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rosesnink · 2 years ago

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The Dowager’s Tale

Author’s Notes:

Since TCH is nearing its end, I want to start clearing out backstories of canon before continue writing the main story, and I’ve decided to begin with our Lady Grandmother! As you know, PB is the worst at giving depth to characters outside the LIs and like, two or three side characters, and Dominique being our family and not hearing her side of the story, I said “fuck it” and gave her an interesting story of how she lived all of this. She’s a character that you love to hate, to love again and so on. That being said, enjoy!

English is not my first language, so please forgive any typos/ grammar mistakes

If you wish to know more of the TCH world, click here!!

This series for various motives is rated +15

BEWARE, SPOILERS FROM CHAPTER 15 OF THE CURSED HEIRESS!! READER’S DISCRETION IS ADVISED!!

Summary: Dogwager Countess Dominique tells her side of the story

Rating: PG-13

TW: Minor character death(s), childbirth gone wrong, mild violence, adult themes

Word Count: 5.1k words

Reading Time: 10 min aprox

May, 1761. Aster Palace, Cordonia

Dominique Aster looked into the mirror, fully knowing that she’d probably never return home. Turned nineteen three months ago, her father, Damon Aster, had prepared her departure to England to marry well. The Castelserraillan Revolution of 1742 had changed Cordonia forevermore, leading to have their first Constitution in history. Europe had been shocked by them ever since the first queen regnant on her own right, Kenna Rys, had reigned the country for 58 years in the early Middle Ages, where women were considered soulless creatures.

“Remember, daughter,” her mother had told her, “You must not only please your husband and give him heirs, but act in for Cordonia’s sake. Your father will need allies in Parliament. Speak when only called for, do your best to birth a male heir, behave accordingly and soon you could very well lead England’s society. And between you and I,” she whispered in her ear conspirative “if you play your cards well, you shall rule your husband, therefore his decisions. Now, try on this riding dress! You must impress Princess Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz! She may be the king’s wife, and to have her favour is imperative, my dear.”

She did as told and tried on the burgundy dress and tried on several hairstyles inspired in Louis XV’s court (especially Madame Du Barry) and started doing a minimalistic but elegant hairstyle that would compliment her gorgeous golden hair and her bright blue eyes as the Caribbean Sea, like her father said once. They applied make-up to make her look paler than she was, for her castle in the House of Aster home in Galzania, neighbouring Castelserraillan, was quite hot and nearing the sea by a four days’ ride.

After having dolled up, she went down the stairs of Castle Aster, the house that once belonged to Queen Olive the Magnificent, consort of Fabian Rys during the Cordonian Renaissance and the golden age of Cordonia. Now, she wasn’t a descendant of Olive, but her grandson’s second son, who decided to carry on the Aster name after 50 years unused, for Annalisa Aster had married into the Beaumonts and there was no male heir for either of them. Indeed, Henry Aster had a successful marriage into the mid-1600s and had four sons and a daughter. The line continued too today. Their wealth and popularity… not so much. Due to the revolution, her father had made too many foolish risks and they were nearly bankrupt. With a sickly older sister and her drunk brother, it was up to Dominique to bring money to the house and make it get back in track, for it was every Aster’s dream to see themselves on the throne or on its succession line again, though King Fabian III’s fourteen children were certainly a big obstacle.

Her father smiled proudly upon his daughter and kissed her forehead “My dear Dominique. You look splendid. With your beauty, you could marry the king himself.”

She smiled “Thank you, Father. You flatter me unjustly.”

“Oh, don’t be modest, dear! He’s speaking facts!” Her mother cried. “Oh, will you look at the time! We must leave or else the Princess will leave without us, and we do not want that! Off, you go! Girls, come on!” She rushed her two ladies-in-waiting and got into the carriage, where they’d be taken to the same ship as Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.

She looked around the ship and nodded, fitting for a princess within the powerful and feared Holy Roman Empire. Her ladies guided her to the princess’ table, and when she looked at her, she noticed some brown aspects on her skin and foreign features, but she was still beautiful nevertheless. She bowed to her and took a seat beside her. Charlotte tried asking her questions, but Dominique couldn’t understand her language. She then had an idea and asked for paper, ink and a pen. She started to draw the English flag and two rings for marriage, and the princess nodded. She drew on her paper a crown and a man, and two rings as well.

Throughout the journey, they started to teach one another their languages and joking around about the English through drawings and sharing tales. They were yet to understand their respective language, but they didn’t need it to know they now had a friend within the imposing island.

When they announced the ladies that they had reached England, Dominique squeezed Charlotte’s hand and nodded in encouragement, both coming down the ship with their heads high and waving to the crowds. Like her father said, flattery and prejudice sounded the same no matter the language, and many admired the princess’s companion’s beauty. The party that the king sent greeted them and offered to take their bags. Charlotte was with the dukes, meanwhile Dominique was with the rest of the nobles. One of them was quite handsome: dark hair, piercing blue eyes and a strong demeanour, and certainly very tall, above average in Cordonia. He noticed her staring and she quickly looked away, blushing and trying to hold a giggle. The women were sat together again and Dominique confided in her talking drawings about the handsome man she had spotted, and Charlotte joked that she would gladly sit them together. Both women giggled and continued musing how the king would look like.

Finally, after a long wait, the joint coronation came, and Dominique would carry Queen Charlotte’s train per her request, much to other noblewomen’s chagrin. With her head held high despite feeling her body light and her heart racing faster than the horses in Ascot, she did her best to prove to be worthy of such a task. As she watched the coronation, her eyes met the handsome man again, and she smiled at him this time. He gave her a nod and what it seemed like a ghost of a smile and continued watching. Step by step, she told herself.

During dinner, it seems like Charlotte was not teasing, for she was indeed sat beside the handsome man. He finally turned to her and asked “I have seen you several times, yet I do not know your name.”

She gulped nervously the soup and gave him a charming smile “Dominique Aster, sir.” She extended her hand so he’d kiss it, and he obliged.

“Rupert Foredale, at your service, ma’am. May I ask where are you from? You’re clearly not English.”

“I come from Cordonia, sir…?” She bit her lip.

“Viscount Rupert Foredale, future Earl of Edgewater.”

She nodded and decided to gamble, fan in hand ready for action “A man like yourself surely doesn’t lack a wife, with such a title and wealth.”

He chuckled bitterly “Sadly I have no wife waiting for me at home… yet.”

Dominique did her best not to smile and pouted “Shame. I bet many ladies would want to be your wife.”

He arched an eyebrow and asked “Would you be among them, Lady Aster?”

She signalled with her fan that she’d like to get to know him better and replied “Since you asked so nicely…”

He smirked and continued sipping the soup.

1767

Six years later, Dominique was pregnant with her third child, whom she prayed everyday to God that was a boy this time. During these past years, she had married Rupert Foredale in a beautiful ceremony in 1762 and given birth to two daughters: Hope and Philippa. She did love her daughters –Hope resembled her father with her brown hair and green eyes, while Philippa was blonde like her and with the Dowager Countess’ warm brown eyes—but she had promised her husband on their wedding night that she’d give him a son. And perhaps, the sincerity of her words was what had convinced Rupert not to take mistresses during her pregnancy. She did not like the fact that he had been with a mistress while she gave birth to dear Hope, and had thrown him two jars because of it, but they said that the moment she gave him a son were to come, he wouldn’t see any mistress again.

What scared her the most was the fact that one girl from Moorfield had give him a son, and she begged him not to acknowledge him for her reputation’s sake. He did not, much to her relief, but she had to give him a son as soon as possible.

“Attention! Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte of Great Britain!” The herald announced.

She whipped her head back and bowed to her friend, and all hell broke loose with her children going around and giggling. Charlotte took her hands in her own and smiled “Dominique, my dear, how is pregnancy treating you?”

“I am well. Feeling heavier than I should.”

Charlotte laughed “I feel you, dear. One can never have a break, for the husband calls for more spares.”

Dominique made a face “If only I could bear him a son. Look at you, you’ve given him plenty of heirs, meanwhile I cannot seem to conceive a boy!” She pouted.

Charlotte hugged her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder “All in its own time, dear. You will give him a son, I’m sure.”

Dominique tried to smile, but her worries were too big. She feared that if she saw that pesky laundress again, she might kill her with her bare hands for it. She was the opposite of her: lewd, dirty, very vulgar, swore worse than a sailor, very big and poorer than a church mouse. Yet, her husband went to see her of all the respectable staff.

“Give it no more thought, Domy,” Charlotte’s voice woke her out of her trance “she is the other woman and you are the wife and countess. Everybody loves you and respects you, even your husband. She’s just her badly kept dirty secret. In the end, he’ll come back to you, for you will give him an heir, not her. Hear me well, my dear friend, the moment you give him an heir he’ll forget that wench ever existed and will have his love, respect and gratitude for continuing his line and she’ll learn her place. She’s the one who’ll see that, being a laundress, won’t she?” Charlotte winked.

Dominique giggled maliciously “What I’d give to see her face.”

Charlotte smiled “Never forget to remind her her place. She’s the irrelevant mistress, the consolation prize, who will hardly be remembered, you shall appear on history books as the legitimate, true wife.”

Dominique raised her head high “You’re right, Lottie. I won’t be Catherine of Aragon. I won’t allow a little girl to take what I earned. His heir and love will be mine. And if he doesn’t love me, he’ll have to respect and thank me.”

In the end, she did not give birth to a boy, but another girl. His exact reaction was “Oh, bloody hell, it’s a girl and has extremely blonde hair.” Dominique, however, adored her quiet and easy-going nature… for a baby. She loved her daughter, and knew that she had found her soulmate. She was the one who looked the most like her, and was her most beloved and spoiled daughter. She declared that a son would be Rupert’s, but a daughter was all hers. At least she wouldn’t corrupt her like he’d do to that poor boy, whoever he was. Her daughters were all hers.

But the problem was the fact that he kept seeing that laundress. And she hated how haughty and arrogant she had become because of him. She wanted to badly to be rid of her, but her husband would oppose. She wanted to believe that he wouldn’t raise his hand at her, but the growing irritation of the birth of daughters and not sons wasn’t helping her case.

1768

When she gave birth to their fourth daughter, he was done and wanted to file for divorce and remarry a young debutante who was clearly trying to lure him… and that he was allowing. Upon reading their letters, she stormed through the halls up to the office, where she threw him the stack and flipped the desk. His eyes went from shocked to angry. He got up “Dominique!” He crossed the room and faced her, nose to nose “How dare you! Before you, you have the Earl of Edgewater!”

“And before you, you have me! Dominique. The sole reason you even have descendance!”

He scoffed “You call an army of useless girls descendance?”

“And pray, how else am I to give you a son if you refuse to touch me!”

He mumbled “For Christ’s sake, Dominique,” he signalled the staff to get out and closed the door behind him, fuming at her “Know your place! Or have you forgotten who am I?”

“You, too, have forgotten who am I.” He was about to speak when she stomped her feet and grabbed his cravat “No! This is my time to speak, and you will listen!” At his silence, she raised her head “Good. First of all, I am a descendant of Queen Olive the Magnificent of Cordonia. I am the only living daughter of the Duke of Aster, and above all, I am your wife! Fornicate whoever you want, but never forget that I have support at court. The Queen’s to be exact! And don’t forget how many favours the king has given you because of me. I want you in our bedchambers tonight. One last chance. If I birth another girl, I will leave for Cordonia, but keep dreaming about divorce. You will remarry when I’m dead.” She finished, their faces so close that, if she swivelled her face right, they could kiss.

She instead held her head high and left, not before curtsying to him and leaving the estate for a few hours.

On the evening of 1770, Edgewater finally sighed in relief when Countess Dominique gave birth to a healthy boy who already resembled his father very much. It had been thirty hours of pure exhaustion and pain, but it was all worthy. The earl was overjoyed, and soon showered his wife with expensive jewellery, beautiful dresses to match the queen’s elegance, and of course, the Edgewater tiara that once belonged to the late dowager.

And my, what a magnificent first fifteen years they spent, united as ever, and how the servants were gladdened that the succession war was over. She even was left on the charge of the several households Edgewater had, starting with kicking out that laundress in shame as she watched from upstairs, Edgewater jewels in her head and with the smirk of victory.

The moment baby Vincent was born, the war was over and they became they power-couple they had always been destined to be. They hosted the most splendid soirees together, attended Ascot together, hosted the best balls, and always outshone everyone at the opera and were the focus of the dinner parties.

That, with the fact that Hope was becoming a woman, and soon began her true education. At the age of twelve, she was starting her classes of becoming a lady and a wife. The sooner they began, the better. Her green eyes shone as she listened carefully to her mother, and her sisters listened—well, all but Catherine, who was entertained with her dolls.

Soon, when the decade of the 1780s was at its peak, the Foredale women had grown into beautiful women and many demanded their hands in marriage. In 1780, Hope was a woman of 17 who was betrothed to the Marquis Vidaud, and soon at her 18th birthday, she was shipped to meet her betrothed. The family was overjoyed to hear that just a month later, she was expecting her first child. And eleven more would follow.

The family was appalled when they heard that Philippa didn’t have any intention to become a wife or a nun for the matter. They fought and Rupert disowned her, sending her with his nephew to Kent, where her grandmother over-spoiled her and ended up being a tutor for a girls’ school. From that day forth, Rupert never once mentioned Philippa.

His pride was recovered once on Eloise’s 19th birthday she was betrothed to a Russian royal duke called Nikolai, whom they got an excellent deal and her dowry was the most generous, and her dress, the most beautiful and elaborate in over a hundred years. It was no secret at this point that Eloise was the apple of Dominique’s eye. Sadly, a year later, a letter came in: Eloise had died giving birth to her only child, Olga. Many could hear Dominique’s wails of pain over the loss of her most beloved child, piercing everyone’s hearts. The earl was truly hurt, for he always defined Eloise as ‘the most precious and innocent flower’ and was always protective of his daughter, who was often frail and shy. Only the yearly letters of Hope announcing a new grandchild came close to joy.

Finally, when Catherine was of age, she wanted to marry for love rather than political gain, and this small ‘rebellion’ soon led to an argument that would cost Dominique too much: the loss of her daughter.

“God, how can you take his side?! And don’t say that it’s because he’s your husband, I’m your damn child! Can’t I have one thing for myself?!”

“We are women in a man-led world.”

She scoffed “That’s your excuse? My god, I thought you more intelligent and erudite. I see it now. You are his goddamned puppet, like everyone else!”

She sighed “I don’t see why you shouldn’t marry the young Duke Richards! He’s rich, from the royal family, handsome, wealthy—,”

“He is a creep!” She cried “He’s always laughing at the fact that I’m a short woman, that he can do with me as he likes and… and I hate him! I’m afraid of him, even!”

“Whatever could he do to you?” She asked, not understanding her for once.

“More like what he wouldn’t do to me!” She shouted, so hard that the estate just stopped. She took a deep breath and looked at her mother “One day, that man will hurt someone you love just because, and you’ll realize too little too late that I was right and made the right decision not to tie him to us.”

After more tense arguments, in the midst of the night of 1785, she left for Scotland and never returned. She had to find out via Bishop Monroe that she had married a Scottish lord called Tadgh Fitzgibbons and was expecting her first child. Of course, she never told her husband. That was one secret she’d take to her grave.

Ten years later

Dominique waited patiently at the door, the rage inside her growing with every step her son took, reaching her own drawing room. When he entered the room, so overjoyed he didn’t even greet her properly, she lost it. Without even thinking it, she slapped him across the face, shocking him. His blue eyes, the same as Rupert, as well as his curly hair looked at her in shock. Dominique had never liked violence. She had always argued with her husband that it wasn’t the answer and that there were wiser ways to discipline a child. But this time, Vincent had gone too far.

“Mother…?”

“How could you? How dare you,” she spit “After everything that I did. Every single thing I sacrificed. Everything I had to give up, you go and blow my work for a mere singer that isn’t even that good!”

He frowned “Mary is no mere singer, she is my wife, and she’s actually—,”

“Silence! I will not hear it! Don’t you know what I did for you to have a better future? Do you think I made those matches for your sisters out of pleasure? Do you think that I enjoyed watching my daughters leave? No! I didn’t! All I did, was for you, so you could be protected and safe!” She took a deep breath and shook her head “For eight years, I fought tooth and nail against everyone in my own home so you’d be born a boy. I neglected eight years to your poor sisters so you could exist. I gave up my youth and dreams and ambitions to keep you alive and shape you into the man of the moment, the greatest earl to ever exist, and this is how you pay me!” She pointed her finger at him “I spent my dowry that I so carefully collected in my tender years so I could pay your scholarship to Eton. I paid some of the best teachers in the continent to come and teach you everything they could. I fought your father for months so he’d let you go to King’s College. I gave you my all, and you dare laugh at my face.”

“Mother, I—,”

“Wasn’t Marquess Georgia enough for you? Beautiful, accomplished, sweet, from a respectable background, and rich enough to fill our accounts for generations to come!”

“She was lovely… but she wasn’t Mary.”

“Insolent boy! Quit talking about her now!” She took a deep breath “Here’s what you’ll do. You’ll join one prince of your choice to fight against Napoleon, and when you’re back, you’ll marry Henrietta Marlcaster, or I will drag you there by the ear myself. And I am not asking.”

He sighed, fully knowing this was a lost battle “…Yes, Mother.”

He turned his back and started to leave when she muttered loud enough to hear “To think that I lost my precious Eloise for this.”

He slammed the door behind him, and didn’t see him until he returned a year later. He had proved heroic and disciplined, and the prince had given him a naval medal. He also married Henrietta, and in a very early 1798, Harrison ‘Harry’ Foredale was born.

But soon, her dear Rupert’s health became to decline concerningly fast. He had bouts of dementia like the king, and nothing seemed to cure him. Soon, he had become so unhinged, he had to be restrained to the basement. On the evening of 1799, he died in pain, yelling about the lost heiress and to never allow her to come. He had died a madman.

Dominique was now Dowager Countess, and Henrietta, much to her chagrin, was now the countess. With her veil on, she carried yet another loss. First, her dear Papa, then her beloved sister who had given in to her illness, and after that, her mother. By 1801, her brother’s gambles had made House Aster go extinct, for he had contracted syphilis with one of his various mistresses and now could no longer have children. Her past, her family, her favourite daughter, her youngest daughter and now her husband were all gone now. She had Hope abroad and her least favourite child with her. This couldn’t get any worse… until the regretful hunt of 1815.

That summer, everyone could hear Countess Henrietta’s wails of pain, for she had lost her boy. Harry was dead, all for a boar who had struck him while hunting. Vincent had been with her, but she was inconsolable. Dominique knew well that she was the only one capacitated to reassure her. She had lost her dear Eloise all those years ago. If someone understood her pain, that was her.

She sat beside her, and placed a reassuring hand on her back “I know what you’re feeling now, you know. I had to bury my beloved Eloise twenty-eight years ago. I felt like I was about to die. I wanted to die.”

“What kept you standing, then?” She asked.

“My other children. My husband. But above all? My grandchildren, and the fact that telling them all about their mother someday and pass her legacy through them would be making sure that they wouldn’t be forgotten. You see, if nobody else names your child when they’re dead, who will then? Live, Henrietta. For Harry. For Edmund. For you. Besides, I don’t think Harry would’ve liked to see his ever-strong mother defeated by his death. Be strong. For him.”

She nodded before crying on her shoulder, like a mother would console her daughter. Now, Dominique never saw her as such, but she would make an exception. For today. For her grandson, who was very much what her Rupert would’ve been if he had been kinder and wiser.

May, 1816

Dominique walked all the way from Edgewater to the parish. She wanted to be left alone, and what’s more, to talk to Bishop Monroe without being eavesdropped on. She sat down on his confession booth and greeted him “What ails you, Dominique?”

“What does not ail me, bishop? I have lost everything. My family. My homeland. My husband. Three of my children. My two living grandchildren. My friends. Tell me, bishop, why is God so cruel to me? Have I not been his most devoted servant? Have I not been a devoted mother, a loving wife, a dedicated grandmother, a good friend? Is that why God has taken my loved ones from me?”

The bishop’s features darkened “Some things are out of our reach, my daughter. We cannot save everybody. And you know what they say about the young being loved by the gods in Ancient Greece.”

Dominique seethed “Well, those gods crossed a line taking everybody from me for themselves.”

He placed a hand on hers “There, daughter. I understand your anger, but Edgewater needs you to be strong and—,”

“I have been strong, Reginald! All my life, I did as they asked. I abandoned my beloved country to save my home and family. Then, I lost it. I lost my daughters. Then, my husband. Then, my eldest grandsons to Napoleon. Then, I lost my youngest grandson and heir. On top of that, I lost in a span of weeks my only son and granddaughter.” She closed her eyes, tears rolling down “Look where being dutiful has taken me. Look where it took my daughter Eloise. Poor Lydia Sinclaire. Or my poor Joanna. Duty is the death of women. That is crystal clear to me now. And our fathers and husbands are responsible for it, yet are the ones who are never blamed.”

“Dominique—,”

“Thank you, bishop.”

She left the church and finally broken down in tears, all her loved ones’ faces passing through her mind, all of them now dead. Her sister Astoria, her brother Malcolm, Eloise, Catherine, Rupert, Philippe, Sebastian, Benedict, Harry, Vincent, Joanna… all dead. Gone. Her only consolation was her grandson by Hope, John, and Eloise’s daughter, Olga, who had come to accompany her in her grief. How she wished Catherine was here. She’d gladly tell her that she was right, about everything. Her husband, the duke, herself even. Because of his ambition and entitlement, she had lost a daughter and a granddaughter. She wanted to go where he was and tear out his heart for it. She wanted him dead; she wanted him to pay for it.

She wiped her tears and went back to the estate, where she laid on her bed what it felt like hours. Then, a soft knock woke her. She rubbed her eyes and opened the door to see her most beloved granddaughter Olga. She had grown into a woman of nine and twenty, with jet black hair and bright, sweet blue eyes, like her sweet Eloise. She bowed to the elder woman and Dominique embraced her “Olga, my dear granddaughter. How I’ve longed to see you. My, and what a woman you’ve become! My, every day you look more like your lady mother. Do you know who she was?”

“Yes, Lady Grandmother.”

She smiled widely “Good. Come, I shall take you to her room.”

On their way there, they stumbled upon her other living eldest grandson, John Vidaud. They curtsied and greeted one another “Lady Grandmother. You haven’t aged a day.”

Dominique smiled “Oh, stop it, you flatterer! We were going to show your cousin her mother’s room. Would you like to see your own as well?”

He extended both arms and smiled “Please.”

My name is Dominique Adelia Foredale, formerly Aster. I was born on the ninth of February, 1744, same year as Queen Charlotte of Great Britain and Mecklenburg-Strelitz, whom I met on our ship on our way to look for a destiny in England.

I was the wife of Earl Rupert Foredale of Edgewater for thirty-seven years. I was the mother of Hope Vidaud, formerly Foredale, and the grandmother of her twelve children: Philippe, Benedict, Sebastian, John, Emma, Clara, Amelie, Olive, Héléne, Fleur, Elisabeth and Vienna; Philippa Foredale, my unmarried and rebellious daughter who got away safely from this family; Eloise Nikolaevna, formerly Foredale, as well as the grandmother of her only child, Olga; Catherine, and her eight children, whose names is the only thing I know about: Jamie, Clodagh, Alexander, Grace, Hadrian, Maddalena, Ronald and Aoife; and Vincent Rupert Foredale, as well as the grandmother of his three children: Edmund, Joanna and Harry, which the two youngest are now dead.

I came here in 1761 to save House Aster of Cordonia from extinction with an advantageous marriage, though it did little to save it, for in 1789 it was declared extinct due to my poor brother’s bad decisions, which drove him to take his own life out of shame. My family eventually died. Then, my poor Eloise followed due to childbirth. Then, my dear, free-spirited Catherine drifted apart as well. Rupert also followed in 1799, dying the death of a madman due to circumstances above my knowledge. When I thought no one else could leave, my grandson Harry died due to a hunt gone wrong. In April, in a span of nearly a week, my only son Vincent died of yellow fever and my granddaughter Joanna was murdered by Duke Tristan Richards of Karlington, making my dear Catherine’s predictions true.

I am Dominique, the woman who was blinded by duty and still tied to a world now gone in England. I lost everything to duty. I was a dutiful and obedient daughter, a loving wife, a dedicated mother, a devoted grandmother. I am Dominique, the woman who put duty above everything, the woman who, due to her blindness towards duty, was eventually taken away by her loved ones.

Maybe I always knew that one day, my old-fashioned ideology would get me killed. But I never guessed that such an obsession would kill my loved ones. I did what I was told, I fulfilled my duty. But now I wonder, did I fulfil it? Or did it destroy me?

I am Dominique, the woman who outlived her duty, and this is my tale.

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quillandink333 · 2 years ago

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Follow the Sun

Kazuma Asougi × Original Character

SPOILERS FOR THE GREAT ACE ATTORNEY CHRONICLES ~ Read ahead at your own risk!

Rating: T

Word Count: 4k

WARNINGS: depression, amnesia, psychosis, mild swearing, insufficient self-care

Summary: The botanist gets a bit too settled into her new status quo, and the amnesiac finds himself in an unexpected yet strangely familiar position.

Notes: Special thanks to @angeaxil and @pretxel for letting me include their OCs Genevieve and Shiryen in this series! It’s both an honour and a pleasure to be able to work with these lovely girlies~

Masterlist

After four and a half years away from home, her return to London didn’t feel nearly as much like the homecoming it ought to have done. Even now, when the summer season was at its peak, the streets were far colder and foggier than she remembered.

When Cecelia arrived at the dormitory she’d resided in during the period of her academic career prior to studying in Japan, she was surprised to find everything just the way she’d left it. Not only that, but her roommate, one Shiryen Kang, who’d travelled with her as part of the same exchange programme in her own academic pursuits in the field of herbalism, was still living there in their dormitory, waiting for the day her long lost peer would return home. During their time abroad, Shiryen had come to be like the little sister she’d always wanted but never had. The look on her face the moment she saw Cecelia at their door, having had no way of knowing whether she would ever see her again until then, should have been enough to melt her heart.

Finally, she was able to conclude her scholarship just as intended, albeit a few months late. Shiryen had been holding onto and taking good care of all the hard-earned fruits of Cecelia’s forty long months of labour as well as the rest of her belongings since they’d been left behind on their boat home from Japan all those days and nights ago, and the university staff, though she didn’t deserve it, had all shown her tremendous amounts of kindness and understanding.

From that point, she and her dear friend at last went their separate ways and onward to forge a path for their respective futures. At least, such was the intent. Cecelia was lucky enough to come across a humble yet comfortable third-floor suite (which was really more of an attic) within walking distance of the marketplace at Covent Garden. The landlord, a kindly old man who ran a shoe shop on the ground floor of the building, lived on the floor below hers. The place was decent enough, and she was grateful that she could manage to afford living there all on her lonesome.

But even with all the blessings bestowed upon her, she was still plagued with unhappiness. And for this, she couldn’t help but feel guilty as well.

What reason did she have to be so deep in melancholy in spite of such hopeful circumstances? She’d had so many ambitions for what she’d do following the end of her studies, but somehow none of them seemed within reach anymore. She felt empty. Devoid of all the empowerment and drive she’d once had at the start of her journey. And her journey wasn’t over yet. The exchange programme had been nothing more than a precursor to the tasks ahead: the promise to her mother that she had yet to fulfil. Cecelia wanted desperately to see her mother again, as she wrote in a letter to her, but until she made good on her word, for her to show her face in the home she’d grown up in would be unthinkable.

Yet despite this ruthless driving force boring into her at every hour of the day, she was petrified. Every time the face of the strange, amnesia-ridden young man she’d met overseas who had accompanied her all the way home entered her thoughts, the hollowness she felt in the place where hope should have been was filled in by an uncanny bitterness that she couldn’t escape, which only weighed on her heavier when the thoughts progressed to the way he had left the SS Vitesse without a single word to her in parting. All those daydreams she’d played out in her head during the long hours of ship maintenance and cargo inspections—of the two of them together in London after they’d finally arrived, and of him by her side as she would pursue her dreams all the way to the finish line—in the end, the one chance to live them out with him that she would ever have had simply disintegrated before her eyes. She would never have another chance to fully convey to him how he’d made her feel. He was practically nothing more than a memory. And so was she to him, at most.

Like this, the days went by, and by, and by. Nothing brought her fulfilment like it used to. Every meal, not excluding her favourites, was bland and difficult to swallow. She still needed to pay back that smith in France for that beautiful piece of metal she’d worked so hard on, but with what money? The last time she’d felt this crushing misery of complete and utter uselessness had been the months following the passing of the one whose dreams she’d since resolved to carry.

As days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, Cecelia was going out less and less often, until it came to her accepting just about anything as an excuse to stay shut up inside the confines of her room, clinging to some rubbish magazine or another. Anything to keep her mind from straying toward thoughts of him. She hadn’t the first idea where he’d gone to, nor any means of knowing whether he was faring well or poorly (though, having seen the signs, frankly there wasn’t much question about that). What business did she even have with him anyway? She didn’t even know his name, for pity’s sake. Dwelling on it any further was pointless. But then again, so was everything else, it seemed.

Though his evidently figmental companion kept assuring him time and time again that this was the correct path to be on, the voice rarely if ever offered him insights any less vague or more helpful than just that.

Since his audience, so to speak, with Lord Stronghart at the Supreme Court the day of his arrival, he’d realised something quite significant about himself; namely that he possessed a wealth of knowledge on the subject of British law. Of all things. When and where could he have acquired such a deeply ingrained understanding of such concepts? Had it been there all along and he simply hadn’t had the chance to make use of it until now? If Cecelia-san’s deductions on the day they’d first met were to be acknowledged, his best guess was that this had been his chosen field of study as a university student in Japan back in the day. That woman could be so clever when she wanted to be. Sometimes he worried whether he’d not been giving her the credit she deserved.

The voice cleared its intangible throat. “You’re getting off-track again. Focus.”

The apprentice prosecutor looked down through the eyes of his mask to see his quill stagnant in his hand, bleeding an unsightly blot of black ink into the paper he was writing his report on. He hung his head. Talking back to this estranged part of himself was pointless, as he had come to accept. All it would ever allow him to focus on for longer than a minute at a time now would be one of two things. One was the tasks given to him either by the Lord Chief Justice himself or by the prosecutor who’d taken him on as a pupil as ordered by Lord Stronghart. And the other was the aforementioned prosecutor himself.

