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ma1dita · 3 months ago

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ready your position

part 1 of 5 - SET IT UP!

spencer reid x gn!HRT!reader

summary: [3x9: Penelope] Sometimes second chances feel like shots in the dark. You just really wanted a cup of coffee. (set between seasons 3 & 4, loosely based off of set it up on netflix--reader is nicknamed ripley)

wc: 6k

content warning: signs of substance abuse, reader gets shot, side character death, unhealthy coping mechanisms & thinking

a/n: so sorry for the delay! i had a lot of insecurities about putting this out but well, here it is! lots of plot set up but pt 2 won’t take as long haha, please please please leave feedback or i might cry lol

—

[NOVEMBER 2007]

"So what are you in for today?"

A scoff leaves your lips in the dim light of one of the HR offices in the Employee Assistance Unit on the 6th floor of Quantico on a dreary Monday evening and it's intentionally disruptive, like you want the terse breath to catch your therapist off-guard. This routine of yours has you feeling like you're being examined under a magnifying glass but after countless hours of your ass getting pins and needles on the worn leather loveseat, you're still not entirely sure what else there is for Ms. Stevens to discover. Every psychological stone is never left unturned with her, but some burdens you still hold close to your heart. They feel like boulders that you choose to carry, and no one can take them away, lest you leave yourself exposed and vulnerable in front of a woman who can read you to filth.

"Agent?"

"Come on now, we're past the formalities, Miss. S'been more than half a year of us meeting like this. Think I deserve a reward at this point," the joke chokes itself out past your chewed bottom lip. Eyes scanning the ceiling, you mentally count the tiles until you can find a plausible enough answer to the question she's positively dying to ask about the monumental blow-up that could make or break your career, and maybe if you skate by with something noncommittal she'll let you out of here early. 30 salt and pepper sprinkled ceiling tiles, just like this time last week.

"Ripley, then," Ms. Stevens murmurs over a sip of her tea. The smell of ginger pierces your senses even from your spot against the wall. Your eyes meet over her FBI standard-issue mug and she's waiting for you to fill the silence and confirm her thoughts. You hate this game; being hyper-analyzed by the way you lean against the chair, or the tapping of your fingers on your thigh.

Every move means something. Being a member of the FBI's Hostage and Rescue Team meant that you've been hardwired to always find a way out of any space you're put into, and somehow the job has translated into your day-to-day coping mechanisms as your eyes flicker towards the door.

Coping. Right. That's what you're supposed to be doing.

Sometimes you forget the reason why you're here every week— but no matter how painful or teeth-grating these appointments feel, they're the only constant you have right now. And they're mandatory, or else there's no going back to normal; any more time sitting at a desk makes you more anxious even if it's what's been prescribed by professionals like the one sitting across from you.

"You already know why I'm here. I know the big boss man already told you, and if not—office gossip spreads here like wildfire," you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. Ms. Stevens takes note of that and writes something down in her notepad. "It's not what you think."

"You shot an unsub point blank and cost the FBI $4000 in damages."

Chuckling lowly, you run your hand through your hair, "Sheesh. You'd think for glass that expensive it'd be bulletproof, huh?" She's not laughing though, instead scribbling down more words and you think she's signing away your rights to rejoin your team. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal— you were just at the right place at the right time, and although you haven't been in rotation since your mandatory leave and the higher-ups put authorization holds to stop you from being on operations, that didn't mean you were just sitting around doing nothing. You still knew how to do your job, whether Ms. Stevens believed it or not. The shot you took made the weekly newsletter. Agent Fuchs and his family sent you a fruit basket this morning. Agents Hotchner and Rossi know your name now, for better or for worse.

It was a bit of an odd way to end the weekend.

If anything, it was proof that you were ready to get back in action. But the subtle frown on her face says otherwise, and you swallow harshly, a lump in your throat feeling heavy like the truth— Ms. Stevens probably won't let this one go.

You realize she's staring at you for a better answer now as your eyes refocus on her fingers tapping on her desk. Nodding your head, it prompts her to ask the question that she's been holding back since you sat down. One could almost feel bad for the amount of paperwork that probably goes into your weekly sessions.

Almost.

"How did you find yourself involved with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Ripley?" she emphasizes, finally getting to the point. Sucking air through your teeth, you tuck your legs underneath your bottom on the uncomfortable seat. This is going to take a while to explain.

"I just wanted a cup of coffee, man."

—

A WEEK AGO

No one can deny that Dr. Spencer Reid's best asset is his brain.

He knows it too— the fact is one of the few things he's sure about himself. Other people are much easier to figure out to be honest; case details scrolling through his brain like a frenzied catalog and each input has an output, each symptom with a diagnosis, and so on. The neocortex of the brain has about 300 million pattern recognizers that crave data able to turn into patterns or rules, and Spencer is used to staying late after cases conclude to write down all of the reasons why. Something about unraveling the unsub's methodology in case files is just as exciting to him as when he's in the field figuring out the why—mind the fact that he can read 20,000 words a minute.

In his periphery, he can see the rest of the team settling into their desk chairs, but he's traipsed straight over to the office kitchenette for something to fuel his brain to be able to mince through the stack of paperwork on his desk. He's ignoring the fact that Emily slips a few more onto his pile, but what he can't ignore as he stands over the counter stirring in way more sugar into his cup than there is coffee, is you, walking through the glass doors virtually undetected by anyone but him.

The metal of his teaspoon clinks against his mug, and a side glance at your form reveals a lot to him— but not quite as much as he would like to know about a person at first glance. Stiffness in your posture indicates some sort of military background, there's a slight tremor in your hands as you reach for the mug on the top shelf—probably attributed to nerves? Most likely since he's never seen you on this floor before. You blink slower than average, and Spencer thinks it's a sign of exhaustion which checks out since you're blatantly stealing coffee from the BAU.

Sending a soft smile his way, Spencer quickly eases up and nods at you, sipping his coffee as he watches you move about the small space. Okay, stealing is a vast over-exaggeration, but in an office filled with FBI agents, it's a wonder that he's the only one noticing these types of things. He's also staring at you very intently, which might affect things.

That or the caffeine's already hit him like a punch in the face.

You're pouring some of Penelope's homemade oat milk creamer and he observes the way you play with a fray on your knit sweater. There's something that clinks in your jean pocket and it's too small to be a gun, too big to be—oh! You're saying something to him.

"You mind?"

Spencer clears his throat, ripping his eyes away from your crotch as a blush rises upon his cheeks—shaking his head anyway until he realizes that you've taken the spoon out of his hand to swirl into your own mug, sipping at it and frowning.

"You're not from this floor," he states, and it's not a question because it's rare to have people break patterns around here at the BAU and you're far too comfortable to be a civilian but still on edge enough for him to think you must be an agent. Humming, he notes the furrow in your brow as you grab the sugar canister from in front of him, stirring in your preferred amount and tasting it, then adding more again, "Yeah?"

"There are 12 desks in here; 2 executive offices not including our section chief's, liaison's, and higher admin surrounding the bullpen, plus 6 members of custodial staff and the auxiliary agents that run in from different departments—I would know a face like yours," he blurts, blinking when you grin at how that sounds. Dismissing his blunder, you lean back against the counter and chuckle, "You're protective of your turf. I get it. That's good. I'm just here for a cup of coffee. Smelled the good stuff wafting through the glass doors," Handing him back the spoon, he can't help but stand there and hold it out like an idiot as you continue, "You want my credentials or something…. Doctor?"

"No, not at—" "Ah, perfect!"

Rossi grabs the mug out of your hand and takes a big swig as he looks at something on his phone distractedly, "Anderson was supposed to have a cup ready for me as soon as we got back… Why is this uh….watery?"

"Oat milk, sir," you say, taking it in stride as the older man crinkles his nose, mumbling his thanks, walking back to his office. Your eyes meet Spencer's with an amused expression and he sighs. The watch on your wrist beeps and you give him a two-fingered salute as you make your way out of the glass doors behind you eastbound; his gaze doesn't break until you're out of sight.

A hand claps him on the shoulder and it's Morgan with that look he gets when he sees the resident pretty boy with a person of interest (also known as when Spencer is caught talking to anyone, ever), "Now who…" he chuckles, squeezing him so hard that his drink spills a little bit, "was that?"

Spencer blinks, pouring more sugar into his mug and stirring it with the spoon, "Definitely not a secretary like Rossi thinks…." He takes a sip before realizing he's made a mistake. Besides the fact the mug he drank from is contaminated now, he's forgotten to ask for your name.

"At least that's what I'm trying to figure out."

—

It has been exactly 8 and a half months since you've been an active operator for the HRT's Red team. 37 weeks of trying to come to terms that Special Agent Charlie Young is dead. 258 days since your childhood best friend Harper was made a widow and her baby left without a father. And no matter what way you put it, it was your fault. Or at least no matter what everyone's been trying to tell you, it still felt that way since he took a bullet that was meant for you.

You spent your 6 months of paid mandatory leave in the confines of your apartment nursing bottles of Jameson, watching old telenovelas, and avoiding phone calls from anyone who would try to reach out. But in the space that Charlie's absence left behind is the reality that everything in life keeps moving on whether you like it or not. You caught yourself craving your old routine to prove to yourself that nothing's changed; that you're still capable of being the elite agent that worked your way onto this prestigious team in the first place.

So as you lie in wait in an unmarked car outside of 107 Leavensworth, you plan to do just that—follow through with the mission, this second chance—and prove that nothing can shake you. The next operations cycle starts soon and you have to make this count. Your eyes lock with Agent Morgan's as he crosses the road arm in arm with Penelope. Nodding at him, you slink further into your seat. There's a long night ahead, but hopefully, the only thing that will be bothering you tonight is your thoughts.

When they pass the courtyard, your eyes flicker back towards the empty street, checking every which way for possible suspects. It's quiet, and the air is a bit chilly, the wind sweeping through the street like a frosty vacuum. Your phone buzzes with another text from Harper, a voicemail from your mother, and unread emails.

[From Harpy: Have an extra table setting out for Thanksgiving. Your two favorite girls would love to see you if you can make it! Miss you Rip.]

[Missed call from Mama: Hi honey, I know you're probably busy but I'm worried about if you're eating enough. You're overw—]

The sounds of footfalls on pavement draw your attention away from the voicemail as a man comes near, swiftly passing the direction of your car with the purpose of walking into the apartment courtyard. You slide out with ease, throwing your phone to the passenger seat before making your presence known to him, "Can I help you with something? What’s your bus—"

BANG!

Gunshots are so much louder when you're the one being shot at.

You swear you feel your heart stop beating as your body hits the ground, ears ringing from the shock that ravages your being and you just…lay there in the smoke of his revolver. The spinning view you have of the stars is interrupted by the sound of Derek Morgan's voice yelling into your walkie, "WE HAVE A FEDERAL AGENT DOWN, I REPE—"

You swallow hard, fingers sliding over the breastplate of your bulletproof vest and feeling the gaping hole left behind.

Fuck, can't even die right.

Pushing yourself up and feeling nothing but the gravel in your palms, you wheeze, "He's getting away…Two blocks northbound. GO!" The man tweaks his head at you before springing into action, "I got her, GO!" And then his body moves as fast as you suppose that bullet did— surging towards the assailant's direction as you clear your throat and dust yourself off and look up at Penelope's window, her beaded curtains shuffling against the glass.

"Disregard. 10-78, Agent Morgan is pursuing, I have eyes on the vic…"

Rushing up the stairs, there's a tremor in your hand that slides along the banister. You need to push through the shock before the adrenaline wears off, but the faster you fly up the circular staircase, the memories hit you like a tidal wave. The sound of Charlie singing to his baby girl, Harper's smile when you first introduced them at the Academy a few years ago. Lactic acid builds up in your calves and your chest feels tight—your joints feel stiff as you stumble through the door blowing air out in puffs like someone does when they get burned. In the dark of the apartment, moonlight shrouds you like a spotlight and the singing and the laughter turn into blood and tears.

You'll never forget the way Harper looked at you in that hospital waiting room. It should've been you. Weaving through the fallen furniture, your eyes scan the perimeter for any movement; she was last near the window, and then where did she go? It should've been you. Turning the corner towards the alcove of her bedroom, Penelope Garcia's scream pierces through the darkness, and a gun is pointed towards your chest for the second time tonight as you stumble back, bumping a sparkly cat statue off her side table. It should have been you.

"Don't s-shoot!" you stutter, hands in the air and now the colorful woman is sobbing into your arms, blubbering, "Why is this happening to me?"

"I don't know…" you sigh, asking yourself the same question and holding her up—at least her hug is tight enough that it squeezes the truth out of you. You don't want to die.

But why didn't you?

Your second chance at fixing things was looking more and more like a second shot in the dark.

—

By the time Spencer and the rest of the team show up, he's pleasantly surprised to see you making coffee in Garcia's kitchen. You're a shadowy figure against her counter, sipping honey tea from a TARDIS mug and minding your business. The BAU has staged themselves across every open seat in her living room, almost looking like a part of the bits and bobs that occupy the space—different personalities contributing to help out one of their own.

Hotch looks at you, introducing you to them and Spencer holds back a smile when your eyes meet again. It's awkward, like when the teacher introduces a new student to the class. You shuffle your feet towards the group, nodding and biting your lip when you hear your name, "Call me Ripley. S'easier that way. I'm on loan from HRT."

"Glad you were available. The rest of your team was deployed," his boss says, and there's something in your expression that signals to Spencer that you're upset about that fact. Maybe it's the way your hands graze over your abdomen repeatedly, like checking for a wound or the way your eyes are consistently downcast. Even after your empty mug is placed onto a sage green doily, he watches you clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest as if blocking yourself off from the group.

"It was a favor from Otis. My night was going to look like this or catching up on Days of Our Lives, so… Anyway, you guys are held in high regard in our area. For good reason."

"And so are you," Hotch actually smiles, soft enough like a father softens a blow, "Head back to the office and I'll tell Agent Otis that you did a great job."

"Um…Ripley can stay. We're friends now," the bubbly analyst says as she pushes her glasses up and grabs your arm.

"I don't want to intrude on your process—" "You won't be intruding at all," Spencer interrupts, "In fact, you might be more of an asset in helping us figure this out."

The pieces fall together as you watch the BAU work together like different organs that make up the same body, each with its own function and essential to their success. You take a seat next to him on the sofa, your eyes ricocheting off of the person who speaks like ping-pong balls and he knows it's overwhelming to some, but it works.

