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fruitcoops · 4 years ago

Note

Hey!! So if u want to, could u write a short fic or smth for number 25, because I am LIVING for a scenario where sirius just playfully bites remus and then he gets like super horny or the other way around.

The biting isn’t the central part of this fic, but all three parts of this series involve a solid amount of playful spicy bites. Here’s the third and final part of the night of Remus’ first goal! This has been a wild ride and honestly gave me great practice for smut writing, so thanks to everyone who supported the miniseries!

Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove

TW for restraint (holding, mentioned once), a teeny-tiny moment of injury angst, and sickening domesticity. Oh, and the smut of course.

Whoever figures out the song this series was inspired by first gets a shoutout in my next fic! Hint: look at the titles...

They wasted no time in getting up to the bedroom again. Sirius tripped over his own shirt in the rush and grabbed it off the stair as Remus laughed his ass off a few steps ahead, despite the fact that his own long sleeve was still abandoned by the front door.

Their sheets were a mess from the night’s previous activities, but Sirius was too busy falling even more deeply in love to really care as they laid down on their sides, tangling their legs together and smiling into each kiss. “Are you sure you’ve got one more in you?” he asked, half-teasing.

“Do you?” Remus hooked his ankle around Sirius’ calf and rolled on top of him, cradling his face in his hands as Sirius lovingly felt along every bump of his spine. He was still a little foggy from the mind-melting blowjob, to be honest—nonetheless, he felt a familiar pool of heat gathering low in his abdomen as Remus shifted.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Sirius murmured, slipping his fingers through soft caramel waves. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“You have me.”

“I want you,” Remus said again with more emphasis as he skimmed his hands under Sirius’ waistband. “My second goal only happened because of your perfect assist.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who got it in—hmmm.” He rolled his hips and Remus’ warm palms squeezed his ass gently. Lips moved down his neck, pausing to nip a hickey on the hinge of his jaw. A shiver ran through him, and he felt Remus grin. “I love it when you do that.”

“I can tell.” Sirius moved his hands further down, but Remus reached up and pinned them to the bed by his wrists. “Nope.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. You asked me what I want, and I want you.” Remus loosened his hold and leaned back to scan his face. “Is that okay?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Consent is sexy.” Remus snapped the edge of his waistband lightly, looking around. “Do you know where the lube is?”

“What?” Sirius sat up on his elbows. “Wasn’t it on the bed?”

“I thought so, but I don’t see it anywhere.” After a moment of deliberation, Remus slid off his lap and began to straighten the sheets out, muttering under his breath. “It was here, right? I’m not going crazy?”

“Non, it definitely was.” Sirius got to his feet and joined the search, but he didn’t see the blue-tinted bottle anywhere. “Okay, you took it out of the dresser and hit your hand, then I put it here—” He tapped the right side of the bed. “—and I don’t think it moved much until after the thigh incident when we used it again.”

“Have we become those old people already?” Remus asked as he got to his knees and reached under the bed. “I’m 25, I can’t lose track of the lube yet. That’s got to be some sort of warning sign.”

“The only warning sign is that we’re both going to go to bed horny if we don’t find it,” Sirius grumbled, picking a dust bunny off his hand and shuddering.

“…not necessarily.”

He paused. “Fair point. Oh! Found it!” They must have moved more than Sirius remembered, because the lube had ended up wedged between the nightstand and the bedframe. “If I find any spiders down here, I’m going to scream.”

“Oh, you’ll be screaming alright,” Remus said as he flopped down on the bed and winked down at him.

“See, I know you love me when you still make sex jokes while I’m elbow-deep in dust because both of us are too lazy to move these and vacuum.” He groped around for a second longer before his fingers closed around a familiar tube and he drew his arm out. Unfortunately, something brushed against the back of his hand mere inches from the light and he shouted in alarm, scrambling away from the nightstand like it burned him.

“Are you okay?” Remus asked, looking mildly alarmed.

Sirius scooted forward slowly, all his senses on high alert as he retrieved the lube. “Oh my fucking god, Remus.”

“What?”

“A sock? Really?” He reached back in and grabbed the stray sock, shaking it out as evidence. “I thought this was a spider!”

Remus was clearly biting back a smile as Sirius threw the sock in the laundry hamper that was literally three feet from the bed. “I love you?”

“I love you, too.”

“Now that you’ve successfully completed your rescue mission, can I make it up to you?” He sat up on his knees and drew Sirius back in with two arms around his waist, leaning up for a kiss.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Sirius said as he obliged, allowing himself to be pushed into the mattress as Remus returned to his earlier position. The slight break had definitely had a negative effect on his general horniness, but it came back quickly enough under the heated touch of his fiancé. By the time Remus got around to sliding his pants down his legs, he was a puddle of bliss.

“Are you ready?” Remus asked, kissing the dip of his hipbones. “For real this time.”

“Hell yes.” Sirius handed him the lube and settled back into the pillows with a sigh, closing his eyes as the cap clicked and one of Remus’ hands pushed his thighs apart.

He took his time, mapping Sirius’ torso with kisses and love bites while his long fingers pulled and pressed in all the right places. It wasn’t until Sirius was keening on every breath that he finally slicked himself, distracting him from the initial pressure with a bruising kiss that seemed more fitting with the energy they had come to the house with all those few hours ago. “You’re so loud.” Remus grinned against his cheek when a particularly excellent thrust made Sirius moan.

“Says you,” he managed, nipping at his earlobe. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“How should we celebrate that beautiful assist?” Remus asked. Sirius was rather glad he sounded like he wasn’t expecting an answer, because at that moment his shaft slid against his prostate and the world went staticky for a second. “This seems to be working well enough.”

“You’re too coherent,” Sirius panted, gripping his waist tightly. “Merde, sweetheart, there—this night was supposed to be about getting you off.”

Remus’ quiet laugh was a little too tense around the edges to be as casual as he clearly wanted to make it and a sense of satisfaction joined the bubbling arousal in Sirius’ abdomen. “Believe me, baby, this is doing it well enough.”

“I can do better than ‘well enough’,” Sirius muttered, hitching his leg up and flipping them over to slide onto his lap slowly, relishing in the steady drag. He let his head fall back slightly and adjusted his knees into a better position. “Huh. This is actually kind of difficult after a game.”

“Told you so.” Beneath his hands, Remus’ chest was heaving, and he looked back down to see his eyes were wide.

Take it slow, he reminded himself. “At first I thought you were just being a baby about it, but apparently not,” he teased, pushing himself up a few inches before dropping down.

Thankfully, Remus didn’t immediately kick him out of the bed for bringing up the thigh incident. Instead, he cocked one eyebrow and started pushing his hips up to meet Sirius’ movements. “When have I ever been a baby about anything?”

Sirius pretended to think for a moment, then dissolved into laughter when Remus smacked him on the thigh. “Never, mon coeur.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Remus pushed him down with slightly more force and Sirius’ knees jerked inward reflexively. “Oooo, okay then.”

He did it again and Sirius’ back bowed, forcing him to prop his elbows on Remus’ chest. The sparkles faded from his vision after an indeterminate amount of time and he tried in vain to catch his breath, twisting a handful of sheets in his hand. “Close.”

“Close to what?” Remus’ voice was low and a little raspy, sending tingles down his spine.

“Close.”

“Not yet, you’re not. Can you sit up?” Sirius’ forearms nearly gave out, but he succeeded. Remus stopped moving beneath him. “Can you—can you loosen your grip a bit?”

“Huh?” Sirius blinked away some of the muddled dizziness; the snarky, dominant angles of Remus’ face had faded, replaced by discomfort. He frowned and let go of his shoulders, which he had been gripping for leverage and emotional support and—“Oh. Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, just a little tight,” Remus assured him, running his hands along Sirius’ waist and ribs. The marks on his skin where Sirius’ fingertips had dug in were light, all things considered, but guilt trickled in when he saw the placement. “Hey. I’m fine, baby, really.”

“I’m so sorry, Re. I should’ve been paying more attention—”

“Stop. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

Remus squeezed his hips lightly. “Look at me, Sirius. I’m okay. It was not your fault. Honestly, I’m a little flattered that I could make you stop thinking.” He reached up and pressed his thumb between Sirius’ eyebrows to smooth out the worry crease.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Consent is sexy,” he reminded him. Remus smiled up at him, bright and brilliant and so beautiful, then closed his eyes as Sirius circled his hips. This closeness with Remus never failed to set him alight from the inside, no matter how they did it. He was exhausted from the game and from coming twice already, but he was afraid he’d simply burn up if he stopped moving now.

“Oh, fuck,” Remus choked out; one of his knees drew up against Sirius’ lower back, which tilted him at just the right angle to brush his sweet spot with every thrust. “Fuck, baby, yes.”

The last shred of awareness left in his mind registered a string of desperate sounds rushing from his lungs, half-syllables of Remus’ name between wobbling whimpers and pleas for more, more, more.

“Come on, come for me.” He knew that voice. That voice featured in all of his best dreams, starred in his favorite memories, and highlighted everything he needed. That voice brought him home when he was lost in the dark. “Sirius, come for me.”

A wave of pleasure ripple down his back and he came, gasping and writhing, distantly acknowledging Remus’ moan when he followed suit with a final push. His thighs were completely numb when he laid down on his back, turning to drink in the sight of Remus’ flushed profile in the low light. He could barely see the places his fingers had been before around the pink of his post-orgasm skin. “Can we skip the shower?” he asked after a moment of astonished silence.

Remus nodded, laughing lightly as he looked over. “Yes, we definitely can.”

“I hate going to bed all sticky, but I don’t think my legs are functioning anymore.”

Remus kissed the tip of his nose and rolled onto his side so their knees touched. “I would love to agree with whatever you just said, but your accent is so thick right now and my brain is gone, which is not the ideal combination.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius murmured, kissing him chastely on the lips and wrapping an arm around his shoulders to pull him close. “C’est bon.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Remus yawned, snuggling closer and tangling their calves together.

“Hey.”

“Hmmm?”

“You played your first NHL game. And you scored two goals.”

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“I played next to you in my first NHL game.”

A slow, sleepy smile spread across Sirius’ face. “Yeah, you did.”

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florenceandthemachine · 4 years ago

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talk to me about king christopher, intentionally or not, helping his two dads figure out they’re in love with each other 🤗 xoxo

cailee, you beautiful wonderful tropical fish, did you know you had a direct line to my soul with asks like this?

There was a very, very good reason that whenever anyone asked Edmundo Diaz about his son, the first word that he used to describe Chris was ‘smart’.

Chris was a caring boy, a kind boy, a kid who had known loss and grief in his life, more than any child should. He had survived earthquakes, tsunamis, surgeries, death, and that had shaped him into a kid that was incredibly sweet, empathetic, but most of all, smart.

Eddie knew it, of course; he was incredibly proud of his son, of the work he did in school, of the friends he made, of the person that he was growing into. Chris was bright, and he was bubbly, and he was whip quick in a way that Eddie sincerely wished he could be an adult, let alone as a kid—but that wit usually came as a double edged sword.

Because as proud as Eddie was of his son, Chris had a knack of thinking circles around everyone, himself included.

Eddie knew when he was being played for extra video game time, and knew damn well when Chris batted his eyes for a sick day from school, but Eddie figured that was about as far as things went. As far as Eddie was concerned, as long as his grades stayed up and he stayed happy with his friends, a little special treatment wouldn’t hurt.

So it only made sense that when Chris decided to wield his powers for good where his father was concerned, Eddie had no idea what was coming.

“Dad, can we go over to Buck’s house to play some video games tonight?”

Eddie smiled, watching Chris tilt his cell phone to get through whatever game he was playing in the rear view mirror as they made the trek home from Abuela’s. He had to admit, while the best possible thing that had come out of him joining the 118 was the easy friendship that he found with Buck, the easy friendship that Chris and Buck seemed to have made was a close second.

“I dunno buddy, Buck might already have dinner plans. Besides, you know it’s rude for us to invite ourselves over.” Eddie said, catching Chris’ eye in at a stoplight. He was thankful for their friendship, of course, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t feel a little guilty about monopolizing all of Buck’s time when they were both off the clock.

The look Chris gave him was thoroughly unimpressed as he held up Eddie’s phone, speaking like it was actually paining him to have to explain himself. “Dad, Buck was the one who asked. He says we should bring over pizza!”

...okay, Eddie might have felt bad about being attached to Buck at the hip, but that didn’t mean he was about to deny himself the pleasure when Buck was the one to initiate some time together. And Eddie definitely wasn’t going to say no when he knew that Chris was looking forward to spending time with Buck just as much as Eddie was.

Even if Eddie knew he enjoyed Buck’s company for entirely different reasons.

“Hey, thanks for having us over.” Eddie said softly, once pizza had been devoured, and Buck had his ass thoroughly kicked (With Chris, Buck definitely threw his matches—but with Eddie, well, there was no denying the cry of defeat whenever Eddie skimmed past him into first). “Chris loves spending time with you, you make his night whenever he gets to see you.”

Buck grinned back at him, that easy smile that made Eddie’s heart do things he didn’t care to identify as he shrugged his shoulders. “You know I love spending some time with my Diaz boys. This was definitely one of your better ideas.” he said easily, clearing the table, sliding the pizza box into the fridge.

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, pausing before any words could come out, a curious look crossing his face. He reached around Buck and grabbed two beers, handing one to Buck after he cracked them open. “You mean, thanks for the pizza. This was your idea, after all.”

It was Buck’s turn to look confused, swallowing a mouthful of beer as he pulled his phone out. “No, Eddie, pretty sure you sending me a message that said ‘game night, we’ll bring pizza’ was pretty clear.”

Eddie blinked as he looked at Buck’s phone—sure enough, the message was there plain as day, and he shot a curious look over to Chris, who was conked out on the couch. Buck followed his gaze, chuckling when he put two and two together, shaking his head. “Hey, go easy on him... after all, it’s not like I had any other plans.”

“Buck...”

“No, I’m serious.” Buck said, his face holding that soft, sweet grin. “After all, it’s... well, I like spending time with you. With, um, both of you I mean.” he murmured over the mouth of his beer bottle, pink raising in his cheeks as Eddie took a swig of his own. He didn’t trust himself to respond and instead linked his ankle with Buck’s beneath the table, trusting the gesture would say enough—and judging by the grin Buck shot him, the message was received loud and clear.

Unseen to either of them, Chris had a small smile on his face, peeking through his lashes as he watched the two from his space on the couch.

In retrospect, Buck probably should have asked what all was entailed in Career Day when Chris asked he and Eddie to show up to his school at 9am.

All he had expected was that he and Eddie would get to show the kids some of their tools, some of their gear, and then answer some questions. What he got was a room full of single moms (and dads) that were looking at Eddie like he was good enough to eat.

Which, let’s be real, Eddie was. Especially when he was partially suited up, PPE from the waist down, a 118 tee shirt, and the thick red suspenders to hold everything together. Saying he looked delicious was selling it short, but that didn’t mean Buck liked a room full of strangers being so blatant about it.

It was all he could do to stand back and not cause a scene as yet another mom walked up to Eddie and put her hand on his bicep, laughing at a joke far too loudly, for far too long. The only saving grace was the look that Eddie shot him while she had her head tossed back, rolling his eyes so hard that Buck thought he was going to hurt himself.

As Chris took his turn and made it up to the front of the class, Buck couldn’t deny feeling a little bit self conscious as he stood beside Eddie.

A room full of parents, with their kids, and then Buck.

He wasn’t jealous, okay?

And even if he was—

“This is my Dad, and this is my Buck! They’re firefighters!”

—Chris knocked that feeling out of him, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head as Chris started his presentation. A quick look at Eddie confirmed that he wasn’t the only one who caught the title, and he dipped his head with a little smile, not bothering to hide how pleased he was.

Pleased because he got to be Chris’ Buck. Not pleased because of the disappointed looks that he could see flicker across half of the single parents faces. Nope, that had nothing to do with it, and if it did, it was no secret that Chris was the real source of his joy.

“...they use their trucks and ladders to help keep us safe...”

Chris being an awesome kid was no surprise—Eddie was a great dad, okay?—but Buck still felt lucky that he got to see such a bright kid in his element like this, and even luckier that he got to help out whenever he could. He let his mind wander as Chris continued to speak, treading into dangerous territory. Chris had called him his Buck, so easily, like it was obvious, and for a moment Buck let himself wonder what it would sound like for Eddie to say the same.

“...and they’re super strong, too!”

Chris turned around, looking directly at Eddie, and Buck had to swallow a snort of a laugh as every eye in the room followed him. Eddie, to his credit, tried to save face, nodding his head. “Uh, we... workout every day?” he said, and Chris giggled as he looked over to Buck.

“Dad, you have to show them! Lift Buck up!”

Now it was Buck’s turn to feel every eye swivel over to him, and he was sure his face was bright red in record time. Was this part of the presentation? Did Chris mention this? Buck couldn’t be sure, but honestly, it didn’t exactly sound like something he would have agreed to. He caught Eddie’s eye and shrugged helplessly—after all, Eddie would be the one doing the heavy lifting, it was kind of out of his hands.

After a shared, barely-there nod, Eddie clapped his hands together, turning back to the class. “So, uh, this is called a fireman’s lift. It’s what we do when we have to carry someone out of a burning building, if they can’t walk out on their own. What we do is—“

“Have you ever had to do it before?” A blonde boy asked from the second row, his hand straight up in the air, eyes wide. His father, a corporate manager, didn’t look entirely pleased.

Eddie was all smiles, though, as he nodded and looked over to Buck. “We both have. Our job is to keep people safe, and this is the easiest way to do it.”

The clear hero worship may have helped Eddie become a little more comfortable, but for Buck, the situation didn’t matter—acting as a dead weight was always going to be a little weird. He sighed and opened his arms as Eddie stepped forward, and he was in the air before he could blink. He twisted his body as Eddie lifted so he could still face the class, focusing on Chris’ smile as his world went sideways.

If Buck thought it was awkward before, the dead silence that met him when Eddie spun around with Buck on his shoulders was completely deafening. It was all Buck could do to focus on keeping himself right side up, and not focus on the firm line of Eddie’s shoulders against his side, his strong hands on Buck’s thigh and wrapped around his arm—and thankfully Buck didn’t have long to follow that train of thought before there were twenty kids cheering for them, clapping wildly.

Okay, note to self; if you want to impress a room full of nine year olds, you just had to lift something heavy up.

Buck found himself smiling again, cheeks feeling permanently pink as Eddie brought him back down to the ground, turning to answer a few questions as they were swarmed with tiny bodies. He loved kids, he always had, and he was definitely in his element—but he couldn’t get the thought of Eddie’s hand on his thigh out of his mind.

He wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse when the weight of Eddie’s arm looped around his waist, effectively anchoring him and sending him into another galaxy as Chris’ teacher took a picture of the three of them together.

As Buck leaned into Eddie’s touch, he couldn’t help but look down to Chris, who very much looked like the cat that got the canary—and Buck was content to assume that it was because he obviously had the coolest Career Day presentation.

After all, getting your Dad to deadlift your Buck certainly blew any investment bankers or realty agents out of the water.

“You know, if you actually want to watch a movie, you have to press play on the remote.”

“Shove it, Eds.”

His words were snippy, but Buck was all smiles as Eddie joined him in the loft, plate in hand, passing Buck a burger and a huge plate of chips as he crashed on the couch beside him. Buck had been listening to the menu theme of some action DVD that Chim had picked out for the better part of a half hour as he scrolled through his phone, his attention quickly pulled to the food. “What’s wrong, Bobby kick you off the grill again? Made you realize there was more to life than being a meathead?” Buck said with a teasing smile, and Eddie found himself laughing in spite of himself.

“Well, actually, Carla sent me a few pictures of Chris on his class trip to the zoo today, and I was going to show you, but...”

“Hey, no, what? I think it’s awesome that you’re a middle aged grill dad, you look great with that spatula, now show me the pictures!” Buck said, immediately back tracking, his pride an easy thing to swallow whenever Chris being adorable was involved.

Eddie snorted as he handed over his phone, letting Buck swipe through the photos, and if he happened to be looking at Buck more than he was looking at the photos, well that was his own business. Buck, mercifully, was plenty distracted—the sight of Chris and a peacock would do that to anyone, Eddie had already set it as his wallpaper.

“Eddie, your kid is so fucking cute.” Buck said as he looked back up at Eddie, smiling as he tapped at Eddie’s screen, undoubtedly forwarding a few of the images to his own phone. Buck’s phone was only second to Eddie’s when it came to cute pictures of Chris, and if Eddie had more than three brain cells bouncing around in his skull, he probably would have looked a little more deeply into that.

Eddie pulled his phone back as another message came through, eyes flickering over the text message as Buck took a huge bite of the burger Eddie brought him.

“Hey Buck?”

“Mmmphhgghh?”

“Say cheese.”

“Ehh, muhnuie!”

The picture was pretty disgusting, honestly—Buck had a mouth fit to bursting of burger, sauce and ketchup smeared over his cheek, eyes wide as he turned to the camera. “What? Chris wanted to see what we were doing today.” Eddie said innocently, saving the picture to his camera roll before sending it to Carla’s phone.

“Dad I need selfies of you and Buck!”

The message from Carla came through easy enough, though it was clear that Chris had taken over, and Eddie was still laughing at Buck when he read the message aloud. Buck’s scandalized look didn’t go away as he finally swallowed, and Eddie knew he was in trouble the moment Buck reached for his phone, ready for retaliation.

He couldn’t complain when he suddenly had an arm full of Buck, laughing easily as Buck fired up his selfie camera, but his laughter quickly turned into a sound of absolute horror as he felt ketchup against his cheek when Buck smushed their faces together, camera shutter firing rapidly.

“You are disgusting!” Eddie finally got out between laughs, shoving Buck aside, who looked all too pleased with himself as he furiously tapped at Eddie’s phone, undoubtedly sending the pictures to Carla (and probably Maddie, and Abuela, and maybe his own phone too).

He had to admit, when he finally got his phone back and looked over the pictures, he was a little uncomfortable—not because of the content, but because he had never known he was so fucking obvious when he was looking at Buck. He hadn’t understood the term heart eyes until now, and it kicked his anxiety up just a little bit—he needed to work on his subtlety.

Then again, the next time he caught a glimpse of Buck’s phone, he was stunned to see that the picture of the two of them had made Buck’s wallpaper...

...maybe Chris was on to something with the whole selfies idea.

“Hey Buck?”

“What’s up, bud?”

They had just finished what Buck would not hesitate to call one of the best nights of his life—Eddie and Chris had shown up with a truck packed full of food, blankets, chairs, and a huge, colorful umbrella. Buck had worried that Chris would be less than thrilled to be near the ocean after the tsunami, but his fears were completely misplaced—Chris took to the beach like a crab, and Buck’s heart felt lighter than it ever had every time he heard Chris’ laughter, getting to the point where he actually deleted a few apps from his phone to take some more photos.

The icing on the cake, though, was Chris insisting that Buck could read him his bedtime story that night. Eddie looked completely betrayed, even as he insisted it was fine.

It was fucking hilarious.

“You love me, right?”

Buck felt his brows raise into his hairline, closing the book as he nudged Chris’ shoulders. “Course I love you, buddy. You’re my favorite little man.” He said softly, the initial spike of concern easing in his heart when he watched Chris break out into a grin. He should have known it was a trap, but Chris was so cute, so unassuming, so—

“And you love Daddy too, right?”

—so damn sneaky.

Buck swallowed once he regained his bearings, nodding his head, glad for the dim light of Chris’ room to hide his blush. “Course I do kiddo. You and your dad are both very important to me.” Which, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, if the scrunch of Chris’ face was anything to go by.

“But you love him too, right? You love me and Daddy?”

Putting the long forgotten book down on the night table beside Chris’ bed, Buck pulled his arm around the kid easily, pressing a kiss to his mess of curly hair. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the only thing that would come out was the truth. “Yeah, I love you and I love your dad too.” he murmured. It was the first time he had ever said that aloud before—and even as he felt his heart race, he felt lighter, to be able to get that off his chest, a secret that had been heavy on his heart for a long time.

“You should tell him that.”

Buck almost swallowed his tongue. Like he could sense his discomfort, Chris looked up, blinking owlishly without his glasses, a small smile on his lips. “It makes me happy when you tell me you love me. I bet it would make Daddy happy too.” he said with a little shrug, and Buck actually surprised himself with a little laugh.

“How did you get so smart, kid?”

Another kiss goodnight and Buck had the door shut behind him, walking on the balls of his feet as he returned to the kitchen, where Eddie was still scrubbing at a dish—and if that wasn’t enough of a red flag, the red tint to his cheeks and the way he shyly looked up at Buck told him all he needed to know. Shy was just not a typical look for Eddie.

“Edmundo Diaz, were you eavesdropping on your sons bedtime story?” Buck asked, his voice light and teasing, even as his face heated up. If Eddie had been listening in, there was no way to tell just how much he had heard, but while the thought usually pushed Buck into a spiral of despair, all he felt now was a strange sense of warmth.

Eddie looked up at him cautiously, chewing his lip. “What? It’s not my fault, I had to make sure the story you picked was up to his standards, and that you... did all the voices, and—“

“I meant it.”

Wow, fuck, Buck just blurted that out. He felt his jaw clamp shut as Eddie’s gaze snapped to him, Eddie’s eyes as wide as his own.

“Buck...”

“I’m serious, Eddie. I meant it, I... I mean it.” Buck’s feet are moving of his own accord, closing the distance between them until Buck could reach out and touch Eddie if he wanted. Well, if he could get his arms to respond. “You and Chris, you’re the most important people in the world to me, and... and I do, I love you. And I think, I think you love me too.”