‘Barok van Zieks.’ That name had been burning at the backs of his eyes ever since he’d first seen it written. Though his mentor certainly stood out from the average Londoner in more ways than one, he shared as much of a potential connection with him as any of them did, as far as he knew. Regardless, the voice insisted otherwise. Constantly it pressed, demanded, pleaded with him to remember. “Remember what?” he would ask, only to be ignored and for it to continue on with its oppressive nagging just the same.

No matter how hard he strived to remember his past with each passing day, the fear only grew that his affliction would come to swallow up the new memories he’d made along the way to where he found himself now. Cecelia-san was the one person he still had memory of who he’d formed any sort of close bond with in all his life. Some days, her radiant smile had been the only thing keeping him going. Nothing was more terrifying than the possibility that, one day, her face would fall into the realm of obscurity where all the rest lay.

But of course, that wasn’t important, was it? He just had to trust in the voice and keep his focus. Though his own objective was still shrouded in mystery, all he could do was have faith that he would reach it eventually. Focus. Focus…

His thoughts were once again interrupted by a calm knocking from the other side of the office door. This was followed by a woman’s voice. “Barok?”

“Come in.”

The apprentice didn’t turn away from his desk as the visitor entered and closed the door behind her. “I’ve made you two some cucumber sandwiches.”

“Oh, Genevieve,” sighed Van Zieks. “How many times must I remind you that you are no maid?”

“You needn’t remind me so at all. I know I’m not. Taking care of you is something I look forward to doing every day. It’s never a bother.” Then her footsteps traversed toward the apprentice’s side of the room, and a silver platter was placed down beside his unfinished report. “Here you are, dear.”

He regarded the little triangular slices of crustless bread containing what he assumed were cucumbers and some sort of colourless condiment slathered in between. He picked up a sandwich, then met the expectant gaze of the lady standing over him.

“It’s cream cheese. Have you never had cream cheese before?”

Since she’d been so kind as to go out of her way to prepare food for him as well as his mentor, he took a bite out of one of the corners. It wasn’t bad by any means. In fact, it didn’t taste like much of anything. ‘Cold’ was the only way he could think to describe it.

He took a second bite, and Miss Bellerose, as she was called, smiled, kissed the prosecutor behind him goodbye, and went on her merry way.

“Well…that’s the long and short of it, I suppose.”

Cecelia peered into the murky depths of her cold herbal tea, cupping the vessel containing it between both hands.

“I see.” Her houseguest, the one seated across from her, had her arms folded and eyes at half mast. “You’ve been through a great ordeal, it seems.” Shiryen, the other guest, meanwhile sat between the two at the hostess’ cheap, lacklustre tea table, listening quietly and attentively whilst she relayed to them her tale. “I wish I could help you find him,” continued the first guest, “but if you don’t know his name and the last time you saw him was in Dover, then…I’m afraid I don’t know what to suggest.”

With tremendous effort, Cecelia fought the tightness in her throat with a clumsy swallow.

“I’m so sorry, dear—”

“No, it’s alright.” She took a breath to collect herself, then attempted a smile. “It’s probably for the best that I leave him be, after all.”

“Oh, sunflower…” There was the deepest, most heartfelt sympathy in her manner, but no indication of disagreement.

“For what it’s worth,” Shiryen started, “I think you’ve done the best thing you could have done. Leaving him with something to remember you by, I mean. Though, I certainly wouldn’t have thought to commission a sword as a parting gift to someone like that.” She gave a sideways smile, putting a bashful blush on her friend’s face.

“I do understand your inclination to cage yourself indoors and keep your distance from others now after everything that’s happened,” said the other. “Truly I do.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it, Miss Bellerose.” This was in fact Cecelia’s first meeting with her old friend Genevieve since her return to England. She’d meant to thank the woman for all the letters she’d sent to her in Japan over the course of her study abroad and to apologise for making her worry by failing to stay in touch with her since its conclusion, but…

“But Cece, you can’t go on living like this,” Shiryen butted in. “Look around you.”

Her so-called ‘sitting room’ was barren, at best, much like the rest of her suite. Her kitchen cupboards were nearly bare, save for some stale bread and a small collection of more or less empty jam jars. She hadn’t been to the market in days. Genevieve had brought the tea over herself, having asked permission by telegram for her to drop in for a long overdue visit along with Cecelia’s fellow former exchange student. She hadn’t had a clue how nor when her two friends had come to know one and other, but she had given her consent, despite not having much to offer so as to make them feel welcome.

Shiryen reached out her hand, resting it atop Cecelia’s. “I know you, nē-san.”

“We both know you.”

“Exactly. We know that you need to be outside, smelling the flowers and getting your hands dirty. This,” she gestured to all sides of the barely furnished, cobweb-covered room, “is no good for you. Surely you realise that.”

A depressive silence moved in, somehow turning the place even drearier than it already was.

“Here’s an idea.” Miss Bellerose rose to her feet. “What say the three of us take next Saturday to attend the Great Exhibition together?”

At this proposal, Shiryen straightened up in her seat and clasped her hands together, giving Cecelia a hopeful glance.

“I know none of us would much care to call ourselves ‘inventors,’” continued the chemistry specialist among them, “but there are supposed to be loads of other exciting things to see and do.”

“Oh! Maybe we could all go for a ride on one of those…” Shiryen stopped short, her zealous look going sour. “Oh, what do they call those blasted things? The big, tall, spinning structures with little carriages hanging off the rims…”

“Ferris wheels?” offered Genevieve.

“Yes!”

Her warm eyes brightened. “I think that’s a splendid idea. Ooh, I’d also love to try flying in a hot air balloon, given that we can secure a decent spot in line for a ride.”

“Yes, yes!” Shiryen’s eyes now glinted behind her too large spectacles. “I’m certain we could. We just need to get there before anyone else does.”

Both heads turned in the direction of their hostess as Genevieve kindly asked, “What do you think, Miss Cecelia?”

For the week leading up to it, having the day at the Great Exhibition to look forward to had been a much needed source of motivation to get her up and performing the necessary tasks for one’s survival as a human being residing in an attic in the middle of one of London’s bustling shopping districts. It was the bare minimum, but an improvement nonetheless. Her cupboards were stocked and her linens were washed. Of course, she couldn’t have managed much of this without the vehement support of her friends Shiryen and Genevieve.

The agreed-upon Saturday was no different. It was at the arse crack of dawn—barely past six o’clock—when there came a thunk from her bedroom window. After another thunk or two just like it, she awoke and pried the window open, poking her head out to see none other than the two of them down below. Shiryen was hopping in place on one foot and struggling to get her shoe back on while Genevieve called up to her, telling her there wasn’t a moment to waste.

So Cecelia hurriedly dusted off the best day dress and hat she could find amongst the crates and piles of her belongings (most of which were still packed from when she’d moved in), then with bleary eyes clumped her way down the stairs to street level before being whisked away to catch the next omnibus to Hyde Park.

“Please don’t misunderstand when I say this, Ms. Bellerose; I’m ever so grateful for the tickets and for everything you’ve done for me,” mumbled Cecelia, having arrived at their destination roughly an hour later.

“It’s my pleasure, petal,” she interrupted, paying the balloon proprietor for the three of them. “What was it you were going to say?”

“Oh, it’s—it’s nothing.” Genevieve cocked her head at her as Shiryen boarded the fire-powered flying contraption. Cecelia floundered. “Well…wasn’t getting here before the park even opened a bit, erh…overboard?”

“Oh, shut up.” Shiryen was already leaning over the edge of the basket, anxiously waiting for takeoff.

“Whilst I can’t say I approve of that tone,” gently admonished Genevieve as she herself came aboard, “I can’t say she’s entirely wrong, either. This experience will be well worth it, I’m sure.”

“I heard someone behind us saying there was something like a three-hour queue for this yesterday,” Shiryen added, still faced away from the other two, but now with hints of a smile set into the corners of her lips, “which means it must be worth the wait.”

“Exactly! So cheer up, won’t you?” Genevieve held her right hand out to her while steadying herself on one of the four hefty cords attaching the big rubber dome to the basket with her left. “Today is your day, after all.”

Cecelia took her hand, helpless to resist her friend’s infectious smile. “Okay.”

But as she boarded, the basket tilted to the side the two of them were now standing on.

She cried out and wobbled to the opposite corner as fast as she could, covering her eyes. “Gracious, are you alright?” asked Genevieve, placing the hand she’d helped her on board with on her shoulder as Shiryen turned her head.

Cecelia evicted the thought of how strikingly similar this felt to sailing in the middle of a storm surge from her mind. “I will be… Just need a moment.”

Her stomach did a flip when the proprietor announced the start of their skyward climb. But once both she and the carriage had found their bearings, she opened her eyes and was met with the magnificent Crystal Tower in front of them, the reflections in the glass migrating across every facet as the balloon rose up, up, up. The higher they went, the brighter the view became all around. The next thing she knew, they were soaring high above the entire Great Exhibition, including the very top of the Tower. A flock of pigeons flew by down below, and Shiryen snapped a rather precarious shot of them with Genevieve’s camera.

Turning her gaze to the east, Cecelia’s eyes were overwhelmed by the sight of the rising sun as it burned through the overcast and painted the horizon with brilliant red and yellow hues. The scene filled her up to the brim with an incredible feeling of longing for some unknown and unattainable thing, and yet, even when the dry air and blinding light combined continued to bring forth steady streams of tears from her eyes, she couldn’t find it within herself to look away.

But alas, this bittersweet moment could not last forever, lest she be doomed to a fate similar to that of the great Galileo. Sooner than expected, they’d begun their descent back to solid ground, where a sprawling line of people had quickly accumulated.

From then on, she did her absolute best to enjoy the rest of her day at the Exhibition. The first hour or so was a bit rocky as she was having some trouble adjusting to the throngs after being shut up in the attic for the past three odd months. Everywhere she looked, she kept seeing his face and hearing his voice, no thanks to the cruel jokes her own mind seemed to be playing on her. Once the three of them had stopped for some good old-fashioned fried street food, though, things were much better.

“That ‘rollercoaster’ was quite something, wasn’t it?” chirped Genevieve.

“Oh, I loved it!” Cecelia said. “I really think we should go for another ride before we leave.”

Just then, a figure in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Her heart clenched. Their whole body concealed by a dark cloak, the stranger didn’t even resemble him in the slightest, save for maybe in height. And posture. She shook it off, but kept them in her line of sight.

“Me too. For a minute there, I felt like I was going to lose my chips,” joked Shiryen, “but it turned out to be loads of fun.” The other two laughed and bobbed their heads in agreement. “What’s next on our list, Gen?”

Said gentlewoman referred to her notes on the available attractions. “Well, we could try having a peep at an exhibit or two.”

“We could,” nodded Shiryen while the cloaked figure slowly passed them by, barely even visible through the crowd.

“Or, we could carry on this way and see what they have out at that souvenir stand,” said Genevieve. “We should do that sooner rather than later if it’s something we’re all interested in.”

“Souvenirs, yes! Having something to remind us of today is an absolute must, don’t you think, Cece?”

“I—”

A cluster of blue and white petals gleamed at her through the bodies with the reflection of the sun, derailing the rest of her sentence.

It really was him. It couldn’t be, and yet, it had to.

When the familiar hilt disappeared a second later, a single word materialised in her mind like a flash of lightning. Its force cracked her voice.

“Anata…!”

He halted, thrown into turmoil like nothing he’d ever experienced the instant he heard her call. The surrounding crowd seemed to vanish within the blink of an eye, if but for a fraction of a second. When he turned, she was there, standing before him and struggling to catch her breath, not more than an arm’s length away. She hardly looked any different from when he’d last seen her, but she was too vivid for just another illusion. He wanted to reach out and touch her to make certain she was real, but what if she wasn’t? Or worse, she was? Then he would surely never want to let go. She wasn’t safe here. Not with him. Not like this. Not while he was armed, for God’s sake. He kept trying to settle on one emotion, but the shrieking continued. It destroyed him, his every train of thought being violently torn from the rails. “She’s here to sabotage your mission, you cretin!” It made his ears ring and his head throb with pain. “What are you waiting for? Leave her, now!”

The voice of the nobleman looming behind him cut through the deafening silence like a blade through canvas. “Apprentice,” he calmly addressed, “are you and this gentlewoman acquainted?”

Some of the tension in the masked man’s frown let up, only to then shift into his jaw. After a long moment’s pause, he answered the question with a wordless shake of his lowered head.

“But, it’s me, Cecelia! Don’t you remember?” The two men turned and vanished without a single word to her between the two of them. “Wait, don’t leave! Please!” She tried to pursue them, but the crowd was impenetrable. “Come back…!” she cried. “Please…”

“Barok! Wait!” Her two friends caught up to her moments later with Genevieve in the lead. She and Shiryen barely caught a glimpse of the stranger’s pale face covering before he turned, but it was no use.

“He’s gone,” said Cecelia, frozen where she stood. “Again.”

She fought the urge to crumble to her knees right then and there, but couldn’t contain the tears once Shiryen had wrapped her arms around her from behind. She caved, turning about and weeping openly into her ‘imōto’s shoulder. “There, there,” she soothed, using the same tone of voice her ‘nē-san’ would have used with her on homesick nights during their shared time abroad.

She directed a look at Genevieve—an unspoken request—which she returned, saying to their dear friend, “You’ll see him again soon, sunflower,” and placing her own arms around her wilting form from behind. “I promise you.”

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yahoeyoe · 2 years ago

Text

In Another Time, Maybe // TUA FanFic

CHAPTER ONE : Best Rest in 59 years

placed three months after the events of S3

read at own risk of spoilers

Mentions; alcohol, mild drug usage, swearing, family bonding and probably snogging.

Klaus / Ben

Luther x Sloane

Diego x Lila

Viktor and Five (friendship)

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Ayo old man, time to wake up," Viktor hovered over Five's now lanky body.

It all happened so fast, for Viktor as well as Five. Ever since they flipped the switch to reset the universe, the once 13-58-year-old-man has been growing at an exponential rate. It's been only three months and Five has finished growing; officially done with puberty. Not the worst month of his life, but having your nethers not know which way to point ever was getting pretty tiresome.

"I'm fucking up, I swear," Five said. His voice drawled as he drooled sleep spit onto his pillow. Hurridly he wiped at his mouth using the sleeve of his pyjamas, an icky feeling crossed his mind when he smelt it.

"Jesus Christ."

Viktor smirked, a not-so-quiet chuckle leaving his lips.

"Maybe next time don't drink everything someone gives you," He said. Viktor pulled back Five's blanket in a last-ditch effort to get him out of bed.

Five whined, then winced, and whined again. The nasty banging in his head started up again from the night just gone. It thumped so loud he swore it sounded like lighting thrumming within his ears.

He chucked his legs to the side, sitting up in bed, a first step to getting to the nearest pain relief. Not much could sway Five, he's had numerous long nights and drunken affairs before yet this one still felt different. He didn't know if it was because of the way his body was growing or if someone had dropped something into his drink last night.

It was his first time at a club, now that he looked overage and loomed over the bouncer it was easy to get in.

"Viktor! Make me a coffee?" He screamed down the hall. Praying his brother didn't have headphones in.

There was a brief silence as if the other was processing.

"I'm on the phone with Luther, make it yourself you're only fifty-nine!" Viktor called back.

The reminder of the century.

O n l y fifty-nine. Only? Five had saved the world 3 times over, been stuck in a thirteen-year-olds body and murdered more people than he could count. He felt more like eighty than fifty-nine.

The snap-crackle in his knee when he stood up solidified Five's thoughts.

Was he going to age rapidly to 60? Or was he going to keep aging like this until he died?

The now 25-59-year-old man had pondered these two questions for a while now. He'd even taken the time in his now permanent retirement to calculate how long he'd have left, both till he was back at his supposed to be age and that of which he should hypothetically die. Neither of the answers pleased him much.

"What does monkey brain want this time?" Five asked. He snatched the coffee pot from its stand and made his regular.

Long back, and in his favourite mug; a smashed-up piece of junk he found at a thrift store. He only picked it up because it happened to be in the pocket of a coat he had bought. Since he was growing so fast, Viktor didn't want to waste money on new clothes if he was going to outgrow them in less than a day.

Thankfully, Five stopped growing at twenty-two, at a full five foot and nine inches.

"Diego and Lila are back in town, he said Sloan is putting on dinner this time," Viktor said, he eyed Five carefully. He'd gotten used to his brother growing so fast, that now he stopped it was hard to tell if he was aging. "Did you want to go? I mean-"

He was cut short.

"They haven't seen me since I looked thirteen, I know," Five said.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, you didn't come last time so I get it if you would rather keep to yourself," Viktor somehow softened more in gaze, his eyes always so caring and full of understanding.

Five cleared his throat, settling his coffee down as it was empty.

"Who's supposed to be going?" He asked.

Viktor blew a breath,

"Supposed to be almost everyone, Luther said it looks like Ben might show as well."

"Allison?" Five asked.

Viktor pursed his lips, and a light scrunch of his eyebrow before he shook his head no.

"Why is she so stubborn," Five said, it was blurted out as a question but Viktor knew it better as a statement.

"It was my fault anyway if I hadn't of-"

Again the 25-59-year-old interjected.

"Your fault? We're the ones who locked you away, we're the ones who treated you less than a person. We should have just left you alone in nineteen-sixty-nine," Five scoffed, his eyebrows knotting together below his swepped hair.

Viktor snaked his hands into his pockets, fidgeting from one foot to the other. He didn't want to look Five in the eye, knowing his brother would spot the doubt from a mile away.

A squeak of a chair let Viktor know Five was leaving the room now.

"What time is the dinner?" Five asked from across the room

Viktor's head shot up, a hoping in his chest that his brother might come along with him this time.

"Luther said six-"

"Great," Five creased a smile. "We'll get there for seven."

It's not that five hates his family it's that they annoy him more than anything. He loves them, he does. For as much as he would save the world for them, he would also like to throw them under a bus. So for a Hargreeves family dinner to run well? Well, that just might take a miracle.

"Hi!" Sloane swings their door right open, a proud smile on her face as she looks straight to Five. "Five? Oh my god."

"I know, I cut my hair," Five threw a hard smile, dragging his fingers through his hair.

Sloane gave him a weak one back before opening her mouth to say something more; except nothing came out. It all felt overwhelming, and it came out as exasperation in her struggling voice.

Viktor smiled and nudged his brother with a sharp elbow.

"It was so nice of you to invite us, Sloane, thank you," he said.

Five grumbled out an 'ow' and rubbed his arm tightly.

"It's not even a second thought!" She beams. Sloane takes a step back from the entrance, wiping her hands off quickly on the apron she was wearing. "Please, come on in, everybody else is already here!"

Viktor thanked her quickly and toed himself inside. He shuffled the dirt off his feet before stopping to wait for Five to follow him in.

"Five?" Sloane called.

"Yeah?" He said. A distance in his eyes as they met back to his brothers.

Viktor tilted his head a little and waved his hand, gesturing for Five to come inside.

"Of course," Five muttered and strode inside.

The two brothers shredded their coats after being offered by Sloane to leave them hanging on the rack by the door. They were glad they had agreed because as they stepped further into the house a baked warmth smothered them both. It wasn't an overwhelming heat, it was subtle, but enough radiating to feel the difference between inside and outside.

Five found himself tugging at the collar of his button-down black shirt, he loosened the tie around his neck and adjusted the straps on his black slacks with a snap.

"Are you feeling okay?" Viktor whispered.

Five gave him a crumpled look. Knowing where the question had come from but not knowing where to start on explaining. Instead, he opted for an 'I'm fine as they followed Sloane into the main dining area.

Viktor's t-shirt stretched down with his arms, opening his neck a little to allow the warmth to dissipate. He could feel his legs getting achy in the bootleg jeans he opted to wear; forgetting how hot he was last time.

By fucking God this place was huge. High ceilings. Large doorways. Even the table everyone was sitting at was gigantic. They planned the place out well.

The two brothers, last in like Sloane had stated, lingered by the entryway.

Viktor scanned the room, once, twice, maybe three times. He noticed the light atmosphere, something foreign to the group. It didn't feel this way at the last dinner. The man crossed his arms briefly, then undid them and finally settled on holding himself despite the smothering heat.

Five whistled loudly in astonishment.

"Holy shit, Luther, where'd you scrape the money for this?" He asked.

The room that was bustling when they had walked in quickly silenced to a few murmurs. All six pairs of eyes that were previously bickering, were suddenly sharpened on number five.

In all of a second, Five felt like the 13-58-year old man that he had been when he returned to his siblings the first time. He felt new. And he felt singled out.

"Bloody hell Diego, you're brother got hot," Lila blurted.

Not one to keep her mouth shut in the first place, she couldn't stand the silence and took one for the team.

"What, are you saying you didn't find me attractive before, Lila?" Five asked. His creased smile very knowing and he seated himself at the circular table.

That left one chair remaining. One less than last time, Viktor noted. He tried to remind himself he at least gave an effort.

"That would have been very pedophilic," she said, her mouth forming a shape of disgust.

"Hey!" Diego shouted. "Stop flirting with my brother, your my wife now. Mine, got it?"

"You got married?" Viktor asked, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Hitched," clarified Diego, but still with fondness nonetheless he took Lila's hand and kissed the back of it. "Mi Amor."

"Yepp. Gold and blood diamonds, look at that," Lila beamed.

Her mid-drift showed from under the black silk crop as she leant dramatically across Diego. On her left, she sparkled her fingers towards Viktor. Lila had her bottom lip between her teeth in a knowing smile, catching her giggles before they got the better of her.

"It's pretty," said Viktor. He took Lila's hand and examined the ring closer. Viktor knew it was probably a stolen gift, but he didn't wave the issue knowing neither of them cared.

"I picked it out all myself," interrupted Diego.

"Sure you did, love," said Lila.

Five turned his head quickly away from the wedded couple, knowing that bickering would ensue. Instead, he leaned in on Klaus and Ben's conversation.

"Have you been seeing that lovely therapist I told you about, Bennie?" Klaus asked, one hand holding his chin up, the other stoking down the side of Ben's face.

"Have you started seeing that psychologist about your lack of personal space?" Retorted Ben.

He grabbed a hold of Klaus's wrist and flicked it away.

In a moment of curiosity, Five noted the black watch that occupied Ben's wrist as it covered his Sparrow tattoo. He was wearing a black knitted tank top, with a classic turtle neckline; much in contrast to the lack of a vest Klaus was wearing.

A drawn sign left Ben as he took a moment to regain his thoughts and real in his emotions.

"Yes, I have been seeing her. We've been working on anger management," said Ben, crossing his arms.

"You needed it, horror-bags," Five chuckled, interjecting himself into the conversation as he usually does.

"Oh my god, Five!" Klaus cried, his hands clasping together in rejoice. "Brother it is so good to see you again, and look at you, you're all big now!"

"Couldn't tell," joked Five.

Klaus outstretched his arms and clamoured his brother into a punishing hug. Five didn't oppose the hug, despite his frustrated frown. His brother strangled him for another second before begrudgingly letting Five go, of course with a satisfied sigh.

"Good to see you too Klaus," Five smiled.

Ben flicked his eyes in the distance of Five's vision. He could say it was much improved from the last time he had seen Ben, he was still as arrogant as ever but it was more subtle. Five noticed a shift in him, and he wasn't sure if it was because Ben had been getting help or if there was something wrong with him. Deep in his 25-59-year-old gut, there was a soft rumbling and he knew it wasn't hunger.

Luther cleared his throat from the other side of the table. Sloane hung on his arm, rubbing it lightly in reassurance.

"So, Five," said Luther. "How have you been?"

Five wasn't certain if this was a genuine question or if he was hinting at the rapid age change. Either way, they hadn't seen each other in three months since the moment they split ways in that God-awful courtyard. A moment that sent tensions rocketing throughout the family, despite his effort to have them stick together.

"Well you know Luther, a little taller and a fresh haircut does a lot considering I haven't heard from most of you in three months," spat Five.

He noticed Luther's man-sized shoulders stiffen under the striped polo. Luther took a grasp on Sloane's hand, smiling tightly.

"We thought you wanted space-" said Sloane.

"We did invite you last time," Luther reminded, sipping at his glass of water.

Five looked to Viktor.

"Through Viktor," he said.

Viktor coughed and swallowed hard, he rubbed his hands on his pants before deciding on speaking.

"Five, you know that's also a two-way street."

"What about why you're aging so quickly?" asked Klaus.

Taken aback by Klaus' genuine curiosity, Five turned to his brother, completely forgetting the small bickering already going on. Five brushed a hand through his hair, feeling it over. He suddenly shifted in his chair feeling strangely stiff under Klaus' gaze.

The room seemed to be silent as Klaus raised his hands in defence.

Five was quiet.

The table didn't know how to handle the lack of an answer from him. Someone who always knew what was going on. Always had the answer.

"I'm aging rapidly."

"To what?" Ben scoffed.

"I don't know," said Five.

"But you don't have your powers, how is that even possible?" Asked Diego.

"I don't know. Okay, Diego?" Five creased a smile. "I either have a couple of months until I cross to my supposed age or I have months to live."

Five's smile didn't fade, at most it became more forced. His eyebrows narrowed down to the centre, aging lines growing out on his face. He could feel his body twist on the inside, a scraping feeling taking place. Five doubled over the table, thumping his fist down and clutching his chest. The air escaped him, a bubbling happening in his throat.

Viktor rushed up from his seat taking the soup bowl from his placement with him. He shoved the bowl between Five's grasp and pushed it up to his mouth.

No less than a second later Five was gurgling in pain as he dry-reached and finally spat out a clump of red from his mouth.

"He's done the calculations," said Viktor as he rubbed the back of Five's neck.

Five heavily wiped his mouth with a napkin, his breathing weak and wheezy. He tossed the bloodied white napkin into the bowl along with the rest. Waving off Viktor to adjust himself up straight.

"I have three months until I'm fifty-nine again," coughed Five.

"Ew oh my god is that guts?" Said Lila, she held a fist to her mouth in revolt.

"That's sickening," Ben groaned.

The smell floated throughout the room, wafting up each of their noses.

"The shredded skin actually," Five said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. "You get used to the smell."

The room fell silent again, the same question on everyone's mind. Yet no one wanted to ask, it seemed too personal in the moment, too invasive.

'How long does he have until he dies?'

#tua spoilers #tua season 3 #the umbrella academy #five hargreeves #ben hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #sparrow ben #diego hargreeves #viktor hargreeves #luther hargreeves #lila x diego #luther x sloane #allison hargreeves

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babygirlizz · 4 years ago

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izzie’s favorite movies and tv shows of 2020 (aka the worst year ever)

another year, another movie and tv show review. this year has, to put it simply, sucked. 2020 has been so terribly awful that sometimes the only light you can see are the absolute bangers of movies and tv shows that came out this year. with that being said, some of the movies and tv shows didn't come out in 2020. if the are mentioned in this post it is because they either: had a season come out this year, i found them this year, or they became popular this year.

SPOILERS: it may not come as a surprise but just in case you didn't realize, there will be many spoilers ahead, read at your own risk.

tw // death, suicide, drug use, mild adult language. if any of these things might trigger you, i strongly urge you not to read this post.

there is no specific order of these shows and movies, i'm just writing as they come to mind. if you enjoy any of these movies or tv shows, or if you have any suggestions for me, please let me know!

TV SHOWS

1) Santa Clarita Diet

Okay, so I know this show doesn't have anything to do with 2020. But, I found this show in 2020. I put it off for a while, thinking it wasn't my style of a show, but boy was I wrong. I loved this show. Sheila Hammond (Drew Barrymore) is a normal suburban wife and mom. She is a real estate agent with her husband Joel (Timothy Olyphant). She struggles with the fact that she isn't very adventurous. This all changes when she throws up an insane amount at a house showing. She then finds herself craving adventure, and craving human flesh. Yeah, she's a zombie. Not only is this show super hilarious, but it also shows the growth that they have with their characters and their family. I'm also team Abby (Liv Hewson) and Eric (Skyler Gisondo).

2) Outer Banks

So, I'm from NC. And, watching this show at first bothered me because I can very obviously tell this show isn't actually filmed in the obx, and the geography isn't exact, but once I got past that, I loved it. John B (Chase Stokes) is a teenager that lives in the poor side of the outer banks. He has a friend group called the Pogues which consists of JJ (Rudy Pankow), Pope (Jonathan Daviss), and Kie (Madison Bailey). They absolutely hate the Kooks, which are the rich kids. A while after John B's dad gets lost at sea, presumed dead, the group finds some evidence that may solve the mystery, and make them rich. In the process, John B falls in love with a Kook names Sarah (Madelyn Cline) whose father Ward (Charles Esten) may have a little more to do with the mystery than he let on. Through friendship, murder, and secrets, the gang may just figure out what happened to John B's dad.

3) Love, Victor

Alright. I loved loved loved Love, Simon. I also really loved the book "Simon vs. the Homosapien Agenda." So, when I heard about this show, I was so excited. Victor (Michael Cimino) is a teenage boy that moved to Creekwood with his family. He meets Felix (Anthony Turpel) who lives in his building. He also meets Mia (Rachel Hilson) and they begin dating. But, he also meets Benji (George Sear). While trying to get used to a new school, new friends, and a new relationship, Victor finds himself questioning his sexuality. With the help of Simon (Nick Robinson) and his friends, Victor finds it in himself to finally come out, and he admits his feelings, for Benji. This is such a good show, but I was so upset when season 1 ended on a cliff-hanger.

4) The Haunting of Bly Manor

The sequel to The Haunting of Hill House. Now listen, haunting of hill house was an absolute banger. When I saw that Bly came out I nearly died. I was so excited. But, I was alone in my apartment and also a lil bitch. So, I had to wait a week until I was home with my family to watch it. Now, I was so excited to be scared, and there were a few jump scares and ominous moments, but this season was more centered around the story line of Dani Clayton (Victoria Pedretti) and her new life in a foreign country. When seeing an ad for a live in job as an au pair. When she gets there, she meets the two young children she’ll be looking out for and the other workers of the house, including the gardener, Jamie (Amelia Eve). Throughout her stay at Bly she begins to notice weird behaviors from both children and by the end of the series she sacrifices herself for the children. Sadly, this story is being told by Jamie who Dani had fallen in love with during her stay at Bly. Now I was somewhat upset about the lack of horror, but was still very intrigued and drawn in by this series.

