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bi-writes · 4 years

Text

mine—mob!tom

a notorious extra

She is the sun, moon, and stars, and she is all for me.

this fic can be read stand-alone from the series

type: one-shot, alternate universe detail: mob!tom x fem!reader word count: 9.1k warnings: mature language and themes, nsfw content 18+ (unprotected sex, breeding kink, dom!tom, oral—fem!receiving) series masterlist

this part is dedicated to @duskholland—thank you for always supporting this series and being my cheerleader

Everything was blue. The moonlight was soft, and the drapes were open, and it made the room so blue. Perhaps it would calm him when he found out. Maybe, just maybe, he could be comforted by the light when he discovered the side of your bed cold and empty, left behind.

Maybe it would help him to forgive you.

You watched his sleeping figure as you zipped up your jacket. He had been so tired lately, those eyes you loved so much always drawn downwards. He carried deep, dark circles under them, a permanent frown on his face, a bitterness to him that left the space between you cold and distant and tense. You tried to soothe him with kisses, with love, with something gentle, but Tom turned away from you always. Not even switching your normal attire for something more revealing had done much to calm his mind. He was somewhere else entirely, his eyes always closed. He always said it helped him think, but you thought it better allowed his already-formed opinions devour him.

Finally, tonight, you had gotten him to sleep. You wouldn’t let him into the bedroom unless his hands were empty, free of his laptop or documents or papers, and Tom had a rule against sleeping without you.

The rule was that he never did.

He had tried hard to force himself into the bedroom, but one look at your face had him frozen. In any challenge, Tom was no match for you. Your word was final, always, and while Tom always had a way of standing up to you, it never mattered.

“I know what I’m doing, y/n.”

“Men always say that, and then they fuck it up.”

“I’m not going to fuck it up!”

“Don’t yell at me. You’re not a child. Give me a reason why, and look at me like you respect me, in the fucking eyes, Tom. Tell me.”

Silence always followed arguments that went that sort of way. Tom was always so angry, hands so tense he thought of grabbing you and shaking you, but then he would realize that was exactly what you wanted to hear. Nothing, because Tom was always too angry to think properly. Men that were angry never thought, they only acted, and then Tom would be angry because as always, you were right.

There were no secrets between you. Tom voiced every thought in his head, even if he thought it stupid, because you were listening, and sometimes you were the only voice that ever made sense and the only one that would listen. His men were obedient, willing, but all they did was try and please him with new ideas, and sometimes Tom just needed to say what was on his mind. His favorite way to think was to sit on your shared bed, with your head in his lap as he played with your hair, his voice low as he spoke gently, sometimes into your ear. It soothed him to have you near, to know you were giving him your undivided attention, and it was where most of his decisions suddenly became clear and sound. His wife was listening, and if she was still listening, it meant she thought he was right, and if she thought it was right, then it just was.

Tonight had been different. There had been no arguments, no talking. You finally let him in when he was without anything, and as soon as he came in, you turned out all the lights and got into bed. Tom had taken the silent cue, undressing and getting into a warm shower, and when he came back to bed, you were waiting for him, one hand drawn out for him to take. He had taken it; tightly, he wound himself into your arms, and he realized he didn’t need to work. His head hurt, so much, and finally there was nothing but silence around him and the touch of you. Fingers threading through his curls, soft skin against his own, warm body near his. He had fallen asleep before he even had the chance to say anything more.

You waited until his body had gone completely limp beside you before you had gotten up. There were no secrets between you; not until now, at least.

You respected Tom’s privacy because you loved him; it was also because you and Tom had vowed to never have secrets, lies, stories get between the two of you. You were better than that, meant for more than that, but you had noticed things had been off for some time now. You weren’t worried about other women no matter how many times his men talked around you.

You were certain other women did not excite Tom. Sometimes you wondered if his men thought they were clever because of it, maybe they even thought they were funny; poking at relationship insecurities must have been a game for them. You had let the thought entertain you once or twice, but Tom’s love never faltered, not even once. The distance between you was not one of love.

It was words.

You had noticed weeks before the way he sat. Tense, unrelaxed shoulders, the hard set of his jaw, that thing he would do with his fingers when he was stressed. Flexing them and unflexing them, and he would scratch at the tattoo of your initials on his finger absentmindedly. He ate in his office, and when you would fall asleep by yourself, sometimes you’d notice him wearing the same outfit as the day before in bed. There were things on his mind, and when Tom Holland was sure of himself, he was not a tense, stressed, bottled up man in sleek suits. He was confident, open, and he was bold enough to bend you right over his desk and take you in any room of his house. But even those moments didn’t feel right; staring into his eyes had been scarce. Tom was always good to you, always sweet, but no longer did his love feel direct. It felt like something to find release, to find relief in the tightness of his being, and while you liked to be that outlet for him at times, it didn’t seem to relieve any part of him anymore.

There was something on his mind; and he was not telling you what that something was.

You found yourself in his office. Your heels clicked against the wood as you stepped inside, and you made sure to lock the door behind you as you carried yourself through the room. On the chair in front of his desk was where he had thrown all of the things he had planned to carry to bed. Laptop, papers, a few pens he had left uncapped. You picked up the pile, moving his laptop to the side as you flipped open the first few manila folders.

Sheets, a money trail you had seen many times before on paper, but you didn’t recognize the accounts on it. They were not Tom’s accounts, no, they belonged to someone else. You took a seat in Tom’s chair, grabbing one of the uncapped pens and dragging the ballpoint tip against the paper as you went over the numbers. The money moved around like clockwork. Tom had written notes in the corners in his scrawling handwriting.

Offshore to shell, shell to offshore.

Back and forth, where is it coming from?

No English companies, can’t trace the transaction.

You eyed Tom’s laptop, picking it up and opening it up in front of you. You typed his password in, watching it unlock, and you made sure the searches were untraceable before following the breadcrumbs Tom had left behind. You had a sour taste in your mouth.

If he had asked for my help, I could have found the fucking answers myself.

Tom was good at getting answers, but he always had trouble connecting the dots. Men always had the motivation to gather the puzzle pieces, but it was women who always figured out where each piece lied.

Tom was always too busy in his mind to ever do it on his own.

It didn’t take you long to produce a name. Money was easy to move around, but it was difficult to hide, especially when it amounted to hundreds of millions of pounds. With everything digital, the footprints were hard to find, but they were always, always there.

You shut Tom’s laptop, reaching down into his desk. He kept a drawer with a false bottom on the left side; it was where he kept the cigarettes you never let him have. When you opened the drawer and popped the bottom, you did find the cigarettes. But it was something else that made your heart drop.

There were crumpled parchment paper notes, smashed and ripped, at the bottom. You slowly took them out, smoothing the paper out on the desk. You swallowed hard as your eyes scanned over the small papers. They had been ripped out of a notebook, the paper thick and brown and rough, and there on the paper was you.

You had a smile on your face, and you were wearing your favorite leather jacket. You were sketched onto the paper, deep smudges of lead filling in the shadows of your face. Near the bottom was an address. You had been to that address wearing that smile.

The rest of the notes were similar. Sketches of you, in different outfits, with different smiles, but all of you in that smudged, dark pencil shading. Each picture had a caption, locations of where you had been when they had been sketched, and you had tears in your eyes when you realized why Tom had been so upset, distant, away from you.

“I love you.”

“I know that, Tom.”

“No—”

“Tom, hey! I’m trying to do some work here, please, I don’t have time to—Oh!”

“Just…let me look at you, darling. Please.”

“What’s gotten into you, Tom?”

“Nothing. I just love you. Say it back.”

“Tom…”

“Say it back, y/n. Please.”

“I love you, Tom. You know that. You know I love you.”

You smoothed out the last note, and you felt nothing but anger when you read what was scribbled onto it.

She’s beautiful. Give it back, and maybe, just maybe, we can talk.

You shoved all the notes back into the drawer, haphazardly closing it. You slammed it closed rather, grabbing Tom’s gun off the table and stuffing into the back of your jeans. You rummaged through his drawers looking for anything else, but you came up empty.

Tom wasn’t going to have enough time to stop you. He was fast asleep in your bedroom, and he would stay there. His men would tell Tom as soon as they noticed you leave, but you knew that, and that was why you left from the second story window of his office, dropping down a few ledges until you made your way to the garage. You were quick to pick a vehicle, getting into the drivers’ side. Tom never trusted you with his cars. You had grown up driving on the other side of the road, and he would joke that you would ruin his precious collection.

Really, you knew that didn’t matter to him. You could burn Tom’s millions, and he would still look at you with that same, doe-eyed lovesick expression. Really, you thought he was afraid of where you might go if you were the one driving. You always thought about taking him with you, driving off into nowhere. Tom would object, but if you left, you had a feeling he would follow.

You drove for what felt like hours. You always taught Tom not to act rashly, but you had acted rashly just now. But even with the time between you, even having silence around you to let yourself breathe and think, you were still angry, seething with it, hot inside all over.

You knew why. People threatened you all the time. You were a princess, a queen, an heiress that had inherited an underground, criminal fortune, and everyone wanted your head just to have a taste of the wealth at your fingertips. You weren’t afraid of other people, you weren’t scared of what they could do to you.

But not my Tommy. Never my Tommy.

All of the lights were on in the house when you stepped through the front door. You had put your hair up and away from your face when you left, but now it was down, forced out of its style. Your jacket was in your hand, and there was blood on your clothes. Tom’s gun was still tucked into the back of your jeans, and as you made your way into the living room, you tried to hide your hands, but it was no use. They were bleeding at the knuckles, bruised and split. You held your head up high as your heels sounded, and as you came further into the living room, Tom was there, sitting on the couch, a glass of dark liquor in front of him and a cigarette hanging off his lips.

“What did I say about that?” You tried to scold him, but it came out soft and low. When Tom finally turned to look at you, his face twitched with a touch of something sinister. He eyed the cut above your brow, the split lip, the dried blood under your nose. Other than your small injuries, you were relatively untouched, but it made him feel no better.

“Sit down,” Tom said firmly.

“Tom—”

“Don’t say another bloody word,” Tom snapped. “Sit down.”

You shook your head, “I’m not. You’re going to yell at me. You’re going to tell me that I’m stupid, that I’m careless, that I’m—”

“Oh, really?” Tom stood up, coming towards you, “and why do you think that is, y/n? Who else is going to tell you how things are? Who the fuck else is going to tell you how bloody stupid you are?! How reckless you are?! How you must have your head so far up your own arse that you didn’t even bother to ask for any backup?!”

You had not seen this Tom Holland in a long while. In fact, you had not seen this Tom Holland since you had met him. The one with unhinged and limitless anger, the one that broke glass and severed heads with nothing but his glare. The Tom Holland others were afraid of, and the Tom Holland you had tamed.

I suppose tamed until now.

“I know what I did!” You shot back. “I know what I fucking did, I don’t need you to tell me how it is, I already know how it is!”

“Clearly you—fucking don’t!” He grabbed your chin, forcing you closer to him, and you glared up at him as he held you roughly, making you look right into his eyes.

“If you’re looking for an apology, you won’t be getting it,” you spit at him, your voice a growl. “I’m not sorry. I don’t regret anything. If I had the chance, I would do it all…over…again.”

Tom let out a bitter laugh, his hand falling until he had you by the throat. You were staring each other down, both eyes dark and blown wide with that familiar rage. Tom thought that you had never been more of a Holland than this moment. Reckless, clouded with fury, willing and guilty of doing the most impulsive, dangerous things. You had never been more of a reflection of him than you were now. You were terrifyingly beautiful.

He was shaking. You were dizzy from being hit and thrown and grabbed, but you never faltered in your ability to get things done. No matter how many men he sent your way, they laid in a trail behind you, groaning, unconscious, laying in heaps of their own blood as they failed to get back up again. You had a crazed, starlight reflection in those brilliant eyes of yours, and you held Tom’s gun up in front of you, finger on the trigger.

“You,” you breathed, swallowing the blood in your mouth. You wiped the blood that was coming down your nose on the sleeve of your leather jacket, shaking your head. “Do you fucking recognize me?”

“Yes—” He held his hands up, cowering. “Yes, fuck…yes…”

“You’ve been watching me. Like a coward, in the shadows,” you laughed bitterly, stepping over one of his men that was on the floor in front of you. “You don’t look so happy to see me, though.”

“You’ve got a bloody gun in my face.”

“You’re lucky that’s all I’ve got,” you growled, glaring at him. “You’ve been threatening Tom. My Tom. Tell me why.”

“This is between us,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re just…collateral damage.”

“Well, collateral damage came back and bit you in the ass, so start talking, or I’ll make sure you never forget today,” you lowered the gun, pointing it at his knee. “Start fucking talking.”

He glanced between you and the gun, and when he made a move, you pulled the trigger, this time aimed at his thigh. You were careful with where you shot him, nothing but flesh and ensuring the bullet went through and through, and then you moved the gun back to his kneecap.

“I won’t ask again,” you said softly, kneeling down to his level as he cried out in pain in his chair, holding onto his leg. His face was reddening, his whole body shivering, and you tilted your head to the side. “Tell me why you’re after Tom.”

“He—gah!” He let out a few coughs, holding his hands over the wound to stop the bleeding. “He can’t just come back and take back this bloody city. He left to play kingpin in New York, and there’s no more room in London for—God!” He shook his head, “there’s no more room for Hollands here. You can’t leave for years and expect everything to be handed back to you. Even you understand that, don’t you?”

Your nose twitched a bit. You did understand; but it didn’t matter. He was your Tommy, and you couldn’t just let people threaten him. They could threaten you all they wanted, but not him. You swiped a pen off the table, clicking it open before shoving it into the bullet wound, grabbing him by the neck and forcing him facedown into the desk. His screams did not deter you; they only encouraged you.

“If you come after us ever again, I’ll find you all over again,” you whispered in his ear. “And I’ll make sure London forgets your name ever fucking existed. Do you understand me?”

“Yes—yes! Yes…yes, God, please…please…yes…”

“You’ll bend the knee,” you murmured, forcing him to look at you. “You’ll look Tom Holland in the eyes, apologize, and be grateful that he’s allowed you to keep your head for this long after all of the trouble you caused. You’ll bend the knee to him, you’ll pay your dues, and you’ll warn anyone else in London that if they don’t do the same, I’ll pay them a visit, too. But I will not be giving out warnings anymore.”

He had tears in his eyes. He was afraid of you. You pulled his head back and slammed it against the desk, watching his eyes flutter shut as you knocked him unconscious. You fished into his suit jacket, finding his cell phone, and you dialed the first number you saw, tossing it onto the desk with a thud. You wanted him to be alive. How else would he tell others what happened today?

You glanced between Tom��s eyes and his lips, your body relaxing a bit as you stared at him. You loved him with every fiber of your being. You loved him endlessly, desperately, completely, and you would do it all over again just to protect him. You were not sorry about what you had done, not even a little bit. They had threatened your Tommy, made him feel small and powerless and at war, and you remember all too well what that felt like.

“I’m not sorry,” you said again, softer this time. “They wanted to hurt you, Tommy. Yell at me all you want. It won’t change my mind. They deserved it, and I hope they’re afraid of me now. I hope they think twice before threatening you, I hope that they are scared of what we’ll do to them if they don’t fall in line.” Your eyes watered a bit, and you sucked in a shaky breath. “You are mine, and I will do it again and again until people stop trying to touch what’s mine.”

Tom was breathless. That anger inside of him had faded, nothing but a deep lull in his chest as he realized how undeniably his you were. You were fearless when it came to things that you loved, and he was nothing but breathless listening to you speak. You lit a warm fire in his heart, and suddenly he understood you completely. Tom had been prepared to do just the same as soon as he discovered who was threatening you; he had been prepared to scream, to fight, to hurt anyone that tried to come close to you. Of course you had gotten to them first. You were brilliant in more ways than one, and Tom was foolish to think he could finish jobs without your help. He simply couldn’t.

Tom was silent as he pushed you backwards, his hand squeezing the expanse of your throat as he shoved you back into the wall, his eyes on your lips as he stared down at you. His eyes traveled back up your face, meeting your own, and you reached over, grabbing both sides of his face firmly and pulling him close, close enough that his forehead rested against yours.

“The things I would do for you, Tom…” You whispered against his lips. “I’m afraid of it.” Your voice faltered for a moment, and his breath was so warm against your lips, his chest rising and falling. “I’m afraid of how far I’ll go. B-Because the truth is Tom…” He loosened his grip on your throat, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. “I’ll let the whole…I-I would let the whole fucking world burn if it meant you would be alright.”

“You’re so selfish,” Tom muttered, shaking his head, but his entire body was warm. He was grounded here, right in front of you, and the only thing he could truly focus on was the way you were licking those luscious lips of yours and how gorgeous you looked as you let your jacket drop onto the floor. He pushed the straps of your camisole down your shoulder, running a thumb along the bare skin there, and he grunted a bit as he pushed you back into the wall again. “You’re so fucking selfish, y/n.”

“Maybe,” you shrugged, your eyes calm. It didn’t faze you, it didn’t bother you, not even a little bit. “But you’re alive. I don’t much care for anything else.”

Something about the tone of your voice was so ominous. Tom could see in your eyes that you meant every word, and the thought that you would let everything fall to chaos for him put you in a dark light. You were dangerous, in love, but Tom was not easily deterred.

No, he was not deterred. In fact, there was something stirring inside of him at the thought of you burning the world for him.

“You don’t mean that, love,” Tom licked his lips, his thumb finding your bottom lip. He touched where your lip had split, and you took his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it for a moment. The intense stare between you remained, and neither of you dared to look away from one another. “You and I both know that you care about other people. Not just me.”

You blinked, “I meant what I said,” you said softly. Your words echoed in his ear.

She is afraid of how far she will go for me.

You shoved his chest harshly suddenly, backing him up until his knees hit the couch, and he was forced to sit. You fell into his lap, gripping his chin tight, and you made him look at you as you brought the camisole up and over your head until you were sitting in your jeans and nothing else in front of him. Tom kept his eyes level with your own, and you smirked down at him, as if daring him to look at you.

You took his hands, sliding up the expanse of your thighs until they rested over your hips. His fingers played with the belt loops of your jeans before he was unbuttoning them, shimmying them down your legs until you were in nothing but lace underwear. You tossed the gun onto the floor, and before Tom could take control, you used your weight to push him onto his back, shoving him into the pillows as you sat up on top of him.

You leaned down, gripping the collar of his dress shirt tightly, and Tom swallowed hard as you laid a soft, supple kiss under his ear.

“You’re mine,” you whispered in his ear. “I made men bleed for you, Tommy. I made them scream…and cry…and beg. I made them promise they would bow to you. I made men cower in your name, and I made them pray on the Good Lord that you would deliver them mercy.” You giggled darkly, making him shiver. He was drunk on the intoxication of you, and every word was bliss. “No one touches my Tommy,” you cooed, slipping your hands into the waistband of his trousers, humming as you wrapped your hand around his throbbing length. “No one but me.”

“Fuck—” He choked out, leaning his head back. He was breathing hard now, panting. Your words had him absolutely breathless. There was not a woman in the world that could ever match your fire. “You still can’t do this shit, y/n. You still can’t do things without telling me, you still can’t—”

“Shut up,” you breathed against his lips. “I did what I had to.” You used both hands and unzipped his pants, shoving them down his legs, and Tom flipped you both over, towering over you, forcing you back into the cushions. You grunted a bit, but he held you down.

“We’re supposed to be in this together,” he growled, and you pushed on his chest, forcing him backwards, and you both stared at each other menacingly.

“Exactly,” you breathed. “But clearly you don’t trust me. We aren’t supposed to have any secrets, Tom. And then I find out you’re doing this?” You reached down and started to gather your clothes harshly, “maybe if you had just told me what was going on, I could’ve fucking helped you. But as usual, you underestimate me.”

“I’m not underestimating you,” Tom argued, picking up his shirt. He followed you upstairs, into the bedroom, where he slammed the door shut harshly. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“God, dammit, Tom, when are you going to understand that I don’t need you to protect me?!” You snapped, turning and throwing your jacket at him. “When are you going to see that I am not as delicate and breakable as you think I am?! How long have I been doing this on my own, Tom? How long? Why can’t you just…trust me?”

“I do, I do!”

You sat on the bed, tossing your clothes onto the floor. Tom shook his dress shirt out before wrapping it around your bare torso, kneeling in front of you so he could meet your eyes.

“I do trust you, love,” he promised, gentler this time. “I’m sorry if it doesn’t appear like I do, but I do. I do trust you. But the truth is, I’m…I’m ashamed.”

“Ashamed?”

“I thought we’d run the bloody world here,” he murmured, finding your hands, squeezing them tight. “But every fucking day brings a new roadblock. Some arse running the east end, another deal gone to pot…I feel so out of control here, and that isn’t what I wanted for us. I was so…Hell, I was excited to bring you here, to show you what I’ve built, but I’ve got nothing, darling. Nothing. Nothing but threats, empty promises, and problem after problem that somehow you keep cleaning up, and I…”

You put a hand on his cheek, smiling a bit. You leaned down and kissed his forehead, shaking your head.

“Tom…you’re ridiculous,” you laughed. “If everything was perfect, I would be absolutely bored.”

He sighed, a bit annoyed, and your hands found his shoulders, rubbing them soothingly.

“Tom, you should know me by now,” you brought your left hand back, wiggling your fingers where your sparkling wedding rings sat. Tom leaned down to kiss your knuckles there gently. “I adore chaos. It makes things exciting, don’t you think? What’s more exciting then coming back and showing them that London belongs to the Hollands, hmm?”

Tom shook his head, “y/n…”

“Tom, you know better than I that this business doesn’t run like a Fortune 500,” you rolled your eyes. “It keeps us on our toes. But that’s why we do this. Because fuck, Tom, nothing makes me happier than seeing men bow to me…to you,” you teased, bringing his head up by his chin. “They think they run the world here. Don’t you think it’s a little fun making them learn their place?”

Tom pursed his lips, and you leaned down to kiss them, parting them with your tongue. You kissed tenderly, your fingers going into his curls, and you pulled away slowly, humming against his cheek.

“Promise me, Tommy,” you whispered. “Promise me no more secrets.”

Tom rubbed along your bare thighs, nodding in response, leaning his head up as he chased your lips. He kissed you warmly, slowly, his hands sliding up your thighs as he took your hips into his hands and pulled you close.