"I told you I'm tired of this jag-off getting ahead of us," Rossi grits as he walks out of the apartment after grilling Garcia. There's an awkward silence once the team splits off and you don't move from your spot after the door closes, "He always like that? Looks friendlier in his author's headshot." Emily chuckles, hair brushing Garcia's shoulder as she leans over her laptop, and Morgan is pacing across the hardwood floors, fingers touching every little trinket to distract himself while his Babygirl works her magic.

"He's newer to the idea of a team."

Spencer has a heart-shaped throw pillow on his lap and he absent-mindedly plays with the sequins. He watches you chew on your lip before nodding, "Can imagine what that change feels like. Never easy. You guys are something else though—my Reds could never…get together like this."

"Isn't that the whole premise of the Hostage and Rescue Team? To be part of something?" The raven-haired woman pipes up, looking curiously at you.

"Well, really it's to s—"

"Servare vitas—that's Latin for the HRT's motto 'to save lives'," Spencer hums, and you nod. There's a distant look in your eyes as you look off towards the window before speaking, "We just follow orders, I guess. In and out. It's funny how we're called operators when in reality we're the ones being ordered around." Your voice is wistful, going hoarse and you clear your throat.

"Anyways, didn't Agent Rossi have three wives or something? Maybe he just needs to focus on finding a fourth."

The subject change lifts the tension that fills the room, everyone having a bit of a laugh at that. Morgan admires a blown glass ornament from Garcia's mantle before he moves his gaze to you, "He got it wrong three times, you think he'll find someone to lock it down for a fourth?"

"Actually, did you know that studies have found that the rate of divorce in the US is about 35% to 50% for first-time marriages and over 60% to 70% for second, third, or fourth marriages and beyond?"

No one moves a muscle at the statistic that spews out of his mouth like something from a well-oiled machine and you turn to him, full attention and tucking your legs underneath you with eyes full of wonder. He doesn't remember the last time someone's ever looked at him with anything other than mild unease.

"Really?"

"Really," he continues, "so even if you knew someone who could…" "Match his freak?" You suggest, interrupting him this time, and your choice of words makes Garcia giggle over the chatter of her keyboard, "I knew you were a cool cat."

He doesn't quite know what to say to that, always fumbling for words in front of attractive people, making Morgan send him a sidelong glance. Spencer goes back to playing with the sequined pillow instead.

"I got someone like that too. Hard to prove yourself when they don't give you a chance. It's like credentials, seniority, all that training goes out the window when I'm in front of them."

"Your boss?" Spencer mumbles, and you shrug, "Something like that." You sound like you don't want to share more, so he nods, saving your words for him to scroll through in his mind later, "He's definitely not Gideon."

'Who's Gideon?" You ask, finishing off your cup of tea and leaning against the back of the sofa. It's comfy enough that all of your limbs sink in slightly, and he watches your eyes flutter with fatigue. Spencer tries not to get distracted by the way your eyes sparkle in the twinkly lights that hang from the walls of Garcia's apartment.

"He was…before. Before Rossi. Taught me everything I know."

"Must've been a good guy then, if you're this good at your job," you smile. It's the same smile you sent his way in the office kitchenette, soft yet like a shockwave, and he thinks that even without his eidetic memory, he'd remember your words forever.

"Mhm…" you muse, putting the cover of the TARDIS mug back where it belongs and standing up, "I should get back to the office. It was nice meeting you all, despite the circumstances." You nod at them, passing Garcia and patting her head before humming a tune on your way out.

"Ripley's kinda great, huh?"

Spencer nods, a small smile gracing his features. When he looks up, Garcia's staring right at him. Only the two of them recognize the Doctor Who theme song, after all.

—

You desperately need a drink.

You're sitting on Anderson's desk staring at the mess you've made of the BAU's bullpen, shattered glass sparkling like little fractals of light on the floor beneath your feet and this night just got longer. By the time they process your gun and get your official statement it'll be sunrise, you think. You can't look at the body even after they cover it with a tarp, the rest of the team tiptoeing through the debris in the entryway. This one's gonna be tough to explain to your superiors.

"Ripley!"

Penelope Garcia is rushing over to you and hanging off your side in a second, making the empty feeling in the pit of your stomach go away for a moment with her eyes shining like tinsel on Christmas morning and the guilt feels a bit lighter. You did a good thing. Then why…why won't your hands stop shaking?

"I never wanted you to do something like that for me," she starts, rubbing your arms and looking up into your eyes, "Do you hear me? Ripley."

You didn't even blink when you shot him, and you don't know if anyone would consider that the best or worst part of it all. Shrugging and placing your cheek against the hand that remains on your shoulder, you purse your lips, "I hear ya. I'll be okay now that you're gonna be okay," You sniff, blinking slowly as you watch your boss walk in, exchanging words with Fuchs and Hotch. "'Sides. We're friends now. You do what you have to when protecting your own." Your voice shakes a bit as you trail off, torn between the grateful smile on Garcia's face and the unreadable expression on your boss'.

"I had some time earlier, during everything going on—I work quick you know? And I do little crafts when I get stressed, so…" You feel a familiar piece of clothing being pressed into your hands, and it's your jacket. You didn't even realize you left it at her apartment, ripping it off after getting shot. A small embroidered pink flower now occupies the space where the bullet hole was. She giggles, squeezing your hand as you run it over her handiwork, "Sorry I only had pink thread."

"Pretty. Even better like this. You're a genius, you know that?"

The look on her face reminds you of a little kid who gets told their drawing is a work of art, but you revel in it. Despite the fact you might lose your job for insubordination, or whatever else Ms. Stevens can tack on—Otis is still looking at you from across the room, a talk imminent for your behavior. The HRT is risk intolerant, and though you saved a life today, you took someone else's.

"I read through your file."

Your eyes rip back and meet Penelope's as she stares at you hard through her glasses, "Uh…"

"Don't worry, just me. I just… get it now. The way you walked into my apartment earlier and you couldn't catch your breath, why you're the only Red left behind. I mean I'm like that after any type of cardio, and totally get it too, I…" she stops herself, and grabs your hands, "I get it. I've been there. I just want you to know I'm here if you want to talk, without the dark office and psych evaluation."

"You sure you're not a profiler?" you say simply, smirking. She laughs more freely than she has in days, patting your cheek, "Ripley, if I was, I wouldn't have been able to pass along your reinstatement papers. Your boss will see that soon enough. Again, thank you."

You can't do anything but laugh—any type of unease lifting from your system before you catch a certain spectacled analyst staring at your new friend, and you nudge her, "You know, with all the heat I'm getting right now—No one's looking at me like that." Garcia grins, looking over her shoulder and then back to you.

"Do you believe everything happens for a reason?"

As you watch her saunter over and talk to the guy, you start to believe it too.

A steaming cup of coffee is placed next to your thigh and you look over to see Spencer leaning against the other edge of the desk watching you.

"Just the way you like it."

You beam at him, leaning over to gulp the scorching liquid. The steam spreads in the short distance between you as you cock your head at him, "You remembered!"

He shrugs like it's nothing of the sort, the small gesture warming you just as much as the coffee does as it travels to your stomach.

"Do you know how hard it's been to get a cup of coffee around here?"

And then the two of you are giggling like schoolchildren, hiding behind furtive glances and shaking hands like there isn't a dead body covered by a tarp 10 feet away from where you sit. He nervously scratches at the pit of his elbow, unsure of what to say next but the moment is broken when Otis and Hotch walk over, effectively silencing your laughter. Spencer walks away quickly.

"Listen…"

Your boss sighs, rubbing at his bald head as he looks at you, "Let me guess, I'm not gonna believe what happened?" Hotch raises his eyebrows, "So you weren't kidding, Otis. That's why this agent goes by Ripley."

"You always have a way of doing things your own way, Rip."

Grimacing, your hands tighten around the mug as you look at your superior in the eye, "I followed orders and saved a life today. The rest.. was just because I really was trying to get a cup of coffee," The two men stare at you curiously, almost forming a blockade around your position on the desk, "Penelope adds vanilla and cinnamon to her oat milk." Otis looks unconvinced, still not blinking.

"I'm serious! It's delicious!"

Otis pinches the bridge of his nose before walking away. As he goes, he calls out, "You're back on for the next cycle." You spring up almost as if electrocuted, "Seriously? Can't take that back!"

"Don't do anything to make me want to," your boss says when he gets to the entryway, sweeping glass with the sole of his shoe, "No more surprises. I mean it, Ripley. Keep it up."

"Congratulations are in order then," Hotch says, shaking your hand, "I'll get the detective over to speed up your clearance. We all need a good night's rest."

"Thank you, sir."

Nothing can take away the elation that runs through your veins—like being brought back from the dead. You did what you set out to do, you made your second chance count and now you're an operator again. The type that saves lives and is in action instead of just filing paperwork and watching day go to night without feeling fulfilled. Excitement blurs your senses, your knee hopping up and down and it's not the coffee but the feeling of being useful again after all this—

"And Agent?"

"Sir?" you blurt out, looking up at Hotch, face falling at his next words, "I'm sorry for your loss. Agent Young would be proud of you." You smile at him and the emptiness sets back in when he turns away, immediately taking a big gulp of your drink as the muscle memory sinks in.

It's not his fault of course. But how foolish of you to forget why it all happened in the first place. Your quest for redemption and who you've lost on the way here. Would Charlie be proud? Looking around the room for prying eyes, you twist off the cap of the flask that sits in your pocket with nimble fingers, slipping it into your long sleeve and pouring the contents into your mug until it's empty. As you take a sip, your eyes meet Spencer's over the brim and your heart lodges itself in your throat as you try to wash it all down. He nods anyway, scratching the nape of his neck and averting his eyes as he comes back to sit next to you.

"It all makes sense now."

The whiskey acts as a security blanket, protecting your feelings from what he might say next. It'd be better to pretend to not care what the doctor thinks of you, but when his shoulder nudges yours, you realize you do.

"Hmm?"

"Ripley. Did you know Robert Ripley originally titled his sports feature Champs or Chumps when it premiered in the New York Globe in 1918?" Spencer says like he didn't just catch you in the act.

"You don't have to do this, y'know," you sigh, your mouth wavering over the now-cold beverage. Being patronized over your alcoholism might just send you into a bender if we're being honest, but then he scratches at his elbow again, sleeve rolling up slightly—and then you see the dots along his skin. Faint traces of fights neither of you bring to the surface go unspoken and for the first time in a year, someone sees you—vices and all and doesn’t recoil. There’s a wave that passes between you, hidden from the people that scatter the room and you can feel something crash over you in his presence. You think you might like it, even possibly sure of it when he speaks again.

"Why not? Obscure facts are right up my alley."

The sun rises on Quantico in the big windows behind you, framing everything in a new light.

—

"So are you?"

You blink slowly, torn from the reverie. It's been almost an hour of piecing together the parts you want to tell Ms. Stevens about how last night led to getting reinstated and earning your spot back on your team. The rest…you left out to not overcomplicate the situation. Come on… everyone lies to their therapist even a little bit.

"Hmm?"

She looks at you intently from a sentence she scribbles onto her notepad, "Are you ready to go back to work?"

Glancing at the ceiling, and then to the placard on her desk, Kirsten Stevens, EAC in blocky white font—you put your thoughts into words, "I mean even if I wasn't, I have to. This is my job. I have to do it well."

"But are you ready? Do you feel… able to do it well?"

Your eyebrows furrow, "I feel like you think I'm not—even if I've already proven I can." Ms. Stevens sighs, pulling her hair back into her claw clip and clasping her fingers together. Disappointment reeks from her stare, and you can't get to the bottom of why this woman seems like she's out to get you. You do the training, you perform well on the job, what else is there to worry about? The timer beeps, signaling the end of your session and you push off your knees, getting up from the couch. Your joints creak, frowning as you're still waiting for her to say something.

"Ripley. No one's saying you can't do your job well. What I am saying is, that until you admit to yourself that something's wrong…that feeling won't go away. You can't just run from your past," she says calmly. It's almost irritating, and a part of you wishes she'd yell at you instead.

"I'm not running. I'm facing it head-on by doing what he would want me to do. Charlie would want me to get back to normal and be back at work."

And she nods at you, turning back to her notepad and handing you a sheet detailing the inner work you have to do before your next appointment, "I can agree with that. We'll move you to every two weeks now since you're heading back to work. I hope to hear from you about any new updates…" Ms. Stevens says, continuing but the rest you don't listen to. She didn't even mention Charlie and he's all everything comes back to. If this is the help she’s prescribing, why does it still feel like you’re drowning?

You walk out of her office with the paper in your clenched fist and your phone in the other as you shoot a text to Penelope.

[To PG: Hey, I hope you're feeling better! Can you send me Dr. Reid's number? I need to ask him something. Also, Rossi's definitely single right? Asking for a friend (not me).]

—

"Let's say you've swallowed a bad thing and now it's got its hands inside you. This is the essence of love and failure." - Richard Siken

[ask to be added to taglist]

#made by ma1dita ♥︎#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x hrt!reader #for my gn babies (づ ◕‿◕ )づ #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #ripley!verse

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silentmoths · 1 year ago

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A vampires guide to feeding from a hemophobic partner. Ft. Neuvillette

*Pokes head out of the shadows*

Well heya. S'been a while.

What's brought this on? it started as a minor shitpost to @crystalflygeo's musings on vampire Neuv, and her mentionings of hemophobia- you know what it'll be easier to show yall.

So thats it. an elaborate shitpost.

Neuvillete x F! Reader. NSFW. Smut, general vampire goodness, Neuvillete being a fkn routine bitch because lets face it, he is.

Neuvillete could feel it. The…the pull, the desire, the need…the hunger.

The chief justice sighs as he pours over his paperwork. He would have to tell you tonight.

“Be beloved…I am hungry.” He tells you over dinner. Whilst he did not need to eat, He always made sure to prepare and join you for your evening meals…a routine one might say, he simply enjoyed spending time with his love, any spare moments he could get.

“Is that why you made steak for me tonight?” you question, knowing well his penchant for making you more Iron-rich dishes before he himself needed to feed.

Neuvillette nods solemnly, it was for your health after all; he would be remiss if he took and took only for you to become deficient. He doesn’t miss it, the sudden draining of colour from your face, or the increase in your heartbeat.

You were nervous, you always got nervous on feeding nights, and Neuvillette desperately wishes he could give you more time, but his hunger was a fickle thing, sometimes he could go weeks without needing to feed, others it was just a few days, it all hinged on how heavy his workload was. Yet he feels like more warning might be worse, because it would only psyche out his poor darling. Despite your absolute phobia of the very sight of blood, you insisted he feed off of you and you alone, an arrangement he happily complied with.