5) Julie and the Phantoms

Alright, at first I was not gonna watch this show. I thought it looked a little too young and childish for me, but everyone was talking about it on twitter so I had to. I. Love. This. Show. This show centers around Julie (Madison Reyes). Julie is a teenage girl who, sadly, lost her mother. The one major thing she shared with her mom, was their love for music. Since her mothers passing, she gave up music. This is until, dead musicians from the 90′s show up in her garage. Luke (Charlie Gillespie), Alex (Owen Joyner), and Reggie (Jeremy Shada) all tragically passed away in the 90′s after eating bad street hotdogs. When Julie finds their CD in her garage, she decides to play it and they come back in ghost form. But, only she can see them. With their help, she finds her confidence to play music again. Also, she has to find away for them to stay because they’re slowly disappearing.

6) Derry Girls

Bitch. I love this show. And yeah it didn’t come out in 2020. Shut up. I found this show recently after watching the cast on the holiday special of the Great British Baking Show. I loved the actors so I had to watch the show. This show focuses on Erin (Saoirse-Monica Jackson) a 16 year old girl that lives in Derry, Northern Ireland in the 90′s. Alongside her is her cousin Orla (Louisa Harland), her two friends Clare (Nicola Coughlan) and Michelle (Jamie-Lee O’Donnell), and Michelle’s English cousin James (Dylan Llewellyn). During these years, a lot of people in Ireland struggled, especially because it was during wartime. Even thought this show isn’t focused heavily around the war, it’s amazing to see these teens live a fulfilling life while struggling with the state of their country, and the lack of money that their families have.

7) Elite

HA. This show did have a season in 2020 so leave me alone. But bro, I love this show. At first, I didn’t watch it because I thought I could only watch the dubbed version in English, which I hate. I hate dubbed shows they look so weird. But, once I found out I could watch this show in Spanish, I fell in love. But, sadly, theres too damn much to talk about in one little post. It’s crazy. But basically it just follows the lives of teens in high school that are trying to survive. And no, not in the “I’m surviving high school,” sense. No, people be getting murdered.

MOVIES (tbh i didn’t find a lot of movies good this year lmk which movies u liked this year and maybe i’ll like them!)

1) All the Bright Places

After the death of her sister, Violet (Elle Fanning) is devastated. She closes herself off, and has her parents get her out of doing school work that involves working with others. But, as time goes on, they realize she may need to start to move on. Violet then meets Finch (Justice Smith) who is enamored by Violet. He suggests they do a project together. While finding and visiting some of the smallest wonders of their state, they begin to fall for each other. While you are focusing on Violet and her mental health, you tend to miss some of the signs that Finch’s mental health isn’t great either, but by the time you do, it could be too late.

2) Dangerous Lies

Hmm. This was weird for me. I had only ever seen Camila Mendes in Riverdale, and honestly, not a fan. So, Katie (Camila Mendes) and her husband Adam (Jessie T. Usher) are struggling with money. Katie decides to take a job working for an elderly man, and eventually gets her husband hired there as well. Unfortunately, he dies, but for some odd reason, leaves the house and all of his fortune, to Katie. As they get comfortable in the house, they begin to uncover some very weird and dangerous lies.

3) The Devil All the Time

Ok. Iconic. You got so many hot men in this movie. Bill Skarsgård, Sebastian Stan, Tom Holland, Robert Pattinson. C’mon now. That’s crazy. But, this story is so long and in depth that I wouldn’t even know where to begin. This movie is a bit disturbing. It involves murder, sexual assault, killing of animals, and so much more so if that’s an issue for you please do not watch this movie. It was also quite long, but it was still good.

4) After We Collided

Okay just listen. I was that teenager. I read wattpad stories and was, embarrassingly, addicted to After. This was not a great movie per say, but it was After. This is a sequel to the movie After. This movie centers around Tessa (Josephine Langford) and her recovery after her breakup with Hardin (Hero Fiennes Tiffin). Theres sex, alcohol, bad acting. The whole nine-yards. But c’mon, they’re so cute together.

5) To All the Boys p.s. I Still Love You

Okay it was a good movie. I enjoyed it. This movie focuses on Lara Jean (Lana Condor) and her boyfriend Peter (Noah Centineo) and their relationship post the first movie. But of course relationships aren’t super steady, and John Ambrose McClaren (Jordan Fisher) shows up. Yeah, John Ambrose, from her letter. They become closer and Lara Jean has to decide who she wants to be with. Spoiler, it’s Peter. BOOOOOOO justice for John Ambrose McClaren, he deserved better.

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tiffdawg · 4 years ago

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The Light of Stars | Chapter Eleven: Disillusionment

Gif: @bestintheparsec

The Light of Stars

Pairing: Din Djarin/ The Mandalorian x Reader (fem; no y/n)

Word Count: 5.5k

Rating: M | Warnings: the typical angst and a little smooching, mild language. No spoilers for season two!

Story Summary: In pursuit of the Child’s people, the mysterious Jedi, Din Djarin and his foundling find hope in a woman who shares the kid’s strange powers. Newly partnered with the Mandalorian, you are trained in the ways of the Force, but you’re no Jedi. You’re just trying to find your place in the galaxy.

A/N: Hi! It's been a while – much longer than I ever intended and for that I apologize. I want to say thank you to you all for reading my story and sticking with me. And to everyone who left comments on previous chapters, you have all my love for ever. I really do cherish each and everyone. You all inspire me to keep writing! Anyway, I'll stop rambling and let you read the latest installment of Jetii, Din, and Baby's (mis)adventures. This chapter is officially the beginning of the end!

Read on AO3

TLOS Masterlist | My Masterlist

… . …

Chapter Eleven: Disillusionment

The last few days were a blur as you cut across the galaxy at lightspeed. Time ceased to exist even as it passed you by, but it was uneventful in the best possible way as you spent what precious time you had left with the Mandalorian and his foundling quietly existing together.

You passed most of your time in the main cabin conversing with Mando. You always talked about your pasts. Never the future. But you considered yourself lucky to have that time with him. He spoke mostly of his youth with the Mandalorians and his early forays into bounty hunting, but occasionally he’d grace you with a story from his childhood. When he’d confessed that he hadn’t so much as said his parents' names aloud in decades but still found it within himself to share a treasured memory of them, you’d reached across the small space separating you to twine your fingers with his gloved ones as best you could. The words seemed to come a little easier after that. His life had been so full of sadness that you wondered if the last few weeks together had been an anomaly even with the chaos you’d brought into his life.

Down in the hull after tasteless meals of reconstituted food, you’d spent long hours reading texts from the Jedi holocron aloud to Mando while he disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled every blaster in his weapons locker twice-over. Other times he insisted on continuing your flying lessons but there wasn’t much to do as the ship sailed through hyperspace. During the infrequent fuel stops on lonely planets, you’d stretch your legs and find a quiet place to practice with the kid in consolation for long days spent trapped inside the ship.

That day, you’d landed on Mygeeto, a cold, frigid planet a few sectors from your final destination. Mando and the kid seemed unfazed by the icy winds, but you’d had to dig out your old parka just to walk to the closet cantina while the ship refueled. It was also a decently populated planet, big on mining and banking and a hub of trade. You were on the outskirts of a smaller spaceport, but it wasn’t somewhere you wanted to linger.

The docking bay was crowded with a steady rush of people coming and going earlier that morning. Now, when you stepped into the small, outdated docking bay ahead of the Mandalorian but behind the Child’s hovering carrier, it was deserted. Instantly, your eyes went to the fueling gear still hooked up to the Razor Crest. A quick glance around the bay told you the lone mechanic was nowhere to be seen. Most likely off working on one of the other starships. That meant the three of you were stuck on that icy, crystalline planet for at least a little while longer.

That meant trouble.

“Mando–”

“I know,” he sighed. “I made them back at the cantina. They aren’t with the guild, but they’re definitely hunters.”

“Were you just hoping they wouldn’t follow us back to the ship?”

“I wanted to get you two back to the Crest.” He entered a code on his vambrace and canceled the ship’s security protocols. After the ramp lowered, he closed the baby’s carrier and sent it into the hull of the ship.

“There are six of them,” you said, raising a brow at him, “and they’re right behind us.”

“Not a problem, sweetheart.” He placed a hand on the blaster holstered at his hip.

“Gods, you're cocky sometimes,” you retorted. Still, you extracted your lightsaber from your satchel before tossing the bag into the ship. It pained you to think that neither the baby nor Mando would be safe until that ex-Imp was taken care of for good. And even then, you worried about who else might know about the baby. You could only wish that wasn’t fated to be their only existence together. With his visor trained on you, his helmet tilted to the side. You shrugged as you took your place beside him.

“Don’t think I can handle it on my own?”

“I know you could, but you don’t have to,” you assured him. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes and found him watching you.

“I–”

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a noise coming from just beyond the entrance. Both of your heads snapped in that direction, alert and ready for a fight.

When the first blaster shot rang out, Mando returned it with one of his own.

“How many of them are there?” you shouted over the blast that rocked the Razor Crest. You’d mistakenly assumed you’d escaped after you’d fended off the six bounty hunters at the docking bay. The gunship fired back at Mando’s command.

“Down to two,” he answered as he hit a series of switches in rapid fire. He pulled the yoke and the ship took a nosedive through empty space. “Told you that spaceport was too big.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“I thought it.

Another hit set off one of the alarms. “Mando!”

“We’re almost to the hyperlane. Once we hit lightspeed, they can’t track us. Just hold on!”

You sighed in relief at the familiar streaks of blue light of hyperspace. Mando’s seat swiveled to face you and the Child. “You alright?” he asked the kid. He chirped happily in response. “I figured.” He turned to you, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward in his chair. “How about you?”

“I’m fine,” you assured him. You might’ve been a little rattled, but you’d seen worse. “We’re those the Moff’s men? How’d they track us to Mygeeto?”

“They didn’t.” A beat passed as you waited for him to explain. “They were already here. They’re amateurs. Gideon probably distributed fobs throughout the galaxy.”

While you’d gotten a decent glimpse of it on Vrogas Vas, you were beginning to see the severity of his situation. The Empire might’ve fallen years ago, but this former Imp had not. He had the resources and the reach to find the Mandalorian and the Child. And you didn’t like the thought of him taking on the Moff alone. “Mando, can you do something for me?”

“Anything,” he responded quickly.

You hesitated, doubting he would think that in a moment. “Will you send a holo to your tribe before you leave for Nevarro.” He straightened up at that, ready to protest. “You’re going to need all of the help you can get.”

“I can’t ask them to put the covert at risk for me. Not again.”

“So you know they would come for you?”

“Yes,” he answered, voice straining around the word.

“Do you think they hold what happened against you? Do you truly believe that any one of them regrets their choice?” He didn’t say anything, but you knew your assumption was right. And you knew his guilt was misplaced. They wouldn’t have welcomed him back, called him their brother, if that was the case. “You have to forgive yourself, Mando.” You unbuckled your safety restraints and kneeled before him. With a hand on the either curved cheek of his helmet, you forced him to look at you. You leveled him with a serious look, but he was unflinching, as still as ever. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“What?”

“They’re Mandalorians. They would want to fight with you. For you. How do you not see that?”

Wrapping his hands around your wrists, he pulled your hands away from his helmet. “I can’t do that for you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” you snapped before you stood and left the cabin.

… . …

Drawing his eyes away from the streaks of light bending around the Razor Crest, Din found you still in your seat next to him and the Child carefully cradled to your chest. With matching expressions – eyes closed and lips slightly parted – you both slept peacefully. Din had half a mind to wake you and send you both to your room. Even that makeshift bunk had to be more comfortable than the contorted position you’d maneuvered yourself into in your chair. But as the baby moved in your grasp to snuggle further into you, tiny clawed hands gripping the front of your tunic even as he drooled on it, he hesitated to disturb the scene before him.

Somehow, in the span of a few weeks, Din’s entire universe had narrowed to the two of you. His foundling, of course, was already his primary focus in life. And then you showed up and without even meaning to, the three of you had become a family.

Din had a family.

The realization struck him hard and fast, but quickly faded into something familiar. Something some part of him already knew because of course you were his family.

A soft smile pulled at the corner of Din’s mouth as the two of you dozed, bathed in blue starlight, until he realized that he wasn’t the only one who was going to miss you. The kid had grown fond of you, to say the absolute least. When he wasn’t toddling after Din or causing trouble, he was attached to your hip. But your days together were numbered.

He didn’t have time to dwell on that reality. He was suddenly pulled from deep within his own mind by the quiet beep of an incoming holo. With the flick of a single switch, Greef Karga’s figure, in miniature and cast in static blue light, appeared on the console.

Karga’s booming voice filled the silent cabin. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Mando.”

“I’ve been out of range.”

“While I’m sure your new quest has taken you to the furthest reaches of this galaxy, there are more pressing matters at hand here on Nevarro. Would you care to tell me why Moff Gideon, the man you supposedly killed, is amassing stormtroopers outside my city?” he asked pointedly. “Word is he’s looking for you.”

“I’m aware,” Din sighed. “I’ll be there in a few days. I have something I need to take care of first.”

“Something or someone?” Karga mused lowly with a deep chuckle. Din followed his line of sight. Next to him, you’d woken and leaned forward in your seat just enough for the holocam to pick up your image. You watched the guild leader with interest. “Who might this stunning creature be?”

“End of the week,” Din said curtly before switching off the holo.

“Who was that?” you asked. You spoke softly, mindful of the baby in your hold. Your tired gaze lingered on the spot where Karga’s figure stood a moment ago before drifting to Din.

“No one.”

“Right,” you said with a gentle roll of your eyes. “I heard you mention Nevarro.”

“He’s an old associate.”

“A friend?” you supplied, brows lifting with the question.

“Sometimes.”

“Well, I imagine that means something coming from you.” There was a glint of humor in your eyes but faded into something more serious as you leveled him with a stern look. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go there first?” you asked, not for the first time. “You know I’m good in a fight.”

A small huff of a laugh escaped him. You could hold your own, of that he had no doubt. And the thought of having you with him for a few extra days was nothing short of tempting. Still, something told him that was how things were meant to happen. That was the original deal the two of you struck up, after all, and the course was already set. The Crest was less than a day out from the Lah’mu sector. It would be easier on his own heart to stick to it. Surprisingly, your argument from the day before had faded into the background. He’d come to expect more of a fight from you, but you’d rejoined him in the cockpit that morning as if nothing had happened.

He decided it was best not to prompt another argument. He stood and held out a hand to you. “It’s been a long day. You should go to bed.”

You placed your hand in his and let him pull you to your feet before you gently handed the still-sleeping baby to him. “You should too.”

The kid didn’t so much as stir as Din placed him in his makeshift hammock above his cot. He started to remove his armor, stowing the Beskar for a few hours of much needed reprieve. Lost deep in his own tired mind, he didn’t hear you emerge from the ship’s small refresher.

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“That.” He glanced over his shoulder at you just in time to see you gesturing toward the compartment.

“Exactly what it looks like.” That time he heard you move closer to him as you peered around his form.

“You’ve been sleeping here?” you asked incredulously. “I thought there was another bunkroom.”

“No,” Din answered flatly. He couldn’t see why that was an issue – especially at the late hour but the scowl on your face as you moved between him and the compartment told him that you expected a better explanation. “Technically there aren’t any bunkrooms on the Crest. Yours was extra carbonite storage for backlog. I converted it recently because the kid kept trying to crawl in here with me and there’s not exactly enough space for two. I wasn’t taking on any quarries so I figured it would work temporarily.”

“And you gave it to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, hoping to brush it off.

“Mando,” you sighed, sounding stuck somewhere between exasperation and gratitude. You pursed your lips as you looked back at the cot. “This the sorriest excuse for a bed I’ve ever seen. I’m not letting you sleep here.”

“Where would you have me sleep?” he asked, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.

“In your bed,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest. You could be so stubborn when you wanted. Almost as stubborn as him.

“And you?” he asked.

“I’ll be there too.” There was a hint of a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

“Last time–”

Your voice dropped to a whisper, but it was enough to make him forget the rest of his sentence. “I miss having you in my bed.”

A chill shot down his spine and settled low inside him as he watched you scale the ladder that led to your room and left him to follow. Just before you disappeared, you threw a playful insult back at him. “Di’kut.”

His chest deflated as a deep sigh fell from his lips. “Let me guess who taught you that,” he called after you, rolling his eyes at your receding figure. He sealed the small compartment and followed you up.

“You had your chance to teach me nice things in Mando’a,” you retorted. “Now I can insult you seven ways to Scarif!”

“Great,” he muttered with a light laugh.

“To be fair,” you offered when he finally walked into your small bunkroom, “Paz called me an idiot too.”

Din froze at the threshold as a cold fear rushed over him. “He told you his name?” he hissed.

“Yeah.” You said it almost lightly, but Din heard the slight edge undercutting your words. He knew you understood the significance of the act. He could see it in the way you teased your bottom lip between your teeth. “I didn’t ask. He just told me. He said it was okay,” you tried to clarify. “It’s not like I expect you–”

“Do you want to know?” he replied quickly despite not knowing if he was prepared to give it if you said yes. While there were a few select people who knew his name now, he had never shared it with anyone himself. If Vizsla could share his name with someone outside the covert, then so could he. Right?

“Of course I do. I want to know all of you,” you started slowly. You stepped closer to him, gently resting your hands on his last piece of armor. Your eyes followed the path of your fingers as you traced the mended edge of his cuirass. “But I only want what pieces of yourself you want to share with me. I would never ask.”

“I know you wouldn’t. You never ask for anything.”

“I asked you to come to bed with me,” you teased, trying to divert the conversation.

“No. You told me.” You smiled almost shyly and made to move away, but Din reached for your hands and held you in place. “Ask me for something. I’ll give it to you.” You eyed him for a long moment as you considered his request. He could see the thoughts racing in your mind. “Ask me for anything,” he repeated.

“Anything?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to promise me something.”

“A promise?” His brows furrowed behind the visor.

“Do you remember our last conversation that morning at the covert? Because I haven’t forgotten it.” Neither had Din. He nodded once and you squeezed his hands. “No matter what answers we find on Lah’mu, no matter where your journey takes you and your son next, no matter how many years or decades it’s been since we parted,” you took a deep breath as your voice wavered, “I want you to promise me that you will pursue a life that makes you happy. The both of you. Whatever that may be.”

Din had no response to that. He’d given you permission to ask him for anything and for some godsforsaken reason you asked for his happiness. He was struck, hardly for the first time, by just how much good there was in you. That you could possibly care about him that way even amidst your own turmoil. He would’ve preferred you ask him to call his tribe members for help. “Sweetheart–” he tried to admonish.

“Promise me, you stubborn Mandalorian,” you demanded with a new fire in your eyes. “You said you would give me anything. That’s what I want. If I can’t— If I can’t be there with you, I at least want to know in my heart that wherever you are, you are happy.” When he didn’t say anything, you pleaded. “Please, Mando.”

Lifting a hand to the back of your head, he drew you closer to him and gently pressed his helmet to your forehead, kissing you in the only way he could in that moment. “I promise,” Din swore even though that didn’t change the fact that there was only one way he ended up happy.

“Thank you,” you sighed as if he’d given you something you needed. Without parting, your fingers dipped beneath the edge of his cuirass. “May I?” He nodded against you and you pulled just enough to deactivate the magnetic hold. Others had tried to take his armor off in the past, usually by force, but with you it felt like a barrier. Something keeping him from what he really wanted.

As Din laid in the too-small bunk with you, your words echoed in his mind. If I can’t be there with you, I at least want to know in my heart that wherever you are, you are happy. With every quiet moment that passed, each one somehow longer than the next, he seemed to move closer to you, and you to him, until you met somewhere in the middle. His forehead knocked against yours again and as your breath ghosted across his face, he fought his overwhelming desire to kiss you. Really kiss you. To show you just how much your care for him affected him. But he remembered what happened the last time you’d tried something like that. It ended with you crying into his chest as he held you through the long night.

He asked anyway. “Can I kiss you?” he rasped.

“I thought you just did, Mandalorian,” you teased.

He rolled you over onto your back, caging you in as he leaned on his elbows to hover above you. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he rasped.

Before you could offer some smart retort, he slotted his mouth over yours. Despite his eagerness, he felt clumsy and unpracticed. Considering he’d never kissed anyone before you, he absolutely was. You were the only one he’d ever wanted like this. Based on the breathy little noises you made for him, you didn’t seem to mind his inexperience.

He pressed the weight of his body into yours, pinning you beneath him, until there was no space between you. You were molded to him and him to you in a way that felt natural. It felt right. He was growing accustomed to it even as he knew he shouldn’t. But those moments with you, unmasked and exposed, were too enticing.

Din never said he was a good man.

… . …

In the light of an early morning, you ran through an open field surrounded by a forest of tall evergreens. Soft wild grass cushioned each stride as you sprinted toward the tree line, chasing the fresh, spicy scent. Behind you, someone pursued you at full speed.

No. That wasn’t right.

You glanced over your shoulder only to find not one but two young children sprinting after you, squealing and smiling. Your heart practically burst at the sight of their unbridled joy and a laugh of your own bubbled past your lips. You slowed your pace, giving in to them easily, and two sets of arms wrapped around your legs. You knelt in the dewy grass, rewarding them with snug hugs and kisses on their chubby cheeks, and earning yourself another jubilant round of laughter from them both.

Together, they begged you to chase them next, and unable to deny them anything, you readily agreed. You stood, shooing them off to get a head start. But they wouldn’t run away just yet. Not when they were too distracted by something behind you. Another pair of arms, only much stronger, wrapped around you.

The kids ran off, shouting catch us, dad! A low rumble reverberated through your back as the man behind you laughed at the children’s wild antics. Your eyes fell closed as you leaned into him, deciding you’d follow the children in a moment. Right then all you wanted was to savor his embrace. It felt like the closest thing to home you’d ever known.

You turned your head as if to look over your shoulder and a pair of lips met yours. Even after the kiss ended, you didn’t part. The feel of his smile hovering against your lips was almost as intoxicating as his kiss.

“Good morning, Din,” you sighed.

You startled awake with a sharp inhale.

Disoriented and scared, you tried to make sense of what you’d just seen. That dream felt real. Too real. Considering the turn your life had taken in the past few weeks, you had no idea what it was. A remnant of your vision. An offering from the Force. Or just your imagination playing tricks on you. It seems like the closer you get to Lah’mu, the more the Force saw fit to taunt you with that other future.

Your eyes searched the pitch-black room for some sort of sign as to where you were, but you couldn’t see anything. Instead, you felt an arm around your waist, holding you securely.

Mando’s arm.

You were still on the Razor Crest, tucked away in your shared bunk that was too small for the both of you, and he was fast asleep behind you, warm and solid. You felt him shift behind you, lifting his head from his pillow to look down at you in the dark.

“Are you okay?” he asked hoarsely. Even in sleep that man missed nothing. Mando’s hold on you tightened, pulling you back against his chest.

“Yeah,” you assured him. “Just a dream.”

“Another nightmare?”

“No. Not quite. Just...” You screwed your eyes shut and tried to banish the lingering images, or rather sensations, of that other man from your mind. Mando’s voice cut through your daze as he called your name, drawing you back into the present. “Just strange. It almost felt like another vision.”

“Of your future on Lah’mu?”

“I don’t think so.”

Din shifted closer. “Your other future?”

“Yes,” you offered meekly.

“What do you dream of? With him?” The question hurt and you said nothing for a long time. The more time you spent with Mando and the baby, the more certain you were that you’d made the right choice. A life on Lah’mu as a lonely Jedi master was more appealing than a future with a stranger you could never love. Not when your heart belonged to the man lying next to you. Seeing him amongst his people had only reinforced your conclusion that Mando was not the man in your vision. It was not the way. His way. But you supposed that didn’t matter and you were only making yourself upset for no reason by reminding yourself of the fact. You’d chosen your path. “You can tell me,” he prompted again.

You shook your head and craned your neck to face him even though he couldn’t see you. You were so close your noses brushed, but he made no move to part. “No, I don’t think I can.”

A tension hung between you as you waited for his response. “The offer stands,” he finally replied.

“And I appreciate that.” But all you really wanted was to put that dream out of your mind and forget about it entirely. The man next to you provided the perfect distraction.

You closed that last bit of space between you, letting your mouths meet in a slow, lingering kiss. His soft, slightly chapped lips matched with yours with aching tenderness. Just like that, with him, you felt safe from all the uncertainties your future held. You decided you could indulge in it just a little while longer. Continue what he’d started the night before.

“Good morning, Mando,” you sighed around a lazy smile when you finally parted.

“Good morning, cyar’ika.”

He sounded happier, and your grin pulled taut and you turned in his arms. Holding his face with your hands, your lips melded with his again. He didn’t start at your touch anymore. He sought it out. With a hand gripping your hip, he pressed you closer.

“I could stay right here,” you murmured your confession against his lips in between hungry kisses, “forever.”

“Fuck, so could I,” he admitted. You slipped your tongue into his mouth as his lips parted around his words, earning a broken, desperate moan from him.

He let you roll him into his back, and you moved so that you were on top of him, a knee pressing into the thin mattress on either side of him. Your hungry mouths slotted together once more.

You longed to feel his skin against yours again and as his hands slid lower, you thought he was going to free you from your tunic. But then his hands traveled further, past the hemline, over your hips and just kept going until he squeezed the swell of your backside, fingers digging into your fabric covered flesh, and ground your hips down against him. Against something hard.

“Oh fuck,” you gasped into his mouth. He chuckled darkly against your cheek as he did it again. That had no right to feel that good. You’d had your suspicions, but knowing he wanted you like that was a whole new thrill. “Eager this morning?” you asked as you searched for breath.

“You started it,” he said low and teasing while nipping at your bottom lip.

“Let me kiss you while I can.” He stilled his movements beneath you. You’d meant it as a joke, but it hurt. You pulled away and rested your head against his chest, letting out a long, slow exhalation as that all-consuming melancholy that seeped into the stolen moment. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s fine,” he ground out. It wasn’t fine. You could hear it in his voice. Even as he moved you off of him with the gentlest touch, you felt the distance growing between you once more. He slipped out of the bunk and you listened to him search for his helmet in the dark, but you sensed him hesitate and he turned back to you, cupping your face between his hands and pressing his lips to yours. There was something about this kiss that felt different. There was a desperate sort of passion that sends adrenaline coursing through your veins. You return it with equal fervor, pouring all your love for him into that kiss.

“What was that for?” you asked when he finally parted from you.

“I never know.”

“Know what?”

When he spoke next, his voice came to you filtered through the modulator. “I never know when it will be our last.”

The truth of his words tore through you, leaving you feeling cold as you packed your things and emptied the converted bunkroom of all traces of you.

After descending the Razor Crest’s ramp, your boots hit the soft grass first, sinking slightly into the black soil that covered the planet. A cool, misty air kissed your skin as you stepped away from the safety of the ship. Your eyes scanned the green valley, landing on the small settlement that dotted the landscape.

You felt Mando approach. He stopped a half step behind you, but his presence felt heavy, almost overwhelming, as you tried to focus. Still, you knew he’d wait for your call.

“She’s here,” you announced quietly, voice barely audible over the crashing waves. You peered back at him over your shoulder, finding his dark visor already trained on you. His helmet tilted slightly. Your heart swelled with affection at the familiar, inquisitive movement. You were well beyond chastising yourself for the sentiment, even if it hurt. “And I think she’s close.” You tore your eyes away from him, ignoring the way the words seemed to get stuck in your throat. Finding your former master had been your goal for years. Now, for the first time in nearly a decade, the two of you were on the same planet. Yet you felt no joy at that momentous fact.

You felt a steady hand rest between your shoulder blades. “I’m right behind you, cyar’ika. Lead the way.”

After a few hours of trekking along the base of the rolling hills at the direction of one talkative settler, you found a lone woman meditating in a grassy field. She faced away from you, but the lavender hair styled in a low chignon and dark flowing robes told you exactly who she was.

“Wait here,” you directed without ever taking your eyes off of her. A familiar hand wrapped around yours, stalling you. “It’ll be okay, Mando, but you have to let go.”

You took another step forward and your hand slipped out of his. When you stopped a few paces away, you hesitated. Even after all the years you’d spent searching for your former master, you never figured out what you wanted to say.

Before you could so much as open your mouth, a flash of violet light cut across your vision. Reacting on instinct, you reached for your lightsaber, blocking the attack at the last moment.

Falling back a step, you grounded yourself before meeting her next strike. A clash of blue and purple plasma sputtered before you. Over the cross of your sabers, you saw her calculating amber eyes flick to the side as she lifted a hand. Daring a glance back, you saw Mando frozen in place, blaster drawn and ready to fire.

The force behind your next attack sent Zarichi reeling.

“You hurt them,” you said through gritted teeth in between parries, “and I’ll strike you down where you stand.”

“You don’t have it in you,” she scoffed.

“You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I taught you everything.” Her next drive, three strong blows you narrowly managed to counter, landed you flat on your back with her saber at your neck. The slightest move would’ve singed your skin. “And you’re out of practice, padawan.”

Before she could so much disengage her lightsaber, she was thrown across the field by some unseen force. You watched her tumble to the ground in a heap before snapping your head to the kid. He stood next to his father, hand outstretched and eyes closed. “Damn,” you breathed.

Zarichi stood and dusted herself off, eyes locked on the baby at Mando’s side. “How curious,” she assed, with a hint of a laugh. Without another word, she set off back toward the settlement. Sighing, you fell back against the grass.

With the baby clutched to his chest and a hand on his hip, Mando appeared above you. “That’s your master?” He didn’t sound amused.

“What’d you expect?” you asked with a shrug. “She’s a Jedi.”

... . ...

Thank you for reading!

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#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #fic: the light of stars

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years ago

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.IX.ii

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

Take a look at @gen-syz-art incredible art for this chapter here ✨✨✨ (beware of spoilers)

___________________

Looking for Jaskier takes some time.

The gardens almost seem even bigger than they were last time, and there are so many different scents that Geralt can’t isolate the one he’s looking for from the rest.

