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aminiatureworld · 3 years ago

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Wings

Characters: Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,523

Warnings: Slight depictions of violence

Premise: In which the reader has wings

Author’s Note: It’s been a while! Hopefully I’m not too rusty, although I can’t account for how late(/early) this is being posted. I’m going to bed.

Xiao

Even from the beginning Xiao had been enthralled with your wings.

They were larger than that of any bird or creature that Xiao had ever seen before, stretching far beyond your arms when they were unfolded, before bending to cover you in a cloak of downy feathers the color of warm soil, shot through with the occasional birch colored feather.

He’d decided to appear in front of you almost the moment he saw you in the distance, at first wondering if you might be an adepti or a god from one of the other lands in Teyvat. Although the look of surprise that crossed your face when he shed his invisibility before you quickly robbed him of that conviction. It was too late to go back at that point though, so Xiao begrudgingly let out his question.

“Who are you?”

Your smile was an odd one; it seemed to convey to Xiao that you didn’t have the answer to his question at all. Nevertheless you answered. You were a half-adepti, and as of such you had been born with wings. When pressed upon your adeptus side you merely shook your head. Both of your parents hadn’t stuck around that much, and you knew little of your heritage, or of the beings who walked the land who weren’t Morax.

Xiao had stared at you then, disbelief mixing with a vague sense of pity. What must it be like to be unable to recognize an adeptus despite being one yourself. It seemed ludicrous, but Xiao couldn’t find it in himself to disdain your state. Pausing then he decided upon what immediately after seemed a very foolish decision.

“Call for me if you are in need. I’m called Xiao.”

He didn’t bother waiting for your response before disappearing, unwilling to let his emotions be known.

The next time he saw you was in the sky. The yaksha certainly hadn’t expected such a thing, and while the initial shock was certainly something, it was almost immediately replaced with a strange appreciation. Though Xiao had seen that the vision you wielded was a Geo one, he almost immediately began to associate you with his own element, with the winds that carried you where you wished to go. Any clumsiness or human fault in your step was almost immediately shed, for how could one be anything but graceful in the air, no matter how they dipped or shook or stopped suddenly. If Xiao was honest with himself, he was utterly enthralled.

Eventually you seemed to grow tired and soon you grew closer. Shifting slightly Xiao backed up as you landed on a branch next to the roof, face flushed with exercise and happiness. Spotting Xiao you smiled brightly.

“It’s a beautiful place to fly here.”

Seemingly unfazed by the lack of conversation on Xiao’s part you sighed, leaning against the branch and staring into the sky. Murmuring something to yourself you seemed so utterly content. A begrudging curiosity swept over Xiao as he found himself responding to your words.

“Really?”

“Oh yes!” You immediately replied, face brightening. “It’s much nicer here than where I came from.”

“Where?” Xiao found himself once more asking.

“Oh this small village on the outskirts of Liyue, near the Chasm a bit. It’s a poor mining town, always covered in soot and coal dust. It’s very difficult to keep things clean there let me tell you; and the people don’t really like things that stand out. I haven’t flown in a while actually, since everyone was so hostile when I did. Now that I’m here I think, I hope, that I can do what they want.”

“You can.”

“I’m so glad to hear,” you smiled once more. “I wasn’t really sure what it would be like here. I’ve mostly stayed in the village, but people seemed more hostile than usual so I figured it’d be better to leave now before I ended up on the wrong side of a pitchfork or a shovel.”

“Humans are so foolish.”

“Maybe you’re right. Still, I’m here now and who knows! Maybe things will turn out well.”

With that you clambered off the roof and walked into the Inn proper, leaving Xiao a swirl of questions and surprisingly burning emotions.

After this you seemed to have gotten it into your head that Xiao was now primed to be your general confidante. Though this initially ruffled the adeptus, he didn’t truly feel like dissuading you, and by the time he’d gotten over the initial shock of your conversation he decided that your voice was surprisingly nice to listen to, and thus settled quietly enough into his new and strange roll of sympathetic ear.

“I registered for the Guild today,” you were saying today, voice bright with excitement. “It’s funny the lady at the stand, Ms. Katheryne? She didn’t even bat an eye at me! I was sure that I was going to get some questions, but besides the stares nothing happened. I’m supposed to start tomorrow. I have to make sure some supplies get to the quarry. Hopefully I won’t run into anyone there.”

“They will leave you alone. The Guild I’ve heard is a powerful force in Liyue.”

“I hope so! I don’t want my first commission to go wrong. I never thought about what I’d do in my life, beyond the usual village work. It’s exciting to have something new out in front of me.”

Xiao thought that was unbearably peppy of you, but he said nothing. Surprisingly he found himself also wishing that you’d do well.

Xiao wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, following your commission on wind currents. It was none of his business how things went today, after all what did he care about the affairs of humans, even those who were half adeptus? Still he found himself following you, cursing himself all the while for doing something so stupid.

The usual unshakeable happiness that you seemed to exude seemed to disappear almost the moment you left the Inn, instead replaced with a face grim and jumpy with anticipation. A few times you even turned back, studying the Inn or the sky around it. Sometimes your gaze even seemed to pierce through Xiao, something the adeptus found slightly unnerving. Nevertheless he followed as you continued on your journey, all the while wondering what could cause such a massive shift in your demeanor.

If Xiao had any questions about the extent of the reality of your words they were quickly answered. The atmosphere of the quarry was absolutely suffocating, and you could’ve cut the tension with a blade as you slowly approached the drop off.

The foreman said nothing to you, merely glaring as he approached the balloon that you were accompanying. Scouring the barrels and boxes his scowl deepened and deepened. Turning around abruptly he disappeared into his hut for a moment before coming back out. Gesturing towards to open quarry he glared at you.

“There.”

“Thank you,” you replied, voice suddenly small. “Uhm, where exactly should I put this?”

“You lived with us for how many years and couldn’t be bother to retain a shred of information?” The foreman swore under his breath. “Damned half-creatures like you. Put it in Section 4. Tell the Guild master that I never want to see your face here again.”

You said nothing to that in response, merely continuing on your way. Though Xiao couldn’t help but notice how white the knuckles were on the rope you were using to lead the balloon with.

The hostility didn’t ease up when you walked in. Instead things seemed to grow worse, as men and women stared at you with open disdain. The occasional insult could be heard, but for the most part it was deadly quiet, and your steps seemed shorter and shorter as you approached your given destination. At first Xiao was trying to convince himself that such a spectacle didn’t affect him. After all, what did he care for the strange whims and fears of humans. None of this had anything to do with his contract, and he was under no obligation to help you in such an instance. These thoughts were chipping away however, and before Xiao was entirely aware of what he was doing he found himself lowering himself on the ground.

A chorus of gasps rose up as he emerged from the invisible winds that cloaked him. Standing in front of you Xiao nevertheless didn’t catch your eye, instead focusing his glare on the people around him. At first you stopped, taken aback as well it seemed by his sudden appearance. Almost immediately however your posture seemed to relax slightly, and your pace seemed to go back to normal as you walked towards him, continuing on as he followed you to your destination.

Everything else was done in deadly silence, as you got the paperwork you needed and headed out of the quarry. Xiao said nothing the whole time, merely following a few steps behind you. He half expected you to start chattering again the moment the foreman’s hut exited the field of view, but instead you remained quiet. Still you seemed much less grave than in the morning and though Xiao couldn’t explain why this somehow reassured him. Walking next to you now he found his hand drifting towards you, as if the two were being drawn together by magnets. When your hands finally connected Xiao couldn’t help but think how warm yours were.

After that a ritual of commission sharing seemed to inexplicably pop up, though how exactly Xiao wasn’t really sure of. At first it had been to make sure there was no repeat performance of the first day, but then it quickly developed into something else, although what that something was Xiao didn’t really know. All he knew was that every morning when you went to leave he’d find himself next to you, frowning grumpily, muttering about how this wasn’t his duty. You were usually groggy in the mornings, but always managed to give his hand a squeeze before embarking.

If Xiao had subconsciously assumed that the mining incident was a standalone thing he was quickly robbed of that conviction. At first it seemed as if everyone was out for you, though in general the reason seemed to be less your status as half illuminated beast and more due to the figure you cut soaring against the sky, wings obviously too big to be a glider. Everyone seemed to be after you. Treasure Hoarders and Fatui Agents would try to shoot at you, though often you were much too high for their weapons; bandits would ambush you, aiming for your feathers as they attacked; even geovishaps and other such creatures seemed weirdly obsessed with going after you.

Though Xiao had told you more than once that it would be faster if you let him dispatch the monsters and knock out the hunters you always forbid him from doing so. It was your work after all, and if you couldn’t do it yourself then you might as well resign. Xiao usually responded to this with grumblings, but he had to admit that a part of him admired your tenacity.

Still it was difficult to sit back and do nothing. It wasn’t your presence that irritated Xiao, it was more everything else. Besides, he felt as if he was neglecting his duties sometimes. Thus when you told him one day that your commission tomorrow was going to see if a citizen had found a ruin network Xiao excused himself. You didn’t seem to mind too much, though you joked that you would miss your adventuring companion. Still the idea of suddenly not going with you seemed strange after weeks of this new routine.

“If you find yourself in trouble, do not forget to call my name. No matter where you are I will hear it.”

“I’ll make sure to do that,” you replied, smiling softly. “But it’ll be fine. I probably won’t even need to fight anything, besides maybe some slimes. I might even get back before you.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t. I’ll come back as soon as possible, and then maybe we can fly a little together?” For some reason you seemed to like the idea of flying alongside Xiao, who found himself more and more often indulging you, though he wouldn’t really call his use of currents flying.

“Maybe.”

“Good! Then I’ll try to wrap things up quickly. Can’t miss something like that, can I?”

Xiao didn’t say anything in response. Later that evening, after you went to bed, he stared up at the night sky, trying to grasp onto his thoughts. He seemed to be awfully worried about you, or rather you seemed to be invading most of his thoughts. Why Xiao couldn’t tell. At first it had simply been that your strange situation somewhat interested him. He couldn’t imagine the idea of a half-adeptus who had lived as you had. Then it had been the mining, then the commissions, then the gliding. Now he couldn’t even think of the next day without a strange sense of worry.

What did all this mean? Xiao never thought he would find himself infatuated with anyone. His only loyalty was to Morax, his only connections had been with the yakshas who were now lost to him. His only remaining duty was to guard Liyue, to clear the land of the curses that remained. Nevertheless he found himself thinking about you, worrying about you even. What did this mean?

Staring out into the sky Xiao asked himself what he wanted. An image of you seemed to materialize in his brain. You were flying high in the sky, arms stretched out wide, smile as wide and clear as the sky above you. He wanted you to feel that way, and, more than that, in that moment Xiao wanted nothing so more as to share that feeling with you, to be some piece in that vision of happiness. Shaking his head the yaksha let out a snort. What a stupid idea.

The next day started in a way much more similar to the days that had passed before you arrival. Xiao left early, finding it easier to deal with the lingering evils of the world when there were less people going about to get in the way. He thought of waiting for you to wake up, but for some reason the action seemed foolish. Or maybe it seemed somehow unlucky. After all, Xiao was embarking on a day that would surely have to end with some sort of cleansing ritual.

The monsters weren’t excessive, and the going was fast enough, though the sun had risen high in the sky by the time Xiao stopped to rest. Traveling towards Jueyun Karst Xiao thought of the pool of water up near Cloud Retainer’s domain. It would be good to rest for a moment, up near sure pure energy. Summoning some winds Xiao found himself in a weirdly clear frame of mind, detached once more from the world around him.

Then he heard your voice.

Almost immediately Xiao found himself above you, instinct reacting before his mind had time to catch up. You had never called for him before, and the unexpectedness caused a flood of hot panic to rush through him.

Staring down at the scene above Xiao felt another wave of burning emotion rush through him. You were backed up against a few stones, panic evident in your stance. One of your arms appeared to have suffered a gash, and as of such the claymore Xiao knew you carried lay in the grass next to you, too heavy now to be of any use. You also seemed to have suffered a blow to the head, and your awkward movements seemed to indicate some sort of dizziness. But what drew Xiao’s eye the most was the blood staining the brown of your wings, the feathers that were scattered around you.

The people surrounding you wore the crest of the Fatui, and their smiles were ones of absolute triumph.

“You should’ve flown away. What could a half-baked fighter like you do against the greatest army in the world? Now your wings will decorate the walls of the palace of Snezhnaya.”

You were mute to the Skirmisher’s jeers, your head bobbing to the side slightly. Once more Xiao heard your voice ripple through his head, though this time it was fainter, unsteady. The anger welling up inside of him seemed to ripple, and before he knew it the yaksha found himself standing in front of you, not caring about the black tendrils that licked at his polearm, only coherent thought that the Fatui members should have picked a different assignment.

Xiao despised fighting humans. They seemed to bend around him, shredding like paper. Though a part of him jeered that he was fighting nothing but monsters, the adeptus still pulled himself back. Some burdens were too heavy to bear, and even fighting a human was something that he would normally never do. Still the fight was brutal, if painfully short, and when Xiao finally found himself standing alone he surrounded by the groans and shrieks of those whose injuries would not be forgotten tomorrow.

Taking his mask off Xiao pushed through the tendrils of darkness that were now clinging to his skin. There would be time to bathe and clean off all the evil he’d generated and purified later. For now the adeptus ran over to your side, scooping you up and traveling as quickly as possible to the Inn. The smalls groans that escaped you cut through him, but at least you were alive. At least he had made it in time. At least.

Though there was nothing that the adeptus could really do to cure gashes and a concussion, Xiao found himself unwilling to stray from your side in the aftermath. Pushing away the guilt that threatened to burn through him when he was alone Xiao became a constant figure in your room. Perching no your dresser, or eventually in the chair Goldet dragged next to your bed, Xiao supervised your health with a regiment that would’ve been impossible for a mortal. Yet it didn’t feel like enough, it never felt like enough. Watching over you as you fell in and out of naps Xiao felt the guilt buzzing behind his ears. Your fault, this is your fault.

One evening Xiao found it all too much. Covering his face with his hands he rasped into the silent room.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Whipping his head up Xiao was met with your slightly groggy face. Reaching over to grasp his hand you smiled as the adeptus moved to intertwine his fingers in yours.

“I didn’t go with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I thought, I thought it’d be easy. But it wasn’t so I called for you and then you came and saved me, so it was fine.” Your voice was heavy with sleep and your words slightly slurred, but there was still some urgency behind them, an urgency Xiao found himself responding to.

“I still wasn’t fast enough.”

“You seemed pretty fast to me.”

“I still, it’s still my fault.” Xiao didn’t know why he found himself repeating the same words over and over. Somehow he seemed completely unequipped to deal with the panic that had been slowly crushing him for the past few days. How could he explain this to you? How could he explain the fear that shot through him, the anger, the… something?

“No, it wasn’t. It’s not your fault that I look strange, or that I have these weird wings. It’s not your fault that people don’t like it.”

“Humans are fools,” Xiao spat out. “They try to destroy something that is beautiful, all because they cannot understand it.”

“You think my wings are beautiful?”

“Yes.” Xiao didn’t realize that was a question. Somehow the looked of sleepy happiness on your face filled him with a sense of embarrassment. Ducking his head the adeptus shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you replied, happiness in your voice. For a moment you paused, before piping up again. “You haven’t been sleeping a lot have you?”

“Sleep is unnecessary for those who are full adeptus.”

“Still, it can’t be fun to sit here alone for hours,” you frowned before scooting over slightly.

Xiao stared at the unspoken invitation for a moment, disbelief mixing into the thoughts that were cramming his head. He said nothing, but as the look on your face dimmed slightly he sighed. Laying his mask on the nightstand the yaksha lay next to you.

You smiled, seemingly satisfied. Linking your hand once more with his you let out a small sigh, before relaxing slightly, closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep.

Xiao stared at the ceiling, listening to the soft cadence of your breath. The panic that fizzed through his brain only moments earlier, replaced with a contentment that the yaksha rarely felt. Suddenly everything seemed at peace with the world, and despite the summer heat Xiao felt no more discomfort.

#genshin impact #xiao x reader #genshin xiao #genshin impact fanfiction #requested #oneshot #my writing #alatus

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sunmoontruth-stiles · 4 years ago

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Ok this is gonna be long. I’ve literally been slowly working on this for… too long. I’m just in a mood to have a long discussion about ships. I’ll be looking at canon and not, so bare with me. I don’t ship all of these personally. I’m mostly just picking the most popular ones. I chose to leave out a few that I just don’t want to talk about. I tried to keep this loosely chronological, but that quickly went to hell. None of this is meant to be hate towards anyone’s ship, just my personal opinions on each of them.

Canon:

Scott x Allison: True Classic

Scallison is so sweet as it is truly the epitome of young love. Romeo and Juliet, except Romeo is even more of an idiot and Juliet is a badass who dies for a cause. They’re moral and ethical codes are both highly valued by themselves, even if they don’t align with others very often. They loved with everything they had. They were beautiful. We’re they soulmates in the end, or just the first love who will always hold a special place in your heart? Who knows, but I’ll always love these immature kids who thought their love could change everything.

Stiles x Lydia: The Long Awaited

Stydia is as slow burn as you can get. Unfortunately their actual getting together was slightly rushed in my opinion. They didn’t have time to find their own as a couple because Stiles just wasn’t in the show enough at that point. I know the reasons behind it, but it did leave this couple at an awkward stage of official-but-not-shown. The idea that Stiles loved her as a kid, immature and infatuated, and he saw her for who she really was, will always be cute. Then they grew, changed, became friends, and found other people. Them finding each other later on, having real love that’s developed slowly, is a wonderful arc. Though, a part of me will always believe they should have pursued other story lines in the wake of Stiles’ absence from the plot. They’re finally together! …but we don’t get to see it.

Jackson x Lydia: The Image

Oh Jackson and Lydia. Honestly, I love them. Their connection at a time in their lives when they couldn’t open up to anyone else, just hits me right in the feels. I mean, god that HUG. You know the one. Always brings me to tears. I’m so sad their relationship was almost entirely depicted during Jackson’s kanima time when he couldn’t think nor truly act for himself. Those small moments of scared vulnerability when he wanted to protect her from himself… I’ll miss these two. They deserved to find other people and remain life-long friends. I loved their moment in the last episode. I wish they’d gotten to see each other grow. Also they had such bixbi solidarity vibes, and I’ll die on that hill.

Scott x Lydia: Leaders

Ok, I’m gonna be honest here. I ship it. The power couple they would have been?? Also them coming together after they lost Allison would have actually made sense. A part of me kinda wishes the writers had moved on from Stydia as a romantic relationship and leaned into them growing as friends and Stiles moving on from his childhood crush. Scott and Lydia actually would have had good chemistry. They were both very headstrong heroic types, but Lydia would have balanced Scott out well intellectually. They had the history, and I think it could had worked if they wrote it right. Plus, Scott and Lydia would have been a better endgame that Scalia.

Scott x Kira: New Beginnings

These two were adorable. Kira was a badass, don’t get me wrong, but she let herself be soft in a way Allison was always afraid to. This couple was truly Baby. Absolute dorks. I can definitely see the lasting quality between the two of them. They saw things very similarly, and had a ton in common. I do think Kira deserves more characterization outside of their relationship, like more of her friendship with Malia. Overall, her departure from the show will always be sad to me. It was bad writing. Scott was over her far too quickly.

Aiden x Lydia: Pretty People Herd

I honestly didn’t see much between these two other than mutual attraction. The best thing to come out of this relationship was Lydia’s line, “You’re not just a bad boy, Aiden. You’re a bad guy. And I don’t want to be with the bad guys.” Good character development moment.

Ethan x Danny: Step to Redemption

Danny really was the thing that made Ethan look outside of the pack for what he really wanted out of life. They had a few cute scenes. Gotta love Danny’s final remarks, “Dude, it’s Beacon Hills.”

Allison x Isaac: Unexpected Rebound

Ok, I like these two. Isaac could match Allison’s snark in a way Scott couldn’t. They both fought the progression of the relationship slightly. They didn’t expect to fall for each other. They were less willing to let someone in close. I’d love to have seen more… but unfortunately their time was limited. On a side note, sometimes their relationship did feel like ‘we both are in love with the same guy, let’s cope with each other’, but I find that completely valid. I’ll talk about Scallisaac later though.

Stiles x Malia: Anchors

Ok but, them <3 I love what they did for each other. Stiles was able to help Malia connect to her humanity and other people. He never tried to isolate her in their relationship and encouraged her growth. Malia offered Stiles the emotional support he never asked for. She defended him, fought for him, and loved him fiercely. Stiles needed that so much after season 3. I think they were a love that wasn’t meant to last, but the impact of it was forever. I wish we’d gotten to see a real end for them where they agreed that they needed to grow as individuals but would always still care.

Liam x Hayden: Three’s a Pattern

These two’s characterization stopped whenever they had storylines together. Their relationship was built on Scallison references. Hayden’s character could have been interesting, but they never really gave her a moment to shine. Liam has the worst plots when they revolved around her. Cute couple, poor writing.

Derek x Braeden: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girl Boss

Derek deserves to be happy so much. Kate and Jennifer were just... jeez. Him and Braeden were cute and deserved more screen time. I think her intensity allowed for Derek to let go of control a bit more comfortably. Let Derek Be Soft. Anyway, love them.

Corey x Mason: Gotta Have That Rep TM

These two could have been cute if they were shown for more than two seconds at a time. I highkey forget Corey even existed all the time. Kinda just felt like a relationship to fill TW’s gay quota.

Jackson x Ethan: The Callback

Honestly? Loved them. Loved the chemistry. Loved the dynamic. Best twist. I know it was probably written in like that because Colton came out during his time away from the show, but it absolutely fit his character. Jethan is top tier.

Melissa x Chris: BAMF Parent Duo

Ok, so like, Melissa deserved this plot. She deserved someone to care about her. However... what the hell? Chris? In canon, his wife died like 2-ish years prior? His daughter died 1 year prior?? Is Chris really in a position to pursue a new relationship?? Also, like, Scott and Allison dated and loved each other up to her death. Kinda weird to have their parents hook up. I don’t hate it, but I don’t ship it…?

Scott x Malia: Lead up? What’s lead up?

These two came out of nowhere I stg. Like, 6B really tried to tell us this was something that had been slowly developing in the background? Also, I understand that they are their own people, adults, and completely in charge of their own romantic pursuits: but did Scott seriously never call Stiles? Like, Malia wasn’t just his first girlfriend. She was his first. Like, dude that’s your best friend?? Not even a head’s up? No, ‘hey would this bother you?’ Oof. Plus Malia was way too chaotic for Scott. She existed in gray morality that always prioritized her immediate circle, and Scott was a very black/white type of heroism. I just didn’t feel like they fit.

Non-Canon:

Scott x Stiles: Childhood Best Friends

Ya, sorry, I don’t ship Sciles at all. I get it. Like, I totally understand the ship, and I mean no judgment at all. I just see them as friends. I really value good male friendships in media because I feel like we don’t get enough, and I always liked these two.

Stiles x Derek: Enemies to Lovers. 100k. Angst. Hurt/Comfort.

God these two really are what fanfiction was made for. I could write a much longer discussion about Sterek, and I probably will eventually. I’ll try to keep this brief. These two weren’t always on the same side, but their approach was the same. They were very similar at their core. Plus, wow the chemistry. This should have been canon. Jeff’s a coward.

Allison x Lydia: Powerful.

This ship is so great. They really had a great dynamic, and a romantic plot would have easily fit the established narrative. Lydia’s confidence in herself and Allison’s confidence in her own abilities crossing over to each other because that’s what the other lacked? Iconic.

Danny x Jackson: He Gets Him

Danny really saw Jackson for everything he was and still cared. I wished we’d gotten to see more of them. I want more background with Jackson’s eventual coming out and his friendship with Danny. Like, they ended up dating the same guy. What did Ethan have to say about that??

Stiles x Jackson: Bastards

Ok these two had a super fun dynamic. The asshole-energy between them was, great. The snark was always so entertaining.

Melissa x Noah: Family

How were these two not endgame? Their sons were practically brothers already. They had amazing chemistry. The flirting? Not to mention, their timeline would have made way more sense. Missed opportunity.

Chris x Peter: The Opposite of Love is Indifference, Not Hate

Ok so like, this was definitely one of those ships that I had absolutely no knowledge of before I was pretty into the fandom. Like, this was not something I would have guessed just after watching the show. That being said; my god the chaos alone…

Scott x Isaac: The Disaster Duo

Okay ya I love these two. Two dumb asses who act like idiot puppies. Such a fun dynamic. Plus?? Chemistry??? Hellooo

Scott x Allison x Isaac: Three Heads Are Better Than One

This ship is definitely one of my personal favorites. I very rarely poly-ship. I just feel like most of them are just love triangles with an ‘easy solution’, when two of them have no real connection. That is so not the case here. I feel like all of them have such great chemistry with each other. They also have a great dynamic as a group. Season 3A was really just Scallisaac rights.

Stiles x Isaac: I Hate You, jk…Not Really

Ok I loved their banter, but I really just don’t see this ship. Idk, I don’t personally ship it. Would have loved to see their friendship develop more tho.

Erica x Allison: Duo that would stab you with a stiletto

I don’t ship it, but I do wish we’d seen them become friends. I feel like they had a very artificial ‘girls fighting over a boy’ dynamic? They could have been such a badass duo.

Stiles x Erica: Batman x Catwoman

Ok I’m not sure exactly how to express my feelings for these two so bare with me. OMG I love their dynamic so much, and they are sooo cute. Their energy? Amazing. Chemistry? Great. History? It’s there and has so much potential. 10/10. Love them. But, no, I don’t ship it lol. Just really love their friendship, but with the underlying history of crushes.

Boyd x Erica: Was This Not Canon?

How can anyone not love Berica? Ugh they are adorable. These two deserved so much better.

Boyd x Cora: Survivors

Honestly I don’t really see it? Like they definitely had a connection, but it never felt romantic. I really feel like they just had to lean on each other and bond to make it through captivity, and it just lasted.

Boyd x Erica x Cora: The Pack

I literally learned this was a ship a couple days ago. Similar feelings towards this as Bora, but with the added hesitancy of we never actually saw Erica and Cora interact.

Cora x Stiles: Slow Build Up

These two were clearing being lined up to be a thing before Cora ended up leaving. I can’t say I’m disappointed they never happened. Kinda felt like they just wanted to straight-code Sterek.

Cora x Lydia: Mean Lesbians

Not much interaction to actually go off of, but yes I 100% support. They have very different approaches to problems, which is fun. Very ‘opposites attract’.

Malia x Kira: “Maybe you could date the coyote?”

Another one of my favorites!! They really complimented each other. Also, how full circle would they have been? They were introduced in back-to-back episodes. Malia stalking her as a coyote? The line from Kira’s dad about dating it? It would have been so funny if that ended up happening.

Malia x Lydia: Beauty and the Beast, but make it wlw

These two were fun. I liked their friendship, but I don’t really ship it. Though, rip Stiles that would have been hilarious.

Parrish x Lydia: The Cop and The Minor

Must I say more? Like, Parrish’s character, so sweet and big rule follower, did not make sense for what went down with Lydia. I love Parrish, but the dynamic just felt off. It didn’t feel consistent with the rest of his characterization.

Parrish x Stiles: The Cop and The Minor, but gay?

Ok, same reasoning as above, but also they had absolutely no connection romantically.

Scott x Theo / Stiles x Theo: Sometimes The Villain is Hot

Ok I’ve put these together because I have the same opinion for both. I don’t ship it. Neither had any rebuilding of trust, and Theo really hurt both of them. I just don’t really think they work.

Mason x Liam: Sciles Puppy Pack Edition

Similar to my feeling about Sciles, I just don’t ship these two. They had a good friendship, from the little we saw of it.

Theo x Liam: Anchors 2: Electric Boogaloo

Another personal favorite! I really don’t even understand why this didn’t go canon?? The elevator scene was just, so intense. They helped each other grow in 6B, and I really loved their dynamic. They should have hooked up.

Honorable Mention?:

Parrish x Laura: What’s canon?

I’ve seen this in fanfic a lot, and I actually really like it lol. I thought I’d add it in here because I do love the creativity of fandoms.

78 notes · View notes

trulymadlysydney · 4 years ago

Text

Somewhere In Time: Nine

“The reason it hurts so much to separate is because our souls are connected. Maybe they always have been and will be. Maybe we've lived a thousand lives before this one and in each of them we've found each other. And maybe each time, we've been forced apart for the same reasons. That means that this goodbye is both a goodbye for the past ten thousand years and a prelude to what will come.”

-Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook

tw: Death, Loss of Parent

Previous Chapters HERE

***Please Do Not Repost Without Permission***

April 18th, 1963, 1:32pm

It’s a warm spring day, one of the first of the year, and ten year-old Tanya Elliot is thrilled to be done with class for the day.

She steps out into the sunshine, forgoing her jacket and instead slinging it over her arm as she says her quick goodbyes to her five best friends. None of them are headed to the same destination; Sherry’s mom picks her up in the parking lot, Marcy and Jana both take the bus, Kelly walks over to the high school to meet up with her brother, and Shannon walks home-- only in the opposite direction that Tanya does.

With an agreement to meet up in their usual spot tomorrow morning before school (and Kelly’s promise to bring some extra sweets from her mother’s baking club), they set off on their separate ways. Tanya shifts her backpack to her left shoulder, and begins her fifteen minute walk home.

She takes a big deep breath of the sweet smelling air, enjoying the way the sun feels against her face. She wonders if maybe she could convince her parents to take a trip to the lake on Saturday; maybe she could work on her tan for a bit. (And besides, she wouldn’t mind seeing Willard, the older boy who lives with his family in a gorgeous house right on the water.)

Tanya stops walking and is completely knocked out of her thoughts when something-- someone-- across the playground catches her attention.

It seems to be another little girl, definitely no older than Tanya herself. Tanya finds her eyes fixated on the girl the moment she sees her. She’s beautiful, but she sticks out like a sore thumb because her clothing is not at all of this time period.

Tanya stops walking, eyeing the girl from afar. As completely out of place as she seems, she looks perfectly calm. She watches the other children, a slight smile on her face. No one seems to acknowledge her much, except for maybe a confused glance or a laugh at her appearance. She brushes off the children’s snickers (as far as Tanya can tell, she doesn’t even react at all) and continues to scan the playground as if looking for something.

The girl seems to feel Tanya’s eyes, because her soft smile only grows in intensity before she turns her eyes to meet Tanya’s gaze. It makes Tanya’s blood run cold, but it also piques her curiosity intensely.

At first, Tanya thinks she’s perhaps seeing a ghost; after all, she’s lived in this town all her life and never noticed this strange girl with the strange clothes. But at any rate, it doesn’t frighten her much, and when the young girl smiles at Tanya, Tanya thinks better of her original assumption.

Tanya glances down at her watch-- a gold watch that is much too big for her wrist-- to read the time: 2:32. Her mother will be expecting her home in fifteen minutes, and will probably start to worry should she be but a minute later.

Still, Tanya can’t shake the feeling that this girl is important. There’s something in her eyes that feels familiar and welcoming, and an overwhelming sense of magnetism radiating from her very being. Tanya knows better than to talk to strangers, of course, but this isn’t a stranger; this is another little girl. A friend, perhaps.

So she bites the bullet and makes her way across the wood-chip covered playground, without any regard as to whether the girl wants to speak to her as well.

“Are you new?” Tanya asks as she approaches, by way of introduction.

The girl smiles an all knowing smile, as if she’s been waiting for Tanya to ask “I’m Violet.”

Tanya laughs at that. “Neat. That’s not what I asked, but neat. I’m Tanya.”

“Hello Tanya.” Violet remains weirdly comfortable throughout this entire interaction, as if she’s spoken to Tanya several times before this. She nods towards her hand. “I like your ring.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not new, no. I’m from the past.”

Tanya isn’t sure she’s heard Violet correctly the minute the words leave Violet’s mouth. She blinks, waiting for Violet’s face to change to reveal that she is, in fact, joking. But her face never changes. She remains stone faced and unmoving, and it takes Tanya aback.

After a charged yet awkward silence, Tanya speaks. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I—“

“No you did,” Violet cuts her off. “You heard correctly.”

Tanya blinks dumbly back at her new friend. “I don’t…. understand…?”

Violet sighs, almost as if bothered to be explaining herself. “I travelled through time to get here here. From the past.”

Now, Tanya grows skeptical. She wonders if this is one of her friends playing a prank on her, and she glances around to see if anyone is watching her from afar and holding in their giggles. When she’s met only with complete normalcy, however, she turns back to her new friend.

“But how?” She asks. “How is that possible?”

Violet shrugs. “I don’t know. I just know that it is. Because here I am.”

Tanya, still skeptical, laughs in disbelief. “Alright” she says, “well then what year are you from?” She puts air quotations around the question, which only makes Violet laugh in a way that makes Tanya feel immature.

“I come from 1907,” Violet explains. “What year is this? 1967?”

“1963,” Tanya corrects. “But I’m sure you knew that.” She rolls her eyes. “Look, what’s the big idea? I know you’re trying to fool me, and it isn’t working.”

Violet shakes her head. “But I’m not, silly!” She says. “I’ve been working since I was small to learn how to time travel. And I finally did it!”

“Wow,” Tanya deadpans, still completely unconvinced. “How did you do it?”

Violet grins. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“To tell you the truth, Violet,” Tanya says, absentmindedly picking at the dirt under her nails, “I don’t.”

“I didn’t think so.” Violet giggles. “But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.”

Tanya glances nervously around the playground once again. She knows she’s already going to be late coming home anyway, so there’s no reason she shouldn’t stay here and talk to the odd girl. Still, she doesn’t want to push her own luck with her mother.

She shrugs. “Actually, I gotta get home,” she explains. “But if you wanna walk with me, you can.”

Violet smiles, looking more childlike than she has in their entire interaction. “Really? Gee, I’d love that!”

“Really?” Tanya smiles. “Alright. Follow me.”

The two girls fall into step, side by side, as Violet launches right into her story about time travel. This doesn’t seem to be a secret for her— in fact it seems about as common a topic as the weather for Violet— but Tanya grows slightly embarrassed at the volume of the other girl’s voice.

It’s all so strange really, how trusting Violet is of Tanya. Then again, Tanya could really say the same thing about herself. She doesn’t know what it is about the peculiar girl that causes her to trust her so much, but at any rate she enjoys her company. (Even if her story is a bit odd.)

What Tanya hadn’t anticipated, of course, was the connection and friendship she would develop with this girl. She hadn’t anticipated inviting the girl over for dinner that night, (and she hadn’t expected her mother to say yes). She hadn’t anticipated spending all of her free time with Violet, laughing and playing together and becoming the best of friends. And she definitely hadn’t anticipated that within the coming weeks, she would come to believe Violet’s story whole-heartedly, which would instill within her a deep fascination in the concept of time travel.

And more than anything, she hadn’t expected their goodbye to be so painful.

Violet had explained to her multiple times that this was the first time she’d done anything like this. She had also explained that, although she would try, there was no guarantee she would be able to come back. And although Tanya had listened and valued what her friend was saying, she hadn’t exactly believed her. She had faith that her friend was going to come back. She had faith they would be friends forever.

But when Violet disappears, on exactly the day that she’d said she would and without saying a proper goodbye to Tanya, Tanya grows desperate.

It’s why, in the years that follow, Tanya finds herself immersed in book after book, depicting time travel and its possibilities. It’s why she reaches out, through any means necessary, trying to find some way to communicate with her friend from another time. Her friend, who quickly became a soulmate best friend, who understood her in ways many others did not.

It’s why Tanya finds herself grounded for a week the summer before 7th grade because she got in a fight with a boy at school who told her time travel was bogus.

It’s why she finds herself, on the night of her fifteenth birthday party, being relentlessly teased by her friends for still being interested in time travel.

And it’s why, on April 18th, 1975, she finds herself crying on her bed after another failed time travel attempt.

Her one year-old daughter Veronica sleeps peacefully in her crib as Tanya tries, to absolutely no avail, to travel back to her friend. She wants to tell Violet all about her daughter. She wants to tell Violet that, despite the literal years that separate them, she’s always considered Violet to be her baby’s godmother. She isn’t even sure why she’s still so hung up on this whole ordeal, but in any case she’s desperate to find an answer, and to know if Violet is searching for one too.

Tanya glances out at the night sky, the skyline of New York—so hopeful and inspiring to some, but so suffocating to her— promising Violet that she will never give up.

She promises, out loud, that she will never stop trying to find her friend. In every lifetime. In every timeline. She swears she will do her best to find her.

And with a discouraged heart that she tries to ignore, Tanya goes to bed; dreaming of a world far different than her own, in which times are simpler, and her best friend lives forever.

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

January 9th, 1925, 8:22am

It’s a quiet, somber morning in Harry’s apartment. In the same fashion that they have for the past few mornings, Harry and Roni work side by side to prepare breakfast in the kitchen. Only this time, it’s quiet. Nearly wordless. Their kisses are dry but lingering, and it makes them both feel guilty in a way that neither can explain.

Harry fights to suppress the urge to beg Roni, at least once or twice more, to stay with him; and Roni has to hold back the tears threatening to spill at any moment because she feels entirely too overwhelmed with questions. What if she’s doing the wrong thing? What if she chose to stay? How would all of her loved ones back home manage to live? Or what if they didn’t, and Roni’s decision killed them all off? Would it be quick and painless for all her loved ones in her original timeline? Would they just all together stop existing? Would anyone even remember them?

“I don’t like this,” Harry speaks up, drawing Roni from her thoughts as they sit wordlessly at the dining table.

“Hm?” Roni doesn’t ask it because she didn’t hear what he said. Rather, she asks as a way to fill the silence that follows his words.

“I don’t like that we’re just… not saying anything. I don’t know.”

Roni sighs. “I know,” she admits. “It’s not how I wanted our last morning to go.”

Harry winces subtly at her words-- “our last morning,”-- and Roni wishes more than anything that she could take them back. But she can’t. There is no way around the inevitable any longer.

“I hate feeling like--” Harry trails off, and Roni doesn’t push him to finish the sentence.

“Like we’ve run out of things we can say?” she offers after a moment, tracing the rim of her mug with her fingers. “Me too. It kills me.”

Harry gives her only a sad smile in response, which breaks Roni’s heart even further. She wants to suggest pretending like everything is fine, of course, the same way she has every morning for the past week. But she can’t. Not anymore. The decision has been made, and she can’t change her mind now.

Unless…

“Your food is going to get cold,” Harry chuckles, and Roni glances down at the room temperature piece of toast that’s been sitting in her hand for the past five minutes. She laughs bitterly, and swallows the lump that refuses to go down in her throat.

“Sorry,” she says. “Kinda nauseous. Not in a breakfast sort of mood.”

“Well you’ll have to eat something.” Harry drums his fingers absentmindedly along the tabletop. “Got a long journey ahead of you, y’know.”

He says it with a smile, but the words only cause the lump in Roni’s throat to grow ten sizes. She knows he’s trying to be encouraging, but it hurts far, far too much. She thinks that if the pain of overthinking doesn’t kill her, the suffocating feeling in her throat surely will.

Harry notices her facial expression, and his cheeks go red. “Sorry.”

Roni’s face grows hot and her eyes go a bit foggy. She had told herself this morning that she wasn’t going to cry all day today, at least not until that evening as they were saying their final goodbyes. This vow, however, had come after a silent cry as she lay in bed watching her sleeping lover breathe softly with tousled curls and a sleepy pout on his face. She could lay with him and watch him sleep like that forever.

So she giggles half-heartedly and unconvincingly, pulling away from his loving touch and fanning at her moist eyes with her hands. “Ah!” She groans. “Sorry. I wasn’t gonna cry until—“

“Hey, hey!” Harry leans earnestly across the table, reaching forward and placing his hand comfortingly on her back. “It’s okay, honey. Listen, you’re okay. It’s okay to cry.”

“This blows,” Roni says, her words accented by a bitter laugh. “I fucking hate this.”

Harry chuckles at her words. “As do I, honey. But it’s okay.” He scratches at her spine lightly, his voice softening as he repeats his words for emphasis. “It’s going to be okay.”

Roni looks at him, no longer trying to supress the single tear rolling down her cheek. He offers her the sweetest smile in return, and she leans across the table to kiss it softly. “Angel,” she says. “You’re a fucking angel.”

It makes Harry giggle, and he pulls away to stab gently at his scrambled eggs with his fork.

“Been thinking.” He speaks a moment later around a mouthful.

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Think we should make tonight special.”

“Special,” Roni scoffs. “Not quite the word I’d use for it.”

“I know,” Harry chuckles, “but it might ease the blow a bit.”

Roni rests her elbows on the table, leaning in to listen to him. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” Harry says, allowing himself a pause to swallow his food. “It’s going to be cold, so that might put a bit of a damper on the evening.”

“Because it was going to be such a lovely evening otherwise,” Roni says sarcastically, and Harry rolls his eyes at her cheekiness before continuing.