Eddie couldn’t think, couldn’t respond, couldn’t do anything other than move forward and pull Buck into his space completely. Their first kiss was a little rough—bumped noses, off center, but even then Eddie could feel fireworks—and when they reconnected, when Buck’s lips met his properly, it was all Eddie could do to remain upright.

He kept his hands around Buck when they pulled back to breathe, their foreheads resting against one another, and Eddie’s cheeks were literally hurting he was smiling so hard. Buck’s little laugh was all Eddie could hear, all he ever wanted to hear for the rest of his life—so he couldn’t be blamed for failing to hear a pair of little feet leaving the kitchen, back through the hallway, or the nearly silent closing of Chris’ bedroom door.

Chris didn’t need to stick around to see the end result—adults were so gross—but he was pleased enough to see that his hard work and careful planning had paid off, knowing that his dad and his Buck would be happier than ever now that they were finally smooching (even if it had taken forever!).

His dads were a little slow on the uptake sometimes, sure, but that was okay.

After all, Chris would be there to give them a little push whenever they needed.

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #chris diaz #chris diaz is a little genius #chris diaz: professional matchmaker #buddie #buddie fic #911 #flospeaks #floanswers #mutually assured devotion #buckleydiazs

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ilguna · 4 years ago

Text

Anteric - Chapter Four (f.o)

summary: secrets have more worth than you gave them credit for.

warnings; swearing. GORE, HEAVY BLOOD, FIGHTING, PAIN.

wc; 10.3k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

There’s only a few people that can get ready without complaining. And proudly, you can say that you’re one of them. With Finnick, Thyme and Allio being the other three that had practically gone untouched from yesterday’s fights. Well, actually, Finnick did go untouched, but that’s for obvious reasons.

You watch the other initiates move around the dormitory, all varying in the ways they hold themselves because of their injuries. Amos’ face is swollen, thanks to Thyme’s fists--which was split at her knuckles because of how spread out her skin had been. She didn’t find this out until after the fight, when Amos’ blood had been wiped off and she could see why her hands were stinging so badly.

Amos also has an arm wrapped around his ribs, where Thyme had kicked him. He’s been rotating ice packs since last night, so he’s got one pressed to his cheekbone right now. It looks like he might end up with a black eye by the end of the week. Too bad it won’t get any time to heal. All your injuries will just keep piling on until the physical stage of the initiation is over.

Finnick’s victim, Eytelle, does everything she can to avoid touching her jaw. Unlike Amos, it seems like she has some sort of pride about not using ice to make it feel better. Her face will occasionally twist when she opens her mouth to speak, so you’re happy to say that her smartass Candor mouth won’t be running today.

And finally, Trink is the worst out of everyone in the room. Even compared to Amos, who didn’t go down easily when he went up against Thyme, is better than her. Trink has been complaining about a headache in her temple since yesterday, and each time she brings it up, she’ll glare at you. You ignored it the first couple of times, but you went ahead and reminded her that she had a chance to give up, and she didn’t.

The only person missing from the dormitory today is Ossie, she didn’t come into the room last night before the lights were turned out. So, you’re going to take a good guess that she’s in the medical unit that they have here in Dauntless. If that’s the case, you’re nota ll that surprised, there’s no way that she should be authorized to come back into the ring if she’s seriously hurt.

However, if she doesn’t recover soon, she’ll end up being cut. Caspian won’t exempt her from the rankings, because it’s not fair if he does. To someone else, it’d be unfair because she can’t control how fast her healing process is. If she jumps right back into it, she risks injuring herself even more, which could then make a permanent problem. But, it’s perfectly fair. She couldn’t defend herself inside of the arena, therefore she needs to step up her game.

Or she’s not cut out to be in Dauntless.

It’s a ruthless faction for a reason.

The aptitude test can tell you what faction you’re made for, but when you’re face to face with other initiates that fit the requirements better, suddenly you don’t measure up. You’d like to say that at some point, Dauntless wasn’t always like this, and they didn’t cut most of the initiates like they do now. But something changed, which then prompted for Dauntless to become a harder faction to get into.

And it makes perfect sense, at least to you. Dauntless is supposed to be the police, security, the ones who watch the wall and what may be on the outside. Dauntless is the army that would be called on if it were needed. There’s a saying that every army is as strong as their weakest link. And in Dauntless, no one is supposed to be weak. They want to eliminate that problem, so initiation continues to get harder to only allow in the persistent initiates. The ones that can handle Dauntless.

Anyway, if Ossie isn’t careful, she’ll be the first of the four to be cut in the first stage. You’re not sure how long the first stage lasts, or how many fights you have to cycle through before you’re finally over, but she’ll need a comeback. Just like everyone else who lost their first match. Otherwise, they’re just going to find themselves factions. Which, in a way, would probably be a better option than running themselves into the ground. At least then they’d have a chance at living.

For them, being factionless may always be an option. But you think that you’d rather die trying to get into Dauntless than live with the shame of being factionless because you couldn’t make it. And since Abnegation has a reputation for welcoming former members back in, you think it would be even worse. Crawling to Reed’s doorstep and begging for forgiveness.

Knowing Reed, he’d probably turn you down.

Thyme jumps into her black jeans, shifting from foot to foot to make sure that they’re up all the way. You can vaguely see Finnick in the bathroom, leaned over a sink while he brushes his teeth. You’d be getting ready with them, but you had an early start this morning. Mostly because after you woke up the first time to roll over, yesterday’s question about your family made itself known.

And then, as the hours drew on and your mind wandered, you sank deeper into your mattress when you realized that your words can have consequences. You are not untouchable here in Dauntless, and Caspian is in a position of power. He can retaliate if he wants, sabotage your stages to make it harder for you to pass. And he’s going to feel more inclined to, now that you’ve accused him of still being attached to Abnegation. Especially since you did it right in front of Laurel.

You may be his ex-best friend’s little sister, but he never had an attachment to you. To him, you’re expendable, he’s got other initiates that he can really pour his focus into. And being one of those people is Finnick, who showed great significance yesterday. He has fighting experience, which means that he should be in some sort of advanced class. He’s already better than the rest of you.

For now, at least. We’ll see how well he keeps up during the emotional and mental stages of initiation.

Thyme sits down on her bottom bunk, beginning to tie her shoes. Finnick comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed and running a hand through his hair. On the way out of the dormitory is Amos, his shoulders are hunched in and he’s still holding the ice pack to his cheek. The more he collapses in on himself, the smaller he seems. And since he’s not very tall to begin with, the last thing he needs is to appear less threatening.

“Ready to go to the training room?” you swing your feet, watching as Finnick continues to fix his hair, standing off to the side.

“Wish we had enough time for breakfast.” Thyme mutters, she yanks her laces tight, “I also wish we didn’t have to fight first thing in the morning.”

“It’s a good way to wake up.” Finnick says.

“You just want to fight.”

You try to kick near his head, he dodges, grabbing a hold of your ankle, “I was actually hoping I’d get to fight you.”

You stare at him, “Why?”

He lets go of your foot, giving you a shrug, “I’m just curious how you’ll hold up against me.”

You mock a smile, “Well, let’s just hope I end up with you, then.”

If you were put in the ring with Finnick, you wouldn’t come out as the winner. Not only does he have more experience, he has a height advantage, he’s unpredictable. You’ve spent several years of your life watching him fight other teenagers, and there’s only been a couple of times where you’ve been able to predict his next move. The most you’ve figured out is that he likes his fights over with as soon as they begin. Which is as dangerous as dangerous can get.

Thyme stands up, so you slip off the top bunk, landing on your feet. Thyme leads the way out of the dorm, you and Finnick elbow each other back and forth on the way out. When you pass in front of Trink, Allio and Eytelle, they momentarily fall silent. As soon as you’re through the door, they resume speaking.

You might end up fighting one of them today, with the exception of Trink. If you’re lucky, it won’t be Eytelle, she’s got the same height advantage that Finnick does. If you’re extremely unlucky, you’ll end up with Allio, who hardly looked fazed at Ossie’s kick yesterday. And it looked like she put all her strength into it. So either she’s weak, like you originally thought she was, or Allio is a sponge.

Then again, you could always land yourself with Amos, Thyme or Finnick. Amos is shorter than you, much like Thyme. You think that you could easily take him on. As for Thyme, she might be more of a challenge, she did seem to give the fight her all when she needed it at the end. However, just like Eytelle and Finnick, you’ve got an advantage when it comes to height.

Honestly, you really hope that you aren’t paired with Thyme or Finnick at all. It’s an unrealistic hope, because there’s not enough people to be rotated around, so you’re going to be stuck with one of them eventually. But if it really came down to it, you’d rather take on Thyme than Finnick anyday.

“Tell us your predictions.” Finnick says. It sounds like a demand, but it’s actually a question.

You’re quiet for a moment as you all go through a stretch of darkness. The first match was predictable, Caspian would want to set you guys up against people that look like you guys to see where you measure. That’s why Finnick was placed with Eytelle, based on height. Thyme with Amos based on scrawniness. And Ossie and Allio because they had to be together in order for you and Trink to be in the ring together. However, you and Trink could have very well been placed together because of body weight and the way you carry yourselves, and Allio and Ossie were leftovers.

Needless to say, you were more or less right on the prediction. All you have to do this time is go off your gut feeling again, because that’s what happened last time.

You decide to hold your answer until you get to the next light source. Then, you three stop and stand around it, “Okay, Ossie wasn’t in the room last night, so I think that she’ll be sitting out. Since it’ll be uneven, I’m pretty sure one of us won’t be fighting.” You pause, you don’t think that it’ll be you or Finnick. It could be Thyme, but she was a winner, so they’d want to push her to see what she can do. A loser would sit out instead. Maybe Amos?

“I’m thinking that they’ll pair us with opposites today. And I don’t mean strength-wise.”

Finnick nods slowly, probably trying to decide who would be his opposite. Thyme massages her knuckles, eyebrows raising slightly. You can hear the faint echo of Trink, Allio and Eytelle in the background, and they do too. So, you all start walking again.

It’s quiet for the rest of the way. Finnick pushes open the set of the doors, holding it open for you and Thyme. Laurel and Caspian stand next to the chalkboard, standing in the way of the names. Amos stands by himself, hands shoved into his pockets. Ossie is by herself, a bandage around her head, arms crossed as she stares at the ground.

The three of you stand on the other side of the ring, opposite to where the chalkboard is, where you’d been yesterday. It gives you a clear view of Caspian, who raises his eyebrows faintly. Other than that, there’s no expression on his face. No hint that he might be angry after what you said to him yesterday.

You’ve never been afraid of Caspian, but when he burns in silence, is the time where fear begins to sprout in your stomach. The times where he doesn't have to look smug, are times where he’s set up something particularly hellish. You said that he’d pair you with your opposites, but you’ve failed to remember, again, that Caspian might be angry.

Allio and Ossie were leftovers last time, an exception to the idea you presented last time. Which means that he could very well have made a second one. It would make sense, not everyone can have an opposite. And the only person who can serve a real punishment to you, would be Finnick.

Your eyes peel away from Caspian to look at Finnick, who’s playing with his nose ring again, staring into space. He wouldn’t make you go against Finnick, it’s too predictable. You look back at Caspian to see that he’s got a small smirk on his face, the same one he wore after you won the fight against Trink yesterday. And you change your mind again, because when has Caspian ever cared about his motives being out in the open?

Trink, Allio and Eytelle make it into the room just as the clock hits eight. They decide to stay near the door today, so you go ahead and move left more. It’s just an open space between you and Amos, and since hatred hasn’t been expressed between you two, you don’t think it’ll hurt to be closer to him. Especially if it means to get away from the other three.

“Good morning.” Caspian says, “I see some of you are doing better than others.”

No one says anything back, he cracks a smile. He then waves a hand toward Laurel, signaling her to move out of the way. She side-steps, and reveals the pairing. There’s only three rows, which means you were right about someone sitting out.

“It’s uneven today, only six of you will be fighting. If your name’s not on the board, congrats, you get a break today.” Caspian says.

You read over the names.

Finnick and Thyme.

You and Allio.

Amos and Eytelle.

Ossie and Trink are sitting out today.

There’s a couple of things that come to mind immediately. The first is that the winners are paired together, and the losers are too. The second is that you’re not with Finnick, it’s Thyme who gets the misfortune of having to face him. You know that he’ll get it over with quickly, but Thyme is going to want to win the fight. She’s not going to take the loss.

A cruel thought spirals, nearly passing through your lips. Thyme will be the perfect opponent to ensure he keeps his streak. You don’t see her winning against him, which means he’ll bag two wins. And depending on whether or not you beat Allio today, you might too. In the end, you might have to end up facing Finnick.

You look over at your friends to see that they’re less than thrilled. Thyme is still staring at the chalkboard, as if it’s some mistake. And Finnick doesn’t look as excited as he did yesterday. He crosses his arms, but still reaches up to play with the nose ring with his thumb. It’s even worse because they’ll be going first today, they say nothing to each other.

And because you can’t help it, you go ahead and look at Allio, who’s already got a small grin on his face as he talks to his friends. You and him will be the second fight today. You wait for some type of fear to appear in your body, but there’s nothing. You were wrong on your theory. Allio isn’t as bad as Finnick. You have a chance at winning.

While you’re staring at Allio, you catch a glimpse of Trink, who looks relieved. So, you lean toward Finnick and Thyme, not trying to be quiet but trying to diffuse the growing tension between them. “They’re only letting her sit out because I beat her to shit.”

Eyes land on you, you pull back and stand straight again. Finnick lets out a laugh, Thyme has a smile on her face, “It’s like putting her into time out.”

You know that you will not face Trink again, there’s no reason to be afraid of her. The only people you’re worried about, are the two Candor idiots standing next to her. One of which you will face today.

“Finnick and Thyme!” Caspian calls, motioning to the ring, “Get to it.”

“Try not to kill each other.” You tell them, neither of them say anything.

Inside of the ring, they pick their spots opposite of each other. Finnick is the first to raise his hands, in perfect position. Thyme rolls her wrists once or twice before she raises hers. With them standing across from each other like this, she seems to have a chance. But when they’re standing next to each other, you have no hope for Thyme.

They shuffle in a circle, Thyme trying to find an opening. She won’t, not unless Finnick takes the first punch. And he might, if they continue to go around like this. A look to Caspian tells you that he’s getting impatient. They make a loop again, he clears his throat. Neither of them lunge at each other.

This won’t last for much longer. This is going against Finnick’s rule of making a fight quick. But he’s probably stalling so that he doesn’t have to hit her first. For a second, you think that he might let her win, since she’s a friend. Then you remember what he said to you fifteen minutes ago, his hope that you’ll be his opponent. Which transforms into the streak thought. He will not pass up this opportunity.

Finnick gets impatient, starting to move in on her. Thyme tries to keep backing up, trying to get away from him. In your hand, you chant for her to stop moving and let him make his move. Finnick wants it quick, he’ll aim for weak spots on her head. All she has to do is dodge the punch, and give it her all as fast as possible before moving out again.

She has to be like a wave of water.

Thyme hits the edge of the ring, Caspian briefly moves forward to shove her back in, “Fight!”

Thyme stumbles over her feet, drawing her too close to Finnick. He doesn’t wait for her to recover, swinging. You think Thyme sees, because she drops to her knees, avoiding the hit. She stops long enough to draw her arm back, fist aimed toward his shins. But then she hesitates, changing her move.

You watch her full-force uppercut Finnick’s crotch.

There’s a gasp from Finnick, face twisting as his hands grab the area. You press your lips together, covering your mouth. You shouldn’t laugh. Thyme gets back onto her feet, raising her fists again, the soft expression she had, has faded now. She brings her foot up, slamming it into his back.

Finnick’s hissing through his teeth, stumbling forward and trying to straighten himself out. He’s clearly in pain, and you can’t blame him. Thyme looked like a hard hitter yesterday, and Amos is the display case.

Finnick turns towards Thyme, cracking his neck, “See, I was going to go easy on you.” his face takes on the same scary look that he gave Eytelle, “But if you want to play dirty…”

Thyme beckons him closer without saying a word. Finnick heads closer. She’s aware of where the ring ends now, you can see her glance down every now and then to make sure she hasn’t backed out of it. But each time she looks away from Finnick, he jerks closer, until he’s right in front of her, and she doesn’t even realize it.

Her hands are protecting her face, so he aims for her stomach. This sends her stumbling back, standing on the white line. He tries to punch her again, she slips under his arm unharmed, and appears behind him. She goes to take advantage of this, but she’s too slow. Finnick spins around, and slams his foot into her ribs.

Just like that, Thyme hits the floor, eyes wide, hands on the spot he just kicked. She sucks in a breath, looking up at Finnick, who towers over her. She stares for a moment, and then her eyes flicker to his feet, and she tries to get moving. She’s just barely on her feet, going to slip under Finnick’s arm again, when he grabs a hold of the back of her shirt, yanking her towards him.

He’s quick to grab the neck of her shirt when he can, twisting his fist and lifting slightly to keep her from sliding out of her shirt. He draws his right hand back, tilts his head to the side, and goes to punch her face. She moves out of the way by a hair, eyes continuing to widen, following his fist. He goes to try again, and manages to graze her cheek.

Thyme winces, trying to squirm out of his grasp. And for one final time, he brings his hand back, and punches her jaw.

She hangs in the air, Finnick slowly lowers her back to her feet, and then wraps an arm around her body. He looks up at Caspian, who gives Finnick a nod before circling his name.

Finnick won, just like you thought he would.

Finnick half-carries, half-drags Thyme’s body out of the ring. He slowly lowers her to the floor, where she lays there for a minute or two, not waking up. But then her eyes pop open, and she blinks a couple of times, squinting.

She’s alive, which means it’s your turn to fight your life.

“(Y/n) and Allio!” Caspian calls.

Finnick gives you a pat on the back, “Good luck.”

You wish you could say you don’t need it.

You and Allio come from your respective groups. With you on the far left, and him on the right. From where you stand, Caspian is still in sight, and he has a smile on his face. There’s something that you’re not aware of.

You stretch your arms and legs, cracking your knuckles, tilting your head from side to side. Allio watches you with raised fists. You bounce from foot to foot, raising your own hands. You inhale and exhale, looking over his form.

The only movement he allows is moving in the circle, like you guys were taught to do. His face is straight, his hands are where they need to be. You sweep over his body over and over to find that there’s no openings. Which means that you need to create one without getting hit.

You made the first move yesterday, it was in your best interest to. This time, you need to let Allio come to you. You keep shuffling, but don’t move, not even when he begins to come closer. In fact, you start circling the other way, making him change his rhythm and show you what he might have been planning.

He takes much bigger steps towards you with his right leg, now. But will hesitate and back up when you pause for a moment, going toward him. Either he wants to kick you, or he wants an easy escape if you move toward him. You let him continue to come closer, prepared for a kick.

And then he launches forward.

All it took was a single blink.

There’s an explosion of pain across your nose, a sickening snap that fills the air. You inhale sharp enough to trigger a cough attack. Your hand flies to your nose, now throbbing and sending needle-like pain through the nerves. In just a couple of seconds, your palms are coated in blood, beginning to pool.

You look back up at Allio in time to see him jumping at you again. You move out of the way, flinging your handful of blood at the floor, right where his foot lands. There’s a moment of steadiness, before he slips and hits the floor hard enough for you to feel it beneath your shoes.

You grit your teeth, drawing your foot back, lip curling, aiming for his head. You expect him to block his face with his forearms, like you were taught to. But he grabs a hold of your ankle with a tight grip and rolls over, pulling you down.

Your entire body hits the wooden floor, hands slapping hard enough for them to make a sound. Allio lets go of your foot, and goes to start crawling on top of you. If he wants to play the foot game, though, then he’s going to get it. You wind your foot back, sending your heel into his chest, knocking him back. You scoot back after that, getting to your feet.

He broke your nose, and it’s gushing blood. Your nose is crooked. You bring the bottom of your shirt up to your lower face, wiping away the fresh wave of red. Each time you breathe out, there’s a couple of droplets that fly through the air. Allio gets back to his feet, you raise your fists, gritting your teeth harder.

You didn’t expect him to be an easy fight, but you were hoping he wouldn’t be this hard.

Allio comes at you again, swinging at your face. This time, you see, so you duck. His arm flies over your head, making a clear path for his chin. Without thinking it through, you shoot up, knuckles slamming into skin and bone. Immediately, there’s a sharp pain that goes through your hand, but you’ve temporarily immobilized Allio.

His mouth is hanging open, backing away from you as he grabs the area you just punched. In the meantime, you steal a glance at your knuckles to see that they’re turning a deep shade of purple already. You try to stretch your hand, and end up crying out in pain.

You look back up at Allio to see that he’s recovered. You don’t know if you can punch him again. Not with your potentially broken knuckles. Your non-dominant hand isn’t all that strong, either. You could always try, but you’ll end up failing.

You suck in a breath through your nose, raising your fists again.

Allio comes in again, since you refuse to move. You need to get the upper hand. So far, you’re the one taking all the injuries, so he needs to receive some too. You sniff, feeling all snot and blood, and then you breathe through your mouth. It’s hard not to pay attention to your nose.

When he’s close enough, you fake right, but go left, swinging your non-dominant hand. It doesn’t feel right, and you don’t hit as hard as you mean to. The punch to Allio’s jaw just moves him backward. You didn’t get as close to his chin as you wanted to.

Allio seems to realize your dilemma, and a sadistic smile grows on his face. There’s a sudden boost in confidence in his movements, and he doesn’t hesitate to come closer anymore. He must’ve been wary of your punches, but now that you can’t hit him, he’s practically untouchable. The only way you can kick him is if you get him down. But even then, he managed to catch you last time.

You have three choices. Two of them back you into a shameful corner, the third means you go down swinging, or you win the match. No matter what happens, you will not take whatever punishment Caspian has lined up for you, in the case you decide to call mercy. And you will not just stand here and take what Allio has to deliver.

Allio swings, you back out of the way. You have to get around him somehow. Get behind him like how Thyme got behind Finnick. She was able to duck under his arm, but you’ve done that twice already. Allio has probably learned his lesson, you need a new way.

He barely comes close enough, you drop to the floor and sweep his feet. Allio loses his balance, you raise up a little, but he’s on his back, vulnerable. You jump at him, fist raised, hand wrapping around one of his wrists, pinning his arm to the ground. You hesitate actually punching him for too long, and his other hand slams into your jaw, making a red hot pain spread through your face and teeth.

Your head knocks back, eyes on the ceiling before you’re falling against the floorboards. You can feel the coolness of the wood through the fabric of your shirt. And for a moment, you think that you could lay here all day and not move. But then you see Allio coming towards you, eyes dark and threatening, and decide that you’ll lay on the floor another day.

Even though you should get up, you don’t move, trying to catch your breath, but you keep an eye on him. If he comes any closer, you think you’ll kick him in the face. Kick him like how you punched Trink. One hit that’ll get him to stop moving for good.

You lift your foot to find that he’s already holding onto it.

You twist around, rolling over and kicking his shoulder with your left foot as hard as you can. He doesn’t let go, instead pulling you in. He lets go of your ankle, and since you’re just beneath him, he raises his fist. His elbow bends, lifting it up far too high just for it to be a knockout punch, and unwinds on you.

You jerk to the left in time for him to slam his hand into the floor.

“Idiot.” you snuff, your voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to you.

While Allio is shaking his knuckles, hissing out curses, you lazily raise back to your feet. Your mouth has an overflow of snot and blood because you refuse to breathe through your nose. You send a wad of red spit flying out of the ring, towards Caspian’s feet before raising your hands.

This fight is not over yet.

When Allio raises back to his feet, his hands aren’t raised, and he comes at you with genuine rage. This is the look that Ossie must have seen yesterday. The look of pure anger from the taunting, going all in and pulling back before it’s too late. The difference now is that you’re embarrassing him. For him, this should have been an easy fight, considering his brute strength yesterday.

Allio finally raises his fists when he gets you cornered. He swings with his left hand--no, he normally punches with his right.

Large black blots block your vision. The pain is hard and warm, pounding on the side of your head. Your hands connect with the cold floorboards once again, and you struggle to blink your eyes free of the dark restraints. For a moment, you’re terrified because the darkness is staying longer than it should. But a ray of light comes through.

You can hear Allio coming up behind you.

Get up.

Even if the stars are just now allowing you to see, you need to get up.

You struggle to make your legs solidify beneath you.

When you turn to face Allio after what feels like forever, you’re met with a solid pain in the middle of your chest, knocking you backwards, stealing your air. You barely keep on your feet this time, anticipating the ground, gasping to try and fix the empty feeling in your lungs. It hurts to breathe in this much. You press an open hand to your chest, eyes finding Allio’s face through the spots, only to see that he’s mere inches away.

One hand on your shoulder, the other one drives it’s way into your stomach. Nausea sprouts, accompanying the dizziness that hasn’t gone away since he punched you. All the air you had just gained, is gone again. A moan leaves your lips from the soreness.

Allio wraps his hand around your throat, you can feel the ground disappearing beneath your shoes. There’s a sudden spike of terror again, and all you can picture is this exact same scenario with Ossie. Allio lifting Ossie into the air as if she was as light as a feather. Allio throwing her down to the floor. The sound of her head cracking open. Her not moving after. The blood turning her blonde hair, rich red. Laurel having to carry her out.

This will not be you.

You swing your foot as far back as possible, desperate for air. Your foot crushes into Allio’s stomach, making his face turn a sudden shade of bright red, and then he drops you.