He could just ask, for in his search he comes across eight different people, and at least one of them should know where Jaskier is, but Geralt makes a point out of finding him on his own.

It takes him almost an hour to finally come across a willow tree, its long vines falling all the way to the ground like a curtain, and be greeted by Lucio that pokes his nose out of them.

Stepping inside is like stepping into a sanctuary, into a safe place, completely detached from the outside world.

The curtain of vines surrounds the tree from all sides, and the sun that breaks through them makes this hidden little world feel even more magical. There’s enough space to fit quite a few people, the willow old and generous, and Geralt thinks that it’s probably the best place to spend long summer days, hiding from the heat and from the outside world in general.

Jaskier doesn’t notice him at first, too preoccupied with writing something in a notebook he’s got open in his lap, but when Asra perks up to greet the witcher, he raises his head.

“You found my hiding place,” he smiles, bright as the sun.

He pats the empty space beside him, and Geralt comes closer before he even thinks about it, getting down into the grass and resting his back against the tree trunk, as well. He tries to get a look at what Jaskier is writing but the younger man hides the notebook from him as soon as he notices.

“Searched the entire garden,” Geralt chuckles in response.

After an entire day spent in bed and a proper night’s sleep, he feels like himself again, the wounds on his thigh now healing much faster and the pain almost gone. He doesn’t limp as he walks any longer.

“This is one of my favourite places of the entire estate,” Jaskier says, and he’s so torturously-close that Geralt can’t help but lean towards him until their shoulders are pressed together. “If I’m not in the mansion, I’m here.”

He’s got a dark-green chemise on, the sleeves embroidered with gold thread, and every time a ray of the sun catches on it, it shines, and though Geralt himself prefers much more subtle colours and designs, he can’t deny that it looks beautiful.

“I can see why,” he nods. “It’s peaceful here.”

Jaskier hums an affirmation, his eyes closed blissfully. Geralt still can’t quite get used to just how relaxed he is in his presence, how there isn’t even a hint of fear that he is so used to feeling on other people. That almost makes him forget about the world outside the mansion and his role in it.

He thinks, once again, how when he’s with Jaskier, he can be more than just what his mutations make him.

And then, it finally hits him.

It’s not that he wants to return to the mansion.

It’s that he doesn’t want to leave.

***

They spend almost half of the day in Jaskier’s little hiding place.

Jaskier tells him more about his time in the Academy and, when Geralt asks, tells him that though he’s got an honours diploma for all seven liberal arts, his heart and soul have always belonged to poetry and music. When Geralt considers it, he’s almost surprised by just how easy it is to think of Jaskier as a bard.

Can a prince also be a bard? An illegitimate one probably can. It’s a perfect disguise.

Bard.

It’s easy to refer to him by that name in Geralt’s mind.

After Jaskier tells him that, he finally lets the witcher see his notebook, filled with poems, neat lines or runes crossed out and then written again over and over. Geralt doesn’t understand much in poetry but the lines that he reads are filled with such emotions that they pull on the strings deep in his heart.

Once he gets to the unfinished poem that Jaskier was working on when he’d found him, Jaskier snatches the notebook from his hands and refuses to give it back, a beautiful shade of red spilling over his cheeks.

Geralt can’t quite stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the soft skin, and before he can pull away, Jaskier intercepts his wrist and tugs him down onto the grass, laughing as Geralt blink in mild confusion, his body suddenly unable to resist, though Jaskier’s strength is nothing compared to his.

They stay lying side by side in the soft grass for what seems like hours, Jaskier reciting poems and ballads by heart, and Geralt just listening. At some point, he lets himself get convinced - somehow - to also recite something, and he entertains the bard with a highly indecent poem about a farmer’s daughter and a knight that he and his brothers used to giggle over when they were still kids in Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier plays courtier, gasping at the crudeness, but then breaks into laughter, unable to keep his act up.

He rolls onto his stomach, propping himself up on both elbows to get a proper look at the witcher, and reaches out to brush a stray silver strand away from his face.

Even if Geralt’s life depended on it, he wouldn't be able to decide whether he likes this quiet comfort or the maddening teasing more.

And though the knowledge of having to leave in a few days is a constant reminder somewhere in the far corner of his mind, he allows himself - if only for a little while - to put it aside.

***

“Do you want to see the sunset?”

The library is painted gold and scarlet with the light of the setting sun, and the colours play beautifully on the silk of Jaskier’s chemise.

Geralt doesn’t necessarily want to move, more than comfortable on the soft settee and with Jaskier half-asleep in his arms, but when in the last two months had he been able to say no to this man?

Jaskier’s eyes light up when Geralt hums an affirmation, and the next moment he’s already up on his feet, alerting the dogs napping peacefully on a chair by the window. They jump down onto the rug, ears perked up and tails wagging, feeling Jaskier excitement in his scent the same way that Geralt feels it.

He lets himself be pulled away from the settee, Jaskier’s warm fingers wrapped around his own, and follows him into the hallway and towards the wide staircase.

“Come on, we’re going to miss it,” Jaskier urges, adorably impatient.

Geralt’s healing thigh gives a little stab of protest as they pick up the pace, nearly running up the stairs, but Geralt’s had much worse, so it barely registers with him.

They make their way up onto the fifth floor and down yet another hallway to the very end of the west wing of the mansion, where Jaskier pushes open the door of a bedroom and they rush inside, towards the balcony doors, the golden light streaming through the glass, nearly blinding.

Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand to push down on both door handles, throwing the arches open, and for a second, the view takes Geralt’s breath away.

This high up, they can watch the golden disk of the setting sun as it slowly makes it's way down, touching the treetops of the pines in the forest. In the distance, Geralt can see the glimmering ribbon of the river, and all around the mansion, there are valleys of flowers in full bloom. The scent is sweet and heady, almost intoxicating, and Geralt takes in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand in his chest.

He steals a look towards Jaskier, who doesn’t seem to notice it, too mesmerised by the golden light. It reflects in his eyes, making them look bottomless. Had their lives been different, Geralt would’ve let himself drown in that depth.

“Oh, isn’t this just gorgeous?” Jaskier asks in a breathy whisper, never taking his eyes off the horizon.

Geralt takes a step closer to him without even fully realising. It’s like in the past two days he’d grown so used to having Jaskier in his arms that he can’t keep a distance between them anymore. His scent, his warmth, the feeling of his skin - everything about him is drawing Geralt in, and he’s helpless against it.

Finally, Jaskier looks away from the setting sun and at Geralt. He keeps their eyes locked for a long moment before his gaze drops to Geralt’s lips, and Geralt can feel his heart skip a beat before picking up its pace. The fire in his chest flares up, so bright that it’s almost painful.

Jaskier takes a step towards him, suddenly so close that all Geralt needs to do is dip his head, and he’ll finally learn what his lips taste like. He holds himself back with all the self-control he’s got but it’s running out fast. He knows that this will make everything worse, that it will make leaving more painful for both of them, but he still desperately hopes that Jaskier would close in that remaining distance between them.

Because then, maybe, it would be easier to justify Geralt’s absolute powerlessness against him.

Without it fully registering with him, Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close, the bard’s breath ghosting over his lips.

The moment seems to last forever, Geralt’s self-control cracking and breaking like porcelain, but just before he can make the mistake that he so longs for, Jaskier presses his fingers to the witcher’s lips, creating a barrier, and leaves a kiss over them, laughing as he breaks away.

Geralt fails to bite back a low growl, disenchantment curling into a ball in his chest like a small animal, its little claws digging deep into his heart.

And still, despite himself, he cannot hold all these torturous little games against Jaskier.

“Is that blush I see on your cheeks, my darling?” Jaskier murmurs, jumping up to sit on the bannister.

Instinctively, Geralt holds him tighter, unwilling to risk his safety.

“You’ll fall if you’re not careful,” he says flatly, ignoring the question.

They’re still so unbearably close, and Geralt can’t deny himself the pleasure of bringing his other hand up to rest it on Jaskier’s thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just enough for it to be justified as him making sure the bard is safe.

Jaskier doesn’t make any move to get away from the touch, and when Geralt runs his thumb over the inner side of his thigh, his lips part on a soft little gasp.

It’s impossible not to think about the bed back in the room. About just how easy it would be to lift Jaskier up and carry him to it, lay him down onto the silk and velvet, biting marks into his neck. Impossible not to imagine all the sweet little sounds he would make.

Up on the bannister, Jaskier is higher than him, and when he reaches to tip Geralt’s chin up, there isn’t much he can do but comply.

“What do you want, Witcher?” Jaskier murmurs, his ankles locking behind Geralt’s back to keep him close.

Standing between his spread knees is just more than Geralt can take, and he tightens his grip on the bard’s thigh to keep himself grounded. Knowing that there are going to be bruises left, and Jaskier is going to have his skin painted with them for days, marked and claimed, does absolutely nothing to help the situation.

“I want you to stop putting yourself in danger,” Geralt growls, low and impatient, almost threatening.

He’s referring to much more than just sitting on the bannister, a five-floor drop on the other side, and they both know it very well.

Jaskier’s scent spikes up with sweet, heady notes of arousal even as he hisses at the tight grip on his thigh. Geralt bites his tongue painfully not no lean in and nose at Jaskier’s neck, right under the jaw, where that scent is the strongest. If he does, he won’t be able to hold back anymore.

Jaskier’s eyes light up with a spark of mischief, almost a challenge, and it only takes him one perfectly calculated move to twist out of Geralt’s grip, standing up on the bannister and laughing victoriously.

Geralt’s heart drops at the sight, and he grabs Jaskier’s hand tightly, ensuring his balance. The bannister isn’t necessarily narrow, Jaskier could probably lie down on it if he wanted to, but he could still slip, and that is not a risk that Geralt is willing to take.

The fire in his chest gives way to the rush of adrenaline, and he sighs deeply, calming himself down.

This is going to be the death of him.

“I’m putting myself in danger,” Jaskier grins, walking the length of the bannister in theatrically slow steps, his hand still in Geralt’s tight grip. “What are you going to do about it?”

Oh, there are so many things Geralt could do about it.

In his imagination, he presses Jaskier up against the wall of the balcony, bites into his lips, parting them with his tongue. He sucks marks and bruising kisses into his neck, the skin there so flawlessly smooth that the love-bites stand out like blood-red flowers against it. He leads Jaskier back inside, pulls him down onto the bed, undoing the intricate lacing and buttons of his clothes.

He takes him apart with hands and lips, drinking in every little whimper and moan, until Jaskier is trembling and gasping, and does it all over again.

But none of that can go further than his imagination.

So instead, he just yanks Jaskier towards him, catching him before he falls, and grins to himself at the way that he yelps in surprise. A small but pleasant victory.

“Balcony bannisters are no place for a prince,” Geralt murmurs, and the last word just slips.

He bites his tongue way too late, never having meant to say it out loud, to admit - so incautiously and foolishly - that that is what he’d somehow grow to think of Jaskier as. If it’s not true, then he’s just childish for believing something he’d heard in a nearby town, and if it is true… then I can turn out to bear far worse consequences, for both of them. An illegitimate prince hidden in a giant mansion in the middle of nowhere is unlikely to afford for his identity to be known. And the King certainly doesn’t.

For a long moment, Geralt feels like he can barely breathe, waiting for a reaction, but Jaskier just gives him a long, slightly puzzled look that could mean just about anything, and, finally, gives him a charming smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “It is no place for a prince.”

***

The three days after that go by in relative peace.

They spend most of the time in the gardens or in the library, reading, talking or just being in each other’s presence, even if neither says a word.

Jaskier decides, at one point, to give the cooks a day off and take over the kitchen, entrusting Geralt with the venison brought in by his hunters earlier in the day, while he’s busy with herbs and vegetables. Geralt doesn’t really protest, used to helping out in the kitchen in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier does look ridiculously good in an apron. He does turn out to be rather bossy in the kitchen but Geralt fails to find it in himself to mind.

They play with the dogs, both Asra and Lucio now used enough to the witcher to trust him, napping with their heads in his lap whenever Jaskier’s is unavailable. They’re just as unafraid of Geralt as their owner, and for Geralt, who is used to animals hissing and growling at him, it’s almost touching.

At night, if the sky is clear, Jaskier lures Geralt out into the gardens to lie down in the grass and watch the endless stars shimmer in the sky. He remembers a lot of astronomy from the Academy, and tells Geralt about the constellations high above, as well as making up his own ones based on what he sees in the sky.

It gets cold at night, and he keeps close to Geralt, safe and warm under their shared cloak. Geralt keeps an arm around him and presses his cold nose to his temple every now and then to make the bard giggle.

Jaskier almost kisses him more times than Geralt would be able to count, but each time he breaks away, laughing and leaving him with nothing. Geralt knows that he’s just waiting for him to break first, and it takes him everything he’s got not to.

A couple of times he comes very close to pushing Jaskier up against the nearest wall, for he never stops his torturous teasing, but on some level, he almost enjoys this inability to have him, because though the fire in his chest can grow painfully hot, no-one’s ever made him feel like this.

It helps, in a way, that Jaskier is always hearing his intricately embroidered shirts with sleeves that cinch in on his wrists and high collars that keep most of his skin hidden, because Geralt isn’t sure that he’d able to think about anything other than the marks that he could leave on that skin had it been any other way.

And that… well, that ends up playing against him.

It’s his sixth morning in the mansion - the second to last, he tells himself repeatedly - when he fails to find Jaskier in any of the places that they would usually spend the morning in.

The first place that Geralt searches through is the downstairs library that seems to be Jaskier's favourite room of the mansion. There are books that they’ve left behind the night before, pieces of parchment all over the table, and Jaskier’s cloak but no sign of the bard himself.

When Geralt doesn't find him there, and then in the gardens, and then in the smaller library upstairs, there is no other place that he can think of other than Jaskier's bedroom. It's still relatively early in the morning, and maybe he's too unwilling to get out of bed just yet, warmed by both Asra and Lucio.

Reluctantly, Geralt makes his way up to the last floor and to the door of Jaskier's bedroom. He'd never been inside, and for some reason, it feels unnerving. All the time that he’d spent in the mansion, he’d only been on the fifth floor twice: first when Jaskier was giving him a general tour, and then when they rushed to the balcony to watch the sunset.

Jaskier’s rooms have remained something almost forbidden, a place where Jaskier would disappear to at night and then leave in the morning. Something private, sealed off to all guests.

After standing outside the door for a few long moments, Geralt knocks, expecting to hear the now-familiar tap-tap-tap of the dogs' claws along the floor because they're always the first ones to check, but gets no answer.

Feeling like he shouldn't be doing this, he tests the door handle, and it turns with no resistance.

The bedroom is just as big as he'd imagined, with a canopy bed lined with wine-red velvet and arch windows that let through the soft morning light. There are large paintings in golden frames hung on the walls, stacks of parchment and books on the table by one of the windows, a chandelier for what must be a hundred candles on the high ceiling.

It’s a gorgeous room.

But right now, Geralt can't quite concentrate on any of that, because all he can look at is the open door to the bathroom in the far end of the room. He can hear water splashing softly and then Jaskier's footsteps that he'd grown to recognise among all others.

His throat suddenly feels very dry, and he can't bring himself to say something, nor can he turn around and leave, giving the younger man his privacy. Instead, he just stands and watches, waiting for... he doesn't even know what, exactly.

Jaskier stays out of his field of vision for some time, murmuring some song under his breath, and when Geralt does finally see him, he's got his back to him, a silk dressing gown flowing down his body in waves.

For reasons that Geralt can only assume to be cruel fate, Jaskier keeps his robe off his shoulders, just a little above the line of his elbows, like a voluminous shawl. It covers his arms below the elbows, his lower back and his legs, providing some modesty, but after only seeing Jaskier in his silk shirts, barely any open skin, Geralt feels like all air had been sucked out of his lungs.

The half-discarded dressing gown provides Geralt with a perfect view of Jaskier's neck and shoulders, drops of water still shining on his beautiful pale skin, of the curve of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades that Geralt wishes he could follow with his lips and fingertips.

He can see the soft outlines of muscles, the little birthmark just above Jaskier’s right shoulder blade, just a few tones darker than his overall pale skin, the thin white scar on the curve of his left shoulder.

And there's something else, too. Something Geralt didn't expect but that looks so elegant on Jaskier's body that it causes little to no resonance in the witcher.

Right between Jaskier's shoulder blades, perfectly centred, his skin is adorned with a delicate, geometric design. It looks like white ink, just brighter, standing out against the skin, almost glowing in the low candlelight of the bathroom, and though Geralt's never seen anything like that before, it looks beautiful.

He'd only seen tattoos on Skellige and in Novigrad, but this one is so starkly different from all of those, so delicate and precise, that it feels like it doesn’t even belong to this realm. Unusual that a member of the royal family - legitimate or not - would have something like this but perhaps this is exactly what marks him as one? Hidden under all that silk, Geralt never would’ve known he had it if he hadn't seen it now. So how can he assume that other members of the ruling family don’t have one?

It’s way too late when it registers with him that he’d crossed the room already and is now only a few steps shy of the open bathroom door, unable to take his eyes off Jaskier.

Jaskier, on the other hand, seems completely aware of his presence.

“Did you want something?” he murmurs, completely unfazed as he brushes past Geralt and into the bedroom.

His hair is still wet from his bath, falling into his face in loose locks, the smell of pomegranate sweet and heady in the air, almost making Geralt’s head spin.

Jaskier’s collarbones are a sharp outline, the delicate skin stretched tight over them, and though Geralt’s always had a thing for it, he can feel a sharp spasm of pure lust somewhere deep in his abdomen from just how bad he wants to bite into them.

Without fully thinking his actions through, he catches Jaskier’s wrist and turns him around, so they’re face to face again. Jaskier gasps but doesn’t resist, his cornflower-blue eyes snapping up to meet Geralt’s.

His bare chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths, like he’s completely unbothered by the state he’s in, by Geralt seeing him like this.

“I was wondering if you were going to let yourself in if I leave the door unlocked,” he murmurs, taking another step towards the witcher, until there is no more space left between them. “If you came looking for me while I was still in the bath, what would you have done?”

He shifts, pressing his hips to Geralt’s thigh, and it resonates through the witcher’s entire body like lightning when he realises that under the thin silk of the dressing gown, Jaskier is completely naked.

“Would you have helped me with my hair?” the bard goes on, that same intoxicatingly sweet murmur. “Or would you have simply fucked me right there and then?”

And at that, Geralt snaps.

He grabs Jaskier’s thighs, lifting him from the floor, and sits him down impatiently onto a chest of drawers just behind his back, not even trying to bite back a growl when the bard wraps his legs around his hips, knees spread wide apart.

His dressing gown has more than enough fabric to keep him covered even like this, but Geralt’s head reels from knowing that it would only take one brush of his fingers to get it out of the way, letting the heavy silk slip down Jaskier’s thigh.

“You’re killing me,” Geralt growls, low and dangerous, leaning down to Jaskier’s ear, and he shudders in response.

Jaskier keeps his balance with one hand flat on the polished wood of the chest of drawers, but the other one is in Geralt’s hair almost immediately. He leans in unbearably close, his lips brushing over Geralt’s in a feather-light touch as he lets out a shaky breath.

“Then make me pay for it.”

At that moment, there is nothing that Geralt wants more than to kiss him, Jaskier’s lips parted and bite-swollen and right there.

But he’s leaving tomorrow morning.

And so instead of Jaskier’s lips, Geralt bites into his neck. He sinks his teeth into the tender skin right under the sharp of the bard’s jaw, where his scent is the strongest, and sucks a bruising, blood-red mark into it, making Jaskier arch his back and gasp the witcher’s name.

Geralt pulls back, for just a second, his gaze fixed on the fresh love-bite, standing out sharply against Jaskier’s pale, smooth skin, untouched by anything or anyone else. He looks owned, claimed, taken.

But it’s not nearly enough.

Geralt bites another bruising kiss right next to the first one, pressing his tongue to the fresh mark to both soothe the pain and make Jaskier even more sensitive. And then another one. And then another one.

He loses himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s skin, the sound of his voice, his gasps breaking off into soft whimpers when Geralt bites just a little too hard. In the scent of dried herbs and vanilla and pomegranate, only made sweeter by the intoxicating sweetness of lust.

Geralt leaves a scattered pattern of love-bites all the way down Jaskier’s neck, sucks three marks onto his collarbones, growling with pleasure, and he’s more than sure that there are going to be fresh bruises on the bard’s thighs from just how tight he’s still holding him.

Jaskier keeps him close with his ankles clasped behind Geralt’s back, his breathing deep and fast like he can’t get enough air. He looks unbearably gorgeous like this.

Geralt’s mind is hazy with lust and pleasure, his cock hard and throbbing under the now painfully-tight leather of his trousers, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is in the same state. His scent tells him everything he needs to know.

And it would be so easy, so fucking easy to just carry Jaskier over to the bed, undo the belt holding his dressing gown closed, and fuck him, tearing more of those beautiful whimpers from his chest.

But that would be a far greater mistake than the one that Geralt has already made.

He takes in as deep of a breath as his lungs allow him, and takes a step back, pressing one last desperate kiss to Jaskier’s neck, now covered in his marks.

Geralt doesn’t have anything to say for himself, but he doesn’t have to, for after just a few seconds of catching his breath, Jaskier grins at him victoriously, like it’s all a part of his little game and he’s not affected by it in the slightest.

“I’ll take that as the answer to the question of whether or not you would’ve fucked me if you’d gotten here a little sooner,” he murmurs.

Geralt doesn’t try to stop him when Jaskier jumps down from the dresser, adjusting the folds of his dressing gown. It’s more than hard to keep a hold on his self-control, and he fears that any touch could send it all to hell.

His heart is beating fast and hard in his chest, and he’s still painfully hard, but it brings him a sense of possessive satisfaction to see Jaskier’s neck and collarbones marked with his teeth. Those love-bites won’t fully fade for more than a week.

“Now, if you don’t have the intention of undressing me, I need to change,” Jaskier says, walking over to the wardrobes in the opposite corner.

Geralt watches his every move, still standing by the chest of drawers, not willing to risk it and close in the distance between them again. He wants to ask about the symbol on Jaskier’s back but it seems unfitting to bring that up now.

Jaskier picks out his clothes and takes them out of the wardrobe, already reaching for the belt on his dressing gown when he seems to notice Geralt’s gaze.

“I’m not giving you easy ways out, Witcher,” he grins, even as the belt starts to slowly give way. “Turn around.”

He clicks his tongue, and from somewhere under the furs and pillows on the bed, emerges Lucio that Geralt had not noticed before. Jaskier whistles to him and, when the dog jumps down from the bed to sit next to him, indicates at Geralt with a move of his head.

“Ambush, Lucio,” he says, never breaking eye contact with Geralt. “He’s a purebred hunting dog, Witcher. If you move as much as a fraction, he will let me know. Now turn around.”

For a lack of a better option, Geralt does.

He can hear the dressing gown fall to the floor in a soft whisper of silk, and knowing that Jaskier is right behind his back, completely naked and covered in his marks is making it hard to breathe. But Geralt can feel Lucio’s razor-sharp attention on him, and he knows that if he tries to get even the smallest look, Jaskier will immediately know about it, and the entire little game is going to be ruined.

No, he stays with his back to Jaskier the entire time he’s changing, forced to listen to his own quickened heartbeat, and it seems like an eternity has passed until Jaskier revokes his command and Lucio loses all interest in the witcher.

When Geralt finally turns around, he finds Jaskier wearing a black chemise with blood-red rose petals embroidered into the sleeves, the colour matching the love-bites on his neck almost perfectly.

Geralt hasn’t told him yet that he’s leaving tomorrow.

But gods, he’s going to miss him.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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ghost-in-the-hella · 4 years ago

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73. “I missed you.” Gideon/Harrow

Took me a bit to get my head around this one, but I think it worked out well enough in the end. Consider this an AU where the Emperor never summoned the heirs of the Houses and Gideon therefore successfully escaped to the Cohort. Contains some mild spoilers for Harrow the Ninth, I guess? Kind of?

---

In the opinion of Private First Class Gideon Nav - rising BARI star of the Cohort, dirty toenail of the Emperor, ladykiller in her own mind - closing time is the best time. As much as she loves the hustle and bustle of the mess hall during its peak hours - chatting up all the uniformed honeys, filling three or four elaborate orders at a time like the coffee rockstar that she is, showing off her sick coffee-slinging skillz with style and flair rivaled by none - there’s something soothing about the quiet at the end of her shift that speaks to her soul. The mess hall empty save for a handful of stragglers and night owls. The slow work of cleaning the machines. The pervasive near silence in which every move she makes echoes in the cavernous space.

It reminds her a bit of nights in Drearburh spent jogging in the recyc mist with only the sound of her own footsteps and breath for company, and enough time has passed since those lonesome nights that she can feel a tinge of nostalgia for them even as she internally celebrates her successful escape. She thinks of the Ninth House rarely enough these days that she can indulge in some light nostalgia without immediately feeling salty about the absolute shitshow that was her entire childhood and adolescence.

Gideon’s got her back to the counter, wiping out a portafilter and whistling a jaunty tune, when she hears someone step up to the counter. She’s about to tell her unfortunate customer that she’s all closed up for the night - technically she’s still got ten minutes on her shift, but she’s already cleaned out the coffee urns and wrapped up the pastries so seriously fuck off already - when she makes the mistake of turning around. She is immediately and viscerally reminded of the Ninth House again the second she locks eyes with the young woman before her, and it’s not just because she looks like a skeleton.

Harrowhark Nonagesimus looks different, of course. She’s almost a year older, for one thing. For another, her face isn’t covered with ten pounds of ancient paint, revealing an awkwardly ferrety visage that Gideon would hardly recognize if it weren’t for the bottomless black eyes in them and how deeply they stare into her golden ones. There are dark shadows under her deeply set eyes that render her face at least partly familiar, as they echo the sockets of a skull. Her mouth is pinched, as if the stick up her ass has finally penetrated all the way to her cranium and jammed her lips shut. Her nose is thin and sharp as a knife. Her chin looks like it would put someone’s eye out if they were fool enough to try to embrace her, assuming Harrow didn’t slit their throat first for the very attempt. She’s wearing Cohort whites rather than her familiar billowing black vestments, and the uniform makes her look sallow and somehow even more painfully thin.

“Griddle,” she says before Gideon can start to wonder if she’s somehow stumbled into an alternate reality. For how different she looks, clearly Harrow hasn’t changed. Gideon rolls her eyes and returns her attention to the portafilter. “Is this how you treat all of your customers?”

Beneath her typically peevish tone there’s something unfamiliar in Harrow’s voice, something it takes Gideon a good twenty seconds to decipher. Holy shit, Harrow’s nervous. Gideon’s seen Harrow be nervous before, but previously it’s always been buried under considerably more makeup and Gideon generally hasn’t been the cause of it.

“Customer, huh? Sorry, I naturally assumed you were here just to make my life hell again. Drag me back to Drearburh kicking and screaming, something like that. I didn’t think you might actually be here for a cup of coffee.”

“Yes, well, as usual you are mistaken. I was informed that on this deck’s mess hall I would be able to find a coffee adept who’s considered something of a genius with BARI. I certainly didn’t expect it to be you. I thought surely you’d be on the front lines on some distant planet by now.”

Gideon scoffs. “You don’t expect me to believe you joined the Cohort just to get a decent cup of coffee, do you? I mean, I know it’s all ice cold sludge on the Ninth, but damn, girl.” She fetches a porcelain mug (the darkest one she can find: it’s charcoal gray, but that’ll have to do) despite the fact that Harrow has yet to place anything remotely resembling an order and begins preparing her special extra-dark brew. It’s bitter enough that it’s unlikely to overwhelm Harrow’s stunted palette, and she should appreciate its blackness.

“Of course I didn’t join for the coffee,” Harrow snaps. It’s funny: her face is much more expressive without her skull paint, but Gideon finds it harder to read. “If I’d known you were the so-called BARI star the others keep rattling on about, I wouldn’t have bothered with coffee at all. I was lured into a false sense of security by the word ‘genius.’”

Gideon grins smugly as she flips the mug expertly into place in a daredevil move that usually earns her at least a smile if not a room number. “I guess some folks appreciate my brilliance.” She braces the triple-shot portafilter against the counter with one arm and effortlessly tamps the espresso grounds with the other.

Harrow scowls, and it nearly makes Gideon homesick. “Your brilliance remains to be seen.”

Gideon locks the portafilter into place and hits the brew button, counting off the seconds in her head. “That’s fine; you’ll taste it soon enough.” As the espresso streams beautifully into the mug, Gideon adds a liberal sprinkle from the jar she’s marked Gideon’s Special Dark Mixture of Doom and Ecstasy.

“I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you here so long after your… departure from the Ninth. I assumed you would have been deployed by now.”

“I was,” Gideon says with a shrug as she flicks the espresso machine off, trying not to sound butthurt about it. “Served for nearly a week before I got injured. Caught a leg full of shrapnel defending my commanding officer. I wanted to stay in the field - it was only a damn limp - but they didn’t want to risk me losing the leg to infection.” She removes the portafilter and bangs the wet grounds out into the garbage. “They started me behind the counter here while I was recuperating, found I had a knack for it, and I haven’t been redeployed since.”

Harrow’s face cycles through several dozen expressions that Gideon can’t quite parse before settling on ‘carefully neutral.’ “How is your leg now?”

Gideon stirs the brew with a wooden swizzle stick to help the BARI blend dissolve. “I’ve got some gnarly scarring, but it only hurts first thing in the morning.” And by the end of her shift most days. And if she walks too much, or stands too much, or sits too much. “Don’t worry, though; I look even hotter with the scars.” Gideon winks while Harrow groans, and for a moment feels like old times. She sets the steaming, fragrant mug down in front of Harrow. “So. What’s your story? I didn’t think anything short of a summons from the Emperor Undying himself would lure you out of Drearburh.”

Harrow eyes the drink as if she expects it to bite her. “I have no story,” she says without affect. “I am here to bring honor to my House.”

Gideon wipes the portafilter with the rag at her hip and locks it back into the machine, then hits the brew button to run hot water through it. “That’s some classic Harrowhark Nonagesimus evasive bullshit if I ever heard it. Why are you really here? The congregation finally all die out?” She jabs the button again and the water dribbles to a halt. “Oh, shit, did they finally figure out about your parents??”