“It’s fun,” you purred, sliding his shirt off your shoulders, tossing it aside. “Admit it, Tom. It’s fun making them feel afraid…small…” You grabbed onto the back of his neck and forced him to crawl on top of you as you backed up on the bed. “…unimportant. Admit it. Admit that it’s fun,” you giggled between kisses, using your other hand to shove his trousers off of him completely. You gasped a bit as he took a hold of your throat, pulling you up to sit against the headboard. He finally smiled, darkly, sucking on your bottom lip as you felt your whole body grow in warmth.

“Hmm…” He chuckled. “Aye, ‘s fun. But not nearly as fun as commanding you, sweetheart.”

“You can’t command me,” you grinned, but then he squeezed your throat tighter, and you drew your thighs together. Before you could close them all the way, Tom forced his knee between your legs, shaking his head.

“Nuh uh,” he tsked, meeting your eyes. “Spread them, y/n. I won’t ask again.”

You giggled, kissing him lightly, “and what if I don’t?”

“Oi, love,” he pressed his thumb against the base of your throat, his rough fingers drawing gasps of breath out of you. “Don’t test me, yeah? Do as I say. Spread your legs.”

“Say please.”

Tom’s eyes darkened, “I won’t ask again.”

“Try me—ah!”

Tom grabbed onto your hips and yanked you back down onto your back. He caught your hands, pinning them above you, against the pillows, and you gasped into his mouth as he kissed you hotly. You wound your leg around his waist, flipping the both of you over, and you intertwined your fingers, laughing against his lips at his bewildered expression.

“Are you trying to be in control, Tommy?” You cooed, sitting up on his hips. “Cute. You’re so cute when you think you can overpower me, you know that?”

Tom scrunched his nose a bit, his chest hot, and he brought his hand down and grabbed a handful of your ass, bringing you down on top of him to kiss again, his other hand wrapping into your hair. You let out a soft whine into his mouth as his fingers slowly made their way between your thighs, teasing you lovingly.

“You know I only allow you have the upper hand, yeah?” He hummed between kisses, and you smiled brightly. You knew he did. You and Tom had countless nights together since you had been married. Nearly all of them involved you underneath him, in whatever position he liked, letting him coax you into the most blissful orgasms of your entire life. There was just something about letting Tom Holland be in his element in the bedroom that made you absolutely weak in the knees, and you would never get over the way he could make you feel, which was ethereal and otherworldly.

There was also just something about allowing yourself to not think. You thought always. Your head was always running a million miles a minute, but here in your bedroom, you could be alone with just him. You could let Tom take control, and he would, because you needed him to. His voice would whisper praise in your ear, and you could just relax, because you trusted him like this, naked, bare, under him. You trusted him with every part of you, even the intimate parts, and he never faltered, not even once.

You came apart every single time.

“Open,” Tom muttered, and you relaxed in his arms. Despite being on top of him, Tom was in charge, and he had given you a command, and you obliged without question, your eyelids fluttering as you parted your lips for him. Tom slid his hand up your body, fitting two fingers into your mouth, and you hummed as you tasted yourself on his fingertips. Your eyes closed as you sucked on his fingers, and Tom let out a deep sigh as he watched you.

“My pretty, pretty girl,” he murmured, and you opened your eyes at that, letting his fingers go gently, kissing them softly. “You’re just bloody gorgeous, aren’t you?”

Your eyes sparkled at that, hearing his soft voice love you like it always did, and Tom adored the way your body sunk down into his. Your tense upper body relaxed, and the way the palm of his hand was against your cheek had you nuzzling into him, closing your eyes again as you breathed deep breaths.

“You are,” Tom sighed, licking his lips. “You’re beautiful, y/n. You’re my beautiful, precious angel—” You winced a bit as his fingers touched the gash on your forehead, brushed against the yellowing bruise around your eye, “and if you die, I die.”

You opened your eyes, meeting his dark gaze, and you swallowed a bit as you looked at him. The lust died for a moment, replaced with something deeper, and you could see how genuine he was being.

If you die, I die.

You nodded once, just barely, and Tom brought you close to kiss you, soft this time, just barely touching his lips to yours.

“If you die, I die,” you echoed, and Tom nodded, hand around the back of your neck as he rolled over, getting between your legs, practically ripping your underwear off your legs.

“Fuck, I can’t take this,” he said, mostly to himself. “Make room for me, love, I’m starved, yeah?”

Your eyes rolled back in your head. He sounded so nonchalant, as if eating you out was a normality. You watched as he dipped his head to meet the skin of your neck, kisses you there, letting his mouth carry him further down, until he was sucking a taut nipple into his mouth and pushing your legs open as far as they could go. The sounds leaving your mouth only made him more eager, and he didn’t stop smirking as he tugged your panties down your legs roughly, tossing them behind himself. You think your heard them rip, tear maybe, but you couldn’t be bothered. Your husband was hooking your legs over his broad shoulders, and all you could think about was having Tom Holland’s lips buried between your legs as far as they could go.

And he did just that.

Tom liked to make you scream. He knew just how, he had learned your body so well. He knew what every twitch and movement meant, what every gasp and moan to leave your mouth signaled. He had learned what could make you tip over the edge in seconds, and he had learned how to get you right to the edge and bring you back down again. Tom prided himself in knowing your most intimate parts, memorizing your quirks, and eating his wife out was no different. He knew exactly what you wanted.

Your back arched as he kissed sloppily around your throbbing clit. He smiled to himself as he slid a hand down your quivering thigh, teasing your folds as he softly lapped at your clit. Your eyes rolled back in your head as Tom made it his mission to draw shapes against your bud. He loved spelling out his name with his tongue so slowly, and he always waited to see your reaction when the tip of his wet muscle would draw that aching, wonderful O, and he groaned when he noticed how you whined at that, bringing your hands up to fondle your breasts as he slid two slender fingers inside of you.

Tom closed his eyes for a moment as he heard you cry out with delight, “there’s my girl,” he murmured. “Sound so good, love…let me hear you, you know how much I fancy your voice, yeah?”

You nodded desperately, your body hot all over as Tom stretched you out wonderfully with his fingers, slowly moving them so he could find that special spot inside of you and rub it gently with the tips of his fingers, curling them every once in a while to draw out a loud moan from your sweet lips. Tom suddenly couldn’t believe you were his; completely, utterly, eternally his.

“Fuck, my wife is so beautiful,” he breathed, kissing the inside of your thigh as he worked his fingers. “Aren’t you, dove? Aren’t you beautiful? ‘specially when you come…you’re so bloody gorgeous when you wet my fingers, baby.”

“God, Tom!” You whimpered, and he laughed heartily, a smirk on his lips as he kissed along your thigh again.

“You’re mine forever,” he mumbled, grunting as he picked up the pace of his fingers. “No one else is going to fuck this pretty pussy except for me, darling. No other bloke on this fucking earth is ever going to know how perfect your cunt is. It’s mine,” he leaned down and wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking warmly.

“Tom—”

“And you’re going to give me heirs,” Tom growled. “Aren’t you, y/n? You’re going to give me beautiful, perfect heirs…”

You choked on the moan coming out. You saw stars, your vision turning white as you came over his fingers, his lips still on you as he kissed your thighs lovingly, guiding you through your orgasm.

“That’s it, princess.”

“Fuck, you’re soaking my fingers…”

“So sweet…you taste divine…”

You sat up after a few minutes, getting up onto your elbows. You looked down at him, trying to ignore how attractive it was to watch Tom suck on his fingers slowly, licking them clean. You swallowed hard.

“Tom—”

“Mmm,” he hummed, interrupting you. “You liked that, huh, love?”

You pursed your lips, staying quiet as Tom raised himself over you, caging you between his arms. He stared down at you with dark eyes, his curls falling over his forehead, his lips wet and his cheeks flushed.

He leaned down, sucking on the skin beneath your ear, and you let out a pathetic whine as he rolled a nipple between his fingers, his wet fingers making the sensation all the more enticing.

“You like the thought…don’t you, y/n?” He whispered huskily. “You like the thought of it…” You swallowed hard as his hand traveled lowered, smoothing over your stomach, “the thought of having my baby,” you closed your eyes as he rubbed his thumb along your ribs, trailing it around your hips and back up your stomach, “you want it…don’t you?”

“D-Don’t be ridiculous, Tom, we…” You couldn’t finish. You didn’t want to sound desperate or pathetic, more than you already did, but he was right, and it was true. You were at Tom’s mercy, and the thought of being intimate with purpose had you wet all over again for him. You looked back up at him, back into his eyes, and finally you nodded silently, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and bringing him close to kiss you. “Fuck, Tommy…you make me feel so many things…sometimes I don’t even understand them.”

Tom chuckled warmly, hooking a thumb into your mouth, smirking.

“’s alright, love. You can admit it,” he winked. “You can admit you want my baby. You can admit that you want me to bury my cock inside of you, and give you everything I’ve got…” He tilted his head to the side, watching intently as you sighed and sucked on his thumb. “You can admit that you want me to fuck you senseless…and that you want to give me the heirs that I so deserve.”

Normally, a comment like that would’ve had you smacking Tom across the face. But here, underneath him, lustful eyes staring down into yours, you were submitting to him completely. The thought made you shiver, and his words were making you hot with desire. You did want it. You hated to admit it to yourself, but you did want it, and you wanted it so badly, you thought maybe, just maybe, you would even beg him for it.

For a moment, you paused. Your hand came up and caressed his cheek, and he laid his forehead against yours, so close to you. Your breath mingled, and you bit your lip hard, studying him. Tom was your family. Tom was your husband. You didn’t need any more convincing about it all; looking up at him, seeing the way he softened to your touch, put you completely at ease. You trusted Tom with your life, and this was no different.

I fall in love with him more and more every second. How is that even possible?

You shared hot, passionate kisses for a long while. Tom’s hands were squeezing your thigh and your hip, and yours were secured around his shoulders, nails digging into the skin of his back as you encouraged him to grind against your, wet folds welcoming his cock as his tip bumped against your clit every so often, making you whine into the kisses and pull on his sweaty curls. Tom was a mess above you, teasing himself now as he gripped your hips and let you coat his length with your arousal. You found yourself gasping desperately, clawing at his back, and at the feeling, Tom knew you needed him just as much as he needed you.

You kept your eyes on his as he gripped your thighs firmly, wrapping them around his waist. His lips turned up into a dark smirk, and you ran your fingers down his face as he finally pushed into you, fitting himself snugly inside of you until his hips touched yours. Your mouth fell open as he did, and you let out a sigh as he stopped, his eyes roaming over your face to gauge your reaction. You were completely relaxed in his arms, clenching tight around him, and Tom took that as his cue that you were enjoying every second of this.

“No matter how many times I fuck you,” he pressed a kiss to your neck, “you’re still so bloody tight, huh, love?”

You let out a breathy giggle, making him smile, and you felt intoxicated by his presence. Tom was so handsome, so fit, so incredibly perfect, and your head was spinning with how wonderful he felt. He wasn’t even moving yet, and you thought if he stayed still for much longer, you might just come from how sensitive you were. But he could feel that, surely, because he finally hiked your thighs up a bit more and started to move, his hips rolling against yours so slowly.

“That’s it,” he murmured, watching your head fall back, your entire body shivering with pleasure. “That’s it, m’love…fuck…you take me so well, sweetheart…God, I can’t believe you’re mine.”

“Tom,” you let out, grabbing onto his biceps. You squeezed the tense muscle under your palms, and you kissed again, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

You touched his face again, and Tom thought he might lose his mind. He could feel the cool metal of your wedding ring, a stinging, beautiful reminder that you were undeniably his, and he found himself picking up the pace, cradling your head in his arms.

“Give it to me, Tommy,” you cooed in his ear.

“Yeah?” He asked, breathless, “is that what you want, kitten? You want me to give you everything I’ve bloody got, is that it?”

Your eyes fluttered as he spoke in your ear, a husky, breathy tone accentuated by his accent and punctuated by his rhythmic movements as he kept his hips steady against yours despite his chest going flush red. You nodded silently, not trusting yourself to speak, and he nibbled on the edge of your ear, humming warmly.

“You want to be full of me, darling,” he murmured. “You want to be stuffed full of me…dripping with me…you want me to fill your sweet, pretty cunt with whatever I’ve got so you can give me heirs, don’t you?”

You grabbed onto his cheeks, kissing him in response. Your throat was dry, and your body was on fire, and his words only made you spread your legs wider, and he cursed against your lips as you clenched around him at the thought.

“You do,” he chuckled darkly. “Say it, y/n.”

“Tommy—” You whined, but he grunted, slowing his hips, and you cried out in desperation, needing him to keep up his constant thrusts. “Tom!”

“Say it, love,” he ordered you, tangling a hand into your hair and tugging hard, exposing your neck for him as he sucked on the base of your throat. “Say you want me to cum. Say you want me to fill you to the fucking brim and stay there until I’m certain you’re spilling with whatever I fucking give you.”

You let out a desperate sob, clutching onto his back, digging into the tense muscles there.

“I-I want it,” you panted. “I want it so badly, Tommy, please.”

Tom had never heard you beg quite so nicely before. Tom had never heard you speak in this tone, never heard you submit so well for him. It was foreign to hear you plead, unfamiliar to see you so wrecked and submissive, but Tom thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed. You were so combative, so competitive, so authoritative in the way you carried yourself. But for him, for Tom, you were here, underneath him, begging like a good girl in his ear, and Tom thought he couldn’t love you anymore than he did now.

“Want what?”

“Baby—”

“Say it, y/n,” he growled. “Say it, or I won’t give it to you. Tell me what you want from me. Be a good fucking girl, and say what you want.”

“I want you to come!” You cried out finally, arching your back into him. He smiled as you seemed to fall apart in his arms, clawing at him, trying to get as close as possible even though you were both pressed against each other firmly. “I-I want you to come, Tommy, please…I want you to come, and I-I want…”

“Want…?”

You kissed him softly, tenderly, and Tom stilled his hips for a moment, his hands on both of your cheeks as he kissed back just as feverishly, groaning when your ankles crossed behind his back as you pulled him as close as you could, feeling the tip of his cock rub deliciously against your sweet spot.

“Want heirs, Tommy,” you breathed against him. “I want them, and I want them to be ours.”

He grinned, his eyes darting between your lips and back up to your eyes. His own eyes were dark, so dark, but they were sparkling with something beautiful. He was asking if you meant it with a smile like that, and you nodded slowly, prompting him to grip your hips firmly and start moving again, harder this time, making your whole body shake.

“So warm,” Tom muttered. “Gonna take me so nicely, aren’t you, kitten?”

“Yes, Tom,” you answered breathlessly, nodding as you wound your arms around his neck. He was close, you could tell. His eyes were screwed shut, and he was concentrating on how you felt. His body was tense, and he seemed focused, and you brought your lips close to his ear. “Come for me, Tommy. Let me feel you, please…please…” You knew he liked it when you begged. You never begged, you never pleaded, and when you did, it was only for him.

“G-ahh, shit,” Tom leaned his head back, “bloody perfect, you are…look at the way you take me, love…fuck..”

Your eyes opened wide when he reached up for you, his hand wrapping around your neck, snuggly as if it was meant to be there. You closed them again as he pressed his forehead to yours, squeezing the flesh of your throat, drawing soft whimpers from you as he fucked you harder, deeper, his skin so hot as it touched yours. Tom stuttered above you, his arm giving out just a bit, and you had tears in your eyes as he finally, finally came, filling you just as he promised, his teeth digging into your jaw as he groaned against you. The rings adorning his fingers were searing against your skin, so cold and hard, but you didn’t want him to stop touching you, not ever, not like this.

Tom never stopped, even though his body was relaxed, exhausted. He kept his hips steady against yours until he heard that signature gurgled moan leave your mouth, until he could feel you clenching so tight around him that you almost made him hard all over again.

Your eyes closed slowly, and you sighed as you felt the weight of Tom’s body gently rest on you. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hand leaving your neck as he rubbed down your sides, over the outside of your thighs, hooking into the back of your knees and tightening your legs around his middle.

“’m so in love with you,” he said into your ear, and you ran your fingers through his damp curls, a lazy smile coming over your face. “Fuck, I’m so in love with you, y/n.”

You caressed the back of his neck, your eyes opening again. You stared up at the ceiling with a soft, content expression on your face, and you turned your head finally and planted soft kisses on Tom’s shoulder, your fingers scratching gently over his back, soothing him.

“You do things to me, Tom,” you said finally, laughing a bit to yourself. “You do things to me, and I can’t explain them.”

He chuckled, kissing the side of your neck, “you mean the way you completely fall apart for me? How all I have to do is get you into my bed, and suddenly you’re my quiet, beautiful, sweet good girl?”

You hit his back playfully, tossing your head back as you laughed warmly, hugging him close to you.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “I…” You hid yourself in his chest, holding onto him tightly. “I can’t help it, Tom…”

“I know, love,” he lifted himself up, enough that he could look down at you. “And you’re perfect.”

You both broke out into soft smiles, just staring at each other, gentle eyes looking into gentle eyes. You had done terrible things. You had hurt people today, gone behind your husband’s back, you had done things that you wished you hadn’t, things you swore you would never do. But looking up at him, running your fingers over those handsome features, you didn’t feel guilty, not even a little bit, not even at all.

There was nothing you wouldn’t do for him, and it scared you to admit it. You had said it so nonchalantly, but in truth, you terrified yourself. There was not a line you would not cross, not a life you would not take, not a soul you would not hurt. Tom Holland had you wrapped around his finger so tightly, he could break you, and you would say thank you.

Your lips parted as he kissed you, mumbling soft praise into your mouth. He was saying that he loved you, that he appreciated you, that you were his wife, that you were perfect, but there was a ringing in your ears, fear in your heart that started to choke you from the inside out.

You thought perhaps you might die trying to save him. You thought it was poetic. You thought—

“y/n, are you hearing me?”

His voice came through, and you looked up at him, blinking to focus.

“Hmm? What did you say?”

“’m sorry,” Tom repeated, cupping both of your cheeks. “I said ‘m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For…all of it,” he brushed your hair out of your eyes. “We should’ve done it together. We should’ve…”

“Yes, we should’ve,” you hummed, rolling your eyes a bit. “But we didn’t.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you whispered. “For being reckless. A bit stupid.”

Sorry for being reckless, but not for what I’ve done.

He smiled, and you smiled, and you thought you saw love in his eyes. Those dark eyes, usually clouded over because of how much was on his mind, were clear and glowing, staring down at you.

“I’ll admit…I am proud of you,” Tom said softly, shaking his head. “You’re living up to your name, love. You’re a Holland at heart, you know that, yeah?”

“Oh, God, you’re rubbing off on me,” you sighed, giggling. You felt a swell of pride in your chest at the thought of Tom being proud of you. You didn’t need validation, you didn’t need his approval, but the thought that he was proud of you made you feel relieved, serene, loved. You sounded so sweet to him, laughing like that, and he adored seeing you so relaxed. You were safe, in his arms, and there was no reason for him to be anything except utterly content.

“You are mine, y/n. All mine. I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Reckless, stupid, beautiful, it didn’t matter. Tom wouldn’t change anything.

Not then, not now, and not ever.

#tom holland imagines #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fic #tom holland smut #tom holland x fem!reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland au #tom holland series #mob!tom #notorious #thnsfw

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hyuckssunchip · 4 years

Text

Shakespeare Sucks Pt. 5

Pairings: Jaemin x Reader, ft. Jaehyun, Renjun, Mark, Jeno, Taeyong

Words: 2.4K

Warnings: Language (there is almost always language in my writings), angst

Synopsis:

Like Romeo and Juliet... less death though. You and Jaemin are blissfully unaware of the fate the lies ahead of your relationship. That is until Fate unveils the cruel plans that She has for you.

“I’m fine, you don’t need to act like I’m a doll that’s going to break.” You pulled on Jaemin’s shirt, slowing down his pace. “I think you’re forgetting who’s daughter I am.”

He continued without slowing. “We still have to talk about that.”

You shivered at the tone of his words, not liking the way he sounded.

“What’s there to talk about? It’s pretty straight forward, don’t you think?”

Frowning, he turned to face you, “It’s anything but straight forward.”

Rolling your eyes, you bumped into his back, finally arriving at the lake house you had visited weeks ago. Everyone had decided that it was best to hide out here for the meantime, not really caring what your opinion was.

You had always wanted to be as far away from your Dad’s business as possible, but it didn’t sit right with you now that you knew your family was really in danger.

“Go ahead and get settled, I’m gonna make a phone call.” He nudged you towards the steps that led to the paling blue door. Tightening your lips, you followed his instructions, but the moment you closed the door you pressed your ear tight against the door, in hopes of eavesdropping.

“Yeah, we’re here.” There was a slight pause. “Yes. I’m sure no one followed us. I know, I know. We’ll be careful.”

The sound of gravel grinding against his shoe had you worried about what he was thinking.

“Yeah. Stay safe, please.” He sounded as if he was pleading, making your heart ache knowing he was in the same situation as you.

His sigh was loud enough to be heard through the door and you realized he had hung up. You straightened your back stepping back.

The door opened just moments later. His face showed his surprise, not quite expecting you to be so close.

“Did you get settled?“There was a sad smile that followed.

“Yeah.”

You hated that you felt awkward with him. Here was the perfect opportunity for you and Jaemin to be alone and not worry about your familial issues, but you couldn’t help but think of them now.

“Are you hungry or...?” You could tell he felt the same, you winced at the thought.

“No, I’m pretty tired though, I think I’m gonna take a nap.” You mumbled out, finding an excuse to put distance between the two of you. It seemed to be too much for you to handle right now.

“Oh, yeah you should rest.” He bit his lip, drawing your attention to his lips for a moment. It had been so long since you last felt them.

“Do you... do you want to join me?” You closed your eyes, already trying to block out rejection. But you were thrilled when you heard his hum of approval.

“Of course.”

He pulled you to the couch, throwing a blanket over the two of you before wrapping an arm over your shoulder. You snuggled into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent, sending a wave of relaxation over you.

“We haven’t done this in forever.” You breathed under your breath, sighing in contentment.

“I know, I’m sorry.” You frowned.

“Sorry? It’s not your fault. We just haven’t had time, things have been weird lately.”

He rested his head on top of yours, running his fingers down the side of your arms, bringing goosebumps to your skin.

“I know, but it does kind of feel like it’s my fault. If I wasn’t... you know, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

He was startled as you straightened up, pulling away to get a good look at him.

“And we wouldn’t have this problem if he wasn’t my Dad. It’s not your fault.”

He simply nodded and pulled you back into his chest.

