t we start here,” Len suggests, unzipping his pants, forgoing this man’s tempting mouth on his own to feel it somewhere else, where the tingle from his moonshine tongue might be more potent.

The man looks down when he hears Len’s fly unzip. He smiles as he leans forward and removes Len’s hands. “Allow me,” he says, pulling Len’s zip the rest of the way down and reaching a cool hand inside. Len sucks in a breath at the contact - this man’s chill skin against Len’s cock. Len peeks out the window and sees the trees shudder. He laughs once. Maybe it is colder outside than he thought.

That’s the last thing Len notices outside the car when he feels the man’s mouth encircle the head of his cock, a silky warm tongue taking an experimental lick around the top. Len detects a slight hesitation on the part of the man whose lips suckle just the head. Must not be a pro, Len thinks with a hint of sympathy. Man, he must really be desperate then. Len remembers the things he used to do in his youth to get by; things he never told anybody about.

Things he’d rather not remember.

To that end, Len considers grabbing the guy’s head and shoving down, give him direction, but he can’t. The man has started moving now, testing, tasting, and his mouth is just too sweet. Len moans subconsciously, and that seems to be all this man needs to hear. He sucks in and swallows Len’s cock whole, quickly, unexpectedly, and Len moans again louder – foolishly loud since he’s sure anyone nearby can hear him.

Len pushes his seat back. It doesn’t give the man too much more room than he had before, but the room he does have, he’s making the most of. Forget what Len thought before about this man not being a pro. He either is, or he just needed to find his groove, because compared to what Len’s had in the past few decades, this man’s a motherfucking expert. He seems to know Len, exactly what he likes. He bobs steadily, almost too fast, but Len doesn’t mind. This man and his mouth are utter perfection, the right amount of heat with just a touch of bite, speed and friction combining to create build up, but not going too far, not going overboard. And his tongue … it’s like a machine – tirelessly lapping, curling and stroking.

Len grabs a fistful of the man’s hair. He bucks up and the man chokes, scratching at the denim to Len’s jeans, but he chases Len’s erection as it slides from his mouth.

“Oh, Jesus,” Len groans. He slaps his hand on the door panel, finding it hard to think or care about anything while this man holds his thighs down and sucks him off. Ten minutes may have gone by so far, possibly an hour. Len doesn’t know, and that’s out of character for him. He doesn’t like to lose himself, or put himself in a position where he can get caught off guard, but right now he doesn’t care. He’s close. So close. He wishes the man would slow down a bit. He’s gone from bashful schoolboy to man with a vendetta in breakneck speed. Len opens his mouth to say so but he can’t. He’s riding the crest of a wave that’s lifting him higher and higher than he thought possible. He might actually be leaving his body. That’s the only way he can explain the dizziness, the euphoria, the heat growing in his stomach, building in his chest, crackling and burning like a ball of lightning.

The man’s hands leave Len’s thighs and crawl up his chest, searching out his nipples, his neck, his lips – anything he can touch that will connect him. An index finger slips past Len’s lips and he sucks. He feels the man hum. Len sucks harder and the man gasps, his mouth popping open so he can take a breath.

“Oh, God,” Len moans. “Oh, Christ … oh, God …” those moans altogether the most Len’s prayed since he was about six. He doesn’t warn the man that he’s about to cum, which he’ll admit is bad form on his part, even if this guy is a sex worker, but when he does cum, the man doesn’t pull away. He sinks down Len’s member, struggling to swallow, then takes another breath. No, this one’s a sigh, filled with an almost palpable mixture of relief and resignation.

That’s the difference between doing something like this because you want to and because you have to.

Though, for a moment there, Len could almost swear the man wanted to.

The man lifts his head and licks his lips, slick and ruby red even in this non-existent light.

“How was that?” the man pants. He smiles wide, eyes bright, desperate for Len’s approval.

“That was … nice,” Len says, tucking back into his jeans and zipping up. “Very nice … as always, Barry.”

Barry swallows hard, his eager smile turning into a grimace. He raises an arm and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Len watches, eyes growing cold as Barry’s burn hot, but not with lust.