“No and no,” Harrow says firmly. She leans in and gives the cup an experimental sniff. “I have simply decided that I can serve my House better as a Cohort necromancer than as the Reverend Daughter. What better way to disseminate the gospel of the Ninth and expand our congregation than by showing the universe what the Ninth House is capable of.” She attempts to take a sip of her drink and promptly scalds her mouth.

“Careful, it’s hot.” Gideon studies her and shakes her head. “Y’know, you almost had me, but no. Maybe that’s how you rationalize it to Crux and Aiglamene, and maybe even to yourself, but that’s not why you enlisted.”

Harrow looks strangely vulnerable with her pale and naked face and her seared lips. “Would you believe I wanted to test my mettle and prove that I am indeed the greatest necromancer of my generation on the field of battle?”

“No,” Gideon replies bluntly. Harrow’s studying the steaming beverage like she can’t figure out how to drink it without injury, and she probably really can’t. Gideon still remembers how steep her learning curve was when she first encountered hot drinks after nearly two decades of nothing but cold. “Here,” she says, taking pity on her old nemesis. “You’ve got to blow on it to cool it off. Like this.” She bends and purses her lips, cascading cool air over the surface of the hot BARI drink.

The outer edges of Harrow’s ears turn pink. Gideon realizes all at once that Harrow’s not looking at her like she’s a nemesis at all. If Gideon had to classify the look Harrow’s giving her, it’s more akin to how the handful of fellow Cohort recruits she’s hooked up with since enlisting looked at her right before they hooked up. The idea of that look coming from Harrowhark of all people makes her palms sweat. “Harrow,” she says tenderly, as one peels the hard rind from a soft fruit, “Why did you join the Cohort, really?”

Harrow worries her lower lip between her sharp, bone-white teeth until it starts to tear and bleed. “I missed you,” she confesses, dredging the words up painfully like vomit.

Gideon nods as if this were a perfectly normal and comprehensible thing for her oldest - and only, really - enemy to say and not the most unfathomable thing she’s heard in her entire life. “You should aim better next time.”

Harrow turns livid at that. Rather than using her words like a normal human being (because when has Harrow ever done anything like a normal human being?), she snatches up her mug with the expression of someone who’s just taken a step out onto a tightrope only to end up tredding in flaming dogshit. She pivots with a dramatic whirl that doesn’t quite work without her flowing black robes and takes a sip of her coffee as she goes. She stops short and her eyes widen in the universal expression of ‘holy fuck that’s way more delicious than I expected.’

Gideon grins as she heaves herself up onto the counter, sliding across and landing lightly on the other side in a super cool move that would sweep any girl off her feet (even if the girl in question were a dessicated bone witch). “Oh, fuckin’ get over here,” she says, pulling Harrow into a hug that nearly causes her to drop her mug in alarm. “I missed you, too.”

#prompt fill #prompt fic #fanfic #prompt ghost #ghost writes #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #gideon nav #harrowhark nonagesimus #griddlehark #coffeehouse AU #Cohort AU

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dsudis · 4 years ago

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what's the going rate on Extra Thoughts™ in the Linens-verse setting? if you have more floating around the top of your head I'll happily eat them all up, but I understand that you may have more current (and unrelated) thoughts/interests. either way, thank you for my Eskel/Geralt life

oh man, am I allowed to barter Extra Thoughts for things? Usually it’s more of an effort toward, like, not unleashing them constantly all over everyone. I have a migraine but also don’t want to go to bed yet so I’ve got my green safety glasses on and I can look at my computer, LET’S SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I START WRITING DOWN A FEW LITTLE THOUGHTS

- The story I actually have on my list of things to write Next, someday, when my ability to write more than a thousand words a week returns from the war, is a fairly direct follow-up to The Trial of Lambert: it’s what happens when the rest of the wintering witchers find out that Geralt may still be up for getting fucked. (For a minute I was like, oh no, this will lead to a loss of status and they will all respect him less, and then I realized that no, that is not what they think, they will all just be like PLAY TIME WITH LITTLE WOLF REDUX??? YES PLEASE??? KAER MORHEN’S REIGNING CHAMPION MOST ENTHUSIASTIC BOTTOM IS BACK IN ACTION???) So, uh, yeah, that one is summarized on the list as “KM winter gangbang feat. Jens/Slava” which means that Jens and Slava are just sort of hanging out on the edge of the gangbang, enjoying the show--it’s a very pleasant party, everyone is having a good time even if Geralt is having the very best time--and once in a while Jens reaches over as-if-absently to pet Slava’s hair or shoulder or neck and Slava holds very, very still and pretends not to notice.

- Jens and Slava, incidentally, are not at Kaer Morhen during the massacre, although the other witchers also never heard from them again afterward. They just sort of... went away somewhere. Somewhere quiet. They have an orchard. You can do a lot with fruit trees when your natural lifespan is three hundred years and your other main project is spending several decades working on being able to snuggle. They are patient men.

- Their neighbors are fully aware of what they are and will vigorously deny it to anyone who asks. Those are THEIR nice neighbor fellas who grow peaches and incidentally Handle Other Problems that may arise in the vicinity, and they handle them very well (and grow very nice peaches) so the villagers aren’t having ANYBODY interfere with them.

- Where was I.

- Oh yeah, uh, fairly mild video game spoilers (which are also possibly Netflix spoilers?) incoming!! read at your own risk!

- RIGHT so hey guess who had the actual undisputed #1 saddest and sweetest Trial of the Linens ever in the history of the Wolf School. LEO. (haha what you’ve never heard of Leo?? He’s a very important character in the first Witcher game for about half an hour or however long it takes you to get to the part where he dies in front of you, it’s very sad.) But like--Geralt’s gone, either trying to keep Ciri safe or dead, and Vesemir, feeling the empty nest with Ciri gone, somehow acquires this teenager who wants to train to be a witcher despite the fact that they can’t really MAKE witchers anymore, so he brings him to Kaer Morhen and starts training him, and Lambert and Eskel come home as much as they can manage to help out, and, well. There’s one old-fashioned Trial they can give him, and maybe it’s more important than ever, to get to know and love their new little brother, and to teach him to be one of them. It’s the first time Lambert ever takes a trainee to bed. And then he dies! So that works out great. Lambert is in no way traumatized by that. More than he already was.

- Intergenerational witcher trauma: sometimes it flows both ways!!

- Of course before Leo there was ANOTHER little baby kinda-sorta trainee, and that was CIRI. And one day they’re talking to her about the Trials and kinda telling her how awful they all were and then all of a sudden Geralt and Lambert and Eskel all, simultaneously, remember The Other Trial and their brains short out thinking of it in the context of Ciri. She is very confused but accepts their explanation, once they boot back up, that they just have some really bad memories and don’t want to talk about it anymore today.

- The thing is, the actually logical person to give Ciri a Trial of the Linens, if she were to have one, would be Triss. Lambert works this out and it’s solidly 80% of why he’s an asshole to Triss for literally decades afterward, like holding a grudge against someone for something they did in a dream you had one time and never even told them about.

- One of the mercies of his amnesia is that Geralt forgets having had this set of realizations, except then his memory comes back and he HAS THEM ALL OVER AGAIN, which is probably worse.

#asked and answered #the witcher #the trial of the linens #linens-verse #there is a decent probability that i will actually write at least one of these at some point #as decent as the probability of me ever writing anything anyway #migraines are the worst you guys #but hey i did plink out two sentences before getting really ambitious and writing a tumblr post!!#takingoffmyshoes

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wonderlustlucas · 5 years ago

Text

i hemoglobin you - byun baekhyun

⇢ prompt “Yeah, but Baekhyun doesn’t really talk romantics with me.” ⇢ pairing baekhyun x gender neutral reader ⇢ word count 4.8k ⇢ genre fluff ⇢ warnings swearing. kinda descriptive when it comes to the actual needle idk i’m bad at warnings if needles make u uncomfy don’t read. ⇢ summary You’d think, after some time, your crush on the annoying little shit named Byun Baekhyun would fade away. Fortunately for him (and you), falling out of love with someone brighter than a star is near impossible. Plus, needles are scary and even med kids need their hand held sometimes. Alternatively: Junmyeon found dead in a ditch.—friends to lovers!au ; college blood drive!au ⇢ a/n ok yes i realize this is an odd setting for fanfiction but like,,, my school had a blood drive & what happens in this is exactly what i experienced, minus the whole crush revealing they like me with a kiss thing. so i decided to WRITE IT OKAY?! also, i really tried to make this gender, color, absolutely everything reader neutral but then when i was editing i saw the nurse call y/n ‘miss’ so if i missed anything pls lmk so i can edit it!!! thank u & i hope u enjoy ♥︎

If it weren’t for that time you tried anal with your ex-boyfriend back in high school, you’d consider Byun Baekhyun to be the biggest pain in your ass. If asked, you definitely could come up with a hefty list of all the things about him that annoy the living daylights out of you, things from the unnecessary high volume of his voice to the time he introduced himself as “Bacon” on the first day of your internship at the hospital.

Truthfully, however, it all comes down to one certain realization: seeing Baekhyun’s stupidly cute smile has become the sole thing you look forward to everyday. For the first two years at university, you did not know Byun Baekhyun. You knew of him. As fate would have it, you were bound to meet at some point with an undergraduate enrollment of around four thousand, and your sanity began its downward tumble the third week of junior year.

At the time, you couldn’t quite put your finger on why he left such a sour taste in your mouth. From a distance, he was a star; this great, big bundle of sunshine and joy, full of life and spirit and in the eyes of someone as mild-mannered as yourself, he was magnificent and everything you wished you were. But, once the barrier between you fell and your relationship swiftly jumped from strangers to friends, you realized just how polar opposite you were. Always going out of his way to meet new people and a little too chaotic for you personally, Baekhyun draws attention to himself without even trying. And you can’t blame him— it’s hard to go unnoticed when you prance around with a thousand-watt smile and the energy of a three-month-old golden retriever.

Sometimes, you wished he had chosen one of the arts as his major rather than health sciences.

Nevertheless, it is hard to ignore such an innocently beautiful soul such as Baekhyun. No matter how many times you told yourself to find a new lab partner, no matter how many countless nights you found yourself rolling out of bed, bundled up in your blankets and into the cold hallway of your residence hall to knock on Park Chanyeol’s door and tell him to open the window for his frost-bitten roommate hiding in the bushes, no matter how many this or how many that’s, you couldn’t help but fall in love with the friendship and chaos that came with Byun Baekhyun.

If it weren’t for that time you tried anal with your ex-boyfriend back in high school, you’d consider Byun Baekhyun to be the love of your life.

“Absolutely not,” you interrupt, looking up from your clipboard in order to search the crowd for the younger boy. Baekhyun groans, wrapping his arms around your waist and dropping his head on your shoulder. “C’mon, ___. He’s fine, you know Sehun.” He whines, adding a drawn-out ‘please’ against your ear. It makes your stomach sink for reasons you’d rather not disclose.

“Baek,” you scoff, wiggling out of his grip despite his best efforts of keeping you against him, “are you serious? Sehun quite possibly may be the smallest person in this room. He needs to rest.”

“He’s twenty pounds heavier than me!”

“Taller, too.”

“___,” he groans, crossing his arms over his chest and mustering his best straight face. It makes you laugh.

“I’m not arguing with you. He did Power Red; he’s not going anywhere. If he didn’t want to miss chem, then he should have made his appointment later. It’s one class. He’ll be fine.”

“Why must you be so stubborn?” Baekhyun sighs in defeat, combing muted silver hair away from his forehead. Your eyes follow the movement, distracted for hardly a second, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I learned it from you,” you smile, nudging his arm with your elbow. The signature tilted smirk returns. “Tell Sehun I’m sorry, but I—well, we—can’t risk letting him leave. He could have a delayed effect and end up passed out in the staircase. Twenty more minutes and he can go.”

“I get it,” he hums, snatching the tentative schedule out of your hands before you can even protest. For as rash as he may be, Baekhyun is not dumb. And even if he was, he knows that when you are as unrelenting as you are now, there’s no point in arguing. “I think I’m gonna try and donate.”

“What?” You exclaim, maybe a little too loud if all the Red Cross employees shooting annoyed glares your way is anything to go by. Baekhyun truly is started to rub off on you. “I thought you were scared of needles?”

“Heights, ___,” he scoffs, “needles aren’t my favorite, but if I’m going to eventually put them in other people, I better get used to them for myself.” As he explains, he rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and presses at the soft skin on the inside of his arm before stretching it out for your examination. “I mean,” you hum, holding him still and feeling around for a thick enough vein, “you definitely have the veins. Do you want me to hold your hand?” You sing the last part cutely, lips puckered out at him.

“Will you? Since Sehun has to stay over there, I have no one else,” Baekhyun retorts, using your previous resolve to his advantage. You can’t tell if he’s oblivious or simply choosing to ignore your mockery. Rolling your eyes, you drop his arm and reach for your clipboard, tearing it out of his grasp. “Don’t you have anything else better to do than annoy me? Aren’t you supposed to be watching the donors?”

“Well, yes, but—”

Baekhyun starts, trailing behind you before the shout of his name promptly cuts him off. “Baekhyun! Can you help Jongdae carry in more water?” See, precisely as you were saying.

“But I like annoying you,” he pouts, hugging onto your arm and holding on tight. “Sorry, Baek,” you offer, feelings in shambles because 1) he is so cute you could cry but 2) he’s really distracting and now you finally will be able to focus, at least while he’s gone. Frowning, he releases your arm at last, combing his hair back and once again, you feel like throwing up.

“Go see if you can donate when you’re done,” you remind him, nodding toward the rather quiet donor room. “Yeah, I will. Wish me luck,” Baekhyun grins, blowing you a kiss. Without a second thought, you blow one back.

You have begun walking on an incredibly unstable rope, you realize, the thin line distinguishing the way you look at Baekhyun diminishing each and every day. On one side, he is simply your friend, your lab partner, a coworker of sorts. Comrades working toward the same goal, and once it’s reached, you go your separate ways. But on the other hand, he is much more than that. Now that you no longer live on campus, days spent bullshitting in the dining hall or dorms over, you most certainly do not spend as much time together.

And yet, nothing has changed. Except for your feelings, of course. This time last year, you were minding your own damn business when Chanyeol had to go and mention how much time Baekhyun spends with you instead of him. “Sorry?” You had offered, unsure of what the crease in his brow meant.

“No… don’t be sorry,” he hummed, deep in thought and stabbing at his salad in disinterest, “not to be blunt, but he usually bounces from person to person each week. He’s been sticking to you for, what, six months? Something is up.”

“Don’t you live with him?” You asked, confused. What was he getting at here?

“Yeah, but Baekhyun doesn’t really talk romantics with me.”

“Romantics?” You exclaimed, spit flying from your lips. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice.

“He definitely likes you. God, it all makes sense now! Okay, I need to do some interrogating,” suddenly rushing, Chanyeol was up and swinging his bag over his shoulder before you could blink an eye. “See ya, ___!”

“Wait!” You yelled out for him, but the obnoxiously tall boy just kept running, dodging students meandering around the dining hall. Slumping in your chair, you eventually turned to look out the window, watching as he continued his flight across campus. “Good talk.”

Nothing ever came up afterward. No answers, no clarifications, nada. Chanyeol never brought it up again, despite the expectant raise of your brows the next lunch you had alone with him. You were content shrugging it off— it was out of your hands. If Baekhyun liked you, so be it.

Or so you thought. Turns out, having such unanswered questions dangling over your head every time Baekhyun left his friends for you at parties, fell asleep with his head on your shoulder during chem, or arrived at your front door with your favorite boba in hand just because he ‘was driving by’ left your mind racing almost as fast as your heart. You thought, for some time, that you could dodge such budding emotions by countering it with all the things you didn’t like about Baekhyun. (Spoiler: it didn’t work.)

Even now, as you watch him catch up with Jongdae, the left side of your brain has already begun arguing with the right. You miss his annoying ass already, one side points out. But he was a distraction, now you have double the students to check in, the other reasons. With a heavy sigh, you shake your head to rid such enraging thoughts and turn to said students, counting each one before making your way to the first in line.

He can’t donate. You realize this before he has even left his seat.

From across the gymnasium, you have continued glancing his way as he went through the mini physical. Just before the finger prick, he shot you a thumbs up and a beaming smile bright enough to challenge the Sun before jerking in his seat at the sudden pinch. Laughing, the grin you returned has not even left your face before his shoulders are sagging, a cloud of disappointment replacing the anxious excitement that was there hardly ten seconds ago. Your smile is gone just as quickly as his.

Standing, Baekhyun nods one last time to the nurse before making his way over, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side. “Low iron?” You guess, opening your arms for him to nestle into your side like the little munchkin he is. “Yeah,” he mumbles, miserable, and you cringe knowing he’s going to be like this all day now. “I wish I could donate, but…” You drone emptily, trying to change the subject despite the deceitfulness of your ‘wish.’ Over your dead body would you lie on one of those tables and have a harpoon in your arm.

“You should, now that I can’t,” he hums, breath warm on your skin. Convincing as snuggly Baekhyun is, it’s not happening. “Yeah, I’ll pass,” you snort, offering a faux smile to a group of sophomore girls making their way in, shooting confused and envious glances your way. “Make sure to grab a water before starting your Rapid Pass, ladies. If you have not eaten much today, there are snacks by Katie,” you spew, pointing to said girl across the room, “if you have any questions, let me know.” With one last feeble smile, you turn your back to them because, well, it’s awkward facing multiple females whose eyes are trained solely on the boy clinging to you.

“You’re hot when your all doctor,” Baekhyun whispers, lips brushing ever so softly against your collarbone. Suddenly, you regret taking your sweatshirt off during lunch. Swallowing past the panic rising in your throat, you scoff. “Doctor? What doctor are you seeing that directs their patients toward donuts, muffins, danishes—”

“Hot ones, I guess,” he interrupts, smirking against your skin. “Ooooh ‘kay,” you wheeze, heart racing and eyes wide as you wiggle away from him, “y’know, maybe I will donate. Just so you stop bugging me.” Gasping, Baekhyun fakes a bullet to the heart. “Ah, but here’s the thing,” he counters, following close behind as you make your way to the front table, “my job is to distract donors from the needle, hold their hand, tell them ‘good job!’ So, it looks like you’re stuck with me.”

Groaning, you choose to ignore the inexhaustible boy and smile to Lauren once you have reached her. “Do you know if anyone can cover for me for a little? I’m going to try and donate.”

Gasping, she ruffles through the papers spread about her for the volunteer log. Then, “You should be fine. After those girls, the next appointment isn’t until two. I thought you hated this whole concept?”

Snorting, you pull one of the laptops towards you and begin filling out the information needed for a walk-in. “Yeah, well,” tilting your head in Baekhyun’s direction, you sigh, “he couldn’t donate, so now I feel obligated to. Plus, I need a break.”

“Ah,” Lauren hums, writing your name and ‘Walk-In’ on a sticker before passing it to you, “are you guys…?”

Immediately catching what she is hinting at, you jump up from your knelt position and quickly return to your station. “Nope! Negative! Okay, bye Lauren! Thanks!” Laughing, she chooses to ignore your antics, watching after you with a knowing smile when Baekhyun realizes you have left and scrambles to catch up.

You’re hoping you won’t be eligible since you left the country for vacation with your family nine months ago.

Never mind. It’s fine.

Perhaps your heart rate will be too high. You’re pretty anxious, after all.

84. Shit.

You flinch when the quiet-mannered nurse pricks your ring finger. Praying that your iron will be too low, you lean forward in your seat just enough to see the machine’s reading. 13.4. Fuck.

“Alright, I’m just gonna need you to read this first paragraph and sign here,” she directs you, using a pen to point at each spot. When she stands to wave for the next potential donor, you glance up to search for Baekhyun. You could use one of his smiles right about now.

And what you ask for, you receive. Finding your gaze instantaneously, he shoots you bright, encouraging grin and a thumbs up. It’s enough to calm your nerves. A little.

Offering an uncomfortable smile back, you return to your paperwork and hurriedly finish up, your leg bouncing ceaselessly. “All done?” The nurse returns, smiling softly at you and taking the papers when you nod. “You can head over to the third table in the middle.” “Okie,” you squeak, nice, “thank you!”

Good god, what happened to never allowing one of these needles to go in your arm? Sure, you have had blood tests done before, Hell, you have even given someone else one! But this… this is different. This is no ordinary needle, and you certainly do not have Byun Baekhyun veins.

“How are you doing today?” The Red Cross worker greets you once you have reached the table, smile warm and comforting. Seoyeon, her nametag reads. “I’m, ah… I’ve been better, honestly,” your voice comes out shaky and weak. You cringe. Going to med school and you’re whining over a needle. A big, fat, wide needle that will stay in your arm for more than five minutes. “Aw, no! Why’s that?” Seoyeon pouts, shuffling through your papers and slapping a big sticker onto the bag your blood, eventually, will fill.

“I have pretty tiny veins, so I’m really nervous this isn’t going to go well for me,” you admit, artfully rolling the sleeves of your tee even higher. Humming as she finishes carrying over the rest of the equipment, Seoyeon helps you onto the cushioned table before standing beside you, reaching for your arms. “Well,” she starts, brushing over each one for a few seconds before tying a tourniquet around your right bicep, “lucky for you, we do in fact check to make sure your veins are big enough. Hansol, can you double-check that this is alright?”

Your nerves seemingly do not know how to feel at the given moment. On one hand, these are professionals. They know what they’re doing. Plus, Seoyeon is lovely and has certainly eased your anxiety. Nevertheless, you realize that if your veins are okay, that needle is going to be in you in minutes.

This Hansol skirts around the table to feel the two veins Seoyeon has gone back and forth prodding. “Hm,” he grunts, pressing harder on the vein set deeper beneath your skin, “this one is good.” Oh, Christ. “Okay! Thanks,” Seoyeon smiles, then, once he has left her side, “you can lie back this way, sweetie.”

“Okay,” you sigh, settling back and resting your head on the pillow. Unsure of how to situate yourself, you awkwardly cross your legs and nestle your left arm into the pockets of your joggers, right arm dangling over the edge of the table. Then, just as you have closed your eyes, “___!”

Oh, good. This should be interesting. “Hey, Baek,” you smile at the boy as he jogs over, stopping on your left side. “You made it! No backing out now, right?”

“No, no. I’m praying for the best,” you hum, turning away from him to look straight up at the ceiling as Seoyeon begins sanitizing your arm. “You’re gonna be fine,” Baekhyun sings, tugging your hand out of your pocket to intertwine his fingers with yours, “if Sehun could do it, so can you.”

“I’m just marking where your vein is, no need to tense up,” Seoyeon interrupts, chuckling at how easily your posture has gone rigid at the sensation. Funny, how you only tensed up because of Baekhyun’s tender gesture. “I know I’ll be okay, I just,” anxiously licking the desert-dryness of your lips, you once again turn to Baekhyun, “I’m not looking forward to feeling this thing in my arm for ten minutes.”

“Nah,” he giggles, thumb swiping back and forth against your skin, “I’ll distract you!” Yeah, well you do that every day anyway, you snort to yourself, shamelessly taking advantage of the moment and scanning over his features, zoning in on the pinkness of his lips and the tiny moles sprinkled about his face. From this angle, even the shitty LED lighting of the gym somehow makes him look immaculate. “Alright, I’m going to count down from three,” Seoyeon interrupts your gawking, though you haven’t really processed her words until she’s on two. “One…” She utters, and you are instantly squeezing your eyes closed just as hard as your squeezing Baekhyun’s hand as the needle first breaks skin.

“Oh, shit,” you heave once it’s completely sheathed, rolling the plastic grip anxiously in your increasingly sweaty hand, “that actually wasn’t so bad.” Now that Baekhyun has moved to stand directly behind your head, you stare straight up at him and muster your best smile. Really— it was not as bad as you imagined, felt just like regular blood work. As long as you don’t focus too much on it remaining in your arm, you’ll be fine.

“See! I knew you could do it,” he cheers, letting go of your free hand in favor of combing his fingers through your hair. “Ooh,” you quite literally purr, leaning your head back to give him further access, “so, Mr. This-Is-My-Job, is this how you distract donors?” Chuckling, Baekhyun continues to comb through the knots that have accumulated throughout the day. “No,” he admits, “I usually just talk to them about what they did over the weekend. You’re an exception, though.”

Christ, you hope he can’t feel the way your face heats up at his words. “Ah, well, this is great. Thanks, Baek,” humming, you cannot help but let your eyelids fall closed. Peak comfort when you're donating blood? Not what you would have expected.

“So, what did you do this weekend?”

“Well, I went to Target, which was kind of disappointing.”

“Oh, yeah! Didn’t I see on your story that you only got one pair of pants or something?”

“Yeah! Crazy, honestly. I needed to pick up some things and they were completely out. Even their clothes were kind of slacking.” Before he can reply, Seoyeon returns to check up on you. Gasping in surprise, she gives your shoulder a congratulatory nudge. “___! Look at you! You’ve already filled up a fourth of the bag.”

“Oh shit, really?” Laughing, you try to lean up in order to see, but there’s no use. “Have you been drinking a lot of water today?” She asks. Well, now that you think about it… “Huh. I guess I have. Nice.” Chuckling, she fiddles with the tape holding the needle in place before turning away once more.

“So,” Baekhyun starts conversation up once more, “did you do anything else?”

“I hung out with Junmyeon on Sunday again.” Suddenly, you wish you didn’t tell him that.

“Oh,” Baekhyun coughs, accidentally yanking too hard on the tiny braid he’s attempted by your temple, “how was that?”

“It was fun. He’s a great guy…” Clearly, you are hesitant and he easily catches it. “But…?”

“I don’t know,” he’s not you, “I feel really immature and lame compared to him. He’s like, super chill and polite and somehow, it makes me nervous and then I act like I’m on crack. He needs someone older than him, not younger. A lawyer, or something.”

“___, you’re getting a degree in Neuroscience. What the fuck is lame about that?” Baekhyun scoffs, undoing the braid and starting over on the other side. “I don’t know! I guess I just don’t have romantic feelings for him. Everyone keeps pushing me to go for it and he really is amazing, but… it’s just not what I want.”

“No one’s forcing you to date him, ___.”

Well, yeah, but he doesn’t know the bit where your friends are doing it so you can get over a certain someone else. “I know. I think he’ll be fine when I tell him I just want to be friends.”

When a heavy silence falls over you, you rush to change the topic. “So! What did you do this weekend?”

“I played New Horizons,” Baekhyun chuckles, giving up on the braid and going back to simply combing through your hair. When you laugh, you feel the vibration in your arm and realize with another wave of surprise that you still have a needle in you. Damn, looks like you’re a pro at this. Who knew!

“All weekend?” You snort. He definitely went out for drinks with Chanyeol or something.

“Yes, sadly,” oh, never mind, “I couldn’t help it. It’s so relaxing. I can’t wait to go home and play.” He sounds ashamed. “Hey,” you shrug, “sometimes we need a mental health day. Or weekend.”

“Or week.”

“Month?”

“Year, I’m thinking.”

In the midst of your giggle fit, Seoyeon returns, evidently shutting the two of you up. “You’re all done! I just have to take a few tubes and then I’ll tell you when I’m going to take the needle out.”

“Wow, was it just me or did that seem really quick?” Baekhyun asks, frantically moving to hold your hand when he notices you wince at the uncomfortable feel of the needle moving slightly as Seoyeon fills each tube. “No, you’re right,” she hums, “six minutes! Wasn’t so bad, right?”

“Not at all,” you agree, blinking up at the ceiling. Still, you can’t wait to be done. “You sure? Your hand is shaking really bad,” Baekhyun murmurs, hovering directly above your face. He looks funny, messy hair cascading around him and cheeks looking extra squishy. It makes you smile. “Yeah, just nervous for it to come out, actually. Feel like it’s gonna hurt,” you admit, accidentally squeezing his hand when all Seoyeon does is remove the tape on your wrist keeping the line in place.

“Alright, you ready? It’s just going to a be a little pinch,” Seoyeon interrupts, giving your fingertips a reassuring squeeze. “Yeah,” you hum, instinctively sucking in a deep breath and squeezing your eyes shut.

The sensation that first registers in your brain is not that of Seoyeon slowly withdrawing the needle from beneath your skin. Actually, it’s unnoticeable behind the gentle pressure lingering upon your lips, soft to touch and minty in taste. Blistex, you recognize, eyes flying open just in time to see Baekhyun leaning back up. “Did you just—”

“Alright, keep pressure on this for me and keep your arm straight up,” Seoyeon interjects, oblivious to what just transpired as she presses a hefty square of gauze to your skin. You oblige, brain cells going haywire still trying to piece together the fact that Byun Baekhyun just kissed you.

“Do you do that to everyone?” Is the first thing you blurt to the grinning boy, who, surprisingly so, wears cheeks just as rosy as yours. “No,” he laughs, moving to the side and continuing to stroke you hand, “just donors named ___.”

“Oh,” wrinkling your nose, you slowly lean upright once Seoyeon instructs you to do so, “can I ask why or am I just special?” When she busies herself for few moments cleaning up all of the equipment, Baekhyun releases your hand in order to cup your face with both hands. “Well, of course you’re special,” he murmurs, thumbs swiping against your jaw, “but I figured this was a good opportunity to show you how much I like you.”

It takes a fat second for you to realize what he’s just said. Like you?

“I’m gonna kill him,” you groan, definitely not the response he was expecting if the way he retracts is anything to go by. “Kill who?”

“Chanyeol! Like, a year ago he went all detective mode on me trying to figure out if you liked me, but then he never said anything again, so for the past year I’ve been going nuts trying not to fall for you because I figured if he had nothing to say, you probably didn’t like me like that, yet here we are a year later and—”

In the midst of your mindless babbling, Seoyeon coughs, promptly shutting you up and you turn to her with a wince. “I just need to wrap you up, then you can head over to Recovery,” her attempt to hide her smile is futile but you don’t comment on it, instead allowing her to wrap elastic tape around your elbow. “Leave this on for about an hour, or you can take it off after twenty minutes. Other than that, you’re good to go!”

“Thanks so much, Seoyeon,” smiling appreciatively at her, you slowly turn to slide off the table with the help of her grip on your other arm. Before you are even fully upright, Baekhyun has rounded the table to help, slipping his arm between yours. Honestly, you feel perfectly fine, but you’re not about to go arguing right now. Once he starts leading the two of you toward Recovery, he breaks the silence once more. “So, were you finished back there, or can I talk?”