The ground is a lot further down than you realized.

You try to catch yourself and fail, a scream leaving your throat. Your head slams against the wooden floorboards anyway, but you don’t hear your head breaking open like an egg. Only the hot, pounding feeling on the back of your head. Black spots come back to dot your vision, stealing the sight of the ceiling. Or maybe your eyes are closed.

Can you get up?

The thought alone hurts.

Everything hurts.

You can hear Allio’s tennis shoes against the wooden floorboards, shifting on his feet. He must be waiting for Caspian to call it. And if the fight is over, it means you lose.

You lose.

So, get up.

Your eyes open, stars dot the ceiling. You blink and squint to see better. No, not stars, the ceiling lights. Which form little sparkle shapes as your eyes begin to focus, adjust.

Get up.

You turn, your hot, sticky skin pressing to the floor. It sends aches and pains through your body, your muscles in your legs pulse, letting you know that they’ve had enough. It’s a good thing that they’re not in charge. You are. And this is not over with.

Get up.

Your skin slowly peels away from the polished wood, leaving a faint stinging sensation behind. It’s hardly noticeable, a needle in a haystack, considering you’ve collected an impressive worth of injuries in just one fight.

Get up.

“She’s up--” Caspian starts, once you’re on your feet, hunched over and trying to build enough confidence to stand straight. It’ll hurt too badly. And you’ve run out of time, you took too long to get up. Caspian thinks it’s over.

It’s not over until you win.

You take one step, and then another, testing the waters. Every step you take, sends a jolt through your body that always ends up at the back of your head. Your skull is not broken. You can keep moving.

This is the opening you wanted, after all.

You launch yourself right at Allio’s torso since he’s distracted, wrapping your arms around him for added effort. There’s shooting pains through your nose since it’s pressed up against his body. You pull away before he hits the ground, hard. And before he can move, you’re scrambling on top of him.

Your knuckles are not broken.

You wind your arm back, eyes locked on his nose.

They just hurt.

You drive your fist into his face. And when it doesn’t start to bleed, you punch him again. And again. “I’ll never look the same.” you snarl through your teeth, “So why should you?”

You switch hands, leaning all of your body weight into it. He’s bleeding now, there’s blood running out of his nose and down the sides of his face. His blood mixes in with yours, which coats your knuckles and fingers. If he’s going to target your weak spots, it’s only fair you give him a couple of his own.

You miss the fact that he gets his right hand back, not missing the chance for retaliation. All you can feel is your head jerk to the left hard enough for your neck to crack. You slide across the floor, skin burning along the way. You unscrew your teeth from each other, gasping.

Allio has drawn himself to his feet. Through the tunnel vision, you can see that his face is swollen. Blood is dripping off his chin. You sneer a laugh, which fizzles into coughs, your lungs not being able to support your brief moment of victory. Allio doesn’t look like he did this morning, and he won’t look like himself for a while.

He doesn’t like the fact that you can laugh at him. You can barely decipher the fact that his face twists in anger. He heads towards you, foot drawing back like he’s going to kick a ball to send it across the field. You brace your body for the impact, smile fading.

A scream draws from your throat as the kick lands. You squeeze your eyes hand enough to see vivid patterns dance across the back of your eyelids. Pain so bright and black and white that you can finally understand why Candor doesn’t believe in grey areas.

“The fight is over!” The voice is drowned, underwater and floating away.

You fade into the sea of darkness.

And think: is this how dad felt when he faded too?

It wasn’t until after dinner, did you leave the medical ward last night. You would have attended dinner at the actual dining hall, but the woman working in the unit gave you a plate and was there to help if you needed it. Plus, you got a little taste of Finnick’s thoughts after your loss, and you decided that you’d much rather spend the evening alone.

And you did.

Cleo, the doctor-nurse, let you go after you showed her you could get up and move without falling. Apparently, Ossie had tried to do the exact same thing the night she hit her head. She crumpled a couple of steps in, and almost made her head injury worse. And since you had been dropped on your head too��

You’re fine, though. The injuries that you got from Allio’s fight are painful, of course, but they’re not anything totally awful. Cleo thinks that your chest and stomach will bruise, thanks to Allio’s punch. Your jaw is sore, so she wants you to eat soft foods and ice it as much as possible. As for your knuckles, they’re heavily bruised, not broken. Cleo tried to set your nose as straight as possible, but you’ll need a cosmetic procedure to get it back to the way it was.

You had a lot of time to sit and wallow in your loss in the medical ward, but the tightness in your throat wasn’t nearly as bad as it was until you left. You wandered in the dark for a while, taking deep breaths. You ended up at the railing that blocks you from wandering into the chasm. And you stayed there until you felt better.

Even though there are no real bodies of water inside of the walls—with the exception of the swamp, but that has no water in it anymore—the sound of the rushing river below you was strangely familiar. And each time the water would crash against the jagged rocks, fresh air would be coughed up into your face. It lessened the headache.

And left you alone to think without any disruptions.

By the time you made it back to the dormitory, the announcement had already been made; there would be no training today. Capsian was just leaving the room when you got there, and he passed by you quietly at first. But he was halfway down the hallway when his words echoed off the walls, “Glad to see you’re on your feet, (Y/n).”

You didn’t say anything back.

On the first day, Laurel said that there would be a few breaks from fighting. Today is one of those days. When Finnick and Thyme had explained it to you, they didn’t say what you’d be doing exactly. Only that you all had to meet Laurel at the tracks by eight fifteen and not to be late. You have a feeling that they didn’t know what you’ll be doing today, either.

The only person that seemed to be upset last night over the break, was Finnick. Everyone else has something to complain about, not going unharmed in all the fights they’ve taken place in. You’re one of them, yesterday’s pain has settled into your bones, making itself right at home. Every move you make, you’re reminded of your loss. Which wouldn’t be that bad, but again, you have Finnick at your side. And the only thing that’s on his mind lately, is the streak.

With yesterday's loss, it means that he is the sole survivor of the streak. With his perfect gun aim, and the fact that he hasn’t lost a fight yet. You’d say something to him, if it weren’t for the fact that you have two friends total at the moment, Finnick and Thyme. Normally, you can handle Finnick being mad at you, because you had other people to talk to in Abnegation. But Thyme is more on Finnick’s side than yours, Ossie and Amos aren’t technically your friends, and your relationship with the other three is pretty much established.

For now, you have to bite your tongue and bear it. But you wonder how long Finnick will go unchecked for. Until you finally snap and shove back. You can handle the teasing, but it’s like holding a glass of water for a long period of time. It doesn’t start off heavy, it ends up that way.

You guess that it’s partially your fault, because you’re giving him ammunition. If you want it to stop, you need to win the next two fights, and then do better than him at the last two stages of initiation. In theory, it sounds easy, but you don’t know what the second and third stages have to offer. Plus, you’re damaged goods at the moment, what are the chances you can win the fights?

As long as you try. Trying is good enough.

A shoe scuffs against the floor, sending a sharp squeak through the air.

You don’t have to lay here anymore.

You could hardly roll over last night because of your stomach. And after a couple of times, you stopped and laid on your back until your muscles finally relaxed and you couldn’t feel the pain anymore. You got a couple hours of sleep in.

It was ruined when you jolted awake around midnight, a scream rising in your throat, your bed sheets soaked in sweat, and a very hot feeling spreading over your body. It took a while for you to finally feel normal and calmed down, and by then you were awake. The memory of the nightmare that you had just been submerged in, was at the front of your mind.

You stopped having nightmares last year, you had finally begun to feel comfortable in your own house again. You guess you went and ruined your streak when you moved here, to a faction that would make your mother feel shame, if she were still alive.

Surprisingly, that was not the main story of the dream. Instead, you dreamt that you were back inside of the aptitude test, with all the knowledge that would come after. That every choice you would make, would conflict and result in Laurel telling you that you’re Divergent and you could be murdered because of it. But you still went through with your original answers, because you didn’t want to end up in Abnegation. You thought, for a second, that being three things was better than one.

When you came out of the test, the room was full. Men and women dressed in Dauntless black, an army sent just for you, with their guns pointed at your chest.

Standing at the front was Caspian. “Divergence is against the law.” He droned, “You are not welcome here.”

And just before they all fired, he told you that you were another stain on your family’s lineage.

The word that has stuck with you for hours is another. Not the fact that you could feel every bullet they fired pierce your body. Or feeling yourself slip away in the sinful room of mirrors. It was the fact that you were not the only anomaly in the family. The only other person that has moved away—moved on from Abnegation is Mox. Which made many people turn a brief eye to your family, watching him go.

But it doesn’t fit right. That is not the puzzle piece that needs to be there. It’s only a supplement. You know this.

Two weeks before the aptitude test, there was a unit in your science class that was about the human brain. The lesson was brief, but your teacher mentioned how dreams come from the subconscious mind, before moving onto another section. She’d only mentioned it in passing, but it has stuck with you ever since.

To you, this idea seems wrong because you don’t think of Mox as a stain. That thought is not yours to begin with. And yet, even though you’ve been awake for hours, you still haven’t found a better conclusion.

You’re starting to think that there isn’t one.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, reaching over to the side of the bunk to help pull you into a sitting position. You grit your teeth tightly, sure that they’re going to break, but you’re determined not to make a sound. You let out a low groan anyway, which dissipates into a sigh of relief as soon as you’re sitting upright.

Leaning back on one hand, you use the other to lift the end of your shirt to see your stomach properly. Right in the middle, sits deep shades of purple and red. You press your lips together, gently running your fingers over the skin like a ghost. It’s tender, beginning the stages of healing.

You let your shirt drop, turning towards the end of the bed, hanging your feet over the side. You remember what it took to get you up here. There’s no ladder, because that would be far too easy. Tears had sprung in the corners of your eyes, you were forced to wriggle your way up on your stomach, hands clamped tight against the metal bars.

Once you got up here last night, you weren’t allowed to get back down. Not that you really wanted to, what you really wanted to do was sleep it off. Obviously that didn’t pan out too well, either.

You can see Thyme from the top of the bunk. She’s still sleeping, tangled in her blanket, shirt collar desperate to choke her. Half her body is turned one way, the other half twisted away. Her head isn’t turned toward you.

You’re pretty sure that Finnick is still asleep beneath you, but you can’t exactly tell without accidentally falling off the bed. And if you’re going to get off by yourself, you think that you’ll do it on your own time. Speaking of which, it looks like you only have forty-five minutes to get ready.

That should be enough time, right?

The only other people awake inside of the room are Eytelle, Ossie and Amos. Eytelle disappears into the bathroom, clutching her clothes to her chest. Ossie is already dressed, pulling on her hiking shoes, yanking the laces as tight as possible. And Amos is… sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

Trink and Allio are across the room, both turned away from you. If you get off the bed, the only people that are here to witness your pain are the two people that you wouldn’t mind seeing. Apart from Finnick and Thyme, of course. You’d ask for help, but the idea of Finnick’s teasing appears in your mind, setting your destiny in stone.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, moving your ankles around in circles. Your calves are tight, they feel like you’ve had twenty leg cramps in a row. They’re going to be uncooperative today, which is the last thing that you’re going to need. Especially if you’re supposed to be jumping in and out of trains today.

The thought of missing the jump on the roof occurs to you, and you can’t help the shiver that runs through your body.

You decide that you’ll try and lower yourself down, instead of just scooting off the edge and jumping. Since your calves clearly can’t handle it right now. You’re careful to lean on your wrists and not your hands, turning yourself around. You’re glad that you’re starting to develop more upper body strength, otherwise this would be impossible.

Your body begins to ache, arms shaking the further you go down. You feel Finnick’s mattress dip beneath your bare feet. Your other foot touches his blanket, and after that, you just step down. The cement is freezing cold, making your toes curl.

You spare a glance at Finnick before you get moving, and you start to glare once you realize that he’s awake. He has a cheeky grin on his face, raising his eyebrows, “I see you’re feeling great this morning.”

“I’m not.” you say back, “Maybe I should’ve stepped on your face like I originally planned to.”

Finnick lets out a laugh, getting up and off his bed. Ever since the two of you left Abnegation five days ago, he’s begun to stand at his full height. It makes him look like he belongs inside of Dauntless. There’s tall people in Abnegation, of course, but none of them are as tall as Finnick.

You have to look up at an angle to see his face. He stretches his arms above his head, shirt riding up, he yawns, and then groans. Unlike you, he doesn’t have any concern for the other people sleeping in the room.

You gather your clothes, throwing them over your arm. Finnick has no shame and decides to change right where he is. A part of you wishes that you could do the same, but your body is more valuable than his, to an extent. You shake Thyme awake, watching her squint and blink and wake up.

“Seven-forty.” you say.

She hums and rolls over. You head toward the bathroom, which is just as an open room as the dorm. Except, there’s stalls and the showers have curtains. You step inside one of them, and try to wash yourself as fast as possible. It hurts to bend down, tears appear in the corner of your eyes and run down your face. By the time you’re done showering, there’s fifteen minutes left.

You get dressed and brush your teeth. Finnick and Thyme work together to help you tie your shoes, since you can’t bend down to do it yourself. You thank them both, and after that, you have to get to the train. There’s no way you’ll make it to breakfast, climb the Pit and make it to the train in time.

“How about I get us breakfast then?” Finnick’s got a grin, jumping at the opportunity.

Thyme gives him a look, “We’re not covering your ass if you’re late.”

“No problem, I’ll see you there.”

He takes off, leaving just you and Thyme. The two of you head up the stairs of the Pit to the glass building above it, in silence. Your thighs begin to complain at the strain, in perfect harmony with your calves. When you pass through the exit doors, you’re able to see that it’s only Amos up here, arms wrapped around himself in a hug. He looks over slightly to see you two, and then he looks away.

“Where’d you go yesterday?” Thyme asks.

She’s still rubbing sleep from her eyes, there’s dark bags forming. She hasn’t been getting much sleep, it looks like. But you think that goes for everyone here. No one has slept soundly since the Choosing Ceremony. It just got worse as soon as the fighting began, for reasons you discovered last night.

“Hmm?” you hum, looking at her.

“We went to visit you in the medical unit, and you weren’t there.”

“Oh.” you say, looking to where the train will be coming. Behind you, you can hear the doors of the building open again. Judging by the amount of voices, it’s Trink, Allio and Eytelle. “I needed a minute to myself, that’s all.”

An arm slams into yours from behind, knocking you into Thyme. It’s Trink, who gives you a smug side-eye when she walks past. You grit your teeth, hands balling into fists.

“Here.” a voice says, you jump and look over to see it’s Finnick, handing you the toast he got from the dining hall. It’s still hot, he must have ran here to give it to you before it cooled. You go to thank him, but he’s distracted. His eyes are on the back of Trink’s head.

Two words burn like fire on the tip of your tongue, “Do it.” you encourage.

It’s all it takes. Finnick presses the six squares of toast into your hands before he starts over toward Trink.

“Why would you say that?” Thyme hisses in a whisper, eyebrows pushed in. She’s worried for them. Typical Amity behavior, especially since she’s not for the fighting to settle differences.

“Because Finnick doesn’t negotiate.”

You don’t include the fact that, if it weren’t for your current condition, you’d be helping him.

Finnick spins Trink around, her mouth falls open. Her two idiot Candor friends turn around too, only halfway. By then, Finnick punched Trink straight across her mouth, whipping her head to the side. She loses her balance, hand flying to touch her teeth to make sure they’re still in place. When she opens her mouth, her gums are bleeding, white teeth turned red.

Allio goes to ask her if she’s okay, and Eytelle puffs up as if she’s actually going to do something about it. The moment that Finnick matches her energy, her height, and how his hands curl into fists, she backs off.

“Next time, I’ll break your fucking nose.” Finnick snaps, looking directly at Trink, “Or better yet, I’ll hold you down so she can.”

Finnick comes back over, face flushed a shade of red. He grabs his breakfast from your hands, and Thyme does the same. The doors open behind you, Laurel and Ossie come out. Laurel has her hair in a ponytail today, sleek and straight. She walks right past Trink, Eytelle and Allio. And stops a few feet away, sticking her hands into her ironed business pants.

There’s a moment of baffled silence on Trink’s part, and then she bursts, “You’re not going to ask what happened?”

Laurel looks over, straight-faced, “What happened?” she asks lamely.

It’s good enough for her, “He punched me!”

Laurel stares for a moment, probably deciding if Trink’s behavior is worth feeding into. She doesn’t look at Finnick when she starts towards Trink. Laurel crouches down in front of her, being careful that pants don’t touch the grass beneath her. “You will have a lot more to worry about if you continue to tell on your fellow initiates. You are displaying signs of cowardice. I am not your mother, handle the situation yourself.” Laurel stands, glances at Finnick, and says; “From now on, no fighting outside of the ring. Once you’re a member, the rule lifts.”

She goes back to where she was standing before.

If Trink wants to say anything else, she can’t. You finish your piece of toast, brushing the crumbs off your hands and shirt just as the train comes in. The horn blares, letting you know that it’s coming. Laurel stands close enough for the wind to blow her clothes flat against her body.

Amos is the first to pull himself inside of the train, disappearing off to the left side. You jog with the train, remembering the high feeling the day of the Choosing Ceremony. How you had pulled yourself inside of the train like you’ve done it every day of your life.

Now you’re struggling to push past the violent burning feeling in your calves and thighs with each step you take. You wonder, is this progress, or are you falling behind?

You grab a hold of the handle, grit your teeth and hold your breath, yanking yourself in. Immediately, there’s an achy feeling in your chest and stomach. You massage your chest, not dumb enough to go lower. Finnick pulls himself in next, almost effortlessly. He slams his head against the doorway of the train, curses leaving his mouth. You burst into laughter, you can hear Amos chuckling behind you.

Finnick rubs his forehead, face twisted. He moves inward, allowing Thyme to come in next, “Think it’ll bruise?”

“You didn’t hit yourself that hard!” you shout over the wind.

He gives you a grin.

Laurel comes in next, standing off to the side and judges every person who comes in next. Eytelle, Allio, Ossie and then Trink. Ossie comes to the left side, where you are. As for the other three, they take the right side, huddled up like they normally are. Laurel presses herself against the wall, crosses her arms, and stares out of the door.

You still don’t know what you’re doing today.

The train brings you all the way to the far fence. It brakes too harshly, making Finnick jerk. You grab a hold of his arm before he knocks into Laurel and gets himself into any more trouble. Finnick might be tall and an experienced fighter, but sometimes he’s as prepared as a baby deer. When you’d ride home together on the bus in Abnegation, he’d have to hold onto a pole, not the overhead handles. It’s because the poles are steadier.

The train comes to a complete stop underneath an awning. Laurel exits firsts, jumping down gracefully and walking a couple of steps before she stops and waits. You move out next with Finnick. This time, he makes sure to duck dramatically so that he doesn’t hit his head again.

There’s a chain-link fence with barbed wire, a green field on the other side of it, with hills that stretch as far as your eyes can see. Dotted around are a mix of healthy green trees, and trees that are far too dead to be revived.

On the other side of the fence is the Dauntless guards, wearing black and carrying guns, patrolling what may be out there. Only recently, in the past couple of years, have the Dauntless begun to patrol the outside of the fence. As far as anyone knows, there isn’t a threat. Only more Amity farms that couldn’t fit inside of the fence. Before, the Dauntless had been controlling what went on inside of the factionless communities. But Abnegation argued that they don’t need Dauntless with guns. They need food, water, places to live. They need to be rehomed and given a new opportunity.

“Follow me!” Laurel shouts, once everyone is off the train. The eight of you wander behind her, “Today, you’re doing volunteer work, carrying heavy shit that the Amity and Abnegation can’t.” she leads you to a gate, with a wide, cracked road that leads back to the city, “And I’ll give you some insight on the jobs you’ll be eligible for if you don’t rank high in initiation.”

She nods at one of the guards on the other side, “If you don’t rank in the top five at the end of initiation, you’ll end up here. Once you’re a fence guard, there’s not much room for advancement. If you get the job, you probably won’t find a way to squirm out of it. Most who work here, say that it’s not as bad as it seems. Isn’t that right?”

She has a smile on her face when she looks at one of the guards. They give her an amused expression, and then eyes over you guys.

“Don’t mind them, they’re just shy. The most you’ll get out of the job is the potential to go beyond the Amity farms, but that’s the extent of it.” she stops, turning to face you guys.

“What else?” Trink asks, she’s standing behind you.

“Well, you’ve seen the shops, tattoo and piercing parlors. If you’ve visited the medical ward, you can be a doctor, or a lunch lady. We have security cameras all over the Dauntless compound, so you could make that your day job.” she pauses for a moment, “Oh, and police officers. But that’s about it.

“If you rank in the top five, you get your pick of the litter. Or maybe, the litter will pick you, in some cases.” Laurel doesn’t elaborate for a moment, and then she smiles, “Did you know that they’re looking for a temporary, fourth position for leadership? If the person fits the requirements for leadership, they’ll replace one of the leaders we have now.”

“Is that what you’re going for?” Thyme asks.

Her face twists, raising her eyebrows, “It’s not a job for the fainthearted. And I’ve already got my job. Who do you think designs all the clothes you’re wearing?”

You remember the mannequin on her arm. You originally thought it was her fear, as you’ve come to realize that most of the Dauntless will get their fear somewhere on their body. But maybe it’s a passion thing, instead.

A horn blares, making Laurel raise her head, “The next train is here. Let’s get this over with, so we can get back to the headquarters.”

ANTERIC IS A SPIN-OFF DIVERGENT AU //MASTERLIST//

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martellthemandalor · 4 years ago

Text

Happy Deathday

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Warnings: Language, suggestion of biting

Rating: T (teen)

Word count: 1.9K+

A/N: This is a small fic for anyone celebrating their birthday! I hope you enjoy this little treat with our favourite vampire sales manager. also no editing because i finished this at 3am lmaoo.

Masterlist!

GIF IS NOT MY OWN. CREDIT TO THE OWNER.

“Happy birthday to you!”

The off-key drone of your co-workers voices finished with an enthusiastic round of applause. You smile up at the gaggle of them, leaning forward to blow out the singular candle protruding from the cake being presented to you.

“Thank you everyone, please help yourself to a slice before you leave. Lord knows I won’t be able to finish it by myself,” You joked, gesturing to the sizeable cake that rested in the hands of your boss. He chuckled at you, setting the cake down and producing a knife to section it with.

You got to packing away your days’ work right away, your colleagues flocking to the sweet treat being offered freely on the adjacent desk.

A cold hand on your shoulder caused you to jump. Your mouth twisted into a small smile as you swivelled to find yourself met with the dark eyes of your manager.

“(Y/N) I need to see you in my office,” He instructed, that damn infuriating smirk playing across his face.

“Come on Boss, it’s her birthday let her go have fun,” Tim protested through a mouthful of cake. You grinned at him, rolling your eyes as you saw him reach for another slice.

“Thank you for your concern Tim, I would almost be grateful if it wasn’t a clear ploy to get more of my cake,” You accused playfully. “Of course boss, I’ll be right with you.”

Max gave your shoulder a squeeze, shooting you a wink as he sauntered back to his office.

“You really shouldn’t let him keep you late, this is literally the one day a year you can break the rules,” Tim mumbled at you, biting off another chunk of cake.

“Tim, I really don’t think that’s true,” You laughed, “But if it makes you feel any better, my plans don’t start until later, I kind of guessed Max would be enough of an asshole to keep me back after work,” You slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way over to Max’s office. Glancing over your shoulder you saw Tim trying to sneak another slice cake.

“Hey Tim, just take the whole thing okay? I’ve got another one coming later,” You called to him.

Tim’s eyes lit up, nabbing the cake off the desk and all but sprinting out of the door. You really did work with some… interesting characters to say the least. It certainly made every day a different experience, especially with the changes that had been happening around the office recently.

You softly rapped on the solid wood of the door, and upon hearing the muffled “Yep!” from the other side swiftly entered.

Max was leant back on his chair, legs propped up on his desk. His eyes raked over your figure as you shut the door behind you. You turned to face him, bracing your back against the smooth wood.

“You never learnt the art of subtlety did you?” You asked him, arching your eyebrow at your undead boyfriend.

“Absolutely not sweetheart, sales don’t come from subtlety,” He claimed, swinging his feet off the desk and beckoning you to come sit on his lap. You rolled your eyes at him, an involuntary action you found yourself doing twice as much since beginning your relationship with him.

“People are going to find out about this if you don’t tone it down,” You said nonchalantly, wandering slowly towards the desk, your eyes locked on his.

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” Max retorted, dramatically rolling his eyes in direct parody of you. “Besides babe, I just know you love it.” He punctuated his point with a wink.

God you wanted to slap him sometimes.

“And… how do you know that?” You asked. Your fingertips trailed across the polished oak of the desk, dancing around the various pencil pots and other knick-knacks he had spread across the surface. Another part of his game with the team, every time he turned someone new, suddenly a new item turned up on his desk.

Max had told you it was a motivation tactic, because of course it was. He said that people don’t like being reduced to objects, explaining that by adding an item, a trophy, each time someone was turned reduced them to just that. By doing this, and drawing attention to it through meetings and whatnot, the non-turned would work twice as hard in order to stay that way, to not be reduced to an object. He may be a smug bastard, but you couldn’t say he wasn’t a clever one.

You slid across the front of the desk, gave Max the smuggest smile you could muster, then hopped up onto the edge opposite him. A blatant shun to his previous invitation. This was another game he liked to play with you, the cat and mouse of it all, and you were more than happy to fill your role.