“Was thinking we could build a fire. Pack some food, maybe some candles. Extra blankets. You can wear my coat that you like.” His smile deepens. “You know. Just make tonight as pleasant as we can make it. Maybe a bit romantic. Go out with a bang, so to speak.”

Roni hesitates, trying to fight the subtle smirk threatening to form on her face. “Was that a play on words?”

“Hm?”

“You know.” Roni shifts in her seat, enjoying the playful banter that’s briefly lightening the mood. “A ‘bang.’ Like we’re gonna bang later.”

Harry laughs, an amused furrow in his brow. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

“You don’t use the term banging? Like, for having sex?”

“Never heard of that, no.” Harry grins. “It’s catchy. I like it.”

“Right?” Roni raises her coffee mug to her lips. “I figured that’s what you meant.”

“Do you want to-- eh-- bang? Tonight?” Harry laughs at the phrase that feels so foreign in his own mouth, and it makes Roni giggle in spite of herself.

“I mean we don’t have to. We might be too sad to bang. We can see where the wind takes us.”

“The wind is going to take you right on back to 1999,” Harry says sadly, although his smile still lingers on his cheeks.

Roni’s smile fades, and she feels her shoulders visibly sink. “Well,” she says softly, “yeah.”

Harry chuckles. “Sorry. We’re talking in circles here, aren’t we?” He nods towards her plate. “Can I make you something else, darling?”

———————

The rest of the day feels like a strange dream, both dragging on and passing by in a blur. They make slow, quiet love on the couch, and they tease each other playfully when they both inevitably start crying. When the sun begins its natural descent, they turn on some cheerful music to try and ease their anxiety, but it doesn’t help— reminding them instead of all the fun times they’ve had together.

Harry sighs after the third record they’ve put on doesn’t do the trick. “Can I play something else?” He asks, quietly but hopefully. “It’s gonna be a bit sad, but… you know.”

Roni shrugs. “Shoot,” she offers. “Not like you can bring the mood today down any further.”

Harry chuckles. “Well…” he says, then trails off. He gives Roni’s knee a gentle squeeze before rising to his feet, padding barefoot across the carpet to switch songs.

In such a simple act, Roni finds herself particularly overwhelmed with emotion. She watches him, eyes trailing the spanse of his broad back, admiring the way his trousers cling to his pert backside and the way he stands, legs apart and with most of his weight on his right side. She wonders if he’s aware that he stands like that.

In all of her twenty-six years of living, she’s never fallen so deeply in love with the tiniest characteristics of a person before. Not until Harry. She notices everything about him, and finds every bit of it endearing— (even the way he snores in his sleep so loudly it wakes her up). These specific moments of quiet admiration hold as much weight and value in her memory as those instances of passionate love making or deep belly laughter or falling asleep in one another’s arms. It’s all so deliciously him—them— and she can’t seem to fathom continuing on in a world without him.

When the music begins, Roni’s throat feels like it’s closing in around itself. She recognizes the song instantly— it’s one he’d played for her back when she’d first gotten here. It sounds different this time, and it doesn’t take Roni long to realize that this isn’t the instrumental version she’d first heard. This time, it’s the version with lyrics; lyrics that hold a much deeper value in her heart than the first time Harry had whispered them in her ear. Roni looks at Harry, helpless, as the opening notes begin playing.

Gone is the romance that was so divine

‘Tis broken and cannot be mended

Harry joins in, stepping gently towards Roni with a sympathetic, yet understanding smile. “You must go your way, and I must go mine, but now that our love dream has ended…” Harry trails off, his eyes growing misty (though he fights hard to suppress it. “Fitting, innit?”

“Oh Harry,” Roni sighs. She rises to her feet, taking his hand and allowing him to pull her into him. They sway gently, in what could hardly be considered a waltz, and Roni tries desperately to push the anxiety in her throat down. She rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes and breathing in his scent by his neck. He holds her like he’ll never let her go.

“Remember the first time we did this?” Harry asks quietly.

“How could I forget?” Roni laughs. “Feels like a lifetime ago.”

Harry rests his cheek lightly on Roni’s head. “It does, doesn’t it?”

They continue to sway, hardly exchanging any words, and Roni doesn’t even realize that she’s crying (again) until she pulls away to look up at Harry and notices her tear stains against his shirt. He’s trying not to cry as well; Roni can tell by the way he refuses to look anywhere but at one spot on the wall. But when Roni kisses the corner of his chin, he softens with a chuckle, shaking his head as if he can’t believe their luck.

“I’m already missing you, bunny.”

Roni sniffs, nuzzling her face back into Harry’s chest. “I’m missing you more than you know.”

Not another word is spoken, and even after the song ends, they stand together in silence. They’re hardly swaying any longer at this point— mostly they’re just holding one another while they still can. After about five minutes, Harry audibly swallows.

“We should probably get going. It’ll be dark soon.”

His words make Roni nauseous, knowing that her time left in this humble apartment is limited now to only minutes. She stops swaying, and Harry makes no effort to let go of her. He sighs, scratching tenderly at her back. “I know,” he whispers, “I hate it, too.”

Roni tries her best to keep a brave face. “Trying to get rid of me that quick are you?” she teases. She’s delighted when she hears a genuine laugh bubble out from Harry’s mouth.

“Oh honey,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “Never, never. Never in a million years.”

They remain still, holding one another in their embrace until they both become painfully aware that they really do need to get going. The process of untangling themselves from one another’s arms takes much longer than necessary, and even as they let go they immediately interlace their fingers.

“I don’t have anything to pack,” Roni admits. “You can keep my party dress from when I got here. It’s too cold for me to put it on and sit on the beach tonight. And as for the ones you bought me—“ She trails off, glancing down at the skirt of the pretty dress she’s wearing right now. “Well, you can keep those, too. Not sure how much use I’ll have for them in the year 2000.”

“You never know,” Harry jokes, trying to keep things light hearted. “Maybe there’ll be a costume party or something--”

Roni giggles, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. “Harry.”

He smiles, leaning forward and kissing her nose. “I’ll pack up some snacks and a few other things we might need. A blanket maybe. You get your stones and such. And,” a crooked smile tugs on his cheek, “that coat you like.”

Roni grins, in spite of herself. “Can I wear your cap?”

“Do you want to wear my cap?”

“I want any piece of you on me that I can possibly get.”

Harry chuckles, and for a moment everything feels completely normal. “Cheeky,” he mutters, pinching her butt before turning to busy himself in the kitchen.

Roni watches him for a bit, and although he’s aware of it he doesn’t make some cheeky, embarrassed little remark requesting her to stop. She watches the way he moves around the kitchen that she’s grown so familiar with. The kitchen, so beyond tiny and cozy, connecting to the living room that has come to smell like home.

The memories they have made in this humble living room in such a short amount of time begin playing like a film in Roni’s mind. Dancing together, cooking, making lol, building puzzles; the most mundane things made to be so magical because they were done together.

Roni smiles to herself at the memory of how unpleasantly she’d treated Harry in the beginning. She feels bad, of course, but it’s humorous to think about now because she was so lost at the time.

“I’m still here!” Roni exclaims, infuriated that Harry doesn’t seem as shocked about this as she does.

“You are.” Harry nods, the scrambled eggs in the frying pan sizzling under the spatula. “Did you sleep well?”

“Harry, holy fuck, how is this happening?” Roni doesn’t dare move, as if moving is going to trap her even further. She feels like the walls are closing in on her as the full extent of the situation hits her. She hadn’t allowed herself to fully feel these feelings the night before, because she hadn’t seen this as a permanent issue. But now here she is, in a year that doesn’t even feel real, with a bastard who doesn’t even seem to care about her concerns.

Harry smiles to himself. “I don’t know, pet. Honestly, I was kind of thinking that maybe you were drunk and just forgot where you were last night.”

“I wasn’t drunk, and I didn’t forget, but thank you for completely invalidating me.” Roni huffs. Stomping across the living room and plopping down onto the most uncomfortable couch she’s ever felt in her life, she figures this is an appropriate time to just pout– especially considering that Harry isn’t going to give into her panicking. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” She props her elbows on her knees and buries her head in her hands.

“Eat some breakfast and relax,” Harry answers. “We’ll figure this out. Would you like some tea?”

Roni smiles at the memory of her first morning here, feeling overwhelmed by the complete 180 her heart has done. At the time, she’d wanted nothing more than to go home, and she hadn’t believed Harry when he’d said they would figure it out. Now that they have, she wants nothing more than to stay here.

She makes her way into Harry’s tiny bedroom, the film of her memories continuing to roll through her mind. She had found this place so odd, so minimalistic, and she’d thought Harry was a nutjob for giving up his bed for her. She remembers helping him place the fitted sheets along the mattress, and she remembers waking up early and watching people through the small window.

Her cheeks grow hot, however, as the memory of the first time they made love in this bed plays in her head.

“Don’t do this… unless you mean it.”

Roni sees the earnestness in his eyes, and she’s never been more sure of anything in her life. She brushes the tip of her nose against his before licking her lips and pulling him in for another kiss. This kiss isn’t as elaborate as it had been moments ago, but it’s sweet, and she feels all the tension in his shoulders release.

When she pulls away, she smiles, reaching up to brush a wild strand of hair off of his forehead. She nods her head.

“I mean it.”

She chuckles, running her hand along the thin duvet of the bed and making her way to the small closet. She has to say one final goodbye to her dresses-- the ones that Harry had used his last dollars to purchase for her. The ones that had felt so funny and so foreign on her the first time she’d worn them.

They hang, untouched and cold, among the few dressier shirts that Harry owns, and Roni’s heart clenches at the thought of them hanging here forevermore. She thinks perhaps Harry should give them away, maybe to Daisy— although come to think of it, these may be far too dull for Daisy taste. Maybe Harry could sell them, make a bit of extra cash. Or maybe—

“Veronica.”

Harry’s voice from the doorway startles her out of her thoughts, and she whirls around on her heel with a jump. She hadn’t realized she was crying again (although the ache behind her eyes should have been a dead giveaway), and Harry notices her tears immediately. He doesn’t go to her, he only nods sympathetically when she laughs and gives him a shrug in surrender, as if to admit “yeah, I’m crying again, so what.”

“You alright, darling?”

She takes a slow deep breath in, savoring the smell of his little place that she’s fallen so deeply in love with, and examining it one last time before nodding and turning back to him. “I’m alright,” she says with finality. “Let’s do this.”

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

The beach is freezing, because of course it is, and Roni and Harry shiver as they set up their blanket on the shore. Roni reminds Harry several times that he didn’t have to do all this— he didn’t even have to come with her if he didn’t want to— but he is having none of it.

Roni shivers, wearing Harry’s heavier coat and his little cap that she’s grown so fond of, and her breath comes out in a visible puff of air.

“Can you set up the snacks and the stones and such?” Harry asks. “It’s too bloody cold for me to wait any longer on starting the fire.”

Roni nods, the thought of the warm fire cheering her up. She reaches into the picnic basket and begins sorting through the various snacks they’ve decided to bring.

Harry really had thought of everything, just to add a bit of a sense of normalcy to this whole ordeal. He’d packed some leftover cold pasta salad that they’d had from the night before, along with a bottle of chocolate milk for them to share. It was adorable watching him pack, especially when he got so excited about bringing items to make “these new treats called S’mores! They’re delicious, bunny, you’ll love them!” (Roni of course hadn’t had the heart to tell him that she was more than familiar with s’mores; not when he looked so cute explaining them to her.)

He had offered to bring candles as well, but ultimately had decided against it when he realized it was a bit windy, and starting a fire was going to be difficult enough.

As if on cue, he curses under his breath, causing Roni to giggle and offer him help; which he, of course, immediately turns down. So Roni let’s him do his thing, setting up all of the various items from the picnic basket and trying not to dwell on the finality of the entire situation.

It’s about fifteen minutes later when Harry finally has a solid fire going. They eat together, chatting casually about the weather and occasionally bringing up a few of their favorite memories over the past few weeks they’ve shared. It feels strange, when they really think about it, that their time together hasn’t actually been all that long. Both agree, albeit somewhat glumly due to the circumstances, that that’s what happens when you meet your twin flame. It happens, fast and quick and colorful, and then either softens into a comfortable glow or explodes into a million pieces, leaving the flames lost until the next lifetime in which they find each other.

Neither Roni nor Harry are quite sure where exactly on that scale their situation falls.

After their meal, they work together to clean up the leftover food, shivering and subconsciously moving their bodies closer to the fire. Roni scowls realizing how little either of them ate, and she sighs, looking out onto the dark, cold ocean.

“This feels like… like the last supper. You know like, in the Bible.” Roni scowls. “And I’m the one that’s about to betray you.”

Harry chuckles. “You’re not betraying me.”

“Well that’s what it feels like.”

“Well, don’t think of it like that,” Harry says softly. “Think of it like a romantic picnic between two lovers. I mean, that’s sort of what it is, isn’t it?”

His smile breaks Roni’s heart, but she giggles in spite of herself. “I suppose,” she says, her own words tasting like bile in her mouth. Speaking at all right now feels wrong and completely foreign, and the sense of guilt that lingers in her stomach has only intensified tenfold since this morning. She knows Harry is fully aware of the situation, and that he is prepared for what is about to happen; yet she still can’t shake the feeling that somehow she’s about to betray him. It’s like she’s looking in the face of an innocent puppy that she’s about to completely abandon-- shivering and helpless.

With that thought comes the terrible imagery of Harry packing all of this up once she’s gone. Harry-- alone and cold-- folding up the picnic blanket and the leftover food, walking soberly back to his apartment to sleep in his bed alone. The thought of him tracing the dent made by her head left on his pillow (since neither of them had bothered to make the bed this morning), or him smelling her dresses hanging in his closet, never to be worn again-- it’s all too much for Roni to bear. She lets out a long huffing sigh, accompanied by a gentle “for fuck’s sake.”

Harry barely looks up at her as he continues to set up all of the various snacks. “Hm?” he asks.

“Harry--” Roni’s voice is abrupt. “Am I… doing the right thing?”

Now, Harry does stop. He looks up at her from under his lashes slowly, as if waiting for her to say something else. He doesn’t press her, he only looks at her, and it makes her groan.

“You know,” she tries again, “Like… should I just stay? I don’t want to erase the people that I love from back home… and I definitely don’t want to erase my mom, but I can’t--” She breaks off, tears beginning to well in her eyes, “I can’t lose you.”

Harry’s voice is calm when he speaks. “Do you think you’re doing the right thing?”

“That’s why I’m asking you!” Roni wails, reaching up to wipe at her eyes.

“Well, bunny,” Harry stokes the fire a bit more, the embers dancing against the darkening sky, “You know I can’t make that decision for you.”

“Harry,” Roni sighs in frustration.

“I can’t tell you what you want to hear,” he says slowly, a gentle but sad smile tugging on the corners of his lips, “because I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t think you do either.”

Roni wipes at her eyes once again, only to realize that it’s in vain. The tears are thick, and are beginning to flow freely down her cheeks. Harry watches her sadly, unsure of whether or not he should move.

On the one hand, he wants to go to her. He wants to take her in his arms, kiss away her tears, beg her to stay; to be his forever. But on the other hand, he knows that what his beloved Veronica needs the most right now is someone to be strong for her. And how can he do that when he’s hurting just as much? How can he hold her in his arms and be strong for her if he knows that the minute he feels her shuddering sob into his chest, he’ll break down as well?

So he stays put, frozen in place focusing his eyes intensely on one spot of the fire. There is nothing more for him to do right now.

The sound of the ocean mixed with the crackling of the fire would be such a beautiful backdrop for a romantic evening together on any other occasion. But given the circumstances, neither Harry nor Roni are feeling very romantic at present. Roni shivers, wrapping the coat tighter around her shoulders as a bitter ocean breeze rips through her.

“I can’t lose you,” Roni repeats quietly.

“You won’t,” Harry answers. “I’ll never forget you as long as I live.” When Roni doesn’t say anything, Harry scoots just a titch closer to her. “Veronica,” he says slowly. “I will never stop trying to find you. Until the day I die, I will try. I will look for you in every corner of the earth. In every lifetime. In every timeline. I will do my best to find a way to find you. I will never, ever give up.”

Roni sniffs, reaching up to wipe at her runny nose. “And what if you can’t find me?”

Harry swallows audibly. “Well,” he says slowly. “Then. I’ll wait for you in the sky.”

Roni’s throat swells, and she blinks back a few more tears, licking away the salty remnants that remain on her lips. “I want you to find me.”

“I’ll find you,” Harry reassures her. “One way or another. I will find you.”

Roni blinks at Harry, so many words hanging on the tip of her tongue but no actual voice with which to speak them; especially because she doesn’t even know where she would begin. She lets out all of the breath in her chest, reaching forward and taking his hand in hers. “I love you, Harry Styles.”

He smiles, giving her hand a squeeze and running his thumb along the back. “I love you too, Veronica Elliot.”

After a brief moment, Roni leans across the way to press a few short pecks to Harry’s lips. When she pulls away, she sighs. “I don’t want to think about it anymore,” she says, “but I’m not sure there’s much else to focus on.”

“Tell me about your father,” Harry offers.

The proposition takes Roni by surprise, and she furrows her eyebrows at Harry. “Forreal?”

“Yeah. Heard all about your mum. Heard nothing about your father.”

Roni blows out a puff of air, wondering where she should start before giving up and shrugging. “Not much to tell.”

“You mentioned he left when you were young,” Harry prompts, “but do you remember him at all?”

Roni shakes her head. “Not at all. He was gone before I was even aware that I existed.” She laughs. “From what I’m told though, he was awful. My grandma never wanted my mom to be with him. But she was… I mean, you know, she was young. And no one really listens to their parents when they’re young. Not that young at least. She thought she was in love.”

“And him?”

Roni shrugs. “He thought she was easy. Knocked her up and poof. Gone.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows. “Knocked her up?”

“Got her pregnant,” Roni giggles. “Nine months later he was gone but—“ she throws her arms up, a sort of ‘tah-dah’ movement, “— the real party arrived.”

Harry laughs, nodding his head. “Absolutely. The world’s biggest blessing came along. I’ll bet he’s sorry he missed it.”

“I doubt it,” Roni says, scrunching her toes into the sand. “Bet he hasn’t even spared a thought for my mom and I.”

Harry says nothing for a moment, only staring deep in thought at the fire and processing Roni’s story. The fire feels warm on his face, and it makes him a bit sleepy. He breathes in, low and slow through his nose before speaking again. “Shame.” He smiles up at Roni, admiring the way the glow of the fire hits her skin. “Can’t imagine doing something like that. As a man. As a father.”

Roni shrugs. “I can’t either. But, you know, it happens. I guess.”

“It shouldn’t.” Harry shakes his head. “I wouldn’t let it happen.”

“You think you would ever get married?” Roni doesn’t exactly realize the weight of her question until it’s slipped past her lips, and she almost regrets asking it. Harry hardly reacts, save for the flash of his dimple that Roni has grown to love so much. He averts his gaze, really giving some thought to his answer, then after a moment, he nods.

“Maybe. But at this point, m’not sure it’s really in the cards for me.”

Roni leans forward, genuine concern etched into her features. “Why not?”

Now he looks back at her from under his lashes. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

He smiles sadly. “Because the woman I love is leaving me to go back to her home that’s seventy-five years in the future.”

Harry’s words hit her like a ton of bricks. Not that she was really expecting another answer, of course, but god. “Harry—”

“It’s alright though. It’s the way things have to be, you know? I wouldn’t change us. I wouldn’t change what we’ve been through.” He shrugs. “I’d change the circumstances, sure. But I’d take a thousand lifetimes of this over never meeting you. So I have to take that for what it is, don’t I?”

In any other situation, Roni would be fully aware that she’s moving far too quickly. But seeing as her time left with Harry is reduced down to merely a few more hours, she doesn’t care. “I’d marry you in a heartbeat, Harry.”

His face brightens ever so slightly. “Yeah?”

Roni nods earnestly. “In a heartbeat.”

Harry squeezes her hand softly. “Perhaps in another life.”

“And for what it’s worth--” Roni chews anxiously on her cheek, then quiets her voice. “I know my mom would have loved you. You don’t know her, so that might not mean much to you, but it’s true. You’d have her blessing before you could even ask her for it.”

“That means a lot to me.” Harry’s thumb strokes absentmindedly along the back of Roni’s hand. “I would’ve loved to meet her.”

Yet another long silence falls between the two of them, and Roni shivers when a particularly chilly ocean breeze passes through them. The movement doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry, and he smiles gently. “You cold?” When Roni nods, he immediately scoots over a bit. “Yeah? C’mere.”

Roni wastes no time in complying with his request, crawling over to him and making herself comfortable in his lap. He wraps his arms around her, rubbing up and down her arms and kissing softly at her cheeks. “Better?”

Roni lays her head on Harry’s shoulder, letting her eyes de-focus on the ocean. She doesn’t answer him verbally, electing only to nod and just enjoy his warmth.

There are a few minutes of silence between the two lovers, and each time Roni catches sight of the full moon, hanging bright and threatening over their heads, her stomach twists.

“Have I mentioned how badly I’m going to miss you?” Harry chuckles.

Roni can’t help but to giggle. Her eyes burn at the mere thought of more tears falling, but at this point she knows that not much can be done to stop them. “No, I don’t think you have,” she teases.

She tilts her head to kiss at his neck, sucking gently but with completely innocent intentions— until he shivers slightly, his breath audibly hitching.

Roni takes the nonverbal cue, trailing her lips gently and softly up his neck, and taking his earlobe in between her teeth. Harry groans, low in his throat.

“Bunny,” Harry says gently, “you don’t have to. If you don’t want to—“

“Who said I didn’t want to?” She peeks her tongue out from between her lips, rolling it just under this ear now. “Do you want to?”

He doesn’t answer her, he only hums, tilting his head to grant her easier access.

“One more,” she mumbles, angling her body so that she’s facing him more. “Please. Can’t leave you without a proper goodbye.”

Harry, once again, says nothing. He takes her hips in his hands and pulls her further onto his lap, angling her so that she’s straddling him now. He grins up at her, the ocean breeze whipping his curls over his eyes. “God,” he sighs, leaning up to kiss at her neck, “I love you.”

Roni hums, basking in the attention he’s giving her neck and beginning a gentle roll of her hips against his. She turns her head to catch his lips with her own, smiling against the taste of him she loves so much. As he parts his lips, tracing her own with his tongue, it feels different than all the times before. He’s kissing her the exact way she likes, but it’s sad now. Slow, as if he’s taking his time in order to remember every single detail about her lips.

There’s a wordless conversation occuring between the two of them as they lick, slow and gentle, into one another’s mouths. Roni reaches up to cup at Harry’s cheek, mindful of her cold fingertips and giggling to herself when Harry shivers at her touch. He hums, leaning further into her kiss and holding her lower back tenderly in his own.

They stay like this, just kissing and enjoying one another’s warmth, before Harry’s hands begin trailing up her back. He teases his fingertips along her neck, playing with her hair before lifting the cap gently from her head. He allows it to plop down ungracefully in the sand before guiding his hand up fully into her hair.

She can feel his fingers curling around the hair at the base of her neck before he tugs a bit, successfully pulling her head back. She moans when he attaches his lips to her pulse in her throat.

It’s sexy, yes, but he takes his time with it, inhaling her scent as he kisses up her supple skin. Her lashes flutter and she catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye; eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration, as if he wants absolutely nothing to draw his attention away from Roni’s entire being.

Harry is more lost in his thoughts than he intends to be, but he can’t help it. He’s wanting to remember everything about Roni, her taste, her smell, every curve of her jaw and her chest. His hand scratches lovingly down her back before trailing along her sensitive sides and up to her breasts-- so tightly concealed beneath her many layers of warmth, but still so pert and delicious.

“Veronica,” he moans, low in his throat and more of sadness than of pleasure, “I love—“

“Don’t,” Roni says, her eyes burning with moisture. She lowers her head, touching her nose to his in an attempt to raise his face. “Don’t do that. Not right now.” She lets out a shuddering breath, trying to refrain from breaking down. “Please, I can’t—“

“I love you.” He is insistent, wanting her to be sure that his words are true. “I fucking love you.”

“Please,” Roni cries, her voice cracking. “I can’t—“

“We have to—“

“I know but—“

“I fucking love you.”

It’s back and forth for the next few minutes, lips ghosting one another’s and noses brushing— as if breathing one another in and out, as if trying to exist as one person. Roni feels the dampness pooling between her legs, and with every roll of her hips she can feel Harry hardening.

All too soon it becomes quick and hurried, even a bit sloppy, as Roni slips her panties down her legs and Harry works to get himself unbuttoned. It’s far too cold to fully undress themselves, they’re both aware of this, but they can’t seem to move quickly enough. She straddles his cock, and they move so quickly he misses her hole the first time. She giggles, but it’s cut short when Harry attaches his lips to her neck and sucks, guiding himself inside of her gently.

“Fuck, always so tight,” he moans immediately, “holy fuck.”

They take a moment for Roni to adjust before she sinks further down, letting out a sinful moan that echoes one of Harry’s. On any other occasion, the two would be far more mindful of their sounds, considering the fact that they’re in public. But right now it doesn’t matter, especially with the way that Harry sinks his teeth into Roni’s neck, and the way she rolls her hips against his.

Roni gasps when he hits the spongy spot deep inside of her. Her head tilts back as she lets out one of the most pornographic moans she’s ever made. Harry takes this opportunity and hooks his fingers into the neckline of her dress, pulling it down and attaching his lips to the swell of her left breast. He sucks until his teeth meet her skin, and then he bites, causing her to let out a little cry. He’s marking her, and she loves it.

“Harry—“ she breathes, fingers frantically pulling at his hair.

He nips at the red little mark he’s left behind, then licks at it gently to soothe the sting. She hums, tugging at the curls on the base of his neck and shuddering, partly due to the wind and partly due to a particularly delicious thrust.

Lowering her head to rest on Harry’s shoulder, she inhales his scent, shifting her weight a bit so as to not get so easily tired out by her work. He wraps his arms impossibly tighter around her lower back, seemingly trying to get her closer to his body, and Roni groans, loudly, sinking her teeth gently into his shoulder.

She almost misses it when he lets out a soft cry.

In fact, at first she thinks she’s imagining it. But when the movement of his hips slows, and his breathing becomes more ragged than it was before, she stops moving and pulls away to look at his face.

Harry’s eyes are shut, and in the dim firelight she can make out the dampness of his cheeks. His lips are curled into a frown, and he shakes his head the minute he realizes that Roni has noticed. She stops the rolling of her hips and reaches for his face, cupping his cheek in her hand.

He’s sobbing, and he can’t even stop himself.

“Harry,” she says quietly, “Don’t--”

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Veronica.”

Now, Roni feels tears well up in her own eyes as she strokes her thumb along Harry’s cheekbone. “Don’t apologize,”’ she says through a whisper. He doesn’t even hear her as he lets out another quiet sob before speaking again.

“I love you. So so so much. I don’t know if I can do this.”

Roni doesn’t even try to stop her own tears from falling now, and she squirms a bit with Harry still inside of her. “Do what?” she whispers.

Harry shakes his head, still not looking in her eyes. “Live without you. I’m not strong enough to lose you.”

“Harry,” Roni cries, using her hand to lift Harry’s face and forcing him to look at her. “We don’t have a choice.”

He lets out a shaky breath, trying to stabilize his chest. “How can I go on when the person I love more than life isn’t isn’t with me anymore?”

Roni scans his face, feeling at a complete loss for words for the first time this evening. She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says through a sob. “But we’re going to have to figure it out.”

“Jesus.” Harry wipes at his eyes again, pulling Roni into him and pressing a few wet kisses to her neck. He lingers for a moment with his lips to her skin, and Roni can physically feel her heart breaking in half.

“I didn’t think this was going to be so unbearable,” Harry whispers. “I knew it would be hard but… fuck.”

“Look at me,” Roni says, pulling away and trying to gently guide Harry’s face up again. She offers him the most reassuring smile she can muster, but somehow it doesn’t help. “It’s going to be okay. Hm? We’re going to be okay.”

Roni cups his cheek yet again, and Harry leans into her affectionate touch with closed eyes. She watches him, a lump in her throat so large she’s feeling nauseous, and the reality of their situation hitting her for the hundredth time this evening.

“We’re going to be okay,” she repeats. “You have to promise me you’ll keep going. Keep trying. Live your life. And maybe… in another lifetime--”

Harry cuts her off then with a kiss, passionate and gentle all at once. He allows his hands to trail down her back. He grips her hips tightly, rolling her against him and groaning low in his throat at the feeling of her walls still around his prick.

She gasps, not at all expecting to feel him as deep as she does, and they share sloppy, hurried kisses as they finish what they’d started.

It’s messy and slow, but it’s deep. They’re both crying as they move together, lips hungrily exploring whatever area of skin they can get to. Roni bites down somewhere on Harry’s neck and he hisses, knowing he’s going to have an ugly mark there when morning comes. Harry grips Roni’s hips so tightly they begin to ache, and yet she still finds herself wishing he would hold her tighter.

Minutes later, Harry cums. Roni doesn’t, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t much feel like an orgasm right now, as strange and as out of character as that seems to her; rather, she just wants to stay like this, with the most intimate part of him tucked into the deepest, most private part of her body. She buries her face in his neck, and he wraps his arms impossibly tighter around her torso.

No words are spoken between the two lovers. No words are necessary, really. They just hold one another, the sound of the crashing waves mirroring their own inner turmoil as they hold one another and cry-- unabashedly and unfiltered.

It feels good, in a strange therapeutic sort of way, to be like this. To be crying this hard together, completely vulnerable both physically and emotionally, and as hard as it is to grasp that these are their last memories together, it lifts the tiniest bit of weight off of both of their hearts.

They aren’t sure how long they’ve been sitting like this when Roni finally makes an effort to move, her sobs quieted now to a few little gasps here and there. Harry instantly misses her warmth the second she lifts off of him, and he reaches for her hand like a little boy.

Roni smiles sadly at him, giggling and offering him a pathetic shrug as if to say, “well, anyway.” She gives his hand a squeeze, running her thumb along the back of it. Her chest flutters as she takes a breath.

“You promise to try and find me?” She doesn’t anticipate her voice coming out as hoarse and as sad as it does.

Harry hates how final this feels, and he shivers-- partly from the cold, but mostly because his body is exhausted from how hard he’s been weeping and how devastated he’s been all day. Seeing Roni like this, looking at him as if he’s her only hope in the world right now, absolutely crushes him.

Truth be told, he’s not feeling optimistic about being able to find her. And if Roni’s honest, neither is she. But the prospect of reuniting some day, sooner rather than later, seems to be the last string of hope that the two can hold on to together. So for both of their sakes, they know they have to put on brave faces.

Harry raises their clasped hands to his lips, and kisses each one of Roni’s knuckles individually-- taking extra care around the mood ring on her finger. She bites her lip, and Harry knows another wave of tears is incoming. He offers her his best smile, as optimistic as he can be, and speaks.

“I promise, sweet girl. I promise.”

---

Harry wakes hours later from a restless and uncomfortable sleep when he feels a stirring beside him. He flutters his lashes open and remembers, all too quickly, the reason he’s here.

Roni sits up, stiff and dazed beside him, staring unwaveringly at the ocean with confused eyes. Harry’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach as he realizes the inevitable— this is it.

He reaches forward to gently touch her arm but quickly decides against it, not wanting to ruin her one chance at getting home. He instead watches her with bated breath, waiting to see what she does.

“Veronica,” he whispers. “You alright, honey?”

She doesn’t respond. In fact, she doesn’t even look at him. She digs her hand into the blanket beneath them to help prop herself up and onto her feet. Harry moves with her, prepared to catch her when she stumbles a bit. He watches her intently, wondering what she’s going to do.

“Darling,” he says slowly, “Veronica… hey—“

She takes a slow step forward, hesitates, then takes another. And another. And then she’s walking towards the freezing cold waves lapping up against the shore. Harry panics. Is this how this is supposed to go?

“Veronica wait!” He speaks more urgently this time, stepping quickly to follow behind her. “Hey, wait a second, honey—”

Roni stumbles, almost in a drunken state not much different from the first time Harry ever saw her. She really is going, and he knows he shouldn’t stop her. But the waves seem violent, and it makes him more anxious than he already is.

“Veronica,” Harry chokes out, realizing now that he’s crying. “Honey, no, no, don’t go-- not like this… not yet… I’m-I’m not--”

“Let her go,” comes a voice, gentle and melodic behind Harry.

He turns around, no longer trying to conceal the tears in his eyes, and is shocked to see Violet, the mysterious and mystical fortune teller, standing there. Despite the cold, all she has wrapped around her dress is a shawl, and she doesn’t even seem fazed.

“She will be okay,” Violet continues, taking a gentle step towards him. “You have to let her go.”

“She’ll drown.” It’s the only thing Harry can think to say, but it’s not what he wants to say at all. He doesn’t really know what he wants to say at all, actually. His thoughts are running a mile a minute and his heart is aching.

Violet smiles knowingly at him. “She will not drown,” she says. “She will go peacefully back to where she belongs.”

Harry sniffs, a salty tear rolling down his cheek and getting caught in the corner of his mouth. “You promise?” He sounds pathetic, his voice thick and cracking, but he doesn’t even care.

Violet nods. “You have my word.”

Harry glances back towards Roni, who is slowly making her way further into the water. His stomach is in knots. All he wants is to run to her. Has he said everything he needed to say? He’s told her how much he loves her, but does she really know? Has he wasted his last day with her?

As if reading his mind, Violet closes the space between the two of them. She raises a comforting and gentle hand to his back, and he turns slowly back to her. “You did everything necessary.” She speaks quietly, looking straight into Harry’s eyes. “You gave her exactly what she needed. She will never forget you as long as she lives.”

Harry’s tears are flowing freely now, and his face is hot. The blanket previously wrapped around him is long forgotten on the sandy shore, but it doesn’t even matter. He welcomes the cold bitterly, and shakes his head as he watches Roni wade into the sea.

“What are you even doing here?” He asks, sounding a bit more angry than intended. “Hm? Have you been watching us?”

Violet remains calm, despite his accusations. “I just figured you might need someone here with you when the time came.” She takes a deep breath. “And I wanted to see the girl off. I’ve taken a liking to her as well.”

The two watch Roni stumble deeper into the ocean, completely unaware of her own actions. Violet hums, low in her throat. “To answer your question though, no. I wasn’t watching you. I just got here.”

“How did you know we’d be here then? And when?” Harry glances back at Roni, who is now up to her waist. She must be freezing, and Harry wants nothing more than to go to her and stop her.

“Was I not the one who told you to do this?” A bitter wind whips through Violet’s hair as she turns to face the sea as well. “I knew I would come up on you two eventually. Besides, this is the exact moment the moon is at her fullest. Of course Roni is going right now.”

Harry let’s out a pathetic and completely unintentional sob, his emotions getting the better of him as a panic attack rises in his stomach. “Fuck,” he says, then with growing intensity, “Fuck!” He kicks the sand, ignoring the resistance it gives him, then turns desperately back to Violet. “Does she know I love her? Does she know—“ He can’t catch his breath, and voice is loud. “Does she know I’m here watching her go? Jesus, I can’t—can’t do this, I- I mean I didn’t think it would be this fucking hard, Violet. Can I stop her? Fucking hell, can I stop her?!”

Violet takes a step towards Harry, who’s jaw is now trembling in synchronicity with his shaking hands. She puts a reassuring and calm hand on his shoulder. “It’s over, Harry,” she says. “You must let her go.”

Harry reaches up, running a hand through his sweaty, messy hair, glancing frantically from Roni—who is in the water up to her mid back now— back to Violet, who now seems worried about him. He lets out a wail, moving like he’s going to run to Roni, but Violet is quicker; wrapping her arms around him and holding him back.

He struggles against her a bit, eventually falling to his knees in the sand. Violet drops with him, gently holding him securely upright while comfortingly scratching at his back. She keeps a watchful eye on Roni; as does Harry, only his vision is nearly completely blurred. He wails, punching a little mound of sand beside his knees and using his free hand to wipe at his eyes. “Goddammit,” he mutters. “Fucking goddammit. This was a mistake.”

“Harry,” Violet says urgently, sounding more human than she has in the entirety of the time Harry has known her. “Listen to me, it wasn’t a mistake. I need you to breathe.”

He looks at Violet desperately, shaking his head. “I should have begged her. I could have made her stay. I fucking could have made her stay, Violet. I shouldn’t--” He gasps for air between sobs, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have let her go.”

“Yes you should have,” Violet reassures him. “This is the right thing. Think of her mother. Think of her life.”

Harry watches Roni, who is in past her neck now, and he tries to swallow down his panic. He watches her sink further and further, knowing in his logical mind that she’s completely safe. He blinks a few tears out of his eyes, his sweaty hair on his forward moving back and forth with each attempt to catch his breath, and then turns to Violet. “I love her, Violet.” His voice is desperate and pathetic, and he hates himself for it.

Violet looks as though even she herself, in all her powerful glory, wants to cry as well. She nods, wiping a tear that has made its way down to Harry’s chin. “I know you do,” she says softly. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

The two friends turn back to the sea, and Harry feels a sinking finality when he realizes he can no longer see Roni’s head. His breathing slows just a tick, and he lets out a shaky breath— realizing for the first time that it’s coming out in a hot cloud around his mouth. “Is she gone?” He asks quietly.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He knows the answer. His head falls, chin to chest, and he holds his face in his hands.

Violet says nothing, she only holds Harry in his desperation, breathing against him to try and subtly slow his breathing and calm him down. His sobs are heartbreaking, but they’re quieter now; less frantic. He cries until his throat feels thick and raw, and then it becomes somewhat silent. He isn’t sure how long he’s been there, and he almost starts to feel bad for Violet, who just sits there with him, patient as ever.

She doesn’t seem to mind, of course, she just rubs her hand up and down his back and holds him in the most comforting way she can manage.

After what feels like ages, he raises his hot, wet face to look at her. Her face is sad, but comforting. She offers him a faint, sympathetic smile.

“Will you help me?” Harry asks.

Violet cocks her head to the side. “Help you with what, Harry?”

“Look for her. Find a way. I don’t know.”

Violet’s face changes as she considers what he’s asking, taking in a deep breath and taking her time with her answer. She glances out at the ocean, which has somehow grown impossibly more calm since Roni’s disappearance. Finally, after a moment, she hums.

“You have to be prepared for any outcome, Harry.” She speaks sternly, as if to a child. “You don’t know if you have the gift—“

“I have to try.” He cuts her off, shaking his head and speaking through a throat that feels thick and raw. “I have to try.”

Violet scans his face, blinking slowly as she considers what he’s saying. “And are you prepared for what would happen should you fail?”

“I don’t care about that,” he says quickly. “I don’t care. Because what happens if I’m successful? What if I do have the gift? Hm? Then what?”

“I don’t believe it’s that simple, Harry.” Violet sighs. “I don’t get the sense that you have it.”

“But I have to try.” Harry emphasizes his words. “And if you won’t help me, then I’ll find a way myself.”

He rises to his feet and faces the sea, already beginning unbuttoning his shirt as if he’s about to undress and follow his darling Roni. Violet stands just as quickly, making her way over to him.

“Harry, Harry!” she says quickly, reaching forward to stop him. “Stop.”

He turns to Violet, and it’s the first time she notices how puffy his eyes are. She sees how determined he is, how absolutely heartbroken, and it hurts her own heart. She’s never been in love, although she’s helped many people who have been. She does understand connections like this, and although she unfortunately doesn’t get the sense that Harry is someone equipped with the gift of time travel, she knows he’s not going to give up any time soon. Not until he knows for sure.

So she sighs.

“I’ll help you,” she says. “But it’s going to take work.” She rubs his arm comfortingly. “And time. You can’t go right now.”

“But I can go? Eventually?” He looks at her with hope in his eyes, reminiscent of a small child, and it makes Violet feel for him even more.

“I can’t promise you that,” she says. “I wish I could.”

Harry looks out at the sea, one last time, then wraps Violet in his arms. It’s the first time all evening he’s reciprocated her comforting embrace, and he can feel her smile as she hugs him back.

Violet isn’t sure how long she holds him, and she knows he’s still crying by the way his back trembles every now and again. When he finally pulls away, it’s with a thankful smile. He groans and laughs at himself, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “Sorry,” he giggles, “must look a mess.”

“You look fine, darling.” Violet gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before nodding her head towards the setup previously used by him and Roni. “Come along, then. I’ll help you get this cleaned up so you can get home and get yourself a proper night’s sleep.”

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

There’s a buzzing in Roni’s ears, and her hands feel as though they’re vibrating. It comes after an intense, icy feeling in her veins, coursing throughout her entire being then fading all at once. She feels out of breath, but her heart is pounding slower than usual.

She’s somewhere between sleep and consciousness, and she recognizes this feeling in the back of her mind. The blackness behind her eyes somehow grows brighter and brighter with each passing second, as colorful memories flash far too quickly for her to make them out individually. At one moment, she’s a child again. At another, she’s at her mother’s funeral. And at another still, she’s graduating high school, waving out to her grandparents and Oliver in the front row. These specific instances don’t evoke any strong feelings in her one way or another, yet somewhere inside they stir something up.