After all, whose blood better to nourish him than his darling’s?

He was always very organised when it came to this, anything for your comfort after all. After dinner and a bath, you find yourself gently tugged to bed with him, soft, nimble fingers gently massaging over your clammy skin. Sometimes you hated how afraid you were of this process, even though it had happened many many times now, without issue. You trusted Neuvillette.

You trusted the way he spoke to you, the way he held you so gently in his arms, in the way his lips slowly travel the expanse of your throat. His murmuring compliments and praise as he slips behind you, your back pressing against his chest. Considering what he was, he always felt so…warm and inviting, welcoming, despite your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He always starts with a kiss. Most vampires prefer the side of the throat…it’s generally seen as an easier extraction point…and yet Neuvillette does not, not after discovering your aversion to blood; he instead chooses the nape, not as easy, and a little longer to extract his fill from, but this way, you never had to see a drop, and he could hold you close. “Are you ready, my darling?” At your nod, he hums, thanking you quietly before sinking his fangs in, using the light scarring from the times he’d done this before as a guide.

Your blood tastes like the finest ambrosia to him, like the first sips of water after being stranded in the desert for weeks. If he never tasted another person’s blood again in his life, and only had yours, he would die a happy man.

He rumbles softly as you whimper, it stung, of course it did, even he understood that this was not a comfortable process. His arms cross over your chest, lovingly holding you close and steady, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into your exposed shoulders.

He drinks and comforts until he’s had his full, until he can feel the warmth in his cheeks return. He watches and listens to you, always keeping a constant eye on your condition, he would never ever forgive himself if he overindulged and made you suffer for it. The next part is a rather rigorous and rushed process. His fangs retract and one of his hands quickly reaches for a disinfecting wipe, the moment he pulls his lips away, he presses the wipe over the wound, cleaning it up as he coo’s softly at you.

“You did well, my darling, it’s over now…let me take care of you.” he whispers in your ear, tone thick with love and joy. He feels much better now, and it was his turn to make you feel better.

He cleans and dresses the wound with careful hands, as he cleans you up, he tries his best to clean himself up, any errant droplet of your blood on his lips is licked away. “Rest a moment my sweet, I will be right back.” He whispers to you before vanishing into the bathroom to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth. Not exactly a necessity, but if it helped abate your fears in any way? He’d do it. You’re still a little shaky when he returns, but now that he’s sure that there is nothing, no sign of blood anywhere, you couldn’t see your wound, and he didn’t smell of it, he can finally descend to pull you into his strong, yet gentle arms, so he can pepper kisses along your face and whisper sweet nothings in your ear.

He’ll ask you what you want as a treat, it could be ice cream, it could be a slice of the sixteen-slice a day cake, he didn’t care how late it was, he would procure it no matter what. Anything for his darling.

This was, is and always will be, the usual routine.

However, one day, your dear Iudex, has another idea.

It starts, as all feeding evenings tend to. He cooks you a hearty, iron-rich meal, he warns you. Everything follows the usual, until you’re clean and showered, skin soft and silky from the fancy shower products he always insisted on keeping for you. (He had his own, but he was partial to body products that contained little scents.)

You sit in bed, awaiting your husband, and are taken aback when he walks in totally naked. His slim, yet sculpted physique on full display for you, pale skin unmarred by any scar or scratch, perfect in every way. “N-Neuvie?” you stammer as he crawls along the bed towards you, his gaze…sweet, yet predatory. “I thought-” “Oh my love, make no mistake, I will be feeding tonight…I just thought I’d try something…new to keep your thoughts from straying, hm?” Just what had you gotten yourself into?

Soon enough, you find yourself, face and chest pressed into the pillows your husband absolutely ploughs into you from behind, your cries muffled by the silken sheet, his hands pressing over yours, his fingers tangling between your own. You were trapped, well and truly trapped; you can't even recall the last time he’d destroyed your pussy like this.

You hear his growl from above you, and you moan for it. It wasn’t often Neuvillette lost control like this, but when he did? It was its own form of ecstasy.

You’re so caught in pleasure, you never once felt the prick of his fangs, the only indicator of a change was the way his hands moved to press your chest into the bed further, holding your top half still whilst he continues to thrust into your sopping cunt like it was the last thing he’d ever do. You orgasm with a scream of his name before falling limp, fuzzy and barely-conscious against the sheets, only able to moan weakly when his hips snap forward, burying his cock as deep into you as it can before he cums, filling you with his hot seed.

That’s when you expect him to bite, when you’re in this soft, gauzy space of post orgasm. Yet he simply quietly tends to you, you feel the usual dressing gently press over the back of your neck and you blink in confusion.

“N-neuvie-” you whimper, his response is to gently take your hand and press a kiss to your knuckles.

“It’s all over, my love. You did so well, you didn’t even notice.”

“W-wha..?”

You watch as he slowly rolls you over onto your back, giving your aggrieved spine a break after all that bending and arching. He reaches for the pitcher of water by the bedside, pouring you a glass first and helping you take small sips, before he takes a glass for himself, it wasn't quite his teeth-brushing routine, but for once, he didn’t feel it wholly necessary.

You’re shocked, you really hadn’t felt it, there wasn't any pain.. “So.” He practically purrs as he leans over you to rub his nose against yours “what does my darling beloved want as her reward?” He asks, shifting some of his silky white hair from his face.

“C-could we…do it like this more often?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. This was so…out of the ordinary for him, to change up the routine…so you figure you might as well change up the reward.

He tilts his head at you before chuckling, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips as his hands move down to your back, massaging at the sore spots and making you groan appreciatively.

“I think that can be arranged.”

Taglist: @stygianoir@meimeimeirin@ainescribe@dustofthedailylife@rjssierjrie@crystalflygeo@asoulsreverie@zomzomb1e@moraxsthrone@mysnowmanandmebaby@inlustris-is-slowly-dying@pvbbyb0y

#Silentmoth writes #man that tag has some dust on it now #Genshin Neuvillette #Neuvilette x reader #Neuvilette x reader smut #moths moots #its crys!!

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xshiny · 7 months ago

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Shared Struggles prt 1

Trigger Warning! ⚠️

Eating disorder -> not eating for a while resulting to unhealthy body

WIP 💀

Unbeknownst to those who didn’t pay much mind to you, you had been struggling to eat much or anything at all.You thought you were flying under the radar fairly well with this, until Keegan found you and walked over to you, pressing his shoulder to the wall as he leaned to be level with you. “You didn’t come down for dinner,” He said smoothly. He was the least confrontational of personal problems out of all your friends, so it was surprising. “Nor were you there for breakfast.. whys that?"

"I already ate" you shrugged it off, moving past him.

“You didn’t.” Keegan said bluntly. “I looked in the kitchen on my way back from the table.. there wasn’t even a plate put in the sink. You’re a bad liar.”

"I put the dishes away. You're a bad looker" you quickly said, and took another step.

This caught him off guard for a moment, before he pushed himself off the wall and stepped in front of you, placing his hands on your shoulders. “Look at me.”

"I'm looking" you blinked, looking at him and stood there in his grasp. You were playing it cool.

He tightened his grip slightly until your view was entirely him. “Do you even realize how thin you’ve gotten? You can practically see your bones through your skin for god’s sake!”

"I'm not skinny, I'm just...not as big as you" you shrug, not even caring about the fact that what he said is true.

He looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Not as big as me?? Dude,” He said, stepping back as he gestured to himself, “You can practically see the bones in your spine! You look like you’re dying!”

"Dying? I'm not dying!" You protest, frowning at him.

“Well you’re damn well starving yourself and that’s a slippery slope to all sorts of issues. Your skin is pale, and your eyes are all bloodshot and sunken. And you don’t have any energy, man! You’re exhausted just by walking!!”

"I need sleep!?" You suggest, and shrug your shoulders again.

“Yeah, that too!” He exclaimed, “But I mean, you have to see what I mean right? You look like if you dropped dead, people wouldn’t question it because they expect it! Your entire skin color is almost blue! You’re a shade of white we’ve never seen! Do you even remember the last time you had a full meal?”

"...No.."

“You can’t even remember?” He looked genuinely hurt. “How long has it been?? The last I remember, you didn’t eat that day either… that was, what, two weeks ago?”

Suddenly you feel dizzy and slump forward a bit, stumbling over your feet. "S'been a while"

Keegan let go of your shoulders as he immediately scooped you up in his arms, holding you close to prevent you from any more stumbling.“Jesus Christ!” He yelled, “You’re about to collapse!”

"Am...not...bouta..." You complained, and your knees gave out, causing you to go dead weight on him.

Keegan made the executive decision to carry you bridal style and immediately went downstairs to take you to the medical unit.He kicked down the door and yelled, “We need help! Anyone?! Come quick!”

Has been worked on ⤵️

When multiple members of the unit rushed in, he finally explained in more detail what was wrong with you, making sure to mention your severe lack of eating. The nurses were incredibly worried, but got to work immediately. It took hours for them to fix any nutrient deficiencies you may have and give you an intravenous injection of potassium to prevent further muscle fatigue.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

A/n: Make sure you lovelies eat!! Take care of yourselves ❤️

Sorry for any inaccurate scenes 😭

And still working on that last scene...will update later...

Update: it's good enough for now 🥲👍 fictional logic save me

Part 2

#keegan p russ #cod keegan #keegan x reader #keegan russ x reader #keegan russ #keegan ghosts #keegan x you #keegan russ x you #m4m #m4f

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toomuchracket · 2 years ago

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the birthday party

(yo. first fic! a lil friends to lovers for the "write what you want week" trope night, hosted by @imightgetbetter! probably too long, probably a bit shit, but we move. the pic of matty below is what he looks like in my mind for this fic lol. enjoy!)

your heels crack off the concrete ground like peals of thunder as you run up the steps at the train station. the restaurant is just up the street, the strings of fairy lights in its window an oasis in the darkness of the february evening. you pause for a beat, shifting the strap of your bag further onto your shoulder and tightening your grip around the bouquet of yellow and orange tulips in your left hand, then continue your sprint towards the twinkling windows.

a red light at a pedestrian crossing hinders you for a few aching minutes. you slip your phone from your coat pocket and scan the screen to pass the time. your friends have replied to the message you sent to the groupchat berating your delayed train; it's cool, don't worry, these things happen, we'll order you a drink for you getting here. after heart-reacting as many messages as your freezing fingers will allow, you send another. off train, will be there in 2 mins x

green again. still clutching both your phone and the flowers, you run the final stretch of pavement, slowing as you near your finish line. the birthday girl is waiting at the door of the restaurant, her bare arms folded against her sequinned chest. her lips arch into a smile as you approach, panting slightly, and she opens her arms for a hug. you manoeuvre into it as best you can with your own upper limbs preoccupied, and speak into her shoulder: "thank you for coming out to meet me. i'm so sorry i'm late." you pull away from her hold, offering her the flowers. "happy birthday, bitch."

birthday girl's smile grows even wider, radiant, genuinely touched. "thanks, angel, you really shouldn't have," she says, taking the bouquet from you and inhaling the scent. "and don't worry at all about being late - we're all just happy you could make it. some more than others, i think."

her smile shifts slightly with the last sentence, into something more... knowing. you raise an eyebrow. "what's your point, exactly?"

"oh, nothing," she shrugs. before you can protest, she smoothes a bit of hair on the side of your head and interlinks her arm with your own. "you look beautiful, by the way. let's head in."

you let her lead the way through the semi-crowded restaurant to the table of your friends. a cheer goes up as they spot you, which makes you blush. birthday girl's fiance stands up to hug you and take your coat. "we saved you a seat up the end there," he says, with a slight incline of his head to the other end of the long table. "next to-"

matty.

you turn to the birthday girl, who simply smiles saccharinely at you, before she nudges you to the end of the table and a set of sparkly brown eyes. one of them closes in a wink as you approach, while the man they belong to slowly rises from his seat. your heart flutters involuntarily, and your greeting comes out as a whisper. "hiya."

"hi, darlin'," comes the reply, as he pulls you into a quick hug. you quickly inhale his scent, a strong mix of tobacco and aftershave, undercut with a hint of the weed he enjoys smoking so much; a scent so sorely him that even the slightest hint of it makes your knees tremble and heart race. here, now, breathing it in in its purest form, you think you might pass out if he wasn't holding you. "it's good to see you again. s'been too long."

"yeah," you inhale softly. you break the embrace, and trail your hands gently down to hold his own larger ones, calloused from years of guitar playing. he rubs his thumbs softly over the back of your hands as you take in his lithe, black-suited body and the mop of dark curls atop his (perfect) head. "you look lovely. really well."

matty's cheeks flush slightly, lifting into a smile uncharacteristically bashful for a rockstar of his calibre. "you flatter me too much, sweetheart. and you look beautiful."

you can feel your cheeks redden as you giggle awkwardly. "the birthday girl said the same thing."

"and for once in her life, she's right," matty replies, placing a hand on the small of your back - a gesture that makes your stomach muscles twitch into tension - and guiding you into the seat next to his. he keeps one of his hands on yours, though, even as you both sit down. "not like the time she got really into french new wave shit and tried to convince us all that cycling across paris on a saturday in july was a good idea."

the memory makes you chuckle. "no, the two of us were right that day. find a quiet restaurant, sit outside drinking for five straight hours, and laugh when everyone else shows up grumpy and sore."

"that was my favourite day of the whole holiday," matty says, almost dreamily, resting his elbow on the table and his face on his hand. "you and i weren't close until then, not really. was nice to just sit and open up to each other. i love doing that with you."