“I know. It kind of feels like Romeo and Juliet though, like treason if we love each other.” He let out a stale laugh at the revelation.

“Yeah, well Shakespeare sucks.” You muttered into his neck. “Besides, they both die in the end, so we’re nothing like them, okay?”

“Okay.” He whispered back, just loud enough for you to hear.

He rested a soft kiss on your temple, leaving you with a ghost of a smile.

How did we get here?

You thought back to the conversation you had with Renjun last week.

“So I did my research. And trust me when I say I nearly died getting this information.” He had nagged out, flopping down into the chair across from you.

“Shut up.” Rolling your eyes, nevertheless leaning forward, eager to hear what he found.

“I’m being serious, Dad was totally on to me, asking why I was going through the mantle’s folders again.”

“Whatever, what did you find?” You waved him off, trying to get a peek at the paper he had in front of him.

“Yes, thank you Renjun for risking your life, I’m forever indebted to you.” He was answered with a quick jab in the ribs.

“So?” You caught a glimpse of the picture that was printed.

He pursed his lips, rubbing the spot where you had hit him, “It’s definitely the same emblem, together I mean. You know that much right?”

“Uh... I think so.” Not really sure by what he meant.

“Right, I’m just going to assume that you don’t know shit then.”

You glared at him, but didn’t oppose his statement, it was pretty close to the truth. You were starting to regret trying to ignore everything about the business, now you were totally lost.

“The emblems are split from one. The one you saw on Jaemin’s keychain and ours match up to a whole emblem.”

“Right, that’s the one I found in the box under the mantle a few years ago.” You nodded back intently.

“You found an emblem?” He raised his eyebrows once before narrowing his gaze.

“Yeah, it was just a small piece of metal, it wasn’t attached to anything like it usually was, you know, like a knife or a ring like Dad’s.”

“Where is it? Is it still under the mantle?”

“No, it’s back in a drawer in my apartment.” You shook your head, thinking back to the mess you made.

“Why’d you take it?”

“I thought it was Mom’s and I wanted something when I left.” Your voice trailed off, touching on a sore subject.

Renjun started again after a bit of silence. “There’s a reason that they match up to a whole. It’s because it was, originally.”

“What do you mean? Like the two groups were one?”

“Exactly, apparently it was about eleven years ago when it split.”

“Why?” You furrowed your brows, not yet understanding.

“From what I gathered, we were ambushed by Vice and things went really bad. The boss back then was Mom’s brother, Minho, but when we were attacked Dad didn’t do anything to help him. I think Dad fled with us, but left Minho when he was injured. It looks like he didn’t survive and that created animosity between the two factions. Those who thought it was betrayal, and those who did what they could to survive.”

“Mom’s brother? Why don’t I remember any of this.”

“Mom never liked to talk about him, and she passed before any of this happened. We were really young, I kind of remember Dad rushing us off somewhere, but not much.”

“Oh.”

“Taeyong’s my brother.” You stiffened at his words, knowing where this was heading.

“We don’t have to talk about this.” It came out hushed and wavering as you gripped the fabric of his shirt below you.

“No, I think it’s best if we do. I want things to get back to normal between us as soon as possible.”

He let out a deep sigh.

“How much do you know?”

“Renjun told me a bit from what he gathered.” You offered, trying to prepare yourself.

“I’ll tell you my side then.”

He sighed, running his hand through his already messy hair.

“Taeyong and I grew up in really bad conditions. Our parents were never around, and when they were they would hit us. I was about seven when Taeyong took me with him, that was the last time I saw my parents.”

You ran your hand over his fist that he had unknowingly clenched, to which he relaxed to.

“We didn’t have anywhere to go, or food to eat. I mean what was a seven and twelve year old supposed to do? One day when were in an alley way that we had kind of set up as home, we were intruded by a gang of older men. They happened to be part of the gang that I’m in now. His name was Minho, he saved us. Not many would take in two children with not much to offer, but he did. He took us in, he fed us, clothed us, trained us. Not only did we start to feel like we were loved, but we were also part of something now, it was a real family of sorts. Four years had passed when we were attacked, and I watched with my own eyes the man who saved me die, I watched your father leave him to die, and there was nothing I could do. After all what could an eleven year old do in a situation like that? It was from that point on that I resented your father, and anything that had to do with him. Taeyong took it very personally, Minho was not just a father figure to him, he was his idol. It took a long time to become stable again after the split and the death of Minho, it was really rough. People became more violent, there was less supplies, less food, like I said it was really tough for a while. About five years ago Taeyong took over, he did a lot of stupid and reckless things, he was only twenty-three at the time, that’s a huge responsibility. But I hated the way he did things, the way he still does things. Sometimes I think he acts the way he does because he’s scared that he’s not enough, not enough to fill the shoes. He’s brought things back to a good state, but not internally, it’s not the same atmosphere before. I would still consider them my family, but it doesn’t feel the same. That’s when I started backing out. I didn’t like the way it was running, but I didn’t really have a choice. Where would I go? Who would I turn to? My family was here. I was stuck in this for life. But I decided to keep things separate, I could live a normal life just like every other kid out there, but I’d still come back home to that. So that’s what I did, and then I met you and I wanted absolutely nothing to do with that anymore. But it seems like fate is teasing us, no matter where I go, I’m brought back. And now we’re here, stuck again in the same situation. Taeyong and your Dad fighting against Vice, but I doubt either of them trust each other, not to mention they’re supposed to be on the same side.”

He stopped, taking a moment to breathe, and allowing you to begin to process everything. All you could do his give his hand a slight squeeze, reassurance that you were here for him.

”I’m scared, I don’t want to lose him, he’s my only family left.” The crack in his voice broke your heart.

“Me too. Renjun and my Dad are all I have. I just hate that we have to ride this out and wait for a result.” You fidgeted with your fingers, the nervous tick as proof.

“We don’t have to.”

“Jaemin.”

“I promise I won’t do anything to put you in danger, but hear me out. Since I’ve heard that there was a leak, I’ve been doing a little bit of research on my own. There’s three guys it could’ve been, I’ve ruled out one of them so it’s either Ten or Lucas. Both of them joined within the last two months. Do you have any idea at all of who it could be on your side? I know you try to stay out of it, but did Renjun mention anything to you?”

You frowned, trying to think of anything that your brother had said to you in particular.

“We don’t really talk about other members... but there was a new boy that joined about a month ago, Yangyang. I don’t know much though, just that he moved around a lot and he just came from China. That’s the only person I can think of.”

He nodded to himself, running over details in his mind.

He had found that both Ten and Lucas had last been in China before they arrived. Whether it was purely coincidence or not, he couldn’t overlook it. Vice was far from located in China, but he wouldn’t put it past them to use this as a diversion to throw any suspicion off.

Vice had a bone to pick with them, not only were they the cause of the Vice’s downfall years before the ambush that caused the rift, but in doing so they had also lost many of their members. Vice wasn’t one to let things go easily, it was more than likely this had been in the plans for a long time now.

“No, we’re not using you as bait.” He was firm with his statement, but you chose to ignore it.

“Think about it Jaemin, they know exactly how to get to my Dad, through me. How easy would it be to draw them here then?”

“That’s ridiculous, I brought you here to keep you safe, not bring danger to you. No, that’s stupid. End of discussion.”

You waved your hands animatedly at him, “Jaemin, I get to have a say in this too. It’s my life and I’ve already decided. Either you help me or I do this alone.”

He groaned out, staring at your determined expression. “Okay, but if anything remotely goes wrong, I’m ending it, understand?”

You nodded back, reaching for your phone. “I’ll let Renjun know so that he can tip Yangyang off.”

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swellwriting · 5 years

Text

Mistakes that Make and Break.

Fandom: Harry Potter, Marauders Era

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

Warnings: Mature themes?? Nothing major. Angst and immense fluffy sweetness.

Request: Remus doesn't know he has a 7th-year daughter until he teaches her?

Word Count: 4.4 k

A/N: Timelines and ages don't really make sense but let's bend the rules ok, this is the land of pretend. Also, I'm changing the year to 3 instead of 7 :))) This has been sitting in my WIP’s folder so I guess I should just post it lol.

Remus Lupin is not an easy man to find. After his friends died he sort of went into isolation, he wouldn't see anyone not even you.

You weren't even sure if he remembered what had happened, if he didn't care, or was purposefully avoiding you.

It was the night of Halloween, the same night Lily and James were killed. Maybe he blamed you and that's why he ignored you for that first while and then became totally unreachable for years.

But that night, seemed a blur, a tragic terrible and happy accident all rolled into one. You were at their Halloween party, you got drunk, told too many truths, lost your ability to stop yourself from staring at Remus the way you were. He was drunk, so were you, both dumb virgins, or so you thought, you weren't too sure anymore if he had lied.

He took you to his house, it was small and poorly but you didn't care in the slightest, he would usually be ashamed but he was too drunk to care and you were taking off your clothes in his bedroom so he was purely focused on that. He was all clumsy hands and toothy grins, messy curls in his face and too drunk to even care about you seeing his scars. He was considerate and sweet and funny and he filled you with so much hope with every sweet compliment he whispered in your ear.

You fell asleep shortly after, both drunk and tired, when you woke up Remus was gone and you had lunch plans with Lily so you had to go home and change, you were so excited to gush to her about Remus. You worried that it was weird that he left you alone in his house, but maybe he had somewhere important to be.

It wasn't until you apparated home that you heard the news, so many of the people you saw the night before were now dead, Lily, James and Peter, and Sirius was behind it all. You remembered taking shots with him that night, a sour taste fills your mouth and you quickly ran to the bathroom just in time.

It was easy to blame it on the drinking, the loss and sadness you were facing, that's why you felt so sick, for over a week. Then you blamed it on heartbreak when Remus kept ignoring you, avoiding you. You felt so alone, unwanted. When your period never came the following week you sort of saw it coming. It was like life was trying to make this horrible loss of your friends even worse. Making you pregnant by a man who won’t even acknowledge your existence or what happened between you. Your best friend was dead and you couldn't confide in her for help or advice.

You were alone, 9 months later your daughter was born and then you didn't feel so lonely anymore. You sent an owl out for Remus every month for the first few years, but you had no idea where he really was so they kept coming back.

You still thought about him all the time, the way he left you, broke you. You still hoped one-day he’d come back, that he wasn't dead somewhere waiting to be found.

Raising your daughter all alone was hard, you had your parents to help you but for most things, you were on your own. It became much harder when you found out your daughter had a specific gene passed down to her, one you didn't even know Remus had and one you had no experience with. When you found out you felt like nothing could get any worse, you didn't want to report your daughter to the ministry, you wanted her to live a free and happy life as best she could. You bought wolfsbane potion each month and even confided in the last person you wanted to talk to.

You wrote a letter to Sirius Black, you started by saying that you had no desire to talk to him, to know how he is or to hear his excuses but that you needed help. You told him what happened between you and Remus, about your daughter, and ever so secretly about her “unruly attitude” that was exactly like Remus “problem” and asked him how he dealt with that in the past, or if he even knew enough to understand what you were really talking about behind these codewords.

Sirius was quick to write back, somehow he was easier to reach in Azkaban than Remus was, where ever he might be, Sirius told you every trick he learned over the years to helping Remus and they all helped magnificently, the tips and tricks, the chocolate. When she was young she was easy to control but as she got older she became stronger, you loathed sending her away to Hogwarts when the day finally came. After making plans with Dumbledore, thanking him profusely for everything you mind was a little calmer.

Everything was going fine, as smoothly as possible until your daughter's third year. Even though you cried back in the first year when she told you she finally met Harry potter and he was so cool and nice and she definitely didn't have a crush on him. You told her all about him as a baby, his parents and the memories, but made sure to leave Remus out of them until she was older at least.

You had named your daughter Hope, after Remus’ mother, you had no idea what else to name her and you hoped that if he ever found out about her, this would make him want to meet her more, love her more somehow.

Hope couldn't help her crush on Harry, so when she saw him walking towards the Defence against the Dark arts classroom she walked up beside him.

“Hey, Harry!” She said excitedly, she wanted to tell him everything you told her this summer about his parents and him. “Hi Hope, how are you?” He asked, though his mind seemed to be somewhere else.

“Good, have a good summer, Harry?” She asked sweetly.

“Not particularly,” he answers and then stops right in front of the dark arts classroom, Lupin is standing inside, watching from his desk as the two students interact at his door.

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he answers quickly, “I have to go talk to Professor Lupin if you don’t mind,” he says and walks into the classroom.

“If you want me to cheer you up, my mum told me more stories about you, when you were a baby and about your parents,” she says and Remus wasn't really listening to their conversation until then, his head perks up.

“Maybe later, I've just-” Harry tries to make up an excuse but Remus is interested in what the young girl has to say.

“No rush Harry, there is time for a story. I’d like to hear it too,” he says and gestures for the girl to come over to his desk.

Something about her face is too familiar, though he knows he's never seen her before, she has a few faint scars on her cheek and forehead, brown messy hair, she’s lanky but still shorter than Harry.

“Hello, Mr. Lupin.” She says timidly, and he smiles at her, “I'm Hope.”

He nods his head as for her to continue and she does right away very excited.

“My mum says she was there when you were born and you were really tiny, so tiny that your dad was scared to hold you. And she says your dad was a really good Quiddich player, but you probably knew that because you're really good too. She says your dad once threw a quaffle and hit her right in the face and it was really funny because he felt really bad.”

The pieces started to fall together for him, clicking in his mind. The more she talked the more it clicked into place.

“Hope, who exactly is your mother,” he asks, as though he doesn't want to believe it.

“Uhm her name is Y/n Y/l/n, why Mr. Lupin?” She asks, completely unknowing.

“She is your mother?” He asks again as though he can't believe it.

“You knew her too, I mean if she knew my parents, and you knew my parents it makes sense?” Harry questions.

“I... I did,” he admits and he looks white as a ghost, both kids stare at him, wondering why he is acting so strange.

He is racking his brain, he hadn't seen you since that night at his place, when he left you there, the way he avoided you and ignored you. He tried to do the math in his head but his brain wasn’t working, who the hell could this girls father have been, he couldn't picture you being with anyone, for as long as he knew you, you only had a crush on him and then he ruined it. Did you move on that quickly? He shouldn't ask, it’s improper to but he can't help himself.

“Hope, dear may I ask who your father is?” Remus asks quietly and Harry is beyond confused at this entire interaction.

Her face goes pale, her bottom lip goes in between her teeth as she bites hard, her eyes travel between Remus and Harry before she quietly mumbles, “I don't know, sir.” and hearing those words makes his heart stops.

He stares at her for a moment, she has his messy hair, the same damned nose, similar scars decorating her face and he feels like throwing up. His head is spinning and he doesn't know what he is going to do. “Very well,” he manages to say. “Uhm Harry I'm rather sorry but I’ll have to talk to you later I have a lot of papers to grade, so if you don't mind,” he says and points a shaky hand towards the door.

“Okay,” Harry says and Hope follows him out the door like a puppy, they quickly fall into a much more normal conversation.

He isn't sure what to do with himself. He suddenly is filled with regret and self-hatred. He left you the way he did, with no explanation, he wasn't there for you after he lied to you, made you think that he wanted you, which he did but then everything changed. He ignored you, he thought you were just in love with him or something, feelings he couldn't process but in reality, you were simply just trying to tell him that you were pregnant. He left you alone to deal with the grief of such a great loss and then alone to raise your child. He missed out on so much of her life, he wasn't sure she would even want him anymore.

Then he remembered the scars and it hits him. Not only did he have a child he didn't know about but he had also passed down lycanthropy to her, he left you alone to deal with a child that had the rotten luck of getting his stupid gene. You who didn’t even know Remus was a werewolf, who didn’t know what you were signing up for with one stupid mistake of one night.

His heart felt as though it was snapping into a million pieces, her little happy smile replayed in his mind, the way she looked up at Harry like she admired him so much made his heart hurt too, the way she talked about her mom, talked about you.

You hadn't known Remus had been teaching at Hogwarts, your daughter wasn't assigned to his class and you didn't often read a list of the entire faculty of Hogwarts in your spare time. When your daughter started at Hogwarts you moved to the village of Hogsmead, this meant your daughter was never too far if she needed you, and you could easily visit her with the help of Dumbledore.

Tomorrow was the first Hogsmead visit of the year, your daughter would always come by the house with her friends and you had baked cookies expecting their arrival the next day.

Remus, after throwing up three times, and drowning in self-pity and regret, made his way to Dumbledores office keeping his head down to hide his sickly face and red eyes.

Dumbledore let him in quickly, with a knowing look on his face.

“You knew didn't you?” Remus said, not angry-sounding just looking for answers.

“Knew what Professor Lupin?”

“You knew I had a daughter, you knew she was here and you didn't tell me.”

“It was not my place to intrude. I knew you had a daughter, yes, but I only knew so much as Y/n told me.”

“What did she tell you? I haven't seen her in years since James and Lily died. I had no idea.”

“She came to me when Hope was starting her first year, she told me she hadn't seen you in years, couldn't get ahold of you no matter how hard she tried. She said she resorted to writing to Sirius for advice, and Sirius had told her to come to me for help just as I helped you when you started at Hogwarts.”

“She went to Sirius for help? How could she?”

“She didn't have another option, everyone she knew was dead and she couldn't find you.”

“I didn't know,” Remus says more to reassure himself.

“It wasn't my place to tell you about a child you had no idea about, I didn't know why you were avoiding her.”

“That's what you were hinting at, back at the beginning of this year wasn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you just meant Harry when you mentioned an “interesting student”, I didn't know. And she's like me and, I feel so guilty I don't even know how to tell Y/n, how to apologize I'm scared she will hate me.”

“There is a trip to Hogsmeade tomorrow.” Dumbledore states.

“And?” Remus asks confused.

“She moved there when Hope started school, so she could be closer. As far as I know, she never moved on. And she is one of the kindest people I've ever met, more forgiving than most. Be honest with her, I'm sure she will listen but don't tell Hope anything until you have spoken to Y/n, it's her decision if you get to be a bigger part of Hope’s life.”

“Okay, you’re right,” Remus says as he nods his head thinking deeply, “thank you.”

“Oh and Remus, “ Dumbledore starts and Remus stops walking and turns back, “I’d keep an eye on Potter.”

“You think I'm going to just forget about him because of all of this?” Remus asks, offended.

“Not at all, I was merely telling you to keep an eye out for Harry and Hope, she seems to have as some would say, a schoolgirl crush.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Remus curses as he walks out the door, head in his hands.

Remus goes to his room, he showers, nerves filling every inch of his skin until he resorts to sitting on the bottom of the tub and letting the hot water turned cold fall on his head, it isn't long until the water is mixed with salty tears. He is overcome with fear and shame and he brings his knees to his chest, hiding his face as he cries and cries, ribs shaking as he squeezes his arms leaving crescent moon marks in his fingers wake.

He tries to sleep but he can't, he feels so bad about Hope, about abandoning her for all these years, about abandoning you and he is so scared to face you.

When the time to leave for Hogsmeade comes around he tries to avoid everyone, not wanting to be asked why he suddenly has an interest in travelling to the small village.

The ride seems longer than usual and Remus pulls his thick sweater over his hands to keep them warm. He goes to the house Dumbledore directed him to and stands for a good five minutes at the front door before knocking, he wants to make sure he gets there before Hope does.

You have the cookies ready and you’re surprised to hear the door so early but excited to see your daughter none the less. When you open the door the last person you expect to see is standing there looking like a scared child.

“Y/n,” he says like the word is foreign in his mouth.

You take a step forward and then slap him across his face, not as hard as you could but hard enough to sting his skin. It’s easier to be mad at him, it’s the only emotion you can process right now. You don't want to feel the hurt, the sadness, the love you have deep down for him, the pain of being left behind and forgotten.

“How dare you,” you say, voice weak and lip quivering.

“Y/n please let me explain myself, I never meant to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? You have done more than hurt me.”

“I didn't know!” He whines, keeping his distance from you.

“You didn't know? Yes, you are right, you didn't know that you got me pregnant, you didn’t know you had a daughter, you’re right Remus. But you did know that I had a crush on you, that I had never been with anybody else, you knew I would have been alone after our friends died, you knowingly let me grieve for them all alone, you knew I was alive somewhere and you never once tried to find me, even just to be a friend. You may be innocent in some ways but in others, you’re not, and how can I forgive you for that without losing all of my self-worth.”

He sighs deeply, feeling defeated. ‘I know, I know I fucked up and I don't know if I can fix it or what to do but I found out you were here and even if you just stand there and tell me you hate me, I had to come to see you.”

The sadness in his voice breaks your heart a little, and you don't want to feel bad for him, but you also don't want your neighbours seeing you yelling at some man outside so you turn abruptly walking inside and leaving the door open. He hesitantly comes inside.

There are pictures of Hope on the walls, her artwork. There are pictures of James and Lily, ones with Peter and even Sirius is in the back of one but none of Remus.

“You never told her.”

“I was hoping you would come back and tell her yourself.”

“I’d like to. If you will let me.”

“Of course I will, just because I lost you, just because you don't want me doesn't mean that she doesn't deserve you in her life.”

“Don’t say it like that. Like I left because I didn’t want you.”

“What else am I supposed to think?” You yell loudly, scaring yourself as you sit down, gesturing to the opposite couch for him to sit on.

“I planned to stay that morning, I told myself that if you hadn’t left when I woke up that we would eat breakfast and I would tell you how I felt and even tell you about the worst parts of me, but I didn’t get the chance, I woke up and instantly found out the news, I ran out the door, I panicked I had to get out of there, do something. I hadn’t even thought about you at that moment and I'm sorry.”

You had no words to say to him other than words of forgiveness so easily threatening to spill from your sorry pathetic lips, it was so easy to forgive him and you didn't want to just yet so you stayed silent, letting him continue talking.

“After James and Lily died I didn't know what to do, I went into a dark place and hid away from everybody, you were never supposed to be a casualty, Hope was never supposed to be one either I just didn't know, I never in my wildest dreams could have thought of that happening. I had never been with anybody else I didn't know what I was doing.”

“I thought you lied about that part.” You admit and he frowns deeper.

“Why would I lie about that?” He asks, clearly offended.

“I don't know, to get me to sleep with you.”

“Oh because that's such an appealing trait, Y/n please fuck me I'm a dumb clueless virgin. Works on all the girls really.”

“Stop it!” You yell as you hide your face, “Don't make me laugh I'm mad at you.”