A vision of herself, as an old woman, flashes behind her eyes, and although in her logical brain she knows that she isn’t old yet, she feels as though she’s lived that moment every second of every day.

The memories get brighter and brighter, buzzing loudly in her ear, and her body feels detached from her soul as she’s suddenly surrounded by nothing but white light.

Roni isn’t even sure when she’s opened her eyes, but all of her thoughts have quieted instantly. There is absolutely nothing surrounding her except white. She is completely alone, but it isn’t frightening by any means. In fact it feels rather peaceful. She presses forward, taking a step towards nothing in particular, and her legs feeling strangely weak as they carry her on.

Her heart feels heavy in her chest as she walks, beginning to regain a sense of consciousness while remaining absolutely at peace. She remembers that she’s traveling through time, yes, but why? Where is she going?

Your mind accepts this absolutely. It is 9:30am on June 16th, 1985. You have travelled back in time. Soon, you will open your eyes---

A voice that sounds familiar to her-- is it her own?-- catches her attention, and a memory comes to her mind like an electric shock. June 16th, 1985… what’s significant about that?

-into the hallway of the home you share with your mother, Tanya Rachel Elliot, and you will walk downstairs to find her cooking-

She smells something, distant and faint, but it isn’t the blueberry pancakes she hears the voice describing. Instead, it smells like… a house? A bedroom she’s familiar with. Who’s bedroom?

It comes to her quickly, her mind filling with images of Oliver, her boyfriend, at a New Year’s Eve party. The voice— her own voice— states that it’s 1985. Her conscious mind knows that it’s almost 2000.

Like a slap to the face, Roni remembers Harry. She remembers the first night she met him, when she was cold and disoriented in the streets of New York. She remembers falling in love with him, quicker than anything she’s ever experienced, and then her heart aches at the memory of leaving him. Knowing why she’s here, and how she’s going back to the modern world.

“Roni,” she hears a voice in the distance, soft and feminine and familiar, and Roni turns on her heel in her dreamlike state. She doesn’t see anyone, but she knows she recognizes that voice.

“Veronica,” it comes again, and Roni blinks in the bright light trying to find the source. Her mind is foggy, but she knows the voice. She knows she does, but she can’t quite put her finger on it.

“Veronica, darling.”

Through the fog in her eyes, she makes out a figure— far, far away, but moving towards her somewhat quickly. It’s a familiar outline, even if she can’t see the details of the person’s face. The closer she gets she realizes it’s a woman, and Roni tries to blink her eyes into some clarity.

The closer the woman gets, the more things start to make sense in Roni’s brain. The woman steps into focus, and it hits Roni like a ton of bricks.

“Mom?” She whispers, afraid that if she speaks any louder she’ll ruin any type of illusion.

The woman-- her mother-- nods gently as she comes into clear view, now only a few mere feet away from her. “It’s me, baby.”

Roni takes a moment, hardly daring to move until she can’t take it any longer. She lunges, awkwardly, running to close the gap between them and falling ungracefully into her mother’s arms.

This moment is one that she’s imagined so many times before in her life, yet she never could have dreamt how good it would feel. Her mother wraps her arms around Roni tightly, kissing her head, as Roni bawls like a baby.

“Is it really you?” Roni asks. “Are you really here?”

“I’m here, my sweet girl. I’m right here.”

Roni hardly hears her mother’s words, she just wraps her arms impossibly tighter around the older woman, as if scared that she’ll slip right from her fingers without warning. “Mom,” she sobs, “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Oh, baby,” Tanya coos. “I’m with you every day.”

Tanya pulls away slightly, despite Roni’s tugging at her, and wipes Roni’s eyes with her thumbs. “Don’t cry, my love.”

Roni lets out a wet laugh, reaching up to wipe at her snotty nose with the back of her hand. She hasn’t seen her mother in fifteen years, and she knows she must look an absolute mess right now. “Sorry,” she says, “I’m just… I can’t believe it’s you.”

“I know, Peanut.” Tanya smiles a smile that is so absurdly kind; a smile that Roni loved being on the receiving end of throughout her entire childhood. “It feels so wonderful to hold you in my arms again.”

Tanya was never a crier, so Roni suspects she won’t be now in the afterlife either. Still, the look on her face tells Roni all that she needs to know, and it’s beautiful. Roni sighs, leaning into Tanya’s hold on her face and staring at her mother eagerly, as if one blink will send her vanishing away again. She reaches up to place her hand on top of her mothers, and notices Tanya’s attention briefly shift.

Tanya squints, then laughs-- a surprised, tinkling sort of noise-- as she removes her hand from Roni’s face. She takes Roni’s hand in her own then and thumbs at the mood ring on her finger. “You’ve kept my ring!”

“Of course!” Roni feels like an overly excitable little girl again, who’s about to overshare about today’s lesson after school. “Of course I did!”

“It’s pink,” Tanya observes. She smiles warmly. “It was always pink with you.”

“It was mostly pink when I was around you,” Roni says. “Oh god, mom, I have so much to tell you.”

Tanya smiles knowingly. “Tell me. I’m all ears.”

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Roni says, through a wet and tearful laugh. “I guess… I mean, first of all, where the hell am I?”

“Where do you think you are?” Tanya’s eyes sparkle mischievously, but her words only make Roni panic slightly.

“Am I… dead?”

Tanya giggles. “No, my love. You aren’t dead. You’re in the between.”

“The…. between?”

“You have been here before,” Tanya explains. “Between timelines. Between time itself. You passed through here when you first traveled back. Of course, you weren’t quite sure of what you were doing, so it may be a blur in your memory.”

Roni tries her hardest to think back to the night she arrived with Harry. It is a blur, but it comes back to her faintly. Lots of stumbling, lots of white light.

She cocks her head to the side. “Were you there that night? Or… I guess, here?”

“I was,” Tanya says, nodding. “I watched you. I tried to reach out, but whatever it was that was calling to you— a soul tie, a connection, whatever— was much stronger than I. So I did my best to just guide you to it.”

“Oh.” Roni processes her mother’s words, marveling at the fact that her twin flame connection with Harry had been that strong that she hadn’t even been able to stop here and speak to her mother. “I see.”

Tanya smiles that ever knowing smile. “Tell me about them,” she says softly.

“What?”

“The person. Your calling.” Tanya takes Roni’s hand in her own. “They must have done a number on you, baby.”

Roni sighs, unsure of where to even begin, but instantly feeling touched just by looking at her mother’s sweet face. She wants to start crying again, but she refuses to let herself. Her mother stays patient, not pressuring Roni to speak until she’s ready.

And with a deep breath, she launches right into it.

She tells her mother everything; about how she was trying to go back in time to save her, about how Harry had saved her that night, about how she tried to stay strong but ended up falling head over heels for him. It’s difficult recounting everything, especially because it feels so fresh in her own mind, and as hard as she’s working to conceal her tears, she can’t stop them from falling down her cheeks.

And Tanya only listens. Kind and understanding, Tanya listens. She doesn’t interrupt, she only nods every now and then, giving Roni the most sympathetic eyes in the world.

Roni laughs, cries, and every emotion in between as she tells her mother the entire story. And at the end of it, her mother wraps her in a comforting embrace while she tries to get her tears under control.

“My sweet girl,” Tanya coos, scratching Roni’s back comfortingly. “My sweet, brave girl.”

When Roni pulls away, confusion clouds her features. She searches her mother’s face for a wordless answer to a question she has yet to ask.

“Mom?” She says through a shaky breath, “Am I… I mean, did I do the right thing?”

Tanya brushes Roni’s hair off of her face, coming through it lovingly with her fingers. “Do you think you did?”

Roni groans. “God, you sound just like him. I just want to know if I made the right decision, but I have no way of gauging that, you know? Like how do I know?”

Tanya laughs. “To tell you the truth, my love, I really think you did. In fact, I can promise that you did.”

“But... Harry…” Roni trails off in a sigh. “I just want to know that he’ll be okay. You know?”

Tanya nods understandingly. “I know.”

“So is there… I don’t know, like, a way? For you to watch over him? I don’t know how the afterlife works.”

Tanya giggles at Roni’s words. “I’ll check in on him, sweetheart. If that’s what you want.”

“And can you—“ Roni sniffs, willing herself not to start sobbing again. “Can you tell him I love him?”

“You love him?” It isn’t accusatory, and her tone isn’t really all that shocked either. It’s a simple question, but Roni’s insides flip.

“I do,” she says decidedly. “So, so much.”

Tanya’s next question takes Roni by surprise. “And Oliver?”

“You know about Oliver? I didn’t start dating him until after you—“

“I know,” Tanya says calmly. “I’m with you always.”

“Oh.” Roni blows a puff of air out from her lips, reaching up to fidget with her hair. “Well. I love Oliver, but it’s not… I mean…. Harry is…” She trails off, looking helplessly at her mother, as if Tanya will be able to fill in the blanks.

Tanya only smiles. “Your twin flame. I know.”

Roni laughs in disbelief. “It’s weird, huh?” She asks. “How does that even happen?”

“How could you possibly travel back to 1925?” Tanya laughs. “Some things are not meant for us to understand, my darling.” She gives Roni’s shoulder a playful squeeze before continuing. “Anyway. I like Oliver. He’s a good kid. He takes good care of you. But Harry,” she smiles knowingly, “Harry set your soul on fire. This I know for sure.”

“I can’t help but feel like I did the wrong thing,” Roni sighs. “Even though I know I didn’t. I jst couldn’t erase you, you know? And everyone back home that I love—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself. Not to me. You did the right thing.”

Roni sighs, eyes scanning the great white abyss surrounding them as she tries to figure out what on earth to say. “So now what?” She tries after a moment. “Where do I even go from here?”

“Back home,” Tanya says, a comforting hand trailing up Roni’s arm. “To live a long and full life. To grow old, and to have children of your own. To stop living in the past.” The last bit is said more pointedly, and Roni blinks through her misty eyes back at her mother.

“I’m not—“

“Veronica,” Tanya says slowly, “darling, look at all you’ve had. My god, look at all you’ve done.”

“I would trade it all to have you back, mom.” Roni reaches for her mother’s hand and squeezes. “All of it. Every bit.”

Tanya smiles. “I know, sweetheart. I know. But I am gone. You have done everything you could have done to bring me back. It was not in fate's design.”

Roni shakes her head, not wanting to believe her mother’s words but knowing she’s right. “But where do I go?” she repeats, quieter this time.

Tanya takes a big deep breath in through her nose. “I told you. You must go on and do even more incredible things with your life.” She laughs softly through her nose, and if Roni had blinked she’d have missed the moisture forming in her mother’s eyes. “I am so, so proud of who you are, Veronica.”

“I don’t want to go on without you, mom.”

“You will never have to. You never have before. I’m always going to be with you.”

“But now I have to like… go into the world again. The modern world, I mean. Knowing that I’ve seen you again, and that I’ve been in love. Real actual love. How can I just... go back?”

“You don’t have to go back, sweetheart. Not like that. You don’t have to be stuck. Life is far too short to be living it in a way that doesn’t make you happy. Do you understand? Do not let it pass you by.”

“But… but you-- and Harry--”

“Stop living in the past, Peanut. Worrying, and not allowing yourself to move forward, will never add any years to your life. It didn’t mine.”

Roni’s shoulders visibly soften, and she blinks up at her mother. She wants to take in all of her mothers advice, but mostly she just wants to drink in as much of her mother’s presence as possible. “I love you, mom.”

“I love you too, Veronica. More than you know.”

In the distance, Roni begins to hear a soft commotion. She looks around, trying to figure out where on earth the noise could be coming from (considering that there is nothing around her except for a great white nothingness). It starts out dull, a faint buzzing that gradually grows louder. She turns back to her mother, only to be met with a sad smile.

“Our time is almost up here,” Tanya explains, and Roni’s heart begins to swell with panic.

“What? No, I’m not ready—“

“You are ready, dear. You are as ready as you’ll ever be.”

The commotion grows louder, and Roni shakes her head. “But I don’t know what to do!”

“Yes you do.” Tanya nods. “You always have.” She reaches forward and wraps Roni into a tight hug, giving her a squeeze and pressing her lips to her head. “Remember what I told you. I’ll always be with you. So will he.”

“I don’t know what to do!” Roni wails again, her puffy eyes aching with pressure as more tears begin flowing. “I don’t know where to go!”

“The answers will come,” Tanya says, pulling away from Roni slowly. “What is meant to be will be. Some things you cannot change, but what is meant to be will always find a way.”

“Why weren’t you meant to stay with me then?” Roni cries, beginning to struggle to be heard over the buzzing noise of an invisible crowd. “To watch me grow up? To help me through life? Why did you have to go?”

“Everything has a reason,” Tanya says, stepping backwards from Roni. “Some reasons, we are never meant to know.”

“Mom—“

“I love you, Peanut.” Tanya continues to step backwards from Roni, and Roni tries to lunge for her. Her legs, however, feel like molasses, as if she’s suddenly dreaming and she can’t seem to move fast enough to where she needs to be.

“Don’t go yet!” Roni calls. “I’m not ready!”

“You are ready.” Roni can barely hear her mother now, and it seems that the further she steps away from her, the louder the buzzing becomes. “Don’t forget what I’ve told you.”

“But mom—“

In a flash, Tanya seems as far away as she can possibly get. Roni panics, turning around as quickly as her legs will let her, in search for some kind of answer. A door, perhaps, or at least the source of the deafening noise she’s hearing.

She calls for her mother, feeling desperately like a child who’s lost in a supermarket. She feels hot tears rolling down her face, and she defiantly wipes them away with the back of her wrist.

“Mom!”

The noise is ringing in Roni’s ears now, and her body feels fuzzy and foreign as she looks for an answer. She raises her palms to her ears to try and drown the noise out, but she can’t— it’s too deep within her head. “Fuck,” she cries, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Veronica,” comes her mother’s voice, as clear in her head as if it were her own consciousness. “Darling.”

Roni’s chest grows heavy as she wills the noise to stop, please; and all the while images of Harry flash in her head. Her mother’s voice comes again, and is the last thing she hears before everything goes completely black.

“Open your eyes.”

#Harry Styles #Harry #One Direction #Harry Styles fanfiction #Harry fanfiction #One direction fanfiction #fanfiction #Harry Styles AU #Harry AU #One Direction AU #AU #Harry Styles fluff #Harry fluff #One Direction fluff #fluff #Harry Styles smut #Harry smut #One Direction smut #smut

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cheeriecherry · 4 years ago

Text

Space Between [Aizawa Shouta x F!Reader x Yamada Hizashi] [2/9]

EraserMic x Reader

Part 2/8

Warnings: depictions of PTSD, one (1) mention of vomiting (nothing graphic), very brief mention of violence (also nothing graphic), your friends being concerned about you, hugs

You wake up the next morning with a very sore, very stiff neck. You appreciate your friends putting you up for a while, but between the two of them they had terrible taste in furniture. In fact, you’re pretty certain their couch is the same couch you three shared when you first got your own place together…

You sit up on the lumpy cushions, wincing when your spine crackles. When you move to stand you find that you can’t, held in place by previously unnoticed twin weights on your blanketed legs. Your heart rate speeds up for a moment, before you realize it’s just a pair of cats sleeping on you.

You carefully finagle your way out from under them, taking extra care not to rouse or wake them. One of them chirps and stretches, and you pause, but she quickly falls back to sleep, tucked up against her companion.

Once you’re free, you wander towards the kitchen to find something to eat. Hizashi had offered to order takeout last night, but you were nearly dead on your feet by the time you walked into the house. You’d gone straight to bed, and now you had to deal with the stomach cramps.

You search around in the pantry and fridge for a while, finding few things more than rice, bread, condiments, and a couple canned goods. It made sense, considering how busy your friends were, but it was also a little ridiculous.

“You’d think two grown men could handle some grocery shopping,” you mumble, and settle on some rice, eggs, and toast. Not your ideal breakfast, but it was better than nothing.

You prepare the rice and set a pan on the stove in a haze, still muddled with sleep. Once both are sufficiently rinsed and warming, you set the rice off to cook and plop down at the kitchen table, where you notice a folded paper sitting. With your name on it.

Curious, you flip it open, instantly recognizing Hizashi’s messy writing.

‘Sho and I had to head out early, but we didn’t want to wake you. You were tossing a lot in your sleep.’

You think briefly back to the dreams you’d had, if you’d even had any. You usually had nightmares, but oftentimes you didn’t remember them, only waking with a hollow and sinking feeling in your chest.

‘You’ve got free run of the place, so use and eat what you want. Be warned, there’s not a lot in the fridge…we don’t really eat at home much. If you need the internet, Sho’s laptop is in the office across from the bedroom. See you tonight around ten!

-H’

You smile at the note, the signature consisting of a single letter, with a poor rendition of a cockatiel and a cat beside it.

You’re glad they have each other, you decide, and glad they’ve gotten together. It shouldn’t have been so much of a surprise to you, Hizashi was always more interested in Shouta than he was you. Sure, he doted on you when you were kids, but when Shouta came into the picture his attention shifted. You admit you had been a little jealous in the beginning, but now…

Maybe you’d just supposed it would always be the three of you together. You’d never bothered with dating or relationships, aside from the feelings you harboured for your best friends. You never saw the point, always content and happy to be with the two of them, even if it wasn’t romantic. They had been your rocks, your safe place, in years past.

You hadn’t comprehended that your interests could be so drastically different.

“C’mon, shake it off, stupid. They’re happy together, don’t ruin it with your feelings.” You run your hands down your face, sighing deeply. The rice would be ready soon, so you might as well get started on the eggs.

You butter a piece of bread and cut a hole out of the center, dropping it in the frying pan and cracking an egg into it.

Egg In A Hole, one of the first things you’d ever learned to cook. You were seven when you’d first tried it, and Hizashi had been there as well. You’d been at your house after school and he’d claimed to be hungry, and you -ever wanting to impress him- had set a stool in front of the stove and made him the fanciest meal you could think of.

Looking back, you’re amazed you didn’t burn or undercook anything. He had claimed it was the most amazing thing he’d ever tasted, and for years it was a staple whenever you hung out… he’d hopped off that train by the time you were twelve, but every so often you’d still made him Eggs In A Hole.

Now it’s more of a comfort, more of you holding on to a time long passed. Things were different now, you were different, your friends were different-

“Shit!” you hiss, as the toast starts to burn in one corner, smoking up the kitchen. You turn the fan on and flip it over to cook the other side, sighing in relief when the egg doesn’t splatter everywhere.

You’re glad you weren’t sent undercover as a cook on your mission. Your skills in the kitchen are sub par at best, and where you’d been, nothing less than perfection was accepted. Anything burnt or under-seasoned would have been air for punishment; fingernails ripped off, palms cut up, thumbs broken. Anything that would further hinder work…and result in more punishment.

That was just the kind of person your target was. A rich american woman with a taste for torture, and a quirk that allowed her to feast on and destroy the hope in others. She had ‘hired’ you as a silent killer, despite the fact that she could easily kill people herself…or make them kill themselves.

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath, willing the thoughts away. You weren’t there anymore. You were here, with Hizashi, with Shouta. Safe. Safe.

You scoop the eggs and toast onto a plate, but your stomach has already turned. Memories didn’t pair well with breakfast, it seemed.

Once the rice is finished cooking, you wrap everything up and set it in the fridge for later, and continue going about your day.

—-

Ten PM rolls around before you know it, and your friends walk through the front door. You’ve stolen Shouta’s laptop from the office and moved it to the couch, where you now sit staring intensely at the screen.

The two of them watch you for a moment. If your stillness, posture, and bloodshot eyes are anything to go by, you’ve been like that for a while.

“You’re gonna hurt your back sitting like that,” Shouta says, kicking his boots off and wandering further into the house.

“In a second,” you reply, waving him off.

Hizashi sighs dramatically, crossing his arms. “She’s not even paying attention, Sho. We could be making out right now, and she wouldn’t even notice. Hey, watch this-”

“Hizashi,” you threaten, not looking away from the screen, “if you pull your pants down, I’ll shave your head while you sleep.”

“No fun.” But he removes his hands from his jeans anyways.

Shouta meanders up behind you, leaning over the back of the couch to see what you’re so intent on. “What’s got you so focused?” he asks, scanning the page you’re reading, “You were never like this in school.”

You remain stoic, missing the joke completely. “Conviction trials,” you explain, “I want to make sure every single one of those rich pricks I outed gets put behind bars. I’ve been scrounging news outlets since five.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” You sit up straighter, stretching your back and rubbing at your eyes. “I gave the commission enough information to put these people in prison for life! Why haven’t they been brought in yet!”

“You’ve only been out for a little while. These things take time.” His tone is gentle and concerned, but to your addled brain it feels more patronizing.

You fist your hair in your hands and tug. “I gave them hideouts, names, faces, addresses, bank numbers, concrete evidence against these people! A few days should be enough time to find them! They’re top priority criminals! They should be caught by now!”

A warm hand rests on your shoulder, jarring you violently out of your thoughts. You tense beneath the touch, electricity prickling down your arm, and you look up at him with wide eyes.

“Breathe,” he says.

You breathe.

He squeezes your shoulder slightly, comfortingly. “It’ll happen. Give the media time to catch up.”

You look away from him, finding a spot on the floor to stare at, and slump forward in defeat. “If it gets out that I was the snitch, too…”

The room is quiet for a couple beats as your words register, and the hand on your shoulder rubs soft circles into your skin. “Your partner…they were killed, weren’t they.” It’s not a question, merely an observation.

You nod.

“I can’t let them find me, Shouta. The way these people kill their targets-”

“You’re safe here, Y/N. Always. The chances of these criminals getting into the country undetected is between slim and none. Their faces will be plastered on every single no-fly list, every district wanted list.”

“They can do whatever they want, as long as they have the money.” You turn back to the laptop, continuing to scroll around various news outlets. “Even once they’re in prison, they’ll have outside connections. If they find out it was me who outed their whole operation, I’ll have a target on my back for the rest of my life.”

Shouta lets go of your shoulder, and walks around the couch to take a seat beside you, knees bumping against yours.

“There are…resources,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “for heroes who’ve been undercover. To help them readjust to everyday life-”

“I don’t need a therapist,” you hiss, scowling. “I need…I need-”

A pair of hands scoops the laptop out of your grip, flipping it closed and setting it aside. But before you can complain, your now-warmed-up plate of food from that morning is set in your lap, and Hizashi takes a seat on your other side.

“If you don’t want a therapist, then at least take care of yourself, okay? Eat.”

Your scowl persists as you chew.

—-

You jolt awake on the couch at an unbeknownst hour of the morning, covered head to toe in a thin sheen of sweat. Your head is spinning and your ears are ringing, and you barely make it to the bathroom before you’re dry heaving into the sink. Nothing comes up, save for bitter bile, but you’re exhausted once the short wave of nausea passes.

You rinse your mouth and the sink out, and splash some water on your face. With any luck, you won’t have woken anyone, but when you exit the bathroom you nearly walk face first into Shouta, who’s leaning beside the door.

“It sounded like you were getting sick.” His tone isn’t accusing, but his posture puts your guard up.

“Nothing came out, so it’s fine.”

You wander back to the living room, hoping to leave the conversation, but he only follows.

“Why were you getting sick in the first place?”

“I dunno,” you grumble tensely, “adrenaline reaction maybe? Who’s to say why people puke.”

He’s quiet for several moments, observing you, your fidgeting, your agitation. You feel like you’re under a microscope, with the way he’s looking at you.

“What happened to you out there?” he asks.

“Stuff,” you mutter.

I got people killed.

“Stuff that gives you nightmares every time you sleep?”

“I don’t need a therapist.”

I don’t deserve to come back from this.

“Your sleep-yelling woke me up. You’re lucky Hizashi wears earplugs.”

You turn away from him and grab your water bottle off the coffee table, plopping grumpily onto the couch. Shouta hesitates for a moment before finding a seat beside you again. Warmth radiates off his body, which is pressed comfortingly against your side. You can feel the tension easing out of your shoulders in his presence.

“What’s so bad about therapists, anyways?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Lots of people need them. Hizashi and I have both seen a couple over the years.”

“I don’t need someone to tell me there’s something wrong with me.”

Shouta sighs. “That’s not what they do, and you know it. What’s the real reason?”

You silently curse his ability to read you like a book, to always somehow know when you’re lying. But…you’re not sure you could tell him the truth.

“I just…don’t like the idea, okay? Leave it at that.”

He watches you silently, searching in your averted gaze for any willingness to open up, but he finds only sadness…and shame. “I should head back to bed, then. Early morning, and whatnot. Try and get some more sleep.”

He rises off the couch, and without thinking you follow suit, and quickly envelope him in a hug.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle, burying your face in his chest. He’s surprised for a moment, but is quick to wrap his arms around you, holding you tight while you tremble against him.

He pats small circles into you back, keeping you close until your breathing begins to even out. “Just…don’t let this go on for too long, okay?” It’s the closest you’ve ever heard him to begging, “I don’t know what happened to you out there, but you’re obviously suffering.”

You pull away slightly, tired and defeated, and nod. “I’ll look into it. Those resources you mentioned. Okay?”

You release each other fully, and he gives you one last pat to the head.

“Okay. Now, really, try and get some more sleep.”

#aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #yamada hizashi x reader #yamada x reader #erasermic x reader #reader insert #bnha x reader #mha x reader #Space Between #it will get happy soon i promise #eraserhead x reader #present mic x reader

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booksnmore · 4 years ago

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Chapter One

Series Summary || In the cutthroat world of mergers and acquisitions, Feyre Archeron has to try and keep her head when caught between duty and a man that might have stolen her heart. (Modern Day ACOTAR AU)

Chapter Summary || After career-altering news at work, Feyre visits her favorite bar and finds someone to distract her for the night.

Word Count || 5348

A/N || Mature themes that are not appropriate for readers under the age of 18. Includes graphic depictions of sex. Reader beware. 18+

Tagged Crew: @highqueenofelfhame

Feyre tossed her keys in the bowl to the left of the front door and kicked off her shoes, one too-tall heel after the other, grinning slightly at the satisfying ‘thunk’ they made as they collided with the wall. She bent over and rubbed at the red lines pressed into her feet from the uncomfortable footwear all day, and cursed, not for the first time, the strict dress code enforced at her job.

“Women should wear appropriate skirts and shoes,” she muttered as she padded down the hallway into the kitchen, making it clear what she thought of their ‘appropriate’ standards. The apartment was quiet, her cat napping on the couch not bothering to wake up and greet her.

“Hello to you too, Jiji,” she said, ruffling the black cat’s fur as she walked past and ignoring his indignant ‘mrr?” of protest. She pulled the pins out of her hair as she walked past the coffee pot and pulled out a bag of tea, groaning as her long, strawberry-blonde hair tumbled free of its tight constraints.

Flicking on the T.V. while her kettle came to a boil, she absently thumbed through the channels, ignoring the doom and gloom the news was preaching, and settled on an old re-run of Golden Girls. Ah, she could always rely on Dorothy to tell it how it was. The kettle kicked off, and she poured the water over her teabag, inhaling the bite of the black tea as it steeped.

Her phone pinged from the couch where she’d set it, so with tea in one hand and remote in the other, she walked over to see what it was. If Lucien thought he could text her after hours and ask her to do more work off the clock, she was tempted to tell him where he could shove his brief. It was hard to believe that her drunken 3am application to the agrochemical company as a paralegal had panned out at all. After all, she’d been a recent grad with only her stellar 4.0 GPA and a few semesters of volunteer work at a local tax office for low income residents to commend her to the position. The HR lady had claimed that she was just the fresh perspective the company needed, and being naive enough to trust this, Feyre’d jumped at the chance to move to California. After all, she knew she was just one face among thousands, looking for a job. The salary they paid was enough for her to just manage to afford an apartment all to herself, if she ignored that some walk-in closets were bigger than the whole place.

She swiped open the message on her phone and, sure enough, it was a message from Lucien, the corporate lawyer she worked under. It wasn’t that he was a bad guy, not entirely. He was easy-going and gave Feyre opportunities to learn first-hand, and never pushed his workload onto her like she knew some of the other lawyers for the company did with their paralegals. He was interesting to look at; not necessarily conventionally attractive, not with the glass eye and scar down his cheek, or the perpetual frown he seemed to wear around their boss Tamlin, but something about him drew the eye in a way a model’s perfect proportions couldn’t. They had an easy-going enough relationship, and though they were friendly with each other he was always careful to keep things professional, and she never felt weird or creeped out around him. Not the way she felt around Tamlin.

The son of the CEO, and a chairman in his own right, Tamlin seemed to have a special affection for Feyre, and tended to offer her and Lucien workloads that were more interesting, or easier, and laved attention on her at work to the annoyance of her coworkers. She didn’t return the feelings, but how would she ever say that to her boss? So she smiled, and gritted her teeth, and bore the condescending little comments about how cute she was that day, how that skirt made her look luscious, how that blouse really did need something under it, as he could see her bra quite clearly, though it didn’t bother him.

No, those inappropriate comments were just made for the betterment of the company. If she wore that skirt that clung to her hips when they met with the judge, he was sure the court would rule in their favor. If she just smiled more, the judge would be a little more lenient. She tried to ignore the way she could feel his eyes crawling over her, or the way his brow would pucker when she wore a top buttoned all the way up. The only good thing about their relationship was that they rarely met in person. Lucien was aware of it, and did his best to help, in his own way. He and Tamlin apparently went way back to Yale together, but despite that he tried to field any in-person meetings with Tamlin that he could, and seemed to always have something for Feyre to be doing out of the office when Tamlin would drop by. She was silently grateful, not wanting to say anything and risk disturbing the fragile peace they’d found.

She read the brief message, eyes narrowing. Come into the office now. We have a problem. Though he was only a few years older than her, he texted like an old man, she thought with a small grin, then groaned loudly at the thought of shoving her feet back into her shoes after just freeing them. Since Tamlin required them to turn read receipts on for the company chat, he knew she’d seen his message and would expect her soon. Glancing ruefully at her tea, she stood up and slipped on her favorite pair of flats. She would just ignore the snide comments about how her shoes just weren’t professional enough. If he wanted her in overtime, she’d wear what she damn well pleased.

“Guess I’ll see you later, Jiji,” she said, kissing the cat’s head despite his grumpy yawn. “Hold down the fort for me, won’t you?” The traffic was terrible - she’d only just gotten home in a cab after a 45 minute commute spent almost entirely sitting still. Paying for an extra cab wasn’t in the budget, and she suspected that Tamlin would want her in sooner than that anyway, so she pulled on a jacket and grabbed her purse. It was only ten blocks or so; she’d walk.

The streets were overrun with people, but at least with them she could slip past, using her smaller frame to get through where others couldn’t. She hated the way people would look down on her, using her height as a way to intimidate her, but decided in that instance that it was for the best. Autumn was in full swing, and the brisk nip of the breeze was turning to a more biting cold. Tugging her jacket more tightly against her, she almost regretted her decision to walk. However, when the looming office building stood just ahead and she looked down at her watch, she knew she’d made the right choice. Closer to 15 minutes than 45, and she did feel less sleepy after the walk.

Pushing the doors open, she waved at Jackson sitting behind the security desk, and the gray-headed man gave her a sympathetic look back. “He’s in a fine mood tonight, Ms. Archeron,” he warned, knocking his head towards the upstairs offices. “Best to just nod and get back to your beau at home.”

No matter what Feyre told Jackson, he was convinced she must have a boyfriend, and had dreamed up the fantasy that she was engaged and totally in love, and had a dog and two cats. All she had to say was that the old man had too much time on his hands, and a far too active imagination.

“Thanks for the heads up, Jackson,” she said, hitting the button for the elevator doors and taking that moment to compose herself. She knew her cheeks were flushed from the walk and the wind, so she instead used the reflection of the elevator doors to try and fix her windblown hair into something resembling a bun. She only had her emergency hair tie and none of the bobby pins required to keep the stray curls around her face from springing loose, so she did what she could before the doors dinged, then pressed the button that would deliver her to whatever Tamlin had needed her for so desperately that night.

When she stepped off the elevators, she knew something was very wrong. It wasn’t just Tamlin and Lucien that were gathered around the large table in their conference room. Standing beside them was Aamon Verne, Tamlin’s father and CEO of Viridis Agrochemicals, and Nikoli Hybern, the Chief Strategy Officer. The three men together were never a good omen. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she walked up and rapped sharply on the glass door. There, in the chairs towards the back, next to Lucien, sat Nuala and Cerridwen, her two fellow paralegals, who offered her a look that was both encouraging and warning.

“Yes, come in girl,” said the elder Verne with a sweep of his hand. Despite his age, he still looked every bit the powerful man he was in his youth. Aamon Verne was a name that was both respected and feared in the industry, though Feyre had more loathing than respect for the man. He saw those around him only as tools for his use, and she’d heard him and Tamlin speaking about Nuala and Cerridwen while at lunch once in a way that made her skin crawl.

Still, he was her boss and she dipped her head briefly at both him and Nikoli, resolutally ignoring Tamlin as much as possible. All three of the men had deep-set frowns, and only paused in their argument long enough for Tamlin to wave her over and push a stack of papers into her hand that seemed identical to what Nuala and Ceridwen were holding. He waved her away carelessly and she took a seat next to her co-workers, thumbing through the papers even as her ears revealed what was happening.

“Who does this Rhysand think he is?” thundered Aamon, though no one was dumb enough to answer. “Buying out our shareholders, and our company out from under us? I knew this would happen if we went public. It was bound to happen eventually.” Nikoli didn’t look perturbed by his boss’ behavior. Only Tamlin of the three had turned a shade paler, though in his defence his face showed nothing of his emotion.

“We could still reach out to the shareholders,” began Tamlin, but his father quickly cut him off.

“And what? Beg them for our jobs? They aren’t fools. They knew we would throw everything we have at them the moment we found out.” Sneering at his son, Aamon turned to Lucien who stoically met his gaze. “Take your people and figure something out. Find us a way out of this, and I’ll give you double your wages as a Christmas bonus.” The unspoken threat was clear: if you don’t, none of us will have a job.

Feyre’s head was spinning. A hostile takeover? Of their company? Feyre quickly went over the figures in their head. Since they were a publicly held company, they had thousands of shareholders, but not nearly enough that a tender offer wouldn’t work. She thumbed through the brief she’d been handed and, sure enough, Caeles Enterprises had offered to buy out their shareholders with a tender bid high above the price of the stock itself. It seemed the enough shareholders had sold, because at the moment, Caeles held the majority of Viridis’ shares of the stock, making them a majority shareholder. Feyre finally understood why the three heads of the company were so riled up. It really could be the end of their time at the company.

Leaning over to Nuala, Feyre asked, “What do we know about Caeles?” She pulled a pen out of her small leather portfolio and began to jot notes down as Ceridwen answered. “They’re relatively new, founded about ten years ago by Rhysand Neri and his cousin Morrigan. Apparently they mostly focus on renewable food sources, though it seems more broadly the company is focused on genetically modified agriculture. They have their hands in, uh, just a sec.” Ceridwen thumbed through the pile of paper, though Feyre found it before she did.

“Looks like their most recent focus is on soy crops in the Central Valley region. That explains why they're trying to take us over, at least.” Feyre’s gaze shuttered at that, knowing just how brutal Viridis’ policies towards competitors was. She and Lucien had just finished filing a lawsuit against the Growers of the Valley, requiring them to turn over 20% of their profits, as it had been ‘anonymously’ discovered that a large portion of their crops seeds were from Viridis’ own stores. She knew those farmers in the Growers of the Valley association couldn’t afford the 20% tariff, but per her company’s procedures it was a required case to take.

She ignored the growls and curses from the three heads of the company and continued to thumb through the papers, before turning to Lucien. “Whitemail? Do we have enough capital to cover the shares it would take to tip the balance back in our favor?” She watched the gears in his mind turning, but scribbled a few other options on her notepad as well.

“Let’s talk whitemail,” he finally said, standing up and motioning to the three of them to follow him out of the main office. “We’ll just be in the other room so you three can talk freely,” he said with a careless wave, already ushering them out of the room before Aamon could protest.

“Thank the gods we’re free of that,” said Nuala with a huffy laugh, giving Ceridwen a look. “If I had to stay in that testosterone-filled room for another moment, I think I’d have suffocated.” Feyre gave her friend a look of agreement, and even Lucien couldn’t hide his grin.

“What Feyre suggested might work,” he said, sitting down at the table and spreading the company’s bylaws out on the table. “Each of you grab a section, and let’s see what anti-takeover measures we can take. The likelihood that the new guy’ll fire all of us is pretty high, so work as though it were your ass on the line because, let’s face it, it probably is.”

So they hunted, heads down and fingers flying across the keyboard, for hours, until Feyre’s neck was sore and Nuala was yawning for the third time in as many minutes. Glancing down at her watch, she gave a resolute yawn of her own and sat down her pen, tip practically chewed up from that night’s frantic search.

“Lucien, respectfully, we’re all exhausted. Nuala can barely keep her eyes open, and I think I’ve seen Ceridwen misspell the word ‘thorough’ at least four times. With spellcheck on,” she added, cutting off what would have been Ceridwen’s excuse. “I’m going to finish up for the night. It’s 12am, and I doubt the partners are going to let us sleep in tomorrow morning.” Though she might let Tamlin walk all over her, she knew her limits. She could feel a headache just starting in her temple, and her stomach rumbled in complaint at its negligence.

Lucien threw up his hands, the picture of exasperation, but Feyre could see through it to the real exhaustion below the surface on him too. “Fine, you lazy lot. Go home and curl up with your teddy bears for all I care. I’m going to stay and see if I can find a way to keep Aamon from killing and eating me tomorrow morning. Night, ladies.” With little more than a glance up as their chairs scraped against the ground, Lucien continued flipping through pages, jotting notes in his messy handwriting, and biting his lip. If it were any other situation, she might have found him cute, but he was her superior and that was just too complicated for her. Shaking the errant thought from her head, she grabbed her jacket, tucked her portfolio under her arm, and headed out into the now decidedly frigid October air.

The cold instantly snapped her awake as she stepped out onto the street, hands jammed in her coat pockets. Glancing back the way she came, she made a snap decision to instead head east, ducking into a bar just down the road from work she wasn’t at all unfamiliar with. Her first few months working with Tamlin’s condescending and sleazy comments had seen her, Ceridwen, and Nuala at the bar more often than she might’ve liked, but in moments like this as she slipped inside and was greeted with a smile by Ressina from behind the bar, she knew there were worse places she could end up.

“You’re not normally here on the weekdays babe,” said Ressina in the way of a greeting, wincing in sympathy at Feyre’s sour expression. Without prompting, she made up Feyre’s drink of choice - a vodka cranberry - and passed it over before leaning on the bar, expression expectant.

Feyre took a long drink before giving a huffy laugh at Ressina. “You are probably one of the only bartenders in the city that actually wants to hear what her patrons have to moan about, you know that?” The bar was mostly empty, save for a couple that looked like they were only moments away from leaving and finding a room somewhere. Feyre was surprised to find that the idea actually held some appeal to her, as well. Brushing that aside, she glanced down the bar at a lone figure staring into his drink, and decided it was safe enough to tell her friend.

“You know where I work, right? Well, let’s just say none of us might work there any longer. There’s new blood coming in and apparently trying to clean house. I don’t know how much longer I have a job.” She gave a mirthless laugh and finished the rest of her drink in one go, motioning for a second one as Ressina made comforting noises.

“That’s rough kiddo,” said the barkeep as she stirred up another drink for Feyre without prompting, tisking under her breath. “I swear, the way they use you there with no gratitude, this might just be the thing to kick your ass in gear and get you to actually find a place that values you.”

Feyre just shook her head and pulled out her portfolio, now nursing her new drink as she scribbled new strategies to prevent the takeover. Ressina took this for the break in conversation it was and began to clean up behind the bar, preparing for closing while humming to the music under her breath. The woman really was beautiful, and Feyre found herself distracted watching the way her inky hair swayed with her as she went about cleaning up and closing out tabs. Feyre’s fingers itched to draw her, already imagining the lines curving around her figure, the strokes it would take to convey the feather-fine hair. After a few minutes, however, she forced herself to get back to work. That was, ostensibly, why she was at the bar after all. She began to jot down counter strategies, leaving little notes to herself later on to explain what she was talking about, and found herself so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice the man at the end of the bar studying her until Ressina cleared her through and tossed her head in his direction.

“Uh,” she began, unsure how to spark a conversation with a man that clearly felt no shame at drinking her up like he was parched. “Hi?” Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and cold, and she knew she’d had just enough to drink to loosen up by the heat radiating off of her ears.