Cringing, you shake your head, avoiding looking him in the eyes. “No, I’m done.”

“Good,” at this, you pinch his arm, “Chanyeol didn’t say anything because I told him not to.” Baekhyun shushes you when your mouth opens to argue. “I thought I would make a move a lot sooner. But every time I went to, I just started panicking thinking you didn’t feel the same, because, y’know, you don’t show much emotion. And then you started hanging out with Junmyeon… but that doesn’t seem to be working out, so I decided to wing it.”

Your jaw certainly must be on the floor. Stopping by the snacks, Baekhyun releases your arm so you can fill your hands with a donut, apple juice, and a bag of Cheez-Its. “Glad to see we’re both airheads,” you grumble with a mouthful of donut, “I say we blame Chanyeol.” Making sure you safely seat yourself onto the mats spread around the room, Baekhyun then joins and sits crisscross across from you. “I agree. It’s his fault.”

Then, once you have stopped laughing, Baekhyun leans in close, face centimeters from yours and evidently stealing all the air from your lungs. God, he sure is beautiful. “This means you’ll go out with me, right?” He whispers, wiping away a sprinkle that has managed to stick itself to the corner of your lips.

“I thought you were going to play New Horizons when you got home?” You tease, raising one arm to sling across his shoulders. Groaning, he finally cups your face in his hands, strawberry pink lips ever so slightly brushing yours as his smirk deepens. “I am, but you can come watch.”

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buckstaposition · 4 years ago

Text

I cling to your lips like gloss (3)

a Javier Peña x OFC story

also on AO3

author: @youhavereachedtheendofpie 👋

tags&warnings: spoilers for season 3, wonky timelines & odd pacing, drinking, swearing, mentions of sex work, mentions of canon-typical violence, Miss Salome is back!, some mild domesticity, partial nudity, a lil’ bit of sexual & romantic tension, soft&protective!Javi today tomorrow and forever

words: 8906 🙃🤡🙃🤡

summary: “The United States government is buying you a dress because you being at that party is of strategic importance to this investigation.”

Author’s note: Thank you SO SO much everyone who read, reblogged, and commented! It means so much to me and I want you to know that I read those comments and reviews at least every other day

Also this chapter was originally going to feature more as I was planning to move into the actual plot of the season, but then it just got longer and longer and I wanted to keep it under 10k words so that has all been moved to the beginning of ch4 instead. Anyway, remember it’s okay to take breaks in between, stay hydrated, and enjoy!

—

Tag list: @keeper0fthestars @opheliaelysia @dindjarindiaries @fromthedeskoftheraven @shikin83 @cinewhore @maddoggrahaml

(message me if you want to be added to the list)

beautiful moodboard made by @huliabitch

Masterlist

Prologue • Chapter 1 - The Informant • Chapter 2 - A Wedding and Four Funerals

Chapter 3 - Swallow Pride and Anger

He made a habit of checking in with Miss Rivas regularly, usually on Wednesday evenings. It was late enough in the week for her to have gathered something to tell him, and for him to need interactions beyond dealing with pissy bureaucrats and the chorus of 'yes boss'es from his agents. That and he made the conscious choice to never bother her on Thursdays, seeing as how often she'd come back from a work day in the double digits, only to rise again with the sun on Friday mornings for her frequent trips back to Medellín.

On this Wednesday, his self-imposed cigarette embargo inside his office combined with a slow and frustrating day had led him to go back to his apartment at an uncharacteristically early hour. He threw his jacket, wallet and keys down on the table, then loosened his tie and grabbed a beer from his fridge. He took a slow pull from the bottle, allowing himself to slump a bit against the kitchen counter. This apartment, while never what he would call a home, was still a sanctuary of sorts, even if most days he only came here to sleep and change clothes. He finished about half the bottle before clicking the bent cap back on haphazardly and placing it back in the fridge. He checked his watch and decided that a shower would, if not make him feel better, at least wash off the stale dryness of the embassy complex's aircon.

His hair still damp, he exited the bathroom about half an hour later. He padded across the floor barefoot, shuffling around the few rooms a bit, pulling on a clean t-shirt and preparing a small meal in the kitchen. He didn't have much except for the usual staples, chosen by how easy they were to prepare and by how effectively they would fill his stomach, rather than for any considerations of taste. The only thing he allowed himself to indulge in was the selection of fresh fruit he picked up at the street market down the road. By the time he'd gotten something in his stomach it was nearing seven. Javier reckoned she would be home by now and would have had enough time to settle in. He grabbed his fruit plate and trudged over to his wall-mounted landline phone. After placing the plate on the low side table, he dialled the satphone's number and waited for the line to connect.

"Agent Peña, good evening!" The sound quality was much better than with those tinny phone cells. It allowed him to hear how pleased she sounded as she greeted him, and how slightly out of breath.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, Miss Rivas. I can call back later?" It occurred to him that she might be in the process of making dinner herself.

"Oh no, it's alright!" He heard the shuffling of steps and the hum of music in the background. "Hang on, let me finish on the landline, then I'm all yours." She must have set the satphone down right next to her stereo system. He could hear music more clearly now, still distant like not all of it survived the transmission, but distinct enough to make out a string section paired with electric guitar and words in an unfamiliar language.

"Interesting music selection." He mused as she came back on the line.

"Huh? Oh yes, Angelika let me borrow some of her tapes. Newly historical contraband from behind the Iron Curtain." She laughed quietly, and Javier thought of how for some of his former CIA colleagues, that might have been reason enough to drag her in for an interrogation. He sneered at the notion, glad it was no longer relevant. "Not that I understand anything, but that's why music is called the universal language, I suppose."

"Your German friend." Javier hummed thoughtfully. He'd had to look up what that Stasi remark meant, embarassingly enough. Despite the added information included, he'd been made to change it to 'Calí KBG' in his preliminary report on the matter.

"Yes. I'm sorry I couldn't convince her to help more. It's half the way she was brought up and half fear. I guess the thought of going up against a powerful drug cartel and helping the American government at the same time is just a bit too much. And with her and Julio now trying for a baby she just really doesn't want to risk it, you know?"

"It's okay." Javier said reflexively, allowing himself to sit on the floor by his phone, his back against the wall. Angelika Florez-something-long-and-German-with-lots-of-umlauts that he wasn't even going to attempt to pronounce worked at the Calí phone company and would have been an invaluable asset, but then again she'd already placed herself in danger by allowing Diana to relay what she knew. Javier wasn't going to force anyone to become an informant. "Anything new on your end?"

"New corner office."

"Nice."

"Oh, very." He heard more soft rustling over the line, as if she was moving around, and then some light clicking noises that might have been a large window or door being opened. "Miguel Rodríguez did stop by yesterday. Unannounced, of course. Cut into my lunch break."

Javier straightened, the hand with a piece of orange sinking back down from his lips. "Oh? What did he want?" Unfortunately it was nothing he could be nailed down for. The Rodríguez brothers did own that bank and had every right to be there, every once in a while.

"Wanted to talk about the tax evasion scheme I devised. I swear, there's nothing rich people hate more than paying their taxes!" Her huff made him laugh softly, despite everything. "Nothing of substance to report, sadly."

"We'll get them." Javier promised. "With your help, they'll go down like a bag of rocks in water."

She hummed, tapping her nails against the phone casing absently. He could hear the light click of it over the line. Javier let himself enjoy the reprieve this unassuming silence offered.

"I've been wondering," she started again after a moment, pensive, "how you met Gabriela. Was it when she was still at the brothel or after?"

Actually screw reprieve. Javier felt like all his blood was now rushing to his ears and neck. "Umm..." he said, eloquently. "W-why d'you want to know?" And hadn't the other woman told her that detail, since they apparently shared everything? He had made it until now in forcibly not dwelling on what exactly this 'everything' would entail.

"Sorry no, that came out wrong. I was just wondering if she'd ever been in any way involved in your... work. I'm sorry, this isn't... I just- I worry."

Javier exhaled slowly, thinking back on the night he'd chanced upon the stunning redhead at a bar. He hadn't planned on it becoming a regular thing, and then before he knew it, the sporadic nights he spent with her were the only thing removed from the stress of his job. "No, never."

"Dammit."

That was... not what he'd expected. He frowned a moment before it dawned on him.

"You're worried that by involving her when Maritza asked you for help you put her in danger."

"...Yes." She sounded glum now, not pleased and at ease enough to attempt to joke with him like before. He hated it.

"Hey, it's alright. Nothing happened to her." At least to her. At least one person had come out of that nightmare mostly unscathed. It was something to be grateful for. "They're gone now. Escobar and his men are gone. She's safe."

"Thank you, Agent Peña. I just-" Her voice sounded so small, suddenly. He frowned, plate of fruit long forgotten. "I couldn't bear it if I lost her, too. And while I didn't live in Medellín for all of it I ...you hear things."

Unbidden, his mind flashed to the brothel on 23rd street in Envigado, all the women executed, La Quica putting bullets through their brains because one of them had been brave enough to call the Search Bloc and DEA on him. He thought of Helena. He thought of the dozens more who had the violence in their lives compounded tenfold because they'd dared to defy the narcos' terror. And often enough, through him. Sometimes the guilt ate Javier alive.

"Hang on a moment." He said, already heaving himself up and striding over to the kitchen, grabbing his unfinished beer from the fridge, then doubling back over to the bar and grabbing a glass and a bottle of whiskey. Mixing the two was probably not a good idea. As much as drinking in general. He didn't care right now. Javier tried to be a better man than he had been, but there were times when he slipped.

He poured himself a glass of the liquor as he sat back down and snatched the phone receiver back up from where it swung against the wall.

"I'm back." He announced simply and took a swig.

"I shouldn't have brought it up." She sighed long and drawn. "I'm sorry for... I suppose I just wanted to make myself feel better. That if something had happened to Gabi it wouldn't have been my fault, too. I didn't think- I cannot begin to imagine, Agent Peña-"

"It's alright." Javier said, reflexively. The beer bottle was just one generous sip away from being empty now. His fingers played with the rim of it absently as he stretched his legs out in front of him, the tumbler of whiskey at his side.

"It's not alright." Miss Rivas insisted, sounding even more distraught. He hated that, too.

"Maybe. Maybe not. It is what it is." He scrubbed a palm over his face, rubbing at his burning eyes. The alcohol was beginning to swirl through his bloodstream. It helped, he supposed, that there was a sort of artificial distance through the telephone line. Otherwise the next words would likely never have left his lips.

"Can I tell you something?" Javier Peña wasn't a religious man, but there were times when he saw the sense of a confessional.

"Of course." Her voice was just the slightest bit shaky. "Should I get myself a drink, too?"

"If you want." He threw back the last bit of beer, following it up immediately with a gulp of whiskey, then pressed the still cold bottle against his flushed neck. He hesitated a moment, listening intently to the shuffling and rustling on the other end of the line. He felt his shoulders tighten and draw up, let his head fall back against the wall with a soft 'thud', his fingertips tracing the rim of the glass until he heard her soft affirmative.

This was not a time to let shame hinder him. Hell, the fact that he paid women for sex was the first thing she ever knew about him.

"You should know that I have a kind of... reputation." Javier began slowly. Like she didn't know that already. Like she couldn't guess. Like maybe this illusion where he could make this a confession instead of a confirmation was somehow more dignified.

He'd gotten the idea a few months into coming down here. Or rather the idea had found him in the shape of a lovely, doe-eyed brunette who'd introduced herself as 'Aurélia'. And Javier had been hungry and lonely, his shame at his ruined wedding fresh and the frustration of running after leads into empty corners even fresher. And he doesn't even remember how he ended up inside her room, and while under no illusion that what was about to transpire was merely a business deal, a service rendered and compensated for, he'd found himself talking. Javier wasn't a talker, but she'd been so sweet in the way she carded her slender fingers through his hair and let him ramble on, probably wasting her time.

"That's who you're here for?" Javier remembered still, with such distinct clarity, how her fingers had stuttered against his scalp. Javier had lifted his far-too-heavy head from her comfortable bosom and peered up at her, wondering whether disclosing all this had been a mistake. What kind of idiot walks into a brothel in Medellín half drunk and says he's a cop looking to take down Pablo fucking Escobar plus associates?

"They come here sometimes. Those sicarios I mean." Aurélia had said, resuming her caresses. Sweet girl. Sweet, sad girl who kissed so softly.

"Oh yeah?" Just his luck. "Not tonight though, hopefully." Suddenly he wasn't quite as drunk or tired anymore.

"Not tonight, no. At least not that I know of. Anyway, it's not- I shouldn't tell you this." She'd tilted his head up and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. That girl could kiss like she was in love with you.

That was that. Four days later he'd come back, with a proposal wrung from his superiors. Any information that could lead to the capture of one of the Cartel's sicarios for a generous chunk of solid American cash.

"Aurélia?" Miss Rivas asked in a voice as if she was running calculations. "With curls or with a birthmark?"

"Umm, birthmark." A mole on her left cheek, just under the eye, like a rococo lady in every period piece about the French, except real.

"Oh! Catalina Vasquez!"

"You know her?" Of course she knew her. Apparently Medellín was actually a damn village and not a city of millions.

"Yeah, the family lived just down the street growing up. I used to babysit them sometimes, her and her younger sisters."

Javier hummed, unsure of how to reply. He pinned the receiver between his head and shoulder and shoved the freed hand up under the collar of his shirt to rub at the tension in the back of his neck.

"Sorry for interrupting, do go on."

It had taken some convincing. A whole lot of planning, too. But by the end of it he had one of Gacha's sicarios in custody. A large, brutish man who'd nicknamed himself 'Cobra'. Low-level and not especially bright, as it turned out, but not completely worthless. Javier had gone back to the brothel that night to give Aurélia her reward, and then he'd come back again the night after, when the high of success had worn off and he'd craved being kissed again like it meant something. Only, she'd been gone. Left without a trace, her erstwhile colleagues unwilling to divulge the whats and wheres and whys. Frustrated and anxious and in no small part betrayed, he'd drowned himself in a willing bottle blonde who could do extremely interesting things with her mouth. And that was that, the start of a career and a reputation. Not that he ever expected to be 'serviced' when he was there in a professional capacity. But when they offered, he found himself too weak to refuse. And they almost always offered. For whatever reason.

Professional pride perhaps.

"What happened to her?" It had been years but he had to ask, just on the off chance.

"She took your money and cut loose, moved to the coast and got a job at a baker's. Last thing I heard she was married and had another baby on the way."

"Good. That's ...good." He'd wondered, all these years... "Thank you."

"I didn't do anything."

"For listening. For letting me ...unload." For lifting a bit of guilt and uncertainty off of me. "Just... you don't have to do that. So thank you."

A short rustling, the squeak and groan of a chair, then: "I will listen to whatever you want to tell me, Agent Peña."

Javier released a sigh, deep and weary, and set aside his glass and the bottle that was significantly lighter than it had been. His mind was somewhere in that soupy stage now, floating aimlessly on some sort of thick fog. It dulled the creeping pain in his back that told him he was too old to be sitting on the floor now. He mumbled something indistinct, rubbed his eyes and shook his head in an attempt to clear the haze.

"Well, in any case, now you know." He'd only need to tell her about Lorraine, Helena, and Carillo, and he'd have shared all of his major sins. Huh.

"What are you asking for?"

Absolution. "A verdict?"

"I have no intention of judging you, Agent Peña. Not for this. You acquainted yourself with all the working girls in Bogotá and Medellín, and I married a man I did not love and stayed with him for years."

"That's hardly the same."

"Isn't it?" Her voice was soft and rueful, brimming with words not ready to be spoken quite yet. He sensed it, and agreed, and therefore decided that it was time to cut this heart-to-heart off here for both their sakes.

"Hell, I don't know. Maybe, in a way." He was way too drunk for this. He shouldn't have drunk this much. Where had his threshold gone? It's like he'd spent years tempering his liver for nothing.

"Well then, I'll let you know whether or not it'll be worth for you to come down to Medellín next weekend. Sleep well. And drink some water before then."

Javier glanced at the clock mounted on the oppsite wall. When the hell had it gotten this late? No wonder his ass was numb and his back was killing him. There was a moment when the strangest words were just hanging on to the tip of his tongue, ready to plummet off. That it would always be worth it to see her. Even just to take a turn about a park with her and the kid. Javier swallowed thickly. Gathered his professionalism and detachment.

"Until then, Miss Rivas. Good night." --- --- --- The phone rings insistently in a way that tells him it's been at it a while. Javier sighed while sliding the glass door of his office shut behind him. He hadn't planned on being all but ambushed by one of Stechner's CIA stooges under the guise of 'inter-agency liasing', and that was after getting caught up with a lenghty presentation one of his newly transferred agents had prepared for him. Feistl, he'd said his name was. The presentation was full of good ideas, too, just too involved. Javier had told the guy as much. If you can get your point across with ten words there's no point using fifty.

Javier picked up the receiver, one hand rubbing at the dull throbbing that was just starting to build in his temple.

"Peña."

"You're still at your office? It's past eight, you should go home." He smiles despite himself, and the chiding tone.

"Got delayed." He offered by way of an explanation. She harrumphed softly.

"Not that I'm not delighted to hear from you, but what's the occasion?" She rarely called him, he usually called her. She certainly didn't call on Thursday nights because when she wasn't preparing to drive up to Medellín she was usually exhausted enough at this point in the week to turn in early.

"I hope you're sitting down."

Javier perched himself on the edge of his desk where it wasn't piled high with reports and mind-numbing paperwork awaiting his signature. "I am."

"They're having a party and I've been invited. Friday next week. They'll all be there; Santacruz is apparently coming down from New York for it. The chief accountant, the money launderer, everyone. And their wives, or other-"

Javier's foot slipped a bit where he'd foolishly leaned a significant percentage of his weight on it. He caught himself as the desk gave a loud groan, slipping a bit on the linoleum floor. He righted himself quickly, sitting more firmly on the edge of the desk.

"What do you know?"

"Apparently there's going to be some sort of important announcement, but no one knows what it is, not even Miguel. Gilberto called it. All I know is that all four of them will be there, as well as everyone important in the organization. And then some. Likely every politician and law enforcement official in their pocket. Other cartels, too, but I don't know who exactly-"

"Miss Rivas, stop." Javier said firmly. Her voice had gotten that rambling, frantic quality that wore thin its natural pleasant rasp. "That's plenty. This is..." he twisted around and fished for his desk calendar, grabbing the nearest pen to circle the day, "This is huge. It could even be just the break we need."

She was silent for a moment, only her long, deliberate breaths crackling over the line. "You think so?"

"I think regardless of what it is, if it's important enough for a gathering this big, then yes."

"I don't suppose you could raid the party and arrest them all just like that?" She mused.

"Only in my dreams, Miss Rivas." He allowed himself a second to picture it: surroundig what was no doubt a very large and fancy property, riding in like the cavalry, the dumbstruck faces as the Gentlemen of Calí and their associates realized their luck had run out, clapping the handcuffs on them - he'd want to do it himself, hear the gratifying click of metal on metal that would wipe the self-satisfied smirks off their faces.

The warrants for the Calí godfathers existed, that wasn't the problem. The problems started with finding the location, circumventing their no doubt expert security, getting the lot of them without anyone escaping... Then there was the trouble of getting a search warrant for the property, even if they did know the address, and it was going to be a whole lot more complicated if the guy who signed those warrants was at that party himself. Then there was the fact that for all the valuable intel Miss Rivas had provided already, it wasn't nearly enough to nail the godfathers beyond what their army of slippery attorneys could weasel them right back out of. What they really needed was for someone to talk. Someone who had been there for longer and knew the operations of the cartel more intimately than Miss Rivas ever could (or than he would want her to, if Javier was being honest). The mysterious money launderer perhaps, or the chief accountant. Either would be good, both would be better - then again, the immunity deals that usually came with these kinds of cooperations didn't sit too well with Javier.

"Hell, I don't even have a plus one. Do I really have to go? I could pretend to be sick." She sighed and scoffed, and muttered something about not having anything to wear.

"I think you know." And if these people didn't know his face (and would put a bullet through it on sight) he'd gladly offer to be her plus one, if only to keep her safe. He hated knowing she'd be all alone there, among the wolves. It didn't make what he still had to ask of her any easier.

"Yes, I know. Miguel called me the 'third corner of their finance trifecta'." A bitter laugh, not that Javier needed that cue to know. He could tell from her voice alone how much she despised it. "In any case, now you know, so you can make whatever arrangements you need. I'll see you tomorrow?" Ah yes, about that.

"I'm afraid I can't make lunch. Urgent meeting called by the ambassador." Urgent and useless, but when the new president and minister of justice wanted a briefing he had to oblige. "Sorry."

"That's alright. Dinner then? My aunt will be in the hospital overnight."

"I'll see what I can do." There was just one more thing. "Miss Rivas?"

"Yes?"

"Would you be willing to wear a wire? To the party?"

"Well, I was thinking a cocktail dress would be more appropriate-"

Javier scoffed. "You know what I mean." He could picture her grin on the other end of the line, pleased at her little joke.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I suppose I might as well, seeing as I'm not getting out of this-"

"Thank you."

"Best bring the necessary ...equipment with you. I need to go dress shopping this weekend."

He promised that he would. He promised to call as soon as he knew when he'd be in Medellín. And he promised to go home for the day as soon as they said their good-byes.

He intended to do just that; he only needed to file away some things first.

"Boss?" Another one of the new transfers poked his head in after knocking. Why was he still here at this hour? Javier struggled to recall his name.

"Yeah, what is it, uh..." He did feel bad about it, too. A little bit at least.

"Van Ness, sir."

"What is it, Van Ness?"

"Duffy just faxed this over." Van Ness leaned further into Javier's office, holding himself steady on the doorframe, and handed him the flimsy sheet of paper. "They've gotten a lead through Cornerstone."

--- --- ---

Dinner instead turned into an apologetic phonecall during a meeting break and then a red eye flight out to Medellín. Then there's another meeting at the Search Bloc home base with Colombian National Police representatives and the only high point of it is that he briefly sees Hugo Jr who looks well. So by the time Javier finally starts out to Envigado it's lunchtime again. He makes it there just slightly after.

He walked up to the small house, past the flowerbeds on the windowsills, and knocked on the door. That side of the house was south-facing and it was a hot, cloudless day that has him sweating in his suit in no time. He's just about to knock again, thinking perhaps the first time he'd been too soft to be heard so as not to disturb the aunt who must be resting after her overnight stay at the hospital, but then he hears the quick tap of feet and the door is yanked open by an out-of-breath Diana. "Hey."

She was wearing a wide smile and cut-off denim shorts with a simple blue cotton blouse and her hair was loose and much longer than when they'd first met. It seemed like no time at all had passed since then when in reality it had been close to a year now.

"Hi," Javier breathed, "Sorry for the delay."

She waved it off. "Come on in, I saved you a plate." She turned and walked back the short and narrow hallway. Stop gawking at her legs.

"That's not necessary." He tried to deflect, toeing off his shoes near the door and loosening his tie and shirt collar, just the top button.

"Nonsense, unless you've eaten?" She looked over her shoulder before turning into the small kitchen.

"I haven't, no." Javier conceded, following behind. It wasn't exactly spacious, a round table squished to one wall with just enough space for three chairs. Little Salome sat at one, drawing with an array of colorful crayons. She acknowledged him silently before going back to her drawing and Javier sat down.

"Coffee?" Diana asked over the hum of the microwave, already pulling two mugs from a cupboard.

"Please." Javier stretched his legs out as far as he could without becoming a tripping hazard. "How's your aunt?"

"Resting now. She's been better recently, but overall she's been declining so I don't know-" She gave a helpless shrug, then brought over the mugs, shortly followed by the steaming plate which she set in front of him. He'd learned a while ago that even the most minute resistance was futile anyway. Besides, he actually was really rather hungry. Catering wasn't a priority for the CNP.

He waited until she sat down in the chair opposite to start eating. They talked quietly, not exactly smalltalk, but nothing too heavy either. It was strange sort of almost-domesticity if one looked over the fact that he was being snuck in like a teenage delinquent boyfriend whenever the aunt was out or asleep (which was fine by him as he had no desire to meet the woman whose only daughter he'd gotten killed).

"So how does that whole wire situation work in real life?" Diana asked after she'd cleared away the dishes (and physically slapping his hand away when he moved to help).

"Well it's... there's a literal wire, a microphone on one end, and a recording device on the other. And a battery." Javier began haltingly.

"And it needs to be concealed under the clothes, obviously."

"Obviously."

"Hmm, I see. How big?" She sat back down again, brushing a hand through Salome's hair affectionately. "And how do I secure it under the dress? I need to know these things so I can pick out one that'll cover it all, you see."

Javier nodded. "Did you want to leave soon? Because I was thinking it's probably easiest if I just came along."

At this, she seemed surprised, but recovered quickly. "You sure?"

He sipped the last of his now tepid coffee and nodded again. "Yeah, let's go buy you a dress."

"There's no need to buy me a dress, Agent Peña." He recognized that tone by now, how testy she got at any allusion of charity. It was an ingrained reflex that he knew better than to be irked by.

"The United States government is buying you a dress because you being at that party is of strategic importance to this investigation." He stood to put the empty mug in the sink before she could beat him to it, then returned to the table, standing behind the seat he'd previously occupied and gripping the back of it. "Besides, more of American taxpayer money is spent on worse things." Like Stechner's salary, he thought. She gave him a look that said they'd have more words on this, probably when they reached the checkout, then stood, saying she'd go say goodbye to her aunt.

Javier nodded, watching her leave. A little noise caught his attention. Salome still didn't speak much, but she knew how to make herself known nonetheless. "What is it, Miss Salome?" Javier stooped to get closer to eye level with the kid. She looked up at him with her big brown eyes and held up a scrap of the paper she'd been drawing on.

"Oh, what's this?" She shook the paper insistently in her tiny fist, an adorable frown creasing between her brows, as if miffed that he was being slow. And it's... he's gotten more relaxed around the little girl by now, but it still always lingers that he's part of the reason she's an orphan, and traumatised into a selective mutism that apparently even the average counselor or child psychiatrist doesn't quite know how to deal with to boot, that leaves him with a lingering apprehension that manifests in the kind of awkward hesitation that now has her scrambling off the chair and patting his leg as she holds the paper up for him to take.

"Want me to take a look?" He bends and takes it gently. Is answered by a sort of long-suffering sigh. The scrap is barely the size of his palm, covered in colorful blobs of red and orange and yellow and blue, pink and green and purple swirls in between.

"Very pretty." He decrees and attempts to hand it back just as Miss Rivas is poking her head back the room.

"Can you please grab the car seat?"

"Huh?" It's not very eloquent, but then again he's engaged in a game of impromptu reverse tug-of-war with a toddler. "She's coming with?" She's also pushing the paper back at him again, pouting.

"Yes of course she is. The car seat? It's on the shelf behind you." There is no argument to be had with the women in this family, so he doesn't even attempt it, just straightens and looks for the car seat which is indeed in the described spot. "And that drawing is for you so just take it."

"For me?" It's still clutched in his hand, and Salome is heaving a huff as if to say 'Duh. Idiot.' His throat feels tight all of a sudden. "Well, thank you very much." He makes a show of tucking it very carefully into the pocket of his suit jacket, then turns to retrieve the car seat. Together they make their way out. It takes a moment to set up the car seat in the back, another to wrestle the stroller into the trunk, but eventually they're on their way downtown.

--- --- ---

They have entered a world of ruffles. And sequins. For a moment Javier thinks he's having flashbacks to Lorraine's endless sessions discussing bridesmaid's dresses all those years ago. He exchanges a look with Miss Rivas, her expression stony and tense.

"Alright, quick in and out. If at all possible, I want to be out of here again before Salome wakes up." Javier nodded, tightening his grip on the stroller handles. Salome had dozed off in the car on the drive over and was now out cold, not even stirring throughout the transferral from car seat to stroller. Javier eyed the sea of satins and gulped, then turned to the woman at his side. "What's your plan?"

"I'm going to find a shop assistant." She narrowed her eyes, gaze flitting over the masses of racks.

"Good plan." Javier mumbled. He had an inkling that they'd be here forever if they attempted to brave this ocean of dresses alone.

"Right, you can..." she trailed off as her eyes fixed on a woman some feet away, her head just bobbing up from between two racks where she was rearranging some very bright red and very small garments, "...um, wait by the changing rooms?"

"It's fine." Javier replied, starting to push the stroller in that direction. If nothing else he figured he could function as a temporary clothing rack or something. On instinct, he scans the perimeter while Miss Rivas elucidates to the shop assistant what she is looking for and the younger woman, perhaps in her mid- to late twenties, snaps her fingers in triumph before announcing that she has 'just what you're looking for' and starts marching away. They follow her like ducklings from rack to rack, and a good ten minutes later they have an armful of cocktail dresses of varying lengths, cuts, and colors. It's the kind of brutal efficiency that even Search Bloc could only dream of, all in the petite shape of this eager retail employee with a side pony.

"Let me know if you need help." She chirps as she deftly deposits them in the changing room area before returning to her other tasks.

It's an almost enclosed space, five curtained cabins in an open half-circle arrangement with a long-ish bench in the middle and some tall mirrors on the spaces between. He wheels the stroller beside the bench and sits a moment later, so that the both of them are facing the changing room where the shop assistant had hung up the dress selection. Shrugs off his suit jacket, then drapes it carefully over the sleeping child to block out the light and muffle the noise of shoppers. Miss Rivas looked at him expectantly, one hand on the curtain that was half drawn.

"What?"

"You're gonna have to show me how to put on the wire thingy." She jerked her head towards the changing room. Javier gulped, the implication dawning on him. Looked at the stroller helplessly. There was nothing but an effectively timed baby snore and a twitch of one little ladybug-socked foot.

"Come on, the sooner we get this over with the sooner we can leave." As previously stated, there is no arguing with the women of this family, especially when they're right, so he resigns himself, dives for the case that holds the machinery, and stands. Miss Rivas stepped aside, drawing up the curtain after a furtive glance around. "We're both adults."

"Yeah." Javier agreed, his throat tight. At least these cabins were decently sized or they'd be squished in there like sardines in a can.