“I'm just being honest here,” he says as he stares at your face the trace of a smile gone after a second. “Y/n you are the only girl I have ever even thought about being with, the only girl I've ever had feelings for and I felt so worthless without my friends, I was sure there was no way you actually wanted me so I ran.”

“Oh, so when I slept with you that made it very clear that I didn't want you, when I was so obviously crushing on you for years that was a key indicator that I wanted nothing to do with you! All you do is make me feel like an absolute fool Remus! You left me for years, no letters, no calls and I still want you.” You admit and instantly regret it.

“You don't hate me?” He asks standing up and quickly trying to move closer to you.

“I hate that I don't hate you, I hate what you did but I have so much faith in you, that you can fix this.”

“Please, please let me try I’ll do everything I can do. Just give me the chance to fix this, to fix this relationship we never got a chance to try and also to fix things with Hope, I just need one chance I won’t mess it up,” he pleads with you as tears fill his eyes and it breaks your heart to see him begging you, you never imagined him coming back would be like this. And you're weak for him, oh so weak and you just want to hold him again, so you wrap your arms around him and pull him close hugging him tightly.

“Okay,” you whisper and by the time you release him from the hug you hear the door open. Four kids barge into the house and freeze when they see who is there.

“Mum? What is Mr. Lupin doing here?”

“It’s Professor Lupin, Hope. Not Mr.” Hermione corrects her and Ron and Harry just stand there confused.

“Uhm Hope, I need to talk to you, can your friends go back to the village and I'll walk you back over thereafter?” You ask her but she looks confused and she’s stubborn so she won’t let it go that easily.

“No, tell me what Mr. Lupin’s doing here!”

“Professor,” Hermione whispers and Hope glares at her, now not being the time to be corrected.

“I'm not really sure how to say this but-” You pause and Hermione's brain is working so fast that she realizes it before anyone else and interrupts you.

“Professor Lupin is your dad, isn’t he?”

“What no?” Hope argues, “I don't know who my dad is.”

“I never told you because I hoped one day he could tell you himself, I was honest when I said I hadn't seen him in years, that I couldn’t find him, I never imagined he would become a professor at Hogwarts. I never meant for it to be like this.” You try to explain, lost for words at the entire bizarre situation.

“I don’t believe this. You are missing for years, my whole life and then just like that you come back? That’s not fair.” She says crossing her arms. Her friends stand behind her, ready to do whatever she asks of them, whether it be staying and having her back or leaving her alone.

“Hope you can’t begin to understand how sorry I am, how much I will regret my past for the rest of my life, if I had known you existed I would have been here. I wasn't trying to hide from you or run away, I didn’t know.”

“One simple excuse doesn't make up for years of absence!” She yells and Hermione holds her arm, a soft comfort.

“I'm aware of that, but if you’ll let me I’d like to make it up to you,” he offers.

“What about my mum, you left her alone, regardless of whether I existed or not, how can I forgive you for doing that to her.”

“Hope, that's something me and your father will have to work out, you don't need to worry about that, I promise you if I didn't want him in your life and if I didn't trust him he wouldn't be here.”

“So just because you trust him, I'm supposed to too?”

“No honey, of course not, it will take a lot of time to become a normal family, It takes time to build love and trust I know that. Why don't you guys come in, eat some cookies and tell me about how your classes are going.” You offer the kids and as much as Ron wants homemade cookies, he waits with the others for you to decide.

“Okay,” Hope says finally agreeing to work on this. She walks over and grabs two cookies, shoving them in her mouth and taking a seat right beside Remus. Its something he doesn't expect and he freezes a little, you can tell he doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know how to be a father. You grab his hand to reassure him.

“I guess I’ll be in your class next semester.” She mumbles as crumbs of cookie tumble from her mouth.

“I’ll be sure not to play favourites then.” he teases as he too takes a cookie before Ron and Harry eat all of them.

“No!” She yells playfully, “you better play favourites that's the whole point!”

“Noted,” Remus says with a smile and your heart feels so full, seeing them interact, having him back in your life no matter what type of relationship it ends up being you’re just grateful he's here and he is okay.

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austennerdita2533 · 4 years

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A/N: Hey @commonxcrimminals remember that Melendaire Fix-It-Of-Sorts fic I’ve had on my computer since freaking MARCH?? Well...I finally finished it! CAN YOU BELIEVE. Anyway, were it not for your oodles of encouragement or our constant why-did-Melendez-have-to-die wailing sessions on every social media platform out there, I probably never would’ve summoned the gall to finish or post the darn thing. So thank you!

This one is dedicated to you, my friend. Love you more than I can possibly convey! ❤️ ❤️

Summary: When it comes to moments of life or death, Neil and Claire learn sometimes one defibrillation of the heart can reset everything.

Also here: (A03)

Enjoy! xx

Defibrillation

The sirens start, red and blue lights cutting through the darkness with speed. Neil’s strapped to a gurney, conscious but barely, with tubes and leads sticking from him like he’s part machine while his eyes fixate on the gray-white swirl of the ceiling.

What’s happened? Where is he? Why the hell does he hurt so much? Right now the blunt ache over his left temple is a trifle compared to the scalpel-like shard that’s been stabbing through his abdomen every two to four seconds and has nausea roaring into the back of his throat with each bump, with each gloved touch that ghosts over his prone form in examination, his vision dotted and blurred and fading…

It’s fading quickly…

…yes…

…f-fading…

…so…q u i c k…ly…

Monitors beep in the background. Softly at first, then louder. Faster. Shorter. Quieter. Steadily the screens track his stats before diving into erratic nonsense that can’t be pieced together as his fists curl into the sheet beneath him, knuckles bumping against a metal railing.

Neil’s eyelids burn, they grow heavy. All he tastes is blood and bile. A mask hangs over his mouth so he can’t talk, can’t call out either, the oxygen cool as it filters through his nostrils, little hairs tickling. He winces once, takes another shallow breath in—and then nothing.

Blackness pops. Noiseless but everywhere. Like a falling curtain, it frays the edges of the world until he can no longer see them.

Coldness slams like a hammer over his chest, pouring, rippling, spreading out with tendrils to invade cell after cell until before he knows it he’s drifting away from time and thoughts and oxygen that won’t hold steady…He’s sinking down, down, down into a rigid stillness that refuses to lift.

But then—

A flurry of movement to his right. Behind his head. Next comes a lot of pronounced clunking, swearing, whispering; perhaps even some harried tearing or unzipping.

No, no, no. Stay with me, pleads a familiar voice from above him in echo. With his head spinning with delirium, however, he’s unable to place who is speaking.

Come on, Neil. Don’t do this, not now. Hold on for me.

He feels distant, detached, like he’s been sunk under water but never went swimming.

Hold on for me, the voice repeats again. Please.

The words are wet and desperate as they land on his chest with two hands that push, and push, his eyes slitting open just wide enough for Claire’s face to float into focus for a moment then out again like a dream, the heel of her palm pounding into him with the force of a tether to keep him there with her, alive, stable - one breath, one blink, one heartbeat at a time.

The fleeting sight of her brings him back. Hair. Scrubs. Hands. Eyes. She brings him back into the pain and into the light. Her relief, that smile—he needs it; it’s a leash yanking him off the ledge of surrender and telling him to fight for another chance to live. To speak. After all, he’s a surgeon, so doesn’t he already know time is a borrowed gift with no guarantees?

Stay with me, Claire says again. And this time, he clings. He clings to her as hard as he can even as the world goes black a second time, his heart still full of too many unsaid things.

She waits for the door to click shut behind her in the stairwell.

Alone on the landing, there are no more voices. No more computers or phones. There are no more charts to read, labs to run, procedures to schedule, or medications to administer.

Wheelchairs stop squeaking through the hallways. Their wheels are no longer sticking to speckled white tiles as they turn the corner and head toward recovery. The smell of brewing coffee in the lounge near OR Four becomes a stale memory because here, and only here, do the demands of the hospital dissolve long enough for Claire to collapse her head into her palms for a moment, and breathe. Just breathe.

She only takes a moment. A second to grapple with the enormity of all that is happening.

Eyes closed, thoughts scattered, her fingers coil around something metal in her pocket and idle.

Her thumbnail traces sleek edges, silver grooves. A chain droops over her knuckles and scratches. Soothes. Familiarity tingling with each pass.

It’s a cross she fists in the quiet gloom. A token. Some beat-up trinket of her mother’s she couldn’t part with after her death so she’s taken to carrying it with her like a talisman even though she hasn’t believed in anything, or in anyone, for a long time. Not for years and years. Not until him, that is.

Neil.

He’ll be fine, Claire assures herself with a nod and a sniff. He’ll be okay.

The scan results sit in a folder next to her feet, still in need of a consult, still in want of a surgical scheme. The words “stable but critical” float in her periphery then flicker out again like a nightmare that won’t fade.

He needs to be okay, she thinks. Cold bites into her palm as she squeezes then releases, squeezes then releases, her pinky tracing the divots the pendant leaves behind on her skin.

He has to be.

Slowly, organically, Neil has chipped away at her walls to become a fixture in her life and she likes him there. Needs him there. She realizes she’ll do anything to keep him around, to keep him close to her for as long as she can.

So believer or not, Claire bows her head. She closes her eyes tighter and lets faith bleed from her heart straight into her hands.

Clutching her mother’s cross to her breast, begging for the strength and the skill to save him so they can have more time to bowl badly or laugh the night away over beers, so she can have the chance to say the words she already feels, she utters an urgent plea into the space around the stairs.

Claire wishes so hard for him to live that the words flutter as they take wing. They transform into symbols of her hope and despair:

A fossil in the air.

A sob with feathers.

A scream leeching from her compressed lips like a prayer.

Neil wakes with his head bandaged, his abdomen dissected with stitches, and a tuft of curly softness blanketed over his arm.

Squinting against the harsh hospital light, he sits up. Allows himself to adjust. To take in his surroundings.

Currently he lies flat in bed. A central line coils up his arm. His head pounds, and his mouth is dry. Wrapped in scratchy sheets, in sticky gauze and bandages, he notices the curtains are pulled shut for privacy and that there’s a woman fast asleep in the space beside him.

The first thing he does is smile. The second thing he does is tremble, relief as well as gratitude pricking the corners of his eyes.

The sight of Claire snoring and pillowed against his side overwhelms him so much that he shifts to brush his hand over the crown of her head without thinking. His touch, both featherlight and timid because he’s worried she’s a mirage on the verge of disappearing, petrified that one wrong move will shatter the reality of this moment like glass, Neil cups her cheek in his palm and he marvels—he savors.

He loses himself in the pure simplicity of touch. The chaste pleasure of it. Tracing the curves of her face with his thumb until she wakes.

“Hey there, sleepy head. Nice to see you again,” he whispers as her eyelids flicker open.

“Hey, you. Welcome back,” she stirs groggily and yawns. “Can I get you anything? Pillows? Blankets? Meds? Here, let me—”

Claire makes to move, to fuss over him, but she stops when Neil shakes his head, holding her in place with a look, with a languid stroke of his fingers along her jawline. Relenting, she softens enough to desist fidgeting. Then leans into his palm to ask, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” she balks, sitting up. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not. Though, I do have the sneaking suspicion I was autopsied in my sleep for spare parts,” he jokes, wincing, “but otherwise I’m not bad. Fuzzy. Sore mostly. And you?”

“I’m okay, I guess. You know…considering.” Her shoulders heavy, Claire shrugs as she averts her gaze to check his fluids and vitals on the monitor, exhaling like she’s been holding in a breath for years. “Anyway, I’m much better now that you’re out of surgery.”

“—Not to mention conscious.”

“Right.”

“And talking again,” Neil adds glibly.

“Yeah,” she laughs but it falls flat. “That, too.”

“How long have I been out, by the way?” It’s a pointed question. Uncomfortable. Painful for them both to address because of all the might have been’s and almost was’s it carries with it, but he needs to know. He has to be in possession of all the facts.

Turning toward the window, Claire adjusts the blinds and swipes at her face, hiccupping back some stray emotion she doesn’t want him to see. “It’s been a while," she explains. Doesn't elaborate.

“Oh.”

“Yeah," she says, her voice small. “Things were touch and go for a few days.”

“I see.” A beat of strained silence. Then another. And another. He’s starting to notice the weariness she wears about her person now: the paleness, her rimmed complexion, the wrinkles in her clothes. He even recognizes the remnants of a few to-go lattes in the trash bin. It makes him wonder how many hours she’s spent camped out in this room while he recovered—weighing the odds. Pouring over charts. Pacing the floor while she waited for signs of life that weren’t guaranteed, or worse, might not have been coming at all.

“Hey, Claire?” he breaks in softly.

“Hm?”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Startled and sobering, she turns. Sits back down on the edge of the bed. “For what?” she asks.

“Nearly dying to start,” Neil says with a sigh. “For the cowardice I’ve been hiding behind. For not knowing one-sided conversations aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, or that living inside your own head lands you nowhere except in hell.

“I’ve been stupid and careless… wasted so much time. I’m a fool for not having told you I’m in love with you sooner, for one,” he continues huskily, his voice breaking around emotion and a smile when she gapes back at him in disbelief. “But I am. In love with you, that is. Have been for a while.”

Claire’s eyes are red and glassy now. Her head has fallen during his speech to make a pillow of his chest, a place from where she blinks even and level back at him. Studying him as if he were a scientific specimen.

Still, there’s a warmth about her that puts him at ease. Her attentiveness is a balm that makes him stronger and bolder even though he has no reason to be.

Shrugging, Neil offers a slight upward quirk of his mouth before adding, “I could have lost you. Best to just—lay it all out there at this point, don’t you think?”

The sentimentality behind his choice of words is not lost upon him but he finds there’s no point in discretion now. There is nothing dumber to him than chasing back courage with fear when he knows how he’s ended up here, and why. There has to be a reason he’s come back to this world. To this hospital. To this moment. And to her.

There has to be.

He believes there’s a future out there where they can hold happiness in both hands, he feels it like a scalpel pressed against an artery. All they have to do is be brave enough to make a grab for it. Mark the incision. Cut the damn thing wide open and let possibility bleed where it bleeds.

“If you don’t realize I love you, too,” Claire sniffs at long last, trying to sound droll and unaffected, though not quite managing it with tears spilling down her cheeks, “then you’re an idiot.”

“An idiot, huh?”

“The biggest.”

“Right.” He considers this seriously. “Got it. Now, can you rate that on a scale of 1 to 10 for me, please?”

Snorting, she fires back without missing a beat, “Sure. Try infinity.”

Neil laughs at that. Then, with undisguised tenderness, he frames Claire’s head in his hands and pulls her toward him by the nape until she’s tangled in sheets and IV wires with him. To hell with the pain.

“Well then. Let’s see if I can do something to lower that number, Dr. Browne,” he says before capturing her mouth in an overdue kiss to cinch things between them with chemistry. With feeling. Jumpstarting their hearts like a defibrillator that will reset everything.

That one kiss, as it turns out, marks the first step towards being able to forge a future together. A start. To them, it comes to represent just that: a new beginning.

#the good doctor #melendaire #melendaire fanfiction #neil x claire #claire and melendez #ashlee bree's writing endeavors #can you believe i haven't posted any new fic since dec 2019 #like - what have i been doing?#(answer: hoarding lol)#but seriously #the amount of brain-digging this one required almost killed me #*cries because i hate to love writing*

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hawkbucks · 5 years

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16. the one where anything written on your skin appears on your soulmate's skin as well. I just imagine MIT tony falling asleep and rhodey drawing a dick on his face which also appears on Bucky aka the winter soldier one of the most deadly Assassins

This really got away from me. Somewhat angsty? Idk hgjfkdls I go from talking about a dick on Bucky’s face to… well, a certain date. It sorta ends happy.

The Asset stares blankly at the concrete wall in front of him, shoulders stiff and knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the steel slab they have the audacity to call a bed. He breathes in and out, in and out, long, deep lungfuls of air. The taste of ice still lingers on his tongue, and there’s a chill in his bones that aches.

His Handler circles around him, hands clasped behind their back as they relay the details of his mission. “Do you understand?” they ask, snappish, barely glancing at him out of the corners of their eyes. He isn’t important enough for direct eye contact; he’s learned that a long time ago.

Before he can respond, his Handler does a double-take, looking at him with widening eyes. “What,” they start, “in the fuck is that.”

He makes no noise as they hoist him up and drag him in front of a stained mirror, their clipped fingernails digging into the flesh of his right bicep. Right in the middle of his forehead is a rather… phallic looking symbol drawn in black marker. Still dazed, he looks confusedly at his Handler, unsure if this is some sort of test.

An irritated growl rips itself from his Handler’s throat before he finds himself being shoved back into his cryostasis chamber. Before he slips back into the darkness, he picks up bits and pieces of harshly spoken Russian. Something to do with a “soulmate”? Whatever it is, he’s sure that he won’t be woken up again until that problem is solved.

Thankfully, the next time he’s up to bat, there are no phallic symbols drawn anywhere on his body. In fact, nothing appears on his skin the entire time his Handler gives him information on another mission. He’s noticed, though, that the once-clean concrete wall is now stained with mottled red, greens, and blacks. The light in the back right of the room–which flickered the last time he was here–now seems to have been ripped out, if the copper wires dangling from its previously occupied hole in the ceiling is any indication.

He can’t help but to wonder if they remember what happened last time. Or maybe they do, and they’re just desperate. It’s not like he’s going to ask; that’s a quick way for him to get disciplined for speaking out of turn.

A manila folder is pressed into his hands. He understands what he has to do.

He sits on a rather uncomfortable plastic chair behind the counter in a convenience store. The actual cashier is conked out in the backroom, their name tag currently decorating the front of his shirt. A cheesy pop song blares from the radio sitting on a black table behind him, of which the audio quality is not the greatest.

There’s really nothing to be done as he waits for his target to come in, besides reading a battered pile of magazines sitting in a cardboard box by his feet. The top one doesn’t even seem socially acceptable to be read in public. He absentmindedly drums his fingers on the surface of the counter along with the beat of the song, reading the far away labels of Doritos bags and Red Bull cans. Out of all the places for his target to frequent…

As he studies a mole on the heel of his palm, blocky–yet elegant–writing starts to form across its surface.

Call Jan – need help for lab tmrw

His brows knit together, and he clenches and unclenches his fist, watching as the words roll and crinkle on his skin. If he sees what they write on their skin, could they see what he writes on his? Curiosity bubbles up in him like a volcano waiting to explode.

Biting his bottom lip, he reaches for a ballpoint pen sitting on the edge of the counter. He presses the cool tip against his wrist and writes. Hello. His letters are lopsided and decidedly ugly compared to the other’s, but at least it’s legible. He hopes.

Holy shit, is hastily scribbled below his greeting. All these years, and now you answer?

Yes. Sorry.

You should be! I’ve been sending you messages ever since I knew what a soulmate was, but you never wrote back! I just assumed I didn’t have one.

Something like guilt stirs at the bottom of his stomach, but his attention is drawn to that word: Soulmate?

For the next few minutes, no new words appear. He’s on the verge of giving up and scrubbing away the pen ink on his wrist before he gets a reply. You aren’t joking.

Why would I be?

I don’t know. To screw with me or something? Have you been living under a rock?

Kinda. That’s close enough to the truth.

Yeah, you must have been if you haven’t replied to my messages for the past 9 years. What’s your name?

He frowns. It changes. One day he’s Nicholai and the other he’s David. He’s been called Matthieu and he’s been called Sebastian. He doesn’t have a true, solid name. Then, one pops in his head. One that feels vaguely familiar, comforting in a way that he can’t put a finger on. James.

Cool. My best friend is named James, too. My name is Anthony, but you can call me Tony.

Hello, Tony.

Hi, James! A small smiley face appears next to the exclamation point.

The bell above the door rings, bringing him back to reality. He snaps his head up, recognizing his target’s face from the dossier. I have to go now, Tony, but I’ll talk to you soon.

He doesn’t get to see Tony’s reply before he throws the pen with devastating accuracy.

By the time he was finished dispatching his target, Tony’s messages have all disappeared. He feels a twinge of disappointment in his chest when he realizes that he never got to see what Tony said after he bid him farewell, and only God knows how long it’ll be before he’s taken back out.

He scrubs any and all traces of the ink off of his arm, not wanting his Handler to demand an explanation should they see even a faint mark. If he were to mention this soulmate of his… well, he has no doubt that what they would put him through would make him wish he never even picked up that pen.

Throwing the pen into the cardboard box from earlier, he makes his way out of the store with no more than a passing glance at the now bloodied floor.

The walls are stainless steel now, not concrete, and the lights are all a harsh white that wash the room in its fluorescence. His Handler is different–younger and crueler in the way the corners of their mouth turn up.

Instead of a folder, he’s handed some black device, molded perfectly to fit in his ear. They motion at him to put it on. With shaky hands, he does.

A voice booms in his ear, much too loud for how sensitive his senses are, but he manages to keep his face schooled. He grits his teeth, jaw clenching. His Handler looks him straight in the eye. “You keep this on you at all times, do you understand?” He realizes right then that it’s their voice that he’s hearing.

He nods stiffly, glaring up at them.

They grin, looking almost wolf-like. “Good.”

He stops by a convenience store like the one before to buy himself a couple of granola bars and energy drinks. If this mission is going to go the way he thinks it’s going to go, he’s going to be camping at that place for a while, and what his Handler packed for him can barely be considered food.

His Handler also doesn’t seem to keep that close of an eye on their wallet.

“I know you took some money,” they say, although they don’t sound that annoyed.

He rolls his eyes, picking up a small bag of chips. He can’t exactly reply, not without a microphone. As he walks to the checkout, a pack of pens catches his eye.

Without hesitation, adds it to his basket.

Hello, Tony, he writes over his pulsepoint, sitting in a tree next to a craggly, old street. Underneath him lies a motorcycle, covered up by the bushes. The night sky above him is a gradient of hazy blues and blacks, with the only light being provided by the flashlight he has pinned to the front of his vest.

Asshole, is all he gets back. You and I have a very different definition of “soon.”

I’m sorry.

It’s been 2 years, James. He sucks in a breath. 2 years? He’s sure that he’s been out for longer than that before, but when put it in the perspective of someone who doesn’t know who he is… Where have you been?

My job is very demanding. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth either.

What are you? The President of some foreign country?

No.

A spy? An assassin? A soldier?

I can’t tell you.

Great, that means you’re some sort of super secret government spy. Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Can you at least tell me how old you are? I didn’t get to ask you that last time.