The man took a long sip of his drink before standing up and walking over, never taking his gaze off of Feyre. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms, but tamped down on the feeling and forced herself to keep a neutral enough expression. He was better looking in the light, his raven hair almost purple in the neon of the bar and mouth curved in what she could only imagine to be a smile promising filthy things.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, sitting down so close that their thighs touched. She felt warmth spread down her neck, though she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, ignoring the quickening of her breath. He, however, didn’t ignore it and watched the way her breasts rose and fell under her blouse, drinking in the sight before looking back up with a smirk.

“Do I even know you?” Feyre asked, brow cocked. “I bet you use that line on all the girls.” She turned away, a deliberate move in that dance as old as time. Parry and riposte, ebb and flow. The heat in her veins made her bolder than normal, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I don’t even know your name, stranger.”

A funny look crossed his face so quickly that Feyre decided she imagined it, before he answered easily, “Daemon. And yours, my beauty?”

Feyre laughed, rolling her eyes at him, though she felt herself more at ease with what was clearly a teasing compliment. “Laying it on a little thick, don’t you think Daemon?” She tucked a curl behind her ear that had fallen out of her haphazard bun, noticing the way his eyes followed her every movement with the laziness of a predator that knows it has its prey cornered.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Beautiful woman like you, alone on a cold night like this? You should be curled up in furs next to some lucky guy somewhere.” His tone was light, but the hungry light in his eyes couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than lust.

“Work,” she replied, expression tightening slightly at the reminder. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?” She nodded down at his midnight suit, well-fitted and beyond anything she could ever afford, and cocked a brow. The challenge was clear in her gaze. She reached out and took his hand, ignoring the spark at their connection that caused Daemon to raise an eyebrow, and turned it palm-up. “Not a callus to be seen, just as I suspected,” she said, giving a theatrical sigh. “Bet your silver spoon is tucked away in that fancy suit too, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, instead taking her hand and placing it on his chest where she could feel his heart pounding beneath the silky fabric. His other hand slid into her hair, massaging the back of her head and drawing an unintended moan from her. The tension from that day seemed to loosen and slide away. She’d always loved getting her head massaged, and it was almost as though he’d known this when he began. Her hands bunched the fabric of his lapel, eyes glazed until he drew his hand down to her cheek and began to draw close.

She realized where this was going, chastised herself for being too easy, and then met his lips with her own. It was utter possession. His kiss was firm and commanding, taking and giving in equal measure. She felt his chest rumble when she slipped her tongue past his lips, tanging with his own, and would have kept going if not for a pointed cough from behind the bar.

Pulling away, Feyre felt her face turn scarlet and had to force herself to ignore Daemon’s self-satisfied smirk as he straightened his clothing.

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” said Ressina with a knowing look, glancing between the rapid rise and fall of Feyre’s chest and the lipstick staining the corner of Daemon’s mouth. “Go on, lovebirds. Don’t make an old woman long for something she can’t have.” She turned her back to them to clean the glasses sitting out, but not before Feyre saw her grin.

Turning back to Daemon, she was at a loss for words. She wasn’t a one-night-stand kinda gal. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but she just...tended to not have time for relationships, and being the pragmatic girl she was, took care of any needs with brisk efficiency and the help of a not-inexpensive vibrator she’d gifted herself as a housewarming present when she moved to Cali. This guy, though… He almost seemed worth the trouble of bringing him home. She looked between him and the door, though her question was apparently written plainly enough on her face for him to make the one to suggest it.

He leaned in, nuzzling her neck and pressing kisses behind her ear. “I’d ask my place or yours, but I’m all the way across the city. You live closer?” His words were a torment of warm breath against one of her most sensitive places, drawing goosebumps up along her neck. Her head swam as though she was drunk, but she hadn’t had enough to go beyond a buzz and knew it must all be him.

“Yeah,” she breathed, tilting her head to the side to give him better access.

“Then let’s go, Feyre darling. Don’t make me wait.”

He didn’t have to ask twice, not with the heat in her stomach dropping lower, lower, until she felt her thighs squeeze together unconsciously. She quickly paid for her drink and ignored the salacious looks her friend was giving her, before grabbing her portfolio and keys, nearly stumbling after Daemon as he stood and took her hand. If the bulge in his pants was any indication, it seemed like he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.

The trip home was a blur of scorching hot kisses and freezing wind, the combination almost driving her wild. They stumbled up the steps to her apartment and, with clumsy hands, she unlocked the door. Daemon pressed her back against the door, slamming it closed behind them, and began to ravish kisses up her throat, along her cheek, until he possessed her mouth entirely. Their kisses weren’t sweet, but a clashing of natural phenomena: a tidal wave against a sheer cliff, the inexorable pull of gravity on a falling stone. Their breath mixed as she pulled at his clothing, forgetting in the moment that the silk falling to the ground around them likely cost more than she made in a month.

“More,” she demanded, biting his lip petulantly when he pulled away in order to unbutton her blouse. He flashed a promising grin her way, in that moment being the picture of boyish pleasure and nothing like the foreboding man she’d first seen at the bar. The moment the chilled air hit her breasts, she arched her back and he took the opportunity to fill his hands with her, mercilessly brushing his thumb over her nipples until they rose in stiff peaks.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, against her skin, lowering his head to taste the rosy buds that now stood erect between them. “Divine.” He laved his tongue over her breasts, then down the valley between them until she couldn’t keep herself from pulling him back up to her mouth. Her hands snaking down his chest, undoing the buttons as she went until she could press her hands against his bare skin, teasing her fingers down his side until she reached his belt.

“Gods,” she groaned, clumsily undoing the buckle and shoving her hands into his trousers where she took possession of his cock, hard as steel and nearly as big around as her fingers could reach. She felt a shudder roll through him as she slowly teased him, swiping the bead of liquid from his tip and using it to help her hand glide up and down his length. “You’re so big, I-”

“Bedroom,” he bit out, cutting her off. He seemed to strain against her hand, nipping down her throat and along the tops of her breasts. “Unless you want to have sex against this door.”

The thought appealed to Feyre, but she managed to surface from her heady lust long enough to lead them both to her bedroom. She didn’t bother turning on the light, instead toppling into bed with him. “Condom?” she asked breathlessly, the thought only now crossing her mind. She was on birth control, but something about a one-night-stand seemed to require protection from a different sort of danger.

“My wallet,” he groaned, the sound turning into a growl as she slid her hand around his hips to dip into his back pocket, giving his ass a grope before returning with the foil-covered square. He squeezed his eyes shut as she rolled the condom down the length of him, then his control seemed to snap.

Rolling her beneath him, he poured kisses down her body until he reached the edge of her skirt, which he roughly pushed down until she was bare to him in only her pink flower underwear and tan bra. She hadn’t planned on getting laid when she got dressed that morning, but couldn’t muster enough concentration to worry about what he thought as he yanked the two pieces of fabric hiding her from him. His mouth slide lower, lower, pressing kisses to the delicate skin of her hips and inside of her thighs, before he sat up and pressed a thumb over her nub, rubbing once, twice, as she groaned beneath him.

“Yes, yes,” she breathed, hips bucking as he continued, adding first one, then two fingers inside her as she struggled against the wave rising higher and higher inside of her.

“So tight,” he growled, withdrawing his fingers and, in an act that had her melting, licked off each of his fingers, before lowering his face and feasting. A rumble of pleasure vibrated against her, causing her to alternate pushing against his head and pulling him closer, thighs squeezing against his shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, seeming to know what she needed but couldn’t say aloud. “Ready…?” He took her cry of pleasure as a yes, then said lowly, “Then come for me, Feyre darling.”

He drew her nub between his lips and sucked, laving his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves as she convulsed beneath him, finding herself soaring up and up until her pleasure broke on a knife’s edge, sending her shattering down back to earth.

Panting, Daemon gave her no time to recover, propping her hips up and lining himself up before driving in with a thrust. The pressure was intense, and this time her cry was tinged with discomfort, though he remained still until she began to slowly rock against him, moaning his name under her breath.

He took this as the permission that it was and began to move, slowly at first, then more quickly, angling himself so that he hit that one spot inside of her that caused her legs to clench so tightly around him that she thought he would complain.

She kept up the quiet litany under her breath of “yes, yes, yes,” as he drove into her, hips pistoning until she felt his control shatter and his pace grew frantic. The heat inside of her roared up again, rising like a furnace, until she felt him thrust deep inside of her and groan, his pleasure sparking her own until they were both tumbling down, down, into each other and the orgasm they shared. She felt her eyes closing when the bed dipped under him as he stood. The sink ran in the bathroom, then he returned, sliding under the covers with her and petting her hair with a lazy, unhurried pace. Her eyelid began to grow heavy, until finally she gave into sleep.

#books #bookish #reading #booklr #studyblr #english lit #ivory tower #IT #acotar #acotar au #acotar fanfic #feyre x rhysand #highqueenofelfhame

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seijuurouxryuu · 4 years ago

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Title: I am you, and you are I Author: Shiro (TeitoxAkashi [AO3]/ seijuurouxryuu [tumblr]) Rating: T Pairing: Kozarto Enma/ Sawada Tsunayoshi; Giotto/ Cozarto Event: @khrrarepairweek Prompts: Mistaken Identity AU | Courting Tags/Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warning, Graphic Depiction of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warning

Day 1: Storm Day

AO3

The sky was dark, clouds heavy and looming as it brought the lightnings and thunders that flashed and roared. Bright and loud, both blinding eyes and rattling bones, created a cacophony for the harsh rain that came down as though in anger and grief. As if they were the tears of heaven as heaven abandoned their beloved child.

With the storm raging above, a cloaked being rushed through the forest, soaked from head to toe and panting from fatigue of running for hours on. Traces of blood trialled behind, mixing with the soft mud that got kicked up by the boots. One step wrong and the being slipped hard, slamming to the group. The being hissed, pained by the fall but clambered up and continued running despite limping in pain, more blood soaking through the already dirty cloak.

The being could not stop running because once stopped, death will arrive.

Beyond anyone's knowledge, a tear dripped down the being's face and disappeared with the raindrops.

In all the years of Tsuna's life, he had never expected that one day, he would find a child bundled in long, dirty cloak right in front of his humble abode. Mouth opened in mid yawn, Tsuna stared at the body with bulging eyes. He blinked once, twice, thrice, and to his horror, the child was still there. Mouth clamming close, he slowly crouched down a good meter away, and stared intensely at the pale dirty cheek peeking out from the cloak. It seemed bloodless, but to Tsuna's relief, they were moving slightly from the shallow breathing. He sighed and hung his head.

If only the child was dead, he would not be in such a dilemma. He could have just buried the child and forget as time rolls by. But the humane piece of him that was dormant for years woke up, beyond happy to know that a young life was not lost.

Tsuna stood and pulled the sleeves of his robes up slightly. He reached over and carefully lifted the seemingly weightless child up, gently holding the child close to his body. Cold, he noted. The child was shivering and feverish all at the same time. Injured too, Tsuna deduced from the strong smell of iron mixed with the smell of rain and mud. Ignoring how dirtied his previously white robes were, he turned back into his small wooden shed.

He paused for a moment and turned, side glancing to the edges of his barrier, through the boundaries that separated him from humanity, his eyes flashed bright orange.

The ghastly death dissipated unreconciled.

His door closed shut with a quiet click behind him.

It was only ten days later that the child woke up, much to Tsuna's relief. He almost had to visit his own friend for advice, which he definitely did not want to, if not for realizing that the child's wound was healing up without any external aids. He was out finding fruits and nuts when the child's eyes opened.

Blood red eyes dazed for a moment at the sight of wooden roof. The child's breath slowed down quietly in alarm as eyes shifted around to take in any possible danger and any escape route. Moments later, the child realized that there was no one else around, and that it was as safe as it can be, the held breath was let out in a gentle, relieved sigh.

The child slowly sat up and glanced at the warm, thick covers that slid down. It was comfortable, the child felt, despite just waking up. Intuitively, the child thought that the owner must be a warm and kind person, having to take in a stranger and lend their bed. Reluctantly, the covers was pulled off but before it was truly away, the child was stunned in place at the tiny pair of hands.

"What?!"

And Tsuna came back to the sight of the child hugging the mirror tightly, staring into the reflection in horror.

Not particularly surprised at the reaction, Tsuna put away his haul onto the dining table and tilted his head at the child. "You're awake." He stated, smiling. He found it rather amusing at the sight of incredulous thoughts fleeting through those pair of muddy red eyes. He pointed over to the table beside the bed and said, "Your clothes are there, but I doubt that they would fit you now."

Yes, Tsuna knew that the child was not really a child, but a child-sized adult. He speculated that either the other's body was too heavily wounded that it transformed into a smaller and easier body to heal, or that it was a curse. It could be anything, honestly, and Tsuna wouldn't know because his senses were sealed, unfortunately.

"What did you do to me?" Tsuna almost laughed out loud at the horror that took over the chubby face at the squeaky voice. It was hilarious, and Tsuna had not seen anything funny in years.

"I did nothing. When I found you, you were already like this."

Truth.

Muddy red eyes narrowed. Lips pursed and those tiny hands clenched the mirror tightly, almost shattering it if not for the warning creak. Tsuna watched as the other put down the mirror back to where it was on the shelves and thought things through. It wasn't hard not to understand what was going on, and neither was it easy to accept it.

"I... Thank you for saving me, I owe you one." A grimace at the squeaky voice, but it was steady and full of convince. "I really should not impose you any further but, as you can see, I am not in my best state. So, can I shamefully bother you for a little longer? If it is not possible, then--"

"Sure."

"I--I'm sorry?"

Tsuna smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling. "You can stay a little bit longer. After all, it has been far too boring recently so a company is still better than none. Of course, it wouldn't be a free stay. You'll have to help out with chores. What do you say?"

Delighted, the child-adult nodded. "Yes! Thank you very much! Once I recover, I will be sure to repay the favour!"

Tsuna waved it off carelessly. "We can talk about that after." He walked closer and reached out his right hand. "I'm Tsuna, you?"

Tinier hand touched his and shook it. "Enma." Enma smiled. "I'm Enma."

A month later, Enma was still in child form.

Depressed by the lack of changes despite being fully healed, Enma sighed gloomily as he stirred the stew he was making. For a month living with Tsuna, he realized that Tsuna was really, really bad with taking care of himself. He would only eat raw fruits and vegetables, meat being out of the picture since he sucked at catching live animals. He could not cook so much without hurting himself too, which Enma always found painful to look at. Two days into cohabitating and Tsuna burnt his own hand trying to cook congee, Enma decided to took it to his own hand and cook.

Despite his smaller stature now, he was very familiar with cooking. After all, he had been doing it for years. Mami always liked his cooking, so he wasn't afraid of accidentally poisoning his benefactor. In fact, cooking was one of the things that Enma loved doing. It was a stress reliever. And he missed doing it after... After that time.

Nostalgia flooding his muddy red eyes, Enma unconsciously smiled at the memories of his younger sister. He missed her.

Stuck in his memories, Enma failed to realize Tsuna's presence when the other snuck up to him. It was only when a shadow loomed over him with an eager 'Oooh' from his back that he snapped out of it. Jumped, he turned around and looked up at Tsuna with a surprised face.

"You're back! I thought you said that you would be back in late evening!" Tsuna had went out early in the morning, saying that he had to check on the barriers around the forest. He said that the storm previously might have ruined parts of the fences and he wanted to repair it before any feral animal barges in. Honestly, Enma doubted the existence of a fence that spanned almost half the forest as how Tsuna had described. Even if he couldn't recall everything that happened the night he found Tsuna's shed, he knew he didn't come across any form of barrier, much less a fence.

Still, everyone has their own secret, thus Enma did not question him and nodded.

Tsuna hummed at that, still savouring the delicious smell of stew. "Well, thankfully there's no damage this time so I came back early. And look at what I found at the other side!" He grinned as he showed Enma a piglet's corpse.

"It was dead when I found it and it’s a waste to just bury it so, why not eat it? As a thank for mother nature for the feast."

Enma was amused, clearly, but his muddy red eyes were shining brightly at the thought of meat after so long. He missed eating meat. "So your idea of repaying mother nature is eating its creations?"

"Of course, eating is appreciating."

Enma laughed and shook his head exasperatedly. He nodded nonetheless. "Fine, fine. Help me out then, I can't exactly carry it with these miserable tiny hands."

Enma hated how small they were, ugh.

Tsuna snickered. He, albeit clumsily, helped carrying the piglet onto the chopping board and listened to Enma's instructions on dealing with it.

Despite joking around while helping out, the piglet was dealt with and cooked properly in an hour's time. Tsuna's mouth was watering by the time Enma plated it.

Hopping down the steps, Enma washed his hands, sat down opposite of Tsuna by the dining table and said, "Bon appetit." He smiled when Tsuna immediately dugged in and moaned at how delicious and how long he had had abstained from meat just because he can't catch one himself.

Enma found him so cute.

Honestly, he really shouldn't be having any good feelings for a practical stranger despite the other being his saviour and all. Who knows what he really wanted to do to Enma, but he couldn't help it. After all, they had only known each other for about a month, and neither knew much about one another other than their name, who can or can't cook, Tsuna loving to laze under the sun, Tsuna occasionally telling him about the myths of the forest, Tsuna checking if he was healing up well with worried face, stupidly strong Tsuna, Tsuna smiling at him...

That was beside the point. That was all besides the point.

Enma really, really shouldn't develop anymore attachment towards him. After all, once he was back to his original form, he would have to leave, right? Tsuna did let him stay because he was in a child form right now, and Tsuna was so sweet and soft and concerned about letting him go off like this. 'Tsuna...' Enma's muddy red eyes softened at how happy the brown hair man was, glinting slightly under the light.

Tsuna lifted his head from his plate when he finally realized that Enma had not started eating, and blinked curiously. He tilted his head and asked, "Are you not eating, Enma?"

Enma snapped out of his trance and coughed into his hands. "I am, I am." His voice cracked a little, but he feigned ignorant as he tried to be as casual as possible while eating. Gears running in his mind, he desperately looked for a change of topic. "By the way, do you mind if I ask how long you have been living here?"

It was a genuine question, so he managed to turn the attention around. He had been wondering about it for quite some time now. The shed was very deep into the forest, far, far away from civilization. Too far, actually, that a trip down to the nearest village at the edge of the forest would take a day and a half. Although Enma knew some people can live in seclusion away from others, it would rather be difficult to do so. If any consumables such as ink, parchment for letters, candles, or even clothes, were to run out or spoil, would not it be inconvenient to restock them? Granted, so far, it seemed that there was never a lacking of these items even though Enma was sure that there was no store room to hoard them.

Not to mention, judging from how old and well lived in this shed was, he doubted that Tsuna lived here for a mere year or three.

Tsuna hummed at the question and shook his head. "I don't mind. It has been..." He frowned, mentally calculating the years he spent alone. In the end, he shook his head again. "Too long, I don't remember anymore."

Enma's heart lurched, but his face remained unchanged. He had some speculations, but neither of it seemed valid. "I see," He did not pry further. "Then are there anyone else living in the forest? Sounds a little bit lonely if you are the only one."

"Oh! There are. My m-- friends. They're around. Somewhere. In the forest. Well, they rarely come visit because they are busy with their duties but they live near enough for me to get to them if I have an emergency." Tsuna explained, but he did not provide the full details. Rather, he couldn't. After all, none of his friends settle around for more than two to three days, and they could easily disappear for almost half a decade without contact. It was true that if Tsuna had an emergency that needed their help, he could find them easily though.

"I see. That's good. I'd be very worried if there isn't anyone."

"Why?" Tsuna did not understand, but Enma's face started to flush and he started to stammer. "W-w-well--"

'I would be very concerned if you're alone every day once I leave. I would be wondering if you have eaten properly, if you have slept well, if you have smiled. I would be wondering if you missed me, if you feel lonely, if I can be with you to chase away that darkness. I...'

The loud sound of impact that resonated from the middle of the forest saved Enma from actually answering. Breathing out a sigh of relief, Enma looked out of the window and saw a flock of birds flying away, squawking in a way that sounded like fear.

He frowned, wondering if something bad happened. The tip of his fingers tingled.

With him turned away from Tsuna, he missed how Tsuna scowled and how his eyes turned bright orange from the usual brown.

"I'll go check." Tsuna announced, eyes turned normal again as he smiled. He pushed himself off the chair as Enma turned to him with a surprised look. "That sounds dangerous." Enma wanted to follow, but he knew that with how he was, he would be more of a burden than help. Still, he didn't want Tsuna to go. Not when he didn't know if it’s truly dangerous.

Tsuna smiled. "Don't worry." He said, petting Enma's on his head, something that Enma liked yet find it irksome because that meant Tsuna took him as a real child. Tsuna did not realize the changes and walked over to a small cabinet beside the sink, pulling out a pair of worn-out mittens and a dagger. There were engravings on the handle, but Enma was too far to clearly see what it was. Tsuna wore a cloaked and kept it by the time he walked back to Enma.

"I'm strong, you know it." Enma does. He knew. For a man that is slightly shorter than his own height, Tsuna's strength was actually stronger than his by a degree. (He did not want to remember the time Tsuna one handily pushed the heavy wardrobe full of clothes away just to reach for something that had fallen behind it like the wardrobe weighed nothing. Nope. He definitely did not want Tsuna to use his strength on him as well. Definitely nope.)

"But still..."

Tsuna grinned. "I'll be back faster than you'd think!"

"... Alright, stay safe!"

Tsuna paused a moment, figure softened at that. It had been so long since he last heard people wishing for his safety, he couldn't help but cherish it for a moment longer. "Hmn!"

Enma watched the door close shut and sighed.

"He will be alright..." He whispered to himself.

They did not talk about what happened when Tsuna came back bloodied yet uninjured. Enma wanted to ask, but Tsuna skirted around the topic and Enma stopped. He told himself, as long as Tsuna was uninjured and safe.

He asked whose blood it was that had stained Tsuna's cloak and mittens, however, as he watched the other wash away the blood stain in a very practiced manner.

"Oh, it was a deer's blood. Poor thing had stabbed herself with a protruding branch." Tsuna offhandedly replied.

Enma was suspicious. "A deer's blood."

"Yep!" Tsuna cheerily replied.

Enma did not believe that, because for all he knew, he smelled the stench of human on Tsuna.

He kept quiet.

(When he had fallen into deep slumber that night, Tsuna was still awake. Sitting on the roof with the will-o'-wisps whispering into his ears, he sighed.

"Not yet." He whispered, archaic and foreign. "Not yet."

The will-o'-wisps burned indignantly.)

Three and a half months later, Enma could not wait any longer. He was clearly all good, and that his power was still with him. It did not disappear nor did it weaken. In fact, the capacity increased, his power strengthened. He could feel things more vividly, like how the world shift and ground tremble. He was stronger than ever, and yet he was still in a child form.

Honestly, Enma wanted to stay longer, but he could not, not when his mission was incomplete still, not when his family and friends were still waiting for him. He had thought of it; he wanted to bring Tsuna along, wanted to introduce him to his family so that Tsuna would no longer be lonely.

He did not want Tsuna hide that sad look whenever he thought Enma was not watching.

But Enma couldn't. With his mission, with the safety of his family and friends, with his own secrets... He couldn't. He couldn't bring Tsuna even if he wanted to. (Not to mention, that incident did not happen just once and every time Tsuna settled it, he would always bring home the smell of human and blood that was not his nor an animal's.)

Enma's heart was in pieces as he tore himself to make a decision.

"Tsuna," He began, looking straight at Tsuna's eyes. They were sunbathing by a river near the shed and Tsuna was lying beside him with his arms as pillow like a content cat. Making a sound to acknowledge Enma's call, Tsuna squinted his eyes at Enma, light from the sun blinding him momentarily. "What's wrong?"

"... I think it's time I contact my comrades."

Tsuna blinked once, twice, and 'oh'-ed. He sat up and looked at Enma carefully. He nodded, hiding the reluctance and unwillingness in him. "Yes... Yes, it's probably time. They are most likely worried sick about you."

"...Yes." Enma found that Tsuna was being weird. "They most likely are."

Sighing inaudibly, Tsuna dropped the eye contact and stared at the ground, legs crossed as he ran a finger over the grass. "How--How are you going to get in touch with them? Anything I can help you with?"

Enma pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, I... I will leave this evening and reach out to them."

"Oh." Tsuna said again.

"I'm sorry."

"No, no. It's okay! I understand, really! I-- well, I guess this is it?"

"Hmn. I will definitely repay you for your kindness someday."

"Oh, you don't have to, really." Tsuna laughed awkwardly. "I mean, you already repaid me with the delicious meals you cooked every day and the company. I really appreciate that, you know? I--it's been a long time since I... I had company."

Enma's heart hurt. It hurt to see how Tsuna closed himself off so suddenly, but he couldn't say anything more. He couldn't comfort him while he was the cause and that he was the one who wanted to leave. If he did comfort Tsuna, he knew it would bring the latter more pain than before.

Anymore, and Enma could never leave anymore.

However, Enma couldn't help but blurt out one thing: "I liked accompanying you too."

Tsuna smiled sadly.

"Well, when?"

"In a bit." Tsuna nodded. "Alright. Alright. I guess I won't be sending you off?"

"Hmn."

"Then," Tsuna turned to him with a grin. "Thank you, Enma. I hope your future endeavors go smoothly." He reached out his right hand. Enma's eyes softened, muddy red brightening slightly. "Thank you, Tsuna." He said too, grabbed the hand and shook it firmly. "For everything. I will find a way to repay you soon."

Tsuna waved him off with that. "Like I said, you don't need to." He seemed a little sad. "You can't even if you want to, anyway..." He whispered beneath his breath, so low that Enma couldn't catch it properly.

Enma did not say, but he would really do as he say, he would soon figure out a way to repay Tsuna. Definitely after his mission, of course. He stood up from the ground and patted away the dust and dirt. "Take care, Tsuna."

"Hmn."

Tsuna pointed off into a distance and said, “That way, it’s safer.”

“Thank you.” Enma bowed one last time and turned, leaving without turning around and looking at Tsuna one last time.

Glows of fairies chattered angrily beside Tsuna’s ears as he watched Enma’s back disappear into the forest, some even kicked him on his arm. It didn’t hurt, of course, and he paid no heed to their anxiety until he was sure Enma had disappeared from sight.

“No.” He flicked one of them off his head gently. “Don’t hurt him.” He sighed once again and lied back down. His eyes were closed, hiding the blazing orange under the thin skin. “Anyone who dares to touch him, you know what I will do to you later.”

Shadows all over the forest scattered back into their hiding spots as the threat resonated into their soul, planting fear in them. The fairies flew away too, leaving Tsuna alone beside the river.

Quiet, at last.

Tsuna thought.

‘Too quiet.’

“What the fuck happened to you, Enma?!”

Enma regretted immediately that he had reached out to Aoba instead of Adelheid. Aoba’s eyes were literally bulging out as he tried to make sense of Enma’s form like Enma is some sort of specimen. It made him uncomfortable, but he had no choice. Aoba was the only one who is the most sensitive towards nature than the others; others may not necessarily sense his call but as long as Enma uses his power on one of the nature’s vein, Aoba can sense it immediately. Adelheid is sensitive enough towards his power that she could do it herself, but her strength in that regard was not as good.

And since Enma did not know his exact location, he could only count on Aoba. At least it wasn’t Shitt. P. He didn’t want to be taken as a specimen for her various weird experiments.

“Don’t ask.”

“Well, I already did.” Aoba sassed as he poked Enma’s chubby cheeks. “You looked exactly like how you were young, did you regress?”

“I’ve no idea.” Enma was on wits ends by the prods and swatted the next attack harshly. He usually wouldn’t be so harsh with his friend, but being in such a tiny body did strange works on his temper. Plus, he was in a bad mood from parting with Tsuna.

“Adel will shit her pants…”

“She will kill you if you don’t bring us back, Koyo.”

“Shit, you’re right. Let’s go.”

Enma grabbed Aoba’s hands and finally turned back to look at the forest one last time. His eyes glowed bloody red as he and Aoba disappeared with a gush.

When the wind settled, the shadows popped out and whispered to each other, hushed and frantic. Each and every one of the creatures questioned their lord’s decision, but none had the courage to find him. Their lord was still in foul mood after all. Despite his gentle temperament, his rage was not something they weak followers could handle.

Without a solution, they could all only dissipate silently and wait for their lord’s next move.

After a series of arguments and laughter from his friends and family, they finally came to a conclusion that Enma was cursed by the forest’s guardians, and it was far too archaic for them to break. It was not strong, but it was strange and none of them knew if anything would happen to Enma if they forcefully break it.

Adelheid was pacing around the room, muttering to herself as she tried to figure out a way to break it without any whiplash. Julie watched from the side while Shitt. P and Ooyama flustered around Enma. Well, Ooyama was flustered, Shitt. P was just prodding and poking while asking series of questions that Enma couldn’t even understand.

“It doesn’t make sense… That forest had been deserted for years, and none of the guardians there are strong enough to put such complicated curse on Enma.”

“Maybe all of the creatures there banded together to do it?” Kaoru quietly voiced out, to which Adelheid shook his head.

“No, impossible. Even though it’s no strong, the amount of spiritual energy that has to be put into use is far more than all the creatures could every contribute. Not to mention it was far to complex that any little disturbance would render it useless.”

“Then what do you think?” Julie drawled lazily, but his eyes were particularly focused. “What do you think could have been the one who put such a curse on Enma? It’s not even a dangerous one other than putting him in a child form.”

Adelheid’s steps paused. Her head raised and she looked at Enma with an incredulous yet anxious look.

“No… It wasn’t intended to harm Enma… The coronation—” Adelheid gasped. “The coronation! Enma can’t possibly be crowned if he’s in this stead! No one would allow it, much less those that still oppose the Shimon!” She bit her finger nail, eyes flitting as she tried to figure out the culprit. Who, exactly? Who had such grudge with the Shimon? And with archaic knowledge at that?

Remembering all the names of those that opposed their rise since the last generation, Adelheid’s mind halted at a particular name, one that she had not remembered for a long, long time. “… The Vongola?”

Julie scowled at the name as the others all fell silent, listening carefully.

“They had been annihilated for so long, what makes you think the old skies would hurt us? Not to mention, it hadn’t been us who killed most of them all. It was the previous generations that they should have a grudge with, not us.”

“Yes, which is why they did not harm Enma, but rather cursed him into such state! They were probably trying to stop the coronation ceremony from happening, so they could counter attack.” Adelheid ruffled her hair, frustrated. “Shit, they really did used their advantage! With how their historical records burnt down during the siege, no one knows how their powers were passed down and used! No one knows how to break them either! Once they achieve their goal, we’d all be dead!”

Julie fell silent in a thoughtful manner. Enma pursed his lips. “I don’t think they really wanted to kill us…” Adelheid gave Enma a hard look as his voice faltered.

“Did you not remember the history? Did you not remember how bloodied the siege went? All except the four children survived! And these children were banished down to purgatory without anything else but their clothes behind their back! Even if we were not the one who did it, those kids, would they not harbour the grudges of the death of their loved ones? Would they not desire for revenge? And since the previous generation has passed, would they not transfer their hatred to us, just like how we did to the Varia back then?”

Enma did not reply. He knew that that was the most likely explanation. Vongola and Shimon had long broken apart from one another that the tangled wires of misunderstanding and hatred could no longer be separated.

It hadn’t been like that; Vongola and Shimon were once allies, and their leaders were once best friends. Vongola ruled the skies, while Shimon ruled the lands and seas; it had always been like that since the first sky leader and first gaia leader came to existence. It always had been, until one particularly greedy Vongola subordinate betrayed them; the creature besieged the Shimon on ground, taking them off guard. The creature killed a lot of them, friends, family, comrades, beloved.

Shimon finally managed to weaken and capture the creature, but not without a huge cost. The first gaia leader was gravely injured and had fallen into a coma.

Enraged, Shimon demanded an explanation and compensation as well as help from the first sky leader to save the first gaia leader, but they got none of those. Instead, the first sky leader turned away from their indignant voices, and Vongola pressured them to release the creature.

What could Shimon do at that time? They were far too weak with the decreased manpower and they were without a leader. Vongola was too strong, especially after the Mist and Cloud guardian took over the manpower distribution.

The creature was returned to the skies.

Still, a lot of the Shimon was still hopeful that the Vongola would help them, that the first sky would hear them and save their dying leader.

Until the day their first gaia died, Vongola paid them no heed.

Shimon could not swallow the anger and started a siege. Thousands of years later, Vongola was annihilated and fallen to purgatory, with the mercy of allowing four children live as a repayment for Vongola letting go four of theirs during one of the clashes.

Shimon since then turned the sky and land over and became the rulers of both.

And Enma was the tenth in line for the crown.

Enma’s head lowered. He hated that story. He hated how their people died, how arrogant Vongola was, how the thousands of years of war washed the skies and lands in red. He was not born then, but growing up listening to such horrifying story, Enma grew to hate conflict. He grew to hate how everything ended up with people dying, and vowed that so as long as once he was the leader, he would never allow anything to escalate to such degree.

He would never allow another bloodshed to happen.

And even if Vongola wanted revenge, he would not allow that to happen either, bloody red eyes narrowed.

“… Adelheid. First, look for the traitor. During the previous mission, I was ambushed but a group of reapers; the location of that mission was supposed to be top secret so someone must have leaked it. There must be someone who was controlling the reapers as well because it did not distinguish between good or evil, find them if possible.”

Adelheid nodded.

“Second, tighten the security around the palace ground, especially the inner palaces and library. We mustn’t let anyone unauthorize into these areas or else we would be as good as showing our back to the enemies. And third,” Enma paused.

“Call Cavallone leader in. Besides Shimon, Cavallone was the one who was closest to Vongola back then. They might have some idea what this curse is.”

“Understood.”

It was late into the night where most creature had slept, leaving the shadows and nymphs awake to accompany Tsuna. He was hiking up a mountain, path hidden and messy. He would have got himself lost if not for the little glowing swallow that guided him, Jirou. In his grasp was Natsu, his familiar, purring as he listened to the fairies’ chatters.

“Soon, alright? Stop nagging me all day long, you’re going to talk my ears off.”

The fairies were incensed and tugged on his hair. They were too weak, however, that it felt like a mere tickle to Tsuna. Still, to avoid their attacks, Tsuna quickly placated them.

“Yes, yes. I understand. After all, it has been so long; your queen must’ve been very anxious. We’ll capture—We’re here.”

Jirou chirped as they reached a cliff, surrounded by trees and bushes. Before the edge of the cliff, to the side was a very steep ascend up to the tip of the mountain. It seemed normal, like any normal wall of soil a mountain would have, but Tsuna could see a glowing mark, one only those of blood could see.

Vongola.

“Please be patient.” He said, and went to touch the wall. None of the fairies dared to come close, the powers radiating from the glow far too powerful for them. Tsuna smiled and his eyes glowed.

He walked into the mark and disappeared from sight.

Left behind, the fairies decided to trust Tsuna and waited there along with the shadows.

Inside was as dark as outside where moon did not shine, but Tsuna could see perfectly fine. Jirou who sat on Natsu’s head chirped once, twice, a signal for his arrival, as he moved further in until a door.

Without even knocking, the door swung open and closed heavily behind Tsuna when he walked in.

“Long time no see, Reborn.”

Beyond the door was a large room, not unlike a lounge a palace would have. There were sofas, chairs, tables with beverages and snacks. The only weird thing about the space is that other than the door Tsuna walked through, there were many doors all around and no windows. Reborn, a creature with ghastly shadows was lying on one of the sofas, languidly resting his eyes. At the call, he cracked an eye opened.

“Yo, dame-Tsuna.”

Tsuna rolled his in fond exasperation at the nickname, shaking his head as he made his way over to the sofa. He nudged the latter over and sat down beside him, patting Natsu as it purred at the sight of Leon on Reborn’s head. Reborn grunted and sat up, still lazily leaning against the cushions with his long limbs spread apart.

“You’re being a nuisance, Reborn.” Tsuna grumbled, but letting Reborn place a leg on his lap. He was far used to his old friend’s antics. Also, he sorts of missed such physical contact with him. Reborn scoffed.

“Not like you’d die.”

“I’ve already died once, thanks but no thanks death. By the way, where’s the others?”

“They’re here.” The moment Reborn replied, some of the doors swung open at the same time and came in a group of people.

“My lord!”

Tsuna smiled at them, more delighted to see his family than he let on. He wanted to chat with them, but they had an agenda to plan. “Come on, lets start the meeting. It’s going to take a long time.

Cavallone could not help them. Their current lord had no idea what the curse was and how to break it safely. It was far too out of their scope of knowledge, and none was like the ones recorded in Cavallone’s history books.

Adelheid almost strangle the second in command to death. She was far too at the edge that she ended up snapping at everyone including Enma. Enma understood though, because none of their plans fall in place. The traitors were not found and the curse was still unknown. The only thing that went well was the tightening of security.

Too well, actually, that Enma found it suspicious.

Mami patted Enma on his head—she liked to do that now that she found him shorter than her by more than a head—and said, “Don’t worry, nii-chan. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Enma smiled at her and nodded. “Hmn. I believe you, Mami.”

Mami grinned.

Adelheid almost blew her fuse at how relaxed he was but managed to hold it back because Mami was there. “Enma, my lord, we must figure out a way to turn you back. The old advisors all had heard of your current predicament, and I doubt that they would not have a plan on pulling you down with the charge of ‘cursed’! You know how bad most Shimons are with the word ‘cursed’! Those advisors would surely take this chance to nominate their heirs for the position!”

Enma sighed. “I know, Adel. I know. But there is nothing we could do. I want to forcefully break this curse now with the consequences be damned, but who is to say that we will succeed? At first glance it doesn’t seem that we need a lot of strength to break it, but I can feel that it is not the case. Even we might not necessarily be able to forcefully break it.”

“But—”

“Adel,” Enma cut off, frowning not in irritation for a subordinate’s disagreement but rather in concern for his friend’s wellbeing. Adelheid could tell, so she shut up and listened. “Adel, I know you’re worried. After all, if I don’t take up the position of the leader, we’d be besieged by our own instead. Our peace faction will fall and those who preferred war would reign. We cannot have that happen; I know. But right now, we are truly out of options—no.”

Adelheid frowned. “’No’?”

Enma suddenly remembered someone. “… Maybe he can help.”

Enma hated going down to the prison; he hated the grim and darkness, hated the stench of water, hated the claustrophobic environment. He loathed the most is the fact that they had imprisoned people, stripping their freedom away from them for eternity.

At the deepest end, there was a door; heavy in metal and locks, sealed by countless of spells and curses.

The very last survivor of the Vongola other than the four children: Ricardo.

Enma nodded at the guards and peered into the prison through the small bars where they deliver food and drinks. “Ricardo Vongola.” He called, respectful despite being the next in line for Shimon.

Ricardo did not so much as react to his call, sat on the chair he was chained to with his head lowered, eyes covered by his messy hair.

“I’m Enma Kozato of Shimon, I presume that you know me.” He continued and yet Ricardo still did not react.

“I need your help.” At those words, Enma could feel the guards looking at him with incredulous gaze, but they were in no authority to question their future leader—even if they were curious as of why he was in this form. At that, Ricardo peered up slightly.

“…”

“I’ve been cursed by someone—I’m now stuck in this child form and I can’t return back to normal.”

Ricardo finally looked up carefully and sized him up. Despite the ragged and dirty form, Enma could tell the second Vongola sky was prideful—his eyes were alive despite thousands of years of captivity. Enma admired him, how strong he was in the face of Vongola’s fall, how he pulled up Vongola during the war when their first sky fell. Enma wished to be as strong as him.

“Please help me.”

“… Tell me, young Shimon,” Ricardo rasped, voice hoarse after years of silence but was still steady and firm. It has an archaic tone. “What gain do I have to help you who cursed my people to death? Why should I help you whose blood belongs to my enemy?”

Enma clenched his hands into fists.

“… Because once I successfully gain the position of a leader, I will bring you out and clear the misunderstanding between Vongola and Shimon.”

Everyone was stunned. The guards exchanged a look of shock but they could tell that Enma was serious.

Even Ricardo could tell.

“What misunderstanding is there? You Shimons were the one who stole our treasure and then when our people fought to bring it back, you guys claimed we mass murdered most of you for greed! You thieves stole the vitality of our people and dared to say we Vongola was the one who did you wrong! What great voices you have, that now Vongola is viewed as cruel killers!”

“Insolent--!” One of the guards started, hissing in anger. Enma quickly shot him a glare that shut him up, before turning back to Ricardo.

“I know.”

Ricardo looked at him with a piercing stare, seemingly stripping his soul bare. Enma let him. “I know the truth; I know that it is us Shimon who has wronged Vongola, and I want to let the world know—

“I want to reveal the truth that broke the friendship between us Vongola and Shimon.”

Ricardo studied him, analysed, contemplated. He was a Vongola—still is—and like all Vongola skies, he could tell if Enma was telling the truth. He knew the man thousands of years younger than him was speaking of the truth. Enma really knew what happened years back when only the first sky, first gaia and him knew.

Should Ricardo really trust him?

“… I will speak to you alone.”

On the day of the coronation, the sky was crying. It was not an uncommon sight; all the coronation of the previous Shimon leaders would be accompanied by rain, a symbol of washing away the past and accepting the future. It was a symbol of peace and blessing.