“Because,” he said, leaning forward in that ridiculous chair and dropping his voice lower. “I could hear your heart beat faster.”

Yeah, he got you there. Damn his upper hand. You tried to keep a straight face as the cogs in mind whirred furiously to come up with a smartass retort. It quickly became impossible to do so though, you knew Max could see right through your struggle as he slowly inched his chair closer to you. You fought back your smile, but lost the struggle with an infectious laugh as his face contorted into a smug duck face.

“Gotcha,” he proclaimed triumphantly. In one swift move he lifted you from the desk and into his lap, his strength meaning you weighed nothing as he pulled you close to him, causing a slight squeal to escape you. It sent a thrill through you whenever he displayed his strength like that, the way he strong armed you around a complete juxtaposition to the feather light way he handled you while doing it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as you settled into his lap, his own hands resting comfortably around your waist. He cocked his eyebrow at you, his copyright smirk playing across his lips as he waited for you to make the move.

You smoothed your hands across the back of his neck, over his shoulders and traced your fingers across the rigid lapels of his suit. Then you grabbed onto the lapels and tugged him towards your mouth, leading him into a surprisingly gentle kiss.

His cool lips instinctively moved against your own, hand coming up to cup your jaw as he dragged his tongue across your bottom lip. Opening your mouth you let him slip his tongue in, his gentle taste of mint flooding your senses. You smiled against him when you broke for breath.

He dragged his lips across your jaw, trailing kisses down your neck.

“Happy birthday baby,” He murmured against the warmth of your skin.

“Thank you babe,” You responded, tugging lightly on his hair to pull him from you. You both looked at each other for a minute, his eyes darting over your features, as if trying to memorise you.

The silence was thick and comfortable, but as was normal with Max the quiet didn’t last long.

“Are you sure you want to do this sweetheart?” Max asked. He brushed his thumb softly across your cheekbone, his other hand coming up to caress down your neck. The tenderness of his touch made your heart jump at your ribs. You slid your hands up his arms, resting them at his wrists.

“I’m more than sure Max, we’ve talked about this, I want this,” You reassured him.

“But-” You quickly placed a finger over his lips. For a man so hell bent on turning every other warm body in the office for the sake of efficiency, he was being surprisingly apprehensive with you.

“Max. Look at me. I love you. I want this with you. There’s no one else I can possibly imagine being with, and I- fuck- I want to be turned by you so I can live with you as we are, forever. Okay?” You stressed. Max took your hands in his and brought them to his lips, peppering kisses along each of your knuckles.

“I love you to baby, so much,” He said gently. He leant in and pressed a series of chaste kisses to your lips. Then it was like a switch flipped in his head and suddenly your suave, almost douchebag of a boyfriend was back again. “Come on then sweetheart,” He announced, a tap on your thigh giving you the hint to stand up. You smiled as you dismounted him, heading for the door.

He got up and shot to the door before you could get close, opening it for you. He landed a playful swat on your ass as you crossed the open threshold, his voice following not long after.

“Let’s get you home and turned to the sexiest vamp in the office, rivalled only by me of course”

Entering your apartment was like entering a different world. Max had disappeared on his lunch break and where initially you were confused as to what he could have got up to for the full hour, it was now crystal clear.

He had come back to yours and cleaned the place from head to toe. He had also layed out candles and ruby red rose petals across the floor of the hall, which he was currently, and rather frantically, lighting as you hung up your coat.

Your living room had undergone the same treatment, with the addition of a bottle of red wine, a new wine glass set, a box of fancy chocolates and a small, very neatly wrapped, present sitting pretty in the middle of your coffee table.

“Max you- you didn’t have to do all this,” You exclaimed to your boyfriend, who had now settled himself on the sofa. He patted the space next to him, which you eagerly occupied.

“Of course I did, it’s your birthday and you deserve something extra special,” He responded, hand waving off your concerns.

He then leant forward and took the present from the table, placing it into your waiting hands. Snuggling into him, you began to carefully unwrap the present. The paper fell away to show a black velvet box, opening which caused you to gasp loudly.

Inside was a ring, a beautiful woven band of silver with a small diamond set with precision in the middle.

“Will you marry me?”

The words were murmured next to your ear, soft and laced with anxiety. Your stomach did a somersault for him, your beautiful, self-assured dumbass was really afraid that you would turn him down.

You twisted in his embrace, softly kissing him before whispering “Yes,” against his lips. His answering smile was one you were never going to forget, so full of joy and love, and all for you. Only for you.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as Max gently took the ring box from you.

He took the ring from the box and slid it onto your ring finger, sealing the placement with a kiss.

The rest of the evening flew by. Between the glasses of red, feeding each other chocolate and laughing, it felt like time had turned to liquid around you. Max was running his fingers through your hair, his gaze fixated on your neck.

It was time.

“Ready sweetheart?” He simply asked, as if you weren’t about to give up your rhythmic heartbeat for him. The anticipation was making your heart race and you wondered if you would ever miss the feeling of it hammering in your ribs.

“Yes Max, ready as I’ll ever be,” You affirmed, your hand seeking his own and instinctively locking with it.

You skin felt alight, burning hot when you felt the smooth curve of his fangs brush against your neck.

“Happy deathday baby.”

#max phillips #max phillips x reader #max phillips x you #max phillips fic #bloodsucking bastards #birthday fic #my writing

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randomoranges · 4 years ago

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i’ve had the stupid initial scene in my head for like a week. also thoughts on tattoos and such and significance and the magnitude of things unsaid in the past that get to finally be aired out in the present and such.

more rambly thoughts hahahaha.

Ricochet

Winter 2020? Early 2021???? Idk.

Edward ghosts his fingers over the petals of the rose before him and lets them dance over the lines that compose the patterns and colours of the flower. He’s always been fascinated by the combination of flowers and leaves that overlap and twine over Étienne’s vine tattoo, ever since he had first seen it, what now feels like ages ago. It’s always been his favourite, for some reason, even before the extra additions. He lets his fingers go on their own quiet exploration, re-appropriating the feel and contrast of colours and shapes, until they come to rest by one of the few flowers that differ from all the others.

He remembers the first time he had taken notice of it, late one summer night in the early nineties. He had thought it a trick from the light or some clever projection of his mind, and so, he’d never really mentioned anything. With time, he’d check, to make sure that the one different rose was still there and he had tried not to think about what it could mean – what it could represent. The possibilities. Étienne had offered no clarification and he hadn’t asked questions about it. Instead, he had let his fingers trace the contour and the petals, had memorized the different shades of colour of it and had dared to hope.

Now, he knows better.

Edward lets his fingers shift direction and land on the latest addition to Étienne’s vine tattoo. It’s a little over a year old and a little brighter than some of the other flowers. He traces over the curves of the petals and he might be imagining it, but he swears he feels his boyfriend’s heart rate pick up ever so beneath his fingers. He smiles softly, before he places a tender kiss to the spot where his fingers had just been – to the flower right over Étienne’s heart and then looks up to find green-hazel eyes quietly observing him.

He resettles against Étienne and lets out a content sigh, happy to be here with him – despite everything.

“What would you have done?” He starts to ask as he resumes tracing the different flowers and leaves that twine and twist over Étienne’s torso, “If I – if I didn’t feel the same – about you?” He finally asks, breaking the comfortable silence they’d been resting in. It’s a question he’s been thinking over for a little over a year now and it’s mostly curiosity and a sense of comfort around Étienne that brings him to ask it. He no longer needs to wonder and hope and fear for his relationship with Étienne; he gets to let his guard down and enjoy the hugs and kisses and special attentions without second guessing himself or what it could mean.

Étienne shifts and slides down so that they can be at level and offers him a quizzical look. Edward shrugs; he’s genuinely intrigued. He obviously knows how he felt then. However, it had taken him a while to acknowledge the fact that he still felt something for Étienne and the whole thing had turned even more complicated with Calvin in the picture. How could he still have feelings for Étienne when he had Calvin? Calvin who kept trying. Calvin who didn’t give up on him. Calvin who was patient and gave him space and kept circling back when he was being obtuse and afraid. How ungrateful was he being to Calvin by still liking Étienne? After so long. After everything they had gone through.

And then – and then did he really still like Étienne that way? Or did he simply miss having him as a friend? (Had he ever even liked Étienne? Had it been mere infatuation? Or a desire to be like Étienne?) Would he be content with having his best friend back or did he still want more?

The questions and the anxieties had done a number on him; had kept him tossing and turning and had eaten away at him. He would have loved to share these thoughts with Calvin, but he’d been afraid his boyfriend would have taken it the wrong way – would have called him cruel and would have called him terrible things for potentially being in love with two people – would have asked him to choose.

He’d kept his mouth shut.

He was lucky enough as it was.

He needn’t be greedy.

There was no sense in rocking the boat when he and Étienne barely even talked anymore. He could keep his wayward thoughts to himself and try to focus on not messing up his relationship with Calvin in the meantime. He had done a poor enough job in the first leg of it anyways. A damn near miracle Calvin hadn’t gotten up and left him there to rot, really.

So he’d done that. Done his best to put those thoughts away and move on – properly – silently, but every time he heard Étienne’s name mentioned his ears had perked up and he’d tried to find out how his former-friend-former-lover was doing. He’d dropped questions here and there, asking sometimes Élyse, sometimes another of Étienne’s friends how he was doing if he came up in a conversation and he most certainly never did try looking him up on social media.

Eventually, somehow, they did end up reconnecting. Miraculously. He’s still unsure as to how that happened, but he’s thankful they did. Their tentative new friendship had been welcomed, even if it had oftentimes felt like one-step forward and eight steps back, but – it had been good, nice even. A welcomed surprise.

Edward had just been glad that he could speak to Étienne again.

But, reconnecting with him, even in all its tentative steps, had brought forth the feelings he thought he had buried deep inside. They resurfaced, stronger than ever, and even when he’d tried to suppress them, again, they’d only just lingered more, ever so insistent and demanding of his attention.

He’d felt like a monster. For still wanting Étienne. For feeling like he was betraying Calvin and everything they had been carefully building for the past few years. He – hated himself. For still being in love with Étienne. So he tried harder. To hide it. To bury it and kill it off once and for all.

It, naturally, hadn’t worked.

Eventually, he’d admitted to it. He’d told Calvin about all of it, unable to keep it to himself any longer. Everything from the past up until this point, no glossing over, no hidden parts, just the ugly truth of it all and the shame of his heart.

Edward had braced and prepared himself for all the terrible ways Calvin would most likely react. He wouldn’t blame him for it, really. It was already a miracle that Calvin had come around from his initial reaction to his coming out decades ago and had actually developed feelings for him; Edward didn’t expect any more. Calvin had done his share, it was his problem if he was fucking it up, again. (And what did that say, when everything good he ever had in his life he managed to screw up?)

However, somehow, miraculously, Calvin had been – really good about it, considering. There hadn’t been any major outbursts, no fights, no breakups and no broken hearts. Edward clearly hadn’t given him his just credit.

They’d talked it over. Calvin had expressed his own fears and concerns, mostly that Edward would end up leaving him, but Edward had been quick to clarify that this wasn’t the case. He still loved him, but he also – still felt something for Étienne. He just – didn’t want to have to chose. He didn’t want to settle and he didn’t want to give up, but – he’d do his best if – if Calvin asked him to. Calvin deserved that much. It wouldn’t be fair to Calvin to jeopardize everything they had for an old flame.

Luckily, Calvin had been kind to him. A little uncertain, a little afraid, but kind.

Edward had – hesitated, in his next step. Hadn’t wanted to rush in. Had carefully waited and observed, for a while, unsure how to really proceed anyways. There were still many unknown variables, notably, had Étienne ever felt anything for him, and if so, had he managed to move on or not and if not – was he still – did he still want to – try?

But that’s in the past now. He gets to enjoy his relationship; no questions asked and finally be without needing to worry. He’s glad and relieved it worked out. He’s content – happy, really. It finally feels like he’s got it together – that all the important pieces have been gathered.

“Not gotten a marigold tattooed on me, for starters,” Étienne answers and laughs. Edward rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, even if a little exasperated. Étienne grins at him before he reaches over for his hand and places it back on his chest. It’s warm, even if Étienne always complains about being cold, and he feels the constant beat of his heart. It’s reassuring.

“Be serious,” He chides and Étienne sighs and twines their legs together, growing silent for a moment as he thinks it over.

“Well, I suppose I would have made a better effort to move on,” He shrugs, figuring it’s a simple enough answer, but – there’s more. If he’s being honest with himself, there is more. Edward waits patiently and keeps tracing over the flowers on Étienne’s tattoo, again. An old habit he’d been fond of, one he’s thankful he can rejoice in again.

“I mean – I never even thought you’d still like me that way, considering you were with Calvin. And – I didn’t care – well, not really. You could’ve had a full harem of men at your disposal. I just – wanted to be your friend again. I wanted to hang out with you and go out on the town without it being loaded. I didn’t want to second guess whether you’d flinch away from a hug or if you’d read too much into swinging my arm around your shoulders and such. I missed being friends with you. Wanted to pick up the phone and gab away for hours and hours about the stupid crap we’d done, seen, heard and such. Watch a movie or a game and unwind together. Have fun, go out, have you over and not have you think it meant anything more than just being your friend. I wanted that more than the sex and the relationship.” He sighs as he tries to form the right words to shed light on his own feelings. It’s still not his forte – talking about his feelings, but for Edward’s sake he tries. “So, yeah, woulda been okay with it, I guess. I mean – there would’ve been disappointment, but – that would’ve been on me. We fell out ages ago, you moved on, time I did the same, and such.” He shrugs and looks away from kind hazel eyes. He feels inadequate as he tries to give Edward a coherent answer, but he finds solace in knowing that it’s at least the truth.

Edward chuckles and pokes his boyfriend’s chest. He thinks it’s endearing how Étienne’s cheeks have coloured dark red and how his blush trails down his neck and to his chest. He presses a kiss to it for good measure and then another.

“M’glad it worked out though – that you still like me as well and all. Didn’t completely toss me out of your life. That we’re trying to make it work and that we can still also be friends.” He admits in a quick rush of air, blush growing even more.

Edward gathers him in his arms and holds him close, before he places another kiss, this time to his cheek. Étienne wraps himself around him and hides his face away in the crook of Edward’s neck, where it’s nice and warm and safe, and this, at least, is easy and less – complicated.

“For what it’s worth, I’m also really glad and – relieved.”

Étienne chances a glance back to Edward’s face and, maybe, Edward looks a little as to how he feels. Still surprised by this outcome, thankful obviously, and maybe just a little overwhelmed and in awe that this is real – that they get to have this and try not to mess it up. He resettles, the ricocheting thrum of his heart beating underneath Edward’s fingers, but he doesn’t mind. “’Love you,” Étienne murmurs and Edward tightens his hold on him for a second. He has this now. He gets to have this, somehow, and he swears he’ll do his best – that they’ll do their best not to mess it up.

FIN

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #étienne maisonneuve #fic #projocanondoko

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bruciewayne · 5 years ago

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birthday suits and booty shorts

stevetony, fluff, humour, getting together, 2k

“Oh god,” Tony groans, “Please tell me you that you weren’t wearing a fucking nylon suit in the Battle last year?”

“Um,” Steve says, intelligently, “it’s flexible?”

Tony gives him an unimpressed look, which isn’t anything particularly out of the ordinary, “So are leggings, but you’re not going to fight gods in them!”

Steve has a sudden flashback to the time Bucky yelled at him for going into the HYDRA base in costume, not armour. It hurts less than it used to.

“Only HYDRA,” Steve quips, with a smile.

Tony looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm.

“I thought that was made up.”

“Howard told you!?”

“Called it heroic.”

“Buck called it moronic, so did Pegs.”

Tony laughs at that, “Yeah, he once mentioned it around her, and she gave me explicit instructions to never go into any sort of battle in booty shorts.”

“She always did give sound advice,” Steve says, deciding to ignore the ‘booty shorts’ comment (and if it’s because he agrees, then that’s not relevant).

Tony narrows his eyes, and Steve hasn’t known him long, but he knows him enough that he can clearly identify that as his ‘I’m thinking, shut up’ face.

“Didn’t she shoot you?”

“Four times.”

Tony looks at him incredulously, “Sounds like her, but this,” he says, waving his uniform about, “no bueno.”

Three days later, Tony has the suit made, reinforced kevlar, carbon nanotubes, biometric tracker, and a small ‘Captain Rogers’ on the breastbone. Of course, he only got it made this fast to get it out of the way, and not because he cared in any way whatsoever about Captain Uptight (that initial assessment may be incorrect and in need of revising, but he’ll get to that later).

Steve, predictably, is in the gym when Tony asks JARVIS of his location. Unpredictable is what he’s wearing. He’s doing Planche push-ups when Tony comes in, so all Tony can see of his godawful gear is the ‘PROPAGANDA’ scrawled over his ass, and damn, science in the 40s should get far more credit than it did.

Just before Tony goes to poke him, or kick him in his foot, Steve lowers his feet to the ground and jumps up, grinning and sweaty, “Hey.”

Tony would reply, with a normal, human comment, and/or greeting, but he’s too busy staring at his chest, and for all the wrong reasons, YOU ARE NOT IMMUNE TO PROPAGANDA.

Steve notices, and the light flush from exercise deepens, “It was a gag gift. From Nat.”

“Well,” Tony says, against his better judgement, “it’s not wrong.”

The thing is, they are friends, pretty good ones now, at that, but Tony has an incredibly difficult time being in public with someone who wears jeans that tight.

“Aren’t your balls like, crushed?” Tony asks, as they’re walking through the park, because that’s just something they do now.

“You’re awfully concerned with my balls,” Steve comments, taking a long lick of his ice-cream.

“I’m just saying!” Tony defends. Steve just laughs, and overly assures him that he definitely believes him. Totally.

Tony attempts to reach up to tug a leaf off a branch to throw at Steve, because, for your information, he thinks about his ass far more than his balls, but, even on his tiptoes he can’t reach it, and he’s not about to make a fool of himself jumping to reach a branch.

Steve laughs even more, and even Tony’s man enough to admit that he lost all of his dignity in the 90s, so jumping to get a leaf to throw at his no good, very bad friend is barely news. So he does. And, predictably, he falls.

And less predictably, just as he readies himself for mud-covered Armani (because, whilst Steve is young enough to dress like a fuckboy, Tony, unfortunately, is a rich businessman who has to look the part (not that he’d particularly want to have to spray-paint on his jeans every morning (not that he’s allowed to wear jeans to board meeting, because, ‘Tony, you’re older now, and they expect something from you’)), and he cannot, and just as he should hit the ground, Steve’s around him, arms bracing him, strong and sure.

Steve’s lips quirk up into a smile, boyish and joyful, and the sun shining down from above highlights his hair in a way that makes Tony think, not for the first time, that Steve’s been sent down from heaven, for god knows what reason, because there’s no logical way that someone that good, someone so unpolluted in the face of all he’s had to fear, comes from humanity and-- oh fuck.

“I’m surprised you can bend like that in those jeans,” Tony says, too softly to pretend that’s all that’s running through his mind.

“I’m Superman,” Steve says, cheekily, rightening them both, and maybe it’s just Tony’s imagination, but he seems to linger longer than should be necessary. But he moves away, and the moment is broken, less like shattering glass and more like chalk falling barely a foot, broken beyond repair, but not the end of the world, which, in their careers, is a damn good place to be.

Tony takes it all back.

“You’ve never followed an instruction in your life, one day that might just end it,” Steve growls, still in uniform, because they saved New York again, and they’re fighting about god knows what, because god knows why.

“Don’t pretend to be concerned about my life when all you really care about is controlling the team, your perfect little soldiers,” Tony hisses.

Steve glowers even more. “Stop twisting my words.”

“Stop making bullshit calls,” Tony counters.

“It’s not bullshit and you know it.”

He’s not even loud, or explosive, like Tony, then, he’s quiet, still, unbelievably angry, but calm. And something about that lights a fire inside Tony, unstable and destructive.

“They never should have pulled you from the ice if all you’re good for is pure bullshit!”

For one, rage-coloured, gleeful, glorious moment, Tony revels in where he’s clearly managed to get a hit on him: his face lights with anger, the calm from earlier rapidly fades away, practically melting off his face.

And then his face, his body, his entire demeanour drop heavily, a slave to gravity, like the common man, like a puppet torn from its strings. The guilt floods into Tony’s system milliseconds before Steve turns on his heel and walks out without another word.

Tony realises, after he’s put himself in blackout mode, that the fight hadn’t changed a thing about the other day - Steve was always going to be ridiculously infuriatingly stubborn, hell, that’s why he’s so impossibly infatuated with him, he never gives up, never runs away, never stops, and for him to not fight Tony… he’s fucked up. Bad.

“Sir, if I may, an apology may be due,” and isn’t that sad, his AI had to listen to him rant aloud and then urge him to show basic human decency and at least attempt to preserve a relationship (one that’s somehow, sometime, become to absurdly important to Tony, the more he thinks of it, the more he wants to deck his old self in the nose (and if he ever did make a time machine, he knows that the punch he’d throw would be perfect form, thanks to Steve’s tutelage)).

“Yeah. Yeah,” Tony says heavily.

Unsurprisingly, JARVIS directs Tony toward the gym, where Steve’s beating apart a punching bag. He’s taken off the top part of his uniform and left it hanging around his waist, undershirt soaked through with sweat, hiding the aggregate sum of none of the strength contained in his muscles.

Even stripped down like this, the suit dirty and torn, no shield, no cowl in sight there’s no denying his raw power.

“Hey,” Tony starts, “what I said was uncalled for.”

Steve only stills his barrage when Tony began to speak, even though he must have heard him come in, but he doesn’t turn around.

“I… I’m not unaware of my flaws, Tony,” Steve says quietly, still not facing him, “nor do I believe that you’re needlessly reckless with your life.”

Tony takes a minute to process that. The air is still between them, rebuilding after the storm. They’ve gotten delightfully efficient at rebuilding, and with better adapted infrastructure, it doesn’t take long, but it still destroys something, still hurts a little.

“I’m glad that you were found,” Tony replies, this is the closest they’ve come to saying the forbidden ‘sorry’ aloud, and even though Steve’s the one to be facing away now, Tony knows that, had Steve been looking at him, whichever expression, he would be the one to turn away.

Small steps.

Steve nods, a sharp, short downward jerk of his head, and Tony takes that as his signal to leave, feeling lighter all for it. Maybe his earlier assessment of Steve has been right.

“I want you to know,” Tony starts, just as they’re about to initiate what’s definitely going to be the most violent game of 6 people water polo that’s ever conspired, “that this is one, an awful idea, and two, going to flood this entire floor.”

“You can sit out, if you really want to,” Steve suggests, partly out of care, partly because it would disadvantage their team.

Tony laugh aloud at that, “Absolutely not, you know I’d never pass up an opportunity to beat your ass, Rogers.”

“I thought you weren’t immune to it,” Steve says, grinning back.

Thor looks supremely confused, “Your humans’ trash talk is not dissimilar to Asgardians’ courting.”

“It’s not human’s trash talk,” Natasha says, tossing the ball between her hands, “it’s just Steve and Tony trash talk.”

Both of them, in displays of the utmost maturity, splash her with water.

JARVIS takes that as a cue to start the game timer, and it’s just as aggressive and chaotic as Tony thought - what else would you get from pitting four of the most capable humans in Northern America against a god and a guy who pretty much qualifies?

It’s water and it’s violent, two things which, historically, hadn’t been the greatest of situations for Tony, but there’s no point during this where he feels unsafe, or out of control (quite possibly losing, definitely).

He’s not nearly as ashamed as he should be to admit that he spent most of the time wrestling Steve.

He was fine during the beginning - when Steve’s waist was below the surface, and he was too busy staring at his face and chest, but after he’d jumped high enough that his feet were out the water, and he’d exposed those illegally tight speedos…

It made no sense whatsoever, all of them, bar Nat, were wearing regular, normal, socially acceptable, swimwear that didn’t expose just how big their dicks were, and he knows with relative certainty that they didn’t have speedos in the 40s, so where he got them fr-- Natasha.

“We only lost,” Tony says, panting, “because your speedos were a distraction.” Everyone else had gone to the showers, reluctantly congratulating Steve and Thor, and deciding on a rematch, leaving Steve and Tony in the pool, treading water in the shallower end.

“Would you rather I take them off?”

Tony looks at him, expecting at least that adorable light flush on his cheeks, but all he gets is a grin see-sawing the line between cheeky and joking and a proposition.

“I’d hate to miss out on you finally finding your true style,” Tony replies, matching him in tone.

Steve’s laugh echoes off the tiles, and Tony just has to kiss him, he just has to crash into him with absolutely no abandon, feeling reminiscent of his teen years, kissing in a pool, tugging off Steve’s ridiculous shorts.

Through half-lidded eyes, Steve tracks him up and down once he’d ripped off Tony’s swim shorts, breathing hard, “You should never wear clothes again,” he declares, sinking to his knees. Any and all thoughts of Steve and his questionable-at-times fashion choices leave Tony’s mind along with most forms of higher function.

masterpost

#steve rogers x tony stark #stevetony #stony #steve rogers #tony stark #my fic #my writing #happystevebingo #happy steve bingo #steve x tony #steve rogers/tony stark

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flamehairedwritings · 4 years ago

Text

The Fire In Your Eyes: Chapter Seventeen

Characters: Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ ONLY for violence, gore, character deaths, animal deaths, parent deaths, swearing, grief, sexual themes and unprotected sex.

Summary: Saved by Arthur Morgan when her town is attacked, a young woman’s past comes back to haunt her when she has no choice but to join the Van der Linde Gang.