Using the bottom of the pen, he scratches at his temple. His age? Like his name, it fluctuates, but he settles on a number that feels right. 26.

Oh. You’re only 5 years older than me. Thank god, I thought you were like… 45.

5 years. So, Tony’s 21? I’m not.

Yeah, I know that now… so, how are you?

I’m bored. Waiting.

For what?

It’s for my job.

…Okay. I’m kind of waiting, too.

For what?

My parents. They’re out somewhere, and I wanted to surprise them.

We can talk. It’ll be less boring.

Tony draws another smiley face. Okay!

From their chat, he learns that Tony is wicked smart. He attended M.I.T, made a functioning robot, and obtained 2 master’s degrees before he was even able to drink. His best friend is in the Air Force, and he has this butler he loves like a father. He likes shrimp carbonara and refuses to touch green beans unless they’re shoved down his throat. Tony, he concludes, is utterly fascinating, and he makes that clear in all the sentences he writes back.

What about you? Tony writes after going on a paragraph-long rant about some movie series called Star Wars. (They both had to wait for some messages to disappear lest they start taking off their pants for more writing space.)

What do you mean?

Do you like Star Wars?

I’ve never watched it.

Tony’s next response takes up a good chunk of his arm: BLASPHEMY!

Can you give me your number? We need to arrange a meetup, and it gets exhausting to write.

His hand freezes. Number? I don’t have one.

A few seconds pass. Then: You can’t be serious, James.

I’m being serious.

Yeah. You’re the same guy who didn’t know what a soulmate was. I believe you.

Thank you.

You know what you can do? I’ll give you an address. You in New York?

Yes.

Good. What’s your last name?

God, he really wishes Tony would stop asking these kinds of questions. He settles on the first one that pops in his head. Barnes.

Okay. Go here–an address is scribbled across the crook of his elbow–say your name is James Barnes, and ask for Tony.

Tony what?

Tony Stark.

He drops his pen. Stark. There’s no way. Except that his Handler gave him all of the information on his target, including the fact that they have a son named Anthony, but he preferred to be called Tony. Anthony’s birth date matches up with his Tony’s age. Anthony went to M.I.T, too. Anthony reported having made contact with his soulmate 2 years ago, having previously thought he had none.

In the distance, he hears the purring of a car’s engine.

He switches off his flashlight and jumps down.

James, are you there? appears on his right palm as he smashes Howard Stark’s face in. You didn’t even say bye. Kinda rude.

He finds himself scrubbing away all evidence of conversation on his arm again, this time using boiling hot water and going until his skin is pink and raw.

Back in the base, his Handler grabs at his forearm, gripping him so tightly that the skin around their hand turns a pale white. “We know you’ve been writing to someone,” they whisper, low and dangerous. “Stop. Now.”

He nods.

My parents are dead, is scribbled over the middle of his right forearm. The glass in front of him fogs up with ice. If you’re there, I really need to talk to someone right now.

James?

Where are you?

I thought we were going to watch Star Wars together. I’ve asked, and no one’s said that you’ve visited, and I told everyone that you pretty much get priority. There are only two James Barnes that I know of: you and Captain America’s old war buddy. Were you named after him?

I liked talking to you. You can’t just pull another 2 years on me. First time I didn’t mind that much, because we didn’t really know each other, and I didn’t want to seem clingy, but I really like you, James.

It gets hard to ignore. There’s a tugging sensation in his gut every time he allows one of Tony’s messages to go unanswered. He manages to shake off the tail he has on his next mission. They must’ve assigned a more inexperienced person. Who knew they were accepting amateurs these days?

He swipes a pen from an office supply store. Hello, Tony.

You. It’s amazing how such a short word can hold so much bitterness.

I’m sorry.

What the fuck is up with you?

Has it been that long? Sure, the world seems far more technologically advanced than it did when he talked to Tony a 2nd time, but he figures it can’t be more than 8, 10 years.

It’s been 30 fucking years, James. Oh.

…I’m really sorry.

Don’t be. But he feels like he should be. Listen, I can’t write that much right now. I’m on my way to Afghanistan for a demonstration. We can try again later. Bye.

Bye. I’m sorry, again.

Sure.

TONY STARK: MISSING?

Three months later, and, for some reason, he’s still out in the field. Something his Handler–another new one–said about another target having cropped up during the tail end of his original mission.

Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the news.

Quickly, he dips into a store along the street and asks to use their bathroom. He fishes the very same pen he took from the supply store out of his jacket pocket. I have. Are you okay?

I’ve been better.

As long as–he’s cut off by Tony’s writing overlapping his own. Where are you?

In a bathroom, which is inside a store.

Smartass. Where’s the store? Give me the address.

Why?

I’m coming to see you. Right now.

What if I’m on the other side of the country?

I have a private jet… of sorts.

But by the time you arrive, I won’t be in that store anymore.

Just give me the goddamn address.

So he does. Meet me inside.

As he rifles through a rack of leather jackets that cost an obscene amount of money, he feels a tap on his shoulder.

He whirls around quickly, eyes flaring, before he comes face to face with the most expensive-looking man he’s ever seen. They don’t seem the type to be working with his, er, employers, and with that sling around their arm, he doubts they could do much damage to him. So, he relaxes. Just a little.

“Are you James?” they ask. “Please be James. I’ve asked at least 4 other guys already and they’ve all looked at me weird.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It’s me. Tony.”

WOO, I ACTUALLY MADE THEM MEET AT THE END. I was actually going to end it right after Tony leaves for Afghanistan, but I decided to let them meet ‘cause y’all deserve that after the last fill.

Tony still doesn’t know James killed his parents. He doesn’t know James is the Winter Soldier. But I had to stop or else this really would’ve… turned into its own monster.

Thank you for reading!

#old posts #filled #anon

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fangirlspammer · 4 years

Text

Journey to the Past pt. 2

Okay so this took me longer than expected, mainly because I wasn’t sure where I was going with this. As you can tell I’ve turned it into a Jack x Reader fic because it came easier. Not my favorite chapter, but I hope you all enjoy it.

Warning there is still some sensitivity in the beginning of this chapter

Jack took a deep breath, tightening her grip on the paperwork she held to her chest, as she stood outside of the interrogation room. She kept replaying the last time she saw this man in her head over and over again, and everytime it ended the same way. She placed her hand on the door knob and inhaled sharply before opening the door and walking inside. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she made her way to the chair and sat down. She could feel his eyes boring into her, but neither of them said a word.

“William Jenson, convicted of murdering Lieutenant Finnley,” Jack began to read his file ignoring the way he stared at her as though expecting some sort of special treatment. “Three witnesses claimed they saw you with her at the bar the night she was murdered. You two had a fight,” she looked up as his hand came to rest on hers. She pulled away quickly as though he had burned her, her eyes silently pleading with him not to do this.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” He finally spoke up, searching her face for some answers.

“I don’t know what you expected,” she cleared her throat. “Special treatment?”

“No,” he sighed and sat back in the seat now. “I hoped you would at least hear me out.”

Jack sat a little taller and crossed her arms now. “I don’t see why you couldn’t just tell the other Agent your side of things. Why me?”

“Because you know me,” he answered simply, and Jack couldn’t help but scoff. “Oh, c'mon Jack. You know me! You know I couldn’t lay a hand on someone!”

“Like you didn’t lay a hand on me?” Her words were cold and cut through him like a knife. She didn’t care. “Give me one good reason why I should believe a word you say. Why I shouldn’t do everything in my power to put you in prison? After what you did?”

“That was along time ago,” he frowned and adjusted in his seat once more. “I haven’t laid a hand on anybody since then.”

Lies. Jack slammed down the folder and pointed to the papers in front of her. “You’ve been in and out of rehab and anger management classes since I’ve seen you. I’m the agent here, Jenson, remember? I have your file.”

“Alright, but I didn’t kill her! I couldn’t kill anybody!” He snapped.

“Then tell me what happened!”

Jack tried her best to remain cool through all of this, but it wasn’t easy. Listening to his side of things was harder than she expected it to be, especially when she didn’t know if he was to be believed. Gibbs tapped on the window and she breathed a sigh of relief as she gathered the files and left the room. Gibbs was waiting outside for her.

“You okay, Jack?” He asked with concern.

“I told you not to send me in there,” she snapped at him and shoved the files into his arms before storming off.

You knocked on the door of Jack’s office needing to talk about a case the team was working on. Lieutenant Abigail Finnley, raped and then murdered outside of a bar, their only suspect was Commander William Jenson. You had needed Jack’s help working on a profile for this man, and you had yet to be informed of his interrogation. Word of mouth was that Jack had been the one to interrogate him, but everybody seemed to be tight lipped about the rest. You knocked again, but there was still no answer. That was strange. You hadn’t seen her leave. You reached for the handle and it was unlocked, so you decided to poke your head in for a moment. Darkness. There was no sign of anybody, that was until you began to back out with a confused look on your face.

“In here, Y/N,” you heard the small voice come from across the room, but it sounded off.

Suddenly everything about this was unsettling to you. You walked in, turning on your phones flashlight, and made your way over to the blonde hugging her knees on the sofa. Your heart broke at the sight. In all of the time you had known her you had never seen her this way.

“Jack?” You proceeded with caution, your hand reached out and rested on her knee. “What is it?” No answer. “Does this have to do with the interrogation?”

That seemed to catch her attention and her head shot up to look at you. “Who told you about that?”

Quickly you shook your head trying to assure her of how little you actually knew. “I just know you interrogated him. Everybody seems to be walking on eggshells about it though,” you looked to her for a reaction. The only hint of light peeking through the blinds just enough to allow you to catch her reaction. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jack had barely opened up to you about her past, despite the relationship you had been in for the past 6 months. You knew that she had been tortured in Afghanistan and that she had found the man who had done it. You knew about the scars she kept covered on her back, but you knew that there was more to her than what she had shared.

“Gibbs, actually, sent me up here,” you admitted when she didn’t answer right away, and caught the look of surprise on her face. You chuckled dryly and sighed as you sank further into the sofa beside her. The three of you hadn’t exactly been, what could be described as ‘close’, since you and Jack had gotten together. “I was just as surprised. He’s just worried, and honestly that has me worried,” you admit and take her hand. She is watching your thumb caress her in slow circles and entwined your fingers.

“I was once involved with the man I interrogated,” her voice was raw and raspy as she began to admit the truth about her past to you for the first time. It was obvious she had been crying and that only amplified your concern. You moved a little closer. “It was just before I joined the army. He was my recruiter, but I was living out of my car then and he gave me a place to stay,” she spoke slowly and with caution. “I was pregnant and needed somewhere to go,” you could feel your eyes widen, but quickly recovered as she continued. This was the first you had heard about this. “After I gave my daughter up he changed. He became violent. At first it was just a lot of talk, but slowly it escalated into something physical,” her voice began to waver and you held her hand tightly in your own. “Until one day I found something of mine I thought I had lost months ago in his drawer. When I confronted him he tried to pin me down, but I fought him and was able to get out. I haven’t seen him since that day.”

You took in everything she had just shared with you. It was all a lot to process. Jack had a daughter somewhere in this world and she had been through more than you were ever aware of. You moved closer and lifted her chin gently so that she was looking at you. “I’m so sorry that happened to you Jack. I’m glad you told me though,” a smile formed on your lips.

“The only other person who knows is Vance,” she confided and gave your hand a squeeze this time.

“Jack,” it took you a moment to find the right words as you tried to process all of this. “I’m glad you told me,” your voice came out as a sort of whisper.

It wasn’t until Jack’s nose brushed against yours that you realized how close the two of you had become. She was smiling sadly at you and your hand came up to caress her cheek. The two of you getting lost in the moment, your lips brushing over hers ever so gently. You could feel butterflies in your stomach, you got them everytime you kissed her. You hoped that that feeling never went away. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and it opened causing the two of you to pull away rather quickly. Even though you’re relationship was not exactly a secret, the two of you didn’t want to flaunt it around the office. It wasn’t the fellow agents you were worried about, it was just Gibbs. It was no secret that he and Jack had been a thing before you and Jack had gotten together, but he had broken things off. You just happened to be there for your friend to pick up the pieces when it led to more than that.

“Gibbs,” Jack stood up quickly and pushed down her skirt. She walked over to her desk and turned on the lamp for some light. She watched as he looked between the two of you, and so she cleared her throat. “I’m not going back in there.”

Gibbs tossed some folders on Jack’s desk and shook his head. “Need you to go over these.”

“Haven’t I done enough for you?” it was obvious she was still upset at him for pushing her into that interrogation. You noticed, of course you had. You had also noticed the annoyed expression on Gibbs’ face.

“If you had I wouldn’t be here,” his voice was firm and he started to leave.

You couldn’t stand watching this anymore. He had been this way for months now when all you and Jack were trying to do was move on. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

“Y/N,” Jack looked to you wide eyed and shook her head. She didn’t want trouble, but you couldn’t just watch Gibbs treat her this way.

“No Jack,” you shook your head and clenched your fists at your side, standing your ground. “She’s doing her best under the circumstances and you need to back off,” you couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of your breath. You were going to pay for that later. “I get that you’re upset with us, but you broke things off with her. You don’t have to take it out on us now.”

“Enough!” Jack was the one to put an end to all of this. She waved her arms in a stopping motion and flicked on the lights angrily. You couldn’t tell who she was mad at this time. “Y/N, I think you should go,” she whispered. As you started to protest she cut you off. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

“Don’t bother coming in tomorrow,” Gibbs looked to you with such authority. You wanted to argue but stormed out and slammed the door instead.

“Woah, Y/N you look pissed,” Nick pointed out as you began to pack up your desk.

You ignored him, and you ignored the stares from McGee and Ellie. You weren’t exactly in the best mood and verbalizing it would only make things worse. You felt a hand on your shoulder and looked up to see Ellie looking at you concerned.

“Don’t,” you shook your head and brushed her off. “I’ll see you Thursday,” you muttered and before anybody could question you, you were gone.

#maria bello #jack sloane #leroy jethro gibbs #ncis cbs #ncis fandom #ncis #jacqueline sloane #jack sloane x reader #agent gibbs #jethro gibbs #Gibbs #mark harmon

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peachyzens · 6 years

Text

love letters (one)

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genre: fluff summary: “I’ve only seen you from afar, but I can see how great you are.” Crushes were unconventional, especially the one you had on Kim Mingyu. (2,557 words) a/n: eeks here is the first part of my series inspired by “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before” !!! this is something i’m excited about, so stay tuned for the upcoming parts ❤️ this also ended up being longer than i thought but i’m happy with it so it doesn’t matter!!! masterlist can be found here!

It all started back in seventh grade of middle school, when silly you took notice of a lanky boy still in his awkward phase. While most may think that the boy had cooties or something of the sorts, you found him adorable. Seeing how he would slightly trip over his feet when walking to throw his trash away, you had to stifle a giggle. That boy was Kim Mingyu.

Honestly, nobody ever talked about Kim Mingyu, he was just an ordinary student like the rest of you. People would rather talk about Xu Minghao, the adorable transfer student from China, or Lee Seokmin, the school’s talent show winner for the past two years. Mingyu was friends with them, but it seems like he always went unnoticed behind his friends, but he definitely did not go unnoticed by you.

You couldn’t tell anybody that you might’ve harbored a little crush on Kim Mingyu, while your friends Rachel and Jennie would constantly gush over Lee Seokmin or Xu Minghao. You just gushed along with them, though it wasn’t as genuine. However, you were lucky that the trio were constantly together; it gave you chances to admire Mingyu from afar while under the facade that you were just like any other girl—gushing over the two heartthrobs.

Returning to your sanctuary of a room, you sat yourself at your desk. Pulling out some nice stationary you got from the corner shop that cute grandma ran, you pulled out a sheet. With a nice pen in hand, you just let your feelings out on paper.

Is that too much?

Wow, this is too cheesy!

Gross, what am I thinking? This is NOT the Notebook or something!

You loudly groaned as crumpled sheets of paper littered your floor. Resting your head on your desk, you ran your fingers through your hair. Who would’ve known that writing out your feelings would be that hard? It’s not like you didn’t know how you felt, you knew yourself more than anyone! But why, why couldn’t you get these feelings on paper?

Sitting up once again, you gathered all the discarded papers and unfolded them, laying them out across your desk. Looking at each one, you narrowed the dozen of letters to a final three, three letters you felt had the most meaning. After minutes of lulling over the same letters and reading the same words, it all started to look wrong in front of you. With grumpy grumbles, you dug around your closet before you pulled out an empty Vans shoebox, grabbing all the letters and placing them in there before shoving the box back onto the highest shelf in your closet. You immediately crashed onto your bed and let out an exhausted sigh. Who would’ve known that feelings were that tiring?

The next day, you found yourself at your usual table, following the same routine of glancing over at Mingyu sitting a few tables away. “Who do you keep looking at?” Crap. You were caught.

“Nothing! I don’t know what you’re talking about?” You laughed nervously under the piercing stares of your best friends.

“Don’t lie to us! I saw you taking peeks over in that direction!” Rachel argued back, before blatantly turning her head back to stare over in Mingyu’s direction.

“Stop that Rachel!” You yelped, trying to get Rachel to turn back around before she draws any more attention than what she already drew. Jennie just watched the scene with a sly smirk on her face.

“Is there a little crush you have that we don’t know about?” She inquired to which you denied profusely.

“Of course not! You guys know that I tell you guys everything!”

“Then who were you staring at?” Rachel egged you on, finally turning back around much to your pleasure.

Your mind was racing a million miles per minute, there was no way you could tell them you were taking peeks at Kim Mingyu! Not to mention the two star boys weren’t there, so you couldn’t use them as your scapegoat.

“Uh, Jeon Wonwoo!” You let out, taking notice of the boy who was sitting a few feet away from Mingyu. He was definitely not the one you were checking out, but he was a more socially accepted choice. You watched your friends jaws drop, feeling a cold sweat wash over you as you continued to put up a facade.

“Wow, who would’ve thought you were into the older boys huh?” Rachel elbowed you with a knowing smirk. Jennie nodded in agreement.

“My brother is friends with him, should I ask him to introduce you?” Jennie asked, already pulling out her phone and getting a message typed.

“No Jen, you don’t have to do that. I doubt he even knows I exist!” You sighed exasperatedly.

“Mhm honey, I’m not too sure about that. You’re more popular around here more than you think!” Rachel smiled, patting you on the shoulder for reassurance. Yet, you didn’t feel reassured at all.

“Anyways honey, you know we always got your back, and my offer is still out on the table.” Jennie winked at you, causing you to roll your eyes. Great, you were able to cover up your crush on Mingyu, but now your friends think you are crushing on someone that definitely was not Mingyu.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice took your attention. It was Friday after school, and you were ready to race home. You turned to find the owner of the voice, only to find THE Jeon Wonwoo sheepishly standing there.

“Uh, may I help you?” You responded, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible despite the uneasy feelings arising in your chest.

“Um, yes, I mean no!” He started off, clearly nervous. He took a deep breath before continuing. “I just wanted to tell you that you are pretty, that is all!” Wonwoo let out in a quick breath before running off, leaving you in a daze. Did he really just call you pretty? You would be lying if you said your heart didn’t flutter, because it did just a little bit. But the thought of Mingyu saying that to you? It fluttered a LOT.

“Woah, he said what?” Rachel nearly exclaimed before you quickly shushed her. You guys were chatting in the quad before classes were starting, and people were still in a zombie-like trance.

“Wow, I didn’t know he had it in him,” Jennie chuckled.

“Yeah, me neither,” you sighed, slightly confused about where your heart lied. You were probably thinking about Wonwoo more than you should’ve over the weekend, and traces of his words constantly lingered in your mind. With Wonwoo constantly clouding your mind, you almost forgot about your true crush on Mingyu that was slowly being covered up by your fake crush on Wonwoo. It was complicated.

“Alright class! It is time for a new partner project! For this project, I will be assigning you a piece from our solar system unit, and you and your partner will make a folder following the guidelines posted. Now, onto announcing the partners!” Your enthusiastic teacher spoke too perkily for how early it was, based off the silent class. You inwardly groaned, you detesting group projects, you always ended up being paired with unhelpful people who would constantly rely on you, which ultimately leads to you doing all the work in the project. You were snapped out of your daydream upon hearing your name be called, and it was the moment of truth.

“…your partner is Kim Mingyu, and you guys have Callisto!”

You felt your heart nearly drop to your stomach, you almost forgot that he was in your class. Well, that was definitely going to make things a bit harder for you. Taking a glance at the boy, you noticed him staring at you with a boyish grin and sheepish wave. Yup, it was definitely going to be harder.

“So, y/n” Mingyu started as he shuffled into the seat next to you.

“You know my name?” You responded immediately, out of instinct. You inwardly smacked yourself, cursing your mouth that moved faster than your thoughts.

“Well, yeah, Ms. Jones said your name out loud and we have a few classes together.” He responded, almost staring at you in a strange way. Great. Way to make a good first impression! But hey, at least he noticed you before.

“Oh yeah, haha I don’t even know why I said that!” You laughed it off, hoping he wouldn’t see through your laughs that you were panicking on the inside and starting to sweat a bit.

“Anyways, so how about this for the folder,” he spoke, no longer about anything personal but solely about the project. You thanked the heavens that you were blessed with a partner that is actually willing to pull their weight and not push it all onto you. “…does that sound good?” Oh shoot, you were totally lost in your thought that you weren’t even paying attention! Great, now he’s going to think your incompetent! “Hello? Earth to y/n?” He waved a hand in front of your face, a cheeky smile pointing at the edge of his lips.

“Huh? Yeah, I think it’s a good idea. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” You cleared your throat, hoping your pounding heart wasn’t loud enough for him to hear.

“Great! So you will…” He spoke animatedly, as you just blankly stared at his face. You never knew that someone could be so enthusiastic when talking about one of Jupiter’s moons, but it seems like Mingyu never failed to surprise you. “So can I get your number?” His words snapped you out of your trance.

“M-My number?” You stuttered, inwardly cursing yourself for appearing so stupid and foolish in front of him.

“Yeah! So we can keep each other updated on the progress of our project!” Of course that was the reason, it couldn’t have been for anything else. Your heart tried to convince you it was for reasons other than the project, but your mind was quick to shoot that idea down. And before you could say anything else that could possibly embarrass yourself, the bell rang, dismissing the class. “I’ll text you! See you around!” He smiled at you with that boyish smile you found so endearing, and he was gone just like that.