Enma loved the rain.

Adelheid grumbled beside him as she checked and double checked his attire, making sure that it was neat and tidy. She pinned the Shimon insignia onto the coat carefully with an edge of agitation. “I can’t believe you actually believed that guy. And talked to him alone! Without the guards protecting you!”

Enma looked up at the sky from the window. “He wouldn’t hurt me. Not when his agenda is the same as ours.”

Adelheid gave him a glare. “Still, he’s unaware that we are on the same side. What if he decided you’re not worth it and offed you?”

“He won’t.” Enma repeated with a smile. “He will never.”

Adelheid did not understand. Grumbling still, she gave up on scolding Enma and picked up the cloak in silent protest.

“Adel, I know you’re worried, but look, aren’t I back to normal?”

“… Can we even trust him? It’s not even a permanent solution!”

Enma was back to his normal form. It felt weird being tall again but Enma appreciated the bigger hands that let him grip things properly. Tightening the scabbard of his sword, Enma sighed, feeling more comfortable than ever. “Yes, we can. Besides, didn’t he say we would be able to find the culprit during the coronation? At that time, we will be able to force them to break the curse.”

(“I don’t believe you. I know you know why. But I will help you. It is not permanent—no one other than the caster can break the curse—but it’ll last you through the coronation ceremony. The culprit will most probably show up then, so you’ll see to it yourself. I just hope that you’d carry out what you’ve promised. Remember, the skies are always watching.”)

“As if the culprit would actually do it even if we capture them…”

He gave her a feral grin. “Well, we have you, don’t we?”

Adelheid rolled her eyes but said nothing more. As soon as she finished putting the cloak on him, there was a knock on the door, signifying that the ceremony has begun. She sighed and readied herself.

“Well, there’s no going back at this point.”

Enma smiled. “No, there isn’t.”

The ceremony begun.

“My lord, Tsuna,” Gokudera called out, voice carried steadily to Tsuna’s ears through the wind. “We’re arriving.” Tsuna looked away from the Vongola ring on his middle finger and looked up. He was sitting on Natsu as it flew up the skies to the palace where the coronation takes place. The rest of his friends and family followed closely behind, with Gokudera opening the path with Uri. Breathing in the air, every part of him screamed home.

He missed the sky palace.

“Okay, get ready guys.”

Yamamoto began to whistle loudly, warning cry sharp. Tsuna gave Ryohei and Lambo a look. They both nodded and broke apart from the group, Gyudon bringing them around the palace ground unnoticed. Chrome and Mukuro switched from Tsuna’s side to the back of the group, letting Hibari guard him.

At position, Yamamoto whistled again and this time, it was a war cry, loud enough that all creatures of the sky heard—even the Shimon.

The attack by Vongola was taken by surprise, obviously. Everything happened in a blink of an eye. One moment, the coronation ceremony was going well where Enma took the Shimon ring and put it on, the next, a sharp whistle followed by a sky lion’s roar reverberated through the hall.

Enma’s guardian immediately surrounded him as Shitt. P casted a spell around them, creating a dome-like shield. The guards reacted immediately, but none of them were a match for Vongola’s skylark as he descended in a furry of attacks. The advisors tried to run, but the twin mists covered each other and surrounded the palace as a whole in a never-ending illusion of loops.

They were thoroughly surrounded by the Vongola, and there were only six of them.

Enma wasn’t surprised, because after all, Vongola belongs in the skies while Shimon belongs to the lands. Shimon would never be able to win against the rulers of skies.

What surprised him, however, was Tsuna.

Bloody red eyes widened, he stared at Tsuna as his guardians forcefully killed a path open for him, straight to the throne where Enma and his guardians were. Tsuna was smiling, yet Enma could tell that it was a sad smile.

Enma’s heart hurt for Tsuna.

“My lord! What should we do?!” Aoba shouted, watching carefully to prevent any of the Vongola or anyone else who wanted to fish in muddy water approach them. Plants surrounded them; thorns sharp towards the outside away from them. His powers were limited, however. Unlike on ground, these thorned plants can never be an iron fort. Against the illusions Chrome and Mukuro made, they were nothing.

Enma did not pay a heed, however. All he could think of at that time was how beautiful Tsuna looked in a suit—he was always wearing casual attire during the time he stayed with him so it was novel.

Enma liked Tsuna.

Their eyes met somehow as Tsuna made his way towards them and memories flitted through their mind. It surprised them, but Tsuna did not stop, and Enma started making his way to him too.

“Wha—Enma!!” Adelheid called out, trying to grab him and pull him back into the dome when a chain smashed against where her hand was. “Do not interrupt, herbivore.” Hibari snarled as he continued fighting against the countless of guard.

Strangely enough, none of those he knocked down were dead or gravely injured, Julie noted. The smile on his face slipped slightly.

When Enma and Tsuna came close enough, they stopped.

A pair of bloody red eyes and a pair of bright orange eyes glowed.

They smiled.

“Time to take back your place.” Tsuna jested. “I can’t believe you’d actually fallen for the trick.”

Enma sighed. “Yes, it’s time.” He shook his head and pulled out the Shimon ring and handed over to Tsuna. “Death really did me over with that curse.”

“Enma what are you doing?!” At that shout, the fight stopped. It wasn’t much of a fight, anyway. Gokudera and Yamamoto were in charge of holding back most of them while Hibari knocked down the stubborn ones; Chrome and Mukuro had the whole palace under lockdown. The Shimon stopped and gasped, some even started shouting at Enma to not give in to the enemy.

Enma did not even bother looking at them.

Tsuna grinned, laughing. “Death had fun.” Instead of taking the ring, he pulled out the Vongola ring too and hand over to Enma. “I had fun too, when you come find me.” This time, not only the Shimon was shocked into silence, even the Vongola guardians were stunned. “Tsuna?” Yamamoto asked uncertainly.

They exchanged the rings. The moment both of them had a firm grasp of the rings—Enma with Vongola and Tsuna with Shimon—flames ignited from the rings.

Enma’s bloody red eyes softened down to bright orange while Tsuna’s bright orange eyes darkened to bloody red.

Everyone gasped.

Standing where Enma was, Giotto sighed. “Too long. It has been too long.” He said, nostalgia as he looked at the ring. He looked up at Cozarto. “Right, Cozarto?”

Cozarto at where Tsuna was, agreed in a heartbeat. “Agree. It has been too long. It shouldn’t have been… So many of ours had died…”

Giotto nodded, forlorn and regretful. “Yes… If only we could wake earlier. But I guess, better late than never?”

“Yes.”

He turned around and smiled at the Shimon’s youngest guardians. “Isn’t that right?” He said again, looking straight at Julie. “Better late than never, huh, Julie?”

Julie scowled. “I don’t know what—”

“Or should I say, Daemon.”

The dome that protected the guardians broke at the name and all of them scattered far away from Julie, weapons pointed at him.

Julie gave them a bewildered look. “Wha—What are you guys doing?! Why are you believing an enemy’s words?! We should all trust each other especially at this time!”

“We all knew who you truly are.” Ooyama said. “Since the beginning.”

Julie gritted his teeth. “I can’t believe you guys. Years after years of friendship, estranged like this all because of a word from someone who’s supposed to be dead?!”

“No,” Adelheid refuted. “It wasn’t just a word. The Vongola had long contacted us about this. We knew all this while that you aren’t Julie.” She sounded as though she was grieving. “Julie… He… He’s long dead.”

Julie was stunned in place.

Years ago, when the war was at its peak, eight children of Shimon ran away from their home, a hideout where Enma’s father built for his family and closest friends. Their location was leaked, and Vongola, to seize Enma’s father who was a general at that time, attacked them. At first, they merely wanted to subdue them but for some reason, all of the Vongola soldiers’ eyes turned indigo and they started slaughtering with abandon.

Enma’s mother noticed that something was wrong the moment the first blood was shed, and immediately ordered Enma to bring his sister and the other kids to run. There were only eight of them then, so they ran and ran and ran, away from their home and into the woods. Vongola chased them, but the shadows held them back; the creatures of the forest screaming at them for harming their own.

The eight of them managed to escape and hid in a cave. It was safe at first; they could stay there until Enma’s father come to them. However, Kaoru and Ooyama was gravely injured, and Aoba fell ill. They could not wait any longer. Thus, Julie, being the oldest among them, went looking for herbal medicines and food. He never came back.

Ooyama soon fell into a coma from heavy loss of blood and stopped breathing the next day. Kaoru so to not be a burden forcefully stopped his own breathing the following day. Aoba lasted longer, but his cold was too serious and he died in shock.

Four of them died. And four of them were left behind hungry, cold and scared.

After burying their body, Enma and Adelheid decided that they could not stay any longer. Mami, too, was falling ill and Shitt. P was barely holding onto sanity. In the dark, they made a decision to leave and find their parents in the frontline.

In the end, they were captured by the Vongola midway. They were the four children who were released by the Vongola, the children that they let go and not killed.

“That time, we actually tried to look for Julie, but he was gone. The spirits of the forest said Death took him, and there was nothing else we could do.”

Julie was persistent. “But I’m here! I came back!”

“No,” Shitt. P shook her head. “No, you did not. You infiltrated us. Julie never came back; Daemon you took over his soul and killed his chance of coming back with Ooyama, Kaoru and Koyo. You killed our big brother.” Her eyes were teary, but blazing with rage. Shitt. P was closest to Julie besides Enma then, but no more.

Julie gritted his teeth. He lowered his head and his shoulders trembled. He looked like he was crying in frustration from the lack of trust of his comrades, but they all knew better.

Cozarto and Giotto walked over and stood in front of them, shielding them in a sense.

“We all know what you did, Daemon.” Cozarto said. “Its over; don’t torment the children with that face anymore.”

Julie suddenly tilted his head back and laughed, almost maniacally. Shadows stirred and swarmed him. Indigo mist tinted in midnight blue burned his skin and suddenly, his form changed. “My, my. You guys truly, truly played a trick on me.”

Daemon clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Well play, honestly. But so what if you know who I am? My goal is almost achieved after all.” He showed them a deck of cards—50 pieces. All bloodied and with the horrific face of the dead figures of both Shimon and Vongola.

They were the cages of those who held significant power in Shimon and Vongola.

“2 more, and I will get my wish.” He laughed hysterically, as though he could not believe it. “And these two… I reserve them for you two, Cozarto, Giotto!”

Daemon threw over two soul catchers.

Giotto sighed and closed his eyes. Cozarto smiled sadly at him as they reached for each other’s hands. ‘This is the end…’ Upon seeing that, Ricardo, who was brought out by Ryohei and Lambo, shouted, “No!!”

The rings in their hands joined together and a bright, blinding light flared, forcing everyone to close their eyes.

When they can finally open their eyes, Daemon, Giotto and Cozarto disappeared; the deck of cards and two rings were left behind.

Ricardo pushed off Ryohei, who was healing him and reached to grab the rings. “No, why…? This is not what they told me, why?!”

Death approached him and sighed. Reborn crouched down and looked at the rings, glowing faintly. “It’s their repayment.”

“Fuck their repayment!” Ricardo sobbed. Reborn’s expression was shadowed as he pulled him in.

“No, w-what happened? Where’s Enma?!” Adelheid rushed forward and questioned. “Why is the first gaia still alive?! Why did the first sky take over Enma’s body?! Where is he?!”

“Reborn-san, where’s Tsuna?! Didn’t he say nothing will happen?! That we will be able to live happily after all this ends?!” Gokudera snapped. Among all of them, the ones who rejected this plan the most was him, because no matter how he calculated, he could not figure out the way Tsuna can defeat Daemon, the defect. If it wasn’t for his trust for Tsuna, he would have long vetoed the plan till the end.

Reborn looked at the both of them. He was silent, but still explained in the end.

“Both of them were long dead.”

When Enma was released by the soldiers along with Mami, Adelheid and Shitt. P, it was not without a condition; for Enma to be the Vongola heir, Tsuna’s, servant. Of course, the Shimon were not willing, but for their youngest survivors’ lives, they had no choice. Enma had no choice too, so while the three girls were brought back home, Enma was brought up to the sky.

That was Enma and Tsuna’s first meeting.

Tsuna was a kind boy, hidden deep in the palace by the leaders of the Vongola. He was pure and innocent, but he was not ignorant. He was aware of the war outside, and he was aware that Enma was brought in to be his servant. He could tell that the boy was unwilling and was just as lost as he was with the arrangement.

Tsuna’s first decision was to make him his friend instead.

And so Tsuna dragged Enma everywhere, telling him to call him by his name, chat with him about things that fascinate him, protecting him from the other Vongola’s sneers and insults. He outright called out anyone who dared to bully Enma in front of the court and the leader—his father—and demanded punishment.

After three times, no one dared to treat Enma any other way than with respect.

“Why? Why would you do this?” Enma asked one night as they cuddled under the blankets watching the stars shine. Tsuna was yawning, tired from playing around all day. He looked at Enma and smiled with his bright orange eyes glowing. “Because you’re my friend. Because you bleed the same red blood as I do, feel the same pain in your beating heart as I do, breathe the same air as I do. But more importantly,”

He paused, flushing slightly.

“Because I like you.”

Enma was stunned.

He smiled back, eyes soft and fond.

“I like you too, Tsuna.”

Their hands intertwined under the blankets.

Three months later, Enma and Tsuna sneaked into the mausoleum where the first sky and his guardians’ remains resided. Tsuna wanted to tell him about the first sky, wanted to explain that history was not as it was.

They had never expected that they would find not just the first sky, but also the first gaia.

“They look just like us.” Giotto said words archaic and ancient all the same as he mused to Cozarto, both watching the children who was in awe and vigilance. “Just like how we were when we were brats.”

Cozarto laughed and nodded. “Exactly the same.”

“A-are you the first sky and gaia?” Enma, shielding most of Tsuna with his body, asked warily.

Cozarto smiled. “Yes.”

Tsuna gasped. “You guys are still alive? P-please, your eminences! Please stop the war! T-there’s too much bloodshed! Too many innocent lives are sacrificed, and even those in purgatory were dragged into this!”

Tsuna was just a child, but he was so, so pure. His wish was solely for the blood to stop; for the war to end; for the peace of his dead friends. (Yamamoto had gone first when he accidentally stumbled into a crossfire; followed by Lambo who was abandoned by his parents in an alley on lands without the knowledge of the rest; Mukuro shielded Chrome from a Shimon suicide soldier; and Hibari died protecting the creatures of the skies when Shimon set fire to the nursery in retaliation for the forest fire on land.)

Enma’s wish were the same. He wanted peace for the three who were waiting for him, wanted them to smile and live without danger.

Giotto shook his head. “We are no longer living, child.” He crouched down in front of them, sadness crafted deep into his eyes. “It is our fault—we should have ended it while we could, and now we can’t…”

Cozarto patted him on his back comfortingly, yet he said nothing because that was the truth.

Enma clenched his hands into fist, understanding what he meant easily. “Please. You must have a way. Otherwise, both of you wouldn’t stay here for so long even after death.”

Cozarto looked at him in the eyes. “… Indeed.” He admitted. “We do have a way, but we both do not have enough strength.”

“Tell us! We’ll help!” “Yes, we’ll do it regardless of the cost!”

The first gaia and sky exchanged a look.

Half a year later, the Shimon found their way up to the sky palace and ambushed them. Tsuna and Enma was hidden deep in the palace, so they were as safe as they can be, but somehow, one of the Shimon managed to enter the restricted area they were in.

“Young master! I’m so glad that you’re safe! Please step back so I can eliminate him—”

Enma and Tsuna smiled at each other and injected their souls into the rings; Enma with Vongola ring, and Tsuna with Shimon ring.

They both disappeared into the rings. In their place, Giotto took the face of Enma and Cozarto took the face of Tsuna. Both of them fainted and forgotten their memories.

The Shimon soldier took Enma back and left Tsuna on the ground, death hovering around both.

It happened like this:

Years back, when Vongola and Shimon was first established, Giotto and Cozarto took because the first sky and gaia with the former taking the sky and the latter taking the land. Both were good friends and partners, and both of their guardians got along. They were happy, holding the world up together in peace. Every day they will watch over the world, smiling as all creatures lived, helping in small ways they could in disasters, praying for them if they couldn’t. They will, together, guard the meaning of their existence—

Each other and the world.

One day, a plague spread across the lands and took millions after millions of lives. Cozarto could not do anything, for that was the curse of Death and Death could only obey the rules of the world. Helpless, he could only watch on even as the pleads of the creatures reached his ears. He could only hold onto Giotto as they supported each other, praying for the end of the plague.

It did end after a long while, but not without many lives lost, especially Cozarto’s people since they lived on land. They were in grief and rage that Cozarto did not save their loved ones, unable to understand why Cozarto only watched on.

There was a break in the bonds of the Shimon—one that hated Cozarto and wanted him dead, and one that supported him even if they did not understand.

Cozarto kept mum.

Death had once said: “These people may be yours, but so as long as they do not understand, they will not follow you. Why not—"

“Reborn.” Cozarto, the corner of his eyes red in anger, glared at Death. “They are my people still. They are Shimon, and so as long they are, I will accept them.”

Death closed its mouth and Reborn turned around to find Ricardo. Giotto did not so as much as give him a look as he grabbed Cozarto and pull him into a hug. “I understand, Cozarto, you know I do.”

Cozarto buried his face into his shoulder, holding on. “I know.”

Soon, it wasn’t known if someone from Vongola leaked it or that Shimon discovered from the old archives, the Shimon discovered that Vongola housed a creature—the queen of fairies who can call upon the souls of the dead and let them speak to their loved ones—and started demanding for the queen to lend them their power.

They called upon the skies for the fairy and under the reason ‘as a compensation for watching their beloved die’, they pled for the fairy to call upon their loved ones for one last farewell.

And how would the Vongola allow? How would the queen of fairy do that? Yes, she could call upon the souls of the dead, but that was under the premise that death allows; so as long it don’t, she couldn’t do so. And even if she could, how much strength does she have? Calling upon one soul took almost a quarter of her strength; how could she call upon thousands after thousands?

Naturally, even if she wanted to help, she couldn’t. Not even her spouse, Daemon Spade, the first sky’s guardian, would allow.

Cozarto also denied their pled for his aid and tried to dissuade them. A lot of them were not satisfied, so they banded together and kidnapped the fairy queen, forcing her to call their loved ones.

Daemon Spade was infuriated and descended onto them in vengeance. In the process, when he saw how his wife was dying from the torture, his eyes turned indigo and he started slaughtering those who kidnapped her.

He failed to bring her back as she fell into purgatory, barely saved by the other fairies who brought her back to the Tree of Life.

“Daemon, please. Calm down. You have killed all of those that laid their hands on Eleanor. Please, stop doing anymore unnecessary bloodshed.”

Daemon, who was brought back bloodied and chained, glared at him, eyes dark indigo and turning midnight blue. “No, it’s not enough! You did not see the state of my beloved; any longer and she would have died! I will never forgive those dirty blood, never!”

Giotto frowned, concerned about not only Eleanor and Daemon’s state, but also Cozarto who had to do damage control on the lands. He too was helpless in this state, because the wrong was in the Shimon just as much as it was in Vongola turning a blind eye to the Shimon’s plight.

All Giotto could do was lock Daemon up.

“Cozarto, how…?”

Cozarto shook his head, temple throbbing in pain from stress. “No, none of them wanted reconciliation. They… They’re starting to turn everything around and say that all faults belong to Vongola. I… No matter how much I try to explain, none of them would listen.”

Giotto sighed. “I guessed just as much… I’ve locked Daemon up for now. Hopefully he’ll calm down soon and then, we can do an announcement to both Vongola and Shimon. I’ll try to get Death to explain.”

“Will he though? I thought Reborn hated explaining to the living. He wouldn’t even tolerate us if it wasn’t for Ricardo.”

“We have no other choice; no one wanted to listen to us. Only Reborn as Death itself can help us now.”

Cozarto hummed, exhausted both physically and mentally. He was tired and hurting, not just because his people were rioting, but also because Daemon caused the death of many. But he also knew the Shimon were at fault even if he understood the reason for their desperation. All and everything were just giving him a huge headache and he felt like he couldn’t even breath. On one hand it was his people; on the other it was his friend’s guardian. He was stuck.

His only solace at the moment was Giotto—one who understood him from the beginning till the end.

“… I miss you.”

Giotto smiled sadly, palming the ginger’s face on the mirror. He leaned his forehead against the cold glass, imagining the warmth, and said “I miss you too.”

They both thought that as long as they held on, they would eventually be able to overcome this crisis.

But the rules of the world had another idea.

Daemon broke free. Daemon was a genius of his own, different from G who invented many, many technologies. Daemon created many spells, seals and curses, all with the inner strength all living creatures possess. He had even wanted to spread his creations one day to everyone in the world so that they can learn and strengthen their power, to live a stronger life.

Who would have thought, because of the incident, he no longer wanted them to have this knowledge but he wanted to kill them all with the tortures he invented?

Daemon sacrificed his corporal body and turned into mist. He knew Giotto would stop him, so he temporarily decapitated his soul and took over his body. Because Alaude, who could usually tell, was no around, he managed to trick the other guardians into thinking that he was Giotto. And so, he created his plan.

Since the Shimon wanted Eleanor to call upon their dead family, he would fulfil them. He created a deck of empty cards, 52 of them. He would capture the souls of those who are truly desperate and seal them in the card. Once all 52 were filled, he would bring them to Death in exchange for those who died before. Death would not be able to reject him because he had Ricardo in his hands.

And when those who died before are brought back to the land of living, they will be his puppets; and he would make those sealed in the cards watch how he torture their beloved just as they did to his spouse.

Giotto was so spiritually wounded by him that he could not respond to Cozarto’s call.

Cozarto realized soon enough that Giotto was unresponsive and immediately tried to find him, but instead, Daemon took the chance to heavily injure him as well.

“You, as their leader, shall take the blame as well.”

Cozarto fell into a coma.

When Alaude came back, it was too late; Daemon had long killed the Vongola guardians when each and one of them realized what was happening. In the end, Alaude, too, was sacrificed in order to wake Giotto up and expel Daemon from his body. Giotto was spiritually broken then, but in his last breathes, he connected with Cozarto’s spirit on land and developed a plan.

Like Daemon, they both abandoned their corporal bodies and wait for an opportunity. Who would have known that Daemon had long thought of that and planted a curse on their souls? So long as they are no longer bound to physical body, they could no longer find another and no one could see them.

Cozarto and Giotto could only stick to each other as they watch Vongola and Shimon fall into war.

It was only until they saw Tsuna and Enma years later that they had a chance. The children had to exchange their souls with theirs so that they can break the curse. It was all at the cost of their lives and no matter how Giotto and Cozarto explained, they wouldn’t back down. So they exchanged. And they couldn’t do it alone, so they asked for Death’s help whilst passing a message to Ricardo.

“Soon, a child will come to you. He will tell you that he wanted to expose the truth behind the war, why it started and how it had come to be. He will tell you that he wanted peace, that he wanted Vongola and Shimon to reunite. Help him.”

“Who is he?”

“My prodigy,” Giotto smiled. “He will survive.”

“But will you, brother?”

“… Yes.”

“… Alright. So as long as you promised to come back, I will.” Giotto smiled sadly and said nothing.

Years later, the child came, and everything fell in place.

Enma and Tsuna were asleep, in the Tree of Life, hands intertwined. Eleanor watched as they sleep, smiling sadly.

She looked up to the sky and sighed.

“Daemon, my love, I will see you soon.” She scattered and her powers were transferred to the two children.

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

A/N: WELP YET ANOTHER YEAR! HAPPY KHR RAREPAIR WEEK!!!!

as usual, its unedited because am busy with studying. Finals!!! qwq

This is a mess of a story and I can tell yall, that summary of mine is v click-baity. Its not even that good. Its full of plot holes and you guys can tell where I gave up and where I started miserable attempts to patch the plot holes lmao. Just imagine that its not there :3

Anyways to summarise this confusing story of mine, basically a few centuries or so (timeline what timeline?), plague happened, shimon on land died, urged vongola in the sky to help, no help, war. Cozarto and Giotto died in attempt to find peace, and because Daemon is cray cray, so they ended up possessing Tsuna and Enma respectively. You can tell this is where I try to make it mistaken identity AU lmao. I don't even think its this AU but whatever, right? :D

I was surprised that it went 11k tho... Hope you guys enjoy this messy 'little' story and stay safe!

[I apologize for any grammar, spelling, etc. etc. mistakes]

#KHR #Katekyo Hitman Reborn #khrrarepairweek2021 #Kozato Enma #Sawada Tsunayoshi #Giotto #Cozarto Simon #My Writings

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mst3kproject · 4 years ago

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The Ape

In the vein of movies that should not be confused with eerily similar previous entries, The Ape is distinct from The Ape Man... but not by much. Both feature a slumming horror superstar, glandular secretions, and a stupid gorilla suit. All these things also showed up in early seasons of MST3K, of course, and The Ape Man also has a surprise bonus. Apparently, the guy in the gorilla costume is none other than Crash Corrigan, of Undersea Kingdom!

Long ago, Dr. Adrien lost his daughter to polio, and ever since he's been obsessed with finding a cure. That sounds pretty noble, but unfortunately, Adrien is a mad doctor, so the cure he comes up with requires killing healthy people to drain them of their cerebralspinal fluid! In order not to arouse suspicion, he kills and skins a gorilla that escaped from a circus, and wears its hide when he murders people... you know, as one does. To nobody's surprise but his, he ends up getting shot, but hey, at least he cured beautiful young Frances' paralysis!

This is a weird, dumb movie but one thing I can say in its favour is that everybody seems to have given it a good try. This material was far beneath Boris Karloff but he takes it seriously and actually gets a couple of decent moments, as does Maris Wrixton (who was also in The Face of Marble) as Frances. Nobody else is even close to Karloff's level, being just bland 40's actors who talk too fast, but none of the main cast are phoning it in, either.

Conversely, the worst thing in the movie is its truly horrendous gorilla suit. The puppet face shows the actor's eyes and can curl its lip, which is cool, though the features don't look very gorilla-ish. The rest of the suit, however, is terrible. It's way too shaggy and in order to give it a gorilla-like silhouette, they stuck a big hunchback on it. This might have worked if Corrigan had tried to walk on all fours like gorillas actually do, but instead he waddles along upright like a toddler with a full diaper, which ruins it. The people who made the movie also appear to think gorillas are nocturnal which, for the record, they are not.

Gorillas were kind of a big thing in movies of the 40's and 50's. The species had been scientifically described a century earlier, but hadn't really been studied until the 1920s and most people had never seen one outside of King Kong. Films of the period were not kind to the gorilla. One of the first gorilla movies was 1930's Ingagi, which purported to be a documentary about gorillas kidnapping women as sex slaves. That kind of set the tone, and subsequent movies depicted gorillas as creatures prone to violence and rape. Examples from this blog alone are numerous: The Ape Man (1940), Panther Girl of the Kongo (1955), and Bride of the Gorilla (1951) for starters... Robot Monster (1953) might also count.

The Ape has a slightly more nuanced approach to gorilla behaviour. Yes, its gorilla does maul people to death... but the first victim is its trainer, who has been shown mistreating it. Another circus employee even tries to tell him that he'll catch more flies with honey. When the ape batters its way into Dr. Adrien's house, it does so in order to get at the trainer's coat, which Adrien left draped over a chair when the dying man was brought to him for treatment. We see far more fear of the escaped ape than we do of the animal itself, and it does not commit near as many murders as Adrien does while dressed in its skin!

So that's halfway progressive for the 1940s. We can also look at the treatment of Frances, the wheelchair-user partially paralyzed by polio. She is clearly meant to be an object of the audience's pity, and Adrien is obsessed with making her able to walk again – as he could not do for his own daughter. To some extent the movie infantilizes her, as she is clearly dependent on her mother, unable to have much of a social life, and her boyfriend Danny professes his willingness to 'take care of her'. When she regains movement in her legs at the end of the movie, she and her mother immediately burn her wheelchair. Apparently she's not allowed to build up her stamina slowly... if she walks ten minutes from home and then can't continue, she's just gotta sit there until she recovers or somebody finds her.

On the other hand, Frances' family aren't trying to force Adrien's possible cure on her, but let her choose it for herself. Her mother doesn't mind looking after her, and Danny is happy to accommodate her by, for example, hiring a cart so she can accompany him to the circus. Danny in particular is very suspicious of the fact that the injections Adrien gives to Frances are causing her pain, and takes the doctor to task for it, telling him he would rather have her disabled and happy than walking but in pain. “I'd rather carry her around all my life!” he says. Her loved ones are willing to try for the cure, but it doesn't seem like anyone will be miserable if it fails. Frances herself wistfully admires the acrobats at the circus, but shows no anger or bitterness that she cannot be like them.

Frances is even allowed some initiative, as she hurries down the road in her wheelchair calling to Dr. Adrien and trying to warn him that the gorilla is in the area. This, ironically, is what leads to Adrien getting shot, as it attracts the attention of the posse hunting the animal. But as Adrien lies dying, he gets to see Frances standing for the first time in ten years, so I guess we're meant to think this was all worth it.

But was it? Several people died in order to provide the spinal fluid that helped Frances heal. The movie shows them as terrified of Dr. Adrien and/or the gorilla, but other than that it is oddly uninterested in their fates. None of the deaths are presented as tragedies, with families left in mourning... the only family we hear about for the gorilla trainer is a father who is already dead, and another one of the victims was an asshole who told his wife if she didn't like him cheating on her she could always drown herself(!??). So... are we supposed to think they don't matter? That their deaths are acceptable because they helped Frances – who was not dying or even deteriorating, and was satisfied with her life as it was – to a cure?

It is notable that we do not see what happens when Frances finds out that people had to die for her to be able to walk. She would have to reassess her opinion of Dr. Adrien, whom until now she has thought of as a loving father figure. She would have to figure out what this means for her future and perhaps need reassurance that she is not culpable. Her unconcerned happiness at the end suggests that nobody bothered to tell her, and that she has not yet made the connection herself. This is really quite unfortunate, because it deprives Frances of her only real chance to be a character rather than a plot point – which is ultimately all she is here.

Nobody else is shown dealing with the aftermath, either. The town has long mistrusted Dr. Adrien because of rumours that he was experimenting on his patients, and a recent spate of missing dogs is shown to be his fault. An early scene shows a group of boys bothering the doctor by throwing rocks at his house (which made me wonder if toilet paper hadn't been invented yet. According to Wikipedia, it dates to 1857, so there's your Fun Fact for the day). Seeing their worst fears realized really ought to have some effect on the people. Even if nobody bothers to tell Frances how her miraculous cure was effected, others will surely figure it out and have to weigh up what he achieved versus the crimes he committed to get there.

Yeah, I know: this is a movie about a guy killing people while wearing a dead gorilla. I'm thinking too hard.

Finally, I want to note some interesting possible connections between The Ape and a number of other movies I've seen. Both The Ape and The Ape Man appear to have been inspired by the 1932 movie Murders in the Rue Morgue, which also features a gorilla and injections of bodily fluids in the name of mad science, and did not feature very much resemblance to Edgar Allen Poe's story of the same name. I don't know if these films directly inspired each other, and it's been ages since I saw Rue Morgue... but the combination of plot elements here seems weirdly specific to be something different people came up with independently. I should watch all three again and see if I notice any more similarities between them.

There are also interesting likenesses between The Ape and another Boris Karloff movie, 1945's The Grave Robber. The latter is the story of a doctor who needs fresh corpses as part of his research, which culminates in surgery to allow a paralyzed girl to walk again. The doctor in this film is more a victim than a villain, himself, as he finds that the man he's been paying to rob graves for him is actually murdering the homeless, and he can't expose this criminal without jeopardizing his work and incriminating himself. It's been a long time since I saw this movie, either (as I mentioned a few weeks ago, I've had some shit going on and I haven't had a lot of time for movies, bad or otherwise), so I can't actually say if it's better than The Ape, but it's definitely less silly.

Anyway, the moral of this story is vaccinate your fucking kids or a gorilla will kill you.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #the ape #40s #guys in gorilla suits #tw: rape #allow me to recommend a better movie #we're running out of plots

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yeoldontknow · 4 years ago

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Back To The Stars: Primis

Author: @yeoldontknow as part of The Fault of Light collaboration with @j-pping Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: astronaut!au; space travel!au; mars mission!au; soulmate themes; romance; smut; heavy angst; themes of abandonment Summary (this installment): Chanyeol is 11 years old the first time someone walks on the Moon. He is 11, and already he feels his life is changing. Rating (this installment): G Warnings: none; chanyeol is just a cute beybey with his big ears and big eyes and big heart and big excitement and i made myself terribly soft for someone who doesnt really like writing children :( Word Count: 4.2K

masterlist

JULY 20, 1969

It’s the biggest televised event since the coronation of Queen Elizabeth.

At least, that’s what his teachers tell him.

He struggles to understand the magnitude of their words, finding it terribly difficult to wrap his mind around the concept that Kings and Queens could still exist. It seems very fanciful, this idea, but he likes that some kind of magic still seemingly exists within the world. Having spent so long ensuring his best grades are on mathematics and science, keeping his father placated, he feels reassured that there is some truth to fairy tales - a new Queen stepped into power; the books on his shelves are true even if he does not understand why, even if he was not alive to witness it.

Even if his family was still in Korea, so far removed from the pomp and circumstance of this celebration he doubts his parents even remember the significance of such an occasion.

Cuddling into his mother’s side, Chanyeol presses himself deeply into the couch, and listens intently to the anxious chattering of his father as he turns the dial of the TV. It is one hour past his bedtime, and already his eyelids feel heavy with sleep, but he and his sister have finally been allowed to witness the secret activities of adults after they have been tucked into their sheets, and so he listens, not wanting to miss any details. Lips set in a small pout, he nods in time with his father’s pauses, hoping this makes him look mature and astute, wanting, more than anything, to be encouraging.

This is the single most important moment of his career, he says, and Chanyeol hums, aware that his father has been a mathematician his whole life, presumably always, the concept of a career so far reaching and permanent he knits his brow together as he tries to fathom it.

This is precisely why he brought the family to America, and therefore this evening is momentous and personal. Chanyeol was very small when they immigrated to the country, but he distinctly remembers the terribly long boat journey and the way his mother always looked pale and slim under the dim lighting, lips pressed into a tightly shaped grimace that never managed to smear her lipstick. He enjoyed the spray of the ocean as he hung over the railings, and even now he can recall the faint droplets of mist on his fingers; the sort of refreshing happiness that still makes him release a giggle, recalling the faint bubbles on his skin, and his mother hugs him to her side tightly, pleased by the sound as she presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

He remembers the journey, and while he still does not yet fully appreciate why they are here, he knows his mother likes this house more than the other, and that it made his parents happy enough to provide him a sibling. This kind of enthusiasm is something he understands quite well. At eleven years old, he thinks everything should carry this kind of excitement, and so it is nice to see his father finally allowing the tone of it to saturate his words, not just his actions.

And tonight, this is the most excited his father has ever been.

Slowly, and with careful footsteps, his father backs away from the television, doing his best not to introduce any static by interfering with the antenna behind the box. The barely contained apprehension and exhilaration in his joints keeps his limbs remarkably still, even as he relaxes into the reclining chair without truly relaxing at all. Leaning forward on his knees, he adjusts his glasses on the tip of his nose and releases a slow, almost silent sigh. Chanyeol releases his own deep breath, hoping he sounds just as serious and invested.

'How come you're not there, Papa?' he questions, looking between his father and the television.

For months, he has been working late, coming home with deep set bags under his eyes long after supper has been cleaned and put away. It strikes him now that his father came home relatively on time today, joining them for dinner without eating, talking in large, complicated theories and figures that has his mother nodding in interest. Kicking his feet against the couch excitedly, he wonders if, maybe, he will see his father on the television.

'They don't need me there,' he explains, getting off the chair to turn the volume up. 'I helped with only some of math, some of the planning. Essential people are there to provide emergency support.'

'Oh,' he hums airily, and his mother chuckles, pointing at the screen for him to pay attention.

Muffled voices speak over an insignia he can only just make out. Low and gruff in their authoritative urgency, they confirm a rotational degree that has his father releasing a grunt of confirmation, seemingly pleased by the number. Over and over, he traces the shape of the logo with his eyes, its blurry letters arched elegantly above a rocky landscape. CBS news broadcasters talk amongst themselves in between command announcements, narrating a screen they confirm to be an animation, and Chanyeol’s eyes bug slightly, having been convinced the rocket was entirely real. A countdown clock depicts twelve minutes and twenty-seven seconds until touchdown, the rocket releasing a blast that has fire streaking across the screen.

Wiggling out of his mother’s hold, he leans forward and points. 'What's that, Papa?'

'Those are the thrusters,’ he says quickly, though he does his best to keep his voice gentle, doing his best to educate. ‘They help with getting the rocket into orbit for landing.’

Transfixed, he stares at the screen and reads the numbers in English. Recently, his teachers praised him for his excellent reading skills, and he takes his time forming the words with his mouth and tongue, ensuring there is no trace of his natural accent.

‘Velocity is 4,000 F.P.S,’ he recites, folding his hands in his lap, proud that he can pronounce numbers so well in his second language. ‘Altitude is 45,000 feet. That’s higher than Mount Everest, Mama,’ he says, offering her an informative smile as he, too, adjusts the glasses perched on his nose.

‘Is it?’ she asks, sounding surprised. Keen to hear more, she leans close, regarding him expectantly.

‘Yes,’ he nods seriously. ‘We just learned about it in geography this week. This is higher by about…’ Knotting his brow together once more, he quickly does mental math the way his father taught him to, converting kilometers to feet, counting diligently with his fingers. ‘By 15,900 feet,’ he finishes confidently.

‘That’s very high,’ she affirms, looking at the television in wonder. ‘And some very large numbers. You did well.’

‘Well, I am eleven,’ he chastises, because she should know that he is old enough to manage the digits and carry his zeros well.

Still, it bothers him that he does not have a proper scale to understand how high these numbers are in physical metrics, and he quietly makes a plan to create this with his own hands by collecting popsicle sticks his sister discards after her snack.

Focusing his attention back to the screen, he sees that it has changed, the animated rocket moving over the rocky landscape, and now he can finally see the words clearly. The land below the letters is dotted with black holes, some areas brilliantly smooth and others, craggy and mountainous. It is unlike any place he has ever seen, and he casts a sidelong glance to his Atlas in the living room bookshelf, wondering if he missed a page, a country, or, perhaps, if he has not studied the section on the sea closely enough.

'Apollo 11,' he reads out loud, cocking his head to the side as he racks his brain for a country with this name. 'Where are they going?'

To no one in particular, his father smiles. 'That's the Moon.'

‘The Moon?’ he exclaims, incredulously. Sitting up straight, he casts his father a bewildered expression, feeling the tips of his ears growing hot in anticipation. ‘This is the Moon landing? We’re watching the Moon Landing? That’s what you’ve been working on? Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I couldn’t tell you what I was doing.’ The explanation is curt, brief at best, and pressed between the pauses on the television. ‘It was classified. Besides, isn’t this a nice surprise?’

‘No, it’s not,’ he protests. As he speaks, he hears his voice become filled with the emphatic and insistent cadence it adopts when he has been scorned or told that he is wrong when he knows he is right, and while he can hear it happening, knows that this kind of indignant protesting will result in his being scolded, he simply does not know how to stop. ‘Everyone knows someone is going to the Moon. It’s all anyone has been talking about at school.’

‘Yes.’ The nod of vague acquiescence he receives makes his hands grip the cushion of the couch, the tips of his fingers taking on a curious tingle, swollen with adrenaline. ‘But I couldn’t have you telling everyone your father was involved, could I.’

Chanyeol shakes his head vigorously, lips parted in slight dejection. ‘I wouldn’t have told anyone.’

Finally turning to look at him, his father peers at him knowingly over the rim of his glasses, one eyebrow arched in warning. In this false sense of quiet, Chanyeol is filled with the overwhelming sense that he is treading on dangerous waters, his overzealous nature getting the best of him - a habit he has and, at such a young age, is still learning to manage. Silence is difficult, makes his skin hurt when he is this passionate, this eager, finding it impossibly difficult to calm his abject disquiet at being denied information.

Still, his father’s watchful brow is admonishing enough, words drying in his throat as he crosses his arms over his chest with a quiet huff.

Falling back into the couch, he frowns and settles back into his mother’s side. ‘Okay,’ he mumbles, doing his best not to sound dramatically despondent. ‘But only just Rodney. He’s my only friend, and he’s here all the time anyway.’

Turning his attention back to the television, his father effectively puts an end to the conversation. ‘Just watch.’

It takes less than six minutes for his sister to fall asleep, shoulders slumping as she curls in their mother’s lap, tiny hands gripping her shirt for comfort. She breathes evenly, peacefully, and while Chanyeol does long to join her, steadily growing more tired the longer he stares at a terrain that looks precisely the same from all directions, something in his belly keeps him awake, far more alert than he usually would be. He can hear it in the voices of the announcers, the way they say just enough, never too much, mystified just the same by the words of the commanders.