"i know exactly what you mean," you reply, glowing at his words. "getting little glimpses into your brain is my favourite thing."

matty's face changes slightly as you finish talking, the expression something you can't quite describe. the air in the room feels heavier now, as if your honest words are lingering and weighing it down; you try to blow them away by continuing to speak. "and that wine we had was fucking wonderful, too!"

the brown eyes fixed on your own restart their twinkling, as matty slides a stemless glass of burgundy liquid to you. it's identical to the one in front of him, albeit fuller. "speaking of..."

you gasp. "no fucking way."

matty winks at you, smirking - a deadly combination to your heart - clearly proud of himself. as he clinks his glass against yours in a silent cheers, though, his bravado disappears, replaced by something almost resembling tenderness. "i remember you saying it was the best drink you'd ever had. every wine list i read, i look for it. here's the first place outside of paris that they've actually had it."

jesus.

you take a sip of the wine first, to taste, then go back in for a longer drink. it's good, better than you remember, so good that your eyes close involuntarily in pleasure as the fruity smoothness makes its way further down your body, leaving a trail of warmth behind. when you reopen them, matty is still looking at you softly, pretty lips curved into a slight smile. it's the most tender moment you've experienced in a long time, and you don't want to ruin it by talking.

instead, you put down your glass and shuffle your chair as close as you can to his, pointedly ignoring the shiver that dances across your skin as your thigh meets his own, and pull him into another hug. this one is longer, slower, closer - your arms rest on his shoulders, his settle around your waist. with your face in such close proximity to his neck, his scent - already ruinous to you - is inescapable; it consumes you, fills your airwaves and clouds your brain until all you can think is matty, matty, matty. before you lose all sense of coherent thought to him, you murmur a "thank you" into his shoulder, and you swear his arms tighten slightly around you. you stay entwined for a bit longer, neither of you willing to be the one to break the hold. it's only when you hear an "oi! lovebirds! can we order now, please?" from further down the table that you both reluctantly pull apart, smiling sweetly at each other.

the dinner passes without incident, aside from the birthday girl breaking a lightbulb as she over-enthusiastically opens a bottle of champagne. you talk to matty, about his music and your writing and your families and new hobbies and the shit tv you've been watching, and also to the rest of your friends. it's a lovely night, so lovely that nobody really wants to go home after the plates have been cleared and the bill has been paid - when someone suggests continuing the evening in a bar down the street, the response is a unanimous "yes".

so you go, you continue your conversations and your drinking, although the bar doesn't have the french wine you and matty drank a bottle of together earlier, much to your disappointment. you even dance, with your girls, to the overly-bass-heavy songs blasting through speakers hidden everywhere in the dimly lit room. it's fun, absolutely, but you find yourself distracted, eyes constantly flicking to matty. he's so beautiful, standing at the bar laughing with the boys and absent-mindedly toying with his hair, that it makes your heart ache. when he pulls a lighter out of his pocket and makes a beeline for the back door, you're compelled by some supernatural force to follow him, shouting excuses about wanting fresh air across the music to your friends.

a quiet curse leaves your lips as you step coatless into the crisp winter night. at the noise, matty looks up from his phone with a furrowed brow, cigarette between his lips. when he sees it's you walking towards him, he takes the cig between his fingers and exhales the smoke far more attractively than should be allowed. "y'alright, darlin'?"

"mm-hmm," you reply, leaning opposite him against the wall. "just needed some air, is all. but i'll gladly bum a cig off you, if you're offering."

matty rolls his eyes. "not this shit again, sweetheart. s'not good for you. i don't want you adopting my bad habits, do i?"

you pout sweetly and bat your lashes. "please? just one?"

matty looks at you for a second, taking a long drag of the cig as if to taunt you, before he sighs. "listen," he starts. "if you're that desperate for a nicotine hit, i'll shotgun you. just this once, yeah? don't need you ruining your pretty lungs with these things."

"deal."

matty sighs again, but takes another long drag and leans down to your level, placing his hands on the wall beside your head. "open up, then."

ignoring the way your stomach jumps at his command, you part your lips as he exhales, taking all the smoke leaving his mouth into your own. neither of you move once it's done, though; you still lean casually against the brick wall, flanked by matty's hands, both of you breathing heavily, lips mere inches apart. matty's gaze flicks to your lips and back to your eyes, and then it happens.

you're kissing.

it starts sweetly, lips on lips and nothing more, but the wine from earlier emboldens you - daringly, you swipe the tip of your tongue oh so gently over matty's bottom lip. his breath hitches, and something within him just shifts. the cigarette is flung to the ground, forgotten, and his hands come up to hold your jaw as his tongue finds its way into your mouth. as you continue to make out, your hands clutch at the lapels of his suit jacket - whether to hold yourself upright or just to keep him close to you, you have no idea. all you know is that you're finally kissing matty, and you don't want it to stop.

eventually, though, the human requirement for oxygen means that it must. it's matty who pulls away from you first, although he looks physically pained to be doing so. his hands remain on your jaw, thumbs gently caressing your cheeks as he breathes heavily, adoration in those sparkling brown eyes of his. "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do that," he pants, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "fucking hell, sweetheart."

panting just as much as matty, you smooth down his lapels and smile sweetly at him. "well, for me, it's been... wait, how many years has it been since we first drank that wine in paris?"

matty's eyes widen slightly. he giggles - the sweetest sound you think you've ever heard - and pulls you in for another kiss; still as passionate, but more tender than the first, with an underlying gravitas that makes your heart feel funny. this time, when he pulls away, he looks... nervous. "look, this might be too forward, and you can absolutely say no and it'll be fine. but i wanna ask you" he begins, his hands trailing down your sides and coming to rest on your hips, eyes boring into your own. "would you like to come home with me tonight? i would love it if you do."

you've never been more sure of an affirmative decision in your life.

#this is so wack #mads does writing #matty healy #the 1975 #matty healy fluff #matty healy fic #matty healy x reader #matty healy fanfiction #matty x reader #into the birthday partyverse

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pollenallergie · 1 year ago

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older!tom insisting on making you dinner one night after work, he's just like "please, love, you had a long day, pop 'round my flat around 8 and we can have dinner"

and when you walk in, he's got candles lit and smooth music playing, and he gives you a small kiss before asking if you want some wine, and you're like "wait wait, what's going on?"

and he turns beet red "well, i just... you had a hard day at work, and i figured i'd give the romance thing a shot... s'been a while since i've had to romance a bird. am i doin alright?"

and you smile and throw your arms around him and smooch him so big "yes, my tommy, you're doing splendid"

just agh tom rediscovering his youth with you and sksksksk i love it

Listen, Tom’s trying soooo hard. The boyfriend stuff used to come so naturally to him, but then, shit happened and kept happening for the earliest years of his adulthood (pre-hoe phase), and he sort of lost his inherent boyfriend-ness along the way. Or so he thought…

But then Tom hears about the shit day you’ve been having. Firstly, you’d missed your alarm and woke up late this morning. Then your building must’ve decided that having hot water was just not on the agenda for the day, so you’d had to take a freezing cold shower. To make matters worse, your dog had puked before you could even get out of the door, so you’d had to stick around longer to clean that up. Consequently, you’d been late to work and gotten bitched at by one of your coworkers for it. Of course, your day suddenly got really busy right at lunchtime, so you hadn’t had time to eat anything other than the Kinder Bueno you’d had tucked away in your desk drawer for a couple of weeks. Next, you’d spilled coffee on your favourite work outfit (it was a cold mug of coffee leftover from the morning, so it didn’t hurt, but it still stained). Finally, to top it all off, you’d dropped your phone and cracked the screen during your commute home.

Tom hears about all of it on the phone as soon as you get home. You call him to vent about the shit day you had, expecting him to merely offer some words of sympathy, only for him to invite you over to his place; he even tells you to bring your dog, too, so you don’t have to leave them home alone. And, listen, you really don’t feel like leaving the house, not after the horrid day you’ve had. However, you can’t deny that you want to see Tom, that you miss him after not having seen him for a few days (both of you have been quite busy with work). So, you change into some comfortable clothes, maybe trackies and a jumper or casual shorts and a t-shirt, depending on the weather, leash up your pup, and head over to Tom’s.

When you walk in, you immediately feel underdressed. His tiny flat now feels like a fancy restaurant, and you look like you’re dressed to go jogging. He’s lit candles, turned on some slow, easy music, and set his small dining table up to look like a table for two at the lovely Italian restaurant he took you to on your birthday. You shut the door behind you and remove your shoes, calling out to him as you unleash your dog, who immediately runs off to find his best friends, Jago and Haz. Tom returns your call from his kitchen, beckoning you in there as he’s too preoccupied with cooking something on the stove to greet you at the door the way he usually does, the way he wants to. You find him in the kitchen labouring away over the stove, making your favourite comfort meal, a dish from back home that your nan used to make you. It’s a dish that you know he doesn’t have the first clue how to make, which means he had to put in the effort to look up a recipe and learn how to make it. The thought of him researching how to make your favourite dish warms your heart; it’s a simple thing, a small effort, but it’s an effort nonetheless.

Tom immediately steps away from the stove, turns to you, and heads over to greet you with a soft, warm kiss and a bright smile. He takes your bag from you and asks you to watch what he has going on the stove while he runs out of the room quickly to grab something for you. Of course, you oblige. When he comes back into the room, he’s since ditched your bag, likely setting it down on the lounge chair he uses as a catchall, and is now brandishing a bouquet of your favourite flowers. You melt at the sight of him. Tom sets the flowers on the counter and tells you to remind him not to let you forget them here later. He then asks if you want some wine and informs you that he has a bottle of your favourite chilling in the fridge. You nod your confirmation, finding it hard to speak. The pure loving energy in the room has you starting to choke up, and you just barely manage to peep out, “Tommy, what’s all this?”

He blushes as he pours you both glasses of wine, the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks turning a lovely rosy shade. He explains everything to you: how he wants to help cheer you up after the awful day you’ve had, how he’s trying his best to be a good boyfriend to you, how he hasn’t done something like this in a long time and, frankly, isn’t even sure if he’s doing an alright job at it. The warm, lovely feeling that’s blooming in your chest is all-consuming; it warms you from the roundness of your cheeks to the tips of your toes, like you’ve just taken a sip of some tea on a cold day, as your face splits into a beaming grin. You can’t resist the urge to crash into him, to pull him into a tight, warm embrace and plant an emphatic kiss on his plush pink lips.

You reassure Tom that he’s doing lovely, that he’s making you so happy, and you even confess that no one has really ever done anything like this for you before. At that moment, he internally vows to do things like this for you all the time: candlelit dinners when you’ve had a rough day, warming up a blanket for you and making you a cuppa when you get cold, rubbing your shoulders when they begin to ache from slouching at your desk all day, anything and everything to make you smile, to take care of you, to show you how much he loves you- no, wait, not love. It’s too soon for love. Surely he can’t… He doesn’t mean that. But, fuck, no, you know what, he does mean that. Tom loves you. Maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to tell you that, but, for now, he’ll settle for simply showing you how much he loves you. Actions speak louder than words, anyway, right?

Tom’s not exaggerating, either. He hasn’t done anything like this for anyone since he was still a boy, only 18, and not at all scared of loving too intensely. Back then, he didn’t even believe there was such a thing as loving someone too intensely. However, you don’t seem put off by this at all. In fact, you seem to like it… Not even just ‘seem’ to like it; you’re telling him that you love it, that you’re happy, that he’s making you happy. Your reassurances encourage him to offer you more love, to do more for you simply because he wants to. Tom does the dishes after dinner while you’re snuggled up on the couch with The Lads and your pup. He then runs you a warm, relaxing bath, and, when you ask him to join you in there, he doesn’t hesitate to oblige you. Next, he takes care of The Lads and your dog while you get ready for bed, changing into a pair of pajamas you’d forgotten you’d even left here, and using the spare toothbrush Tom keeps for you to brush your teeth. You don’t have any clothes here to change into for work in the morning, but Tom’s already assured you that he’ll wake up early to drop you back at your place so that you have time to get ready before work, and that, if need be, he’ll even give you a ride to work to save time. Once you’ve both gotten ready for bed, and The Lads and your dog have been sufficiently attended to, you and Tom cuddle up in his bed together. You’re both too tired to do anything but go to sleep, but Tom has promised that, so long as you don’t mind waking up obnoxiously early, he’ll gladly attend to your other needs in the morning before he takes you back to yours.

Tom is not only rediscovering his knack for romance with you, but he’s also rediscovering his sense of domesticity; he’s rediscovering how truly wonderful it can be to take care of the people that you love, to make them smile, to ease their worries. Of course, you also help him rediscover how incredible it is to be taken care of, himself, to be spoiled and loved.

#moots moots lovely moots <3 #bex <3 #ask and i shall reply #tom grant x reader #older!tom #older!tom grant #tom grant #tom grant (make up)#make up 2019

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draconicfool · 4 months ago

Text

"I don't actually want ya t' shut up, by th' Laughter."

What Eros wanted was for this feeling in his chest to stop. The pain that was making his heart feel like it was leaping out of his chest. The pain he wanted so desperately to go away. This wasn't a feeling he liked. This was a feeling that he'd wanted forgotten when Aha had stolen him away from the Yuque.

"Stop- jus' stop it- I know what I am, I do. Th' Preceptors made that obvious- put on a- an untouchable fuckin' pedestal and punished when I tried t' run off and be anythin' else..."

How many centuries had he endured that for? How many endless nights had there been. How long had the violin music been his tears? He never wanted to feel that way again. And yet here he was, feeling that way near constantly. Any time he slept with someone he was reminded of it. All his body was good for was devouring, in way or another. Whether it be people for sustenance or people for please.

He was a leech and a beast. Taking and never giving. Ruining lives. Ending them even. A creature like him wasn't meant to be loved. Eros was not. Maybe in another life. Maybe Lài Shoi-Ming had been. Maybe even Amatus Bahre had been. But Eros...was not. That's what he kept telling himself.

He had been loved once, hadn't he? Hadn't there once been someone who could love him, monster that he was? In the back of his mind, maybe it was there, clawing like a distant memory. Could he ever be loved again? Suppose he was now. Even if he wanted to deny it. There was someone right in front of him who wanted to love him. Somebody that he wanted to love so badly.

"I was meant t' go...tha's how one-night stands are s'pposed t' work...and then it stopped bein' one-night. And it started being every other night...f'er weeks...and weeks turned int' days where we'd even jus'- go out...or ya'd bring dinner down t' th' clinic so I didn't f'er'get..."

It had all started becoming so domestic, hadn't it? When was that? When had the lines become so blurred? Neither wanting to admit there was more to it. Until- until now. When there was. When both of them had finally said things they never meant to in the first place.

"Y'er so stupid...I don't get ya at all..."

But then, suppose it really was Eros who was stupid. Denying even now that he was able to be loved. When right there- even just a few feet in front of him- there was someone saying he did. That he could. That he wanted to.

And without thinking on it, without scolding himself about he should know better, Eros would all but throw himself into the other's arms. His body shaking and trembling as he was wracked by the sobs. No- he didn't want to leave. He didn't want to throw everything away. He was so used to being thrown away. This- he wanted to keep.

This he wanted to treasure.

"I don't-- hate ya, dummy-! I- I c'n't- I couldn't ever. 'm- s'ya idiot- y'er- y'er who 'm in love with- s'ya- s'been ya since b'fore I even realized what that meant..."