Some scenes and dialogue have been taken from the game!

Read on AO3

The Fire In Your Eyes Masterlist

Please don’t copy, steal or re-post my work; credit does not count.

—

When Trouble Comes To Town, Men Like Me Come Around

“Hey, where the hell were you two?”

“Huntin’.” Arthur dropped the three turkeys they’d shot on the way back onto Pearson’s table.

Pearson grumbled something under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“I thought you’d gone.”

Arthur frowned as his hands went to his belt. “What?”

“After... what happened, I thought you’d both gone.”

His jaw moved slightly as he looked at him. “Well, we ain’t. We ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Pearson nodded, and Ada thought he was going to say something else when his head bowed and he studied the state the turkeys were in. “So, uh, where did you get—”

“Oh, you’re a fuckin’ peach, ain’t you?”

“And you’re better than all of us, are you?!”

She turned with Arthur to watch Karen storming after Miss Grimshaw, coming up the path from the river. Both women looked thunderous.

“At least I didn’t fuckin’ shoot someone who didn’t even know what was goin’ on, you miserable bitch!” Karen yelled and Grimshaw turned sharply, halting and thrusting a finger at her.

“Listen here, you little ungrateful cunt, I did us all a favour!”

“You did yourself a favour, you’ve been wantin’ her gone since Dutch cast you aside and took her in!”

“They ain’t stopped since,” Pearson muttered behind them, and Arthur released a long breath.

Starting to move forward, he murmured, “I better—”

“No, Arthur,” Ada murmured, her hand settling on his arm making him stop.

It seemed Susan had had enough, though, her face red and twisted.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin about, you bitch.”

“Oh, ho, I don’t?” Karen’s hands went to her hips. “You get real fuckin’ sad when you drink, Susan, and you don’t fuckin’ shut up so I know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“You keep away from me!” Susan hissed, turning on her heel and striding towards the fire pit.

Karen scoffed, for once not looking delighted that she’d gotten the upper-hand. “Gladly.”

Turning, she, too, strode away, nearing Arthur and Ada. Lifting her head, she stopped abruptly as she caught sight of them, her gaze flicking between them. Her eyes settled on Ada and her lips pressed together. Then, she turned, heading in another direction.

Swallowing, Ada released Arthur’s arm as he turned to her, arching an eyebrow.

She gave a small smile as she lowered her voice. “It’s better if we just leave them to it, let them get it all out.”

He nodded, then his hand lifted and rubbed her arm as he sighed, his eyes scanning the rest of the camp. “Let’s find Sadie, see what’s been goin’ on.”

They found their friend down by the river, guarding the small path. Her features lit up at the sight of them, shouldering her rifle and striding towards them.

“Hey, I got a plan to get John, now,” she said before either of them could even open their mouths.

“You do?” Arthur didn’t sound particularly surprised.

She nodded, keeping her voice low. “Yeah, we can’t all go, though, it’ll be too suspicious. I’ve just had to talk Abigail out of comin’ with me, for Jack’s sake, and she’s mad as hell.”

“I’m comin’ with you,” Arthur answered instantly.

Ada pressed her lips together slightly but said nothing.

Sadie inclined her head at him. “All right. Now, we obviously ain’t tellin’ Dutch.”

Ada almost laughed. “Yeah, good idea.”

The older woman turned her gaze to her. “Can you stay here and just, make sure he doesn’t suspect anythin’? Say we’ve gone huntin’ or somethin’?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Maybe we’ll just have another explosive argument, that’ll keep him occupied.

“Thanks. We shouldn’t take long but, just incase.”

“Of course.” She raised her eyebrows, releasing a breath. “Look after each other, please.”

“We will, I promise.” Her friend’s features softened for a moment before she was patting Arthur’s arm and heading back up towards the camp. “C’mon, we ain’t got a lot of time.”

“All right, give me a minute.”

Ada’s gaze shifted from Sadie’s back to meet Arthur’s, a light smile pulling at her lips. He returned it as his hand went to her arm again, squeezing gently.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Bye. Be safe, please.”

“I will.” His smile lingered as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then he was turning and following after Sadie.

Ada folded her arms as she watched him walk away, her heart twisting slightly. He was eager to get back out there, to be useful, to save his brother, she understood that, but she’d only just got him back, what if—

No, no, don’t think about that... He’s with Sadie, they’ll both be fine.

Occupied, she needed to keep herself occupied.

Blowing out a breath, she headed back up to the camp, reaching it just in time to see them riding away. No one looked up, unbothered. It was like she could feel the very life had gone out of the camp, and she knew it couldn’t all be down to Molly’s death, though that was still going to be raw.

She found her few things on Arthur’s bed, grateful that whoever had set it up had taken the initiative and grouped their things together.

It was a lovely, strange mile-stone, a quiet acceptance of what they were.

How long would that acceptance last, though? She glanced up, trying to find if anyone was watching her but, again, people were unbothered.

It’s in their minds, though.

Stop it.

She pulled a blanket down across the small space, the garment acting as a curtain so she could change in privacy. With Arthur having ripped most of the buttons off of her blouse, not that she’d complained too much, though she had complained as they’d dressed, earning a smirk from him, she’d had to just wear the flimsy corset and her jacket, buttoning it entirely and praying they wouldn’t be stopped on the way back. It was a crisp, almost cold day but she and Arthur had moved quickly, having no difficulty in hunting the turkeys and then cantering back.

She pulled on a light blue blouse, one that she’d bought from a group of travellers she and Sadie had encountered, the colour reminding her of a shirt Arthur had.

She’d worn it the day he’d returned, almost like she’d known. Then again, she wore it nearly every single day so she couldn’t really put it down to fate.

After buttoning it, she brushed the blanket aside and stepped out, tucking the blouse into her trousers. She left her gunbelt and jacket on the bed, not planning on leaving the camp due to her mission, and there were plenty of guns around if trouble came.

Her gaze drifted to Dutch’s tent as she straightened the sleeves. The opening of it moved gently with the breeze and she could just glimpse him in there, lying on the bed, napping, possibly.

That makes this a lot easier.

She was planning on just sitting on Arthur’s bed and keeping her eyes fixed on the tent when Jack’s faint giggle drew her attention away, making her heart twinge.

Abigail.

Rounding the wagon, she found mother and son a short distance away from the camp, Abigail sat up against her tree, hugging her legs as she watched her son draw in the mud with a stick. Ada glanced back over her shoulder to Dutch’s tent.

He won’t move, and if he does then, well, guess I could start up that argument.

Abigail raised her head at the sound of someone approaching, twigs snapping beneath boots. Ada smiled warmly as the woman’s alert gaze met her own.

“Hey, Abigail.”

She relaxed a little, letting out a breath. “Hey, Annie.”

Ada sat down next to her with a soft groan, wiping her hands against her thighs, watching Jack along with his mother. He was drawing random shapes and swirls, then occasionally stabbing the mud with the end of the stick and giggling at the sound it made as he pulled it back out. A smile pulled at her lips.

“I’m gonna have to wash all his clothes, again,” Abigail sighed, prompting a soft laugh from Ada.

“Can’t you just leave them? From how frequently and earnestly he gets them dirty, I think it’s a strong choice.”

His mother huffed out a sound, maybe a laugh. “Can’t have him being too much like his father.”

Ada turned her head to her, her smile fading a little. “How are you doing?” she asked quietly.

Abigail kept her gaze on Jack, gripping her legs. “Arthur’s gone with her, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

She released a breath. “Good.” She nodded a few times then. “That makes me feel a little better.”

“That’s good.”

They fell into silence as Ada watched Jack, too, the boy now trying to squish leaves into the mud.

“How are you doin’?”

Abigail’s quiet, gentle question made her blink as her gaze returned to her.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

She searched her features, finding genuine concern there, knowing there was more to it. So she took a chance.

“Abigail...” she began, lowering her voice even further, almost whispering. “... What Molly said, about me—”

Abigail took her hand, shaking her head. “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it here, now.”

She swallowed lightly as Abigail squeezed her hand. “Okay.”

The other woman nodded then released her, hugging her legs again. Ada gazed at her for a few moments longer before looking back to Jack, playing with her ring. The small act of kindness was threatening to bring tears to her eyes. She couldn’t tell if Abigail believed it or not, but the very notion that she would listen, in time, bolstered her.

They sat in silence for a little while, both women thinking about the men they loved and not saying so for fear of upsetting the other. It wasn’t until the boy raced after a butterfly that Abigail sighed and pushed herself up with a groan.

“Come find me later,” she murmured before striding off after her son, her skirt billowing in the breeze.

Ada watched her go as she got to her feet, trying to ignore the twinge in her heart.

If anything happens, I’ll get them out.

Don’t think about that.

She made her way back to the centre of the camp, looking to anyone who might be watching, which they weren’t, as if she was just getting herself something to drink. She poured herself some fresh water from a wooden jug into a tin cup, taking a long drink, her eyes fixed on Dutch’s tent. He was still in there, still sleeping.

This was turning out to be a lot more boring than she’d expected. Swallowing the last of the water, she placed the cup down and wiped her mouth.

What to do, what to do, what to do...

...

Guess I could take a watch.

No one had taken over from Sadie so it left the small lane unguarded and, after the last couple of days, she could do with just one day of no bad surprises. Returning to Arthur’s tent, she pulled her jacket on and then secured her gunbelt around her waist before taking one last glance at Dutch’s tent and then heading around the wagon to the path.

It was quiet around here, almost eerily so sometimes, the only sound the rustling of the trees, some small animals, or the gentle rush of the river. Taking up Sadie’s position, she angled her back so it faced the camp and she could keep an eye on the other bank and the path that stretched ahead.

It took all of two minutes before her mind began to wander.

When they returned with John, and they would return, she’d insist to Arthur that they make a plan. She knew he wouldn’t just leave, not unless he knew everyone would be okay. The gang would have to be in a good position... or not a gang at all.

Increasingly, it was seeming like the latter was the way fate was taking them.

If only they could get some people to leave, others would then go, too... maybe if they got John, Abigail and Jack away—

She fell forward with a sharp gasp as something blunt collided against the back of her head, and the world went black.

—

“... stop it, I want that...”

“Nuh-uh, I gots my hands on it first!”

“That ain’t fair!”

“Shut up!”

Her head ached and her face felt wet. Slowly opening her eyes, she had to blink several times for her vision to focus. At first all she saw was leaves and trees, realising the wetness on her face was due to her cheek being pressed against mud.

“He said I could have what I wants!”

“He said we could have what we wants!”

Her gaze slid up to the two men sat nearby, one of them holding her jacket, the other her boots. Ah, that’s why she felt so cold.

Murfree Brood. They had to be. She’d never encountered them, but it was hard to not recognise them for who they were.

Something grabbed her foot suddenly and she gasped sharply, her head twisting to see what it was.

A third Murfree grinned at her, spit sliding out of the corners of his mouth. He laughed gleefully, gripping her ankle tightly. “Hey, lady, you got pretty toes, I’m gonna cuts off one little toe first, then all the other pink little toes, then I’m gonna wear ‘em as a pretty pink necklace.”

Oh, fuck...

“Hey, hey, she’s awake!” one of the other men said, the argument swiftly ending.

Gritting her teeth, her heart and head pounding, she tried to push herself up before realising her wrists had been tied together tightly. Too tightly. Her fingers were tingling from the lack of circulation.

“Pretty, pretty toes...” The Murfree holding her foot sang, his other hand searching in the pocket of his overalls.

The other two men stepped closer, leaning over her.

The one holding her jacket, patches of long, thin hair on his head, grinned, revealing missing teeth. “I’m gonna cut your hair, it’s so bright and pretty.”

Her gaze darted down as she suddenly felt the cold flat of a knife against her foot. The drooling man giggled, waving the knife. “I can’t wait to get me a pretty new necklace—”

He yelled in shock as her other leg lashed out and her heel struck him in the nose, sending him falling back. Grabbing at his face, he howled in pain, sobbing, and she tried to push herself up. The man with thin hair dropped the jacket and grabbed her shoulders, though, shaking her hard and making her already sore head spin.

“That ain’t nice!” he yelled, and she could hear the other man trying to console the crying one.

“Fuck off,” she hissed through her teeth, feeling queasy and cold.

“That ain’t nice either!” He shook her again and she closed her eyes tightly.

Then he dropped her and she grunted as her back collided with the ground.

“You okay, Den?”

The crying man whimpered in reply, blood seeping through the fingers he held against his face. The man who held her boots, his hair dark and balding, glared at her, baring his teeth.

The man above her huffed out a breath before lunging down, his arm sweeping out, and he scooped the knife up. Turning back to her, his other hand gripped the front of her shirt and he tugged her upper body off the ground, making her groan.

His face inches from hers as he leaned over, spit landed on her cheeks as he hissed, “I’m gonna cut your hair off and you’re gonna apologise to Den for bein’ a nasty bitch and then you’re gonna make it up to him and—”

Short gunfire erupted.

The Murfrees barely had time to cry out. She stared at the man standing over her as a bullet tore through his face, spots of blood landing on hers, and his grip instantly loosened on her as he died and then his body was crumbling, falling on top of her as she fell back.

Gasping out her breaths in shock as she landed, her eyes wide, she felt panic clawing its way up her throat as the dead man lay on her, his features now unrecognisable. Gritting her teeth, she grunted as it took three attempts to shove him off of her completely.

Sucking in deep, harsh breaths, she then went to turn over, wanting to see who had saved her, when a shadow fell across her.

“Fuckin’ inbred trash,” Colm O’Driscoll tutted, his gun by his side as he looked down at the body.

In her peripheral vision, she saw men moving behind him, going to the bodies and their little camp, but she just stared up at him.

Oh, fuck...

Holstering his gun, Colm’s gaze then shifted to her and he smiled. Bending at the knees, he gripped her under the arms. “Come on, darlin’, don’t wanna be hangin’ ‘round here too long.”

Hauling her up with a grunt, she winced, finding that her feet were so cold she could barely feel them as she stood.

“Jesus, you’re shiverin’. Hey, Zach, hand me that...”

A tall dark-haired man with a large beard picked her jacket up and tossed it to Colm who caught it and then draped it around her shoulders. She just continued to stare at him, silent.

He hummed as he removed a knife from his belt with one hand and gripped her arm with the other, keeping her hands out so he could cut through the rope. It took a couple of attempts but then her hands were free, and she hissed out a breath as she started to rub at the red marks they had left, blood rushing back into her fingers.

“These yours?”

She glanced at Colm as he accepted her boots from Zach, arching an eyebrow.

She nodded silently.

“All right.” He dropped them near her feet and turned away, his hands going to his hips as he surveyed the small camp, watching his men search the bodies of the Murfrees.

After tugging her jacket on, Ada then bent down and pulled the boots back on, tying them tightly. Her gaze darted about the ground, trying to locate her guns and gunbelt. They were nowhere to be seen.

Fuck.

Once she’d finished tying them, straightening, she still felt cold so she folded her arms tightly, trying to warm herself. Her eyes lifting, she found Zach stood a few feet away, watching her.

Probably making sure I don’t go anywhere.

Wonderful.

She still felt queasy, too, possibly from the knock to her head... and also the Murfree’s destroyed face which she was very much avoiding looking at.

“All right, let’s go, boys.”

The men, seven of them, started to move at Colm’s announcement, and the man himself approached her once more, nodding his head in the direction they were heading.

“Come on, darlin’, our camp ain’t too far away.”

He held an arm out, gesturing for her to walk first. She paused for a moment, before moving with a long exhale. What choice did she have?

He fell into step with her and rubbed his hands together, glancing at her with a smile. “We heard all the hollerin’ and fancied havin’ a little fun. Who’d have guessed what we’d come back with, huh?”

She remained silent.

“Oh, you ain’t gonna talk to me, is that it?”

Silence.

“Ain’t gonna thank your uncle for savin’ your life?”

Silence.

... and she felt very, very queasy.

“Ahh, that’s all right, I didn’t do it for the—”

She stopped abruptly and doubled over, vomiting onto the damp grass. Her eyes were shut tightly but she heard Colm let out a whistle before feeling a hand rubbing her back.

“Jesus, girl... All right, get it out...”

She heaved again but this time nothing came out, so she spat to rid the awful taste from her mouth, sucking in deep breaths. She was shaking and she didn’t know if it was from the cold still or from how peculiar she felt.

“Zach, can you...?”

She just had time to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand before she was suddenly swept up with a gasp. Staring at Zach as he carried her bridal-style, she tried to push herself out of his arms, albeit weakly.

“What are you—”

“Don’t fuckin’ start, all right, just let the man carry you,” Colm sighed as they walked, Zach looking ahead and not saying a word.

She pressed her lips together, folding her arms, her body tense, but again... no choice.

The camp was only a few minutes away, and despite the current circumstances it felt good to have some time to try and breathe and settle her stomach. It gave her a chance to recognise the woodland, too. They weren’t too far away from Beaver Hollow, she thought, they couldn’t be, the sun was still relatively in the same position. She could escape, she could get back, maybe even before Sadie and Arthur returned. There’d be no need for him to worry, God, she didn’t want to worry him, not when they’d just got each other back.

The trees thinned out into a small clearing and the men broke off to either the fire pit or one of the three tents set up. Two wagons resided to the right and there were probably four or five men here, talking and laughing. She kept her arms folded tightly, her gaze darting between them.

“This way.”

Her eyes returned to Colm, staring at his back and watching him head to the smallest tent, Zach following him. A blonde man sat on a chair outside it, a small table next to him, though he quickly rose from it and trotted away as Colm neared, and as they approached Zach lowered her and set her down on it. She resisted the instinct to thank him, instead just keeping her mouth shut and staring at the ground. He turned and walked away instantly though, not waiting for gratitude.

Humming again, Colm picked up a cloth from the table and dunked it into a bucket of water, squeezing some out of it before turning to her.

As he gripped her chin with his free hand, she hissed as the wet cloth touched her skin, ice cold, which was the last thing she needed. He chuckled, continuing to wipe the specks of blood and mud from her face.

“I don’t think you could be any more pissed off with me, huh?”

She just looked at him, her features tight, jaw clenched.

He chuckled again, wiping hard at her skin. “Don’t tell me you’re the strong, silent type now, huh? I kinda miss you bein’ all loud and shouty.”

She didn’t saw a word, just let him clean her face, willing to make allowances now that she hadn’t been tied up again and he hadn’t demanded a ‘thank you’.

“What happened to your face?” he said after barely two seconds, gesturing at her scar.

The gentle tone of the question surprised her.

“Nothing.”

Damn it.

“Oh, she speaks,” he grinned, gentle tone gone, and tilted his head. “Dutch do that? Or one of his boys?”

She was already shaking her head, her brow dipping at the insinuation. “No, no... Pinkerton agent did it.”

“When?”

Well, I’m already talking and he’s not gonna shut up...

“When we had to escape from where we were staying, a place called Shady Belle.”

“Ah, yeah, I heard about that.” The grin returned as he wiped at her chin. “How is Dutch doin’? Heard he’s just come back from a nice trip.”

Exhaling a weary breath, she moved her head away from his grip, his movements pausing. “What are you doing here, Colm.”

He raised his eyebrows innocently. “Here? Just cleanin’ up my wayward niece.”

She wasn’t in any kind of a mood for this. “I mean this far east.”

Colm grinned, placing his free hand on his chest. “I’m here by invitation, darlin’. You met him, didn’t you, Angelo Bronte? Italian feller, greasy as they come?” She gave no reaction to the mention of the man who’d held Jack and she’d once been hell-bent on killing, but Colm was continuing anyway. “He extended a little invitation to me some time ago. I’d say it’s been a very prosperous relationship indeed, despite Dutch killin’ him which I’m pretty pissed about but, hey, from it I got Dutch cornered, got me better guns and business here, got my niece back—”

“You don’t have me back.”

He sighed, dabbing repetitively at her nose and making her pull her head back to try and get it away. “C’mon, join us, Adaline, it don’t make no sense for you to be runnin’ ‘round alone—”

She snatched the cloth out of his hand, wiping it against her forehead because it suddenly felt warm. “I’m not alone.”

He chuckled, folding his arms as he leaned against the table. “Ah, yes... your little affair with Arthur.”

She froze, her eyes darting to him. “What—”

He tilted his head. “That’s how we knew where you was campin’, darlin’, down at that big house, Shady Belle. Followed you back there after your stay at that fancy hotel. Kieran just decided to take a little walk at the wrong time—”

She rose to her feet, raging. “You bastard—”

His hand was already on her shoulder, easily shoving her back into the chair. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a bastard. I ain’t any worse than Dutch, though.”

She fell silent once more, folding her arms and staring out across the grass.

He laughed, and she didn’t think she could hate him any more. “Nah, you can’t argue with that. ‘specially with all the time you’ve been spendin’ with him—”

“Where’s Thomas.”

He blinked in surprise as her gaze met his, then smiled. “You believe me, then?”

She released another weary breath. “I just want to know the truth, Colm. I’m tired of it all.”

Her uncle shifted his stance slightly, tilting his head. “Well, he ain’t here.”

That was it, then, finally, what she’d known all along, he is dead, he—

“He’s out with scouting groups.” Her eyes met his again as he smiled. “Tryna get rid of the last of these Murfree fuckers. This is good land.”

She stared at him.

It had to be lies.

“You’re a sick man—”

He just spoke over her. “We’re regroupin’ soon, though, west of here.”

She’d had enough, again.

Standing, she smiled tightly. “Well, you can send me a letter when he gets back.”

She was about to stride away when his hand was on her shoulder once more and he pushed her back down, chuckling, it all too easy as she was still a little unsteady on her feet.

“Every time I forget just how damn funny you are.” He placed a hand on his hip, the other on the table as he looked at her. “You know you ain’t goin’ anywhere. Sooner you get used to it, sooner you’ll be happier.”

Smiling brightly, he then straightened and clapped his hands together. “All right, I’ll see if I can get someone to get you some food. Don’t you move, now!”

He strode away, whistling, and she stared at his retreating back, her lip almost curling into a snarl, her fists clenched. It had to all be a lie. Another game he was playing for his own, unknown amusement. It was all too convenient, Thomas not being here, meeting with him ‘soon’. What the hell did ‘soon’ mean, anyway? Well, she wasn’t going to hang around long enough to find out. Her gaze shifting from Colm, she played with the cloth in her hands, surveying the camp.

It was a mess in the most sparse of ways, if that was possible. Another table beside one of the other tents, what looked like it had maps strewn across it with a couple of tins and an empty glass bottle. A few blankets balled up here and there along with saddlebags, even more tins lying around. The wagons were half-filled with a few sealed crates and sacks filled with something she couldn’t identify, unevenly shaped. She could hear horses but couldn’t see them, they must be somewhere behind her or one of the wagons. The men sat around the fire, talking, sleeping or drinking. Zach was with them, watching her. Her eyes quickly left his and looked to the treeline. She could see a man there, guarding. If she just waited until it was dark then she could sneak out and hide in the trees and be back in camp by morning and then—

“Hello!”

She jolted, her head whipping to the side.

An Irish boy, well, young man, really, with shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair, possibly a few years younger than her, stopped abruptly, raising his hands as the grin faded into a sheepish smile. “Woah, hey, sorry. I forget how loud m’ voice is.”

She eyed him, still. “What do you want.”

His smiled widened a little more. “Nothin’, really, I just wanted to say hello.”

“Why.”

He was rather taken aback at that. “... Because it’s polite.”

She just continued to stare at him, trying to work out what his ulterior motives could be. He lowered his hands and took a few steps closer.

“I’m Peter, the camp doctor. And, well, I’m here for another reason, too. Colm wants me to have a look at ye.”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded, taking a slight breath. “Sure, sure, he just wants me to double check.”

“I’m fine.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, lowering his voice gently. “Look, I might be polite but I think ye know Colm always gets his way.”

Her jaw moved. Well, he wasn’t wrong there. Shrugging, she looked away, releasing a breath.

“Fine.”

Taking the granted permission, he took the last few steps closer and cleared his throat. “May I?”

She glanced at him and his raised hands and nodded.

“Thank you.” One hand settled on her forehead, the other on the back, feeling the small lump from where she’d been hit, which made her wince.

Fucking Murfrees. She hadn’t had time to think about it but now she did... what the hell were they doing so close to camp? Trying to take back their land? Shit, another thing to worry about.

“The bump should go in a few days,” Peter was murmuring, “Ye’re a little warm, too, but that could be from all the excitement.”

Lord, give me strength.

She raised her eyes to him. “Yes, because I’ve never experienced excitement before.”

He laughed sheepishly. “Yes, sorry, I bet ye have. Does ye’re head hurt?”

“It aches a little, yes.”

“I’ll get ye some water, you should be okay tomorrow.” He removed his hands and she looked at him, watching his nose wrinkle as he studied her. Smiling gently, he gestured at her face. “What’s this?”

She assumed what he was referring to. “A scar.”

He laughed nervously again and she probably would have felt guilty if she wasn’t so pissed off.

“Stupid question. How’d it happen?”

“A knife.”

“Right...” He cleared his throat, then pointed at her throat. “And this other scar? How’d this happen?”

“From when a man held a knife to my throat as Dutch van der Linde killed my father.”

There was a pause. It went on so long her eyes rose to look at him to see what he was doing. His mouth was moving slightly, a sympathetic frown on his features.

“I know about that. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

She just hummed, his sincerity finally starting to make the guilt creep in.

“Does anywhere else hurt?” he asked gently after a moment.

“No.”

“You sure?”

Go easy on him.