Javier turned away to give her some privacy, fiddling with the wire instead, pretending it had gotten more tangled than it was. At her soft confirmation that she's ready he turns around, making a conscious effort not to look... anywhere really. At least she'd only chucked her top; the shorts are still on.

"Agent Peña, I would assume that you have seen women in their underwear before." She sounded amused, and clearly more relaxed about this than he could ever pretend to be. He gives a terse nod, making his eyeline give a wide berth until his gaze lands squarely on her face where a bemused smirk just barely masks something more uncertain.

"Sorry, there is a real dearth of female agents or this would be much less awkward." Javier stepped closer, holding the wire in his hands like the world's flimsiest shield. She's right of course, the sight of a woman's brassiere hasn't been new to him since he was a teenager sneakily perusing clothing catalogues in his bedroom after dark. Hers isn't even... it's... functional, off-white, unwired and unembellished, and reveals just the edge of a tan line, something he quickly drags his gaze away from. The problem is of course, that the path his eyes take is further down her body, suddenly snagging on a raised line down at the very edge of her ribcage on the left side.

"What's this?" His thumb drags across the raised skin instinctually. It's a thin, straight line of scar tissue, around half the length of his index finger and sitting right on the lowest rib. Diana gasped softly and he snatched his hand away like he'd touched one of the electric fences back on the ranch. "Sorry."

"It's fine, it's just a scar." She took a steadying breath and retraced the path his finger had just taken on her skin with her own, pensive. "I got caught in a shootout on my way home when I was home for summer from university once. It's just a graze." Just a graze that would have been more than that if it had hit just a few inches to the side. Javier felt faint at the thought.

"Do you have any?"

"Huh?" His brain is lagging on something, hence the eloquent reply.

"You said you get shot at a lot in this job. Ever been hit?" She ducks her head a little, looking up at him through her lashes from where she's leaning back against the wall. "Come on, I showed you mine, you show me yours." It's clearly a joke, and one she obviously regrets as soon as the words are out, judging by the pained expression that comes right after the statement.

"Just one." Javier said, tapping his leg about a handwidth above the knee. "Went right through. Apparently missed the main artery by less than half an inch."

"Hmm, " she hummed, "Looks like we're both lucky then."

"Yeah," Javier agreed, his voice soft and low, "lucky."

The changing rooms really were not cramped, but with two fully grown adults inside, they were just about spacious enough. They stood barely an arm's length apart, mirror to one side and thick faux-velvet curtain to the other. Javier felt heat prickle from the base of his neck downwards, and he wasn't even the one with half his chest out. He'd only rolled up his shirtsleeves to his elbows, leaving his forearms bare.

Her hand brushed over one gently, curling around his wrist and startling him out of whatever feverish reverie he'd zoned out into.

"So," she trailed her fingertips further down, over his knuckles and the wire slung around them, before tapping against the small black cylinder that housed the recording device and battery, "does this thing get hot?"

Pull yourself together and be fucking professional! "It shouldn't."

"Right, well let's get it on then."

He handed her the microphone end first. Explained ideal placement, the closer to the face the better. This was a modified necktie bug, small and discreet, secured against the skin with tape if necessary. She took it, pinned the mic to the strap of her bra, high up on the shoulder. The wire itself was long enough to wind around her torso once with some slack. The slim casing that held the battery and recording device she tucked into her bra for now. Listened intently as he explained how to turn the device on and off.

"I'll keep this on for the rest of the day, just to get used to the feeling." Her smile was a bit wobbly as she spoke.

"Yeah, that's ...uh, a good idea." Javier fidgeted a moment, not sure what to do with his hands. "Right, I'll leave you to your-"

She gripped his hands just as he was about to turn and leave. Alarmed, he stilled. Watched he lip wobble and the rims of her eyes redden under furrowed brows. "Hey, what is it?, What's wrong?"

She heaved a deep and shaky breath that ended in an even shakier laugh. "I'm sorry I'm just... I'm scared."

"You don't have to do this if you don't feel safe." Javier was quick to offer. "You've helped us so much already."

She swallowed hard. "No, I do want to! Do this, help you. I want to bring them down! Besides, I'm going to be there anyway, so it would be a waste not to-"

She was trembling now, unaware of her own body's reaction until it was brought into sharp relief by his large warm hands on her shoulders.

"Hey," he said, thumbs rubbing gently at her collarbones, "It's going to be alright. I won't let anything happen to you, okay?"

She knew, realistically, that there was only so far he could carry a promise like that, but her nerves calmed nonetheless. It was silly, really. This relationship was just a professional alliance, no matter how many deep secrets they'd shared with one another. Officially of course they couldn't ever be associated, at least as long as any of the 'Gentlemen' of Calí still roamed free. And yet, she trusted him.

"I know. I'm sorry." She babbled, nerves imploring her to externalize her anxiety through words. "I came to you; I wanted this... want this. I'm in. I'll try to be brave."

He squeezed her shoulders gently. "You're one of the bravest people I know." And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Because deep down he didn't want her to be brave. Helena had been brave too, and what did it get her?

"I'm just… I'm tired of being afraid." She steadied herself on him, hands gripping his biceps now.

"Sometimes being afraid is what keeps us alive." He murmured, bringing one hand up to tilt her face to meet his gaze. "Listen to me. I will do whatever it takes to make sure you're safe, okay? Whatever I can, I promise. I can't have you on my conscience as well." The last part was whispered so softly that she barely caught it, but she nodded, pulling herself together and schooling her breathing.

"Thank you." She squeezed her hands once and let go. Javier searched her face for a moment longer, thumb brushing over her cheekbone absently, before he remembered himself and drew back.

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "yeah I'll be fine."

"Okay." Javier breathed, straightening, hand going for the curtain. "I'll wait outside."

Her answering smile was still shaky, but not quite as much so.

When Javier ducked out of the changing room his first glance is towards the stroller, where Salome is still napping peacefully. His second glance is directed towards the shop assistant sorting through the returns rack, directed there by the woman's disapproving huff. It's not the same one who helped them pick out dresses, but a slightly older woman, one who carries the gravitas of authority derived by experience with her.

"Did your wife need help?" She quips while untangling garments from hangers. Out of all that's happened over the past quarter of an hour or so, this is what really makes Javier's ears burn.

"Yes, with the um... zipper." He stutters, wishing for the first time that day since leaving the base that he could have a smoke.

"Hmm," the shop assistant resumed her folding, "You would not believe the kinds of things people get up to in there." Her disapproving stare moved to the stroller where Salome was still blissfully asleep under his blazer. He snatches the garment away guiltily, but Salome doesn't even stir, just slumbers on cutely. At last, the woman's eyes soften.

"Yes, well... call me or any of my colleagues if you need further... assistance."

"Thanks." He clears his throat and sits as she sails off with an armful of clothes. Miss Rivas poked her head out not a second later.

"I'm sorry, your what?"

At least she was laughing again, even if her eyes were still slightly red-rimmed and watery.

"Sorry, next time I'll be sure to clarify that you are my confidential informant and we're taking down the world's biggest drug cartel together." He retorts, and she breaks out into a wide grin accompanied by a snorty burst of laughter.

"Well, if you put it like that it sounds almost romantic." Now it's his turn to snort. "I do actually need help with this zipper, though."

She stepped half out of the little alcove, clad in a floor-length, wine-red halter gown with intricate beading all over, and a slit so high it makes his brain short-circuit. Which causes him to just stare at her dumbly for a long moment, even after she's already turned to present the high back of it.

"Agent Peña?" She throws over her shoulder, somewhere between amused and slightly concerned. He jumps and strides over, fingers fidgeting with the zipper tab until he gets a decent grip and starts to pull it up the rest of the way.

"Uh, no I meant down." Her voice is as strained as he feels. He pulls the tab down, desperately trying not to focus on the skin being revealed as he does. She releases a relieved breath when he's done and turns, stepping back inside the changing room.

"Thanks."

"This one good?" He asks with a non-committal shrug, nodding towards the dress without really looking at it.

"No, I think I do need to be able to breathe. And also I'd like to be able to walk without flashing everyone. I do work with these people, after all." She smiled, one hand on the curtain ready to draw it back shut. "I'll be quick with the rest, but you can take Salome for a turn if you want, maybe have a smoke outside? We can meet back here or by the registers."

They both look at the little girl's sleeping form simultaneously, watch her eyes move rapidly under her lids as she is lost in dreams.

"Thanks, but it's alright. I can stay in case you need further...help."

It really isn't long after that. She hurries, but they also make light conversation while she tries on another five or six dresses. She doesn't come out with most of them but narrates all their flaws very entertainingly. Javier once again enjoys how forward she is, not censoring herself in the least as she complains about everything from odd sizing to itchy material to unfortunate placement of embellishments.

"Okay, last one." She announces and then draws back the curtain with a flourish and Javier... just gapes. The dress is midnight blue, so dark it looks almost black until light hits the silky fabric and reflects off of it. The color compliments the deep bronze tan of her skin like it had been chosen specifically for her. It's slim-cut, body-hugging and high-collared with thin spaghetti straps and subtle beading on the bodice. A tasteful slit goes to just above the knee and the hem brushes just over the tops of her feet.

"I think this will work."

'Oh it definitely works.' Luckily Javier's mouth is currently too dry for these words to slip out, so he just nods, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Great! Let me change back real quick and let's get out of here."

He's just adjusting his suit jacket to lie over the still blissfully sleeping toddler like a blanket when Diana steps back out, back on her shorts and top.

"Looks like the American taxpayers are in luck. It's discounted." She said as she read the tag, then draped the blue dress over the top of the stroller. "Twenty percent. Not bad."

Javier snorted. Took the other dresses and hung them up on the returns rack. Grabbed the stroller handles and gently set the vehicle in motion. Salome stirred a moment, then bunched a chubby hand in the fabric sheltering her from the chilly air-conditioning and settled back down. Diana's gaze is soft upon her niece, and soft still when she raises her eyes to meet Javier's.

They make their way down to the registers, walking from the top floor of the department store downwards, weaving around racks and shelves and other shoppers. Javier is pushing the stroller, Miss Rivas at his side where possible, her hand loosely hooked into the crook of his elbow again as she likes to do. It's two floors down, as they traverse the men's section, that she suddenly sidetracks, half disentangling herself, half pulling him over to a wall display. Neckties. He raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Since we're here already." She shrugs, like that explains everything. It doesn't. The eyebrw remains up and quizzical.

"Explain."

There's a dangerous glint in her eye as she lets her fingertips glide over the assorted fabrics.

"Gabi said you only have ugly ties." Has she now.

"She's only seen two!" Javier protests without heat. She eyes him critically, eyes the tie he put on this morning at the asscrack of dawn for his damn meetings. He has half a mind to argue that he didn't feel like dressing up all pretty for some pissy general at half past four in the morning.

"Was this one of them?" Though truth be told perhaps his tie selection is a bit... outdated. This one is several brownish tones in a very 70s pattern, if he's being honest.

"No?" But this one was also one of the old ones that had been gifts from Lorraine he'd never gotten rid of.

"Then you have three ugly ties." There is no arguing with this woman. So, he submits. "You'll have to make announcements on national television sooner or later; you'll need to look decent."

"I'm not arguing, am I?" He figures what's the point. What's the worst that could happen. And she knows she's won, too. Gleefully starts peering through the selection before them.

"Is this revenge? For this?" He motioned to the dress still draped over the stroller, his meaning clear between them. Is this for making you go to a party with the world's most powerful drug bosses with a wire up your boobs.

"No." She lied, picking up a solid charcoal tie and holding it up to his collar. "Of course not."

She picks out four, two solid and two patterned.

By the time he parks the car back on a side street in Envigado Salome is awake and very grumpy. A snack of peach slices and crackers mollifies her somewhat, but just enough to get her in the house and distracted by her toys before throwing a fit. Javier carried in the car seat and then the stroller, after Diana's signal that the coast was clear, and lastly he grabs her shopping bag and stuffs the last item on his itinerary for this visit inside, before he forgets again.

"Another coffee?" He wants to, he really does, but if he ingests any caffeine now he knows he won't sleep until well after midnight. So he shakes his head, apologetic. He's tired, sure, but he'll power through until he reaches his hotel (and then promptly collapse on the bed there.)

"I have one last... I brought you something, just in case." He hands her the bag, and she looks at him quizzically. Until she looks inside, that is.

"What's this?" She holds the garment up in question, turns it in her hands a a few times. Javier clears his throat.

"Bulletproof vest."

She gulps. Pales imperceptibly, eyes flitting between him and the vest.

"You really think this is neces-"

"Just in case." He insists. It probably wouldn't- it's a newer model, thinner and more discreet than the tac vests they use out in the field, but likely still too bulky to be hidden under her normal work clothes, even though she favors looser cuts. He takes it from her gently, motions for her to put her arms up so he can lower the vest over her head and do it up at the sides. Explains how it needs to be secured tight to the body so it doesn't shift.

"It won't work under my normal work clothes." Miss Rivas frowns, hands smoothing down over the front of it, calculating. Probably going through her wardrobe mentally. Doing an admirable job of not letting fear grip her again like that earlier hiccup. "It's too bulky."

"No, you're right." Javier conceded, hands still at her sides where his fingers are hooked into the clasps of the vest. "You should still take it. Who knows when it'll come in handy."

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

Author’s note cont’d: this is the song Javi is hearing over the phone in the first scene btw

youtube

learn about bugs and wires here (though I do admit that I am playing a bit fast and loose with this here ;)

this is what I based the first dress on:

and here’s the final dress:

and yes, I hate about 90% of the ties they have him wear in the show and that is how that bit came about. Sorry to throw Lorraine under the bus a bit there but I’m sure they were fashionable at the time :/

Next Chapter

#narcos (tv)#narcos #narcos fanfic #I cling to your lips like gloss (series)#like gloss tag #javier pena x ofc #javier peña #javier peña fanfic #my writing #multipart #series #part 3

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snakedevour · 4 years ago

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my thoughts on chapter 81 ahead, fellas. it feels like it’s been a while since i analyzed a chapter drop but in my defense they only release once a month and 80.5 didn’t give me a lot of meat to bite into.

nyanyway -- here’s kkg 81. this chapter brings the focus back onto yumeko a little bit, showing us again how she plays, how she thinks, and how she challenges the people around her. basically, for me, this chapter was the whole buffet after several chapters of scraps.

SPOILERS BELOW.

i made a post maybe a week or so ago at this point mentioning that i wanted to talk about how yumeko’s friendliness is “impersonal” despite being genuine and how that feeds into her ( for lack of better words ). and i’m still going to do that and it’ll be in a separate post from this one but this chapter gave me some ammunition in regards to that thought.

the thing that makes yumeko difficult to navigate in terms of interacting with her is that she challenges the conventional definition of “kind” and in a way kind of forces you to delineate between that and “friendly”.

yumeko is a cocktail with two major components:

1. she is friendly 2. she is powerful

and when you have a friendly powerful person it’s easy to fall into the trap tsubomi has here, in which you feel that because you side with someone friendly and powerful you’re inherently under their protection.

and in a lot of storytellings that’d typically be true... but yumeko is awfully atypical. recall tsubomi’s commentary from chapter 63:

so long as we frame “friendly” as something that inherently goes hand-in-hand with “good” i think we set ourselves up to misunderstand yumeko’s personality. yumeko is friendly but she is not altruistic. yumeko does not “save” people; every time that it seems that she has it’s because they “won” it from her -- yumeko has never been benevolent for benevolence’s sake.

by a lot of standard definitions, i’d argue that she’s not even a good person.

it’s really nice to be reminded of that weird layer of nuance. we’re also reminded of something that might have gotten overshadowed by her comparative calmness lately and the housepet drama from the last few chapters --

more than just wantonly putting herself at risk, yumeko is obsessed with simultaneously imposing high antes on other people.

let’s briefly throw all the way back to chapter 16 just to get that in her own words:

i kind of want to say that yumeko has sadomasochistic tendencies but that’s probably for another post another day.

anyway, this takes us back to today and chapter 81, where tsubomi goes on to notice the folly in her own thinking:

paired with her thoughts from chapter 63 this says a lot.

“would yumeko bother helping me if I’m not taking any risk?”

i’m pretty sure the answer is no.

this really just sort of further cements my original opinion that yumeko definitely operates on some sort of metric of “earning” what one has. if you’re interested in my thought piece on that subject it’s right over here.

i really like where tsubomi’s train of thought is going here. up until now we’ve seen yumeko’s cutthroat mentality mostly as applied to herself and an opposing player. we’ve seen her drive the stakes high with yuriko, with sayaka, with miyo and miri and so on.

this is what i mean when i say yumeko’s friendliness has an element of uncanny valley to it. you can argue that we’ve seen yumeko drag people into gambling alongside her ( like itsuki ), but we haven’t really seen it in this kind of light where it’s leveraged against her willingness to help people.

so +1 to chapter 81 for re-highlighting this fact about yumeko.

moving along, tsubomi is having these thoughts in the first place because terano came by and pointed out to her that she’s an “extra”, and per the logistics of the game yumeko only really needs suzui’s cooperation to win. then we cut to this short set-up scene where yumeko tells the gang ( and us ) the plan for this turn:

this gets tsubomi thinking. because yumeko is donating to suzui, she’ll have 0 points which means if tsubomi challenges her, she’ll win and thereby fulfill the requirements of her life plan to “knock either yumeko or terano out of the election”. tsubomi we’ve seen in past games though is still kind of coming into her own individuality, and is very much used to just taking orders. on top of that, she still feels indebted to yumeko for pushing her to play against kiwatari during the debt swap indian poker.

another thing i commented about in the past was the “human” qualities and motivations of the characters. tsubomi is a real highlight of this chapter because she reminds us of that quality too, because terano’s remarks spark what i think is a very organic conflict in her thoughts:

“i don’t want to be a housepet” vs “i don’t want to betray the girl i’m indebted to”

“i want to live as a person” vs “i want to keep a good conscience”

it’s the portrayal of internal struggles like these that make me angy at the sexualization in this series because these really show that it just isn’t needed. kawamoto absolutely knows what he’s writing and it’s not like he’s writing it poorly so its like...what gives.

not to make this about yumeko again but she does seem to get pretty meta here. i’m pretty certain that she knows what tsubomi is thinking here and i’ll also go as far as to suggest that she might have even set up the play this way to test tsubomi’s mettle. i’ll get into that here in a moment though :)

i say yumeko has an idea of what’s going through tsubomi’s mind here just because her question is very telling -- “have you made your decision?” -- yumeko definitely knows that some sort of choice has been imposed onto tsubomi, and tsubomi’s mentioning of her lack of guidance this turn also implies that yumeko is leaving her to fend for herself. which i think is something yumeko will always do. we’ve established that she’s not altruistic in the slightest...i don’t think yumeko is at all interested in people who lack the will to help themselves, regardless of how pitiable their circumstances.

i know suzui is supposed to be the audience-proxy but idk my guys... i think tsubomi is shaping up to be the better conduit through which we see yumeko’s real colors.

also, more of yumeko giving us some insight into her values and how she thinks... but @ naomura why did you draw her doing this. yumeko you look SILLY but ily anyway

“only a choice at the end of agony can move your heart” -- yumeko’s starting to give me vibes of someone who’s apathetic unless the ante is driven wildly high hence why she does it but i need at least one more backstory drop before i speak more on that one. just saying it’d line up with a few things tho

moving on, it follows that tsubomi ultimately decides to challenge yumeko because that’s the logical thing to do if she wants to look out for herself. plus some commentary from terano about how it’s all according to keikaku.

anyway, i really enjoyed this next sequence because it throws back to yumeko even more. it reminds us that while yumeko loves taking on huge risks, that doesn’t mean she plays to lose. it’s been a while since we’ve seen yumeko engage in a setup like this so it was great to see that kawamoto still remember what kind of gambler she is:

i actually really love terano but i do enjoy seeing yumeko consistently trip her up. it really upholds yumeko’s role as a dark horse.

anyway, remember how i said yumeko probably set this play up to see what tsubomi would do? this is where we can circle back to that because we see, in fact, that yumeko did not donate her points to suzui like she said she would.

yumeko is such a convoluted character that you can get caught up on one aspect of her character to the point of forgetting another. in recent chapters we’ve seen her in a supporting role: supporting mary, seemingly helping tsubomi... but thanks chapter 81 for reminding us that yumeko is a gambler before she’s anything else and can and will set up other players. this also kind of raises a mild albeit interesting moral quandary: i think it’s pretty safe to say that this was manipulative on yumeko’s part, but it could also be argued that this is a gamble and she read far enough ahead and just acted accordingly. i think that ambiguity is the point.

and that’s the jist chapter 81, and tbh i really enjoyed it. it felt like i was back in ye olden days of yore where kkg was yumeko’s misadventures. for a while there it felt like they were like “ok we’ve established she’s a really good gambler we must shine the spotlight elsewhere now” -- which is fair, don’t get me wrong. knowing the rest of the -bamis is really important to the plot. it’s just nice to see yumeko back in action proper again 🥺

#the kkg deep dive #kakegurui spoilers #are there typos in this? probably #i'll scan it over again later but my brain cells are fried for now #but 81 was Really Good #the whole buffet #long post /

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

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Arc [Drifting Apart] - MARK |Swing!|

This part contains a lot of the events of Spiderman: Homecoming, though the timeline has been changed so Civil War happens after Homecoming, not the other way around! There are spoilers for Homecoming! Read at your own risk!

Again, thanks to @deathbykpopboys for inspiring this series :)

Pairing: Mark x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, Spiderman!au

Triggers: a lot of cursing, mild violence, PANIC ATTACKS IN FUTURE CHAPTERS (I in no way meant to romanticize these triggers. If you feel I did, please let me know and I will fix it.)

Word Count: 8.4k

Petty spats and overreactions threaten to tear a decade-old bond apart.

Attach >> Arc { 1 - Drifting Apart | 2 - Coming Home } >> Fall { 1 - Spiral | 2 - Rise }

NCT Masterlist | Swing!

After two months, the small earpiece wedged into your skin still feels weird and hurts if you keep it in for more than a few hours at a time. Pausing on a rooftop, you reach up to adjust it for the fifth time tonight.

“We really need to fix this thing,” you mumble under your breath.

For a few silent minutes, you swing between buildings, keeping a close eye out on the streets below. Your black hood flutters around your head with the soft breeze.

Queens is quiet at night, much quieter than the always-bustling streets of Manhattan. You love patrolling, not just because you can help people, but also because of the peaceful silence that follows you as you swing through the crisp air. It’s a quiet rhythm, one that’s comforting during the dark night.

Crackling sounds in the earpiece just as you land on a rooftop to catch your breath. Seconds later, Mark’s voice fills your ear. “Two streets down from Jaemin’s apartment.”

“Give me four minutes.” Leaping off the building, wind begins whistling again as you swing your way over to Mark.

You notice him before he sees you, the blue of his outfit visible on the roof against the black backdrop of night. His red hood pools around his shoulders, his head covered in a matching mask.

(The first time you watched him put it on, you thought you’d die of laughter. He returned the favor when you tried on yours. Even now, the sight brings a slight smile to your face as you soundlessly jog over the roof to stand by him.)

Behind his mask, you can see a faint smile of greeting as he points down. “Break-in,” he whispers.

Looking closely, you can see the vague outlines of several people, at least two holding guns. Your brain leaps into overdrive, determining the best way to end this as bloodlessly as possible.

“I’ll take out the guns and try to immobilize their hands,” you whisper. “Knock out anyone you can, and we’ll web them up afterward.”

Mark nods. The two of you drop down.

The would-be robbers barely have time to look up before you’ve descended upon them, lashing out with your legs to kick two in the head. “Did you know this neighborhood is haunted?” you taunt as they fall to the ground, groaning. “Seriously, that’s what my friends told me. Maybe you’re ghost hunters? But why would you try to shoot a corporeal being?”

One of them grabs for the gun they’ve dropped, but you quickly kick it out of the way. “I don’t think so!” you sing, flipping him over your shoulder. He lands on his head, then flops over, unconscious. His friend doesn’t get a chance to blink before a punch to the side of his temple knocks him out. “Stupid,” you mutter, webbing them to the wall.

DANGER DANGER DANGER –

You duck. A bullet flies over your head and buries itself into a nearby trash can. There’s a muffled shout at the other end of the alley. A cracking noise sounds, and the final two men drop like stones.

Success.

You pick up the gun you kicked away. You’re about to just crush it under your foot, but something about it makes you look twice. Where a bit of the gun’s paint has been scrubbed off by its encounter with the ground, there’s a subtly glowing piece of metal that doesn’t look like anything you’ve ever seen.

“Mark?” You gesture at the weapon. “What…?”

He frowns in the darkness, raising a tentative hand to touch the glowing patch. “That’s weird.”

“Where are the other guns?” you ask. Mark picks up their crumpled remains. They’re normal – you’ve seen those types before. You look back at the weapon you’re holding.

Besides the glowing metal, you detect other small differences in shape and size. This one is slightly bigger than the other two, with a smaller bullet hole (does it even shoot bullets?) and a larger trigger. The paint obviously isn’t professionally applied – you easily scratch some of it off with a fingernail.

“I think we should take this and look at it further,” you say, turning it over in your hands.

Mark nods. “You think it could be something remaining from the Battle of New York?”

It’s certainly plausible, you think. Metal doesn’t glow on this planet, not even vibranium. Vibranium shines, yeah, but glowing is something completely different. You don’t think it was one of the weapons the Chitauri used, though. Maybe someone took the space material that the aliens brought in and manufactured a weapon with it.

Your stomach sinks. What if there are more?

Your watch beeps in the silence, signaling half an hour before Johnny gets home from his late shift. “Time to go.”

Releasing a string of webbing, you quickly climb up the warehouse wall with Mark following closely behind. In fifteen minutes, you land on your apartment rooftop, where you share your thoughts with Mark.

He doesn’t look very comforted by the idea of more of these things being out there. The two of you don’t even know what it does, and you’re not keen to find out. Once you’ve swung through the window in your room, you stash the gun in an empty corner of your closet and cover it with some old clothes.

Your black and white outfit gets shoved underneath your mattress, while the web shooters go inside your underwear drawer. Despite the fact that there’s a possibly alien weapon inside your room, a wave of exhaustion crashes over you. It’s all you can do to climb into bed before you pass out.

. . . . .

A normal day goes like this. Mark will fall out of bed to his alarm, drag himself past his snoring aunt’s bedroom to the shower, and snatch an apple or some other small breakfast in the kitchen before heading down to meet you for school. The train ride will pass, he’ll greet his friends, and then walk to homeroom, where Mr. Lee takes attendance.

(Thomas isn’t his homeroom teacher this year. Even though Lee is considerably stricter, Mark still thanks his lucky stars for the change.)

After school, he’ll take the train to either Professor Tuan’s lab or home, where he’ll work or do homework for a few hours before it’s time to patrol.

The day starts mostly normally. Mei isn’t snoring when he goes to take a shower, but it’s just one of those rare mornings where she isn’t sleeping on her back. He meets up with you and his friends like usual, and besides the history pop quiz he didn’t study for, the school day passes quickly. You tell him you’ve figured out nothing about the weird glowing gun you found last week, and the two of you resolve to just destroy it.

Everything, by all accounts, should be going fine.

But despite all of this, he feels uneasy. His weird sixth sense-reflex thing keeps randomly sending subtle pulses of danger, danger, and he doesn’t know where the danger fucking is. It pops in at the most inopportune times – on the walk to the train station, during PE, even as he walks past the other offices in the university building to get to Dr. Tuan’s lab.

And yet said danger doesn’t manifest when he goes to the local deli for a sandwich. It doesn’t show itself in front of a chemical engineering lab labelled “Dr. Roberts.” It doesn’t appear when he leaps on to the rooftop to meet you for patrol, either.

He relays his irritation to you as you swing through the darkening streets of Queens. There’s a beat of silence on your end, and then you admit that you’ve felt the same. “I honestly just thought I was going fucking crazy,” you say.

The two of you swing around in silence for a while before Mark’s earpiece crackles loudly (seriously, the crackling is really annoying and he needs to get around to fixing it soon) and your voice floods his ear. “Robbery at the ATMs near Delmar’s deli.”

Mark immediately changes direction, doubling back to meet you outside the bank. Four people are inside, faces covered in Avengers masks (seriously?). Several weapons rest on the ground.

Not just any weapons, Mark realizes as he looks closer. They’re weirdly shaped and they glow.

Much like the one that you hid in your closet.

“Weird, right?” you whisper from your hiding spot.

Mark nods. “Well, let’s see what we can get from this.”

The two of you slip inside the building soundlessly. The room is kind of cramped, which will make it difficult to fight in, but destruction is almost guaranteed in a situation like this.

He looks over at you. You nod.

One man goes down quickly, stuck to the floor with Mark’s webbing. Three other Avengers masks turn around – Mark sees Thor, Iron Man, and the Hulk – and the place descends into chaos.

“Forgot your PIN?” you snark, leaping onto the ceiling. You quickly kick Thor in the face as he lurches forward, leaving Mark to pin him to the ground. A couple of web shots later, and he’s immobilized.

(Mark doesn’t know how you magically come up with comebacks and punchlines for every situation. He’d give up just about anything to be as witty as you are.)

You’ve flipped back onto the ground and are now engaged in a fistfight with Iron Man (“Why the fuck is Iron Man robbing a bank? I thought you were a billionaire?”). Mark turns around to find Hulk and is met face-to-face with the weirdest thing he’s ever seen.

“What the fuck?” is all he gets out before Hulk does something and the weird, metal, three-pronged thing starts glowing. Purple light shoots out of the prongs and engulfs Mark.

It’s the weirdest thing he’s ever felt. He still has control of his limbs – he can wiggle his fingers – it’s just that the light has more control, somehow. Mark tries to lash out and hit something – stick to the wall, grab an ATM machine, anything – but the light keeps him loose-limbed and useless.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees you still fighting Iron Man, who’s now picked up one of the weapons discarded on the floor. You dodge the first blast of purple light, then use webbing to lift yourself up to avoid another.

Webbing.

He’s so stupid.

Mark forces his arm out and shoots a string of web fluid to the far wall, yanking himself out of reach of the three-pronged light thing. His feet lash out, kicking Hulk’s mask. He lands, crouched on the door of the ATM building.