As time passes, he latches on to certain phrases, words that normally would not go together but sound remarkable when said within the same breath.

Fuel Monitor. Approach phase.

His vocabulary books have not yet taught him some of these words, but he recalls, very distantly, hearing his father muttering numbers and ratios alongside these phrases late at night while hunched over the dining table. Sometimes, when he would sneak down from his bedroom in the late hours of the night for a glass of water, Chanyeol would see him curled over in his chair, scribbling notes in the dim light of a desk lap. At the time, they sounded musical, like lullabies he might have been rehearsing to help his sister fall asleep.

Now, he chastises himself for not having paid attention to the way they are heavy, powerful, curving around his tongue as they take hold of parts of him he did not know existed. They cling to him, burrow down into his marrow and settle, not unlike roots.

Wondering how they would sound coming from his mouth, in his voice, he mumbles to himself, silently letting them escape on his exhale, trying them on for size. All at once he feels terribly important, the sudden weight of responsibility impossibly great, and so he returns to simply watching, feeling as though he has rushed himself somewhere he is not yet ready to be, but wants just the same.

When the countdown hits zero, he expects a cacophony of noise, and inwardly prepares for an eruption of joy so volatile he thinks the earth may crumble. It is finished, so therefore everyone should be celebrating its completion, but still his father remains seated - though, he is hardly in his chair at all. Over time, he has inched forward on the cushion, preciously balanced on the edge as he presses the palms of his hands into the fabric of his slacks.

Everyone seems to be waiting, and so he decides to wait too, the tension in the room feeling not unlike the threat of loss. Wringing his hands together, he squirms restlessly, room so quiet he wonders if anyone is even breathing, if even the men on the news have decided to stop the air in their lungs, oxygen unnecessary now that men have learned to walk through space.

Eventually, after what feels like an impossibly long time, he hears it:

“Houston, the Eagle has landed.”

In one swift motion, his father leaps from his chair, hands clutched at his sides in fists and eyes latched on the screen as his mouth opens, uncertain if he should laugh or cry or both all at the same time, a guttural noise of unprecedented awe. His mother lifts one hand to her mouth as she laughs, the fervor of her amazement jostling him gently, their determinedly poised expression of triumph somehow wondrously loud. Outside, beyond the picture window of the living room, he can hear other families celebrating, some brought out into the street to set off firecrackers; the magnitude of their excitement a thunder that rolls through the night sky, victorious in nature and marvelously unifying in its breadth.

Craning his neck up and back, he glances out the window to the night sky and studies the moon, her paltry light and her enduring solitude, and he shifts against the couch cushion to get closer. Nestled deeply into the inky black of the night, the moon is not yet full, little more than a sliver of light he thinks could be his fingernail, a piece of him etched into the sky. Never in his life as it appeared so close, the surrounding shadows doing little to mistake her shape for smallness, so near to him now he imagines he could reach out and touch it. He tries to picture it, the bodies of people walking along the surface as he holds it in his hands, tries to imagine them, their figures moving through the light, but sees nothing, just the rise and fall of her light, the craters and the white.

When he looks back at the broadcast, once more the scene has changed but this time the animations and projections have completely disappeared. Now, it is simply the Moon - the Moon and its landscape, inching ever closer as the rocket made its descent. A small notice in the corner states that footage comes with a delay, and therefore he is seeing, now, what he should have been seeing several minutes ago. He falls into them the same way the rocket seemed to fall slowly, delicately, to the surface, as though he was there, as though this secondary, retroactive landing is all his own.

Gripping the edge of the cushion, he finds there is something profoundly compelling about the surface of the Moon, and all its vast emptiness. Though there is nothing, it seems there is an ever present something, an itch at the back of his mind that feels perplexingly like delight and disappointment at the same time.

‘How come we’re only seeing these now?’

Looking to his father for just a moment, he hopes there is a reasonable explanation for why he should only be receiving this information now. Now, when there is likely so much more to be seen, so much more to know, and so much he is unable to see, doing his best not to feel heartbroken at the prospect.

‘It takes time for the image information to come back to Earth,’ he explains evenly, having finally reclined back into his chair now that the great work has been completed. ‘It takes time for Mission Control to receive, process, and broadcast them.’

It is logical, he knows, but still it is not enough. He thinks nothing will ever be enough, ever again. ‘Why?

Chuckling, his father releases a sigh. ‘Light has to travel between Earth and the Moon, and our technology just hasn’t caught up with light yet.’ He pauses momentarily, falling quiet in that dreamy way Chanyeol admires when his father is about to say something profound, something that always makes him feel like puzzles are the embodiment of bliss. ‘It will, though, one day.’

Chanyeol likes that idea, the notion that something, anything, could move alongside beams of light. Sometimes, when his mother lets him set up the tent in the backyard, he takes his flashlight and his binoculars out and points them to the sky, hoping for a better view of the stars. The beam from his flashlight reaches upward, higher than his own arms can stretch, far past the trees and up into nothingness. It always seems to happen in an instant.

‘How fast is light?’

His father hums, considering the question. ‘Think about it this way,’ he begins, still sounding far away, immersed in his thoughts. ‘It takes light from the Sun eight minutes and seventeen seconds to reach Earth.’ Chanyeol’s eyes widen, acutely aware of the vast distance between the Sun and the Earth, and the way his parent’s Buick could never go that fast - not even the boat they took to get here could compete. ‘Imagine moving that fast.’

His attention moves back to the lunar surface, eyes still wide as he studies the deep craters and the way the black of the sky beyond is somehow even more black than the one he sees beyond his window. This black is infinite, all consuming, and he has the creeping sensation that if he were to reach out to touch it, his very hand would disappear. Swallowing thickly, he stares at it, mystified, trying to recall if the monochrome of their television has ever been so dark.

“It’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

A laugh erupts from his father, the loudest his laugh has ever been and his mother simply shakes her head, voice having fled perhaps to where the stars are hung. Chanyeol watches as his father laughs and claps his hands, a myriad of emotions walking over his face with each exhale of breath.

‘Whose voice is that?’ he asks, wanting to know who made his father so happy.

‘Astronaut Neil Armstrong.’

Astronaut. This is a word he knows, one his classmates have been saying repeatedly over the last three days. The first time he’d heard it, he returned home and went immediately to his mother’s English dictionary, searching for a better definition than the one his peers have provided.

Astronaut. A noun. Added to English lexicon in 1929, a date not too far reaching in the past, a date that reminds him of sepia toned white linen clothes and Japan. A compound of Astron and Nautes, Greek for Star and Sailor respectively. Popularized in 1961 due to America’s space travel program, now meaning space-traveler.

He likes Star Sailor better, but up until this moment he had no frame of reference for the application, no sense of who would do such a thing, or how. Astronaut Neil Armstrong has a rich voice, one that he likes listening to, clear toned and full of good humor. Apprehension waits at the back of each of his words, every word he says a first, every step he takes a first, everything about Neil Armstrong is first.

‘I could do that,’ he whispers to no one, just for himself and the sky.

Gripped by his sudden jealousy, by Neil Armstrong’s voice, and the way he must wait, impatiently, for several minutes just to see something new, he seemingly both forgets his parents are in the room with him and wishes, simultaneously and all the way into his blood, that it was him on the Moon and not Neil. He doesn’t want to wait to see it all, he wants every moment to be filled with this kind of enterprising discovery, this kind of relentless adventure. It is not enough to see the high contrast of black and white on the screen, because he knows, as though he has always known, the world beyond is so much more colourful than this.

Sometimes, when he goes camping with Rodney and his parents, they sneak out of their tent long past bedtime and look up at the stars - the sky dotted endlessly with blots of light. In the shimmer of night, the light has colours - the sky a deep purple, the stars a mix of red and blue and yellow, sometimes even green in their hue. Surely, the view from the moon must be just as brilliant, and Chanyeol hates that he is not seeing it, not really, not for himself.

It’s when Neil Armstrong begins to jump that things begin to change, the lines between himself and the astronaut blurring altogether. In the low gravity of the Moon, the scene fades from the surface of the moon to something new entirely, the broadcasters laughing incredulously at the sheer silliness of it. Neil Armstrong takes long strides, lifting off the balls of his feet and jumping forward, landing gently on the surface before repeating the action.

Everyone is laughing. Neil’s voice is full of childish glee. His father presses his head back into the cushion of the chair, eyes closed as though welcoming a rapture. Beside him, his mother swallows her laughter, afraid of moving too much and waking his sister. Chanyeol thinks the whole world might be laughing in unison, bonded by the pure euphoria of this moment.

But he is excluded from this. He is not euphoric. He is ravenous.

Chanyeol rises to a stand, convinced now that he is just the same as Neil and, because there is no difference, he should not have to wait to touch the Moon himself.

Moving through the living room with fast strides, he is reminded of his mother’s rule that there is no running in the house. He’s not really running, he thinks, moving at a speed just below the true definition of running, passing through the kitchen to the sliding glass door and into the back yard. Behind him, his parents are calling out, demanding that he come back to the couch. But he ignores them, eyes trained on his singular goal.

Summer’s trampoline is set up in the center of the soft grass, just beyond the patio. A consolation for their lack of a pool, he spends most of his days bouncing while his sister watches from the side, head craned upward to watch him soar. He’s been tremendously silly, he thinks, spending nearly the entire month of June and into July attempting a back flip when he should have been doing this.

Hippity hoppity.

Climbing onto the trampoline, he takes off his slippers and socks, tossing them over the side and into the grass. His mother lingers in the doorway, calling for him to come down and come back inside, but he doesn’t listen. Chanyeol jumps, bracing himself and bending his knees for each landing so he can gain more height, more speed. With each rise and fall he keeps his eyes trained on the Moon, the sliver of light that looms ever closer, growing more bright the longer he looks. At his highest point, he reaches out his arms, letting his hands trace its edges, before falling away, slipping away back to Earth.

If he gets close enough, he is certain he could grab hold of it, certain that he too is defying gravity, the laws of science that his father so often lectures him about. Putting more force into his knees, he jumps again, his mother’s voice a scolding bark of annoyance and irritation - claiming that he will break the trampoline, that he will hurt himself, that he will wake his sister and other neighbors.

Let them see, he thinks. Chanyeol wants them all to watch as he grabs hold of the Moon and refuses to let go.

Because, why shouldn’t it be him?

Hippity hoppity.

Author’s Note: this originally was intended to be part of the much larger one shot, but as i was writing i felt that it kind of stood alone as more a prologue than anything else. this moment is not referenced again in the full story, but it does set up a lot of information about chanyeol, why he goes to space to begin with, and will be reflected in a different scene within the full story. @j-pping and i both agreed it suits the series best as a prologue so i hope you enjoy it ;--;

Research Notes: i watched the archival footage of the Moon landing from NASA and CBS news archives. the quotes italicized were actual words said during the landing. neil’s famous quote is actually ‘one small step for a man [...]’ however due to delay and dropped frequency the word was lost - this is also why most commands and answers were four words at max. the original news broadcast was done in technicolor, however owning a TV in technicolor was still not entirely common in the 60s and become more prominent in the early 70s, hence why Chanyeol watches everything in black and white. if anyone reading this is an astrophysicist, im doing my best to research everything featured in this story to precise accuracy but if something is wrong im sorry and please let me know :(

tag list: @delightpcy @noellestrash @falsemagic @wonderlustlucas @junkfoodwriting @taestfully @heatofmyexoheart @5am-rainyandgrey @dont-have-fear @cloudyhaechan @pimolalola @ahgishaman @softly-savage-mint-yoongi @yehet-me-up @lamichellee

#chanyeol x reader #chanyeol x you #exosnet #kwritersworldnet #exowritersnet #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol angst #chanyeol au #chanyeol fanfic #chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol romance #exo au #exo scenario #exo romance #exo angst #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #park chanyeol

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ddaenghoney · 4 years ago

Text

chapter nine

masterlist link in blog description.

As a successful songwriter, you want nothing more than the acknowledgment that the chart-topping musical pieces are your own creations. But contracts, relationships, and the difficulty of facing the stakes involved head on, keep your mouth shut until pressure builds too much.

Pairing(s): Park Jimin x Y/N, Min Yoongi x Y/N

disclaimer: any characters depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respected idol in real life.

Series warning(s)/genre(s): Chapter-based written fic, Slow-burn relationship(s), Fake-dating, Unrequited love, Songwriter/producer!oc, idol!Jimin, idol/songwriter/producer!Yoongi, friends with benefits, drama, romance, smut, angst, fluff (updated as needed)

Chapter warning(s): none, yoongi is just so sweet.

Word count: 5008

if you enjoy please, please let me know!

Yoongi uses his left hand to type into the keypad of his apartment, digits beeping while you stare down at the base of the door. His other appendage remains gripping onto yours, a silent comfort that you didn’t stop appreciating from the second he led you from the party. Your cheeks are stained with the treks of tears that ceased dripping only minutes before arrival, trying to will yourself to calm down because you already had to bother Yoongi with going back to his place to retrieve your clothing from the daytime.

The lightning flashes through his windows when you both step in, causing Yoongi to glance at it, frowning at the sight of never-ending rain. It trails from the sky to the ground in a violent barrage that grew with strength along the way home. By morning the forecast is supposed to be clear like it had been all day, so opposite of the way it is currently that Yoongi never anticipated rain to begin with. Explaining the dampness of your outfits from the short walk inside, and the way his heavier honey locks cover more of his forehead.

You finally release his hand to hurry and find your clothing, along with typing in for a new taxi to come and take you home once you do. Your hip bumps into the corner of a coffee table in the travel to his room, making you freeze to make sure the lamp stays steady. Yoongi comes shortly after, watching you step back from the furniture with a sigh,

“I’m sorry, I’m acting like such an idiot-”

“You’re not.” His head shakes, eyebrows creasing to try and assure you that he’s not bothered. “You are a little bit tipsy though.” He acknowledges in a polite observation, more to lead into his next point, “I’m sort of worried about you going home like this.” You now shake your head quickly, trying to convince him otherwise,

“I’ve gone home worse-- I mean, think about that night where everything got fucked up at Joon’s bar after the club party--” You huff, rubbing your face with an irritated tremble that contrasts a short spout of spiteful laughter. “I was stupid that night too. It’s a theme-”

“Y/N,” Your hands lower as Yoongi calls your name with conviction having stepped towards you, he leans slightly so that he’s at eye-level. You notice the stubborn sincerity of his eyes underneath little locks of hair stuck to his face from the rain. “You’re not stupid. You don’t need to feel bad about all of this and keep putting yourself down.”

“I am stupid.” You instantly say again, eyes narrowing at him trying to defend you from your own words. The idea of you being anything other than idiotic for all the things you’ve gotten yourself into feels far removed. You thought you were a genius signing that contract and ruining everything around you in the present by doing so. “All of this is my fault.”

“What is?” Yoongi asked in complete confusion, disbelief. Not believing you at all. It angers you in the oddest way that he’s so convicted against your thoughts. With everyone else at the company likely thinking of you as the biggest fool for the decision of giving away all of your credit-- everyone including Jimin thinking you don’t deserve credit for your work after you signed your name, how could Yoongi think any different. He’s been in the business around the same amount of time as you, and succeeding in an entirely different light. Everyone knows whom Yoongi is. He has not allowed an opportunity for his name to be erased from whatever he’s participated in. He leaves his mark beside every song title produced, featuring, and involved with at all. You doubt he’d even give a moment of consideration to let anyone overlook his hard work. He stands up for himself, and you let yourself get walked over for a short-term prize.

“Everything!” You practically yell out in frustration, surprising Yoongi only enough for his eyebrows to raise though he remains the same pace from you as before. His lips part to combat your words, you know he’s going to tell you that it isn’t true, but you don’t believe him, you can’t believe him at this point so the words rush from your own mouth as your body trembles from the frustration of each word.

“I was a stupid college kid who thought it’d be so great if SoundWave took even one of my songs after I submitted five for their dumb competition. I’d get like one hundred bucks, I thought. That sounded great then, a few things could get paid for-- so when they call back that they’d use them all, I thought it was the lottery. They offered me a contract and I thought that everything was too good to be true, but I let myself be ridiculous and fall for the chance of a lifetime bullshit.”

Your breathing heaves your chest forward and back with the air, watching as Yoongi’s expression shifts from confusion to sympathy. His shoulders appear tensed from frustration but only after mention of a contract, and for that split second you think maybe he gets why you’re so angry with yourself. You don’t know why you want him to be angry too, but it feels deserving. After all of your complaining for your name to be heard, why should you when you fell right into the luster of money.

“I didn’t even bat an eyelash when they started telling me about not being given credit for anything. I just heard them say their idols would use my music,” Your eyelids blink as tears blur your vision, releasing fresh ones onto your cheeks, followed by new streams when Yoongi frowns in response to your words. You don’t understand why he does, everyone else knows you deserve this, so why does he look at you like he wants to help you escape all of the sadness you feel. “I just thought it’d be okay for then-- I mean, I don’t even have college debt.” The single chuckle chokes in your threat, as you reach to rub your eyes free of the salty liquid escaping again. “I should be grateful for it all, and I’m here trying to be selfish instead.”

Whimpers leave your lips when you try to hold back anymore tears, frustrating yourself that you’re unable to stop. Unable to stop crying, unable to get over any of this like you should. You’ve had enough time to cry, you shouldn’t dwell like there is an opportunity to change that doesn’t cost the entirety of your career or reputation in the music industry. You’re trapped, that’s it. You should be used to it.

“I,” You wipe continuously at your eyes as the tears keep spilling, unable to see any of Yoongi’s reactions anymore, but you can’t imagine you look anything respectable as you are. “I just want to stop being invisible to everyone, I didn’t think that’s such a bad thing, but it’ll ruin everything for everyone.” Your voice empties your small wish at the core of all of your anguish as a series of cracked words and trembling voice. “It’s my fault it’s like this, it’s my fault.”

As your voice trails you give up, allowing the flood of tears to continue while you find yourself unable to think of anything else. All there is to conclude is that the state of your career and your relationship with Jimin were fixable with the slightest foresight. You should have known better-

Within a second the cry hitched in your chest escapes at the contact of your face flat against Yoongi’s chest. You don’t consider stopping him as his arms continue to wrap around you in an embrace. Comforting you. Gently, barely his hands on your upper back soothe little ways up and down, trying to rub away the tremble of your spine at every whimper that leaves with your tears. You shift only so that your hands can leave your face to grip wrinkles onto the front of his shirt, but he’s unbothered. Simply continuing in soothing your cries as they continue to muffle against his top, effectively staining the white fabric with any of your makeup.

“You may not believe me, but I don’t think any of this is your fault.” His voice feels like an extended hand searching for you. Trying to help you out of the rut you feel glued to, lost in. So sure that he’s wrong, your head tries to shake though your throat croaks before you can say something against it. “SoundWave took advantage of your situation, Y/N. You shouldn’t blame yourself like this.”

Yoongi holds you against him, the tiniest of sways occurring as another attempt to help you calm down after the release of so much torment. He recalls Hoseok calling him the year prior to tell him that he doesn’t think he’ll get help from their old company in the early stages of his scandal. Where they were supposed to protect Hoseok they let him fall, and where SoundWave shouldn’t have baited a young student by means of financial security they signed you into a trap. If anyone should be blamed it’s the companies for their manipulation. The two of you shouldn’t be blaming yourself for the problems you face when they aren’t your faults to begin with.

“Jimin,” Your voice croaks, and you pause to try and blink back the tears in your eyes as far as possible, but it’s useless. “Said that I’d ruin all of their careers if I try and change anything-- I can’t do anything and hurt them all-- hurt him.” A fist on Yoongi’s shirt grows tighter, clumping it into a wrinkled ball and tugging it free of where it’d been tucked into his slacks, but you’re unaware. Too wrapped in the clutter of your mind that wants you to still stand up for yourself, but feels entirely overpowered by the idea of bringing trouble to so many people you know. “I love him and he said he loves me too, but he can’t be with me like this--”

The memory affects you, silencing your voice from continuing while it plays over in your head. Jimin was so close, your relationship with him always on the line of being realized, only to find out that your worst fear of it all is the truth. You let slide his constant stream of shrugging off your desire to go against the company continuing to erase your name, forcing yourself to believe that you overthink his obstinance, or attributing him not realizing how strongly you felt about the issue. But it’s just that, and to the most extreme form where the choice of not helping you is more desirable to him than being with you.

Yoongi understands pieces of this from your short flurry of statements. His jaw tightens when he considers how painful it undoubtedly is to have Jimin, who you love, pick something else over you, especially given that he even told you that he loves you in return. Yoongi’s hands feel the breaths that rumble in you, escaping against his shirt as small cries, and it’s difficult to witness, knowing that there’s nothing he can do for you other than let it flow while he holds you. Only able to offer you the security of solidarity, when a piece of him wants to tell Jimin off for stringing you along to this state for at least as long as Yoongi’s been a part of the company.

“If I was anything like you I wouldn’t be stuck like this.”

Yoongi’s irritation at the decision Jimin made drifts from his expression as you speak your last sentence, slightly stumbling his thoughts in the implication of you thinking himself to be something greater than you are, at least in the way of his decisions thus far. He shakes his head though you’re unable to see, rambling quickly, “No, I’ve made my own share of shitty decisions, Y/N.” He bites his lip, contemplating them shortly, but decides it’s not worth getting into a conversation of leveling your perspective of him in that moment. “And like I said, this isn’t your fault to begin with-- here, come on, I’ll run a shower for you-”

“Yoongi,” You bring your head away from his chest, shifting only slightly back so that his arms release you enough to put air between your bodies. “I’m not going to annoy you by using your shower-- I cause you enough trouble…” Your words fade off as he all the sudden chuckles down at you, smirk framing the sound of his laughter like you were saying something incredulous,

“Look, friend of mine, it’s what friends do.” You catch the way Yoongi stresses the role of friendship, not in a way that separates you both with a line, but rather as a means to express to you that he’s sincere in wanting to help you, just in the same way that you care about not overexerting his kindness. “Besides it’s not trouble. It’d make me feel better knowing you’re not risking getting sick standing here wet like this-- your dress is beautiful, but it’s not doing much to preserve heat on your shoulders and neck.” You bite your lip as his bordering teasing tone, but the sound of it relaxes you. Makes you feel safe and indeed like this isn’t an obligation for Yoongi. He just wants to.

In that moment you realize the grip of his shirt still well within the confines of your hands and quickly release it so that it flutters back down, while your lips tighten into an embarrassed line at the fact you’d been clinging onto him so harshly. It’s then that Yoongi’s arms also fall from where he’d stayed holding you, one hand straying to brush back his dampened bangs from his forehead. With a new gentle way of selling his idea, that is mentally fueled still by the worry of sending you slightly buzzed and alone back to your apartment where you have no one to comfort you, Yoongi tries in a small voice, “The shampoo and conditioner smell like daisies…”

You nearly snort at the innocent plead, covering your mouth with your hand to stop you from laughing. He smiles a little at the breakthrough, but stays quiet while you contemplate for a moment. Eventually your head nods once, letting yourself try to relax into the prospect. “Okay… Daisies sounds nice.”

You wander back into the living area after the refreshing feeling of shower water washing away some of the thoughts, if only to give yourself a break. The plush, dampened towel is a bundle in your arms, glancing around the room to find it absent of Yoongi who said he’d also shower. You nibble on your lip, not hearing the sound of shower water coming from anywhere, and you step forward more until you’re able to glance into the kitchen.

“Oh, you’re out?” He asks from a bar stool where he appears to have been fiddling with his phone with a bowl in front of him, contents out of your sight. You nod, noticing the same brand name on the chest of his long sleeve that’s present centrally in the sweatshirt he loaned to you after insisting that your top from earlier that day wasn’t going to keep you warm. “Ah, you didn’t need to gather the towel,” He says getting up to move towards you, hair now soft and fluffy after being cleanly washed and dried. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, and thanks for letting me take a shower. I feel a bit better after it.” You tell him meekly as you hand over the towel, catching Yoongi’s lips curl upwards as he appears relieved by your words. “More sober too.” Small joke as you rub your neck, happy its effect goes over well as he nods chuckling. “I’ll call a taxi, I can wait on the ground floor-”

“It’s,” He all the sudden frowns, genuine fret appearing on his features that grows as he averts his eyes back to the rain that falls from the sky. “Still pouring really hard outside, Y/N. And it’s almost two in the morning. Why don’t you just crash here until the morning? You can use my guest bedroom.”

You bite your lip, not uncomfortable with the idea, but more so still thinking yourself to be using him a little too much. But as lightning floods the sky with light followed by a loud rumble, you grip onto the sleeves that overtake your hands, shoulders shifting as the option weighs, “It’s not a hassle for you is it?”

“Are you kidding?” Despite the depth of his voice, Yoongi sounds bright. Happy you’re agreeing like it’s a weight off of him to know you won’t be alone. “That bedroom could use someone using it for once.” He smiles, finally beginning to walk off with the laundry in his arms, “I’m going to put this in the hamper.”

You nod as he exits from the kitchen and then remain in the space, having no opportunity earlier to view it properly. Not that you needed a tour of his apartment, but you find it interesting to see how the abode actively appears like Yoongi lives there. From the monochromatic decor that is consistent throughout each room you’ve seen, you’re still able to find the touches of him that don’t necessarily follow a theme. Like the sparse grouping of pictures attached to the refrigerator by means of cute dog shaped magnets, and the kitchen towel hanging off the oven that appears to have a large rose pattern printed onto it though it’s obstructed from being fully seen because of how it’s folded.

You walk to the refrigerator, sparing a glance towards his scribbled grocery list, and instead glances at the biggest of the pictures that you saw from the distance and recognize now that it’s of him and Hoseok. By the looks of their clothing--Hoseok’s in particular that appeared in one of his first music videos, you’re led to assume it was taken behind the scenes of the day it was shot. Taken during movement, they’re both a little blurry but equally ecstatic about something-- overcome with large grins and not even paying attention to the camera to begin with. The sight of it makes you smile softly finding their slightly younger-selves endearing, and thinking it’s nice that they appear to still have a solid friendship.

“We took that when he was working on Just Dance.” You don’t startle when Yoongi comments, having heard his slippers skid on his tile with his steps to return to the kitchen. Instead you hum, then take a moment to quickly take in the remaining few pictures; more of him and Hoseok along with another celebrity whose name left your mind, one of him and his family, then a picture of him looking not too much younger lay out on plush grass with a tiny fluffy, brown dog on his chest.

“Your pictures are all cute.” You comment gently as you turn to face Yoongi, finding him off to the side and reaching up into cabinets. “I didn’t realize you and Hoseok were such good friends.” Yoongi nods, walking towards you to hand you the two bowls he’s brought out, before opening up the freezer,

“Yeah, we were trainees together. Actually we almost were put into a group, but then at the last second they made us soloists.” He pauses, squinting a little like he’s in thought, and for a second you think it’s about what he’s said, but then Yoongi turns his head towards you. “You like vanilla or strawberry ice cream?”

“Ice cream?” You repeat watching as he removes two containers of the sweet desserts, making you giggle softly. “Vanilla.”

“Good choice,” He sets the strawberry one back in, then shuts the refrigerator as you take the hint and move to the counter to help him scoop some out. “Hoseok likes strawberry,” Yoongi begins after placing the ice cream next to the bowls and scurrying to find utensils. “Which, it’s fine,” He says in a somewhat sarcastic manner and with a shrug that makes you laugh softly while he continues along. “But vanilla is the most popular for a reason.” You nod at the definitive, passionate way Yoongi speaks about ice cream flavors. Your smile completely humored as he returns and begins scooping you both hefty amounts, “But Hoseok does something that is worth a bit of praise.” He admits with concentratedly pouting lips while trying to get the last scoop to properly fall into a bowl.

“Oh yeah?” You play along, taking the vanilla ice cream container from him as he finishes so you can put it back in the freezer. Yoongi nods, hand grappling around the base of the bowl that he was in front of him when you first entered the kitchen.

“Smashed oreos and chocolate chip cookies.” As though he just unveiled the invention of the century, Yoongi proudly showcases the crumbled cookies in the bowl. To which you awe in thought, actually quite happily surprised that he included toppings into the middle of the night ice cream meal. “Genius, right?” He smiles as you nod at the idea, letting him divide the treats equally on top of each bowl.

“Do you just have that on hand for whenever?” You ask curiously, taking the bowl from him when he hands it to you with the spoon in it clacking around. Yoongi looks at you for a long moment, suddenly turning sheepish as he begins to fiddle with his bangs, then speaks in an equally small manner,

“Well, no. I usually only do it when needed, so,” He shrugs, avoiding eye contact with you as he scoops the first bite onto his spoon. “I guess I was sort of banking on you agreeing to stay the night so I could make you feel a little better. It’s kind of embarrassing to admit like this though.”

Yoongi continues to keep his eyes on his ice cream, shoving another small bite into his mouth and trying to ignore how silly his words could be taken, but you can’t help feeling genuinely moved. A small thing sure, but an action he didn’t have to consider. You think that Yoongi must feel as safe to Hoseok as he is to you if he’s used to helping out by means of ice cream and small talk.

Considering your earlier interpretations of Yoongi’s character, you feel upset with yourself for believing in his image throughout the media. When you know how personas are played up to be something separate of who the individuals truly are, you should have given him the benefit of the doubt, and been so much less worried about interacting with him like you were months ago. You finally take a bite of the ice cream, once you notice the small beginnings it melting, happily chewing the cookies, and then swallowing to settle his worries unknowingly as you speak softly, “You’re really sweet.”

Yoongi glances to you, taking in your relaxed person, and no remnants of the hurt emotions you let out before taking a shower. He finds your appearance soothing, and he’s gladdened more than he comprehends when you make the comment. It’s a nice feeling to be thought of warmly. It’s a nice feeling to see you happier.

Within half an hour, you’re curled into the corner of his couch. Yoongi sits on the opposite end, facing you where behind him on the end-table you nearly knocked over earlier rests the empty bowls of ice cream. He’d let you take the lounge blanket, finding it silently impressive that the somewhat small square of fabric is able to cover you up as well as it does.

“Did that conversation with Seulgi go okay, by the way?” You ask him, head sinking into the cushion and Yoongi wonders if you realize how tired your eyes appear. Then the question registers and his tapping bare foot on the rug ceases, while he shrugs a shoulder.

“Yeah, as well as I’d expect.” He doesn’t sound like the experience was pleasant, and it takes you a moment of biting your inner cheek to verbalize a testing comment, trying to discern where he stands with giving you answers like he said in passing he would hours earlier,

“You seemed to be really uncomfortable about her.”

“She did some shitty stuff to Hoseok.” He nods, now resting his head against the couch’s cushion as well, causing his cheek to puff a little. “Without boring you about all of the stuff that happened with them last year, she should’ve helped him through his scandal even a little. I don’t like her much anymore because of it all.”

“I’m not trying to push you to,” Yoongi’s head angles better to see you as you speak somewhat timidly. “But, like you said to me, if you wanted to ever talk about something, I’d listen.” You’re able to maintain eye contact with his, hoping the sincerity of your offer shows through. Then you consider again how different the present is from when you met him, how back then this conversation seemed alien, and now you really do want Yoongi to heed your perspective and know you’re also willing to be a safe outlet for him like he is for you.

Yoongi realizes this. Understands that you hope to assert your place for him as a trusted friend. The shyness of your voice makes the side of his mouth curl, realizing then that he feels sleepy. “Thank you, Y/N.” He rubs his hair from his forehead tiredly, while you yawn across from him, using a sleeve-covered hand to mask your mouth. “If I wasn’t about to fall asleep, I’d tell you about it all.”

“You’re about to fall asleep? Can’t relate.” You mumble as your eyelids close shut and Yoongi chuckles in response. You smile at the sound, relaxing yourself further into the comfort of his couch. “Your couches are always so soft, why aren’t you an interior designer instead of a musician?”

“My couches?” Yoongi stretches out his arms, while sinking back into the armrest he lies on.

“The one in the studio,” Your sentence trails when you again yawn, then change the subject light-heartedly. “Crying’s exhausting.”

“Mm, I bet.” He rubs his face, willing himself off the couch to stretch his neck and then take a step towards you, “C’mon, let’s go to sleep.”

“I could sleep here, it’s so cozy.” Yoongi notices the drop of volume, and the fact nearly makes him properly laugh at how quickly you’re able to fall asleep. But he doesn’t, instead snickering before yanking away the blanket, leading to the eruption of a discontented groan out of your lips. “Rude-”

“Not letting you sleep on my couch, when there’s an entire bed you could be on.” He gives you a moment to rub your eyes and then squint them open apparently already not used to the lighting in the room. Then Yoongi’s hand reaches in the air beside you so you can use him as a means to stand up, so used to the prospect of hand holding that he doesn’t give it any thought. Neither do you as you take hold of his hand, finding familiarity in how his fingers grip around yours. Yoongi gently tugs you up, steadying you by use of his free hand on your waist, as your empty one finds itself flat against his chest.

Nothing overthought.

Yoongi yawns, as he begins leading you towards the hallway, listening to you quietly complain that his yawning is going to make you do the same. Then Yoongi grins sleepily when you indeed yawn a second later, your hand squeezing around his as a silent way to tell him to stop. “It was perfect timing though-”

“You caused it.” You grumble as you both come to a stop abruptly to you who hadn’t been paying attention, so your empty hand finds Yoongi’s long-sleeve to stop yourself from tripping up on his heel. Yoongi takes no mind, just opening the door to the guest bedroom and turning to you afterwards, smile looking increasingly quaint when taken into view with his slightly messy, fluffy locks.

“Yeah, yeah, it was my fault. Now go to sleep before you pass out on my floor.” Yoongi watches you smile, gratefulness mixed into your tired features, and then you step beyond him. Your hand leaves his to give a small wave, the sleeve of his shirt bunches beneath your wrist as you tiredly thank him again and wish him goodnight. The door shuts softly, like you were being delicate with his household, and Yoongi loiters for a second.

His now empty hand ruffles the hair on top of his head, thinking about the separately bad conversations you both had to have at that ridiculous party. Yoongi turns to the door across the hallway, entering into his bedroom as he considers the words Seulgi spoke to him in the mixture of air on the tiny balcony. He huffs as he lets himself fall onto the plush of his comforter and mattress.

“You could’ve helped Hoseok back then if you hadn’t only thought of yourself.”

Yoongi stares towards his ceiling, hand still fiddling with his hair while the sentence plays in his head over and over again. She didn’t need to tell him that, as though he didn’t know. Remember it whenever Hoseok brings about the idea of a comeback, while Yoongi can only reaffirm his distance on the issue. By public silence and private support.

Yoongi thinks about Jimin being so worried that he drops his relationship with you, about Seulgi following what her group wanted her to do so she doesn’t ruin everything for them, about himself consistently half-trying to help his friends. It feels old.

And he doesn’t want the fear to control him anymore.

if you enjoy please, please let me know! i hope you enjoy the series, i’m working really hard on it! : )

tag list (send an ask to be added): @jaiuneamesolitaiire @tsvkino-usagi @xionysus

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cutiepisenpai · 4 years ago

Text

Dear Stranger Series Ch. 7: Scavenger Hunt(Spencer Reid x Female OC)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Warnings: Depictions of violence by unsub, sexually suggestive behavior, fluff

A/N: This was my favorite chapter to write because this is where this story originally started for me and I hope you all enjoy it.

Spencer had been having trouble sleeping the past few days. He had big plans to make but wasn’t sure where to start. So here he was at three am trying to make coffee quietly, not waking Melinda. A ring is the first place he should start because he hasn’t even been to a store to start looking at rings. For that he’ll need to wait for a day off that will hopefully not be interrupted by a case. And even with a day off he needs to find a way to get out of the house without having Melinda question it. Maybe he could have Emily, JJ, or Penelope help him. No, that would never work, none of them can keep a secret. He’ll just have to figure it out himself. He spends the early hours of the morning pondering what to do next. Not noticing the time he has spent formulating his plan until Melinda walks into the kitchen. “How long have you been up?” She asks groggily. “Uh.. just a few hours couldn’t sleep.” He says as he wraps her in a hug. “You know you could wake me up. I'm great late night company and you might have a better chance at going back to sleep.” She responds nuzzling into his chest. “It’s alright if I wake you up then we would both be exhausted at work.” They begin going about their usual morning routine making more coffee and a light breakfast before showering, getting dressed and heading out.

Arriving at the office they don’t have much down time before they are whisked away on a case. Not even having gone into the briefing, they would be briefed on the plane. There had been multiple male bodies found in some remote woods in Washington. During the discussion on the plane Spencer’s mind drifts off back to the plan he is currently putting together maybe if they can get through the case quickly he would have time when they got back. Or if there is any free time he can try going to a jewelry store in Washington but then someone on the team could notice and … "Reid?...Reid?!" Hotch is calling out to him. "Yea sorry about that." "Is everything alright?" Hotch asks, seeming concerned. "Yeah did you know getting lost in thought or "zoning out" is actually quite common. The regions of the brain that become active during mind wandering belong to two important networks…. Researchers say a wandering mind may be important to setting goals, making discoveries and living a balanced life..." Spencer is rambling on. "Ok Reid, I just wanted to make sure everything was ok." Hotch says. Everyone is given their buddy assignments for when they land. Hotch, JJ, and Melinda are going to the police station, Rossi and Emily to the disposal site, and Reid and Morgan to the morgue. "So what was that all about earlier?" Morgan asks on the drive to the morgue. "What do you mean?" "I mean you totally just checked out on the plane. Are you sure everything is fine?" "I really wish people would stop asking that. I said I was fine." Spencer says in a huff. Morgan figures it's best to just leave him alone for now. When they get to the morgue the five victims that have been found so far all show the same pattern multiple stab wounds pre and post mortem but the cause of death for all was cyanide poisoning.

The team determined that this unsub was a "black widow" killer that had been killing one victim a year over the course of at least ten years based on the other bodies that were found.They were now trying to find a connection between the victims to find the unsub.

Four days later they had finally caught the unsub. She was a thrill seeking psychopath luring men in with her looks and then trapping and torturing them for a year before repeating the process. The team was happy to be done, the case dragging on and taking its toll on them all. On the flight home almost everyone is asleep except Spencer. In the minuscule amount of spare time they had with this case he finalized his plans and would set everything up as soon as they arrived home. Finally arriving back at the apartment everyone agreeing the paperwork could wait, Spencer waited for Melinda to fall asleep before getting up and getting everything ready.

The next morning when Melinda wakes up Spencer isn't in the bed again. She really needs to get him to talk to her about what's bothering him so he can get some rest. She gets up and heads to the kitchen where she had been finding him every morning. But this morning he isn't there. She can smell the coffee which means he was here, on the counter is her favorite mug with a sticky note attached. "Running errands will be back later. I think we should have a date night." - S. He is rather strange at times but it's just added to the list of the reasons she loves him. She pours herself a cup of coffee. Since she has her own errands that need to be done she might as well get it out of the way while Spencer's gone. She needs to pick up last week's dry cleaning, drop off this week's dry cleaning, stop by the pharmacy and go grocery shopping. After showering and gathering up everything she will need she is out the apartment door locked behind her.

Spencer was thankful to know his girlfriend so well that he could figure out her course of action if he was gone. Once she leaves the apartment he goes back in to set up his surprise.

Arriving back at the apartment in the late afternoon Melinda is surprised Spencer isn't back yet. There is another post-it on the door "You must go on adventures to find out where you truly belong." - Sue Fitzmaurice She had no idea what he was up to but it seemed like it would be fun. Under that post it lay another "Some take me in the morning, others in the evening, but one thing you should know, that when I'm "taken" I don't go anywhere." And now there are riddles, she likes riddles and he knows that, even if this one is simple she'll play along. After putting the groceries away, she goes to the shower since that is where the next clue will be. On the bathroom mirror sits another note "When I put on my clothes it takes off its clothes. What is it?" She laughs walking into the closet, a hanger, but what exactly is she looking for? Behind the closet door that leads to the bedroom is a garment bag hanging. Now that wasn't there earlier and on the floor lies a shoe box. She unzips the bag to reveal a beautiful dress, one she hadn't seen before and she assumes the shoes in the box are a match. This game he has set up is becoming more fun by the minute. She takes a shower, puts up her hair, and applies light makeup before slipping into the dress and sliding the shoes on. At the bottom of the shoe box is the next clue "Some visitors pause here and strangers announce their reason. Things that decorate me can indicate a season." Heading to the front door thinking he had to at the door. But she is wrong, he isn't there but had to have been recently, sitting at the foot of the door is a vase of sunflowers that were not there when she arrived home. "A necessity to some, a treasure to many, I'm best enjoyed among pleasant company, some like me cold, some prefer mild, some like me bold." Melinda heads into the kitchen checking around the coffee pot but there are no other notes, maybe a mug she thinks going through the cabinet. Okay so it's not in the house she grabs her purse heading to the coffee shop they frequent down the street. She isn't really sure what she should be looking for and they are never here this time of day so she doesn't recognize any of the workers. Maybe if she orders something they will give her the next clue. "Melinda!" She hears someone shout "Small coffee for Melinda!" She hesitates for a moment before walking over. "Um I'm Melinda but I didn't order this." "Oh I know some really handsome fella came in and paid for it." She says handing the coffee over to her. At this point she is appreciative of the coffee, this was quite some adventure he had her on. The note affixed to the top of the coffee reads, "A pile of words, jackets of hordes, take a quick look in a place of books." That one was by far the most obvious clue. She exits heading to the library. As she walks drinking her coffee she thinks of all the times Spencer and her had taken this walk on a morning off, she enjoyed anytime they had together. Arriving at the library she tosses her empty cup before walking in. Once inside she isn't sure where she should be going. Nothing draws her attention, no one is looking around expectedly so she just begins to walk around following the same route her and Spencer always take. She rounds the corner and that's when she sees it, another note. Maybe she should change her routine and not be so predictable. "A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others. - L Frank Baum (The Wonderful Wizard of Oz) she knew exactly where this was leading her. Heading towards the section and finding the only copy of the book she pulls it off the shelf. "If an adventure is what you want, take a look, open a book" inside the book awaits the final note simply reading "turn around". When she turns around, down on one knee ring in hand is Spencer. "Melinda, I love you more than I thought possible, would you join me on the greatest adventure and marry me?" Failing to hold back tears, in barely a whisper "Yes".