Licking her lips, her eyebrows rose slightly. “My wrists ache but it’s fine.”

“Yeah, that’ll just be from how they’d had ye tied, it should have gone by tomorrow. Let me know if it doesn’t. Ye’re shakin’, too, lemme get ye a blanket...”

She watched him duck into the tent and come out moments later with a thick green blanket, allowing him to drape it around her. She was about to ease up a little more and thank him when his hand went for the cloth.

“C’mere, ye still got some blood on ye—”

She moved her hand away. “I can do it.”

He instantly drew his hand back, smiling lightly. “All right. It’s just on ye’re left cheek there.”

She began to wipe at it, expecting him to make some kind of an awkward, drawn out goodbye, but he just stood there, his hands clasped together.

“Can I ask ye a question?”

Guilt was still very much lingering so she didn’t want to abruptly turn him away. “Sure.”

“What’s he like?”

She paused in her wiping, taking a moment to fold the cloth. “Who?”

“Dutch.”

Ada exhaled a breath, having half-expected it. “I don’t want to talk about him right now.”

Was this his ulterior motive? Had Colm asked him to gain her trust and then enquire about Dutch? See what state he was in? She had no love for either men but giving information to Colm that might hurt Dutch was something she’d never do. Hurting Dutch meant hurting Arthur, unfortunately.

Peter was all apologies. “Sure, sorry, I was just curious.”

I bet you were... but maybe he just genuinely is.

Glancing at him, she then looked away again, staring at the ground as she twisted the cloth in her hands.

“What do you want to talk about, then?”

Why isn’t he going... Lord, please give me all your strength.

“I don’t.”

“Oh, all right.” The guilt came again at his crestfallen tone, but he brightened a moment later as she looked at him. “I’ll get ye that water and maybe somethin’ to eat, yeah?”

“That would be nice.”

“All right. I won’t be long!”

Watching him walk away, she took in a long breath.

You can be back at camp by morning, just wait until it’s dark and most of them are asleep.

Just wait.

—

The tent was to be hers that night, Peter told her when he returned with a bowl of tasteless stew and a tin cup of warm water. He said it with a smile, like it was a lovely treat. Looking at the state of the camp, it seemed like it was, though.

Situated a little way from the camp fire, they could still keep an eye on her, and she sat on the ground outside it, the blanket still wrapped around her, staring at the grass as darkness fell, lost in her thoughts, mentally mapping out the area and, depending on which main road she was closest to, the quickest way back to Beaver Hollow.

No one approached her or said a word, even Peter left her alone, having finally taken the hint, hopefully, but every now and then she’d look up and find Zach’s eyes still on her. She’d just return her gaze to the ground.

To them she probably just looked tired, dejected, resigned, but she was just biding her time, waiting for them to relax a little more, to drink more, to sleep, to leave longer gaps between when they looked at her.

She did feel odd, though, hot all over, almost feeling hot inside, the sensation having overtaken her rather suddenly about an hour ago, but maybe it was just the blanket. She kept it on, though, the night cold. Her head pounded still, too, but, as Peter had said, that would go soon.

She glanced up at the men. Colm was sat amongst them, smoking a cigarette and drinking from a flask, quiet, smiling, looking at each man as they spoke. Zach was beside him and, thankfully, for once not looking at her, watching the flame of his match as he lit his own cigarette.

A loud laugh went up suddenly from the group and she took her chance.

Pushing the blanket off, she crawled under the table and around the tent. She hoped they would just assume she’d gone in the tent, but she knew that was just wishful thinking; one of them would check, just in case, most likely Zach.

So, knowing time was precious and keeping low, she instantly ran to the trees, straightening only when she was several feet into the woodland. The density of the trees made it seem darker than it was but she hoped that would aid her.

Then she heard shouting from the camp. They had realised what had happened.

She kept running, bowing slightly as she went up an incline. It didn’t matter where she was going, she’d find her way back to Beaver Hollow, she had to, she had to get—

A bullet sounded, then more shouts.

“Don’t fuckin’ kill her!” she heard Colm thunder over the rest of the voices, sounding closer.

With a grimace, she tried to run faster, her leg starting to ache, head pounding, the odd feeling lingering no matter how many deep breaths she inhaled. The men were drawing near, though, she could hear them calling to one another.

“Here! She’s this way!”

Shit.

She was headed down the hill now, slipping slightly on the mud but she kept her footing. She could hear the river, close by, maybe only a few minutes away. If she got to it she could cross it, and then disappear into the trees there, or maybe even hide by some of the large rocks that were usually dotted along it, maybe she could bide her time and then—

Someone barrelled into her, knocking her to the ground.

Landing with a loud groan, her teeth slammed together, narrowly missing her tongue. The person was grabbing at her shoulders, trying to keep her down, but she was thrashing too much, trying to crawl forward as she hissed out sounds.

“Stop, stop it, okay, he’s really angry!”

Peter.

"Let me go,” she hissed, striking her elbow back and knocking him in the chest.

He grunted at the impact but was stronger than he looked, or was she weaker? She certainly felt weak, drained, even.

“I can’t, I’m sorry, please, the others are comin’, they won’t be as nice—”

“I have to get back,” she was hissing, still trying to crawl forward, kicking her legs back in an attempt to push him away.

Tears were pricking at her eyes as she thought about Arthur, imagined him returning to camp, unable to find her, no one knowing where she was, what he would be thinking.

I have to get back to him, I just told him I love him, I can’t leave him, I can’t—

Peter’s weight was suddenly off of her and she released a breath, but before she could surge forward, one hand gripped the back of her jacket and an arm slid under her and then she was hauled up and on to someone’s shoulder.

Zach’s.

He was instantly walking, heading back towards the camp, his arm like a vice around her lower back, keeping her in place. That didn’t stop her from trying to push herself up, though, her hands gripping at the back of his jacket, her legs kicking out again. He didn’t move or say anything, just continued walking, and her struggles were useless.

Why was she so drained?

She could hear the rest of the men catching their breath or coughing out curses, not entirely delighted at having been made to unexpectedly sprint through the woods. She ignored them, trying to blink the tears away because the last thing she was going to let happen would be Colm seeing her cry.

He was angry? Good. So was she, but she would bide her time until she got the upper-hand because, God help her, she would.

Zach halted abruptly and when he set her down, surprisingly carefully, she turned and found they were back at the camp, the fire glowing to her right. It didn’t have her attention, though, because a foot away stood Colm, flask in one hand, finger tapping against it, resting his weight on one foot, his other hand hanging by his side, cigarette resting between his fingers.

His gaze was fixed on her, hard, unreadable. She held it, her chin lifted, breathing even.

What had he expected?

His tongue ran over his teeth and then he turned his head to the side, hawking and spitting. Tilting his head, his voice was light.

“If you try that again I will keep you tied to a post, you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Taking a drag on the cigarette, he nodded leisurely a few times before dropping it to the ground and pressing it into the damp grass with his boot.

“Well, all right, then.”

His hand suddenly lashed out, slapping her. It wasn’t particularly hard but the surprise of it was enough to have her already unsteady legs falling from beneath her. Zach caught her arms in time, though, holding her up, and she swiftly shook one of his hands off so she could raise her own to her stinging cheek.

Hissing out breaths through her teeth, shaking from what now she didn’t know, her eyes tracked Colm, the man having already turned away, watching him move back towards the fire to join his men.

“All right, where was we, then,” he called out loudly, resuming his seat as they continued their conversations like nothing had happened, their backs to her.

Zach was still gripping one of her arms so she wrenched it out of his grip, though she knew it came free more from him allowing it than her own strength.

“I think it’d be best if you went to sleep.”

She stiffened slightly at his voice, American, deep but quiet, and for some reason it made the tears return to her eyes. Sniffing, she dropped her hand from her cheek and swallowed hard. Without saying a word, she turned and moved past him, heading for the tent. If she’d deigned to look at the men around the fire she would have found Peter watching her, regretful, torn.

Stooping and entering the tent, taking the blanket she’d left at the entrance with her, she settled on her knees, letting the flap fall closed behind her. It was tiny, only enough space for her to lie down and maybe lay a few items next to her. She only had her jacket and boots. She just removed the jacket, and realised as she did so that her shirt was sticking to her skin, a light sheen of sweat covering her. Had the run been that strenuous?

Lying down on the bedroll, it was thin but it’d do, she pulled the blanket over herself, rested her head on her arm and closed her eyes, willing sleep to come quickly.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

Tomorrow she would come up with a plan.

Tomorrow she would leave.

—

The next morning she could barely move. Her entire body ached and she felt hot and cold all at once, shaking.

Peter, thankfully, was the one to come and check on her when she didn’t emerge, guilt still troubling him. Taking one look at her, guilt turned to concern and he placed the back of his hand against her forehead.

“Think ye got a fever,” he murmured, pressing his lips together. “Nothin’ too serious I don’t think, but we’re gonna have to wait for it to break.”

Ada just nodded slightly, her throat too sore for her to speak.

“I’ll get ye some water and see what medicines I’ve got, all right?”

He smiled gently before exiting, and she just felt like crying.

Just let me go, just take me to a doctor in town, I don’t want to be here...

“She ain’t up yet?” Colm, stood right outside her tent by the sounds of it.

To no surprise, so was Zach. “Peter says she got a fever.”

“What? Awh, shit...” She heard him hawk and spit. “... We’re still movin’ on today. You and Peter look after her, do what you can, keep up.”

“Will do, boss.”

She heard Colm walk away, whistling to himself.

A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. They were going to move on, taking her further away from Beaver Hollow. And with how awful she felt... It could be days before she could even sit up without feeling queasy. She’d had a couple of fevers before as a child, could remember how awful she’d felt for days, how her mother had tended to her, had tried to soothe her as she’d cried, wanting to play with her brother.

Peter returned then with a small bag and a skin of water, and she was suddenly struck with how young he was. Maybe even still a teenager. What the hell was he doing here as a doctor? Could he even look after her properly?

She licked her dry lips and swallowed, wincing with the motion. “Take me to the doctor in town,” she rasped.

He glanced at her, and she thought she saw guilt in his eyes before he resumed looking through his bag. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Please...” she murmured, and she thought she had him when he paused again, his eyes closing briefly.

“Ada, I can’t,” he whispered, placing his hand over her clammy one unexpectedly. “I’m sorry but I can’t and ye know it. But I will take care o’ ye and ye will be fine, I promise.”

She just looked at him, knowing her eyes were shining. She didn’t care, now, if she cried, she just felt so awful, every single part of her aching.

“Pete, we got ten minutes then we gotta go,” Zach called, and Peter’s hand left hers, quickly going through his bag.

“All right!”

He had her drink some kind of a tonic, the thick, syrupy, sugary taste of it nearly making her gag.

“I think you just got t’ sweat it out, all right?”

‘I think’ didn’t fill her with confidence.

She nearly burst into tears when Peter helped her sit up and shifted her to the mouth of the tent so Zach could reach in and pick her up. Her body hurt so much but she knew Colm wouldn’t make any allowances for her. Knew even if she hadn’t tried to escape last night that he still wouldn’t have.

She was placed in one of the wagons on a pile of blankets, another one placed over her, and Peter sat in with her as Zach drove it. She stared up at the white canopy of the wagon, feeling every stone and dip the wheels of it went over. It felt almost like a dream, to the point where when she closed her eyes and fell asleep and did dream, she was still lying in the wagon, but now her mother was at her side, fussing and stroking her hair from her face.

“You’ll be all right, you’ll be okay, Mama’s here, darling...”

Peter pretended not to notice when, after she awoke only a few minutes later, the wagon jolting her out of it, silent tears poured down her cheeks.

She didn’t know how many days passed, the fact they moved every day not helping. Whenever she was awake and somewhat lucid, she was either in the wagon with Peter at her side, or in a tent. It sometimes took her a while to work out if it was real or not as her dreams were so vivid.

Her mother came to her often, humming a lullaby like she used to, telling her she’d be all right soon, that the weather is improving. Sean came, too, asking her what the hell she was doing, why she was wasting a perfectly good sunny day when she could be out robbing, making him proud. He was always smiling.

Then there were the dreams she had about Arthur.

Sometimes, she thought she could feel his arm around her, or his voice was in her ear, murmuring to her that she was okay, she was fine, he loved her even though she was a sweaty mess.

Then sometimes he’d be at the other end of the tent, asking where she was, why she was here.

No matter who came, though, they always looked slightly off, like it was them but wasn’t them. Her mother’s eyes were a different colour, Sean smiled differently, Arthur was expressionless, his voice bland.

Several times she thought she’d died and was in hell.

What she wouldn’t remember was Peter sat by her side for most if not all of it, hearing her mutterings and murmurings, hearing her mumble to people who weren’t there, barely able to make out what she was saying. Sometimes he’d have to place a hand on her shoulder to keep her still as she thrashed a little, telling her quietly she was all right, she was okay.

Zach was the only other person to visit, bringing Peter food and water for him and Ada. Sometimes he could get her to eat, when she was having a lucid period, could get her to have half a bottle of a tonic then some water before she’d be out again.

He thought about changing her out of her sweat-soaked clothes, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he placed fresh garments he believed would fit by the opening of the tent, in case she woke in the rare times he wasn’t there.

And he kept watch, keeping his promise of looking after her.

—

When she awoke, she knew something was different.

She wasn’t hot or cold, just normal. She could see and hear properly, her body didn’t ache. She felt drained still but nowhere near as much as before. She was so thirsty, too, and hungry; she could feel her stomach groaning in protest.

Staring up at the roof of the tent, she just took in a few, even breaths, hoping this wasn’t a dream.

“Oh, hey.” Her gaze dropping sharply, she found Peter sat just outside the slightly open flap, smiling widely. “You’re awake.”

As he ducked his head into the tent, she swallowed, feeling like nails were in her throat.

“Water,” she croaked.

Peter paused, raising his eyebrows a little. “What?”

“Water.”

“Oh, shit, yeah, sorry...” His head ducked out before it returned again moments later, and he leaned in, offering her a skinful of water.

Pushing herself up, her arms shook a little but her head was fine. Accepting it, she took long sips, her eyes closed. She could feel Peter watching her, but it wasn’t until she finally lowered the skin that he spoke.

“You okay?”

She wiped her mouth with her fingers as she looked at him. “Little hungry.”

“Yeah, you’ve not eaten much, but this is good, means you’ve got ye’re appetite back.” He was grinning now, thoroughly pleased. “I’ll get ye somethin’—”

“How long?” she asked just as he started to turn away.

He understood what she meant, his features softening. “A week.”

She nearly felt sick.

“A week?” Her already hoarse voice cracked on the word.

Fuck... We could be anywhere by now.

Peter smiled sympathetically. “Yeah, ye... It wasn’t the worst I’ve seen but it was pretty bad.”

Ada just nodded, her eyes on the blankets covering her legs, trying not to cry. She heard Peter shift slightly.

“Do ye still want somethin’ to eat?”

Clearing her throat, wincing, she shook her head. “It’s all right, I’ll come out and get something. I could do with some fresh air.”

“Yeah, I think that’ll do ye good.”

There was a slight pause in which she met his gaze, and then she allowed a faint smile to lift her lips. “Thank you, for looking after me.”

He shook his head, returning the smile. “It’s all right, no need t’ thank me. ‘m just glad ye’re okay.” Pointing at a corner near him, he continued, “There’s clothes for ye here, they should fit. I’ll be by the fire.”

Before she could thank him again he was gone, the tent flap closing.

Closing her eyes, she ran a hand over her hair as her head bowed, feeling how dry it was but ignoring it for now.

A week.

They could be on the other side of the county, or in another one, miles and miles and miles away. It hurt her unbearably to think of Arthur, to think of how he must be feeling, what he was even doing. Would he be out looking for her? Would gang business keep him away? What if something awful had happened to them all?

She couldn’t cope with it, not now, not with how fragile she felt, so she shoved it to the back of her mind, focusing instead on something smaller; food.

She took her time changing into the odd assemble of black, pinstripe trousers and brown, faintly checked shirt. They were a little big, but once she’d tucked the shirt in and used her belt to tighten the trousers she deemed that they would do. Pulling her boots on, she then neatly folded her beloved blue shirt and her own trousers, and placed them on the bedroll. After running her fingers through a few knots in her hair, she took a breath, licked her dry lips, and moved out of the tent.

She was rather stiff as she straightened so she just stood for a few moments, rolling her shoulders and neck. As she did, grimacing, she surveyed the new camp. They were on top of a hill on a flat patch of grass, and for miles and miles all she could see was the tops of trees, nothing distinguishable anywhere. She took in a breath, fighting the faint feeling of panic that was starting to build.

It’s all right, you can find your way back to him, you will get back to him...

Is he even alive.

Stop it.

She didn’t want to think about that, that the mission to get John might have been unsuccessful. That any of them could have died.

Exhaling a breath, she looked towards the fire pit. She estimated it must be morning, a couple of hours until noon possibly, and the camp was quiet, a few men still sleeping. There were more blankets and saddlebags dotted around so she assumed they must have picked up some more O’Driscolls along the way, wherever the hell they were heading. She saw no sign of—

“Well, look at you, you made it.”

... Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

Turning her head, she watched Colm approach, tin cup in his hand, the other in his pocket, a lazy grin on his lips. It wasn’t until she saw him that she remembered he’d slapped her. It shouldn’t have surprised her but it had; despite the man he was she’d gotten the sense that he wouldn’t lay a hand on her, yes, even despite the fact he’d had her tied up previously. She’d thought there was some part of him that really did care for her, in his twisted way. What a fool she’d been.

She eyed him warily now, grateful that he stopped a few feet away, sipping his coffee.

“I did.”

The grin lingered. “Good, I would’ve hated to waste time buryin’ you.”

You bastard.

“Come on, boys!” he suddenly called out, in such a loud tone that some of the men sleeping jerked awake and she flinched. “We’re goin’ west to meet with the others.”

His gaze shifting to her, he smiled over the rim of his cup.

She knew what the smile meant; Thomas was supposedly going to be there.

Not giving him a reaction, she asked flatly, “When is this regroup happening.”

He shrugged a shoulder, still smiling. “Couple days.”

Fine. Just a couple of days and then she would have the truth.

—

They travelled for another week.

She would have thought it was on purpose if they didn’t move on every single day. They were always moving, heading west she could tell by the sun, but still a week passed with no sign of a regroup.

And so Ada was forced to acclimatise to what life was like in an O’Driscoll camp.

It was nothing like Dutch’s where there was community and cohesion; here there was no organisation, she was more than certain the men stole from each other, and they found food and drink for themselves. A few would go hunting together and share what they killed but beyond that, nothing. From eavesdropping she gathered they were conducting business as they went, trading, bartering and killing when they stopped at night. She never saw any of it or was asked to go with any of them, though; both not trusted and not allowed to do anything, stuck between being a captive and their boss’s niece.

So with nothing to do, not even a book to read, all she could do was sit and watch and stare and think. Sulking, Colm called it once with a laugh, which just made her press her lips together and made her look like she was sulking even more.

It felt like torture, left with nothing but her thoughts.

She asked Peter if she could assist with anything but he was so adamant that she rest, so polite that he wouldn’t allow it, that to save herself from screaming she just gave up asking. She did sit with him, though, needing something, anything, to do, and she learned from his never-ending stream of consciousness that he had just turned twenty one and only recently come over from Ireland, his father, now a doctor, having known Colm in a former life. So Peter had arrived here, with a letter from his father, and asked around until he found them, and had been welcomed with open arms; there was always limbs to be reattached and wounds to heal. He was excited to be in America, giddy, even, and he either hadn’t witnessed was the O’Driscolls did, ignored it, or was frightened because he didn’t say a bad word against them, didn’t even raise a minor gripe, even when a few jokes were made at his expense. It was nice to make conversation with someone, though, to distract her, and he had saved her life.

She spent all the daytime hours with him, and he eventually did allow her to roll bandages and repair them, though that was it. When they travelled she would sit in a wagon with him, almost bored to tears as they took turns pointing out things they saw.

Zach watched her constantly, even when she bathed in any rivers or lakes they came to, but he never leered, never stared, never even spoke, just stared at a part of the water near her so she was in his peripheral vision, and then above her head when she got out, even though she’d opted to keep her underclothes on. That was useless, though, as they just stuck to her body, but there was no one around to see; no one dared sneak a peek. She quickly realised the men both deeply respected and were kind of afraid of Zach, and she didn’t think it was just to do with how tall he was. He was silent, muscular, and had huge revolvers strapped to his belt and she didn’t doubt that he very much knew how to use them. He shared his food and drink with her, he seemed to have an endless supply of tinned goods, and they sat in silence together, which she didn’t mind one bit. She did murmur a thank you every time, though; she was her mother’s daughter.

His ever watchful gaze gave her no chance to slip away.

At night, tears would trail down her cheeks at knowing Arthur was out there, her heart aching unbearably. What if he thought she was dead, his heart breaking all over again. Would he give up? What if he was grieving her. Spiralling, doing stupid things in disbelief and anger. The darkest, cruellest parts of her mind whispered to her that what if he thought she’d gone, disappeared when she’d had the chance. She was aching to get back to him so much it hurt.

On the fifteenth night of being their captive, she was keeping count now, with the second week spilling over into a third, these insecurities and anxieties swirling in her mind yet again, she sat outside her tent, staring at the ground sullenly.

Zach was sat on a chair a few feet away, whittling something and smoking on a pipe. Peter was asleep a short distance to the right, snoring softly. A few men were talking around a fire some way off, but other than that it was quiet. That’s what surprised her most about the O’Driscoll camp; the quiet. She’d expected raucous laughter, copious drinking and shouting, insults flung this way and that but, no, the men spoke to who they wanted to talk to and got on with what they needed to. Part of her wondered if this was why Colm chose these men to be around him, for the quiet. Maybe they were just the best listeners, the ones least likely to disagree.

Her thoughts lingered on her uncle. He’d barely spoken to her since she’d recovered, only grinning when he caught her eye or bidding her a cheerful good morning or evening when he passed. Other than that, she didn’t see much of him and she liked that just fine. She was... apprehensive of his company now, knowing he wasn’t beyond physically hurting her if she disobeyed him. It made her all the more anxious for whenever there would be this regrouping; who better to make an example of than his own niece?

She couldn’t even think about it, the prospect of being around more O’Driscolls, ones she knew for certain would be rowdier than this group... and also finally knowing Thomas’s fate.

She knew it already, though; he was dead.

Once it was confirmed she was going to leave by any means necessary, but not before—

“Hey, darlin’.”

She caught herself before she flinched. Lifting her eyes, she found Colm sauntering closer, smoking. The apprehension grew; she’d learned that any conversation with him didn’t turn out well.

He coughed and then took a drag, blowing out a thin stream of smoke. “You better get some sleep, we’re all meetin’ up tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Part of her believed he was actually telling the truth this time.

Her eyes followed him as he passed, smiling. “You’re gonna need all your energy for seein’ your brother.”

I hate you.

Her teeth were clenched so tightly. She didn’t believe it. It was a cruel trick he was playing.

And she was going to kill him for it.

—

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blurry-fics · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter Twenty One

Realize That It’s Gone | Series Masterlist

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2119

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) (picture credit)

“Tyler!” you squealed as you felt him press a kiss to your cheek. “Kisses are cheating!”

“Says who?” he laughed from behind you.

“Says me. Add it to the list of rules.”

You were currently sitting in between Tyler’s legs, your back pressed to his chest, playing one of your classic Mario Kart tournaments. It had been smooth sailing for the most part, until Tyler decided to use how you were sitting to his advantage. He would give you kisses every now and again or wrap his arms around you when he finished a race, all of which proved to be excellent ways to keep you from scoring enough points to get ahead of him.

“But what if I don’t agree?”

“Too bad.”

Tyler wrapped his arms around you and rested his head on your shoulder, making sure to stick out his bottom lip for you to see.

“Not fair,” he whined.

“You only think it isn’t fair because it means I’ll have a better chance of getting first place.”

“That’s not true!”

“Yes it is! Or you wouldn’t have a problem with the no kisses rule.”

“Fine. What if we do one more race with no kisses and if you win, then we can make that rule. If I win, then I can keep kissing you during Mario Kart.”

“Deal.”

You and Tyler shook hands and you clicked on the next race button. Tyler tensed up a little bit behind you as you waited for the race to begin.

“Scared, Joseph?”

“You wish.”

The race began and you took off. Tyler’s arms bumped against yours occasionally, but you knew it was only a side effect of sitting against him and not intentional sabotage on his part. By some miracle, you were actually managing to stay ahead of Tyler, despite all of his best attempts to take you down in game.

“Come back here!” Tyler laughed. He had nearly caught up to you, but a well-timed drift had given you just enough of a boost to keep your lead.

“Never! I can and will win this race and make the rule official.”

One lap later, you successfully crossed the finish line in first place. You waited for Tyler to finish before jumping up and dancing around the room, celebrating your victory.

“Take that, Joseph! No more kissing me as a distraction during races.”

“That was your favorite level! Of course you beat me at it!”

“Then you shouldn't have agreed to the deal,” you grinned, sitting back down next to Tyler.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, twisting a couple of the strands through his fingers. He looked so disappointed that it almost made you feel bad, so you leaned forward and kissed him, which had him smiling again in no time. Shortly after, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. You laughed and threw your arms around him, steadying yourself.

“You know, I’m going to miss days like this when you leave for tour again,” you said.

“Hey, I’m not leaving for a long time. We just got back from our last tour, plus we have to do the final touches on Vessel and get in contact with venues and all sorts of technical stuff that you don’t care about,” he smiled. “I’m not leaving for a long time.”