"If ya want me to fuckin' shut up so bad come over here and make me,"

The Oni watched as the doctor ran his hand through his hair, he didn't react or say anything more yet. There wasn't supposed to be strings, they were meant to just remain casual, just - having fun. Nothing more. They weren't supposed to fall in love with one another that wasn't how it worked for people like them, right?

"Ya ain't a fuckin' OBJECT or a fuckin' TOY! There is more to ya, you're just too fuckin' stubborn to see it. You're so used to bein' used and hurt that you're scared! You're scared of what we COULD have!"

The taller male did love him, he loved him despite not knowing his story. He loved him. He did - he knew that and it SCARED him. It scared him because he also felt unworthy of another person's love. Because the one he'd been 'meant' for had died along with the remainder of his people. Not that he'd explained that, he'd just mentioned that his planet had been destroyed.

He didn't know that the other had anything to do with the Abundance, or the Elation, he wouldn't know that unless he was told, and he COULDN'T be told if Eros himself didn't know.

"Ya ain't a damn monster. So what if ya have to eat people to live, ya think I care about that? I love YA as ya are. Ya ain't a damsel but ya also ain't a beast - Eros I don't care how ya view yourself, I see ya differently, and ya know what that is? That's LOVE whether ya want it to be or not."

A clawed hand would be pressed to his own chest, that pain growing in intensity the more they spoke, argued, or yelled at one another. This wasn't how he wanted it to go. He just wanted to be happy - with Eros, but he'd clearly fucked that p by saying something because the other was crying and saying he wasn't worth it. That he wasn't worth loving.

"Because I thought ya wanted to go - like ya always do. Ya never stay... ya always leave even if I'm asleep without so much as a fuckin' goodbye."

Sure, the goodbyes weren't really necessary before the emotions got involved, it was all just for fun. Just two people enjoying the pleasantries of the flesh with one another to a degree that most would not think had 'no strings', but they said it did. They'd tried to convince themselves that there was nothing there. It was just carnal desires being fulfilled by using one another.

"Ya told me ya ain't worth it - fuckin' idiot, ya keep callin' me stupid but listen to yourself for a minute. Ya keep spoutin' nonsense about bein' unable to be loved and yet here I am lovin' ya anyway."

As Eros sank to the floor, the Oni would step a bit closer, he was trying his best not to showcase any more emotion than he'd already shown. He felt that getting too close would result in him getting hurt worse somehow but he didn't want to just leave the other sobbing on the floor to his cabin, either.

He'd squat down a few feet from the other male because he didn't want to invade his bubble, or something like that.

"I don't want ya to leave - not... really, I'd rather ya stay but I understand if ya probably hate me now, and everythin' we've done is... over. It's my fault for ruinin' it. I'm just a stupid Oni."

#crimsononiarataki #🐉 ; to simply die for [ic]#🐉 v: slumbering dragon [main]#🐀 ; suggestive

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zoyaofthegardvn · 2 years ago

Text

Overstimulation

CW: Smut! 18+ pleaseeee

In which you've annoyed Manon, and she's not one to let you get away with things so easy :)

___

"Be still, pest." Manon's voice rasps out, the 'pest' falling from her lips like a hiss. She's got three fingers buried inside of you, her thumb working slow circles on your clit. She's had you spread out for hours now, teasing you, bringing you to the edge but never letting you fall over.

"I can't, baby, s'too much." Your whining only irritates her more, and she presses the clawed tip of one of her unoccupied fingers into the flesh of your inner thigh.

"You'll do as I say, or you won't cum for a week." Her nail pricks your skin ever so slightly, drawing the smallest bead of blood. Her other hand, the one soaked in your essence, continues its rhythmic thrusting, her fingers curling.

"Manon, please, please, please let me cum, s'been so long and I've been so good." Your hands are fisting the sheets, gripping so hard your knuckles have turned white.

Manon only hums, bringing her tongue to lap at the tiny trickle of blood on your thigh. Her other arm, the one with the claws extended, reaches up to press against your belly.

"I can feel you squeezing me, pest. You're close, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, Manon! I'm so close, please please." Your head has fallen back against the pillow, back arching and bare breasts heaving. You're covered in love bites and scratches from your neck down to your knees, and Manon swears she's never seen a more delicious sight.

She picks up her pace, fingers fucking into you ruthlessly. They curl, slamming into that spongey spot inside of you that only she can pleasure so well. You're sobbing now, tears streaming, toes curling, stomach aching in an effort to stave off your orgasm and stay as still as possible for your lover.

Just when you're about to find release, Manon wrenches her fingers from your sopping cunt. When you scream out in frustration, sitting up and reaching your arms out for her, she just laughs before climbing atop you, pinning you to the bed with a hand curled around your throat.

"You've been such a brat today, I don't know if you deserve to cum." She's being cruel, baiting you, desperate to hear you beg some more.

Sniffling, blinking back the blur of tears, you plead with her to have mercy. "Please, I'm sorry, baby. Please, I'll do anything."

Manon smiles, all teeth, a wicked glint in her eyes. "I know you will, I've got you trained exactly as I want you, don't I pet?" She brings a thumb up to your cheek, wiping away a droplet falling from your eye.

When you nod furiously, Manon can't help but laugh at your pathetic state, fucked out, whiny, completely under her control.

She pulls back from your face, surveying you for a moment. When she seemingly settles on what she wants from you, she begins making her way up your body. Her knees settle on either side of your head, and her hand comes down to brush the hair away that's gotten stuck to your forehead.

Before she lowers herself down, sits on her throne, she says, "Hmm, I think you'll make me cum a few times, pest. Then we'll see if you've earned a reward."

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peachyloveswriting · 3 years ago

Note

Again, at your leisure whenever the mood strikes you, do not rush for my sake ! I used to be a Sam girl, then I became a woman and DAMN DEAN got me hook line and sinker. How about a fluff fic with him and reader where reader loves pie just as much if not more than dean does?? Thank you!

Pie lovin' Wednesdays

Pairing: dean x reader platonic or romantic

A/n: super short

"C'mon Sammy, lighten up a bit, it's halfway through the week and we haven't gotten a case at all." Dean piped up from the drivers seat. You butted in. "Yeah Sam, c'mon it's pie lovin' Wednesday."

Sam look at you from the passenger seat, an eye brow raised in question. He expected you to explain but you allowed dead to do the talking. "It's for us pie lovers only Sammy, sorry." Dean remarked. Sam shook his head before going back to his computer screen. Dean smiled, glancing up at you in the rearview before looking back at the road.

"let's stop an get lunch." He offered. The clicking of the blinker alerting Sam that they were at a diner. With a sigh he closed his computer and stuffed it in his small travel bag.

As you all stepped out of the car you jumped around dean like a maniac. "It's like a pie date!" You proclaimed, stopping in from of Dean. "A pie date between you and me." You chirped. Dean smiled at your childishness before resting a hand on the small of your back, guiding you towards the building.

"Alright, c'mon spastic squirrel."

When you stepped in the smell of early morning breakfast hit your nose, a swirling feeling rising within your stomach. "Augh, it smells so good."

Sam rolled his eyes and walked away to find a different table to sit at by himself. Dean looked from Sam to you before shrugging. "More for us." He said. You smiled, both of you making your way to an empty table and settling down to order. It didn't take long for a waitress to make their way over.

"Good morning, what would you like to order?" You and Dean exchanged glances.

"pie." You said plainly. "What filling?" You smirked. "Surprise me."

The woman raised her brows and smiled. "And you?"

"Apple pie."

The woman jotted it down in her tiny little notebook before stepping away to get our food ready. In the mean time you stared out the window at the car, Dean apparently doing the same.

"s'been quiet for awhile huh?" You started. Dean looked up at you. "Yeah, I know right." He remarked. His hands clasped together on the table top in front of him. "It's starting to get kinda concerning if you ask me."

You chortled, waving your hand dismissively. "If push comes to shove we'll handle it but right now let's relax." Dean smiled at you lovingly. "You're so relaxing."

"no I'm just ready for some pie."

Dean chuckled at your eagerness, shaking his head. "Me too." He said.

#supernatual x reader #supernatural headcanon #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester

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idkthisisjustforfanfic · 3 years ago

Text

too soon to tell, chapter t w o

You dropped your bag in the foyer of Harry’s house after work on a Thursday. It was quiet--he wasn’t home yet and you’d keyed in knowing that you’d have some time to yourself.

You felt a vibrating in your pocket when you shrugged off your coat, your visible reflection told you it was a FaceTime call, Alyssa’s name danced across the screen until you slid your thumb to answer.

“Hello, hello,” you greeted, walking to find a seat on the couch.

“Where are you?” She furrowed her brows as she took in your surroundings.

“At Harry’s--he’s out, though.”

She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I will never get sick of you lounging in his house when he’s not there.”

You rolled your eyes at your old roommate’s antics--she’d always been the number one supporter of your relationship and when you texted her earlier saying you needed advice, she promised to call on her lunch break.

“I’m not lounging,” you informed with a shake of your head. “I just got out of work, we’re having dinner tonight.”

“Mr. Popstar isn’t too busy?” She teased, aware of the tension both of your schedules had been causing.

“Apparently not.”

She forked a bite of food into her mouth, the sun was shining through the window behind her, the walls of your old apartment were redecorated now with the art of your replacement. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“Sort of,” you leaned back and let out a breath. “I mean, it’s all connected--”

“What is?”

“I’m getting to it,” you made a face at her through the phone. “So--don’t freak out, okay? Cause I don’t even know if anything will come from it and Harry doesn’t know yet.”

She nodded and gestured with her hand for you to get on with it.

Knowing Alyssa, she was already jumping to conclusions in her head. You were pregnant, you were engaged, you quit your job, you had a huge fight with your sister. No, no, no.

“I interviewed for a job in LA...and I haven’t told Harry because all our friends have been so excited about us being in the same spot again but--”

Her eyes went wide at the mention of a US city, she did her best to hold back her smile until it faded when you said: “I don’t know. Something feels off between us.”

“Off between you and Harry? More than just being busy?”

“I’m probably overthinking it but,” you looked around his living room. Pictures of his mum, his sister, his cousins--even his manager--were tucked in frames and placed on shelves. There wasn’t a trace of you in his house except for the toothbrush upstairs and the key on your keyring.

“It feels like we’re not moving forward. And we’ve both been busy, like I’ve told you, but since we don’t live together sometimes we go days without seeing each other and it’s fine, I get that he’s busy, obviously, but--”

“But you want to move in with him.”

“Well, I don’t know--I did, sort of, I think--but then I heard about this job in LA and it sounds amazing but Jessie just moved here and no one will shut up about how great London is.”

Alyssa offered a sympathetic frown and repositioned the bowl in front of her to get another bite. “What’s the job?”

You almost didn’t want to tell her, sure she’d get excited and eager to have you back in the same country. You winced a little, bracing for her reaction. “S’with E! News,” you shrugged. “It’d be on-air.”

“Shut up! Are you serious?!”

“Yes m’serious,” you rolled your eyes. “But I haven’t told any of them because you know how they are.”

She nodded, “Jessie will not want you to take it.”

“God love her, but of course not. And Harry spends time out there, so it might be okay, but it’s not like I could ask him to go with me.”

“Why not? He’s famous, Y/N--he belongs there.”

“It’s too soon,” you whined. “He’s not my fiancé and we don’t live together, so--I don’t want to make it weird.”

“But you love him,” she reasoned.

“Yeah, but s’been weird lately!" You tried to drive home the point. "He’s made no mention of moving in and we’ve been dating for a year and a half, I’ve been in London for over a year now. He’s not even mentioned it, Alyssa, I swear. He’ll say things like ‘one day we can go on vacation,’ and ‘what should we do for Christmas?’ But he’s made no concrete plans to actually have a future with me.”

“Maybe he doesn’t think you’re ready.”

“Maybe he’s not ready,” you volleyed.

“Maybe,” Alyssa shrugged. “But you won’t know if you don’t ask him.”

“But if I ask him and he’s not on the same page I’ll look like an idiot and he’s busy with the album and now I’m thinking about moving to LA and--”

She watched you, waited for you to say more, but you were out of words. You changed gears.

“Maybe we’re just not meant to be long term.”

“Oh come on,” she groaned. “Not this again.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Your whole ‘we should have left it in New York’ shit.”

You lifted your eyebrows to demand further details.

“You were freaked out in the beginning that you’d move back there and it would be weird.”

“And?”

“Was it weird?”

“Not at first, I guess. But I mean, come on---don’t you think we should have taken some kind of step forward by now? Even just mentioning the idea of moving in together?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “Maybe it’s different with someone like him.”

You rolled your eyes--what if that’s what you were sick of?

People always said that: it’s different because of his job, it’s different because he’s on the road, it’s different because he’s famous.

Of course it was, and that was fine, for a while. But what if Harry’s job always got in the way of feeling normal? What if you couldn’t have a real wedding because of it? What if you could never send your children to summer camp because of it?

Were you willing to sacrifice your own future to live an unconventional life with someone just because you loved him?

“When will you hear back about the job?”

“Dunno--talked to them last week on Monday and they said this week at some point. S'been a while, so hopefully soon.”

You’d been keeping busy, trying to avoid your personal email at all costs and also making sure that Harry had limited visibility of your screen at all times.

“Do you want it?”

You thought on it for a second. Being offered a job at a company like E! would certainly be an ego boost, but the mere thought of having to explain to all of your friends that yes, you’d been back in London for 18 months and now you were packing up and moving even farther away than before wouldn’t be easy. That seemed to be the one certainty in the whole situation: no one would take it well.

“I don’t want to leave everyone here, especially Harry--but I also don’t want to be stupid and think that this relationship is going somewhere if it’s not.”

Alyssa nodded and let out a sigh. “I get that, I mean, of course you have to do what’s best for you. But I’d hate to see you not be with him just because things are hard right now.”

You leaned your head back on the couch and sighed. You didn’t want to break up with Harry. If anything, you wanted to move forward and move in with him and do what you’d always imagined: have a good job, have a few kids, try to be happy.

But what if you’d been naive enough to think you could have all of that with Harry and what if this is how you were finding out that you couldn’t?

Were you still stuck in your teenage fantasy of marrying the boy you'd long been crushing on?

She watched you for a second before she reassured: “you’ll figure it out.”

You smiled, glad you’d called Alyssa if only to have someone talk you off the edge a little bit. You missed waking up one room over and her love for basketball games and New York 99 cent pizza.

“Well it’s not like I have to make a decision right now,” you said. “I haven’t even heard back from them. For all I know they could never reach out again because I bombed my interview.”

She rolled her eyes at your self-deprecation and offered a few final words of encouragement before you hung up and promised to catch up soon.