Iron Man somehow breaks out of your fight and races to the door. Mark’s eyes widen and he throws himself out of the way of the glowing thing –

And then the fake Avenger uses the light to literally carve out a section of the wall, including the whole door and the entire corner of the deli across the street.

Mark yells, narrowly avoiding another errant blast of light and kicking the guy to the floor. “Mr. Delmar!” he yells, racing across the street. Behind him, he hears some more scuffling as you keep trying to take down the last two robbers, but he’s only focused on making sure Mr. Delmar and his cat are all right.

“Mr. Delmar!” The corner of the building is burning, and there’s no water to be seen. Mark launches himself into it anyway, thankful for his sweaty mask filtering out some of the smoke. With relief so strong it burns, he spots Mr. Delmar stumbling out of the store’s back exit, his humongous cat in his arms.

“Are you all right, Mr. Delmar?” In the moment, Mark doesn’t care if the deli owner recognizes his voice. He just needs to know if he’s okay. After a few seconds of coughing, Mr. Delmar nods. “I’m all right, Spiderboy. I’m all right.”

Spiderboy? Really?

Well, you and Mark never really came up with names for your alter egos. Maybe you should have.

But not now. Someone’s called 911, and he can hear the fire trucks and police sirens starting to converge on the area. There’s no water in sight. He can’t help out anymore.

Just in time, you burst out of the ATM building carrying something in one hand. “Let’s go!” he yells, webbing himself up a tall building nearby. The thwip of your own webbing follows, and then the two of you are racing across the rooftops back home.

“Holy fuck,” Mark gasps once you’ve reached your apartment building. It’s only midnight. You usually patrol until around one thirty, but Mark feels too shaken to fight at the moment.

You repeat his sentiments, sinking to your knees. One hand burrows into the pocket of your hoodie and pulls out something purple and glowing. “This broke off from that weird glowing thing one of them used to… control you?” You look at him, unsure. He just shrugs, not wanting to remember the experience. “It’s made of the same material as the gun I destroyed earlier.”

“This is definitely not just a one-time thing,” Mark groans. His legs start to wobble and he sits down too as you crush the object in your fist. “How many people do you think are involved with this… alien weapon stuff?”

You shrug helplessly. “At least the four people we fought today, and the robbers we saw last week, maybe?” Your expression turns dark. “I think they escaped. I started fighting Hulk when the Iron Man guy just fucking tore down Delmar’s store, and then the sirens started blaring and I had to get out. When I looked back, they were gone.” An angry sigh bursts from your lips. “Hulk and Iron Man probably cut their two friends away and escaped.”

It’s a blow, but Mark takes comfort in the fact that the two of you and Mr. Delmar are alive. “Well, we’re alive. And now we know what to look out for.”

Humid air blows in the silence.

“I guess we have to figure this out?” you say.

“Wasn’t aware that we were private investigators now,” Mark teases, pulling his mask down slightly for some fresh air.

“Wasn’t aware that people wanted to make weird glow-y weapons out of alien materials either,” you snap back, doing the same.

Mark laughs a little and squeezes your hand. “Let’s just go to sleep,” he says. ��I don’t think… neither of us are in a state to do much more patrolling tonight.” His weak knees and stinging throat agree.

You do too, clearly, because you get up without complaint. “See you,” you murmur, ready to climb down to your window.

He waves, wondering what the universe will throw at you both tomorrow.

. . . . .

“Are you going to homecoming?” Jihyo bounces up to you at the end of the day, eyes wide with excitement. “This year’s theme is Harry Potter!”

You blink. “Since when was the homecoming theme announced?”

Jihyo cocks her head in confusion. “Yesterday, in homeroom?”

Your brain holds no recollection of that. Then again, you weren’t paying attention to the announcements. Mark’s new design for the earpieces was taking up most of your focus at the time. They’re pretty good, you think – you can’t wait to try yours on tonight.

“Um, I don’t know.” You shrug. “When is it?”

“In exactly three weeks.” Jihyo grins widely. “I’m going with Daniel! You should come with Mark.”

Something in you curdles as memories of last year crop up, when people thought you and Mark had broken up even though you were never dating in the first place.

Mark is your best friend, nothing more. Why would you go with him?

Plus, last you heard, he had a crush on Lia, one of the girls on the Academic Decathlon team. If anything, you’ll push his cowardly ass to ask her instead.

You feel a twinge of something that doesn’t feel good when that thought runs through your mind. The fact that you can’t put a name to it just makes you feel even more irritated than you already do.

“Maybe,” you reply unconvincingly, closing your locker. “I don’t have a dress.”

If anything, that just makes Jihyo grin wider. “I can go dress shopping with you! Lia and Yeri wanted to get new dresses too, so we can all go together!”

You try to smile. “Thanks. I’ll, um, let you know if I can go sometime soon, all right?” The bell rings, and you turn away right after catching her nod.

Homecoming. As if you didn’t have enough to worry about between Wang’s lab, homework, AcaDec, and patrol, now you have to think about wasting one night to wear a fancy dress and watch the other people around you spike the punch or sneak sips of vodka in the bathroom.

You don’t even know if you have enough money for said fancy dress.

Johnny would probably tell you to go for it anyway. It’s your junior year already, so you be experiencing what Midtown High has to offer. He’d definitely find some way to afford a nice dress and shoes.

But you don’t want him to have to take more extra shifts at the office just for a dress. He’s done enough for you.

You sigh, slipping into a seat in the auditorium for AcaDec practice. Mark’s at the other end of the room, talking to Haechan and Jaemin, so you take the opportunity to put your head down and close your eyes.

It’s practice time. You will the irritation flooding your brain to subside. Even though you’re practically a shoo-in for the team, you still don’t want to run the risk of losing your spot to someone like Flash.

Mr. Harrison, the team sponsor, claps his hands and the talking dies down. You lift your head to see Mark and Lia walking over together, while Haechan and Jaemin take seats next to you.

Since when were Mark and Lia talking?

Actually, since when did Mark have the courage to talk to his crush alone without stuttering up a storm?

A slight smirk crawls onto your lips at the thought, despite the lingering irritation at the back of your mind. Mark looks over and frowns slightly. You good? he mouths.

You nod, smiling, then cock your head slightly in Lia’s direction. She’s at the head of the table now, since it’s her turn this week to read the questions. A small blush blooms on Mark’s cheeks and he starts to look uncomfortable.

Two emotions war inside of you – satisfaction at seeing your best friend flustered, and the other feeling from before that you couldn’t name. Before you can get distracted, though, Lia calls attention.

As she starts reading the first question, you push your feelings away. Emotions mean nothing in the face of AcaDec nationals.

. . . . .

Mark feels like he shouldn’t have come to this party.

It’s not just the fact that he doesn’t really like parties and feels kind of uncomfortable. It’s also that Lia only invited him, not you, and he kind of didn’t tell you the truth when he asked to call off patrolling today to be here.

He told you that he was sick.

He hasn’t been sick since the spider bite (which is a miracle in itself).

He could also hear the skepticism in your silence over the phone after he gave you that excuse.

Mark doesn’t even know why he lied. First, he’s a terrible liar. Second, you’re not stupid. Third, Lia holds really big parties, and you obviously knew that this one was happening.

All he does know is that you and Lia don’t exactly coexist peacefully in his mind. He likes Lia – definitely a bit more than as a friend – but you’re his best friend, his rock, the person who’s been there with him throughout everything.

It kind of feels like he has to choose between you two, and he really doesn’t like that.

So here he is, standing in the corner of the kitchen with a cup of (definitely spiked) punch in his hand that he’s yet to take a sip of. The noise level is a bit lower here, which is nice – he nearly got sensory overload when he walked into the living room. He mindlessly scrolls through his phone with his other hand, its light shining on the web shooters still around his wrists.

Even though he isn’t patrolling tonight, better safe than sorry.

“Mark!” Lia’s voice turns his head. She pops into the kitchen. “You made it!”

“Yeah.” He smiles as best he can, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks again for inviting me.”

Is that a blush on her cheeks? Mark can’t tell if it’s that or just the lighting leaking in from the living room. “Well, you aren’t usually at parties.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”

Mark doesn’t really know how to reply to that. After a short but awkward silence, he just gives a sheepish smile and a “sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry!” Lia laughs, her infectious cheer returning immediately. “Why are you here, by the way? Let’s go to the living room, that’s where all the fun is!” And before he can stop her or stutter an excuse to stay, she’s taking his wrist and dragging him into the chaos.

Mark’s feet stop at the edge of the crowd, but Lia’s take her to the middle. She’s a really good dancer, he can tell. She actually moves to the beat, while the others mostly just hop around weirdly.

But he doesn’t really like dancing, even though it’s fun to watch. The crowd is also pressing into him, making him feel uncomfortably claustrophobic. Lia’s smiling at him, obviously trying to get him to join in, but the music is too loud and the smell of sweat and alcohol is too heavy and before he knows it, he’s holding up his phone as if that’s an excuse and racing out of the house.

Outside, the air is warm and heavy, but there’s an underlying breeze that cools Mark’s cheeks and soothes his mind. His feet don’t stop once he’s left the house, and he keeps walking until he’s reached the sidewalk just in front of the lawn.

No one’s here. Everyone’s inside, dancing or drinking or wreaking havoc. Mark takes several deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, before he feels calm enough to think properly.

Looking back at the house, he doesn’t really want to go back. Mei gave him enough money to pay for an Uber back to the apartment, but he doesn’t feel like going home either. Instead, he memorizes where Lia’s house is and starts walking.

The quiet of Lia’s neighborhood is somehow very similar but also very different from his own. There’s the same susurrus of crickets and the wind blowing through trees that makes Mark feels somewhat like he’s at home, but it’s a much more peaceful quiet. Here, it feels like nothing while happen. Meanwhile, on his street, there’s always something ominous about the silence. Like something could very well explode any second.

And then something does explode.

It’s pretty faint. If it weren’t for his enhanced hearing, Mark probably wouldn’t have heard it. He turns around, frowning.

He’s actually walked pretty far from Lia’s house. Here, the houses are a little more run-down, and there’s a broken fence in the direction Mark heard the noise. Upon closer inspection, it doesn’t seem like he’d be trespassing if he jumped over.

Maybe he shouldn’t do it. Mark’s fingers run over his web shooters. He’s pretty sure he could make it out of a fight alive, but he only has his hoodie to cover his face. It might not be enough.

(The fact that he wore a hoodie to a party is a testament to how much he doesn’t know about parties.)

Another small explosion sounds, followed by faint voices. Mark pulls up his hood, tightens the strings so that only his eyes are visible, and leaps over the fence.

To his surprise, he’s actually wandered into the large field just outside Jaemin’s neighborhood, next to an old abandoned building that a lot of kids play in. It’s good. If he needs backup, you’ll know where to go.

Doubt strikes him. He told you he wasn’t patrolling tonight. If he calls on you, you’ll know he lied about being sick.

Well, you already know. This will just confirm it.

Suck down your pride, he thinks. If he finds that he’ll need help, he’ll take yours. Even if it means revealing that he lied to you.

Some would say he’s too worried about all of this, that he’s making a big deal of nothing. But it’s you. He’s never really held any secrets from you, and on your end, you’ve always told him everything as well.

Enough. He shoves his thoughts away and starts crossing the field. Running just makes him realize how convenient swinging is, and by the time he reaches one of the trees surrounding the field, he’s extremely disgruntled.

He leaps into the tree. Just beyond the field, purply-blue light shoots out of something and knocks out part of the abandoned building. One man crosses his arms, displeased, and asks for something more “low-key.”

This is a weapons trade. And the light from said weapons is dangerously familiar.

Fuck.

Mark calls you without really thinking. You pick up on the second ring. “Mark? What’s wrong?”

“Can you get to the field just outside of Jaemin’s neighborhood?” He leaps into another tree, closer to the explosion. “There’s… three men. And a van. And…” He sucks in a breath. “The van is full of those glowing weapons.”

There’s a beat of silence on your end. Then – “I thought you were sick?”

Mark winces. “I’ll explain later. Promise.”

You sigh. “Give me ten minutes.”

. . .

Nine minutes later, you’ve leapt into the same tree Mark’s hiding in. Your face is covered by your mask, but he can already sense the suspicion and disapproval radiating from your hidden expression. He winces again, but it disappears quickly when you see the van.

“Shit,” you mutter.

Mark likes the way you can sum up situations into one loaded word.

“Stay out of sight for a bit,” you say. “You don’t have a mask, so it’ll be easier for them to identify you if they see you.”

He nods.

“I’m going to try to take out the one in the van.” You point to one man, who’s poking around the back of the vehicle. “Wait no, the other guy has a gun. Fuck…”

“I’ll take out the gun,” Mark whispers. “You go with the guy in the van.”

You purse your lips under the mask. “Okay. You said this is a trade, right?” Mark nods. “If you can, follow the guy who’s supposed to be buying. If we don’t get answers tonight, I think we’ll have to ask him some questions later. Meet me back at the apartment roof.”

“Got it.” Mark stretches out his arm. “Ready…”

“Now.”

His aim is perfect. The gun wrenches itself from the man’s holster just as you leap from the tree, entangling your guy’s legs in webbing.

“This was a set-up!” Mark’s guy yells, rounding on the buyer. The buyer quickly raises his hands and begins denying the accusation, but the other man pulls out another gun and whips it between Mark’s tree and the buyer.

You’re still tussling with the guy in the van, who’s picked up one of those three-pronged things Mark had to deal with and is now aiming it at you. There’s no way you can turn around to help.

Mark’s just decided to jump out of his tree too when you’re thrown out of the van with a blast of purple light. You get up quickly, but by that time, his guy has jumped into the van too and is revving the engine.

Then, because you’re fucking nuts, you shoot a web into one of the open back doors. The van starts driving away, dragging you behind.

He almost yells your name before he remembers that’s not a good idea, but a gasping shout still escapes his throat. You turn back just as the van starts speeding up. The message behind your masked face is clear.

GO.

The buyer starts sprinting away. Heart in his throat, Mark follows.

. . . . .

Covered in muck and dirt, you swing onto your apartment rooftop. You must look slightly unhinged, because Mark actually takes a small step back.

“Are you… okay?” he asks tentatively.

“No, I’m not fucking okay,” you snap, ripping off your hoodie. Your shirt is just slightly damp underneath, but it still stinks. “First, my best friend lied to me about being sick for some reason I still don’t understand. Second, I got roped into a mess because said friend found some criminals when he was supposed to be sick and apparently needed my help. Third, I was actually about to beat up said fucking criminals before a flying vulture man just fucking snatched me off the top of the weapons van, tossed me around in empty fucking air, and then dropped me into a goddamn fucking dumpster.”

Silence falls on the rooftop. You’re still seething – mostly because of the stupid vulture dude, what the fuck even was that – but Mark looks so guilty and upset that you start to feel sorry for yelling at him.

“Look, Mark.” You rub a hand over your face before remembering said hand was covered in muck until a few seconds ago. Ugh. “I’m sorry. I’m just really mad about the vulture guy and losing the van, and I’m definitely still upset that you lied to me, but I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“No, I’m sorry too.” Mark shuffles his feet a little. “I… Lia invited me to her party at the last AcaDec practice. I didn’t really want to go, but she looked so hopeful that I decided to. She didn’t invite you, and it just felt like it’d be really awkward if I told you about it, so I told you I was sick.” He winces.

Irrational anger boils in your chest but you force yourself to breathe. “You shouldn’t have lied, Mark.” You cross your arms, but your voice remains steady. “You should’ve told me. Why didn’t you think I would understand?”

“I don’t know.” Mark is starting to look frustrated, which makes you even more upset. It’s mostly his fault you’re in this situation now, anyway. “It always seemed like you didn’t like Lia very much.”

Well, that much is true. But how dare he say it out loud?

“Whatever.” You know you’re being slightly (really) petty, but you’re covered in dumpster juice and you think you have the right to be angry. You also really want a shower. “You don’t need to sneak around to be with your crush. It’s fine by me. Just go.”

“Y/N, that’s not fair,” Mark protests. His face twists up in anger.

“Yeah, you know what’s not fair?” you snarl, holding up your ruined hoodie. “I had to go dumpster diving because you decided to lie about going to a party with your crush!”

“I didn’t know this would happen!” Mark snaps back. “And even if I’d told you the truth, we’d still have fought those guys anyway!”

You scoff. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t have lied.” Your lips curl. “Next time, just tell me the fucking truth. You don’t need to hide your crush around me, and you know I hate liars.”

You don’t stick around for his reply.

. . . . .

After last night, Mark doesn’t really feel like talking to you. He realizes he was wrong to lie, but he’s also pretty sure you’re overreacting. And logically, that would be sound because you were spitting mad at the vulture dude (who he kind of wants to see in person. Is he a cross between a vulture and a human? Or does he just have metal wings, like Falcon?) and you were thrown into a dumpster.

From the smell of your clothes, it wasn’t a very clean dumpster either. If such a thing even exists.

But he doesn’t feel like apologizing, not unless you decide to as well. He knows he’s being petty. And he isn’t usually petty.

Then again, he usually doesn’t fight with you either.

He still waits for you in the apartment lobby, anyway. Mark doesn’t feel so pissed at you that he’ll leave all of your traditions behind. You look a little surprised when you come down, but you nod at him in greeting anyway.

The walk to the train station is silent but filled with awkward tension. As the two of you descend belowground, Mark remembers when people asked him if you two broke up last year, when you hadn’t even actually had a fight.

He wonders if people will ask him that same question again today.

Five minutes pass in the train before Mark can’t bear the silence anymore. “I followed the buyer to his house last night,” he says abruptly. “He’s not far from us. I heard someone call him Davis.”

“Oh.” You shift awkwardly in your seat. “That’s… good.” A beat of silence. “When do you want to go and talk to him?”

God, Mark hates this so much. He almost swallows his pride and apologizes right then and there, but self-righteous anger boils in his chest again and he gladly lets it reign. “We can try and tail him Saturday afternoon?” he suggests.

You shrug. “Fine by me.”

The day is awful. The awkward tension between you two is literally palpable, especially since you sit next to each other in every class you share. At lunch, Haechan and Yeri try to keep up some conversation, but it doesn’t last longer than ten minutes before the words dwindle away.

After school, Mark makes up some excuse about wanting to visit Professor Tuan’s lab. It’s not a lie, really – he’s not required to come by today, but Mark has been wanting to pick up some scrap metal for some time. He wants to see if he can upgrade his web shooters and make them a little less bulky.

You nod and let him go without saying much. That would hurt a lot more if he didn’t know just how awkward you have to be feeling as well.

Mark sighs as he walks through the university halls. He aimlessly looks around the doors he pretty much knows by heart now – Dr. Yang’s has a chemical burn on his nameplate, while Dr. Brook’s door is marred by thumbtack scratch marks from his children – but one of them still catches his eye.

Dr. Roberts.

He narrows his eyes. Wasn’t that the same lab that set off his danger sense the day he felt jumpy for no reason?

Mark checks his phone. It’s four, and Dr. Tuan usually leaves at five.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to take a look inside Roberts’s lab.

There are security cameras here, he knows. But he won’t be doing anything wrong. And even if he gets caught by someone inside – though he can’t hear any heartbeats or breathing, so he thinks that’s unlikely – he can just pretend he was lost.

His knock on the door remains unanswered. When he turns the doorknob, it’s unlocked. He steps inside.

It’s a normal lab. Beakers of oily stuff and spare pipet tips litter the tables, while expensive-looking machines crowd the floor. It doesn’t look suspicious at all. His sixth sense isn’t going off at all, so he’s not in imminent danger.

It doesn’t make sense. His danger sense has never been wrong before.

Well, maybe it was a fluke. Something could’ve been on the verge of exploding in the lab that day, which his sense registered, but nothing actually happened. Maybe someone contained the explosion.

Something tells him that’s not the case, though.

It doesn’t matter. Mark doesn’t want to be caught snooping, so he quickly heads out, making a silent promise to come back and take a look again soon.

. . . . .

Saturday comes too slowly and too soon. You and Mark have loosened up a little, but there’s still tangible tension in the air when you two come together. So as the two of you walk to the buyer’s house – Davis, you remember Mark saying his name – the silence feels like it’s eating away at your soul.

Add that to the fact that it takes almost eight hours for this Davis guy to exit his house, and you want to die.

Okay, so maybe you did overreact a little that night.

Fine. A lot.

But in your defense, Mark knows how much you detest lying. The justice system did enough of that to your family. He also has to know how much it hurts to think that someone so close to you doesn’t trust you to know something.

Look, you might not like Lia very much. You don’t know why – maybe it’s because she always looks so perfect and poised, and the fact that she’s really smart too. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s rich and you’re still struggling along in life.

It’s probably jealousy. But you don’t have the desire to unpack all that, so you leave that thought alone.

Yet if Mark actually liked her, you wouldn’t actively discourage it. As far as you can see, Lia’s a decent person. She seems to like Mark for who he is, and not just because he can provide answers to the homework.

It hurts that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you he was going somewhere with her. The two of you are in high school, for fuck’s sake. If he wants to date, he can date. Where’s the problem in that?

As the minutes tick by, you consider apologizing to Mark over your earpiece. But that feels too much like apologizing over text, so you resolve to find a better situation at some point.

(Who knows when that point will come.)

Davis finally leaves his house at around three in the afternoon. You tell this to Mark over your earpiece, and he immediately begins following as per the plan. He’s supposed to figure out where Davis is going and clue you in. You’ll handle the questions because most criminals know your voice already (it’s a side effect of yelling awesome witticisms during fights) and because Mark has a tendency to stutter with strangers and not sound commanding.

An hour passes before Mark tells you he’s gone to a grocery store and rattles off the license plate of Davis’s car. You swing into the parking garage just as Davis walks in, and a well-placed glob of webbing sticks his hand to the car trunk.

“The fuck?” is all he gets out before you walk into view, mask on. You don’t know exactly where Mark is hiding, but you trust him to get you out if things don’t go as planned.

“Hi!” You put on an annoyingly cheery voice, flipping up to sit on the roof of the car. “I’ve got questions about your trade deal with the glow-y weapons from the other night.”

The guy pulls at the webbing. A stab of pride shoots through you when it doesn’t let him go. “What the fuck is this?” he complains, pointing at the sticky glob. “Come on, seriously?”

You shrug. “Maybe I’ll tell you how to get it off when you tell me everything you know about that group of people selling highly illegal and dangerous weapons.” You pause. “Oh, and if you know anything about a weird vulture dude working with them, that would be great as well.”

He looks up at you, eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not very intimidating, you know that, right?”

That… kind of hurts. Underneath your mask, you pout. “If you say so. But I can stay here all day. And from the looks of it, you have ice cream in your bags.”

“How did you know?” Davis looks at you weirdly. “You smell it or something?”

You shrug again. “Don’t worry about it. Are you going to tell me what you know?”

“What’s in it for me if I do?”

A deep sigh passes your lips. Do you have to spell it out for everyone? “Those weapons literally took out the entire corner of Delmar’s deli.” You wave your hands around for emphasis. “The entire fucking corner. If stuff like that gets into more people’s hands, things are going to be a lot more dangerous than they already were.”

“The fuck would you know about dangerous?” Davis scoffs. “Where do you even live?”

“The neighborhood five streets down from you.” Your voice turns flat. “You know, the one where my parents were killed by a rich family’s drunk son, and my best friend’s uncle was shot by a thief no one managed to catch.”

That shuts him up.

“Look.” You rest your cheek on your fist. “I started doing this –” you wave a hand at your mask – “because I didn’t want other people to deal with the same shit that we did. And if you don’t tell me what I need to know, I’ll find out some other way. I don’t want those weapons in the streets. From what you said that day, I don’t think you do either.”

Davis sighs. “No, I don’t. I have a nephew in the area. Want to keep the place safe for him. The vulture guy’s a psychopath.” He looks into the eyes of your mask. “I know one of them. Charles Roberts. He’s not the vulture dude, but he’s pretty high up on the ladder.”

“Charles Roberts.” You repeat the name. Something about it feels familiar, but you’re not completely sure why. “Thanks, dude!” You flip off the car, ready to leave.

“Hey, what’s this?” Davis pulls at the webbing on his car. “You said you were gonna let me go!”

“Oh!” You turn around with your most beatific smile (even though no one can see it). “It’ll come off naturally in two hours.”

“I have ice cream!” he protests.

“I know!” You wave wildly. “Still a criminal!”

You don’t sweat it. Mark will definitely let the guy go, anyway.

. . . . .

Mark’s heart is pounding like nuts when the two of you sneak in Roberts’s lab under the cover of night. Just hours before, he’d almost had an aneurysm upon hearing “Charles Roberts” coming out of the buyer’s mouth. With a quick Internet search, he’d confirmed that Charles was indeed the first name of the professor who ran the lab that had given him the alert before.

Something makes him uneasy as you pick the lock. Sure, you’ve avoided all the security cameras as best as you can, and the lock opens quickly with a quiet snick, but there’s still a bad feeling in his stomach.

It isn’t like his danger sensor. No, there’s no imminent danger at the moment. He just feels… bad.

Thankfully, the enhanced sight that came with the spider bite allows him to see things in the dark much more easily than before. No flashlights means no increased chance of being caught. Aided by the dim glow of the emergency lights, the two of you start looking around.

Just like last time, Mark doesn’t find much at first. The beakers that littered the tables before have been cleaned and are now sitting in neat rows on a different table. Someone’s put the pipet tips into glass cabinets. A few experiments sit half-finished in incubators.

Then you find the trapdoor.

It’s underneath a huge machine that Mark doesn’t know the name for. If it hadn’t been for your increased strength, you probably wouldn’t have found it. Together, the two of you shift the device over and descend through the trapdoor.

Only to be immediately met with a blast of purple light.

Mark’s the second one in, so he doesn’t feel the full brunt of the attack. You drop like a stone, groaning, but Mark just feels slightly dazed. This light isn’t destructive, like the beam that cut through Delmar’s. It’s just… disorienting.

“Oh, it’s the spiderkids again!” someone says cheerfully. Mark rolls aside just in time for another beam of light to cut into the floor right where he was. He looks up.

A grinning man’s face meets his eyes. There are too many teeth in the smile. The eyes are cold and hard.

“You!”

Mark whips around to see you standing up slowly, clutching at your stomach like the light was something solid that actually punched your skin. “Fucking… vulture man!”

“This is the vulture dude?” Mark yelps before he can stop himself.

Mark can now see why Davis labelled this guy a psychopath. There’s no feeling in his eyes at all – just cold anger.

“And I thought I left you in the dumpster.” He lifts the weapon again. “Should I dump you there again?”

With a roar, you launch yourself at him just as two more men materialize out of the shadows. Mark immediately starts attacking, drawing their attention away as your fight begins.

Two flashes of light nearly blind him, while another nearly renders him immobile. He wrenches himself out of his daze, using his webs to pull himself onto the ceiling and drag one of the weapons away. Unsure what to do with it, he hesitates for a split second.

And in that second, the vulture guy decides to spread his wings.

You’ve got enough presence of mind to leap out of his reach, sending out jets of web fluid to trap the huge metal wings extending from a contraption on the man’s back. Mark hurls his weapon at the vulture, but he’s already crashing through the ground floor of the university, laughing loudly. Another crunch sounds faintly above and you swear. “He’s flown out of the fucking building.”

Mark turns around. The other two men have disappeared – where, he doesn’t know, because he can’t see any more openings here other than the trapdoor and the hole in the ceiling.

Something beeps ominously in the corner. Frowning, Mark looks over.

You come to the conclusion at the same time he does. “Bomb!” you yell, leaping for the trapdoor. You disappear from view, then a hand reaches down to help Mark jump out.

The beeping increases in volume and intensity as Mark jumps with all his strength. One hand grabs yours. The other releases a string of fluid, attaching to the wall just across. He scrambles out just as the bomb explodes.

His body hits a wall with a sickening crunch and he blacks out.

. . .

When Mark opens his eyes again, he’s in a darkened area just behind the university. Sirens blare, there’s a fire somewhere, and the sound of the explosion is still echoing in his brain.

“Mark?” Your face, frantic with worry, swims into his vision. He blinks, and your expression turns to one of abject relief. “Thank God!”

Air rushes past the skin of his face. Belatedly, he realizes you’ve removed his mask. “What happened?” he gasps out, trying to sit up.

“There was an explosion, and you got thrown into the wall.” You press your trembling lips together. “I got tossed away too, but I had enough time to react and sort of steady myself. I carried you out, but I couldn’t get us back home unless you woke up.”

The two of you watch in silence for a bit as a fire truck douses the flames. “Well, there goes our only lead,” Mark finally mumbles.

You sigh. “We’ll find another one.”

Doubt pushes through Mark’s muddled brain. “Should we?”

The look you give him is one full of confusion. “What?”

“I don’t know.” Mark finally sits up, resting his back against a wall. The cool night air helps clear his head, but it also makes his back feel more painful. “If we’re going to get into all of this trouble over it, should we really be the ones dealing with it? I mean, we’re only kids.”

“Mark, no one else knows about this,” you say, a note of anger entering your voice. “If we don’t figure it out, who will?” You scoff. “The Avengers? They only deal with world-scale stuff!”

“Well, maybe!” Mark snaps. “If it becomes a big enough threat, they’ll deal with it! We’re literally teenagers, Y/N – what else have we even done with this, besides make things worse?”

“What if we can make it better?” you yell. “You just want to leave it, even if there’s a chance that we could fix things?”

“Do you want to die for this shit?” Mark snarls.

Your eyes narrow to slits. “So you just want to give up.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Fine. Okay, fine.” You stand up and shove your mask back on. “Jesus. I can’t believe you. Fucking… doesn’t matter. I’ll figure this out on my own. Just stay home and do… fucking whatever.” You sigh. “Let’s go.”

Swinging back home is a nightmare. Between his slight headache, aching back, and the chill between you two, Mark thinks this whole experience might be worse than death. On the rooftop, you don’t even wait for him before climbing down the side of the building into your room.

Well, whatever. Mark stands by what he said before. All the two of you have done is fuck up – first the ATM robbers escaped, then everything got botched the night he went to Lia’s party, and now all the evidence of any wrongdoing has been exploded at the university.

Shit. Professor Wang’s and Professor Tuan’s labs are probably fucked up too.

The two of you can’t keep fucking shit up. He doesn’t want either of you to die because of a mistake. And if it takes his silence for you to realize that…

He can handle it.

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