“Good, because I like having you around.”

“And in the meantime, I’m going to continue to destroy you at Mario Kart,” he laughed.

“Is that a challenge?”

“Obviously.”

You were about to start the next set of races when someone knocked on the door downstairs. Georgie immediately sprinted out of the room to investigate, and you figured it would probably be a good idea for you to follow him and figure out what was going on.

“You can wait here, Ty,” you said.

“Ok.”

You quietly crept down the stairs and over to the door so that you could get a glimpse of who was outside. The strangers’ voices were audible, but too muffled for you to be able to make out who it was. Thankfully, all it took was one glimpse of a familiar head of Y/H/C hair to recognize who it was.

“Carter!” you smiled as you opened the door.

“And Marenna!” Marenna added with a smile.

“Yes! Hi! Come in,” you said, opening the door wider for them.

“I hope we aren’t interrupting anything,” Carter said as he walked inside. “But Mom texted me earlier today saying her and Dad were going to visit Aunt Jane and I thought you might like some company.”

“And we brought lunch,” Marenna said, holding up a bag from your favorite fast food place.

“No way!” you grinned. “Thank you so much! And, um, Tyler is actually over, but I’m sure he won’t mind the company.”

“Joseph is here? I haven’t seen him in forever.”

“Hey, Ty!” you called up the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Come down here! Carter and Marenna are here!”

“I’m coming!”

Marenna leaned over towards you, dropping her voice to a whisper, “Do I finally get to officially meet the infamous Tyler?”

“Yeah,” you said, biting back a smile.

Although you and Tyler had been dating for a couple weeks now, you had yet to tell Carter and Marenna that it was official. Because of everything that had happened in the past and with Josh, the two of you had decided to keep it on the downlow, at least for awhile. You figured today was the day they would finally find out the truth.

“Hey, Joseph! Long time, no see,” Carter said as he came down the stairs.

“Nice to see you again!”

“Tyler, this is Marenna. Marenna, Tyler.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” Marenna said, holding out a hand to shake Tyler’s.

“You too.”

“Ok, I don’t know about you three, but I’m starving so I’m going to head to the kitchen and start eating,” Carter said, hardly taking a moment to take off his shoes before he was walking down the hall.

Marenna jokingly rolled her eyes at you, making you giggle. Tyler smiled and followed after the two of you.

“I didn’t realize you were here, otherwise I would have gotten you a full meal, Joseph,” Carter said as he laid everything out.

“It’s fine, I can share some of my food with him,” you said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m not super hungry so it isn’t a big deal.”

“Ok, I was going to say he could have some of mine, if he wanted.”

“Thanks, Car. For the food and being willing to share.”

“Of course,” he smiled.

“So, what have you two been up to lately?” Marenna asked, shooting you a look when Tyler wasn’t looking.

“Well, um,” you turned to Tyler and dropped your voice to a whisper, “should we tell them?”

“Tell us what?” Carter asked. Tyler didn’t even have a chance to answer before Carter was talking again. “Wait, hold on. No. You aren’t… are you?”

“Oh my god,” Marenna gasped. One of her hands flew up to cover her mouth.

“I guess you don’t get a choice,” you laughed.

“It’s a good thing I was going to say yes, anyway,” Tyler smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“Y/N!” Carter said. “How long has this been going on?”

“A couple weeks?” you smiled sheepishly.

“Weeks?” Marenna and Carter gasped in unison.

“And I’m only finding out about it now?” Marenna added.

“We were keeping it on the downlow! I was going to tell you soon enough.”

“It finally happened.” Carter shook his head. “We’re going to have a talk later, Joseph,” he added, pointing a finger at Tyler.

Tyler tensed up next to you, so you reached a hand up to lightly rub at his back.

“Car, do you really have to do that?” you sighed.

“Yes, because I care about you. Both of you.”

“It’s fine, Y/N. I think I’ve more than earned a talk with Carter at this point.”

You held your hands up in defeat, “If you say so.”

Marenna shot you a look, nearly making you giggle again. You managed to hold it back by taking a bite of food and looking around the kitchen.

The four of you talked for awhile longer while you finished up your food. You and Tyler had to fill Carter and Marenna in on everything that had happened since you had last talked with Marenna about the entire situation. Tyler also gave some explanation as to why he had lied to you for so long. Thankfully, Carter and Marenna were really understanding and didn’t go off on him like you initially had.

“Alright, Joseph, let’s talk,” Carter said as he wiped his hands off on a napkin.

“Now?”

“Yeah, let’s go outside.”

You gave Tyler a couple reassuring pats on the back before he followed Carter outside. Since this was your first real relationship, you had absolutely no idea what Carter was going to say to Tyler. Marenna noticed your distress and patted the seat of the stool next to her, inviting you to take a seat.

“It’s going to be ok, Y/N. I assure you that he isn’t going to say anything ridiculous or scare Tyler away.”

“I hope not,” you said, glancing out the sliding glass door at the two of them. “I’ve waited years to be with Tyler and if Carter swoops in and ruins it after a few weeks… well, you can imagine I wouldn’t be happy.”

Marenna laughed and placed a hand on your shoulder, “He won’t, don’t worry. Also, speaking of Tyler, I know I’ve seen pictures of him before but, man, is he cute in person.”

“Right?” You turned to Marenna with the biggest smile on your face. “I just want to stare at him all the time.”

“I’m so glad you two are together. I can just tell how happy you make one another. It’s nice to see, especially after how upset you were for awhile there, you know?”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. I’m just glad that it all worked out in the end.”

“You ended up with the person who you were meant to end up with.”

“I see you and Carter have been sharing inspirational sayings,” you laughed.

“He was so proud of that one. I was over at his apartment the day after you two had that conversation and he wouldn’t shut up about how smart he felt when he said it.”

You shook your head. “You know Carter, he has to take the little victories where he can.”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “Oh! Look who decided to show up.”

You looked down towards your feet, only to see Georgie circling around the legs of the stool. Marenna scooted back so that she could pick him up and hold him in her arms. She was one of the few people you knew, aside from yourself, that Georgie would actually allow himself to be held by for more than a few minutes.

“He probably just finished making a mess.”

“Probably,” Marenna sighed. “But he still looks cute, anyway.”

“He does.”

Your conversation was ended by the sound of the sliding glass door being opened. Tyler and Carter were both laughing as they walked inside, which you took as a good sign.

“You didn’t scare him off, did you?” Marenna asked, turning to look at the two of them.

“I didn’t scare him off,” Carter said. “We just had a nice talk.”

You turned to Tyler and raised your eyebrows, hoping for some confirmation. He smiled and gave you a subtle thumbs up.

“Thanks for not scaring my boyfriend away, Car.”

“Anytime, Y/N.”

“Now what?” you asked.

“I mean, we do have a Mario Kart tournament to finish,” Tyler chimed in.

“That’s it! We can finally have a tournament with everyone in it and figure out who the champion is,” you smiled. “Carter? Marenna? You in?”

“You already know I’m in,” Carter said.

“As am I.”

“Then let’s do it.”

The four of you spent the rest of the night in the den, sitting in front of fans as you played round after round of Mario Kart. You told each other stories, came up with all sorts of crazy rules for races, threw creative insults at one another, and just generally enjoyed spending time together. Georgie even came and sat with you for awhile. To your surprise, Tyler didn’t cringe in fear as he came wandering into the room and stepped over his legs.

It was hard for you to believe, sometimes, that you were surrounded by this many people that loved you, but you also knew that you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

* * * * *

Taglist

@faceofcontvsions @ohprettyweeper @tylersheavydirtysoul @topownsmyheart @schrodingersjustine @heythereitm3 @leam-2001 @breadbinishigh @wearebxnditos @iguessimsatan @harishaanne @5secondsofmoxley @patdsinner33 @littlerachelbee @iamnotawasteofspace @nostalgic1975 @fruityfreddie @gaysludge

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inikavulpixelreviews · 5 years ago

Text

Let’s Talk About Pokemon - The Psychic Type

No type has a more troubled long-term history with the game than the Psychic type. One notorious for being THE best in the game at the series's beginnings. Not even as one of the top types, but the objectively best type in the whole game. With Psychic types having some of the highest stats in the game, including Mewtwo, alongside having some of the strongest moves in the game. Not to mention it had pitiful competition. Its only weaknesses at the time were Bug and Ghost. Bug had a pitiful selection of attacks, the best one being Pin Missile. Meanwhile, Ghost was meant to be the quintessential Psychic counter, sadly they somehow not realized that the only Ghost type in the game was also part Poison, thusly are weak to Psychic. AND they suffered the same problem as Bug, where their strongest move that worked off of normal damage calculations was Lick. Not that it mattered, because they accidentally made Psychic IMMUNE to Ghost. Whoopsie.

Psychic was so notoriously overpowered, the next Generation had to introduce not one, but TWO whole new types in Dark and Steel specifically geared toward nerfing Psychic to bring it back in line with the rest. And of course, Bug and Ghost getting some better moves at their disposal helped as well.

These days, Psychic is just another one of the types. Even down to being pretty reasonably common, with 83 or so to choose from. The type's theming runs pretty flexible, including things like mystical critters, users of powerful mental forces, animated ancient artifacts, among more things. It's also one of the types most willing to get weird, however with a lot of 'Mons in its roster that seem uncharacteristically normal as well. Seriously, what about Oricorio or the Lati duo elicits the Psychic type?

It's also somewhat inadvertently something of a “Space” type, with it being assigned to a lot of cosmic entities such as Deoxys, Beheeyem, the whole Cosmog line plus Necrozma combo, among others. I'd definitely say the Type's strength comes from when it delves into the weirdos and horror-themed monsters. The more normie ones like Oricorio or even the whole Lake trio feel pretty out of place for the type. At least ones like Bruxish or Swoobat can be linked with the Psychic type for one's ability to disorient and the other's shrieks makes you feel all lovey-dovey.

Top 10 Favorite Psychic Types:

Even then, a couple of these are just ones I like the design of, but don't really like AS Psychic types. Like I said, ones like Latias or Alolan Raichu don't really fit in, do they? A. Raichu may as well have been Fairy type.

Bottom 10 Least Favorite Psychic Types:

I feel like a good chunk of these aught to have been retconned into Fairy types, where they'd arguably be more thematically appropriate. The others are just plain suffering from missed potential, like Cresselia which could've been a pleasant Poke-sandman if it wasn't so busy being a Latias cosplaying the moon.

The Cutest:

The Coolest:

The Prettiest:

The Spookiest:

The Weirdest/Most Unique:

Most Inventive Use of the Type:

...Though I feel like for this type in particular, it aught to be called “Most Nuanced Use of the Type”, you get me? You can take a lot of weirdos and assign them mental supernatural abilities, but there's outliers like Beheeyem and Musharna which take up a unique place among the mental spectrum between the stereotype that aliens have mind-controlling powers, meanwhile Musharna has a particular domain amongst the mental spectrum where it is a Dream creature!

Also, looking back on the guy, I don’t think I gave Mr. Mime a fair shake when I initially reviewed em. Watching the Mr. Mime scene in Detective Pikachu definitely helped in warming up to Mr. Mime just due to that being the funniest scene in the whole movie, but for real. I’d probably still somewhat change the design a bit but I didn’t give enough credit to a mime-like creature that uses Psychic abilities to create physical invisible walls in the world. Had I enough reason to go back and re-review some older Pokemon I’ve since had a slight change of heart on, I might give Mr. Mime a 6.5/10 or something.

PSYCHIC TYPE WISHLIST:

NOTE: These Type Wishlists were written out before any news on new Pokemon from Sword and Shield. The Pokemon revealed over time will not affect these wishlists. Just to present them unaltered despite spoilers and in the interest of getting the wishlist out there, and to see which items on said wishlists get fulfilled by Sword and Shield!

A Disembodied Brain:

With how much the Psychic type is known for being ALL about powerful mental abilities, there's a distinct lack of a brain present here. Or even just a Pokemon with a head so big and with the brain very clearly visible! These things are ALL OVER media, it's kind of a surprise one's yet to hit Pokemon!

A Hive Mind:

Speaking of Sci-fi tropes, I think there's some potential in portraying a Ghost/Psychic, or PREFERABLY a Bug/Psychic type as a rather literal Hive Mind. Or perhaps we could go for an unorthodox way of thinking about it. As in not quite doing it in the same sense of separate entities controlled by the same brain, but rather a living think tank that has eaten the thoughts of other beings and uses it to make a Hive of Minds out of its head, so to speak!

A Traditional Witch:

Yes, there's both Mismagius and Braixen. But I'd love to see a more traditional-looking, still-living Witch! Mismagius moreso has a witch motif and Braixen trades in all its witchy potential to become more of a wizard when it evolves.

A Bookworm:

Look, Bug's still lacking a pairing with the Psychic type so I'm gonna go ahead and double down on this. Though I still wouldn't complain TOO much if we didn't get a literal Bookworm. It could just be a monster that loves to read spellbooks and floats on or behind one, even reading it mid-battle! Could go for a book-based objectmon as well, but there's plenty of living book monsters out there where unless they had a neat twist to it I'd, for once, prefer it not to be an objectmon.

A Genie:

Not that I expect one so soon after Hoopa, but Hoopa left a rather mediocre taste in my mouth. There's so much personality potential in a Psychic/Fairy Genie jackass; a full Pokemonification of the stereotypical genie that takes advantage of your bad wording to grant your wishes in a totally wrong way.

A UFO:

We have a Pokemon or two that look (or sound) like a UFO moreso incidentally than in a way that looks all that on purpose. Why not add to the little subgenre of “Alien” Pokemon and give them a ship to ride in!

[Archive]

#Pokemon #Pokemon Reviews #Psychic Type

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queensqewed0722 · 6 years ago

Video

youtube

Jon Snow and Sansa Stark : The Game of Thrones OTP that I never saw coming

I’m going to begin this post by saying that I never watched a single episode of the HBO series Game of Thrones. Nada. I tried with the very first episode of season 1 but at the time, I was in the middle of the second book “A Clash of Kings” so I dropped the series. Being the purist that I am, I prefer to finish the novels first before getting into their film or television adaptations. This allows me to compare and to fill in any missing pieces in the adaptation. I told myself that I would finish all the novels, then just catch up with the series. But I kept on putting off both the novels and the series so now, here I am, still in the middle of “A Storm of Swords: Part 1″, and on the eve of the first episode of the final season. I doubt very much that I’ll be able to finish all the novels in time for the final season run. But I do have all the books, except for the one with the maps, and I’m looking forward to the final novel “The Winds of Winter”.

So why did I have to premise what I’m about to say with that? That’s because I want to emphasize that I never had any preconceived notions when I found myself falling headlong and getting onboard this ship called “Jonsa”.

Truth be told, I did have a little bias initially towards the Jon/Daenerys pairing, but this was purely because of my having read the first two novels. It had nothing to do with me thinking that they would make a lovely pair. I just thought that it would make sense, plot-wise, given who they were. At the onset, I already guessed that Jon Snow was no ordinary bastard, that he had a birth secret that would turn the game of thrones upside down. And Daenerys is the last known Targaryen princess. I guess I’ve watched enough anime and KDramas to be very familiar with this kind of twist in the story. In any case, I didn’t get into the novels for the romance. I just found this whole complex universe fascinating.

So I don’t recall anymore how I found myself aboard the ship. I think I was browsing YouTube randomly and decided to check out some GoT clips. Then I think I stumbled onto some MVs made by creative fans, or I found the clips of their reunion scene and other scenes of Jon and Sansa together in season 6. Either way, I decided to check them out. Lo and behold! I found myself practically hit between the eyes with the sheer chemistry and sexual tension between these two! It was the last thing I expected to see.

I think what really did me in were their reunion on Castle Black, and when Jon kissed Sansa’s forehead on the battlements.

That reunion was just so emotional. Without saying much, only with their facial expressions, it was more than enough to tell me how much seeing each other meant to them. Of course, if you think about it, it was probably out of sheer relief and a bit of hysteria because I doubt they ever expected they would see each other again, much less see each other alive and well, or as well as can be expected after what they’ve gone through. But then, there was Jon, watching Sansa sip her soup, and the way he looked at her, it was as if she was something precious and delicate. Sansa was more reserved during that scene, her feelings more of a puzzle to me. As if after the adrenalin rush of their reunion had died down, she was not entirely sure how she would conduct herself in front of Jon, whom she never really interacted with when they were growing up in Winterfell. But Jon’s words at that moment were very sure: they will stay together. “Where will WE go?”

And then, after the Battle of the Bastards, when they talked and he kissed her on her forehead, it was, to me, the physical manifestation of that look that he gave her when they first sat together after their emotional reunion. That to him, Sansa has indeed become very precious and I guess he only realized at that moment exactly how much.

One can always argue that the forehead kiss is a sign of brotherly affection and Jon’s reassurance that he trusts her, in spite of what happened. In all honesty, that was what my mind was telling me. However, my gut feel was saying otherwise. The vibe that I got when I first saw that kiss, and even during several repeat viewings that I did afterwards, where nowhere near the area of filial love. It was something else. If I didn’t already have an inkling about who Jon really is even from the books alone, I would have icked myself out with what I was feeling. But knowing what I knew about who he was, it just occurred to me that this, this thing between Jon and Sansa, makes much better sense than Jon and Daenerys. This is of course, based purely on the scenes from the series that I saw, and not from anything that I’ve read yet. I haven’t reached that point yet in the novel series where Sansa’ character has grown enough for her and Jon to make sense together. But if the series reflects the direction of the novels as a whole, then I would expect them to happen eventually even on paper.

There were also the other scenes in between of Jon and Sansa together, where Sansa’s feelings were more on the surface. I don’t have to analyze them in detail anymore as I’m sure so many have done that before me. In any case, I don’t need further convincing as far as these two characters are concerned. It’s just that, after having seen what I’ve seen of Jon and Sansa together, I can’t unsee it anymore. It effectively destroyed whatever little bias I had for the Jon/Daenerys pairing from the novels that I was initially expecting.

If the drama were to still go the route of Jon/Daenerys, after everything that it made happen between Jon and Sansa, then I will feel very shortchanged indeed.

*Credits to lauraZvidZ, the owner of the video that I quoted on this post. This was one fanmade MV of the Jonsa pairing that I especially love, more so because it compared them to Ned and Catelyn, and Ned just happens to be my most favorite Game of Thrones character of all time.

#game of thrones #hbo #jonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #got8 #ned stark #catelyn stark #ned & cat #ned & cat 2.0

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quinzelade · 5 years ago

Text

Making One’s Bones (chpt 3)

Chapter List

Porter Gage is in a pickle. Nuka-World needed a new boss and some woman just killed her way to the top. But a pre-war Mafia boss on the theme park's throne? Well...at least she'll have experience.

Domesticity

“Hey, it's your main man RedEye here, sending out some big congratulations to our brand new Overboss! That's right—if you haven't heard, Colter is toast! He's worm-food!”

Gage peered out of the window for what felt like the thousandth time that night, only half listening to RedEye’s voice blaring out of the radio in the background. He scowled as he caught himself doing it again, staring down onto the makeshift fortress that was Nuka Town. He was acting like the boss's mother, checking if she was back safe.

“—can't wait to see what our new leader has planned. At least...can't be any worse than Colter, right? Right?”

Gage knew his concern lay solely with his own neck—if the plan failed again, he was a dead man—but he was still irritated with himself. He stomped across the room, turned the radio off, and dropped heavily into a nearby armchair. It creaked under his weight, but held, and he folded his arms, glaring at the nearby door.

Any second now she’d walk in like he’d told her to. Tell him she didn’t fuck up everything up, that she was staying to sort this place out. Not that there would have been anything to sort out if Colter had just stuck to the fucking plan in the first place. Nuka World: an unstoppable force ready to take over the wasteland.

Trust Colter to fuck it all up.

Well, Gage thought idly, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them again. Not like he’s a problem anymore.

It surprised him how little he felt over the matter, but Gage supposed he’d made his peace with the situation a long time ago—anger was a hell of a stimulant after all, and Colter had brought this place to the very edge. Even now it might be beyond saving, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try with the new boss...if she ever returned.

Gage closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. She’d bailed the second his back was turned. It was the only explanation for her absence, and meant he was a dead man.

He glanced up as the door opened, half expecting to see Nisha and the other bosses at threshold, ready to slice his guts out. Instead, there stood Bossanova, looking just as revolting, but with a drying stain of blood on her clothes. In her arms was a bundle made of plastic sheeting, tied up with old rope.

Gage jumped to his feet. “Where the fuck have you been? I told you to meet me here!”

Bossanova raised her eyebrow at him—or where her eyebrow would have been, if she had any—and regarded him like a back-talking slave. “I give the orders, Gage, not you. Do you have any eggs?”

“I—what?” Her question caught him off guard. “Yeah, in the cupboard. Mirelurk.” He stared at her as she dumped her parcel on the floor, walked over to where he’d pointed, and began rooting through. He was thoroughly unsettled now.

“I give the orders, not you.”

He’d heard a similar phrase from Colter, a counter to every bad decision he’d ever made, except coloured with a few choice swears. The words were enough to twist Gage’s stomach with rage. This was a mistake. This was a fucking mistake. She was another Colter, and he’d just put her straight into power like some fucking—

“Sit down,” came Bossanova’s voice, and Gage snapped back to reality. She was standing at an old counter, cracking a large egg into a pan set over a portable camping stove.

Gage stared at her as she worked, before finding his voice. “Where have you been?”

“Sit down,” she repeated.

Gage didn’t move. Finally, she turned her head and looked at him. It was a strange expression—not angry, or even threatening—but still a look that told him plainly he needed to sit his ass down right-fucking-now.

Gage sat.

“Thank you,” Bossanova said, smiling a little as she cooked. Gage had to admit whatever she was doing smelled good, and within minutes a hot plate of white mushy stuff was placed on the table in front of him with a mug of steaming coffee next to it. Still, Gage hesitated, glancing at the boss's withered hands, and she laughed, catching his eye as she splayed her fingers out to him.

“Nothing’s fallen off, I promise.”

Despite himself, Gage chuckled, but didn’t eat. She sat down opposite him, tucking into her own food, apparently oblivious to Gage’s lack of appetite.

“Boss,” he said after a few seconds, “Where have you—”

She raised a hand and he stopped, a surge of annoyance coursing through him. He rose up, clenching his fists, and snarled, “I’m not your fucking dog. Give me an answer!”

Slowly, she tilted her head up to face him, and smiled a benign smile. “I’ve been playing meet and greet with the leaders of this motley crew.”

Gage stared. “You...you already talked to them?” He had to credit her for initiative at least.

“Almost all of them. Didn’t get a chance with the Operators. Still, I thought it would be sensible to size them up, and offer the same opportunity.”

Damn right it was sensible, he thought. Maybe she wasn’t so bad a choice after all.

Gage scowled. “You could have told me.” He tensed his jaw, aware he sounded like he was whining, but she would have saved him a whole lot of hassle by keeping him informed. “I’m here to help you. If I’m not in the loop—”

“You’re here to help yourself,” she replied, sipping her own coffee without breaking eye contact. “I picked up on enough in the arena. If I fail, you die. Which is why we’re having dinner. I want to know who I’m working with first.”

Gage snorted. “Raiders.”

She gave him another one of her odd looks, and slowly he sat down again. He didn’t know what to make of her. She was sharp and seemed to know the game, which was good. But the secrecy...Gage chewed on his tongue. That could get him killed.

“So...” Bossanova said after a moment. “I get the sense this little scheme, whatever it is, isn’t quite working out the way you wanted it to.”

Gage groaned, putting his head in his hands. “Understatement of the fucking century,” he muttered, his head pounding just thinking about the mess he’d been in for the last year.

“Tell me what went wrong.”

Gage rubbed his eye, suddenly feeling very tired. He hesitated, then let his hands fall into his lap. Shit, where to begin?

Gage leaned back in his chair, still ignoring the plate of food in front of him, while Bossanova regarding him with mild interest, waiting for him to speak while she slowly ate. He frowned, searching for the words, and then said, “You may have noticed our former Overboss, Colter, was a fuckin’ asshole.”

Bossanova’s cool demeanour slipped as she suddenly choked on a forkful of whatever she’d just put in her mouth. He watched her for a moment, perplexed. If Gage didn’t know better, he’d say she was trying not to laugh. The thought alone made him want to grin, but he fought back the urge, keeping his face blank. He had no intention of getting buddy-buddy with her.

Acting like he hadn’t noticed anything, Gage went on. “And that’s me being nice. Ended up being poison for the entire operation.”

“What operation?” Bossanova wheezed, still coughing a little.

Gage sighed, shaking his head. “Well...Christ, how do I explain this? Nuka World...shit, Nuka World was the dream.” He turned his head, staring out of the open windows wistfully, even though the town and the rolling landscape beyond was obscured by darkness. “A fortress with enough raiders to rule the region—best goddamn idea I ever had...and the riskiest.”

“Risky because of all the raiders?”

“Sorta. It’s not so much the numbers, but more what makes the numbers. We got three separate gangs in this place, as I’m sure you noticed when you went to play meet and greet without telling me.”

He couldn’t keep the resentment out of his voice, but Bossanova seemed unmoved. She nodded, pausing with her fork halfway to her lips. “The Disciples, Operators, and the Pack?”

“Yeah.” Gage ran a hand through the short mohawk that was his hair. “You also might have noticed the traders on your little detour around the park.”

“The ones wearing the slave collars?” Bossanova said. Her voice gave away no opinion on the presence of slaves, which Gage took to be a good sign. Most people who hated slaves got all high and mighty over it. He had a tendency to shoot such people.