Ever since you’d left, Alyssa had taken it upon herself to keep you up to date on the ins and outs of New York. New restaurant? She’d send you pictures and a 200 word review. Crazy subway rats making the news again? Articles and video proof would be sent your way in a matter of hours.

She’d gotten a new roommate to fill your bedroom and apparently things weren’t always peachy between them. Peyton was quiet and shy--according to Alyssa. She was up every morning at 6am and in the shower at 6:30. She did yoga in the living room and hated it when Alyssa left empty beer bottles on the coffee table.

Alyssa was starting to lose her shit, swearing up and down that she needed to either pull the trigger and move in with Owen or find a new place altogether. It was my apartment first, she’d say. She should leave, not me.

It had been hard that year to leave the city you’d grown to love but harder to leave Alyssa and Carly and the things that made New York feel like home. It was also, in hindsight, hard to leave the place where you and Harry reconnected and built the foundation of your current relationship.

You heard commotion from the front door only a few minutes later when you rummaged through Harry’s kitchen for a snack.

“Hi,” he called from the other room, a close-lipped smile when you stuck your head around the corner to greet him.

“Hi! How was the photoshoot?”

“Good,” he nodded, watching as you stuck your hand into a box of crackers. “What time are we meeting everyone?”

Right--Thursday also meant dinner somewhere downtown with everyone in tow.

“7pm--but Jessie said we should try to get there early since it’s a new place and no one’s ever been.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of your words but seemed distracted, like his mind was somewhere else and his body was the only thing tying him to the room.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking back up at you. “Just a busy day and a busy week.”

You nodded, unsure if he wanted to say more or if you were supposed to have more of a reply than a simple nod of your head.

You’d both been stammering out awkward sentences and trying to dance around the elephant in the room for a few weeks, but now, under his gaze, you felt more uncertain than before.

“Are you okay?” He turned the question around and watched you closely.

“Yeah,” you shrugged, moving to sit on the couch.

“You seem--off.”

You didn’t know what it was. Could he possibly sense the tension in your shoulders as you waited for an email either way? You got the job! We regret to inform you…

Or was he just aware that you felt awkward since it had been almost two weeks since you had any considerable amount of alone time and even longer since you were able to have a date night that wasn’t interrupted by Jeff or Erica or someone who needed something from him.

He took a few steps closer towards you, a look of concern etched on his features. “What’s wrong?”

The words were on the tip of your tongue when he looked at you, eyebrows lifted as he waited for you to spit it out.

“I guess I feel like we’ve been distant.”

He pushed his head forward, almost like he hadn’t expected that to be the issue. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, caught off guard by his pushiness. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought it up.

“You don’t know?” He pressed.

You broke eye contact with him for a minute, wondering why you had to state the obvious. “Well, you’re busy all the time, Harry.”

He let his shoulders rise and fall in defeat, looking around the room in frustration. “I told you that finishing the album would be busy.”

“Yeah, but you forgot to mention that you’d also be busy when the album is done once promo starts and then tour,” your voice was quiet, not so much angry as you were upset.

You were tired. You wanted nothing more than to spend a night on the couch with him and only him, tell him about LA and about the sudden itch you felt to see more of the world than just London.

But with Jake and Adam always around and Bryn and Jessie, too, paired with interruptions from Jeff and Erica--it felt as if there was no hope for a private or honest conversation.

He came to sit closer to you on the couch now, took your hands in his. “I know my job is a lot, okay? I know it’s annoying that I don’t necessarily get weekends off or have a typical schedule, but once the album is out and the promo is done I’ll have a bit of a break before the tour. We can go on vacation somewhere, just us.”

It sounded nice, maybe a tropical island or a cabin in the woods. But before you could nod in agreement the thought of Los Angeles popped into your head.

His album was due out in December, promo from now through the New Year, some time off in February and March for both of your birthdays and then tour. You had no clue where you’d be by then.

Would you be in LA? Would you be in London? Would you be stuck in this same spot on his couch with decision paralysis and a crushing sense of uncertainty about the future?

He knew you were over-thinking and tilted his head. “What?”

You blew out a slow breath of air, twisted a ring on your finger and then looked up at him again.

You didn’t even have a chance to be more honest, a buzz on your phone on the coffee table in front of you both broke the room in half, the name of the woman you’d spoken to was in bold next to your email icon. You reached for it quickly, Harry’s brows furrowed when you pulled it close to your chest so he wouldn’t see.

“What’s that?”

Hi Y/N, thank you so much for your patience over the last few days. We would love to offer you a position with NBC Universal - E! News as an on-air correspondent in our Los Angeles headquarters.

You looked up at him quickly, cheeks red and heart racing.

“What’s happening, are you okay?”

“I got a job offer,” you said quickly, still holding the phone close to you.

“What?” He smiled, “why didn’t you tell me you were looking? I didn’t even know--”

“It’s in Los Angeles.”

His smile faded instantly, he blinked a few times like he must have misheard you. The leather of his couch felt cool beneath your legs, a clock on the wall ticked and for a second, you wondered if he could hear your pulse as loudly as you could.

He pulled his eyes away from you but then quickly scanned over your face. “Are you taking it?”

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Silence, words filled your brain and crawled up the back of your throat, desperate to be said out loud, in real life, instead of just circling in your head.

Because I don’t know what we’re doing or if we’re moving forward. I don’t know where I want to live. I don’t know if I can stay in London forever. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

Only the last part made it out between your lips. “I don’t know.”

“Y/N,” he stood up, more angry now as he looked around the room and scratched at the base of his neck. “This kind of feels like a bombshell to drop on someone.”

“I was going to tell you--but we haven’t had a second alone, I just didn’t want to have to tell everyone before I knew what was happening.”

“You didn’t even tell me you interviewed,” he said.

“The last time I saw you alone we got interrupted by Erica three times in one conversation.”

“Probably for a good reason--”

“But you seriously can’t even put your phone down lately when we have dinner, even when everyone else is there!”

“I can’t help it that my work is insanely busy right now!”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” you said this quickly, voice higher than usual and a heat on your skin that he normally didn’t provoke, at least not in a bad way. You stood from the couch and put your hands on your hips. “I don’t know what I’m going to do and I don’t even know if this job is right for me and under no circumstances are you allowed to tell anyone. Especially Jessie.”

He rolled his eyes at that.

“What’s the eye roll for?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone just got back and now you might leave and--”

“I said I don’t know if I’m going to take it.”

He was quiet at that, clucked his tongue in thought but then disappeared upstairs to shower and change.

The car ride over was awkward, he asked how your day had been and you told him you talked to Alyssa, he bristled when you admitted you told her about it.

It wouldn’t be the end of the conversation, you were sure of that. You’d likely end up at his for the night and he’d apologize for being busy, you’d apologize for not telling him and maybe, you hoped, he’d ask you to stay over.

When you greeted Adam with a hug, you ignored Harry’s sour mood and opened the menu in front of you.

“My first dinner as a Londoner,” Jessie smiled, shimming her shoulders in excitement when Bryn looked over the specials across the table from you.

“This is on you, right? New job, new salary?” Jake teased.

“Maybe if I hadn’t just bought a whole new bedroom set,” she rolled her eyes.

“How’s everything with you?” Adam eyed Harry, his question veiled to avoid too many details in public.

Luckily, Harry’s ability to go out in public in London was similar to that in New York. As long as a private room or a table in the back was requested, he could typically get away unscathed if dinner was less than 2 hours and if he had his back to the dining room.

“Fine,” he shrugged, eyes still down at the drink menu.

“Fine?” Jessie leaned forward, her tone insinuating that she didn’t believe him. “You’ve been working really hard all summer and now all you say is ‘fine?’”

He glanced up at her, lips in a forced smile. “S’all good, Jess--just tired.”

Bryn gave you a look, one that asked what stick is up his ass?, before she changed the topic.

“Let’s not tell our server how fit she is tonight, yeah?”

Jake let out a snort of a laugh and sipped at the water that had already been brought to your table. “Alright, you thought the one last week was just as hot as I did.”

“I did,” Bryn agreed seriously, “but I didn’t offer my number unsolicited. How do you know she’s even straight?”

“She’s got a point,” Jessie chimed in. “Remember when you asked that girl to dance in the club when her girlfriend was right there with her arm around her?”

“I thought they were just mates!” Jake defended.

“You also have the worst radar for gay women ever,” Bryn nodded.

“When was this?” Harry asked, the hint of a smile on his face when he watched Jake adjust his napkin on his lap.

The words came out of your mouth without thought. “You weren’t here--you were in LA.”

He met your eyes when you replied, nodded, and then leaned back in his chair, effectively bowing out of the conversation without saying another word.

You weren’t trying to be short with him. You looked over to Jessie, who undoubtedly sensed the tension, and offered a smile. “How’s the flat?”

“Good,” she nodded. “Glad that all my furniture got put together without any scratches,” she reached over and patted Adam on the shoulder.

“We’re not children, Jessie, we can handle some furniture.”

“You broke my dresser when I asked you guys to move it into another room,” Bryn reminded, a look of confusion on her face at Adam’s retort.

“Only because it was already half broken and a piece of shit,” Jake said. “I love you, Brynnie, but that dresser was already knocking on Heaven’s door.”

Harry let out a laugh at that, another memory that he had missed while on a trip to a studio somewhere north of London. He excused himself to the bathroom after you placed your orders, and once he was out of earshot, Jake leaned down and looked at you.

“What’s going on with him?”

You forced a cheesy grin and blinked a few times. “He’s just grumpy.”

“‘Bout what?” Bryn asked.

“Guys,” you leaned back in your chair, hoping you didn’t have to say too much. “I can’t tell you every single thing that happens in our relationship.”

“Well, when it affects us I think we have the right to know,” Jessie shrugged, playing the typical we don’t like when our parents fight card.

“It’s not affecting you,” you shook your head, eyed her seriously over your glass of Pinot Noir.

Adam shrugged, a smirk on his face let you know he was trying to rile you up. “He’s grumpy at dinner and we’re all here and we’re all aware of it. We don’t like tension between you two.”

“Alright, leave the woman alone,” Jake waved them off. “As long as everything’s alright.”

“It’s totally alright,” you nodded, wondering when you’d gotten so comfortable lying to them. “He’s just busy with the next phase of work.”

With Harry’s album yet to be announced, you couldn’t sit around in a London restaurant and divulge details--even if you were all acutely aware of the work he’d put in and the upcoming announcements and events.

Adam let it go. “How’s work for you, Smalls?”

Another shrug of your shoulders, “s’good--I told you all about my November cover story, right?”

“Yeah,” Jessie sipped a glass of Cabernet. “But you said you didn’t know who it was going to be with.”

“Well, s’cause I had to drop the bomb on him first,” you nodded in the direction of the bathroom. “I’ll be sitting down in a few days with Ms. Gigi Hadid,” you lowered your voice and leaned forward to say her name.

Bryn’s eyes went wide, Jake grimaced.

“How’d he take that?” Adam asked.

“He’s not thrilled,” you admitted. “But I’ll talk with his team about what to avoid specifically, I guess. Her team will probably have a list of off-limits items too.”

Bryn let her elbows rest on the white tablecloth. “Yeah, but, you can’t just ignore the fact that she’s dating Zayn.”

“I also can’t just barge in and stir shit up,” you said.

Harry pulled his chair out next to you and sat back down. “Who are you stirring shit up with?”

Everyone chose to be quiet now--Adam looked down at his phone and Jessie reached for her wine again.

“Just telling them about my cover story,” you admitted, watching his face for a reaction.

He nodded, a tiny smirk in your direction. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stir shit up,” he said, reaching to put a hand on your thigh beneath the table.

Those were the moments that made you feel less panicky--the realization that he was still choosing you and even when the tension was high and the mood was low, he’d reach over and remind you that yes, he cared. Even if he was late to dinner or distracted.

Which is why, when you got back in his car that night and headed for his house, you were surprised when his mood shifted again.

“I’ll just drop you at yours?”

“Oh--yeah, sure.”

“Did you want to come to mine?” He looked over at you like he hadn’t expected any resistance to sleeping separately.

You were quiet for a second--not if he didn’t want you there. “No, it’s fine.”

“I can’t read your mind, Y/N.”

“You don’t have to,” you said quickly, a prickly tone to your words when he made an unreadable face.

He drove in silence for a few minutes, closing in on your neighborhood when the street lamps disappeared for the sake of suburbia.

Eventually he cleared his throat and that sent you over the edge.

“What do you want me to say, Harry? Do you want me to apologize for interviewing for this job?”

“No,” he said simply. “I just don’t know why you thought you didn’t need to tell me about a huge decision like that.”

“It wasn’t a decision until today when they offered it to me.”

“Just seems like something you talk to your boyfriend about.”

You looked over at him in the dark of night, the glow from the dashboard didn’t help you see his features as he turned left onto your street.

“Well, sorry that we didn’t have the opportunity to talk about it between your work schedule and Jessie moving in and group dates--”

He slowed down on your street, put his flashers on when he stopped in front of your building. “I don’t want to keep secrets from each other,” his voice was softer now. “I don’t want to not know what’s going on in your life. I did enough of that for two years when we weren't talking.”

You sighed at this, the sentiment broke whatever anger was lurking inside you and when you looked up to see him, you wondered if you should ask him.

Are we ever going to move in together? Are we ever going to get engaged?

You figured the lead up to his sophomore album wasn’t the best time for that conversation. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and you climbed the stairs to your flat alone.

A few days later you sat nervously in a conference room and watched as beads of sweat formed on the water glass in front of you. Tyler had brought you in, offered you a breath mint, and promised you’d be fine. When you asked him if the whole room was hot he said it was just you and your nerves--but the droplets of water that raced towards the wooden conference table begged to differ.

You’d gotten email after email this morning: one from Jeff with the rules he and Harry had come up with and eight from Gigi’s team with requests for snacks, topics to discuss, topics to avoid, lunch request, arrival and departure time, and a few extra regarding booking her photoshoot the next day.

A text lit up your screen when you tried to smooth your your hair in the reflection of your screen.

Jake Newcomb (10:42am): In case you’re wondering what to get me for my birthday, a video of Gigi Hadid saying she loves me would be perfect!

You ignored his text and felt a pang of disappointment in your gut, you thought it would have been Harry with words of encouragement.

He was fine with you doing the interview, he seemed to come around to the idea when he met with Jeff and had a chance to mark some things as off limits.

So far, his list was as follows:

Don’t publish anything too negative about anyone in the band (if she says anything negative about anyone in the band)

Harry and Jeff got to listen to the taped interview

Harry and Jeff got to read the article before you sent it off to your editor and could make suggestions to cut things if they felt it necessary.