You sighed out loud, you were in big trouble again.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rachel eyed you for the nth time during lunch.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine! Peachy keen!” You smiled as best as you could, the best being an awkward smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Honey, you are definitely not okay, want to talk about it?” Jennie placed her hand on your shoulder, giving you the reassurance you needed.

“Well, you see, in science we got this new project and she picked partners for us,” you started, the girls attention solely on you, “and I was partnered with Kim Mingyu.” You paused, just to look at their reactions. They didn’t really show anything different, so you continued. “And basically, I wasn’t in my right mindset and I kept zoning out so he probably thinks I’m stupid!” You finished, letting out an exasperated sigh. Rachel rolled her eyes at you as Jennie continued to pat your shoulder.

“It’s just Kim Mingyu, if it was Lee Seokmin or Xu MInghao it would be a totally different story.” They reassured you, but that was what they didn’t get. It was Kim Mingyu, the boy who was throwing your heart around between his hands. Great, you were practically on your own in this war of feelings.

Nervously pacing about in your room, you anxiously awaited Mingyu’s reply to your text. You added in a little emoji instead of ending it with a brief period, and his lack of response was making you pace around even more. With an exasperated yelp, you sat yourself at your desk and pulled out the same stationary you ran through pages of nights before. However, this time your pen was able to easily glide across the paper, your feelings all written in one sentence. With one final press of a sticker on the envelope, it was ready to be sent out.

You hoped your parents wouldn’t be suspicious of you asking to get dropped off thirty minutes earlier than normal. It was definitely something out of the blue, especially for someone who sleeps until the very last minute. When they asked no further question, that was one weight lifted off your chest upon the many that still weighed you down.

It was eerie, walking down the normally lively hallways that were abandoned at this time. Most people were probably eating breakfast or just waking up, you were nervously pacing in front of a single locker. You might’ve spied on Mingyu after escaping your friends with the excuse that you had a question about your project. You stood in front of locker 117, the locker that held Mingyu’s books and other personal belongings, and will soon hold a short letter that has your feelings in them. With another quick scan of your surroundings, you slipped the note into the locker before running away, as if it would explode. Now, half the weight was lifted from your shoulders, now remained the last half.

You played the waiting game, sitting down on the staircase down the hallway, fiddling with your fingers as more people flooded the building. You sat on a few steps higher up, giving you and elevated view of the hallway, more importantly, Mingyu’s locker. The said boy has yet to show up, and you felt the weight on your shoulders with each passing second he would not appear. With a loud sigh, you prepared to just abandon your post as class would be starting in five minutes, and your class was in another building. Standing up and dusting your skirt, you took one last glance at the locker before freezing.

He was finally there! Oh no, he’s about to open his locker! Will he see the note? God, I hope he doesn’t know that it’s me. Was my handwriting too obvious? No way, I purposely wrote in script!

Your thoughts raced around in your mind, your pounding heart hitting your eardrums upon seeing him hold up the light blue envelope that was familiar to you. He looked around, eyes taking a scan of the students ushering to classes, not landing on you. Well, that lifted a bit of the weight off your shoulder. With a slight shrug, he continued to open the letter, pulling out the light pink paper that held a few words.

Kim Mingyu, I’ve only seen you from afar, but I can see how great you are.

Seeing how his confused expression morphed into one that was shy with rosy cheeks, you felt more of that weight slip off your shoulder. It was when you saw that blinding smile spread across his face when all the weight slipped off your shoulders, replacing the feeling of fear and dread with joy and warmth.

If there was one thing you were going to remember about seventh grade, it was definitely going to be the smile the spread across Kim Mingyu’s face after reading your little note, and your first ever tardy that you weren’t even upset about.

#seventeen #mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu scenarios #mingyu fluff #mingyu series #kim mingyu scenarios #seventeen scenarios #mingyu au #seventeen aus

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damien-ward · 6 years

Text

The Mystery of the Fox

(Previous chapter here.)

About a week prior, Dardillien was heading in the exact direction to his father’s office at SI:7. His investigation into the mysterious T. Foxfeather had gone no where when asking around, no one seemed to recognize the name, eventually he figured what better way to look into someone than to have the SI:7 do it with all their resources, so he decided to ask his father, Miles Ward, for help.. He was reluctant at first, he had been busy recently do to something with the Horde from what Dardillien could tell, but eventually his father agreed to look into T. Foxtfeather.

Dardillien made his way into the building and headed straight to his father’s office, no one stopped him as they knew who he was from his other visits to the building in the past and they trusted his father’s judgement as he had been with the organization for a long time. The Gilnean entered the office to find his father absent so he simply sat down in the chair opposite his father’s and waited. Several minutes passed before Miles entered the room reading a folder before realizing his son was sitting in his office.

“Damien, I wasn’t expecting you. We will have to make this quick I have a lot of work to get done, son.”

“I shouldn’t take much of your time, I was just stopping by to see if you found any information on that person I asked you to look into.”

His father continued to read over the contents of the folder with a grimace on his face before closing it, and setting the folder on his desk and turning his attention to Dardillien, “Ah yes, I nearly forgot about that.” Miles sat at his desk and opened a drawer pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Dardillien, “The mysterious person, T. Foxfeather? Their name is Tanna Foxfeather, she is a Sin’dorei who lives in Dalaran. My sources were also able to dig up that she is an archaeologist, or treasure hunter of some sorts. That was all the information I could get for you, son.”

“Thank you, father. This is exactly what I needed, although not what I was expecting.” Dardillien said with a smile as he began studying over the piece of paper that had all the information on Tanna Foxfeather such as her name, occupation, address, etc.

“It’s no problem, I would have tried to get more detailed information for you, and perhaps a picture, but I don’t have the time and resources for that. I am sure you understand.” Miles leaned forward onto his desk, “I am sure you also understand my concern when my son asks me to look into a Sin’dorei. Who is this person to you?”

“It’s nothing serious father I can promise you that. I just received a gift on my birthday from this person and wanted to know who it was.”

Miles let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, “I don’t like the idea of my son receiving gifts from a Sin’dorei. They are a member of the Horde, remember that.”

“I will. I only wanted to know who this person was, that’s all.” Dardillien lied, he wanted to know who this person was so that he could thank them in person, even if they were a Sin’dorei. He had no issue with the Horde the way his father did, the only people he had a burning hatred for were the Forsaken after what they did to Gilneas.

“Good. Now, I have a lot of work to get one. I will potentially see you later tonight if I can leave at a decent hour.” Miles said as Dardillien stood to leave, “Oh, and if you see your sister please tell her to check in every once and awhile. I feel like I don’t get to see her enough since she came back into our lives.”

“Of course. I believe she has plans to talk to you today, actually.”

“I am glad to hear it, I look forward to seeing her then. Enjoy the rest of your day, son.”

Dardillien nodded in return and left the SI:7 headquarters to return home. He studied over the piece of paper detailing Tanna Foxfeather, a hand raised to his chin as he pondered over the information.

An archaeologist, huh? I will have to find a suitable gift for you, Miss Foxfeather. The Gilnean thought to himself before heading inside his apartment.

(Mentions @feathersandfoxtails and @alyssa-ward)

#Tanna Foxfeather #wymrest rp #mystery #world of warcraft #new case

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roraewrites · 7 years

Text

ten

[ sakura’s secret ] rating: m

//last update for the week! i’ll be inactive this weekend as far as posting content, but i’ll hopefully have the next chapter out sunday night/monday . nothing too exciting this time, just transitioning ~

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Frozen, crunchy grass, minimal rays of golden light, piles of leaves from dead trees -- November was in full swing. Mornings always bit with the intentions of upcoming winter, but Sakura couldn’t feel the chilly bites of realization anymore.

She was drunk on Sasuke and high on life. Between her school work, spending time studying and Sasuke, she was in a continuous cycle. Her friends still didn’t know about Sasuke, her family didn’t know about him, but neither did Sasuke’s friends or family know about Sakura.

A few more months, Sakura kept reminding herself. Only a few more months until her eighteenth birthday, and maybe then she would be looked at like an adult. A few more months.

“Don’t forget that we will be having family over soon,” Mebuki reminded from across the table.

When Sakura’s jade eyes found her mother’s glazed over look, she offered a tired smile. “Yeah, I won’t forget.” But her answer didn’t seem to calm her mother’s facial expression, nor ease it up at all.

“Everything okay, mom?”

Mebuki came to cross her fingers under her chin, balancing her head in place; it was such a Sasuke thing whenever Sakura watched anyone else but him do this.

“You’ve been acting different lately. Staying out late every night, avoiding questions, going out and not coming home over the weekend. It just seems a little odd to me,” Mebuki finally deadpanned, her voice as dry as a desert.

Sakura frowned before an unsettling feeling crawled up her spine. Had she really noticed all of that?

“I’m enjoying my senior year with my friends.”

“And what friends would that be?” Mebuki retorted.

Sakura was taken aback, her eyes wide with fear and her lips parting. She was hanging out with Naruto and Ino, of course. Who else?

“Naruto and Ino,” Sakura responded before taking a bite of her breakfast and washing it down with a swig of ice cold water.

She nodded her head once before glancing out the winter to their dining room. The trees were all bare now, and only one or two birds still hung around, braving out the changing weather. The sky was painted in golden hues of oranges and yellows, due to the early hour, while gray clouds began to come in from the east.

“The last time I saw Ino was back in September, Sakura.”

Sakura began to count the days, backtracking exactly when Ino had been over the same time as her mother. Throughout all her years of growing up, Ino was normally attending family dinners, outings, and simple movie nights with both Sakura and her mother. Now all Mebuki would come home to was an empty house and a text from her daughter: I’ll be home late. Studying.

“She was here on Halloween,” she responded quietly.

Again, Mebuki nodded once. It was entirely unlike her to push a subject for this long, but then again, a mother’s concern was the greatest of all.

The topic was dying down, until her very next question.

“So who’s the boy you’ve been seeing?” She asked with a gentle smile and tired eyes.

Her heart was now soaring, her fingers trembling slightly and her body temperature rising. She couldn’t possibly confide in her mother just yet. Sakura promised herself that she would introduce the two of them, not as Sakura’s sensei, but something more. Just not right now. Later.

Time was against her the longer she thought about her answer. It was already too long to use her usual excuse of ‘nothing’ and the moment her mother shifted in her seat, Sakura found her eyes watching the ticking clock behind her mother’s golden hair.

“Oh, him? He’s nothing special,” she lied, but her mother saw right through it. “Not special enough to bring home, yet.”

It hurt her to say it, because Sasuke was very special to her. He made he feels things she never felt in her life before, brought laughter and a peace of mind to her.

“If you keep seeing him, someday he’ll have to meet your parents,” Mebuki reminded her.

Sakura felt her cheeks flush -- this was the first time she had ever talked about boys with her mother, other than the simple “He’s cute!” or “Look at him!”

This was a matter of getting caught now. They would need to rethink their strategy from now on.

“Got it,” Sakura stood from the table and walked her plate to the sink. She began to rinse it off and wash it before rinsing it once more. Her mind was like a whirlwind of thoughts now; would their terms of meeting and hanging out last, or were they on their way to getting caught?

In her furry of overthinking, the plate slipped from her hands, missed landing on the counter and shattered against the java hardwood floors. She didn’t feel any sort of anger slip through her mind, she only wanted to cry and scream.

“Sakura!” Mebuki was up and by her side, comforting Sakura’s frozen form. “Did any get you?”

She couldn’t answer, wouldn’t answer. Instead, she began to pick up the pieces with her fingers, her eyes glassy while her body was completely numb. Thoughts of no longer carrying on with her secret relationship tainted her mind, made her feel absolutely angry and scared and exhausted.

“Stop, darling. I’ll sweep it up,” her mother comforted her, wrapping her arms around her before pulling her away. “Just go get ready for school.”

Sakura simply nodded her pretty head before stepping around the glass, careful to avoid the smallest of pieces. Her throat was extremely dry, her eyes burning from tears that threatened to fall, and her body tensed up and uncomfortable.

This was what she signed up for with Sasuke when she confirmed that this was what she wanted. A life of living in secrets, unable to confide in her mother or Ino, Naruto included.

As happy as Sasuke made her, also came a downfall of living in the shadows.

“Only a few more months,” Sakura promised herself, promised Sasuke, and all of the people she was close to. “A few more months.”

November was turning out to be a dreadful month. Classes were slow, her time spent with Sasuke was kept to a minimum, and her mother had been breathing down her neck.

She felt caged when she began to return home after school. She missed staying late with Sasuke, doing her own thing while he finished up with work, yet they didn’t mind the silence that filled the space between the two of them. They worked hand in hand with one another; his quiet, sarcastic side was something that Sakura had taken a liking to.

Whenever she did see Sasuke though, she could see the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Their eyes would meet almost every other five minutes during class, hidden messages passing through obsidian to viridian, and as much as it killed Sakura to remain seated and not jump from her seat, she stayed like a good girl.

Ever since she began her fling with Sasuke, she found that her grades had been higher than ever. She was paying attention to detail more so than not, her studies came easier to her and she felt more determined to get into medical school and prove to everyone that she was working hard and not just goofing off; there was just something about Sasuke that made her determined not to give up.

Sakura set her pen down on her desk and stood from her seat. Sasuke’s head lifted only to meet her stare and when she began to walk towards him, he sat back comfortably.

She could only focus on his lips, the way they sat, thin and soft.

With her arm extended, she passed her finished test over towards him and offered a gentle smile, her eyes twinkling with admiration. Sasuke raised a single eyebrow, the corner of his lips raising before she turned on her heel and headed back towards her desk.

A pair of ruby eyes caught her attention; a pale face with eyebrows pulled together, her red hair flaring out wildly on one side; Karin stared her down. Sakura didn’t falter at the eye contact, only continued her walk by her until she reached her seat and sat back down. It looked like her classmates were all pretty close to finishing now, but in her spare time, she pulled her folder that held scholarships and left off where she had started.

Her mind felt cluttered lately, but whenever she looked up to give her eyes a break, she caught Sasuke’s stare, remembering the way he told her how focused she looked when she would write. Sakura could feel her cheeks dust over with a light pink before looking back down.

Oh, how he still had that effect on her and oh, how she adored those deep, dark eyes of his.

She felt her days begin to blur together, and as much as Sakura hated to admit it, she was beginning to grow exhausted with each passing day of her senior year. It was a constant barrage of school, school wook, avoiding curious eyes and wandering rumors, trying to maintain a breaking friendship with Naruto and Ino, scholarships, and wringing her mind with how her and Sasuke could keep seeing each other.

Ever since their kiss, it felt like everything had began to fall apart and these were the things she thought about late at night. Sakura didn’t feel like going out to parties anymore, plus her friends quit inviting her the moment she began to push them to the side and focus on other things.

The music that played through her headphones soothed her anxious mind, but it didn’t solve her problems. Finally, her phone vibrated and when her eyes dropped to look at the screen, she felt an instant wave of life wash over her.

Come see me.

It was Sasuke with his fake name splayed across the screen. Those simple three words set fireworks launching through her mind, set her body on fire.

It’s passed two. Shouldn’t you be asleep?

She waited not even a minute, and a message pulled through on her phone.

I could ask you the same thing. Come outside.

Sakura frowned before unplugging her headphones and throwing them to the side. She pulled on Sasuke’s university hoodie and a pair of winter boots before making her way over to her window. The familiar cars that lined the streets were the only things she could see, but then her eyes landed on Sasuke’s familiar black car.

Though she felt her cheeks light up and her eyes widen and her heart began to rush in her chest, she also knew that there would be a time -- soon -- that they would need to discuss what was transpiring between the two of them.

Instead of standing in her window, gawking at him, she made her way down the stairs -- she removed her boots, knowing they would make clonky sounds while making her way down -- but the moment she opened the front door, it was like ice and venom biting into her skin.

“Fucking cold,” she hissed, her eyes squinting to fight the bitter breeze.

Her feet carried her to Sasuke and the moment she pulled the door open and crawled in, she was greeted by tired eyes and messy hair.

“Hi,” she breathed out, taken aback by how handsome he was, especially when he didn’t try.

Sasuke didn’t respond, only look at her with those tired gray eyes of his. The longer she looked at him, the more she could see the light that had once been lit there, slowly diminish to a flickering flame that threatened to die out at any moment.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, one of her knees came to rest against her chest, while she sat on her other leg. The simple furrow of his eyebrows made her lean closer, and when she thought he was going to answer, his hands were on her cheeks, and his lips pressed against hers.

He tasted and felt good against her lips again, and the longer he held her there, the drunker she became off his intoxicating scent. Her heart ached for him, yearned for him; Halloween was their last shared kiss, and now here they were, meeting late in the hour, both tired and hurting.

Sakura felt it through his kiss just how much he needed her, missed her, desired her.

“It’s so annoying,” he murmured while her lips were still against his. “So fucking annoying.”

Sasuke pulled away slightly, but his forehead came to rest against hers, and Sakura fought back the scalding tears that threatened to fall. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, breathing in his smoky scent.

“What’s wrong?” She asked quietly in the darkness of his car. His hands still held onto her cheeks, firm but soft, and her hands came to hold his forearms.

It took him a moment to answer, but when he did, he pulled away and looked into her eyes. His thick, black lashes hooding eyes that told stories -- stories that were still untold.

She slowly let go of his arms and his hands slid down her cheeks, one completely dropping while the other ran through her messy, pastel tresses.

“You’re different,” his voice was hoarse and his eyes dropped to watch his fingers twirl through her silk locks.

“I’m just tired,” Sakura tried to reason, but she knew Sasuke was smart, smart enough to see through her lies, but he remained quiet as his eyes stared right through her. “I’m okay, though. I really am.”

“Sakura.”

And there’s something about the way he says her name and how his eyes grow intense, like a roaring fire on the mountainside, or how a hurricane demolishes buildings in its wake. He’s a force to be reckoned with, and Sakura stands in the eye of the storm.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble.” She finally admits through sealed lips and eyes that gloss over with tears that won’t fall.

“I won’t,” he responds quickly. Sasuke is smart, witty, he’s clever and knows how to work around the system, she comes to realize. He’s young and he still has his moments that would look to be childish to the other instructors at the school, but he’s mature for his age and he’s got that going for him.

“We’ll work through it.” Sakura knows he means it, because his eyes shimmer with untold promises.

“Then what? What happens after that?” Sakura finds herself asking, her tone firm. It’s been something on her mind since November first, and here she is, awaiting the answer.

“We’ll find out,” he frowns but his gorgeous features never falter.

Sakura nods her head, and leans farther away from him. Her breathing begins to calm down now, and although she still has her concerns, she can trust him.

It was funny, Sakura thought, how a simple crush formed into something more over the course of a couple months. She never considered what would happen from there, but now that they were going to progress forward with this thing between them, she started to think of how things would be after she graduated from school.

“Now what?” She asks from her seat, her knee still pulled to her chest while her arms hug around her leg. Sakura finds that the quiet air had been filled with tension, and although they decided to work through it, there was still something amiss.

Sasuke’s smirk kick started her heart and when his eyes reflected the light from the stereo, Sakura frowned slightly. “How long do you have?”

Sakura shrugged, “my mom normally leaves for work around five in morning. Why?”

“We can go somewhere,” Sasuke started his car. The low hum of his engine started up, and as he put his car into first gear and started moving, Sakura latched her seatbelt over her chest. Of course, it didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Where?” She asked as he shifted to second gear and the car began to move faster. She noticed that he kept it slow, noting that the roads would probably be icy due to the cold weather.

“You’ll see.”

Sakura kept her eyes on the road, watching as they drove by familiar houses and the playground she would play at when she was younger. They drove by her old school and Naruto’s house, passed the tree they shared their first kiss by, and finally on their way out of town. Sasuke followed the road that led through the hills; the trees bare and grass dead, the greenery that once hid this road was no more.

“Have you ever been up here?” He asked after a few moments of silence.

She watched her surroundings as they kept going, trying to find something familiar that she would notice, but to no avail. “No?”

“Good,” he replied, and just with that simple word, she felt chills creep through her body and his ghost of a kiss on her skin. She would never forget that feeling, how close he was, how his lips felt the first time he touched her.

When the car’s engine started to grow quiet, Sakura noticed that they were no longer heading up, but the road had leveled out. Now that she realized where exactly they were going, a smile painted itself on her lips.

He had taken her to one of the highest points in Konoha; a perch that looked over the city, but at night, the millions of lights that twinkled under the oncoming winter sky amazed Sakura.

Sasuke parked his car by the guard rail and Sakura simply couldn’t pull her eyes from the sight. The downtown part of Konoha was busy, she could tell, but when her eyes scanned towards the outskirts of the town, the lights began to dim. Viridian eyes searched for Sasuke’s condo, and when she couldn’t find it, they landed on her school.

“It’s so pretty,” she whispered, mostly to herself, but Sasuke scoffed.

“Have you never seen Konoha at night?”

“Not from up here,” she spoke through a dazed state of mind. From yellows, oranges, greens, reds, pinks, to blues, Konoha offered many different lights and the main road that cut straight through the city held multiple cars. “It’s so busy.”

“It’s always busy,” Sasuke retorted, and when Sakura glanced at him, she could see the reflections of all the millions lights in his eyes. “It’s peaceful up here, especially in the middle of summer.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” he smirked.

Sakura shook her head before settling back and watching the busy road that held cars of all types, and watching lights either flicker on or off. The sky remained black throughout the night, and although she knew she should be at home and in bed, this was much better than a night filled with overthinking and restless sleep.

Time spent with Sasuke should’ve been forbidden, but they took it as a challenge, and together, they agreed that they would get around it.

“Hey, Sasuke?”

“Hn.”

“Will you teach me how to drive your car?”

A long pause, until he finally groaned, “maybe.”

#sasusaku #ss fanfiction #sasusaku fanfiction #ronan rae #rrstories #s/t

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anghraine · 7 years

Note

I have a very, very vague memory of there being more of Subsequent Connections than show up on AO3 -- am I totally wrong? It's a delightful series that definitely shows how two very different people deal with finding a birth family -- and in their case, it wasn't something they'd sought for themselves. I was rereading it today and really enjoying it, and thought I'd ask.

Oh, thank you very much!

It’s such a weird concept for a P&P fic—I would never have thought of it on my own, but I read a couple with the idea of Jane and Elizabeth as Fitzwilliams, and was like “well, if I wrote it, I’d do x and y to make it less painful and then z to make it MORE painful and wouldn’t it be interesting if…” Therein lies the path to hell.