“Yeah, those assholes,” Gage said. “They were the reason we needed three gangs in the first place. See, Nuka World used to be a trading hub, and the little bastards were dug in like ticks. Hired guns protectin’ them, with shitloads of ammunition and medicine to boot.” He grinned nastily. “But three gangs, man. Lotta raw firepower. We won in the end.”

Bossanova considered this. “But there were survivors?”

“Well, yeah. Someone has to do the shitty jobs we don’t want to. One of the perks of being a raider, see?” His smile widened. “Hence the collars. Any of them cause trouble, stray out of bounds—fuck, any of them just pisses one of us off and bang—they lose their heads.” Gage shifted in his seat. “‘Course, they ain’t too happy about the change in management, but screw ‘em.”

Bossanova perked a non-existent eyebrow. “So far so good then?”

“At the time. But once we’d stormed the gates...things went downhill fast.” Gage stared at a point somewhere over Bossanova’s shoulder, anger twisting in his stomach like bloatfly maggots. “Colter got lazy.”

“Ah.”

“He decided Nuka Town was more than enough for all the gangs—nevermind what he fuckin’ promised them,” Gage growled, the hot rage seeping upwards like bile. “I tried to tell him there ain’t enough room for three gangs in this one section of the park, but he wouldn’t listen—didn’t care that things were turning into a mess all around him.”

Bossanova’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of mess?”

Gage rubbed his forehead with his knuckle, the headache flaring up again. “It was little shit at first: heated tempers, arguments, the occasional shooting. Y’know, stuff you can laugh off over a beer afterwards.” Gage shrugged. “Got worse over time, though—people started finding excuses to turn on each other, and that’s when it really got nasty, even for raiders.” He lowered his hand and looked at her. “If somethin’ ain’t done soon, there might be no coming back from it.”

“You have three gangs under your control,” Bossanova said coolly, looking extremely unimpressed. “Get to it.”

Gage glared at her. “I ain’t got shit under my control—Colter did. And as I already said: lazy asshole.”

“Well now he’s gone. What’s stopping you?”

“Leading ain’t my thing,” Gage replied, shrugging. “Not got the presence. I prefer to...advise.”

Bossanova gave a mirthless laugh, her black eyes glittering. “Oh, I see. So you’re just going to paint the bullseye on my back instead?”

He bristled with indignation, sitting up straighter in his seat. “I’m just tellin’ you it how it is. Would you rather I bullshit you?”

She didn’t respond. Her attitude was starting to piss him off, but in all honesty, he couldn’t blame her. She’d been dragged into this without any choice. Then again, the fact she was comfortable giving a raider shit made him feel slightly hopeful about her competence.

Gage scowled at her for a moment longer, then settled back again. “I mean, yeah, I won’t lie...not making myself a target is part of the reason you won’t see me stepping up an’ runnin’ things, but not all of it. I got experience in gangs—the knowhow to keep us both alive. My talents are best put to use helping a new overboss get all this shit under control. You get me?”

“A raider with talents,” Bossanova said scathingly, forgetting her food for a moment and folding her arms. “Wonders never cease. What sort of talents would you say you have, Gage?”

He crossed his legs, staring her out. “Aside from being a good shot and having a foul mouth?”

The corners of her lips twitched.

“I've run with gangs nearly my whole life,” Gage went on. “I know how they think, what they're after. And I know how to use that to your advantage.”

“Tell me about the gangs,” Bossanova said, her tone business-like, her gaze sharp. Gage felt like he was being interrogated.

“Well…” Gage bit his lip, wondering how best to keep this short. “You’ve met them already, haven’t you?”

“I know, but I’d appreciate the insight, since it’s one of your talents.”

He shot her a withering look. She wanted information on them? Fine. “The gangs here ain’t nothin’ like the ones back in the wasteland. They’ve got strong leaders, they’re organised, and they all fuckin’ hate each other. Took a shitload of effort to stop them fightin’ for five seconds, never mind getting them all on board with the plan.

“The Disciples are run by Nisha—those are the crazy bastards wearing the masks. Love blood and violence—got a particular fondness for skinning people.” He suppressed a shudder, having witnessed Nisha’s handiwork far too often for his liking. “Nisha can have her reasonable moments...though that’s been less and less lately thanks to Colter’s bullshit.

“Then you've got the Operators, the guys with the suits under the armour—look a lot cleaner than everyone else. Spoiled rich kids, but doesn't mean they ain't ruthless killers. If you can impress Mags, she'll listen to you, and she knows how to rake in the caps.”

Bossanova nodded approvingly at this.

“And finally there’s the Pack. I'm not sayin' they're savages, but...well, shit.” Gage shook his head. “ They're savages. I don't know how Mason keeps them on a leash. They dress in bright colours and bones because they think it makes them look intimidating, like animals do or whatever.” He paused. “I think it makes them look fucking stupid.”

To his surprise, Bossanova laughed. She grinned at him. “Glad we agree on something.”

Her laughter rose his spirits a little. She had to cooperate for this to succeed—his life was on the line if she didn’t. Gage nodded. “All the gangs need is someone to lead them. You just gotta show 'em you're the right woman for the job.”

A long, uncomfortable silence followed these words.

“And why,” she replied slowly, her tone pleasant and yet somehow dangerous, “would I want to lead this disaster?”

Shit.

“Well, why not?” A jolt of panic shot through him. She’d seemed interested a second ago, even warming to the idea. “Just give it a chance, okay? You might even have a little fun.”

“Fun?”

“Oh come on.” He stared at her in disbelief. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this after all, otherwise she wouldn’t be asking such a stupid goddamn question. “You take whatever you want, from whoever you want. Anybody has a problem with that, you cut 'em down. You telling me that doesn't sound like even just a little bit of fun to you?”

Bossanova pressed her lips together as if trying to stop herself laughing again. After a second, she allowed herself a small smile. “A little.”

Gage disguised his sigh of relief with a chuckle, his heart still beating nervously. “At any rate, if you leave now, that won’t go down so well. But if you’re gonna trust me on anything, trust me on this: I’m in it just as much as you are. There's already some blamin' me for supporting Colter all this time, including Nisha. This shit needs to work out, because if it don’t, both of our heads are gonna be on sticks. I like my head where it is and I intend to keep it there. You get me?”

Bossanova said nothing. She stared intently at him, making Gage feel like he was being analysed somehow. He was half expecting her to go back to communicating through taps.

After a few long seconds, he tried again. “So, what's it gonna be? We doing this together or not?”

She studied him a moment longer and then said, “So you’re that desperate you’re willing to place all your bets on the first waster that comes along?”

Gage raised his eyebrow. “You saw all those bodies in the Gauntlet, right?”

Bossanova nodded.

“Well then. Pretty obvious you ain’t the first. Lotta folks got fed to the Gauntlet and the arena—but the difference is you were the only one to make it out alive. Way I see it, surviving means you got what it takes. Or at least the potential. We need someone who can get shit done. Make real progress. That’s you.”

“I see.”

Bossanova returned to her plate of food and silence reigned.

Gage stared at her. He had the strange feeling he’d just passed some sort of initiation—as though all of her questions had served to size him up, to see if he was suitable for his position. But that was ridiculous. Nuka World was his idea. She couldn’t run the place without him.

More to give himself something to do, Gage pulled his own plate towards him, poked it awkwardly with his fork, and began to eat. Turned out it was still just egg, even if it looked like shit, but she’d done something to make it taste...different. Most likely the reason was ‘not being burnt to a crisp,’ but he suspected she’d added something too. Hopefully not poison.

Gage considered this for a moment and then shrugged. If she was trying to kill him, at least it tasted good. He continued to eat. Out of the corner of his eye, Gage saw her wince, but he didn’t care. Raiders weren’t known for their table manners.

“This is fine food,” Gage said with his mouth full, spraying egg everywhere, before swallowing and then picking up his coffee, slurping noisily from the mug.

“I’ve had a couple of centuries to practice,” she replied delicately, setting her fork down onto her empty plate and watching Gage eat with an expression of alarm.

“Pre-war?” he asked, deciding to play along for now. She needed him whether she believed it or not. Otherwise, she’d end up like Colter.

“Yes, pre-war. I used to run a gang of my own before the bombs fell.”

“Oh yeah?” Now this piqued Gage’s interest, He’d heard of pre-war raiders, but no one who really ran with them. Shovelling the rest of his meal into his mouth, he looked up at the boss and said, “What was that like?”

Bossanova pursed her lips, drawing them up to her nose cavity as her brow furrowed, her cheeks moving from side to side. It took Gage a moment to realise she was wrinkling her nose—except she didn’t have one anymore. She flicked a piece of wayward egg off her arm, before leaning forward with a smile. “Back in my day, there was a bigger law presence. If you got caught, you could be locked away for the rest of your life. No hope of escape. Maybe even execution. So everything we did, we did it subtle. I intend to run things similar here.”

Gage burped and leaned back in his seat, coffee cup to hand. He’d visited enough cities to have an idea of what she was talking about. It was the reason most raiders stuck to smaller settlements. “The others won’t appreciate a quiet life, boss. You don’t give them what they want, they’ll kill you.”

She rolled her eyes. “They’ll get their blood and power, and whatever other itch they need to scratch. But that’s all they’ll get, and they’ll probably thank me for it too. I'm aiming higher than Nuka World.”

Gage blinked, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. He frowned and lowered it. “Don’t run before you walk, boss. You need to sort this place out first.”

For some reason, she seemed pleased with his response.

“I like the way you think,” Bossanova said, draining the last of her coffee, and looked at him with a slight crease in her brow. “I’ve never had much faith in raiders, but you seem...” She set the cup down, her eyes suddenly distant.

Whatever he seemed, Gage never found out, because the wooden lift outside the window rumbled to life, and ten seconds later, Nisha rose into view. Out of instinct, Gage picked up his gun as he rose to his feet.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Bossanova said lazily, “I invited Nisha for a quick meeting.”

Nisha paused, staring around the room, before spotting the empty plates. She gave a soft laugh. “Never took you for a ghoul fucker, Gage. Can’t say I’m surprised, though.”

Bossanova stood up too, her hand on the hilt of her sword as she smiled. “I want to talk to you about a young lady that followed me from your hideout.”

Nisha didn’t move, but her mouth thinned slightly. “What lady?”

“Tall; muscular. Wore your uniform, smelled like a diseased molerat.” Bossanova shrugged, while Gage felt a pang of unease. “I use the term ‘lady’ generously. She decided to attack me.” A pause. “Did you know about it?”

His stomach tightened as Nisha’s mouth thinned so much it disappeared. He’d expected some resistance, but this far already?

Nisha said nothing, giving a sharp shake of her head. Gage relaxed a little. He knew her well enough to see she was being truthful.

Bossanova’s smile no longer reached her eyes. “I returned the favour.” She bent down, not breaking eye contact with Nisha, and picked up the plastic sheeted bundle she’d brought back with her. For the first time, Gage noticed a dark liquid was dripping steadily out of it.

Ah fuck.

Bossanova tossed Nisha the bag, and Nisha caught it by the rope. She pulled out a knife—causing Gage to grip his gun just that little bit tighter—and cut the bonds free so she could peer inside.

There was a long, quiet moment. Then Nisha began to laugh. A true, hearty laugh. She glanced up at Bossanova, wearing a wicked grin. “Looks like our little overboss knows how to get her hands dirty.” She threw the bundle at Gage’s feet and said, “I didn’t send her. I’m not that stupid. Lower your damn gun.”

Gage ignored her but stole a quick glance at the package by his feet. A severed head had rolled out from the plastic wrappings. He blinked at it, and directed his gaze back to Nisha, lost for words.

Nisha, on the other hand, was not. She looked at him, the corners of her mouth teased into the meanest of smiles, and said, “Seems you might deserve a second chance.”

“No.”

It took Gage a second to realise who had spoken. Both he and Nisha turned to stare at the boss.

“I’m the one giving you a second chance,” Bossanova said, her hand gripping hard at her sword hilt. All benignity gone, her gaze was cold and hard. Gage bit the inside of his cheek to suppress his grin. “If you say you didn’t send anyone, then I’ll allow a free pass this once. But keep your people under control. Now get out.”

Nisha laughed again. It was hard to tell what she was really feeling under the helmet, but her smile looked genuine at least.

“So, Gage found someone with a pair of balls.” She gave a short nod and folded her arms. “Good. Maybe you’ll shape up after all.”

Bossanova didn’t reply. Nisha turned and left, still smirking to herself.

Gage waited until the rumble of the wooden platform faded before letting out a low chuckle. “Nice work, boss. She knows not to fuck with you now. Might even respect you for it.”

“Do you think she sent the assassin?”

Gage considered the question, then shook his head. “Nah. Nisha ain’t stupid, like she said. She’d kill you given half the chance, but only if there was somethin’ to gain. Ain’t nothin’ to gain killin’ you now, boss. If she thinks you aren’t working to her benefit though, that might change.”

Bossanova nodded but didn’t reply, her rigid, hostile stance deflating as she sank into a chair. Maybe it was the light, but she looked a little pale. Gage decided not to question it. What the fuck did he know about ghouls? Instead, he took advantage of her silence and quickly outlined the needs for the park. The power had to be brought back on, but before they could do that, there were other sections to be claimed, each dangerous in their own right.

When he finished, she just sat there, staring at the opposite wall. Gage frowned. “You listenin’, boss?”

“Yes,” she said, still not looking at him. “Sounds like a solid plan to me.”

“Then why you giving me the cold shoulder?” The accusation slipped out before he could stop it. Gage readied himself for the shit he was about to receive, but she simply shook her head and smiled.

“I was just...thinking.” She paused, and then said, “I noticed you didn’t put your weapon down during our little meeting with Nisha. Thank you for defending me.”

Gage shrugged. He couldn’t claim credit. “I was saving my own skin, boss.”

“I know you were. But I appreciate it all the same.”

Gage frowned. She sounded sincere, but why?

She seemed to know what he was thinking. “So long as I work to your benefit, you’ll keep me breathing.” Bossanova smiled. “I trust your need to stay on top, and I trust your judgement of the park, but I don’t trust you about anything else. It’s as good a place to start as any.”

He stared at her. None of what she’d just said made a lick of sense to him. “I’m extendin’ your life expectancy. What else is there?”

Bossanova shrugged. “Many things.” She stood up and walked over to the severed head, nudging it back into its plastic nest. Then she picked the whole thing up, strode over to the window, and threw it out. “My trust needs to be earned.” There was a distant thud, followed by a string of curse words and a splash. Bossanova looked at Gage. “Up to you if you want it.”

Annoyance rushed through him, but he bit it back. She was trying to be cryptic, and he wasn’t going to stop her. So long as she got the park up and running, he didn’t give a shit about anything else. He waited for her to sit down again and then asked, “So...how did meeting the bosses go?”

“Well enough,” Bossanova replied with a yawn. She stretched in her seat and met his eye. “Mags and her brother want money, and that’s what I do best. I’ll seal the deal with them tomorrow. Mason wants someone to bully him around—I can provide that, too. Nisha wants blood...that may be more difficult. I’m in the habit of killing when it serves a purpose, or when someone crosses me. Not for fun. But we’ll see.”

Boring, Gage thought, resisting the urge to roll his eye. Then, before he could stop himself, he asked, “So why didn’t you kill Nisha? Disciples wanted back alley justice.” Gage held her gaze. He had to know. It felt fucking important somehow.

“Petty revenge won’t get this operation started. Nisha and her gang needed to be put in their place, but I could do that without killing her. There’s a delicate balance, and upsetting it isn’t in my best interests. Or yours.”

Gage stared long and hard at her. He felt a small spike of respect needle at him, but he pushed it away. She was pragmatic, but that didn’t mean shit. Their eyes met again, and he realised from the placid smile she was thinking the same thing.

“Get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

Gage woke to breakfast.

Not that he knew it at first. The plate of eggs—Christ, the boss liked her eggs—and something Bossanova called “brahmin bacon” had been served with a jab to the ribs, jolting him from his sleep.

He hadn't questioned what it was or why it had been given to him—a hot meal was a hot meal after all—and he tucked in enthusiastically. But like steam rising from a fresh cup of coffee, the concept drifted to the forefront of his mind.

This was breakfast. Gage stopped, fork halfway to his hanging mouth, and stared at the wall.

“God help me, boy, I will teach you table manners if I have to beat them into you,” Bossanova said, flapping an old rag in his general direction. “Shut your trap. I don’t need to see what you’re chewing.”

Gage clamped his mouth shut, swallowed, and then said, “This...this is breakfast, isn’t it?”

An amused smile flickered across Bossanova’s lips. “That’s traditionally what the first meal of the day is called, yes.” She hummed and continued to cook, the pan making a pleasant sizzling noise as she worked.

Gage stared down at the meal she’d made for him, as if trying to scry some great universal truth from the yolky mess. He let his fork fall back to his plate with a clatter. “What the fuck is this?”

Bossanova looked over her shoulder and raised a non-existent eyebrow. “As you so succinctly put: breakfast.”

Gage rose to his feet, sending the plate spinning. It shattered, scattering god knew what all over the floor, and he glared at her, his stomach lurching in a way he didn’t like at all. “You know what the fuck I’m on about. Who makes this kind of shit anymore? Breakfast? What’s your damn game? You’re supposed to be the boss, not making...whatever the fuck this is.”

Bossanova frowned. “It’s bacon and eggs. If you don’t like it, starve.”

She turned her back on him and flipped the slices of meat in her pan. The humming returned a few seconds later, though slightly strained. Gage stared at the ties on her apron—where the hell did she get an apron from?—clenching and unclenching his fists. This was stupid. The whole thing was stupid.

Breakfast.

The last time he’d had breakfast, he’d been twelve years old. A few hours later, the raiders came calling. And just like that, he’d slipped away.

Fucking breakfast.

Gage scowled at Bossanova and dropped back onto the sofa with a heavy flump. She didn’t turn around again until she finally moved from the stove. Her face was impassive as she stepped neatly over the ruined remains of his own meal, and sat down opposite him. He tried not to watch her as she ate, but within minutes his stomach rumbled. He frowned, staring anywhere but her, well aware of her eyes boring into him.

“Hungry?” she said eventually.

“No.” Gage said to his knees. His stomach betrayed him by rumbling even louder.

“Clean up the plate, and I’ll make you some more.”

His head snapped up to look at her. “Why the fuck—”

“Because I’m not an animal, Gage,” Bossanova interrupted, her gaze as sharp as her tone. “And when I get the opportunity not to live like one, I take it. Since we’re partners in this, I extend the courtesy to you. If you’d rather I treat you like the rest of the feral rats crawling all over this camp, say the word. Otherwise, pick up your damn mess.”

Her ferocity caught him off guard, and he leaned back into the sofa, eyebrows raised. “Feral, huh? Sounds like you got a grudge, boss.”

“I’m pre-war. I can’t help but judge by Old World standards.” She ate another mouthful. “Besides, you agree with me, otherwise you wouldn’t be in the position you are. Most of them are stupid, with no self control. No smarts. You’re different. Doesn’t take much to see who the brains behind the operation is.”

“Flattery is nice,” Gage shot back, feeling on edge again, “but don’t think it’ll fucking soften me. Because it won’t.”

“I know it won’t. That’s why you’re smart.” She finished her food and stood up. “So, do you want a second round?”

Gage glanced at the broken plate on the floor. Like hell he would pick it up. “No. I’m good.”

Bossanova shrugged. “Suit yourself. Grab your gun. We’ve got business with Mags.”

The Operator’s hive buzzed with activity as Gage and Bossanova strode through the front door of the Parlor. Thick red curtains lined the walls over a dimly lit, richly furnished room. Little tables were dotted around, complete with tablecloths and chairs, and dusty rugs covered the scratched wooden floor.

As they moved into Mags and William’s inner sanctum, Gage spied the—what had William called it?—chandelier he hated so much.

Gage rolled his eyes. Fragile and for show. Just like Mags’ ego.

The head Operator was sat at the end of a long table, her fingers locked together in contemplation as she stared down her prey. Her brother stood in her shadow, waiting to strike.

The place was far too clean for Gage’s liking. But for what it lacked in threatening decor and body parts, it made up for in smell. He appreciated not having to test his gag reflex, unlike every tense visit to Nisha.

Bossanova scanned the room, her face a mixture of approval and indifference. Whatever her “pre-war standards” were, the Parlor didn’t quite match up.

Mags laid her hands back in her lap and slowly got to her feet. Like her base, she was cleaner than the average raider, her blonde hair styled intricately, her features unmarked and distinctly beautiful. She reminded Gage of the posters of movie stars still clinging to the crumbling walls of city ruins. Her brother was more nondescript, with greying hair swept out of his face and a trim beard. But still.

Clean.

A real raider got their hands dirty. Gage worked hard to keep his features blank as Bossanova marched ahead. Whatever he thought of them, they knew how to make money.

“Overboss,” Mags said sleekly, her gaze sharp. “I wondered if we’d been forgotten, what with Nisha and Mason receiving private audiences on your first day.” She gave a nasty smirk. “One would think you were playing favourites.”

“I cut the head off a Disciple and put Mason in his place.” Bossanova folded her arms. “And now I have the chance to speak to you without risk of interruption. Take that how you want.”

Mags glanced over her shoulder at William. Her expression betrayed nothing, but Gage knew better.

He waited.

An Operator appeared at Mags’ side as if he’d stepped out of thin air, two glasses and a dusty green bottle in hand. He set them down, opened the bottle with a dull ‘pop’, and poured out the blood red liquid within. The Operator handed the first glass to Mags, the second to Bossanova. He shot Gage a withering look and then left. Gage didn’t give a shit.

Bossanova stood with her glass, watching Mags. Only when Mags drank did Bossanova follow suit.

Good. At least she’s expecting trouble.

“You know this place will struggle to accept a ghoul.” Mags paused, and eyed Bossanova over the rim of her glass. “What would you do if I addressed you as ‘ghoul?’ Hypothetically, of course.”

Bossanova’s smile remained fixed, but something dark flickered through her eyes. “I’d slice off your pretty little nose and feed it to Mason’s Pack.” She sipped her drink. “Hypothetically, of course.”

Mags raised an eyebrow. William, on the other hand, stepped forward and said lowly, and calmly, “I’d tear your head off first.”

“No doubt,” Bossanova replied. “Won’t get your sister’s nose back.”

William turned to Mags. They stared at each other for a moment, and then William returned to his place.

“Feisty one, aren’t you?” Mags drained her glass and sat down, waving her hand at a nearby seat for Bossanova. Bossanova remained standing, staring down at Mags. Gage chuckled, earning himself a sharp glare from William.

Bossanova sipped her drink, and smiled. “Word on the street is you’re good at making money.”

“Good?” Mags set down her glass and crossed her legs. “We’re the best.”

“That’s what I like to hear. So prove it.”

Mags frowned. “Pardon?”

“Prove it. Show me your outfit. Your schemes.” Bossanova finished her glass and placed it carefully on the table. “I’m Old World, honey. In my day, making money was my specialty. So let’s see what you have to offer.”

If Mags took issue to being called ‘honey,’ she didn’t show it. Instead, she sat up a little straighter. “I have some knowledge about pre-war gangs. Which one were you in?”

“Cosa Nostra.”

Whatever that meant, Gage didn’t have a fucking clue. Apparently Mags did, though, because her eyes widened. She glanced at her brother, who looked equally surprised, and then back at Bossanova. “Rank?”

“Boss.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Bossanova shrugged. “Does it matter if it’s true?”

Mags laughed. “Would certainly add a pinch of romance to this whole mess.” She leaned back in her chair. “And if you are what you say you are, you might be just what we need to get things rolling again.” She paused, and then said, more to herself, “Mafia…”

Gage frowned. Now that word he knew.

“Get on my good side and I might even tell you about it.” Bossanova gestured for Mags to stand. “How about you give me the grand tour?”

Mags stood without argument; without a hint of ill grace. Gage suspected later, when she came to her senses, she would rage over being ordered around her own base, but right now her sculpted features were filled with intense intrigue.

“Follow me, Overboss.”

Gage learned more about Mags’ operations in the next hour than he’d ever suspected or even cared to know. Most of it he understood—the basics of the schemes, including Lizzie Wyath’s ‘persuasion’ experiments. But when Bossanova started to talk technical about money—something Mags lapped up—he tuned out. The Operators were brought into the fold to run their complex scams, not teach them to Gage.

One thing he did notice was how at ease Bossanova seemed around Mags. Well...not quite at ease. Her subtle, guarded demeanour pleased Gage—she was taking this seriously.

No, Bossanova seemed in her element. Mags responded in kind. She even let Bossanova into her private quarters to show her the latest plans she was putting together. At one point, he thought he saw Bossanova’s hand reach out and take something off a desk, but it happened so quick, he couldn’t be sure. Mags and William didn’t notice, though, and carried on showing Bossanova around. By the end of it, Gage was half expecting Mags to announce their fucking engagement. Instead, the two women stared each other down.

“I hope you can follow through,” Mags said with a curt nod. “Would be a shame to replace you after such a promising start.”

“Likewise.Thank you for the tour. I think our money is going to be in good hands.” Bossanova inclined her head and turned to Gage. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Gage matched her step as they strode from the building. Unable to resist it, he stole a quick look back at Mags and William. They were muttering to each other, not paying any attention to him. There weren’t any smiles, but there weren’t any frowns either.

Gage breathed a sigh of relief. Bossanova had bought them some time.

#fallout #fallout 4 #porter gage #nuka world #fanfiction #mob #Making One's Bones

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