It seemed silly, but you’d long been used to the lingo of contracts and riders and ground rules for things like these. You knew both Harry and Jeff trusted you, in fact, Jeff was now choosing to see this as a good opportunity for press before the announcement of Harry’s album.

Your biggest concern, truly, was not looking/sounding/acting like an idiot in a room alone with Gigi Hadid. Your second biggest concern was conducting a unique interview and writing a unique article.

You knew that Naomi and Tyler were nearby for support if needed, Tyler had already walked by the conference room three times to see if your subject had arrived and likely to make sure you hadn’t sweat through your blouse. You thought the commotion in the hallway was him until you saw a group of busy-looking people with cellphones and sunglasses.

“Hi,” you stood from your chair, extended a hand in her direction and offered your best professional smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Gigi, thanks for doing this interview.”

She seemed hesitant at first, smiled a little and shook your hand. “Happy to,” she said. She turned over her shoulder and locked eyes with the woman who seemed to be the most in-charge of the group. “I’m good,” she nodded.

They hustled out quickly, you stood frozen in place and watched as she took off her coat before sitting in the chair you’d pulled out for her. Once the door was shut behind her posse, she let out a sigh that bled into a frustrated laugh.

“I could never do an interview with all of them just loitering around--wouldn’t that be so weird?”

You nodded, mirrored her smile and had to remind your body how to move. Left foot, right, breathe, sit in the chair.

You weren’t really one to get star struck, but then again, you didn’t spend too much time with celebrities that weren’t Harry or his close friends. You certainly never sat down with a model like Gigi to have a conversation that could be as awkward as this one.

She checked her phone quickly but then put it face down on the table. “I am happy to do this, I know it might feel weird for us to be hanging out--but boys are stupid anyway.”

You smiled at this, immediately relaxed when she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs.

“Did you also get a whole list of things to not talk to me about?”

She stifled a laugh and rolled her eyes. “Zayn can be a man of few words but,” she looked down at your phone on the table. “Off the record--he had quite a bit to say when I told him you were doing the interview.”

“Off the record,” you laughed, “Harry did too. But how is Zayn?”

“He’s good--thinking about getting back in the studio at some point to start working on a new album, he’s been writing a bunch. Harry’s doing the same I assume?”

“Yes, yeah, he’s been really busy.”

“I know things might not have gone great between all of them at the end, but I don’t want this to be awkward for us.”

“Me neither. You can say as much or as little about the band as you’d like.”

She nodded, you figured it was time to give your pre-interview spiel.

“So, I’ll record us in a few seconds, you can obviously say ‘off the record’ if there’s something you don’t want me to include, but I like my interviews to be like conversations, basically. I’ll send someone on your team the recording when we’re done and a typed transcript. You’ll have 48-hours to look over it and revoke any statements that you don’t want me publishing or to clarify anything. After that I’ll write the story, send a final copy to your team before it gets finalized here, again, 48-hours to look it over and request any changes but at that time we don’t have to approve the requests. This is all in a document somewhere that someone probably signed for you--I’m sure your team is used to it, they know what they’re doing.”

You reached forward and pressed a few buttons on your phone, she watched until you looked up and told her: “It’s on now, so we’re recording and today is September 10th, 2019.”

She smiled like you were old friends. “Where do we start?”

“Is there somewhere you want to start?”

She leaned her head to the side. “We can jump right to it--”

“To what?”

“Oh come on,” she laughed. “Us talking about One Direction will make headlines for weeks.”

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “It’s funny that us just sitting down together will be a big deal, right? As if we’ve got nothing better to talk about than them.”

“Sexism at it’s finest,” she admitted.

“Do you find that a lot in your industry?”

She thought on this for a second, looked out the window but nodded. “It’s unavoidable, in a lot of ways. I think there have been a lot of changes over the last few years to at least move us in the right direction, but we’ve got a long way to go.”

“How would you want to see it change for the better?”

“Well, I’d love to have more privacy about my love life, for one,” she caught herself, looked to you quickly as if she felt bad. “Off the record, we can talk about it here, it’s fine. It’s different to talk about it with a woman, number one. And you’re you, you get it.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you offered.

“No, I don’t mind. Unless you plan on asking me stupid things like how amazing is it to be dating someone as handsome as him or do I find that his job overshadows mine, we’re good. We can be back on the record, too,” she looked down at the numbers on your phone, eyeing the ticking of the recording clock.

“But do you know what I mean? No one asks guys questions like that--or they’re different, at least. People just want to know everything about your relationship when you’re a woman and they view you in the context of who you’re sleeping with.”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I get that.”

She smiled, “it’s hard to date someone famous, isn’t it? Lots of rules around it.”

You were surprised by the genuine look in her eyes, despite her own status and contracts and income, she seemed to be acknowledging that the two of you shared a unique experience and were now brought together under strange circumstances.

“It’s definitely hard for me--but, isn’t it easier seeing as you also have an assistant and a manager and people to, I don’t know, facilitate things? Not to invalidate how hard it still is.”

She laughed at that, “Yeah, in some ways, probably. He’s really private though, which is good for us. We focus on ourselves and do our own thing most of the time.”

“Right--you seem pretty private about it for the most part.”

“Yeah,” she shrugged, reflecting on your words for a second. “I think to me it feels weird that my relationship status can make so much news, you know? Modeling is my job and obviously that’s not your typical nine-to-five but--I like to focus on my work and when male journalists are continuously obsessed with my love life, I find that weird. I mean, you get that, right? I’m sure it’s no different with Harry.”

You bit your lip, embarrassed at how she’d managed to turn it around. She was right--you’d been getting more and more annoyed with how much your relationship with Harry was dictating your life--and for some reason, you admitted this to her.

“People are much more interested in me because I’m dating him--but they’d be just as interested in you even if you weren’t.”

“Would they?” She tilted her head to the side, another rise and fall of her shoulders as she looked around the room. “I get what you’re saying, but sometimes it feels like dating him gave my career a huge boost. I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, I totally get it. I feel the same way. I was building my career in New York and it was going well and I was writing fun stuff and making a name for myself and then I started hanging out with him and--”

“Everyone started to care more about you?”

“Exactly.”

You thought about the headlines, the articles, the pictures in tabloids that undoubtedly helped your name spread like wildfire through London and New York. You had to ignore it, most of the time, reassure yourself that you were a good journalist and a good employee and the good things in your career were not just a byproduct of the boy who slept in your bed.

She smiled knowingly, her lips in a thin line when she looked down to the tape recorder, almost like she felt guilty for steering the conversation in a different direction.

“Sorry,” you cleared your throat, sitting up straight. “Back to business.”

The conversation bled into more normal things: the upcoming fall fashion week, how she manages self-care when she’s busy jetting from city to city, and, try as you might, the two of you wound your way back to your commonalities a few times: sexism in your industries, life as young women dating famous men.

You thanked her profusely at the end and promised that Tyler would be in touch to confirm the date and time for her corresponding photoshoot later that week. She draped a Versace leather tote over her shoulder and seemed to float out of the office with a posse of beautiful people behind her.

You stood--still awestruck--in the hallway and watched as the elevator doors slid shut.

“She’s prettier in person,” Tyler said from beside you, a notebook in hand as he stared at the air she’d once occupied. “I didn’t know if that type of thing was possible but she’s definitely one of the prettiest humans I’ve ever seen.”

“She was nice,” you turned around to see Naomi behind him, also eager for more details. You headed back for your office in a trance, they scurried behind you as you thought aloud. “I mean, I didn’t think she’d be rude--but I didn’t know what to expect with the whole band history stuff.”

“Did you talk about that?”

“Less about the band and more about--” you blinked a few times and sat down at your desk, “sexism, what it’s like to be a woman dating a famous man and how that affects your career.”

Both of their eyes went wide, a smile tugged at Naomi’s lips when Tyler put a hand over his heart in shock.

“I’m sorry, so you’re telling me that you just had a heart to heart with Gigi Hadid about sexism and your boyfriends and--”

“I guess so,” you shrugged, just as surprised as they were.

You gave Harry fewer details that night over FaceTime as you brushed your teeth. He was somewhere in New York, disappointed that he’d miss Jake’s birthday dinner and celebration, but he promised to make it up to him when he got back.

He lifted a cup of tea to take a sip, light shone through the window behind him on your screen and he scrolled through emails on his laptop.

You spit into the sink, an ocean between you.

“Have you thought at all about the offer? You have to tell them by tomorrow, yeah?”

You nodded, wiped at your mouth with a towel and then crossed your arms. “I can stay, I mean--if you want me to.”

He made a face at that, leaned forward and furrowed his brows together. “Of course I want you to stay, Y/N, but I don’t want to be the reason you pass on something important."

You were quiet for a second, uncapped lotion before spreading some across your forehead.

"I'm sorry I didn't react well when you told me. I'm proud of you and it sounds like a phenomenal opportunity...I don't know, it's just the timing of it--"

You cut him off, “well none of this is ideal timing, Harry.”

“Do you mean with my album?”

“I mean with any of it,” you said truthfully. “The album, the job offer--”

“Well the album existed before the job offer,” he trailed off.

Only a matter of seconds and a handful of words had managed to get you elevated and angry and ready to fight. That was happening more easily, these days.

“So what am I supposed to do? Always come second? Make every decision in my life based off of your career and your music?”

“S’not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that--I dunno--I thought you knew what you were getting into.”

Quiet, your hands gripped the counter in your bathroom. Your bare feet were on the floor and you wondered why you were trying so hard to make everything work if things were only getting harder.

“That came out wrong,” he shook his head, the look on his face let you know he wanted to take it back.

“No, it didn’t." You let out a sharp laugh. "I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Take the job,” he said quickly, like he saw you reaching for the button to end the FaceTime call.

“What?”

“Take it. If it’ll make you happy, take it.”

“And what about us?”

“We figure it out,” he shrugged. “We try.”

You sighed, unsure what to say.

"It's Los Angeles," he said. "Not Antarctica."

You blew air between your lips, looked up at him for a second. The curl of hair that dipped onto his forehead, the way his mouth pulled up in the corner like it always had.

“I love you, Y/N. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

His words didn’t offer any relief and you spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning and wondering how on earth you were supposed to make a decision.

Leaving him in London felt stupid. A few bumps in the road and you were ready to jump ship?

But staying and hoping for a ring or a shared address felt even stupider, somehow. You couldn’t pass up a dream job and hope that things would go well for your career if you weren’t going to work for it.

A few hours of rest came after 3am, your morning coffee was a tad bitter and the clouds in the sky seemed to match your mood. Maybe you should have spent more time thinking it over, talking it out, even calling your mum or Katie for advice.

But you couldn’t have told everyone about the job offer without a certain answer, and unfortunately, the person you wanted to talk to the most didn’t seem like he could be impartial.

You’d been upset, you’d been feeling disconnected from him, but that didn’t erase all of the good times and the happy memories you’d made, right?

Naomi and Tyler locked themselves in your office for lunch on Friday, they promised that they’d never tell your boss and they swore they supported you either way. Tyler used an expo marker to make a pros and cons list of staying in London and Naomi came up with a points system for each bullet on the list.

You stared at it, looked at the names of all of your friends, your family, your favorite cafes and restaurants in London. At the very bottom of what had become a long list of reasons to stay was his name.

And on the other side, Tyler’s poor drawing of an engagement ring sat beside a big question mark.

You didn’t know what the future held for you and Harry, and maybe that was okay. You didn’t know what would happen when you packed your life into a suitcase and moved to New York, but you’d survived to tell the tale.

They were quiet, eyes darting from the board back to you as they waited for you to say something.

You sighed, Tyler shifted on the couch in your office and Naomi smoothed out her blouse.

“I can’t take it,” you said.

Tyler’s eyes went wide, “really? You’re staying?”

“I can’t leave,” you shrugged. “I can’t leave him behind and leave my friends and start all over in a new city right as I’m really finding my groove here again.”

“Okay, I know we said we’d support you either way but I would have been fucking pissed if you went,” Tyler admitted, moving closer to wrap his arms around you.

You laughed, let him squeeze you before Naomi joined in.

“Me too,” she confessed, a smile on her face when she pulled away. “But I would have at least faked happy for you.”

You bit back the doubt and second-guessing, used their excitement to fuel a regretful email.

Thank you so much for the opportunity, but after careful consideration I cannot accept this position due to the geographical location.

Your thumb hovered over the small blue arrow, a wave of panic flooded through you when you hit send, like somehow, something inside of you knew that everything was about to change.

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AN: apologies in advance for the cliffhanger......except I'm not sorry lmao

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kbstories · 4 years ago

Text

KRBK drabble

(cw: Mentions of animal death.)

Kirishima and Bakugou are pro heroes and living together when Kirishima's childhood dog Riot dies of old age. He goes peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by his family; Riot's lived a long life and Kirishima knows that they did right by him.

Still, he takes it really hard -- crying every night, barely smiling hard. Bakugou is there for him, feeling pretty useless because this is one of those things that just sucks, and there's nothing to be done that can make it better. He's never had a dog or any pet, really, but Kirishima had Riot and he loved that dog to pieces, and so did Bakugou, a little.

After a few weeks, Kirishima starts to recover. A few months in, and he's back to his usual self if a bit somber at times when he looks at old pics on his phone, or remembers something cute Riot used to do. It's hard, but that's life.

Then, Bakugou asks him to take a day off.

"A day just for us", he says, unusually soft where he's got his nose buried in Kirishima's hair. His hand rubs up and down Kirishima's back, with a gentleness that means all the more with how hard it was for Bakugou to learn it. He never asks for time off work, they're just starting out and invest every available second into their careers.

So this is important, and Kirishima needs the break, even if he doesn't want to admit it to himself now that they're living their dream every day.

(Continued under the cut!)

Their day off comes, and they've barely settled in to watch something -- that wrestling documentary Kirishima's been excited about before the bad news hit, all those months ago -- when Bakugou mutters about taking care of the groceries and gets back up. And, okay, sure, the chores have to be done, and usually it's Bakugou who thinks of them before Kirishima, but... Kirishima can't help be a little bummed out, anyways.

There goes the chance to just relax and do absolutely nothing for a change. Oh well. Pressing pause, Kirishima sits there and waits for Bakugou to come back, letting himself wallow in that ache for a bit even though he shouldn't, he's more than aware of that.

It could've been thirty minutes or an hour later, definitely a while: The familiar jangle of keys sounds, a muffled curse and the noise of Bakugou rattling the lock of their door that tends to get caught on nothing.