I thiiiiiink the eleventh chapter of SC on AO3 is as far as that particular version of the story ever got, though I had some “missing scene” side pieces that it doesn’t look like I crossposted. I’ve been catching up on crossposting anyway, so I could move those over.

Also, there was an original (substantially different) version of the story that might be what you’re thinking of? With this one, I really wanted to focus more on exactly what you mentioned—the discovery as more than a plot device, the profound effects of Jane having memories of her birth family where Elizabeth doesn’t coupled with differences in personality/situation, the really bizarre position that Darcy ends up in, a more subtle take on the Elizabeth vs Eleanor tension, Milton’s melodramas, and so forth. It’s a lot more gradual.

Bearing in mind that I last updated in *squints* 2009, I dug up my folder for the fic (I save everything), and it looks like I actually was working on something in 2010! And… oh hey, it says Ch 12. I genuinely have no memory of working on this, so this is about as new to me as to anyone else, but … here is what I’d written:

ChapterTwelve

“Goodmorning, Miss Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabethsmiled. “Good morning. How is my grandmother?”

“Herladyship is … she will be pleased to see you, madam.”

Sheis always pleased to see me, Elizabeththought, with more than a trace of regret. Lady Ancaster, haughty,whimsical, and often disordered in her mind, was regarded withvarying degrees of trepidation by all the others.

Eleanor,usually fearless, would greet her with a white face and icy,trembling hands, and turn paler and colder until she fled. Elizabethfelt not the smallest surprise that Eleanor’s brash sort ofcourage, if courage it could be called—all good nerves and boldspirits—would desert her in such a matter as this, and disliked herall the more for it. Yet even Cecily could endure only a few minuteswithout palpable discomfort. Edward refused to come without hisbrother or sister, correcting Lady Ancaster in a flat, humourlessvoice nothing like his own, while loquacious Richard rarely spoke.

Elizabethherself neither felt nor understood any of this. She sat with LadyAncaster almost every day, and treasured thequiet hours she spent with her, away from the rest of the world—reading novels aloud or eagerly listening to her reminiscences. Itwas such a relief to escape from everything,just for a little while; the troubles and irritations of her lifeseemed to weigh much less on her mind, when she could confide them insomeone who listened evenwhen she did not understand.

It helped, too,that Lady Ancaster always loved her, whether she knew her or not. Elizabeth found it strangely easy to accustom herself to being called“Catherine” or “Laura” or even “Cassandra,” often in thecourse of a single conversation.

“Good morning,Grandmama,” she said gaily, kissing her forehead. “How are youtoday?”

“Very well.” Lady Ancaster cast her a sly look. “I heard that you danced thricewith Lord Bertie. I hope you are not thinking seriously of him.”

Elizabethhad never heard of him in her life. She laughed. “Indeed not. Idid go to an assemblylast night, however; we all did. I did not sit down once.”

“Youhave always enjoyed dancing,” Lady Ancaster remarked. Elizabethchose to believe this was true—true for her,not one of the phantoms of her ladyship’s memory.

“I expect so. Icannot remember a time when I did not—so I enjoyed the assembly. Perhaps you do not know, but it was my first since my f—since Icame to Houghton. I cannot remember all the people I met, but theywere all pleasant to me.”

Lady Ancaster casther a sharp look. “Only to you, Phylly?”

“ ‘Tis Elizabeth,not Philadelphia,” she said easily, “and of course they were not. At least—well, everybody was very deferential to my uncle,naturally, and people always seem to like Edward for some reason.”

“Charm andcharity do not always have very much to say to one another.”

Elizabeth’sbrow furrowed. “Er, quite so. Then there is Richard; he makeshimself agreeable everywhere. Eleanor, I suppose, intimidates theworld into fearful awe, but Cecily—I could not help overhearing—”

“Do you refer to the elder MissFitzwilliam?” Sir George looked incredulous. He was abaronet, Elizabeth had been reliably informed—a young, attractivebaronet of good family—four thousand a-year—and expectationsof a doting godmother, too—

“The younger is, er, dancing with,er, Mr Talbot, I believe.”

“I believe,” he saidicily, “that a man of family and refinement, such as myself, mightaim a little higherthan a witless, penniless girl with no greater claims than those shealready makes on the earl’s charity. Forgive me if my requirementsare too nice.”

Elizabeth,scarcely able to believe her ears, turned to Cecily in astonishment. She immediately wished she had not; Cecily’s bloodless face crumpled—in humiliation, misery—in everything but surprise, then wentblank. Elizabeth was strongly reminded of a kicked puppy.

“I know you are fond of Cecilia, and her circumstances certainlyattract an undesirable degree of attention,” Lady Ancaster said,“but Laura, dear, you must know by now that your cousin is quitecapable of managing her own concerns.”

Elizabethpressed her lips together. “Forgive me, madam, but Cecilyis nothing of the kind.”

Something flickered in her grandmother’s eyes. “Cecily?” sherepeated. “It was not Henry’s Cecilia, then? I never heard thatshe was called—oh! 'Twas little Cecilia, then?”

“Yes, Grandmama.”

“Ohdear.”

Elizabeth snatched at the moment of lucidity. “Sir George Pelham—I don’t know if you are acquainted with him, but he declined to dancewith her in very uncivil terms. No; I believe it was more than awant of consideration, but active cruelty. Poor Cecily heard everyword.”

“I detest all the race of Pelhams,” said Lady Ancaster.

“I certainly detest him.” Elizabeth sprang up, unable to remainquiescent in her chair, and paced furiously before the window. “Heasked to dance with me later. I am no handsomer than Cecily and wehave all the same connections, so I cannot think what made thedifference.”

“I trust, my dear, that you managed to refuse the compliment in thespirit it deserved.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I persuaded him that he must have mistaken mefor Eleanor.”

“Theresemblance is not thatstrong.” Lady Ancaster gave her a sharp look. “You must havebeen very persuasive, Elizabeth.”

Sheopened her eyes very wide. “Oh, but Sir George could not haveintended such a great compliment to me, a mere poor relation of LordAncaster’s. He made that perfectlyclear when he disparagedmy cousin to half the room; only the earl’s daughtercould possibly be worthy of such a discriminating taste.”

“I see,” murmured the countess.

“Naturally,” Elizabeth added, her tone sharpening, “I alwayswish to be of use to my superiors, so I explained his error to himbefore I returned to my proper place. He must have understood, forhe asked Eleanor to dance immediately afterward.”

“Did she accept?”

“Eleanor? Of course not.” And her brusque refusal had expressedall the astonishment and contempt that Elizabeth could have hopedfor. Sir George had been humiliated before everyone in earshot.

Hergrandmother laughed, then fell silent; Elizabeth remained at thewindow, staring at the dirty, melting snow. In retrospect,she supposed she should not have done it. Polite set-downs were onething; with her sharp tongue and quick temper, and even a sort ofinnocent vanity, she had certainly delivered more than one of those. But this was not an intemperate remark. Spur-of-the-momentthough it had been, she had contrived—schemed.

Elizabeth shut hereyes. She had been so angry, the blazing fury blinding her toeverything but herself and that stupid, self-important littlepopinjay. Since her father’s death, apathy seemed to have consumedevery slice of rage she ought to have felt, until that moment. Thenall at once, she felt it all.

Mr and Mrs Bennet—and Mr and Mrs Fitzwilliam—were gone. She could hardly returnEleanor’s abrasive manners or Edward’s caustic insouciance in kind,not without descending to their level of incivility. James and Janedeserved nothing less than the gentle kindness they dispensed to all. As for Darcy, she could not say with any certainty what she thoughtof him, or felt toward him. He was clever, interesting; hehad not thought her handsome enough to dance with; he had started allof this; he was at Pemberley.

In some fashion oranother, they were all beyond the reach of her anger; but Sir George,standing before her—smiling—

“Goodmorning,” whispered Cecily, her smile bright and brittle. “How is she today?”“Well enough,”Elizabeth said. “She had a few lucid moments, atleast.”Cecily bit her lip. “I—I washoping I could steal you away, Elizabeth. The snow is nearlyall melted, and my uncle says we may walk out again.”“Oh! I should very much enjoy that—just permit me a moment to put apillow under—thank you, Theodore.” She bent to kiss LadyAncaster’s wrinkled cheek, then hurried after Cecily.“Thankyou,” she said. “You see, Sir George called; SirGeorge Pelham, who—you remember? He—Ella refused to dancewith him last night. Apparently he has some business withEdward.”Elizabeth laughed. “I did notknow anybody had business with Edward.”“Hedoesn’t.” Cecily quickened her steps. “Ofcourse he came to see Ella. Brown thinks so, at any rate; Ididn’t see him myself—did not even know he was here, until she toldme. Then I went down to Lord Ancaster’s study, and found you,and—well. I would rather not see him, and it is a niceday.”“It is a very nice day,” Elizabethagreed, uncertain whether she felt more pity at Cecily’s quandary, oramusement at Eleanor’s.“That is exactly what Ithought! And—and perhaps you would like to see Gulliver? I am sure you haven’t.”Elizabeth, though lighter andseveral inches taller than her cousin, almost ran to keep up withher. “Who is Gulliver?” she asked breathlessly,blinking when they stepped outside, into the daylight.“Mydog,” said Cecily, smiling more genuinely. “Oh, I amglad to be outside again. Are not the gardens pretty?—He’s twelve years old; Fitzwilliam gave him to me when he was justa puppy. He said it was a favour, that Gulliver was sougly that nobody else would take him, and he certainly didn’t wanthim, but I knew better. It was my birthday, and boys—youknow how they are.” “Oh, yes,” saidElizabeth.“Edward and Richard’s dogs frightened him,poor thing, so he doesn’t sleep in the house any more. EvenAunt Milton’s pug terrified him. It was ridiculous,really, to see Gulliver cowering before a little dog like that.”“Ishould like to see him very much,” Elizabeth said, rememberingJane’s account of her early quarrels with Pugsy. “I adoredogs. Where do you keep him, Cecily?”Cecilyhesitated, then grinned up at her, her usual manner entirelyrestored. “I shan’t tell you until we get there,” shesaid airily. “It will be a surprise.—Do not worry,it isn’t far.”They talked lightly as they walked,somewhere between enjoyment and relief. Cecily spotted a bunchof chrysanthemums with a cry of delight, promptly picking them all. Elizabeth only shook her head and asked about their second cousins ontheir mothers’ side.Within a few minutes, she foundherself staring at a small, square, ridiculously picturesque house. It was built on a small eminence, backed by three stands of trees,and looked out upon all the splendour and elegance of Houghtonproper. Snow still adorned the roof, cheerful yellow curtainshung in the windows—windows undoubtedly covered by honeysuckle inthe summer. Gilpin himself could not have improved upon it.

“Is it notpretty?”

“Very,” saidElizabeth. “Is this the parsonage?”

#leafstranger #respuestas #fic talk #subsequent connections #gosh now i am Feeling It again #it is /such/ a weird fic (for me) and yet.....#also the sc folder is extremely well-organized and it turns out i had two outlines for each half of the story #and notes on cecily that filled in the blanks of that #and little scraps here and there #AND a darcy/elizabeth futurefic #and none of that including the original sc #which i had a separate folder for #i now remember everything i was going to go do! thanks past self #austen blogging #nice things people say to me #i changed nothing but the spaces because ahfdk;lfjadh i was still using double spaces after periods when i was writing ch 12 #wow

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yuudetama · 7 years

Text

Goodbye, Peter Pan [Chapter 6]

All that we know will someday fall with the crescendo.

CSI!Bangtan AU. Chapter 5 → Chapter 6 → Chapter 7

If it goes boom, burn all evidence and find a new room, is the weaponry division’s unofficial and only marginally macabre motto. The entire department has always struck you as somewhat of an amusement land, filled with exotic contraptions and rows of blank shooting targets and armament specialists who shoot at said targets with far too much enthusiasm than needed. If the Seoul branch was headed by a director of any other name they would likely be put on probation for their “rampant and disorderly conduct,” but Min Yoongi, to put it eloquently, does not give a flying rat’s ass about professional standards and upholding the rules, so long as they get him the results he needs.

The soft tunes of Vivaldi float throughout the room, at utter odds with the array of ammunition scattered over a large table. A single man is seated there, head bent over bullets as he examines them carefully for defects. His left hand is encased in a sleek leather glove, but the form-fitting article does nothing to inhibit his ease as he picks up pellets one after another. The corner of your lip twitches. Of course, classy and conscientious as always. “If that’s how you practice your stealth tactics, I can guarantee you’ll be the first to get killed in battle. I could hear you stomping from down the hall.” The man doesn’t look up as you and Hoseok approach but the grin is as clear as crystal in his voice. “Then it’s a good thing we’ve put the wars behind us, isn’t it?” You come to a halt directly in front of the otherwise preoccupied male, with Hoseok observing just a few steps to the side. “Where’s your team today, Nams?”

Kim Namjoon finally lifts his chin and sends you a closed-eye smile. He’s an impressively lanky man, who, at first glance, appears to be more limb than anything else, with an ever-present twinkle in his eyes and hair that gleams the colour of dusty moonlight. You’re convinced that at least half of his paycheck goes towards hair maintenance, but he continuously insists that he’s never touched a box of dye before in his life. “They’re all off in the shooting range. We just got a new shipment of Springfield XDs and they’ve been making bets all morning about who has the better aim. Apparently the first to get ten bulls-eyes in a row will be exempted from cleaning duty for a week.” “And what, you didn’t want in on the action?” “I am the leader of the weaponry unit,” he says, straightening his spine in a dignified manner. “It wouldn’t do for me to engage in horseplay when there are dangerous criminals to be found. Besides, we all know who really possess the best aim here.” He places the shell down and stands at his full height. “Am I correct in guessing that this is our friend from the head office?” You make the necessary introductions as Namjoon offers his concealed hand. Hoseok looks at it briefly before accepting the handshake. “The gunpowder will stain your glove if you’re not careful,” Hoseok says dryly, but Namjoon only chuckles before turning back to you. “Now, I suppose you’re here about the distillery district corpse? Unless my favourite detective has finally decided to take me out to lunch as promised?” “Okay, one, I never agreed to take you out to anything, and two, favourite detective? Yoongi would be heartbroken if he heard you say that,” you laugh. Next to you Hoseok tilts his head, watching with an air of barely concealed boredom. “Oh please, that man wouldn’t know heartbreak if it shot him in the leg with a Beretta M9,” Namjoon dismisses. He sets the ammunition down and nods at the folder in your hand. “Alright, let’s see it, then. Judging from what I’ve been told I can already guess as to what we’re looking at, and frankly speaking, I’m surprised you even bothered with coming here. You already knew before you came to see me, didn’t you?” “Well, yes,” you admit, “But you know that we always need to confirm it with an expert before we can say for certain.” You flip open the file and set it on the empty space beside the piles of bullets. Photographs begin to appear one by one: detailed eight by twelve prints of limbs resting perfectly still on a stainless steel surface, pale, porcelain skin which lacks the lustre of pumping blood and oxygen. You imagine that if the killer had chosen to leave the head intact, you would perhaps see a picture of listless eyes staring at something that is no longer there. The purpose of cameras is to immortalize moments in life, you think, yet all that this one has managed to capture is an immortality of death instead. You tap on the photograph nearest to you. “Since you know all of the details I’ll get right to it. Look at these marks here, on the neck. I’ve already spoken to our pathologist friend but I’d like to hear your opinion on it, as well. Can you tell me what sort of weapon was used for the strangling?” “I’ll do you one better, I can show you instead what caused it.” The ballistics specialist lopes towards his office, a room strategically hidden in the far corner of the room, leaving you and Hoseok to stand together in silence. Hoseok examines the photos with renewed interest. He’s also been gifted with the endowment of height, you notice, so he chooses to pick them up individually rather than bend down and break his neck. You watch him for a moment and remember that he hasn’t had a chance to read the post-mortem report yet. Recalling the initial conversation you’d had in your office prior, you decide to take a shot at- what will hopefully be- a civil conversation. He’s ‘one of the top,’ was what Yoongi had grudgingly relayed to you. You try to keep this in mind as you point to the photo suspended in mid-air. “What do you think, then?” He doesn’t bother looking up as he answers, “Seeing as we’re about to get the expert’s opinion, I don’t really see the point in asking for mine, do you?” Well, it was a valiant attempt anyway. Thankfully, you’re spared from having to respond as Namjoon reemerges from his office. He rejoins you and the increasingly exasperating man at the table, holding what appears to be a sheet of paper and a twiny rope in his grasp. You do your best to hold back a smile. “Don’t tell me you still air out your pants in there?” During your first month at the station, there had been a time when you’d witnessed the weapons expert hanging up a pair of wet boxers to dry, following an unfortunate but highly entertaining incident that had involved three full water bottles and an overly confident new recruit. “A man must take whatever steps necessary to keep his clothes in a presentable state,” Namjoon answers in a voice that leaves no room for further questions or jests. With mismatching hands he arranges the rope so that it lies in a neat, orderly line. “As you’re both aware, the diagnosis was that the victim was strangled before death occurred,” he begins. “The bruises are fairly difficult to make out, but if you look closely at this picture here you can see that they form a thin, slightly ridged pattern.” He traces the cord with his ungloved hand. “That pattern is consistent with the one we’d get from this piece. You’re looking at a laundry rope, similar to what I have here, or possibly one of those cables used to hold up camping tents.” “Those kinds of ropes are sold and thrown away like lemon candy,” you contemplate aloud. Next to you Hoseok has fallen silent once more, arms folded, eyes boring into the rope with the same indecipherable stare as before. “I wouldn’t bet on finding it, would you? It’s about as traceable as the blade will be.” “More specifically, the hand saw,” Namjoon corrects, pointing to another photograph. “You can tell from the tearings in the flesh. The edges aren’t consistent with a chainsaw’s markings, and a serrated kitchen knife- maybe one used for cutting bread- wouldn’t be strong enough to cut through the bone.” “And hand saws are especially easy to dispose of,” you finish for him. “Throw one into a junkyard and nobody will look twice at it. Almost every hardware store will have them for sale, so it’ll be hard to follow up on this lead.” “If you can even call it a lead at all,” Hoseok finally says. He meets your gaze and jerks his head towards the forensic shots. “I doubt anything useful will come out of tracing the weapons. You said it yourself, Inspector; laundry ropes are common and hand saws are everywhere. Unless we somehow find the original ones used by the killer, how likely are we to get any useful information?” “You’d be surprised at what you can find if you’re thorough enough,” you shrug, although a part of you reluctantly agrees. It’s not as though you’re dealing with highly specialized weapons here. It’s a laundry rope. And a hand saw. Ordinary objects that anybody would have in their basement or garage. As if offering a gesture of consolation, Namjoon holds up a hand. “There may be a chance we can track down the purchase of the saw. Yes, they’re very common but their prints are much more distinct than that of the ropes.” He hands you the paper which he’d retrieved earlier from his office. “I cross-checked the tool imports and distributions records, and there are sixteen types of saws that are available in Korea,” he explains as you scan the paper. True to his word, it contains a list of manufacturers and addresses, all annotated with product names and identification numbers. “Of the sixteen, twelve are capable of cutting through human bone and muscle mass. If I can match the markings on our victim to a specific type of saw, then I can narrow the focus down to a smaller list of manufacturers. Hardware stores rarely carry all twelve types at once. If anything, I may be able to track down the store where the murder weapon was bought.” Hoseok's lips quirk slightly in a caustic grin. “And if the killer happened to pick it up somewhere off the ground?” “Then at least we’ll be more informed, won’t we?” Namjoon laughs. You mirror his satisfied expression. “Now see, this-” you give the paper a little shake “- this is why we came here. If you can actually get something out of this, Nams, then lunch really will be on me.” “Two lunches,” Namjoon corrects. “Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook for the first one.” He takes the list back from you with his gloved hand, but not before giving the fingers a subtle flex. Most people would politely ignore the gesture or simply fail to notice it, but you immediately recognize the telltale signs of twitching leather and stiff wrist movements. “Are your joints bothering you again?” you ask, nodding at his arm. Namjoon knows the meaning behind your question and smiles ruefully. “Unfortunately, yes. I had a checkup yesterday and my doctor insisted we try yet another new gear adjustment. I keep telling him that the old method works perfectly fine, but does he listen?“ As he speaks he tugs off the offending leather garment, exposing five fingers and a palm that are made entirely of polished steel. Hoseok doesn’t say anything but you can see his eyes flicker towards the silver palm. You can only guess as to what he thinks of Namjoon’s hidden prosthetic hand. Most offer immediate sympathy, undisguised curiosity, but in Hoseok’s case, you have absolutely no clue. The armament specialist had lost it twelve years ago, he’d once confided to you during a night at the bar, back when he and Yoongi had been partners out in the field. It had been during an investigation of a toddler’s death (too young to be taken by death, he’d said, knocking back a shot of gin in her memory), eventually leading to a violent altercation between said detective and near-insane murderer. “Don’t worry about me.” Namjoon bends his fingers experimentally before slipping the glove back on. “The pain is nothing I can’t handle, and anyway, you should be more concerned about yourself. From the way I see it, there are two ways that this case will play out- as one, extremely difficult, or two, extremely dangerous. Or perhaps even both. I’m sure you don’t need me to say it, but do be sure to keep an eye out at all times, Detective.” “Whatever you say, Iron Man,” you hum. Namjoon rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Just once,” he sighs as a phone begins to ring in his office, “I’d like for us to have a meaningful conversation without you referring to me as some kind of robot.” “Now where would be the fun in that?” You smile faintly when he excuses himself to answer the call. He leaves, and for a second time you’re left alone with Hoseok, the man whom you hardly know anything about and don’t even know where to begin studying. The Four Seasons continues to play from the speakers, permeating the silence with violin music that strangely fills you with a sense of sudden inexplicable weariness. “Four years ago, a married couple was found crucified in their bedroom,” you say after a while. Hoseok folds his arms across his chest, but you can tell he’s listening from the way his head tilts slightly at the sound of your voice. “No trace of the killer was found, and there were no distinctive weapons used, either. Just a hammer and a pile of nails. After five months we’d gone through every lead possible, and by then we were almost ready to give up. But then Namjoon noticed that one of the screws was different from the others- it was a tiny, tiny manufacturing difference that the rest of us would have never noticed, but thanks to him we were able to track down the killer before he left the city.” You look at him and soften your voice. “This may seem like a waste of time to you, and you might not agree with my decisions, but I wouldn’t have brought you here if there wasn’t the slightest chance that he could help.” If the two of you are expected to work together, you decide, then the least you can do is have at least a little bit of faith in each other. Hoseok returns your stare without saying a word, and for a minute you think that he’s going to challenge you again. But then he seems to reach a decision of his own, because he merely shrugs and turns away in time with the crash of turbulent crescendo notes. “It’s your call. Like I said before, I’m only here to do my job.”