The next morning waking up for the first time in two weeks with Spencer by her side. She smiles leaning over to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. Her movement makes him stir slightly as he moves closer to cuddle. His face in the crook of her neck he returns the kiss, "Shouldn't you be sleeping." He says in his scratchy morning voice. "You can't really expect me to sleep. I'm so excited I don't know how to contain it." She giggles out. She had been playing with the ring since he placed it on her finger, it felt so surreal. "Well if you're not going to sleep there is something else we could be doing." He says placing more kisses on her neck, moving down to her breast. But just as quick as their activities had begun they halted because the phone was ringing off course. Garcia called them in for a new case. Both groan in frustration sharing a few more kisses before separating to get ready and go into work. Arriving at the office everyone has the same look on their face, the why can't we just have two consecutive days off for once look. Spencer and Melinda were so caught up in the mornings frustrations they forgot about their recent engagement until Rossi came up to congratulate them. "Congratulations on what exactly?" They both ask. Rossi's comment had alerted the team to them immediately. He gestures to the ring on her finger. "Oh yea, thanks." Melinda beams out joy flowing through her. "Almost forgot about that after that phone call this morning." They are met with a sea of congrats. Emily and Penelope are already arguing over who gets to be maid of honor and asking if they already had a date in mind. The BAU family was hectic but it was home and they were excited to see what new adventures await for them

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #Female reader #female oc #Criminal Minds #unsub #bau x reader #bau team #aaron hotchner #david rossi #derek morgan #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #Penelope Garcia #fluff #engagement #Dear Stranger Series

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kpophoneybunny · 4 years ago

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Guardian Angels - Jaehyun x OC x Yuta - NCT Platonic Angst

A/N: This is completely selfish writing. I just wanted to write something to let out my feelings and work through my shit. Also none of the boys are the abusive partner. I couldn’t write that.

TRIGGER WARNING: detailed depiction of an emotionally and physically abusive relationship. Verbal and physical abuse. Xenophobic remarks. Yelling. Strong language. THIS ONE-SHOT IS VERY DETAILED ABOUT THE PHYSICAL ABUSE AND INCLUDES HEAVY VERBAL ABUSE. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF IT WILL TRIGGER YOU.

Hayami backed away, her back hitting the wall, causing pain to rip through her bruised side. She covered her ears, starting to hyperventilate. “Stop it!” She begged. “Stop!” Her boyfriend punched the wall by her face, blocking her path so she couldn’t escape.

“Did you just raise your voice at me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t...”

“You deserve it.” He grabbed her by the face and shoved her head back roughly so it’d bang against the wall.

“What the hell is going on here?” Jaehyun stood in the doorway of the gym, his jaw clenching as he looked between Hayami and the asshole she called her boyfriend.

“None of your business.” Noah snapped, grabbing the girl by the arm roughly and pulling her towards the locker room. She cried out in pain and bit down on her lip, following without protest.

“Hey! Don’t grab her like that!” Jaehyun rushed over and pushed him off of her. “You shouldn’t treat women like that. You shouldn’t treat anyone like that.”

“Jaehyun, don’t.” Hayami begged, tears welling up in her eyes. “You’re just making it worse!” Jaehyun glanced at her, noticing the swelling of her lip, the bruise forming on her cheek and another around her neck as if she had been choked recently. “Please. Just don’t get involved.”

“See? She doesn’t need you to save her. Stop playing the hero. She doesn’t want you here.” The male trainee jutted out his chin defiantly. Jaehyun could easily beat him in a fight but he didn’t want to do anything like that in front of Hayami. She looked scared enough.

“She won’t admit she needs help because she’s terrified of you.” Jaehyun stepped between the two, his back to the girl. “You hit her? That isn’t any way to solve problems.”

“She doesn’t have a single injury she hasn’t earned.” Noah tried to push past Jaehyun but he didn’t budge. “If she didn’t provoke me, I wouldn’t-“

“If you weren’t trash, nothing she did would make you even consider hitting her. Men don’t treat women that way.”

“Why do you care what happens to her? She’s a filthy foreigner, a nobody. She’s just a stupid, worthless little bi-“

“Shut. Up. Just shut the fuck up.” Jaehyun was seconds away from losing it completely. “I don’t care what shitty excuses you have. You aren’t going to lay a hand on her ever again. I don’t want to see you anywhere near her or any of the girls in this company ever again. If I catch you touching her, talking to her, even thinking about her, I will shut your shit down. Do you hear me?”

“Jaehyun-“ her voice cracked and she struggled to find the words to intervene successfully. She didn’t know enough Korean to stop them

“Don’t get involved in what doesn’t concern you.” The guy tried to push past Jaehyun again and Hayami decided to move around Jaehyun, hugging Noah and sobbing into his chest. “See? She’s choosing me. So back off.”

“No. Hayami, get away from that asshole. Please? Think of yourself. Look at what he’s done to you.” Jaehyun couldn’t believe what he was seeing. How long had this been going on? Why was she just taking it?

Yuta entered the gym and spotted the trio. By the look on Jaehyun’s face, he knew something was up. Hayami was practically wailing, trembling. Whatever it was, it was bad.

“What’s going on?” Yuta came over to stand by Jaehyun. Whatever it was, he trusted Jaehyun to be on the right side of the issue.

“This piece of shit is beating his girlfriend.” Jaehyun answered, eyes not leaving Noah’s face. “Can you believe he used the fact that she’s a foreigner as an excuse?”

Yuta’s eyes narrowed as he processed everything. Jaehyun’s explanation, the bruising and swelling on Hayami’s face. “You deserve better than this prick. Let us help you.” Yuta spoke in Japanese so that Noah couldn’t understand it.

“Hey! Speak Korean, asshole. And don’t talk to her.” He covered her mouth so she couldn’t answer. She began to cry harder, shaking her head at Yuta, silently begging him to back off. What if they made it worse? Noah seemed pissed enough already.

“Don’t do that. Let her speak for herself, punk.” Jaehyun ripped his hand off of her face and she immediately moved to hide behind Noah. “You don’t get to treat anyone like that.”

“Hayami, kid, please.” Yuta begged, his expression softening as he tried to coax her over, still speaking to her in their native tongue. “Please don’t let him treat you like trash.”

“Yuta, you don’t understand. He’ll only hit me harder after this.” She was starting to hyperventilate, her mascara running all over the place.

“That’s the problem. You shouldn’t even be worried about that. Let us protect you.” Yuta begged, heart breaking that she seemed to think that she somehow deserved this. “Please...”

She hesitated and slowly started towards her seniors. “Don’t you dare!” Noah grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her back, causing her to lose her balance and fall onto her butt.

“Hey! Let go of her!” Jaehyun’s hands curled into fists. He didn’t want to fight but he would if he kept pushing.

“Noah, I’m leaving you! I’m leaving you!” She sobbed, trying to stand up but being pushed onto her face, his foot on her back.

“No. You’re not.”

“Hey!” Jaehyun couldn’t hold back anymore. He shoved Noah off of her roughly and grabbing him by the shirt. “I’ll kill you. Get the fuck out before I send you to the hospital.”

Yuta rushed forward, carefully helping Hayami to her feet and holding her protectively. He thought of her as a little sister and seeing her getting abused, seeing her so terrified... it was making his chest ache. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I won’t let him hurt you.” He whispered as she trembled in his arms, as is scared that she’d get hit again any second.

“Get your hands off of my girlfriend, you bastard!” Noah glared at Yuta, trying to push Jaehyun off and starting to panic when he realized how overpowered he was. “Hayami, get away from him. Let’s go.”

“Don’t talk to her.” Jaehyun covered Noah’s mouth, squeezing roughly. “Are you scared yet? Yeah, Hayami probably feels that way every second of every day.” Noah began to whimper, terrified of being hit. “God, you’re pathetic. You aren’t even worth fighting.” He let go of him. “Get out before I change my mind.”

“Hayami, baby. Now.” Noah growled. She pressed further into Yuta who held her tighter in response.

“She broke up with you.” Jaehyun all but shoved Noah out of the room. “Now, I suggest you quit SM because the next time I see you, I might decide to actually follow through on putting you in the hospital. I didn’t because Hayami doesn’t need to see something like that. And a coward who picks on scared girls doesn’t even deserve to get hit like a man.”

Noah left, practically running off.

Yuta let go of Hayami, trying to get a good look at her to asses her for more injuries he hadn’t immediately noticed. She fell to her hands and knees, screaming and banging her fist on the floor. The boys watched in concern, both of them moving to kneel by her. “Hey, hey. Stop it. You’ll hurt yourself.” Yuta stopped her wrist and let go immediately. She sank into the floor, laying on her back and staring up at the ceiling, panting as she tried to catch her breath from crying and screaming. “We’re gonna take you to a hospital and then a counselor, okay? You need to see someone and get your injuries checked.”

“I did. An x-ray. I said I got into a fight with another trainee. I have a bruised rib, no fractures. But it could have been worse.” She bit her lip to stop it from quivering, covering her face with her hands.

“Okay. Any new injuries? Anything today?” Jaehyun looked her over worriedly. She nodded hesitantly and sat up, taking off her shoe and sock, rolling up the leg of her sweatpants. They both cringed at the sight of her bruised and swollen ankle.

“And he hit my head against the wall earlier. I’m still dizzy.” She admitted, slumping forward slightly. Yuta shut his eyes, trying not to picture what that would have looked like and how painful it must have been for her.

“If he ever bothers you, let me know.” Yuta held her hands, trying to get the younger girl to look at him. “But please let us get you some help.”

“How long has he been like that?” Jaehyun carefully felt the back of her head. She winced and tried to move away. He let her, not wanting her to feel trapped.

“A year now...” she mumbled. “Since the start of the relationship. I was scared of being alone. He helped me learn Korean so I... I kept him around. And he helped me lose weight. He controlled what I ate and called me fat so I lost a lot of fat really quickly.”

“God, Hayami...” Yuta couldnt imagine anyone putting up with that for a second, let alone a whole year. “If you needed help with Korean, I could have helped you. We speak the same language. I know how hard switching over is. And losing weight isn’t important. Being healthy is.”

“You were always so busy.” She looked down at her ankle. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Well, it’s not a bother. I’m looking out for you now so please come to me from now on.”

Jaehyun nodded, deciding that helping her was going to take priority over working out today. “We’ll be your guardian angels.”

A/N: I normally don’t have an a/n at the end but I just thought I should address a few things before you leave.

Between two previous relationships, I have experienced sexual abuse and assault, physical abuse, and emotional manipulation/abuse. (This isn’t for you to pity me. It’s so that people who are gonna try and say it’s inaccurate, or I don’t know what I’m talking about know that I DO in fact know. It took me a long time to admit to myself that I was abused and I don’t need you undoing that progress or invalidating my experience.)

If this has triggered you at all or upset you at all, I am so sorry. I, unfortunately am not currently in the right mental state to help anyone (hence, writing to let out all my pain instead of doing anything else) but please talk to someone you trust and practice self care.

It’s been over a year since the last abusive relationship ended and I am safe now so please don’t worry. I’m just working through some emotional aftermath.

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panda-noosh · 5 years ago

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against the odds {Finn Shelby x Reader}

Words: 11.2k

Summary: Your worlds could not be more different, but that doesn’t stop them colliding.

Genre: angst!

Warnings: strong language (stronger than usual because it’s the Peaky Blinders), violence, graphic depictions of injury.

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - okay we’re trying something new. let me know what y’all think :)

----

The sound of guns shots has become something normal.

Your mother would be absolutely mortified to hear such a thing. When you moved from London to Birmingham, she thought for sure you would be safe, hidden away in a little shack with no one to bother you. You would get on with your studies before moving on to bigger and better things, and in the beginning, that was the plan. You kissed your mother goodbye, hopped on the train and departed for a life you had all planned out.

Small Heath isn’t the place to make dreams come true, but it’s where you ended up.

The job at The Garrison was only meant to be part-time, but again, Small Heath is full of unexpected little mishaps. After the old barkeep, Grace, was brutally murdered at a party she herself had organised, you had been offered the job full time - and you took it.

You took it, even though you knew with everything in you it was a bad idea. The world was falling apart around you, and it was as if the main source of this destruction came directly from inside The Garrison itself, like this tiny little pub in Birmingham was the hub for all the worlds travesties.

Despite the little voice in your head telling you to step away, find a life elsewhere, it’s Finn Shelby that keeps you rooted behind the counter. It’s always been Finn Shelby.

Tall, broad shouldered, built like a watered down version of his older brother, John. By name, Finn is scary, but he’s only scary because he’s a Shelby. For the first few weeks of you settling into The Garrison, you had walked on egg-shells around him, lest he suddenly draw a pistol out of his trousers like you’d seen his brothers do on multiple occasions.

However, time went on, and things became clearer, and soon, Finn was seated in front of you when the rest of the pub was emptying, and the two of you spoke.

About nothing. About everything. About a life outside of this mess. He’d laughed at that, and you remember the noise being so pleasant, like music to your ears, and you remember shutting those thoughts down with the harsh reminder that the man in front of you was a Shelby, meaning there would be no room whatsoever for anything like that.

You saw more of Finn each and every day. He hardly ever speaks to you when his older brothers are waltzing about, but with the recent business with the Russians, the older Shelby’s visits are getting few and far between, meaning you see more of Finn throughout your always-busy shifts at The Garrison.

The door slamming closed signals his arrival this evening. Having already spent a good six hours on your feet, serving the drunk and disorderly, it is a relief of the grandest kind when you look up and see Finn and Isaiah pushing through the crowd towards the bar; Finn is smiling, nudging Isaiah’s arm to which Isaiah ruffles the boys sandy blonde hair.

“Evening, Y/N,” Isaiah says once he and Finn have finally arrived in front of you.

“Evening,” you reply. “What are you two drinking today?”

“I’ll have a whiskey,” Isaiah replies. “My boy here will have-”

“Just a water,” Finn cuts in.

Your eyes sparkle, darting up to meet his own; he’s staring right back at you, a shy smile on his face. “Just a water, Mr Shelby? You do know what time of day it is, right?”

Isaiah has one eyebrow raised, glancing at Finn through the corner of his eye. “Have you gone fucking mental, mate?”

Finn shrugs. “I’m not feeling good. Just a water will do fine.”

“Alright. A whiskey and a water, coming right up.” You turn to the shelves, trying desperately to suppress the tiny smile threatening to weave its way onto your face.

Behind you, Isaiah’s voice is hushed but still audible when he says, “You think staying sober is gonna impress the new barkeep?”

“I’m not impressing anyone,” Finn bites back. “I don’t need to impress anyone.”

Isaiah scoffs. “Right. You’ve just lodged a stick up your arse for the fun of it, have you?”

The unmistakable sound of Isaiah’s forehead smacking off the counter sounds behind you.

“Fuck! Alright, I get it. I get it. I’ll keep my fucking mouth shut next time, yeah?”

“Good. Next time it won’t be my hand smashing into the back of your head.”

“Ooh, I’m shitting myself.” Isaiah is laughing when you turn back around, their selected drinks in your hand. You slide them across the counter, following close behind when you lean forward with your arms crossed. Isaiah smiles, taking a swig of his drink before he pats Finn’s shoulder and says, “I’ll be off now, anyway. That table over there is playing cards.”

You crane your neck. “Are they really? I told them not to do that - half of them gamble their money off before they pay for their drinks. Robbing bastards.”

“I’ll tell them to keep a few shillings spare, shall I?” Isaiah grins again, grabs your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles before he turns on his heel and heads towards the table in question. You watch him go, shaking your head slowly.

It’s just you and Finn now.

Finn hollows out his cheeks, swirling his water around and around and around. His hazel eyes burn into the top of the glass, as if he can somehow turn the water to wine if he stares at it long enough; his hands are scarred and bruised - old and new, mixing together against pale skin that really shouldn’t be so blemished, but is anyway.

You resist the urge to reach out and touch his hand, trace your fingers along the scars left behind by years of being a Shelby. There’s so much you can say to him, so many opinions you can throw at him in one go, but you don’t think he’ll listen. Maybe you don’t really want him to listen. Maybe he shouldn’t listen, because at the end of the day, he’s a Shelby brother, and you’re a barmaid.

Finn looks up. “You know what I’ve noticed recently?”

You raise a brow, silently urging him to continue.

“You don’t drink a lot. At all.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. It’s weird, though. You’re a barmaid. You’re surrounded by all this booze and you don’t touch it.”

“Arthur will have my hands if I even think about taking from his stash.”

Finn purses his lips, casting a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t think Arthur will notice. He’s a bit busy right now.”

You shrug, straightening up. Your shoulders crack with the slow movement, hours on your feet finally taking a physical tole on you. “I don’t have to worry about that, anyway. I’m not a big drinker in the first place. I’m more of a tea fan.”

Finn scoffs. “Tea?”

Your arms fall to your sides. “What’s wrong with drinking tea?”

Finn raises his hands in a mock pose of surrender, a shining grin forming on his face. You find yourself smiling right back, completely unable to stop yourself. “I’m not saying anything is wrong with tea. I like a cuppa myself sometimes, actually.”

“Aye, so wipe that fucking smile off your face, Finn Shelby, before I do it for you.”

Finn laughs, his hands clapping back against the counter. “You and what experience?”

You roll your eyes, slapping his hand away from your arm before he can curl his fingers around your wrist in that way he always does when your conversations take a turn for the amused. “You have no right to judge my drinking habits when you have a glass of water sitting in front of you.”

“If you want me drunk, Y/N, all you have to do is say.” With that, he takes a swig of his water, staring at you over the lip of the glass; his gaze has a warning to it, but that isn’t uncommon for the Shelby boys. Dark eyes an accessory to a personality of pure gold, you find your knees going weak beneath their scrutiny.

You look away, grabbing a dirty glass as way of distraction. “It’s not my job to tell you what to drink, I’m afraid. I pour the beverage, collect the money, tell the drunk twats to fuck off when I need to - and that’s it.”

Finn hums into his glass. “Sounds fun.”

“It pays.”

“And that’s all you care about?”

You look at him. “That’s all anyone in this shit hole cares about, Finn. Including you.”

Slowly, Finn sets his glass down on the counter. You find it strange how he can down an entire glass of whiskey in two seconds flat, but struggles to make a dent in a glass of water.

“Money isn’t all I care about, you know,” he says. “I have. . . other things.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“You can ask if you want.”

You pause, towel still stuck in the dirty glass, mind still reeling, knees still slightly unstable. “I don’t want to know. I’m too involved with you Shelby boys as it is.”

Finn chuckles. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Oh, it’s the worst sin of them all.”

“May God have mercy on your-”

Finn’s words are cut off by the gunfire.

As earlier stated, gunfire has become something you’re not unfamiliar with. Before arriving in Small Heath, even the sound of a car back firing would have sent you scrambling for cover, unfamiliar with the sounds of violence, but now, you simply crane your neck to get a better view of what is going on.

Thomas, John and Arthur Shelby stampede through the doors of The Garrison, John laughing his head off, Arthur yelling, Thomas strolling alongside them. John still has his gun raised towards the door, but judging by the sudden silence, none of his enemies have been left standing.

Finally, John twirls around and laughs. “That’ll show the bastards, eh?”

“What did you do?” Finn asks, turning to face his brothers. John immediately wraps an arm around his shoulders, pressing Finn’s face into the crook of his neck. Finn fights against the grip, pushing John away with a scowl.

“None of your concern, Finny-boy,” says Arthur. The older man doesn’t look at you when he says, “Whiskey. Now.”

You grab him a whiskey.

“Who are you sending out to clean up the bodies?” Finn asks.

“Some of the Lee’s will take care of it,” Tommy replies. “Casualties were light this evening.”

“I think that’s a cause for some fucking celebration!” John hollers, slapping his hand against the counter. “You’re a bit slow on it today, love. Where’s my fucking drink?”

“Give them a bloody chance,” Finn hisses.

You grit your teeth, handing Arthur his drink before you nod your head at John. “Sorry Mr Shelby.”

“Whatever. Just get me a whiskey. And don’t be stingy with it, alright? I’m in a good mood tonight.”

You do as asked, pouring a glass half full of whiskey and sliding it over the counter. You make one for Tommy, as well, even though the boss didn’t ask; he’s got his head down, staring at some pages he has now scattered across the bar, taking little to no care about the other inhabitants spread out across it. You give Mr O’Neil a pleasant, apologetic smile, and he nods because he understands perfectly well why you can’t move them; they’re the Shelby boys. They’ll sooner take their fingers off one by one before taking orders from a simple barmaid.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Finn?” John asks.

“Water. Don’t touch it.”

You turn. John is glaring at Finn’s glass of water like it has just offended his ancestors, one eyebrow raised, his lips quirked in an amused smile that tells you he is seconds away from taking the piss out of his youngest brother. You hang back, watching the scene unfold in the way you’ve mastered over the past few months - looking, but not making it obvious you’re listening.

“Water,” John repeats, jostling Arthur’s arm. Arthur is laughing, has the decency to cover it with his own whiskey glass. “You’re on the water, are you? When’s the baby due, then?”

“Fuck off, John.”

John slaps the back of Finn’s head. “I’d sooner drink my own piss than touch that stuff.”

��“Don’t let me stop you.”

John laughs. “Oooh, he’s got a mouth on him tonight, hasn’t he?”

“The water makes him loosen up,” Arthur replies, before his eyes shoot to your own. “Or maybe it’s the barmaid. Tell me, Finn - is their mouth any good?”

Your eyes pop open, heat rising to your cheeks. You’ve always known the Shelby brothers to have absolutely no filter, but it’s very rare you’re behind the comments they fire. You fold your arms over your chest, resisting the urge to tell Arthur to go to hell; you’ll leave that to Finn, who now shakes his head and says, “For fuck sake, can you two just mind your own business for once?”

John wraps an arm around Finn’s shoulder and purrs in his ear. “You are our business, little brother. I’m proud you’re getting your balls drained.”

Finn’s cheeks are coloured red by now. He keeps his eyes on the countertop, fingers moulding together to the point where there is a red mark beaming from where he rubs his thumb back and forth. “It’s not like that. Neither of you have a clue what you’re on about.”

John’s eyes snap up. You look away, running your fingers along the glass cabinet in any attempt to keep up the facade of not caring. “Aah. They’re hard-to-get, are they? Do you forget you’re a Shelby? You can have anyone you want.”

“I don’t want anyone.”

You bite your lip, turning your back on them.

John laughs. “Right. Well, when the hormones finally hit and you start getting blue-balls, just keep in mind that we run this place. We’ll get you sorted.”

Finn doesn’t reply. Part of you is glad he hasn’t, because his response would only lead to further discussion into something you certainly do not want discussed; John and Arthur continue their celebrations throughout the night, requesting more and more drinks, making more and more crude jokes. Tommy laughs along with them sometimes, but he can handle his drink much better than they can. Every now and then you will look over to the Shelby table, note Finn’s uncomfortable demeanour, before catching Tommy’s eye. It startles you every time, and you never keep the eye contact long enough to figure out what he wants - just long enough to acknowledge that it’s not an accident. He’s analysing you.

When it comes to Tommy Shelby, that can’t be good.

----

The light is dim in your flat.

The bulb is on it’s way out, and you know that. If you hold off buying another one for any longer, you will be left shrouded in darkness for the evenings - and you’re not home during the day any more. Nonetheless, you pretend it’s fine when you get home. Another day spent dealing with drunken idiots, though Finn didn’t show up tonight, which made the night a little bit worse.

You turn on the record player, put it on it’s softest volume before you tug your robe from your shoulders and step into the bath. There is a cup of tea sitting on the desk beside you. The curtains are closed, your bed awaiting your arrival. You are determined to relax tonight. You think you deserve it.

You don’t wash yourself. Instead, you spend the time just staring up at the ceiling, a cigarette between your fingers. You trace the patterns indented in the roof, notice the damp spots that will soon make you cough if you don’t take care of them - yet another maintenance issue to add to the ever-growing list. You don’t even know where to start; the idea of going out after work to buy light bulbs, or ventilation, or a new set of curtains - it’s daunting when you’ve seen what these streets can be like. In the day time, perhaps it’s not so bad. People walk around Small Heath in the day light all the time, but you’re always working when the sun is out; the only time you can go out is at night, and you’re not stupid enough to risk that.

You close your eyes, sliding lower beneath the warm water. Your feet pop up over the edge of the basin, and you wiggle your toes against the cool air that attacks them, a direct contrast to the bubble-less water you’re currently soaking in. You want to stay there until your fingers are wrinkled, until the water is cold and there is no pleasure to be taken from it any longer.

You want to disappear beneath the water forever, never resurface. Not dead, but not present, either.

These thoughts get to you sometimes. Ever since leaving London, they appear at the most random of moments; you wouldn’t describe yourself as a very sad person. You’ve struggled, and you are struggling, but life is good. For the first time ever, you have a steady wage, and you can afford things. For the first time ever, you have friends you can genuinely joke around with, regulars at The Garrison who have already sworn to protect you with their life purely because you know just the amount of tonic water to top their whiskey with.

But anyone will agree - disappearing forever is much easier than dealing with life. It doesn’t matter how happy you are.

These thoughts are cut off by a knock at your door. You immediately bolt upright, water sloshing over the side of the bath. Your eyes dart to the door, mouth opening, words of welcome on the tip of your tongue, but they are blocked by the anxiety coursing through you right now.

And then, “Y/N? Open up.”

Your throat closes over, the familiar voice of Thomas Shelby startling you into action. You don’t waste time pondering on why the fuck he’s decided to visit you. You just hop out of the bath, snatch your robe and tug it over your shoulders before opening the door. You grip the front of your robe with one hand, your other hand curled protectively against your chest.

Because there he is. The most feared man in Small Heath. The most feared man in Birmingham. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was the most feared man in the United Kingdom.

He’s not a tall man, but his personality gives him a good foot in height, in your eyes. With his shoulders drawn back and his daunting, ice-cold stare, the fact that most men are taller than him does not factor in on the fear he emits from people. He’s wearing a nice suit - as per usual - and there is very little expression on his face. His eyes roam your form for a second before he sighs and says, “Bad time?”

“Yes.”

He pushes into the house, nudging you out of the way with nothing more than a clip of his shoulder against your own. “That’s a shame. Have you got whiskey?”

You swallow, slowly closing the door behind him. The music still plays softly in the background. Tommy rummages through the tea set-up you have laid out, frowning when he realises you don’t have any alcohol for him to consume.

“I have tea,” you reply, hovering by the door in case you need to make a run for it. He’s trying not to be threatening, but the outline of a pistol is so prominent against his waistcoat.

Tommy glances at you. “I’ll have tea then.”

You gesture towards the tray. “It’s all there.”

“I pay you to pour my drinks.”

You tap your empty wrist. “Off the clock, Mr Shelby. Pour your own drink, or dehydrate for all I care.” You fold your arms. “What are you doing here?”

Tommy sighs, pouring himself a cup of tea - no milk, no sugar. “I’m here on behalf of my brother - young Finn.”

Your heart stops for a brief moment. “Finn sent you?”

“No.” He takes a long, loud sip of his drink. “Finn seems to have become quite. . . mute when it comes to matters concerning you.”

“You shouldn’t tease him, you know. He’s a nice boy.”

“He’s a Shelby. None of us are nice.” Tommy sits down, runs his fingers along the broken curtains behind him. “He’s just nice to you, which is why I’m here.”

You raise a brow.

Tommy looks over at you, shakes his head when he sees your confused expression. “You’re aware of the work Finn is involved in, yes?”

You don’t reply. It’s response enough.

“Good,” says Tommy. “Then you’ll know the risk you’re taking by getting involved with him.”

Your eyes widen. “Mr Shelby-”

“Call me Tommy.”

“Mr Shelby, Finn and I aren’t involved. We talk when he comes to The Garrison, but it’s nothing more than that. I talk to everyone that comes to The Garrison.”

Tommy takes another long, loud sip of his tea. You want to slam the entire tea kettle into his fucking skull.

He sighs, content, when he finally sets the cup down. “I have a question, Y/N.” He flicks his eyes up. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

You freeze. “What?”

“Finn doesn’t just talk to people. He knows his own business just as well as anyone else - he knows it can never just be talking when it comes to people outside the Peaky Blinders. Our enemies will find his weak spots, and they will use that against him. I’m afraid, Y/N, you are definitely one of his weak spots.”

Your heart is beating so loud, a symphony in your chest. Your palms are sweating, and suddenly the heat from the steam is overwhelming. You swipe a hand over your forehead, biting your lower lip when you say, “No one has come to hurt me if that’s what you’re worried about. Nobody will come to hurt me, because I’m the fucking barmaid. I’m not your little brothers play thing.”

Tommy smiles. Smiles, like he’s amused. “I never said you were. In fact, I think Finn sees you as everything but a play-thing. He’s always been the naive one of us - I think he believes in true love.”

“And do you not, Thomas Shelby? You had a wife once, no?”

Tommys smile fades, replaced by that familiar deadly look that - somehow - you’re much more comfortable looking at. When Thomas Shelby is smiling, he’s unpredictable. At least you’re used to his scowl.

He bites the inside of his lip and looks into his tea cup. “I came here to tell you that - for your own safety - you need to stay away from him. Break his heart. Do whatever it takes, because the business we’re involved in right now is no place for you. And you will get involved if this little thing with Finn continues.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? There’s nothing between me and Finn. You’re wasting your time.”

Tommy slowly stands up, setting his cup on the side. He glances at the bath water, the dim lamp turned on in the corner, the broken curtains. He purses his lips, points to the ceiling and says, “I’ll send someone over in the morning to fix some things in here.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“No.” He starts towards the door. You move out of his way, keeping your eyes trained on the floor when he leans in and says, softly, “But this place needs to look decent if I want it taken over when the Russians get rid of you.”

----

Every person walking through the door is an enemy.

That’s the power Thomas Shelby has. He twists your brain. He puts you on edge. He makes every person a threat.

Your hands tremble when you pass the glass across the counter. Your voice shakes when you laugh at the inappropriate joke told by the man you’ve seen everyday for the past three months - he’s an alcoholic, you’re pretty sure, and you sometimes feel bad for being the person serving him his addiction, but right now, you look into his eyes and you see nothing but motive, motive, motive.

He wants to kill you. The person over at that table wants to kill you.

Thomas Shelby probably sent them. A warning. A way for you to understand he isn’t messing around. Whatever you and Finn have - it needs to stop before things get out of hand.

You inhale deeply, leaning your head against the glasses case. Behind you, the pub is thick with people, the evening crowd bustling through the doors at speeds you can’t keep up with. It’s strange, really; you’ve been doing this job for months now, and never before have you lacked. You’re always on your toes, skilled in talking to people, providing drinks right on time. But today, things are different. You can’t concentrate. You have to ask people to repeat their orders.

Nothing is right. Everyone is an enemy.

“And what the fuck has got into you this evening?”

You close your eyes, Isaiah’s voice making you tense. “Is Finn with you?”

“No. Little Boy Shelby had a family meeting to go to. Left us both for dead.” Isaiah racks his knuckles against the counter. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You turn. Isaiah sits at the bar, that jovial smile on his face. As soon as your eyes meet his, however, it morphs, shaping into something close to concern. He’s a Peaky Blinder, though, so you aren’t really sure what way to take it.

You hollow out your cheeks, closing the gap between you and him. You lean against the counter, ducking your head down. “Thomas fucking Shelby.”

Isaiah sighs, placing a hand on the back of your neck. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing. He’s done. . . Well, he’s done what he always bloody does.” You look up, around, shrink back down against the counter. Lowering your voice, you say, “You didn’t exactly go into detail about how bad this whole Russian deal is.”

Isaiah pulls back. “Tommy was talking about the Russians?”

“Tommy was talking about me and Finn.”

“Right. . . And that has to do with the Russians, how?”

You raise a brow. Isaiah examines your face for a second before the realisation dawns on him; he pulls back, that cheeky smile forming on his face again. You roll your eyes, grabbing his wrist to yank him forward.

“He’s talking shit, Isaiah. You and me both know that Finn and I are just mates.”

Isaiah scoffs low in his throat. You wack him round the ear.

“We are!”

“Maybe you think that,” Isaiah argues. “But Finn has a special place in his cold dead heart for you.”

You shake your head; you’ve heard it all before, and it still doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t seem real. Finn is a Shelby boy through-and-through. Shelby boys don’t fall in love with barmaids. Shelby boys don’t fall in love at all.

But then you remember Grace. Sweet, kind, understanding Grace who managed to sweep Thomas Shelby off his feet with nothing more than a purring accent and an attitude. She was close to the complete opposite of Thomas Shelby, and yet she had his heart in her grasp.

But you’re not like that. You’re not another Grace. Whatever she had, you don’t have it.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, pulling away from Isaiah. “You’re no fucking help, are you?”

“I’m telling you the truth. What did Tommy say to you?”

“Is that any of your business?”

Isaiah rolls his eyes. “Don’t get bitchy with me now. You’re the one looking like the fucking mafia have their guns to the back of your head.”

“Keep your voice down!”

“Or what?” Isaiah swivels round in his chair, doing a dramatic overview of the crowded pub. You squeeze your eyes closed, raking hands through hair matted from long hours trapped in a room full of smoking alcoholics.

Isaiah turns back to you, one eyebrow raised. “Y/N, what has Tommy got you so afraid of?”

Opening your eyes, you regard him with what you hope is a brave look; you don’t want to make your fear obvious, but it is, because it’s there and you can’t push it away. Thomas Shelby’s voice is playing on a continuous loop in your brain, the warning that once meant nothing to you only just now reaching its full potential in your head.

“He’s just being Thomas Shelby,” you mumble. “You know how he is.”

Isaiah opens his mouth to say something more, but is cut off when Charlie pokes his head round the door. “Oi, Y/N. We need some more rum from the back room.”

You scowl. “I’m a bit busy out front, Charlie-”

“I’ll take over. I hate the smell of that fucking stuff.”

You roll your eyes, nod a quick goodbye to Isaiah before pushing away from the counter and heading into the back room of the pub. It’s only small, filled to the brim with multiple wooden containers that hold all types of beer and alcohol. The stench of bleach fills your nostrils, and you succumb to pulling your shirt over your nose to block it out.

Pushing crates of alcohol out of the road, you make your way to the back of the room where you know the rum is stored. You quietly curse Charlie under your breath, curse Thomas Shelby, and the Russians and everyone who is currently making your life a complete misery, because there’s just something about finally being alone that gives room to all the thoughts you’ve been trying to avoid.

Clink.

You freeze.

The echo sends goosebumps up your arms. Your hands still against the wood of a single crate, fingers curling. The air grows still, and suddenly you are made well aware of the gaze burning into the back of your neck.

It is replaced by the cold kiss of metal.

You inhale sharply, bolting up straight but you don’t dare move. You stay rooted there, trying desperately to gather some coherent thoughts that will help you out of this situation, but nothing besides white noise comes to the surface. You’re going to die. Tommy was right. The Russians have pinpointed you, and there’s no going back now.

“You didn’t even scream,” a cold Russian accent purrs. It’s low, so close to your ear. You nearly jump with the unexpected proximity, but it’s as if the gun has pinned you down. “I don’t know why I expected any different - the Shelby boys like the brave ones, yes?”

“I’m just the barmaid.” Your voice shakes. At this point, you don’t even care.

Your captor laughs. “Oh sweetie, I know. And I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“It doesn’t. You’re wasting your time. I don’t have any information-”

“Who told you I’m looking for information?”

You clench your teeth, squeezing your eyes closed. “What else could you possibly want from me?”

It’s quiet for a split second. The air is suffocating. The walls are drawing impossibly closer, and you’re certain you’re going to faint with the sudden onslaught of unexplainable heat rushing to your face.

The Russian leans in. His lips are inches from your ear, barely brushing the lobe when he says, “Loved ones make fine bait, don’t you agree?”

His question goes unanswered when he slams the gun into the back of your head, and the darkness pours in.

----

The ropes have already done more damage than you’re comfortable with.

Indents in your wrist. A bloody indent in the back of your head. Throat hoarse from yelling, crying out for a mercy you know you will not get; there is only one way this can end. Finn will come barrelling through that door with his band of merry men, and you will be dragged from these pits through gunfire and death.

Or you’ll get killed.

Neither of the options are appealing. You don’t want Finn throwing himself into danger, but in the same breath, you don’t want to never see him again. You have things you want to say to him. You have things you need to say to him, because if you’re about to die, you don’t want to die with this weight on your shoulders.

Blood drips from the cut above your eyebrow. You blink it away, throwing your head back to let out another strangled cry for attention; so far, the only people who have entered your cell are the people assigned to injure you - only little cuts; a slit above the eyebrow, bending your finger back just a little bit, tugging on a tooth just enough to make you fear them ripping it from your skull entirely.

It’s a weird form of torture, but it’s certainly working. You feel the pain tenfold when it bombards you few and far between. The cut on your forehead throbs. Your fingers ache with strain. Your gums have already started swelling from the prodding they’ve been given these past few hours.

Few hours. Time isn’t real any more. You’re locked in a windowless room with only a metal table and a single chair placed within it. The world could be burning outside, and you would be none the wiser.

The door opens again. A tall, grey-haired man in a lab coat walks in, smiling with a set of teeth too perfect for the head they’re moulded in. His steps are sure and professional - he’s done this before. He probably thrives off it.

“How are you?” is the first thing he asks.

You spit blood on the concrete.

He nods, kneeling down beside your chair to double check the bindings. His fingers are warm against your cold wrists, and you silently curse the sudden desire for him to just wrap them around your own and never leave - the cold is eating you alive. This tiny taste of warmth makes you crazy.

“Another hour has passed,” he explains. “It seems we might be forced to take things into high gear.”

Your eyes snap up. You say nothing, but the question glows in your eyes nonetheless.

The man nods like you’ve replied. “We’re going to start sending the letters out. Details. And we’re not known for being liars, so we’re going to have to rough you up a little bit more to really make the Shelby boys quake, yes?”

You stare at him. You hate him. You hate him, and he’s smiling, and you would do anything for the opportunity to reach over and claw those glowing eyes from his fucking skull.

He smiles again. “Don’t worry. The sooner your boy comes through that door, the sooner this can all stop.” He slowly stands up straight. “Let’s just hope he gets here before the blood loss gets too much, yes?”

“Why don’t you just kill me?”

You hadn’t even realised that was a thought you were having; it seems so desperate, so close to the edge of giving up that it feels wrong to even think. But your head is throbbing. Your mind is numb. For the first time in your life, death doesn’t seem like a bad thing.

The Russian’s smile slips. He tilts his head to the side, regarding you with beady eyes the colour of cracked pottery. “Don’t get it twisted, little one. We don’t enjoy doing this - but we have business.”

“Oh, fuck you! That’s your excuse?”

“That’s the truth.” He tugs on your bindings, forcing them deeper into your cold flesh. You squeeze your eyes closed, a trickle of blood tracing its way down your hand. “We don’t enjoy doing this, Y/N, but if you keep this up, you’ll definitely make it easier.”

You shake your head. “I told your man back at The Garrison that this is a waste of time, and it is. The Peaky Blinders don’t give a fuck about me - they never have. They’ll see I’ve disappeared and put up a vacancy for a new barmaid. That’s all the attention they’ll give me.”

“Oh, but we both know that’s a lie. Young Finn Shelby has already taken an interest in you. He’s already given you much more attention than what you describe.”

“Finn likes a chat. So does any drunkard on a Saturday night.”

And then the first blow hits.

Unexpected, uncalled for. You don’t have time to beg for mercy before his wrinkled fist is smashing into your nose, your head crashing against the wall behind you, blood immediately clogging your nostrils. The noise that escapes your mouth is guttural, gargled from the blood that rises in the back of your throat; he caught your lip, too.