With disgust.

“So,” Barry says, grave, “where is it?”

Len smirks. He debates not telling him, holding out for a second orgasm, maybe this time in Barry’s ass. God, he’s wanted to pound into this kid since the first time Barry thwarted him. But Len doesn’t want Barry to know just how much he wants it. That would give Barry power, and Barry doesn’t need any more power over Len than he already wields, whether he knows it or not. “It’s in a warehouse on 83rd. Deep underground. About 17 floors.”

Barry nods. “Security systems? Guards? Meta-humans?”

“All three.”

“Anything else?”

Len leans forward, wondering how close Barry would let him get.

Wondering what Barry would do if Len kissed him.

But from the lightning sparking in Barry’s determined eyes, Len knows that tonight’s not the night to find out.

“You’re welcome,” Len says, reclining back in the driver’s seat.

“You know, I’m not going to keep pumping you for information this way. Eventually we’re going to come up with a different … arrangement.”

“Yeah, well, just remember … you’re the one who started this, Flash.”

Barry glowers. The lightning in his eyes reflects off the windows of the Buick, throwing demonic shadows all around.

Yes, Barry started this. He wasn’t denying that. He had a good reason.

It was Barry’s last ditch effort to keep Len out of his hair … and, for the most part, out of trouble.

Len refused to leave Central City. Downright refused, even after his usual one heist window had long passed. Barry thought it was because Len loved being the biggest burr in Barry’s boot, but Barry discovered it was because of Lisa. Len didn’t want to drag Lisa around the way his father had him. He wanted to give her something close to a normal life, even if the two of them were still robbing armored cars and blowing up bank vaults.

After Team Flash saved Lisa’s life, Len decided that Central City was the best place for her, knowing that Barry would have her back, even if reluctantly, just like he had everyone else’s.

Though Barry seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time and energy keeping tabs on the Snarts.

Barry offered Len a compromise – he would stay off Len’s back if Len would be willing to act as his eyes in the underground. Barry knew that Len could go places Barry couldn’t, find out information that even Barry’s team, with all of their advanced tech, couldn’t unearth.

Realizing this was his best opportunity to keep his sister safe, Len had said it sounded good to him, but he needed incentive. He’d wanted total immunity for everything he’d done in the past … and anything he might do in the future. Addiction was in his blood, he’d argued. His father was an alcoholic, after all. Len couldn’t 100% guarantee that he wouldn’t fall off the wagon, not while being a snitch. What if he had to prove to the dark underbelly’s lowest that he was still on the down and down? He’d need to know he could do so with impunity.

Barry didn’t buy it. He refused to trust Snart to that extent, not after the last time Len burned him. Barry couldn’t hand Len a ticket to cause anarchy just because he got bored.

After a lot of back and forth, a lot of tiresome negotiation, they’d settled on this. It was accidental, spur of the moment, after a comment Len had made about the stress of the job, and now turning traitor, putting a damper on his social life.

For every piece of information he gathers for Barry and his crew, Len gets the dream blow of his choosing.

Turning goodie-two-shoes Barry Allen into his own private whore was just too good an offer to pass up. It was something he couldn’t steal, something he couldn’t buy with all the money in the world.

It was a handshake routine. Barry refused to put anything down on paper. He didn’t need anyone on his team knowing how he got his intel.

Len didn’t expect much from Barry at first other than a lot of sarcastic jabs, eye rolling and gagging, but as it turned out, Barry was too, too good at it. At all of it – the play acting and giving head.

Barry had to be. He needed to keep Len on his side. He needed to be able to take Len at his word, and ensure he would keep it.

So Barry followed along, shoved down revulsion, and put his heart into it.

But that doesn’t mean he has to put up with Leonard Snart’s superiority complex.

“Fuck you, Snart!” Barry spits. He leaps out of the car and zips away, leaving the passenger door hanging wide open, the whole care shaking from the force of his retreat.

“Someday.” Len pulls the door shut. “Someday you will.” He starts the car, and as he drives away, he puts his brain to work, trying to come up with the one thing he could dangle in front of Barry Allen’s nose that might make that happen.