#bts #bts scenarios #bts fanfiction #reader x bts #namjoon #hoseok #seokjin #yoongi #taehyung #jimin #jungkook #goodbye peter pan

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noxian-rose · 7 years

Text

Observations.

There were no faces he knew more than hers, no eyes he stared more into than those amber orbs. Throughout the years he had watched her seduce and use that sweet mouth of hers on diplomats, ambassadors and even generals. Hesitation was not in her vocabulary when it came to facing situations. But his careful eye was how he had discovered her in a far more different light. Swain had a habit for watching every slight change in a person’s visage; it was how he had moved the tides to his favor and gained his charm within the Noxian High Command. But LeBlanc was no ordinary woman, she played the same game as he did. Their similarity had brought them to a new game of sorts, a fascinating challenge on garnering information from the other simply through wordplay and expressions. It was a game that had lasted through the years and inevitably brought together their well-knit camaraderie.

The tea table was their favorite battleground, a scattered torn land of the swords from their bitter words a site of torn flags of war – the remaining traces of their once kindred ties. He wished he had more of a chance, a longer time time to understand the complexities of the woman he had known as Evaine. But as it was fate, it was also a grueling reality that the two of them have come to accept.

He closed his eyes momentarily, letting the rays of the Noxian sunset sink beneath the towering concrete walls of the Immortal Bastion, and with the dawning of evening drowned the worries and tribulations of his position as it’s leader. Never did his bones gain their deserved rest in the day for a man of his age and stature, only in the sun-kissed afternoons did her presence come about to give him solace.

As if the mere thought of her name summoned her, LeBlanc then waltzed into his estate as she normally did and found him in the aviary, sitting alone with a cup in hand and a porcelain tea-set ready on the table; his eyes opening to greet her. A sun-filled smile lit her features in the most uncharacteristic way imaginable as she approached him. It reminded him how easy it was for her to simply change from one personality to another. It would have been pleasing, if he didn’t remind himself constantly of things otherwise.

How different it was from the past.

“Jericho, darling– you were gone yesterday” she stated, her voice filled with sweet concern “is something the matter?” LeBlanc gingerly took a seat on the opposite side of the small table while Swain naturally poured her a cup of tea out of habit. Ionian tea, her most favored taste for their meetings, he had come to learn that.

“I had to look after Beatrice, she was ill and needed my attention” he replied smoothly. It was true enough, Beatrice was feeling sick of being trapped inside her cage all day during council meetings.

But his full reasons were far less than respectable, let alone accepted in Noxian society. He had bought himself a ticket to see Sona Buvelle herself play live in Demacia under the disguise and alias of a noble. It was dangerous and admittedly reckless, but he thought it was worth to see his favorite musician. She of course had thought of it to be ridiculous.

“And?” She wasn’t satisfied, of course she wasn’t. LeBlanc was and will always be the best liar between the both of them, even if he did lie it would be for naught. The Deceiver held her head on her chin, her head tilted to the side. Golden irises sparkled with her ever present insatiable thirst for curiosity, those dangerous eyes that should never exist. He remembered that gaze now; embedded within a memory buried in the back of his mind. A time when he had been telling her details on Vastayan culture. Oh, how they glimmered with that same inquiring stare.

Swain then lowers his verdant- colored face mask, allowing himself to take a lengthy sip of his tea. The scars sketched across his features would eternally etch moments of war in his mind. Somedays he was indecisive on using his magic to make them disappear; the same magic the woman across him wielded proudly. Of course the General couldn’t forget his dear ally’s own scars despite the fact; those that were mapped across her hands and the back of her neck like constellations. Emilia would never acknowledge them of course, she wouldn’t dare take her chance of vulnerability with anyone, only Evaine remained…

“ And I attended a performance of Sona Buvelle’s, she played beautifully” he would then state, lowering his cup to its saucer; crimson eyeing porcelain features for a reaction.

Her lower lip twitched ever so slightly and her forehead crinkled for a millisecond. A crack in the mask. Bitter yet all the same. Typical Evaine.

“Does the poster of her in your private quarters not suffice? Or the multiple love letters lying patiently in your drawer?” the Deceiver asked teasingly, nothing short of mockery filling her tone to the brim whilst one hand stirred her tea at a slow pace. Honey eyes bore into his, unreadable as usual, while one leg crossed over her other and dangled in circles beneath the table “honestly, you can be such a child at times”

A pregnant silence sat between them. He could hear her breath hitch at the realization of her words towards him; atleast beneath the layer of her illusions. Swain’s neutral gaze turned to ice at her comment and the exposed fragility of their alliance became visible. LeBlanc’s eyes darted to the table, averting his stare. Swain dropped a sugar cube into his tea, suddenly finding the supposedly comforting taste too bitter for his liking.

“Is this all you came to discuss?” He continued onward without as much as a stutter, raising an eyebrow. This was a professional meeting, not a tea party; no matter how much she would debate otherwise. He knew her better than to expect LeBlanc of all people to take much of anything into serious tones– simply another layer of illusion, more evidence to his claims and of the lies her existence was built upon.

Wordlessly, LeBlanc pulled out a thick folder and slid it mindlessly to him “These are reports from my agents, I think you’ll find them to your liking” she replied nonchalantly while opening the manila folder.

Swain wasted no time, looking at the papers laid out in front of him; crimson hues never truly leaving her. Perhaps in false fear of her pulling anything against him, there was never any true certainty with the Deceiver. Steadily, he peered past the tax reports watching as LeBlanc pursed her lips during his ‘review’ of the files, fiddling with her fingers before eventually picking up her teacup and sipping delicately from it. She set the cup down to it’s saucer and glanced at her perfectly manicured nails. Patience never was her strongest suit, even in the days of their training.

He could remember her throwing projectiles towards targets without much care of their precise aim, brows furrowed and hands gripping her practice staff– one which was certainly shoddy and of poor quality. Evaine had nearly thrown a fit attempting to summon an illusionary clone, reddened cheeks from her frustration and irritation; she had tried for hours to cast spells but none prevailed to bring the desired result. In a fit of rage, she had snapped the practice staff in half and threw the shattered pieces to the side of the training room.

Swain could still remember the yelling and her frustrated tears. Simply because she had not been able to summon the clone the current Matron at that time had ordered her to do. Evaine had even been upset for weeks after the incident.

“Interesting, thank you. You may go if you please.”

The Deceiver stared at the Tactician in internal shock. Swain had never dismissed her from their conversations before. She stood up, peeved and took a deep bow, amber eyes failing to meet his.

“As you wish, Grand General.” LeBlanc replied stoically and disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke. Swain leaned back in his chair, an exasperated sigh parting his lips as he took off his cloth mask and glanced at Beatrice sitting in her cage. The bird cawed at her master.

“I know I hurt her” he murmured, fingering his tea saucer “ Evaine simply overstepped her boundary for a moment” There were few moments like these between them, they rarely ever decided to make an appearance; but with their expected personalities it was inevitable.

Beatrice gave a low pitched caw at that statement and Jericho shook his head in doubt “Her? Jealous? That’s almost an insult.”

The raven thrashed around her cage, cawing hysterically before staring at Swain with all six of her eyes.

“If it is what you’re assuming, then perhaps she feels the same way…” he concluded, staring at the thorned onyx ring resting on his finger. The once glowing ring no longer held it’s once vibrant crimson hue, common with active rings within the members of the Black Rose. The General stood up in his seat. How long has it been? He couldn’t remember, but he knew there was a needed change.

In the later shadow of the night he took the shriveled poster of Sona off his wall and burned the letters he had written. Sacrifices, he knew– must be made somehow, for dearest Evaine. Perhaps she hadn’t been genuinely bitter about Sona, maybe she had even been joking about the entire situation at the tea table; but it never mattered to him. Sona’s symphony was enough for him to enjoy, the memorabilia was nothing of importance to him any longer; no it never quite held the value it once did after their hasty exchange.

For Evaine, my dearest Matron.

#black rose archives | (drabbles.)#(in a blink..ooc)#// another re-written piece u w u #// this one has to be my favorite so far #the raven and his thorned rose | (swain and leblanc.)#// first time around was kinda sketchy #// i hope this one was far more fitting to how leblanc's personality is in swain's eyes #// yes thats right this was written in his perspective :^)#// fight meee

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theawkwardterrier · 8 years

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Fic roundup 2016

Buffyverse All Work The Closing Distance To Question, Squirrels and Books

Gilmore Girls Heads, Hands

Harry Potter (Enough Misadventures) To Last A Lifetime The Biting Yesterdays In the Neighbourhood As Yourself

Leverage Sanctuary Space In the Gray Light

MCU The Madcap Underground Withdraw Their Shining The Job At Hand This Bright Future Homemakers Stand Together Burdens Had The Question At Hand All the Days Woman Borne With Gentleness and Time Duty Bound Like Gravity

The Newsroom A Rousing Debate

Veronica Mars Untitled celebrity/fan AU The Blown Job

1. Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted?: Considering I didn’t write a damn word for nearly half the year, much much more. I was super surprised when I did a “last 20 fics” thing in October-ish, and found that they were all in 2016. And I also feel like I actually got a decent balance between longer oneshots, little snippets, and at least one decently sized (for me) chapter fic. It also helped that I got less anxious about asking for prompts, and people were nice enough to step up and give them to me.

2. What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January?: I never ever would have expected Steve/Peggy and the MCU to take over my life and my writing as completely as it did. I have literally no concrete memory of how it happened, but suddenly they were just there, and I’ve found them honestly delightful to both read and write.

3. What’s your own favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest? Homemakers. Homemakers. All day, every day. It’s just the right level of fluff, sounds authentic enough, flowed nicely, has humor and sweetness and a solid relationship and a plot but also a bit of a “glimpse into the life” thing. One hundred percent. Homemakers.

4. Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? Started writing Woman Borne even though The Ninety-Nine Percent had burned me out so badly. Finished writing Woman Borne even as I realized that I likely wasn’t equipped to do so. On the one hand, I’m proud of the way I handled the act of writing and posting it- I remembered to finish the whole thing ahead of time, I had it read over at an early stage to see if I should keep going and then had it read when it was complete by someone lovely and knowledgeable, I looked over each chapter before posting and made edits if they felt necessary rather than feeling that what I’d written had to dictate the way it would go- but I don’t think I would write something so heavy and controversial and out of my personal experience like that in the near future. Although the readers were overall lovely, it was stressful as heck.

5. Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the New Year? Just, keep writing. If I could finish a few of my WIPs, that would be nice (especially the Very Large Cameron/Chase one) but I’m pretty satisfied to take things as they come. I think my experience with The Blown Job this year was actually really helpful to me- it was a fairly old WIP, one that I’d put down as a goal to finish this year, and without even pushing myself to do it, I just picked it up and chipped away at it until it was done. It just needed to rest in my folder and in my brain for a while, and when it was ready to be done, I finished it.

6. From my past year of writing, what was… Story Most Underappreciated by the Universe: I think that things mostly got noticed in proportion to how they deserved to be noticed- Woman Borne is long so it got more, Homemakers is actually pretty good so it got props even though it was shorter- but some of my smaller fics sort of sank without a ripple. Part of it is my fault because I’m terrible at self-promo, so they were posted once on tumblr, and maybe on AO3, but I feel awkward trying to be noticed, which means that they weren’t. I’m tempted to say Head, Hands, which was my first Rory/Logan story in a while; or either of my Parker/Hardison attempts, but in the end I think I have to go with Like Gravity, which was my last fic of the year and my Steggy Secret Santa story. I don’t know if it was weird tumblr stuff or if the unevenness really put people off, but I didn’t think it was a bad story and it just seemed to go gently into the fanfic ether.

Most Fun: I think The Job At Hand. Homemakers came out so smoothly and I really liked writing all the showgirls in Stand Together, but there’s just something about the hilarious frustration of trying to keep Steve Rogers under control.

Most Disappointing: Maybe In the Neighbourhood, which was my first Ron/Hermione story. I think the characterization was okay but nothing stellar, the writing wasn’t spectacular, and the situation was a little basic. Overall, it was serviceable but lacked any kind of sparkle.

Actually, I take it back. As Yourself, one of my Lily/James fics. The idea is good and even the individual elements are good. I’m really proud of the title, too: it refers both to the quote “love your neighbor as yourself” and the theme of presenting yourself honestly. But the pacing is all wrong. I rushed it, and it shows.

Most Sexy: Oh good gosh. For years I have been answering these questions and I have never succeeded in this one. I know that there’s a lot of ways to be sexy. I write fluff and angst and everything in between. But my sexy is like “do the characters make physical contact at any point?” I’d say This Bright Future, most likely.

Hardest to Write: Woman Borne is probably the easiest answer, but although it took several months to write and had a LOT of big things tangled in it, it didn’t feel that hard in the scheme of my chapter fic experiences. I struggled with getting through The Closing Distance- I’ve had trouble with Buffy/Angel stuff for several years- but I was really surprised by how hard Like Gravity was. It was the only Steve/Peggy fic I had a particularly hard time writing, which was especially strange considering it wasn’t an extraordinarily complicated AU.

Most Unintentionally Telling: Maybe the fact that I like Homemakers so much and have reread it so many times. Although is it a reveal if my love for fluff is well known and publicized? As is my frustration re: bread-making. And that part was written with full and vocal intention, so...not sure

Choice Lines:

Harry (so normal; James’s dad would have loved that) looks around, pulling on a gray t-shirt. “What’s happening?” he says eyeing the cauldron, his mother, and James eyeing him.

“Your dad had a little incident,” Lily says. She hands Harry a muffin, shrugging when he looks from it to her. “Pre-incident baking.”

“Alright,” Harry says easily. He takes a bite. “‘M going to Ron’s for Quidditch.” He sticks the rest of the muffin in his mouth and leaves the room as Lily pours some of the cooled teal potion into a glass and sets it in front of James, who doesn’t move for a moment.

“Woah. Didn’t mean to step into the morning after.”

“Well you did, and now you’ve got it all over your shoe.”

“That’s fucking bullshit.” Steve considered adding ‘with all due respect, sir,’ but he didn’t think it would have mattered at that point, and he also didn't think it would be honest.

...Peggy Carter is controlled and capable and brilliant, but the only thing that’s stone about her is the strength of her right hook.

Steve thinks of courts martial and the way Peggy's uniform fits her so easily. His chest feels splayed open. “I'd love to come with you,” he says, the words breathing out of him.

He wants to hug her, to hold her against him, calculated and risky and stunning. Instead he finds her hand where it lies in the sand between them and presses it delicately…

...Steve, eyes downcast, gifts Peggy with a drawing- simple charcoal on lovely, thick paper- of what she recognizes with some surprise as her own hands. One is in a fist, the other spread wide like a shield.

She buys a frame for it and hangs it in her office the next day.

“Shut up,” she says, fierce and polite, and swings him around and kisses him. He’s stunned still for only a moment.

He is, in fact, a frankly lovely kisser.

When she pulls away after a few moments, he stands there dazed, and then mumbles something that sounds like, “Seniority.”

“Oh good God,” Peggy says, and kisses him again. When she’s satisfied he’ll be quiet, she says, “Phillips is ancient and crotchety and hasn’t changed his textbook in twenty-five years. You, meanwhile, let them look at naked art and stand up to their parents and are bloody gorgeous. And even if you were useless, you’ll shut up and take it. I’ve earned this.”

“You really have,” he says, and kisses her this time, his hands smiling on her back. And then, long minutes later, “By the way. Who’s the HR/PR Disaster now?” His voice is glancingly smug, which cannot be allowed.

“That was four dollars worth of ingredients,” Steve says dazedly several hours later. He is coated lightly in flour as if he has forgotten to come out of the snow.

Peggy eyes the lumpy dough creature and says, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to shoot it.”

They are two highly capable, mostly rational people. They have wedding rings and work and dinner dates and outings with friends and occasional couple’s espionage. They can cook nearly anything else by this point. There is no reason to be frustrated that they cannot conquer bread.

The next batch comes out of the oven looking perfect. It tastes only and exactly of yeast.

They host Thanksgiving because Bucky’s family wanted Christmas.

There are neat pieces of sushi as appetizers, a huge bowl of excellent mashed potatoes, and three perfect kinds of bread.

The turkey is half raw.

Bucky laughs ‘til he cries.

The girls are leaving first, so Steve stays with them while they pack up, the familiar trappings of the Star Spangled Show disappearing into crates, the familiar faces blurring beneath coats and hats.

The chaperone, Miss Lindon, is staring something fierce at him. (They’d almost driven off a cliff one midnight on a twisty road in California. Everyone else was squeezing hands and praying. Miss Lindon, firm and tidy in tweed, just turned the page of her book with a careful finger.)

He knows that Peggy is ninety-two years old. He knows that she just moved into a new nursing home last week. He knows that she is standing right in front of him, no more than a few years older than when he went into the ice. Dark hair, dark lipstick, dark jumpsuit, and his shield on her back.

Later, watching this Peggy, a shade away from what he knows, he realizes that she reminds him of no one as much as himself, shielding himself from the familiar and the unfamiliar and the memories most of all.

Having someone who understands is a very difficult sort of wonderful.

Natasha is the most off-put by how well Peggy knows them. Her stories have come slowly to Steve, each one a trust-gift. Peggy has her own collection, but for Natasha they are weapons held by someone she does not know.

No one could identify with the loneliness of waking up after the ice like Peggy could, the futile anger of knowing that everyone was gone and it was only him, surviving and surviving and surviving.

The next time Steve sees Thompson, he has fading bruises on either side of his jaw, and actually avoids Steve. As if Steve would hit him if he was just minding his own business.

“-And she said I needed to cut out half my footnotes, even though so much of the good stuff is there, and who doesn’t like extra footnotes? They’re like little knowledge presents!“ Willow finished, turning off the overhead light and enjoying the sound of her slippers shuffling against the carpet. Buffy was still out; she had a midterm the next day and Giles was quizzing her. She held the phone against her shoulder and pulled the covers down.

“Did you check for antennae? She might be a footnote hating alien.” It was the first time Oz had spoken in a while and she could hear the noise of the party the other Dingoes were having, but Willow never worried that he was getting distracted when she talked. The tone he used now was equilibrious as always, but the kind that curved upward a little in her mind and meant he was smiling.

She woke one morning with Steve’s voice, warm and content and loving, full of wonder, still settled over her like a shroud.

There were things that Peggy had not even known she could miss: slicing apples, newspapers, the moon and rain, handshakes, calendars.

There was a tenement sort of grimness to his voice that spoke of gritting teeth through long winters.

He had become less formal in her presence, knees and elbows expanding outward as he sat in a way that made him look somehow smaller, or at least softer.

She gripped at her tea. The all-purpose English remedy, she and Monty used to joke. Apply liberally to anything from gunshot wounds to heartbreak. It didn’t seem to be working.

Peggy reminded herself that she had quite handily survived a world war, and that there was no reason to behave swoonily just because Steve was being very visibly attractive in front of her.

Peggy tried to forget that the world war hadn’t prevented just the same thing the first time around.

“‘‘Twas I who chopped down the cherry tree’ and all that?” It sounded accidentally Shakespearean in her accent despite her wry tone.

Steve grinned in a way that was startlingly unrestrained, making Peggy realize just how much it had all been weighing on him. She hadn’t seen that grin since early 1945, and it was shameful for it to have been hidden so long.

“Fine,” he said, the way he did when things were not fine. It wasn’t that he was lying, but that he hadn’t yet realized that something was wrong.

Steve ran the miles home. The idea of cars felt condensed and awful.

She saw Barton farther down the street, half sitting, half sunbathing on top of one of the fire trucks.

In the bleary dark: “Why have you done so much to help us?”

A pause. “Because I can’t remember a time when I wished someone would help me.”

“Well, Evans, the thing about that man you married- and I love him like a brother and would kill anyone else who said this- is that he’s not very bright and sometimes exists with his head firmly hidden up his arse.”

“Hey, man, respect the skills of others. Maybe I can’t do any of that either, but I laugh in the face of the blue screen of death.”

There’s a feeling in her chest that reminds her of seeing Michael in his uniform for the first time, a ragged beat swallowing her thoughts for just a blank moment, whispering how much it would hurt to lose him.

He tells Peggy this after they’re adjourned for the day. She does not try to build him up or placate him. “They used to bury suspected vampires with stakes in their chests and bricks in their jaws even after they’d died,” she says instead, tilting her chin up at him.

She has the feeling that he’s from the type of family where handshake lessons were given on Monday from 2:30 to 4.

This woman sounds like she could buy and sell him a couple of times over, and he’s not entirely sure if he means literally or metaphorically.

“It’s good. I like it,” and somehow that’s worth paragraphs and paragraphs. It settles around her heart.

But Angel has had a few centuries to get used to how quickly things shift. He has no more lamentations for the eyeblinks that mean a change. Killing a young girl, seeing one on sunlit school steps; these things took seconds and changed everything.

His voice is hoarse and he speaks slowly, but his Russian is perfect, as if the language is something he stored in an attic chest, one he just creaked open to find it pristine.

Because although she has more responsibility than anyone he’s ever known, the weight of lives and lives, she also has her own, and it is such a young one. He wants to be sure that she doesn’t look with regret on these months spent with him, the cliffside love with someone whose life is endlessly futureless.

She’s been missing him all these months, she hasn’t even been tempted, never in all that time, and she’s not totally hideous, so there were some people trying to tempt. But she’s been waiting, it hasn’t even been a question, and he’s apparently been questioning all over the place if he was going to break his word, the last thing he said to her.

She goes Bronzing with the gang. She spends a couple nights hanging and talking with Will, where they dissect Oz’s latest three words, and try once again to figure out Cordelia and Xander, and don’t talk at all about Angel or about how this feels worse than the entire last year because they finally got to choose and they both chose to be apart. She gets a B+ on her English quiz.

Despite herself, Veronica is disappointed. She had wanted the rush from figuring out a puzzle, from outthinking a group of criminals with rap sheets long enough to ride the big roller coasters without a parent. Now she’s facing a woman who’s pulling the criminal equivalent of faking cramps to get out of gym.

#fic roundup #fic stuff #apologies about my hideous self congratulation #and for the WHACKED formatting #should be fixed now but let me know

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