“I don’t like liars.” He steps back, rolls up his white sleeves. That smile is gone from his face, replaced by an angered scowl. “Lying will get you nowhere here, little one. It’s only going to make you look like a fool.”

You try saying something, but blood pools over your lips and the words are caught within the platelets, drowned beneath a pained grunt.

“Sometimes it’s just easier to know you’re place,” he continues. “Feel free to scream if you so wish, but that was the last lie I want to hear from you today, do you understand?”

You spit blood onto the concrete again. “Fuck you.”

He drags the knife from his sleeve.

----

“The letter has been sent. They should receive it within the next half hour.”

The man - Igor, you’ve learned - nods. Still, his sleeves are rolled to the elbows. Your blood mats the dark hairs running along his arms. His smile has returned.

He’s got what he wanted.

You can’t lift your head. Blood dribbles from your swollen lips. Two fingers on your left hand have been snapped for no reason other than they are bone, and Igor is merciless. Cuts and bruises dot your face, your body. Your shirt is ripped, sliced from the blade currently sitting idle in Igor’s hand. He’s taken a break, the letter has been written, and the Peaky Blinders will soon hear word of your stupidity.

Tommy will read the letter and laugh. You know he will. He’ll look at the details, and he’ll imagine your bruised and battered body, and he’s going to say what Thomas Shelby always finds pleasure in saying: “I was right.”

And he was. The little bastard was right the entire time.

“It takes an army, you know,” says Igor, waving his little helper off. The door slamming closed behind him makes you jump. “To do this, to really rile us up to this point. It takes an army.”

He approaches you slowly. His heels click off the concrete, silenced only when he kneels beside you. The stench of his breath fills your senses, a mix of smoke and alcohol - something you’re all too familiar with.

“You must realise how far Thomas Shelby and his men have pushed us,” Igor continues. “We protect our own. You understand that, don’t you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Igor runs his thumb along your swollen bottom lip, examines the blood before wiping it on his unstained handkerchief, pulled from the inside pocket of his blood stained lab coat. “I wish to be friends with you when this all ends.”

You squeeze your eyes closed.

“You lied to me a few times, but I can get past that. As I said before, Y/N, it takes an army to rile us up - not a few tales told in the moment. So I hope when this is all through, you can look past the corpse of your lover and see our side of things.”

Your head snaps up. Pain bounces through your skull, but you push past it to say, “Corpse?”

Igor smiles, slow and thin. “Finn is a Peaky Blinder.” Not a question, because Igor has done his research. “They must all go, Y/N. All of them. No matter how innocent they seem.”

“Please don’t.”

“I will not argue this point with you.” He stands up, brushing imaginary lint off his coat, as if it’s not covered in blood. “I’ll leave you to rest until we get some kind of response.”

“If you get a response,” you spit. “I told you-”

“We’re not wasting our time,” Igor says. “Having you in our company will never be a waste of time.”

He offers you one final grin, one final chance to tell him you understand, before he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

---

In the moments before death, you may take a moment to look back upon the life cut short.

Regrets, pleasures, happiness - all of it will come rushing back to you in a single, fatal blow. Faces of loved ones will flash through your mind, all smiles and scowls and inside jokes. Their voices will echo. The feel of their hands against your skin will tingle against the flesh now rotting away as death takes its patient, steady strides towards you.

This moment can be seen as a blessing or a curse. A good farewell, or a waste of time.

You sit with your head hung, blood matted hair falling against your blood stained cheeks. Your head thuds, but not enough to push the image of his face away.

Finn Shelby was never meant to be the last person you ever thought about, but you’re almost certain that is how it’s going to end up.

His smile, always timid because he’s a Shelby and Shelby boys aren’t meant to smile. You remember sitting behind that bar, trying desperately to find something that amused him, some inside joke the two of you could share together - just to see him smile. Just to see him break the hard mould his brothers have always set him in.

You recall him walking through the doors of The Garrison almost every evening. Sometimes he would be alone. Sometimes he would have Isaiah with him, or some other threatening member of his brothers motley crew; it didn’t matter who accompanied him, though. His eyes always found yours, his stride always led to you, his final goodbye for the night was always pressed into your hand for you to take to bed.

And you always claimed you didn’t love him. It was easier that way. You have an idea that most people who find themselves feeling things for any of the Shelby boys will much rather live in denial than admit their feelings. That was the mindset you took; it’s safer to ignore them. It’s safer to pretend you just care for Finn as a friend might care for a friend.

But you’re dying. There’s no reason to deny anything any more.

Your head rolls back, cheek pressed against your shoulder. In the distance, you can hear the Russians talking. They stand outside the door, discussing things in a language you do not know, making decisions about a life slipping away. One of them bites into an apple, and they make it so loud and so obvious, and your stomach starts growling in response.

You won’t be able to eat anyway. Not when everything will taste like your own blood.

You settle your mind on the sound of Finn’s voice. It blocks out everything else, giving you a nice distraction to latch onto until things end. Your wrists ache, and your body is going numb, but in the back of your mind, Finn is telling you it’s all going to be alright, promising a life beyond this moment. You close your eyes, let your head fall to your chest-

And then the gunshots sound.

A noise once familiar now jolts you upright. Your heart spirals, thumping against your rib cage in a manner close to dangerous. People are yelling. In two seconds flat, the calm and quiet of wherever the fuck you are is shattered.

“Shit,” you whisper through swollen lips and blood. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Something has happened. The Peaky Blinders, maybe, but your brain goes directly for the worst case scenario - it’s not them. They don’t care about you. This is the Russians. Maybe they’ve got impatient. They might be wiping each other out. You don’t know. You’ve never dealt with this kind of thing before.

You stir in your seat, ignoring the burning pain flaring in your wounded wrists. The ropes are slippery, the blood curling around the fibres, and you can feel them shifting, but you’re too weak to slip them off. You thrash back and forth, biting back the scream of frustration just seconds before the chair tips to the side, dragging you with it.

You cry out, bruises and scrapes being knocked against the cold concrete. Black dots burst behind your eyes, and you’re certain this is it. These black dots are going to overwhelm you, take over everything until that pretty bright light appears in the distance, an angel coming to take you home.

But you don’t want to die. No part of you wants to die. The pain isn’t bad enough. The circumstances aren’t scary enough for you to crave death; not when the memories you were pondering on before are so strong, so bright, everything you want and aren’t willing to give up.

You curl your knees into your chest, squeezing your eyes closed to block out the sound of the gun shots. You remember all those evenings in The Garrison, simply rolling your eyes when John or Arthur or Tommy would come skidding through the front doors, gunshots following close behind. Back then, in that setting, it was so normal. It was an everyday occurrence. In Small Heath, people are meant to die. Wars are meant to be fought. Enemies are meant to be-

“Y/N?”

Your eyes pop open. A sob falls from your lips. You’re trembling.

“Finn!” you cry out. “Finn!”

The door is thrown open, locks wasted, security obliterated. In the hallway, people yell and scream, and gunshots are fired left, right and centre, but suddenly, all of it is just background noise.

Finn is here. He slides to his knees, dropping the gun that is far too big for him. He pulls the strap away from his shoulder, throws it to the side before he grabs his knife and cuts into the ropes binding your wrist to the chair. You gasp as soon as you’re free, crawling to your knees only to fall directly into his already-open arms.

You sob into his shoulder. Your body aches. The world is tilting, and blood is pouring from a slit in your eyebrow, right down the side of your face. Finn holds you close, whispers in your ear words that you cannot hear. You just focus on his voice, the lull of it, how each syllable shakes as it passes his lips.

He pulls away, holds you at arms length. His eyes scan your face, thumbs tracing a line down the side of it. His fingers pull away bloody, and at the sight of it, his own skin pales.

“You have to get out of here,” he says. “You have to get out of here now.”

He scrambles up, dragging you with him. You wince, but you know you have no other choice; you need to move fast or risk getting shot, wasting this second chance you’ve so mercifully been given.

He drags you towards the door, where the gunshots are loud and the smell of death is pungent. You wince, letting Finn drag you into the blood smeared hallways-

Where he passes you right to Isaiah.

You flinch away, neck twisting round just in time to catch the moment Finn starts walking in the other direction. It’s confusion at first, followed by anger, followed by panic that sees you reaching out and grabbing his wrist before he can get very far.

He ducks his head down, gun dangling around his neck. “Let me go, Y/N.”

“No. You’re coming with me. You’re getting out of here, too.”

“They nearly killed you.” He turns, running his eyes over your injured form. You’re slouched against Isaiah, one eye swollen, but not enough to shield your obvious hesitance at letting Finn go in there on his own. “I’m the one who’s pulling the trigger this time. I told Tommy that when we walked in.”

“You don’t have to - Finn, you don’t have to do any of that. Leave it to Tommy.”

“I told him this,” Isaiah says. “The shithead didn’t listen.”

Finn whirls round, pointing a finger right in Isaiah’s face. “And you can shut the fuck up, alright? These men came for me. They came for my loved ones - I’ll be the one to sort them out, and that’s the end of it.” He pushes Isaiah. You stumble to the side, scrambling for his wrist, but Finn pulls away before you can get a hold on him again. “Get them out of here. I’ll meet you back at The Garrison.”

“Yes boss,” Isaiah grunts. He starts pulling you away. You start yelling, thrashing around in his grip as much as your injured limbs will allow, but there’s no point to it. Finn turns on his heel and starts down the hallway, marching towards the area where the gunfire is still going off, where blood is still being spilled, where there is every risk he might be added to the long list of corpses found later on.

You let Isaiah drag you from the building, because it’s all you really can do right now. Your body is giving in, the pain coming back in full force when he drags you out of the building and into the sunlight. You fall to the side as soon as Isaiah lets go of your arm, stumbling in the grass with a gasp. You grip your arm, curling fingers along the slitted knife wounds running the length of your flesh.

Isaiah drops to his knees beside you. “What did they do to you?”

“You’re an idiot,” you choke out through a wince. “A fucking idiot! You let him go back in there on his own!”

Isaiah pulls back, eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re blaming me? He’s a Shelby, Y/N! A stubborn bastard.”

You groan, shaking your head. “We need to go back. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how dangerous they are-” You stumble to your feet. Isaiah catches you just seconds before you crumble to the floor all over again.

Tears leak from your swollen eyes, the world spinning. There’s a bed of water just a few feet away, and the sight of it reminds you of your dry mouth. A boat bobs within it, Charlie ready to take you home. You meet his eyes and he waves, but there is none of his usual enthusiasm; he just looks startled, eyes wide as he takes in your battered form.

Isaiah tugs on your arm, drawing your attention back to him. “Finn will kill me if I don’t get you back home in one piece, love. So do me a solid, yeah? Just this once.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t think - I don’t think I have much of a choice.”

“What are you - ay, no. Open your eyes, Y/N. Stay with me!”

But it’s too late. The world is spinning. The gunshots echo inside a head that suddenly feels much too heavy for your shoulders. It falls against Isaiah’s shoulders, and then he starts yelling, hands scooping you up. He barrels across the grass towards the boat, Charlie yelling out questions you cannot even begin to comprehend. Isaiah is yelling something back, voice hectic, but again, it slips through one ear and out the other.

It’s a relief when the darkness finally settles in.

----

Your body aches.

Bones out of place, blood pooling in the back of your mouth, the taste of ash and death licked from your teeth. Memories cling to the surface, perched on the shock of still being alive.

The hospital room is lit only by a tiny lantern set upon the table beside your bed. In the air, there is a single cloud of grey, swirling from the soft lips of Thomas Shelby to the roof high above your head.

The mob boss sits beside you, legs folded at the knee, eyes trained on a magazine. Between his lips is a cigarette that he now takes a heavy puff from, draining the life from it in the way you’re certain he has drained the life from so many human beings.

You should be intimidated, demanding answers to a situation you don’t even really want to ponder right now. But instead, you glance over, swiping a lazy hand across your eyes. Thomas flicks his own eyes up, acknowledges your rousing state and goes back to his reading.

“You’re not the right Shelby.”

“I’m afraid you have to go through me before I can put you through to Finn.”

“What are you doing here, Tommy?”

He looks at you then. Ice blue eyes carved into a face of pure steel; it’s a lie. His entire expression is a lie, something to throw you off balance. He smiles, and he tilts his head, and he hardly ever raises his voice, but behind that casual demeanour is a demon - a demon you’re growing to respect.

“They told Finn you might not make it,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Good.”

“But you’re alive.”

“Also good.”

“You should have listened to me, Y/N. You’ve dug yourself too deep into this to crawl out now.”

You shrug. It’s a lazy gesture, one that certainly does not encompass the real emotions clawing to the surface right now. The world is coming back into view. Recollections of what happened are prying, trying to get you to give them an attention you really cannot afford to give them at this moment.

Tommy sighs, setting the magazine aside. He even has the decency to quash his cigarette in the ashtray before he leans forward, elbows pressed into his knee. “Finn wants to see you.”

“He made it out alive then?”

“Did you think otherwise?”

You tap your temple. “I was a little too out of it to be focusing on Finn Shelby.” A lie, but you don’t need to tell Tommy that.

Because he probably already knows.

“I want to see him, too,” you reply, voice quiet. “I just - I want to make sure he’s okay.”

Tommy tilts his head. “He’s not in this hospital beside you.”

“Where is he then? Bleeding out back at the Shelby headquarters? Left to die because he didn’t listen to his all-mighty older brother?”

Tommy doesn’t even flinch at your tone of voice. He simply plucks a second cigarette from the tin case in his pocket and hands it to you; you take it, do not place it to your lips. “I didn’t make a mistake in telling you to stay away from Finn. Clearly, my warning was made with sense. None of this would have happened if you listened to me.”

“No, Tommy,” you say. “None of this would have happened if you didn’t get involved with the Russians in the first place.”

And for the first time, Tommy looks genuinely shocked. His eyebrows shoot up for only a single second, his lips parting before he snaps them closed and turns away, glancing at the door of the hospital. His jaw clenches, Adams apple bobbing as he swallows down whatever words of hostility he had set out for you.

And then, his voice low, “I don’t know what power you have over Finn, but he won’t listen to me. Nothing I say - nothing I do - will make him see sense. He wants to see you.”

“And I want to see him. Where is he?”

“Back home. He doesn’t know I’m here.” Tommy looks up. “He thinks you’re dying, Y/N. We’ve made an effort to keep him away.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Thomas, but it isn’t needed. I’m alive. I’m - I’m okay.” You place your hands on your ribs, bruised and battered, halfway to broken. “Let me see him.”

“When you’re healed,” Tommy replies. He starts to slowly stand, all long legs and expensive suits. He brushes a hand through his hair before placing his flat cap back on his head, and all you can do is watch his gracious movements when he plucks your unlit cigarette from your fingers, places it in his own mouth and heads towards the door.

“Tommy,” you bark, stopping him in his tracks. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t reply, but the acknowledgement is enough for you to continue. “You were right. It’s my relationship with Finn that threw us in the shit. But just ‘cause you’re right, doesn’t make my relationship with Finn wrong.”

His fingers curl around the cigarette tin in his hand. For a second you think he might humour you, respect you enough to turn and give you some kind of response, but he does no such thing. He simply starts walking again, slamming the door closed behind him.

----

Being out in Small Heath at night is dangerous. It was once an action you never would have even considered.

Now, however, with your battle scars throbbing and your mind a blur of painkillers and hostile memories, you don’t care. You pull your knees into your chest, leaning on the wall of the small building you call home. The children no longer roam the streets; the carriages have been parked up for the night. Above you, the moon blinks, asking you what on earth you think you’re doing sitting in the open like this, when the rapists and murderers are at their optimum.

You take a sip of your tea. Well, Mr Moon. I don’t care.

Tommy kept his word, of course; stumbling into your house for the first time in two days, the first thing brought to your notice was the new bulb in your lamp and the new curtains set up against the window. The roof was painted a fresh white over the course of your absence; Tommy had left a single note on the mantelpiece: “Sleep well.”

What it means, you don’t know, because it obviously isn’t just a casual, light hearted message to welcome you back. Thomas Shelby isn’t like that.

Through the silence, it is easy to hear the footsteps sidling up beside you.

In the darkness, you stiffen, hands curling round your mug. You don’t look up to see the persons face, but a single glance to the left reveals all; you would recognise those polished boots anywhere. Boots that should be stained by dirt and blood and gore remain clean, because Finn is a Shelby, and that’s what Shelby’s do.

“You should be inside,” he says.

You press the cup to your chest, the warmth scorching your collar bone in a most delicious way. “I couldn’t sleep.” You look up, breath leaving you as soon as you see him. Even the shadows do little to mask the face you’ve fallen in love with - and god, you’ve fallen in love. Months of trying to deny it, of telling people you and Finn are friends and only friends has come crashing down with the experiences of the past few days. He stands above you now, hands tucked in his pockets, his hair a little bit messier than usual. He’s staring down at you, eyes glittering under the lanterns lining the street above your head.

You tap the concrete beside you. “Sit?”

He lowers himself to a squat, not quite sitting but he’s close enough to you now that you can smell the mint leaves on his breath.

“How have you been, Finn?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He glances at you, chews his bottom lip. “I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead.”

“Who?”

“Everyone.” He rubs his knuckles along his upper lip, a rare demonstration of nerves. “It fucked me up. Fucked my brain up.”

“I could have died.”

“But you didn’t.”

You close your eyes, tilting your head back just a little bit. When you speak, it’s like you’re addressing the moon. “No. I didn’t. Because you stupid fuckers came and helped me.”

Finn scoffs. You look at him, one eyebrow raised. You can feel the stitches in your forehead pulling with the movement before Finn reaches over and runs his thumb along the seam, as if flattening the scowl.

“I’m offended you thought I’d just lounge about on my arse all day whilst you were in danger.”

You swat his hand away, tea nearly spilling over the lip of your mug with the action. “You could have been killed, Finn. Killed. Do you know how long Thomas would have let me live if you got yourself murdered whilst trying to save me?”

Finn rolls his eyes. “Don’t even talk about Tommy. He-”

“A whole zero seconds,” you cut in. “He would have shot me on the fucking spot.”

Finn lowers himself to the curb completely, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “He wouldn’t waste bullets like that.”

You slap his arm.

Finn throws his head back, laughing. His smile is so bright, momentarily letting you forget about the darkness you are both encompassed in, the world of danger you stand upon. For him, it is willingly. He was born into it and has seen no reason to leave. For you, the choice was made not by your head, but by the stupid thing beating in your chest. You’ve fallen in love, and can’t bring yourself to walk away.

It’s as you’re having these thoughts - these scary, scary thoughts - that Finn reaches over and brushes his thumb against your lower lip. You tense, eyes darting to his own. He’s staring at your mouth, tongue peaking out from appealing lips of his own.

You slowly reach up, curling your fingers around his wrist.

“I killed them.” His breath fans your face, all mint leaves and truth. “Shot them with my own fucking gun.”

“Finn…”

“And it still wasn’t enough.”

You close your eyes, tilting your head to rest in the palm of his hand. He wraps his other arm around your shoulders, tugs you into his side without explanation or awkwardness; you fall into his grip, resting your head against his shoulder as the darkness comes back, and the reality follows suit.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His grip tightens. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to give you the burden of having to protect me all the time.”

“It’s not a burden-”

“Tommy warned me about what it would mean for me to fall in love with you, the danger of it. He told me to stay away.”

Glancing to the side, you catch sight of Finn’s clenched jaw, fingers on his free hand curling and uncurling.

You reach over and touch his wrist. “He wasn’t wrong, Finn.”

The Shelby boy closes his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t want to hurt you-”

He stands up, sudden and swift, with the grace only a Shelby boy could truly have. You catch yourself before you tilt, head following his movements. He runs his hands through his hair, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. “You know, Y/N, there’s a reason I didn’t let Tommy handle the Russians on his own.”

“Finn, keep your voice-”

“A very good fucking reason.” His eyes burn into your own. “You’re the one person who listens to what I have to say. I felt like you were the only person in the world who saw me as Finn, not just an extension of the fucking family business.”

Your heart thunders. “Finn-”

“You were the one thing I thought I could enjoy on my own, because you can look Tommy in the eye and tell him no. You’ve always been able to do that. You don’t want to hurt me? Then don’t let that fucker get in your head. You can walk away from here now, never talk to me again, but for the love of god, don’t be like everyone else - don’t let Thomas Shelby run your fucking life.”

You’re standing in two seconds flat, arms thrown around Finn’s shoulders, back and stomach screaming in agony but you don’t care. You kiss him with a ferocity you’ve never known before, drown in the feel of his hands resting on your jaw, his breath mingling with your own, the years of pent up need finally rushing from your system in a single clean swoop.

Finn kisses you back just as desperately, his fingers resting on your jaw line but not controlling your movements; you’ve taken control. You’ve got your arms slung round his neck and this man wrapped around your little finger, and you sink into him, deeper, deeper, deeper if that’s even possible after the months of denial you forced yourself into.

You pull away first, shaking your head. “This is so stupid.”

Finn runs his hands through your hair, voice a whisper. “I love you.”

You melt against him. He catches you, hands slipping from your hair to your waist where he tugs, pulling you closer against him. “I know this is a bad idea,” you mumble into his neck, “but I can’t leave.”

“You don’t have to leave. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“And I won’t.” He pulls away, holding you at arms length. “But my life is a fucking mess, and you’re the only thing that makes sense, so I’m going to try my fucking hardest.”

Here he is. Finn Shelby, a member of one of the most feared gangs in England, someone who is meant to grow up to be just as scary, just as intimidating, just as savage as the rest of his family - and yet he holds you like you’re made of glass, nimble fingers cupping your elbows, eyes soft, trained on your mouth as you purse your lips and shake your head.

You can imagine the destruction this will cause; Polly will have something to say, some insult to throw in your direction because god forbid someone put her boys in any type of danger. Arthur will let you away with nothing. John will curse and kick things and throw a hissy fit. Thomas will just be a danger, a risk you’ll have to look out for.

You wrap your arms around Finn yet again, hugging him close. He nuzzles his nose in the crook of your neck, sways back and forth just a little bit, like the night breeze has finally taken him hostage. You bury your own head against the side of his, the feel of his skin making it so, so easy to forget about what it is you are really doing.

“I love you,” you whisper, directly into his ear because you feel like you need to. Right now, with the stars and the moon as witness, you need to tell the truth.

Finn shudders against you, tightening his hold on your waist. Afraid to let go. Afraid to dive headfirst into a life he once signed up for, but one he has never been prepared for.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders one shot #finn shelby #finn shelby imagine #finn shelby one shot #finn shelby fanfiction #finn shelby fic #finn shelby x reader #peaky blinders reader insert #finn shelby fluff #peaky blinders writing

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chikkou · 4 years ago

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It always confused me why Buzzo said Lisa would love Olathe because like..... a bunch of murderous men running around trying to rape any girl they can get their hands on doesn’t rlly seem up her alley, but I was thinking abt ur response to why Lisa is the so called “worst” person and honestly like. Yeah. If she could like look down and see a world where all the women had died semi-peacefully (especially considering she opted to take her own life to escape abuse and considered death to be the better option) and men (especially the men who had “failed” her) were in a nasty hellscape murdering each other and tormenting each other and ODing and transforming into the literal monsters she saw Marty as- I feel like she would be pretty cool with it. Like I imagine she’d feel for Buddy but part of it seems like “oh men wanna act like a bunch of monsters? BET” like of the 3 men in Lisa’s life, Marty was obviously evil, brad clearly let her down in some significant way in the father epilogue, and bernard i dont think made a huge moral failing but he didn’t succeed in saving her from Marty, and I think she wouldn’t be mad that they’re all tormenting each other for her.

im honestly in complete agreement, and id actually take it further and say that lisa was so neglected by everyone in her life (again, except buzzo) that i think she would be over the moon knowing that her death directly led to the creation of what is essentially hell on earth, but only for the awful men that would victimize and harm women (hell, even the relatively harmless character nern spends his entire intro shit talking his fucking dead wife), and that to this day they still fight over her and blame themselves for what happened to her, because especially in brad and martys case, it really IS their fault (though obviously way more marty than brad)

and i definitely find it noteworthy that resort island (which i know is a kickstarter side area, but still) is pretty much identical to the bile-filled area in lisa the first, and even includes a bunch of the marty mutants from that game worshipping a golden idol (though in this case its a fucked up version of yados trumpet instead of a cross) and the tv marty as well. ive heard theories that perhaps lisa was somehow involved in the making of olathe and/or saw some of the proto-mutants before she died, thus how they made it into her dreamscape, but personally i think of it as the opposite, that maybe she told buzzo about those thoughts/dreams and he got yado to incorporate it into an area to sort of memorialize her. just a thought!

and as for the father epilogue, yeah i definitely agree about your interpretation of it. its hard for me to completely blame brad since he was a kid for most of the abuse (and definitely was underage during the father epilogue), but there was clearly a significant age gap between him and lisa that i guesstimate to be around 7-10 years of difference, meaning he could have absolutely fought to take lisa with him when he left and didnt. the fact that he chose to leave her with marty may be one of the things he is most regretful about and one of the things lisa resented him the most for, and it explains why buzzo was so quiet in his karate class. i dont think brad even knew that he and lisa were friends, given that he asks buzzo if everything is alright at home and doesnt seem to realize that buzzo is upset about whats going on with lisa

ok one last thing thats slightly related, but i really do enjoy that the painful made it a point to have some tranquil areas to show that humanity didnt completely go off its rocker. the beehive is my favorite example of this, and not just because it has queen roger (who is a surprisingly good depiction of a drag queen that doesnt feel transmisogynist) - the lgbt community, or what was left of it, found a place to be safe and be themselves, and no one bothers them. if someone tries to start shit, they are swiftly dealt with, but its a pure case of “dont start none, wont be none” - brad doesnt cause any problems with them, so they are completely harmless, and everyone benefits. the beehive really sends the message that people who do wrong in olathe get punished pretty quickly, but the people who truly just want to live their lives and not hurt anyone else can live in relative safety. its actually kind of a sweet message dshkfds

#anya's anons #ironically thats one thing buddy fucks up in the joyful by killing mr. beautiful #1 11111 111 11 #2222222 222 2222 #33 33333333 #rape mention #abuse mention #drug mention #lisa

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bladekindeyewear · 5 years ago

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Bloggin’ bout HS^2 Commentary from start to Mid-Jan-2020

Sigh. Time to pay the piper. Someone’s gotta extract whatever plot-important and plothole mentions get mentioned in this commentary, even though reading behind-the-scenes stuff about Homestuck makes me even more nervous than reading frontend stuff ever could so I don’t really want to. FYI, that’s what you’re going to get out of my posts on these -- anything regarding plot stuff and plotholes, things we would’ve misinterpreted or missed otherwise, not any of the other paid content such as sketches or full quotes from them about things.

TWENTY FUCKING DOLLARS A MONTH!???!?? Is Andrew even seeing any of this cash? --no, not much of it I guess, he would want to make sure the WP folks get paid enough after the--

Yeah I’m not gonna even think about that.

Fuck it. I’m ponying up.

Alright, first commentary post on the Patreon, commentary and bonus sketches for Ghostflusters... whoa, this is long and extensive. Is it going panel by panel??

I guess I’ll give you a small quote just for a taste of how this starts...

Page 33: Not sure what any of this shit means. It’s pretty deep though. We were going for an echo of the beginning of the epilogue when John is dreaming in anime. Except here it’s Jake, and nobody is dreaming, at least not yet. Also an anime dream wouldn’t be a nightmare for Jake, since Jake likes anime. Or he used to. Now anime probably just reminds him of Dirk.

Good thing we’re never gonna hear from that guy ever again.

...because this commentary is sort of stylized. They’re kind of riffing on what they’re doing, and I get that -- when you have to write commentary you’re asking people to PAY for you can easily feel like you have to be entertaining. But they are describing the rationale for the shot choices they made and such. They’re also going for a sort of Andrew-recap sort of attitude, and I don’t blame them for that choice, either.

[Candy] Jade is...well, you’ll see.

GOD DAMNIT. Don’t remind me that Dave vanished on her forever while they were doing pro-revolutionary work and she’s probably going to be in a bit of a state! Stupid knowing author future allusions...

Then again, that’s exactly why I’m here blogging about the commentary for you guys -- for me to relay Authorial Intent on Stuff That Happened That Seemed Plotholey and Hints About What’s Going To Be Relevant.

I just, uh... didn’t expect there to be that MUCH of it. And that casual phrasing for that Candy Jade Is Going To Be Seen And Or Relevant hint is... kinda indicating to me that there’s gonna be a LOT more of that here than I wanted. :|

Continuing... there’s talk of why they started with Jake here, being unused to writing for middle-aged characters in Homestuck terms, et cetera, but again, I’m only here to relay anything with plot impact or SERIOUS perspective on how we should / the authors are viewing this. The rest stays behind the paywall for whichever of you all think it’s worth $20, I don’t really have a choice. At least now I know why there was no one to tell me what details were actually BEHIND the paywall. Seriously, that’s steep.

Speaking of how stylized the commentary is here, I can get why some might read it and view the authors as slightly callous -- I’m giving them PLENTY of benefit of the doubt, though. Andrew was FAR from callous and he hurt us worse out of love of artistic intent with the Epilogues than the HS^2 folks could EVER hurt us. Real Dirk-like, actually. Dirk is practically half of a self-insert, as we well know. No wonder Andrew thought the right thing to do was to take his hands off the story, what with Dirk’s villainous action being putting his own hands ON the story.

We like to make fun of Jake English as much as the next guy, but he probably is actually pretty good at “doing things” if the need arises.

Mhmm; there are some jibes at how screwed up Jake has made his life, but I don’t believe these authors actually disrespect Jake at all. He was dealt a bad hand by the story leading up to this point (quite INTENTIONALLY by Dirk’s narrative control in the Epilogues, too) and HS^2 and its bonuses so far have been exploring the heap of merits and potential he’s still got in him.

It’s kind of sweet how he wants to clean out his ecto-son’s house, even if most of that is to prevent the slow creep of mounting existential dread and narrative relevance.

Huh. So they think Jake can sort of feel that narrative relevance is seeping in around him, to him? That’s not out of the question at all.

Continuing... they’re going on a bit about the same sort of things I mentioned about their choices in detail or detail-less-ness when depicting people in this new format, considering ages and the paired text descriptions and such. That’s the sort of thing you’d traditionally want to pony up for commentary for, so rest assured that all that IS in their commentary posts if you want to do that. I’m kind of extracting the plot stuff out of the paywall just on principle.

A lot of making this comic--and every other comic ever--is trying to convey as much information with as little space as possible.

Quite so.

From this conversation we find out a couple things. 1) that Brain Ghost Dirk knows about Ultimate Dirk, and he thinks he’s a dickhead. 2) Brain Ghost Dirk knows who Jeff Bezos is, and Jake doesn’t. This could be a sign of a couple things, all of which are probably stupid.

This is ALSO what I came here for: Legitimate “don’t worry about it” handwaves about stuff that shouldn’t matter to us. I never ascribed the slightest bit of relevance or inference to BGDirk making a Jeff Bezos reference, and I’m glad I was completely justified in ignoring it. So far I agree with this probably-plural-but-acting-like-a-singular author’s train of thought.

Come to think of it, it’s maybe strange that in this Cool Future Earth where all of our characters are rich as hell, none of them have bothered to have any sort of corrective eye surgery. Jane, Jake, John, and Jade all still wear glasses. I guess they do have “signature looks” to maintain in regards to their brand.

I had to include this, I was legitimately curious. Understood it was probably an artistic decision to stay on-brand a fair bit -- and losing glasses even temporarily has a lot of thematic significance whenever it happens in Homestuck Proper -- but it’s nice to have some confirmation that this was the understandable rationale behind the choice.

Here we find out what Dirk thinks about Jake’s behavior of the last few years. In other words, we find out what Jake thinks about Jake’s behavior over the last few years. [...]

[Brain Ghost] Dirk is manipulating Jake here, but he isn’t actually saying anything demonstrably untrue.

Again, most of this was obvious at the time, but it’s nice to have authorial confirmation on what was being brought across as per the strange divide between Brain Ghost Dirk’s independent will and his mostly-part-of-Jake status.

Seriously though, shoutout to the conceit that god tiers can just fly endlessly, with no visible effort. It’s a really excellent form of narrative shortcut that fits perfectly into the bonkers vibe of earth c as a whole. Oh there goes one of the Creators, just flying over the Wal-Mart like an asshole.

You know... who IS doing the commentary here? One of the authors, all of them? One of the artists?? This really is a COLLABORATIVE effort between the authors and artists involved here, I think, and it shows in their clear surprise and appreciation for each others’ work that only settles into a full understanding instead of just knowing what one intended off the bat.

It calls into question exactly how much of the Condesce’s mind control was actually mind control at all, and how much was just a lowering of inhibitions.

Right, right.

We see Jane greeting Jake here with open arms, which makes you wonder exactly what is going on here. If you’ll remember from Candy, Jane has already served Jake divorce papers. A mystery in need of solving, for sure.

HERE we go! This is the potential plothole we were concerned about that got me alerted that the commentary had something to add in the first place. John mentioned toward the trail-end of the Candy epilogues that divorce papers had shown up for Jake. (And we also saw an HS^2 update ago or so that Jane hadn’t actually KNOWN Tavros was “awol” at all until he was literally a part of this whole clowncorpse logistics business.) So in light of what this post continues to say:

It could be that Jane has put aside the nasty business of their divorce in order to have a strong chest to cry on. Can’t really say I blame her. Jake English has many flaws but he does seem like a good person to drape yourself across and really let loose on. And without Gamzee there, Jane needs another punching bag.

...it all finally fits as pretty logically consistent, although the author is being deliberately coy in a way that leaves it open for more to be revealed later about exactly how this is happening. Good! No obvious plotholes in HS^2 (yet). That’s an honest relief. The more often they have something in mind where I’d previously worried they’d screwed up, the more often I can give them credit and speculate properly on those gaps in story-logic expecting something there, like we so often got to with Andrew before the retconsplit made even THAT kinda fucky.

If you’ve ever had a friend or family member go evil, you’ll know that one of the hardest parts is there’s always still elements of them that you like.

I can definitely say that from nearly personal experience.

Also, at this point in the story there is no lingering doubt that Jake and Dirk have had a sexual relationship. There’s a familiarity there that wasn’t around when they were teens.

I assumed so, but I guess I never thought ABOUT how I assumed so. Huh.

Do any of the creators have a moral leg to stand on if all they’re doing is curling up into a ball and hoping the world gets better without them? Actually, does anyone have a moral leg to stand on if they do that?

Almost Riddley, there.

These posts are certainly interesting! Steeply priced for what they are, but interesting. Moving on to the second of four so far... this one’s about Catnapped Part 1.

Taking over Earth C's business world certainly would have required rubbing shoulders with the already-powerful on the planet.

--yep, which I never doubted even when brought up in the Epilogues is a large part of her supply-side government views.

Ah, looks like the bonus commentary is a good deal shorter! But that bonus section was a good deal shorter than the story section covered earlier too, so.

On to the next one, for Clown Logistics.

Page 58: If you love Vriskas, i hope you enjoy more Vriska content. If you hate Vriskas, well. Here is another one that is kind of different. Feel free to contemplate nature vs nurture and how best to apply this dichotomy toward emoting about the vriskas of your choice how you see fit.

I’m starting to really enjoy this author commentary.

Tavros being named Tavros sure was a decision. Go back and reread the commentary for panel 58 but stop before the nature/nurture thing, since they are not clones, or even the same species. They just have the same name, which, in this universe, means you at least type kind of the same.

Hmhmm.

Page 65: Sometimes you try and come up with something to say about a page, and you cannot, and so you wait 8 hours, and go see Knives Out, and then you have 2 white russians, and then you still can’t come up with anything to say, but oh well! Commentary needs writing. Tavros is experiencing an emotion here.

Now THAT’s a mood. I gotta go see Knives Out sometime soon.

...Alright, I can see why some people think MAAAAYBE this author might be being a little disrespectful to the audience, but if they’re going based on THIS, I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. This comment could have come from Andrew’s fingertips any day of the week!!! I honestly wouldn’t WANT replacement authors who couldn’ comment like this in there for a page in paid commentary, especially in a lighter section of the story that doesn't need too much said about it.

And I paid $20 for this shit.

...Continuing, I’m loving all this commentary on Harry Anderson. Representative excerpt:

Again, direct your eyes toward the boy. What a fucking asshole.

...these commentaries are honestly improving my mood! I didn’t expect that, really.

Ah, I didn’t even notice that the flying cars appear to be self-driving. I think maybe the back of my mind MIGHT have noticed but only a bit.

Referring to the corpse-carry crew:

Page 82: Pokedex entry for Magneton in Pokemon Sun: When three Magnemite link together, their brains also become one. They do not become three times more intelligent.

Ain’t THAT a mood.

(...I just had an internal “Wait, am I using that right, it being a “mood”? Isn’t that the hip new term, how do I have any right to latch onto that however much I feel it? Ohhh gosh I’m so fucking old” moment.)

It’s clear from the commentator’s complaints that the crew never viewed this commentary ALONE as worth upping the pledge to $20, but that’s... not quite a bad thing? I think it’d have been more disrespectful to think that they COULD make the commentary worth that. I doubt there’s a single person on their team who feels quite right about the business model (besides the artists they have plenty of context to know how deserving they are of a living goddamn wage), but it’s what they have to live with and go with, here. I feel weird for honestly understanding ‘em, and more than slightly pitying for how many people will look at all this and read “these assholes don’t care about us”. I really can’t think that’s anywhere CLOSE to true from this without more context. (And I really DON’T want more context, don’t send me any. I’ve got to read HS^2 and I’m enjoying reading it so far so let me keep enjoying it please. Background drama details make me nauseous, DON’T give me any if there is any (which I wouldn’t know about in the first place beyond an opinionated friend or two dropping hints in a bad mood).)

Did you know there are people who I’ve seen honestly believing “Undertale is pretty good but the creator is an arrogant asshole”?????

Because they saw his tweet about the game score passing Kojima’s MGSV on metacritic briefly and misinterpreted his wide-eyed disbelief, disbelief honed to nervous laughter to maintain sanity by Toby’s insecurity about his unprofessional work and work product??? They thought he was SERIOUS without any of the context of the usual insincere little dog persona they should’ve read into the game of his they played??

Awh man. That just ticks me off.

Anyway where were we.

Page 91: This is a flashback so I didn’t write this one, which means I thankfully don’t have to say anything about it.

Wait. What?

Are they trading off writers between chapters, or...? Hm.

Whatever they’re doing, it fits together pretty darn well SO far.

Alright, that finishes that off, time for the last commentary post on the second bonus update.

I don't know if you noticed, but everything is terrible right now. And I don't mean just in Homestuck's dumb fake earth. I mean in our dumb real earth.

Now that’s a mood.

I've been playing a lot of Death Stranding recently. Basically any media that you're making in 2019 has to either address what's going on around us or come off sanitized, sterilized, with its head in the sand. Kojima offers a simple power fantasy: Through Norman Reedus's sweaty, urine-filled labor, the things that divide us can be banished. America can be unified again.

Now THAT is a god damned MOOD.

The author(?) goes in about why this is happening, why Jane is being confronted this way, why she IS this way, et cetera.

Privilege, safety, and inherited wealth do funny things to the brain. People justify to themselves why they have what they have. If you have enough for long enough, you start to convince yourself you deserve it.

That’s one of the biggest goddamn reasons for the inequality and political landscape we have today IRL, yeah.

She saw a new world and chose, simply, to replicate the power structures of the 21st-century America she was raised in. Boardrooms, power pantsuits, formality and professionalism.

Jane's favorite comic, a noir-detective drama steeped in the pop-cultural trappings of pulp Americana, reflects this mindset.

So, our catgirl Seer of Light takes us through the looking glass, and we get to see an old friend.

Hm!

Nothing really to say, I just had to share this fitting context the author is giving. How things fit together even better than they seemed to, and this was all far from random.

I feel warmly ensconced in the womb of nostalgia, gently cradled on Norman Reedus's chest.

Pffffffff

Yep, more of what we already surmised and appreciated, how Swifer and Cliper were giving us some much needed perspective... the commentary post even has little traditional-Homestuck sprites for ‘em.

And... that’s it for the commentary so far! Again, I enjoyed all that more than I expected. $20 doesn’t sting for me as much as it does for others in general, but it stung a lot less after I was through reading all that honestly somewhat-entertaining stuff confirming a lot of the insights I’d thought the plot was having.

I’ll probably wait to check for further commentary posts until like... after bonus updates come out, in the future, and then just blog about whatever I’m not caught up on. Sound fair? I’m going to blog as often as a real or bonus upd8 comes out, but I’m not going to pop in more often than that for my own sanity’s sake. Have a good MLK weekend, y’all. :)

#Homestuck #hs2 #Homestuck Liveblog #bladekindeyewear #Homestuck Commentary #blastyoboots

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