"Ei? Can you, uh, come over here for a sec?"

There's nerves in Bakugou's voice, a tension that is rare but still recognizable to Kirishima; they've been partners for a handful of years and best friends for even longer. Self-pity session spontaneously rescheduled, Kirishima practically vaults over the couch to check out what has Bakugou sounding like that, and--

A dog.

That's a dog in Bakugou's arms. A pitbull of some sorts, snow-white with a pink nose and eyes big and scared as they flit around, trying to take in all at once. Despite the shivering, the pitiful whining, the way it looks so small held in Bakugou's bulk -- it's clearly an adult dog.

"Oh", Kirishima breathes.

Bakugou's expression is strikingly similar to the dog's, the nervousness amplified at the sight of whatever face Kirishima is making. Bakugou clears his throat and goes, "Her name's Snowball", like that explains anything.

Kirishima can't process much beyond the fact that there's a dog. Bakugou went out and came back with a dog, and she's clearly been through some stuff but oh, she's so cute.

"I signed some paperwork", Bakugou continues, a statement that's nonetheless unsteady, like the time he demanded for Kirishima to move in with him, and it came out as a question instead. "Took some... dog lessons and stuff. Been keepin' an eye on the shelter for a while, waiting for the right one to come along and there was Snowball."

The dog is held a little higher, more securely against his chest, as if Bakugou wants to make abundantly clear that yes, that's Snowball, and she's... theirs now? Kirishima feels tears sting in his eyes.

"Oh."

Bakugou doesn't notice at first, busy fussing with Snowball, giving her scritches between the ears in that careful way he used to handle Riot as well. Like his hands have the potential to wreck things, and he desperately does not want to wreck this thing.

"The others weren't cool enough, but she is. First thing she did was growl at me all badass and shit, you should've seen her, Ei. She's perfect."

Then he glances over, and the soft adoration hiding in his eyes is replaced by alarm. Yup, Kirishima is definitely crying now.

"Kats", Kirishima starts, because he knows Bakugou, knows he's trying, and that he's stressing out over making mistakes.

"She's not..."

Bakugou swallows, looks to Snowball, back to Kirishima, red eyes intense.

"I know Riot hasn't been gone long. This isn't me trying to replace him, or anything. Ain't fair to him and ain't fair to Snowball, either. S'been on my mind for a while, 'cause you've always said we should get a dog, and I've always said no. But... The thought stuck, I guess. Kept kickin' it around in my head. Our lives are busy as fuck, we're gonna have to push around some shit to make it work, yeah? I want that now. I want to make it work."

The for you goes implied, it doesn't need to be said.

It's rare that Bakugou explains himself like this, his actions shouting what's in his heart louder than any speech ever could. This is important, though, important enough for words, for requesting just enough of Kirishima's time to give him this. It looks like Bakugou has more to say and there will be time for that, too.

Later, after Kirishima has crossed the last of the distance between them, one hand wiping away the tears off his cheeks and the other reached out for Snowball to sniff. The dog does so cautiously, nose twitching and eyes focused on every move Kirishima makes -- then, she very carefully licks his fingers, the tail tucked between her butt and the crook of Bakugou's elbow starting to wiggle.

Kirishima can't help but laugh out of sheer relief and love, for this beautiful little creature that's now theirs to take care of, and for the man who looks at him like he'd go to the end and beyond for him.

Gods know Kirishima would do the same for Bakugou, always, always.

There's no way Kirishima won't hug Bakugou then, a clumsy pulling-closer with an arm over broad shoulders instead of the full-body squeeze Kirishima would usually go for. Snowball needs them to be extra gentle with her, give her space until she settles in; it's okay, whatever she needs, Kirishima will give her.

Like, he's had this dog for all of two minutes, but she's family and he would totally die for her.

"She's perfect", Kirishima confirms, a hoarse whisper against Bakugou's temple before he presses a kiss there. "Thank you."

>>Read on: Twitter

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #BNHA #MHA #kiribaku #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #BNHA fanfiction #my stuff #KRBK dog dads make me soft as fuck ;__;

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concussed-to-pieces · 4 years ago

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The Mettle Of A Man; Part Sixteen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: A very special shoutout to @anonymouscosmos for all of their encouragement and support! You are a god among insects. I’d also like to thank the discord chat for enduring my nonsense, as ever. Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

Part Fifteen: The Litany Trial

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains graphic depictions of gore and detailed descriptions of previous abuse. Stay safe!]

Her head had been blown open, or at least it felt that way. The explosion was so close to her face that her helmet had just peeled off like it was made out of shrapnel-laden papier-mâché.

Sergeant Shaun 'Lucky' Cathan was flat on his back hardly a foot away from her, pinned under the weight of the debris that was slowly crushing his armor.

She couldn't move. Her arms and legs wouldn't respond. That blow to the head had been nearly fatal. She was trapped on her stomach, inches from him.

"Backhand-" Cathan choked, his voice wet. His gauntlet fumbled for her own, large metal fingers gripping her hand. "End of the line for me, eh Handy?"

She gurgled something, trying to talk. One eye still worked. Barely. It felt like it was full of glass every time she forced herself to blink. It was too dark to see much anyway, even if she squinted. Her head throbbed with the beat of her heart.

"Save--your strength, Vega." Cathan instructed.

She wasn't sure what strength he was even talking about. Her armor felt like it had collapsed down on her spine. "Sir-" Vega managed to say. "S'been an honor-"

"Don't give me that-- shit , Vega." Cathan chuckled. "I was just another dog of war. You'll get out of this. Go back to that man of yours, have a few kids, live your life." He coughed, wheezing, "my time is up, Handy."

"No, no I'm-" Backhand tried to pull him closer, tried to get upright. Pain jolted down her back and legs and she halted, trembling. "I c-can't leave you here, Sarge." She groaned, knowing deep down that it was futile but refusing to give up .

Cathan's grip tightened briefly. "It's alright, Handy." Her CO murmured. "It's alright. Make sure Tabitha has me buried on American soil. Or chuck my ashes in the harbor, yeah? Piss off all those Cambridge fucks." He chuckled.

Backhand nodded as best as she could, the tears stinging painfully against the flayed skin of her face. "I will. Promise."

The rubble overhead creaked and groaned, dust falling down on top of them. "Won't be long now." Cathan mused faintly, "Not long at all…"

…

Danse struggled to sit up and roll Vega onto her back. His own injuries faded to the background of his mind as she laid unresponsive, blood slowly pooling in the dirt beneath her left side. Her mouth opened and closed in a spasm; her eyes had rolled back in her skull and her fingers twitched erratically.

Have to hold pressure. Stop the bleeding. Danse numbly pressed his shaking hands down on her side just below her ribs, his body suddenly awash in a cold sweat as he realized just how much blood she was losing. He could almost hear Haylen rambling about the arteries, internal bleeding, penetrating damage, Worwick and Brach and Dawes and Keane and Danse felt like he was going to be sick.

"H... Haylen! " He yelled desperately. It was the only thing he could think to do.

Then, against all odds, startling the everliving daylights out of him, Vega sat up . " Oh , you fuckin' asshole! " She hollered at Maxson around Danse's body while the paladin scrambled to attempt to stem the flow of fresh blood that her motion sent spurting out. "You really fuckin' shot me?! You're the worst kind of dick! "

Danse was flabbergasted. Her state was clearly compromised, how was she even conscious-

"Fuck!" Vega growled in pain, dropping her forehead to rest on Danse's chest. "Oh fuck, fuck fuck you, you told me Danse was fuckin' dead, you liar! You expect me to just stand by and let you kill him in front of me?!" She continued to rant at Maxson, her voice muffled somewhat by Danse's shirt. "You dumb fuckin' prick, you stupid fuckin' dipshit motherfuck son of a cockass! This ain't exactly my first time gettin' fuckin' shot, you fuckin' fuck!"

Danse realized that Arthur hadn't said a damn thing, possibly just as bewildered and awestruck by Elizabeth's impressive grasp of blue-streaked vernacular as he himself was.

"Paladin Brandis, if I may…?" Haylen's voice was almost inaudible over Backhand's continued snarling. Danse jerked his attention away from Elizabeth, trying to blink the sweat out of his eyes in order to determine the field scribe's location.

"Scribe, get the hell back behind the line!" Maxson barked.

Heavy footfalls heralded the arrival of Rhys and Haylen, the knight using his power armor like a shield to protect the scribe as if they were out in the field. Haylen was suddenly there , on her knees in the gravel next to Danse and Elizabeth. The paladin's eyes were now blinded with tears of gratitude and he huffed out a breath. "Danse, I'll get to you in a second." Haylen said softly, patting his hand. "Let me have her, okay?"

"Haylen, I…" the large man didn't know what to say, his words failing him. He clutched pitifully at the scribe's hands, sure that he was gripping too tight.

"I've got her, Danse. It's okay." Scribe Haylen soothed.

"Yeah Danse, s'okay." Backhand said blearily, "s'Haylen, she's great. We love Haylen." Her head lolled back like it was too heavy for her to hold up. "Haylen made sure I got to eat and stuff."

" What? " Danse rasped.

"The tactics Elder Maxson used during her incarceration…" Haylen trailed off, grimacing and then continuing in an undertone, "I made sure Rhys smuggled in something for her when he brought Brandis' meals."

"Vega, Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry." Danse apologized needlessly, resting his forehead against Elizabeth's as he supported her neck. "I didn't think anything would happen to you. I...I didn't think in general, I guess." He admitted.

Vega smiled . "Hey, I'd say whatever shit I went through was a pretty decent tradeoff for finding out that you didn't bite it after all." She slurred. "Missed you."

" Christ , Vega." Danse muttered in dismay, fighting to untie her hands. Haylen took over after a moment, the scribe's fingers infinitely more steady than his own.

"I need a Stim and a bloodpack!" Haylen announced after examining Vega's abdomen, looking up worriedly.

Not a soul moved. The only sound was the noise of Maxson wriggling in the grip of the armored knight who finally had him secured. "Listen to the scribe!" Brandis shouted to the mute crowd. "You have a sister bleeding in front of you and you would be still and silent? Where are the brave, compassionate soldiers I once knew? Knights! Scribes! Are you not Brotherhood?"

Two aspirants finally elbowed their way through the throng, making a wide berth around Maxson. One of them bore a large canvas bag. "Good, good work. Drop it here." Haylen instructed, unrolling her field kit. "Can I get a scribe with steady hands and another knight for the opposite side?" She called.

A knight thundered past Maxson, the man throwing Danse of all people a haphazard salute before he took up his post at the other end of the group. Maxson practically seethed with rage. "Knight, how dare you salute that--that thing! "

"That thing is still Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel, Maxson." Brandis growled. "He won the trial fair and square."

"I will not allow it to live!" Maxson shrieked hysterically, struggling against the iron hold of the knight bear-hugging him. "I don't care how many of you I have to take down, Danse dies today! "

"Maxson!" Brandis chided. "Do you even hear yourself? You sound insane! Think about what you're saying before you do something you'll regret!"

"Not before he dies! "

"Which would you rather be known as, Maxson? The abuser or the synth fucker?" Maxson froze at the sound of Danse's voice. The burly paladin shot the elder a bloodied sneer, his head tilted to the side at an almost arrogant angle. "After all, you got fucked by a synth." What the hell was he saying? Danse felt unhinged , words flippant, his tired limbs barely cooperating as he forced himself up on his knees and then to his feet. "You let a synth fuck you, Arthur."

" Abomination -"

"You ordered a synth to fuck you." Danse reminded him, voice grating as his words came faster. "Demanded it to fuck you. Abused it. Threatened it with a certain death mission if it didn't. Then gave it that mission anyway." Danse rubbed at some crusted blood beneath his blackened right eye, grimacing. "Does it make it better if you didn't know I was a synth? Because then , you have to justify the reality that you molested a soldier in a compromised emotional state utilizing your privileged position of authority. Can you accept that , Maxson?"

"You...Maxson, is this true?" Brandis asked incredulously.

"That thing is clearly lying!" Maxson scoffed, looking around at the spellbound crowd like he expected everyone to agree with him. "Dammit, I am the elder -"

"Did you hope that I would die out here, Arthur? Or did you assume that I would come crawling back to the Capital Wasteland after my inevitable failure in the Commonwealth?" Danse cut him off bitterly. "Did you think I would be easier to break once I had lost everything , Maxson?"

"He always fights with Danse!" A tiny squire chimed in. Danse hadn't realised that Maxson had Ingram summon the damn children to watch their trial. "We heard them fight!"

"Silence, brat! " Maxson screamed, his face purpling with fury. "I am the elder of this chapter, last of the Maxson line, and I will be given the respect I deserve! "

"Cade's records can verify my story!" Danse shouted hoarsely for everyone to hear, his shoulders heaving with emotion. "Every time we engaged, I did not escape unscathed. Nearly every injury was documented. The dates will align with high-stress situations, and I'll stake my life on there being a long stretch of shit mood during the absence of your preferred punching bag, Elder! "

" Liar! "

"Abuser!" Danse yelled in reply, "murderer! You killed Cutler, through your biased orders! You killed Knight Astlin, Scribe Farris, Knight Varham! You killed my brothers and sisters!" Danse's fists clenched tight enough to ache. "And for what, Arthur? For a synth? Or for a man that had no interest in you? Either way, I refuse to accept their blood on my hands, Maxson!"

" You killed them and you know it!" Maxson shrieked, kicking his legs desperately. "All you had to do was obey me, Danse! Was your pride worth their lives?"

"There was once a time in my life where I would have done damn near anything you asked of me." His anger petering out, all Danse felt now was weary and bruised. "I loved the Brotherhood, Maxson. I still do. But the path we have taken under your leadership is heinous."

"Don't you dare to lecture me about devotion, you mechanical mockery! " Maxson retorted.

"This body may be synthetic, but my heart and mind…" Danse paused, saluting once more. " Those belong to the Brotherhood, Maxson. To my brothers and sisters in arms. Nothing can change that. Not even the knowledge of my true identity."

"That's what you think!" Arthur flailed in the knight's grip, trying in vain to escape. No doubt so he could pitch himself at the paladin one final time.

"Elder Maxson, through your words and through your deeds, I deem you unfit to lead our chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel at this point in time." Brandis announced abruptly. "As the senior ranking officer, I, Paladin Brandis, will function as the interim elder until we receive proper instructions from our superiors." He removed his helmet, staring down at Arthur sternly.

The young man was quite the pitiful sight, bedraggled from trying to beat Danse within an inch of his life as well as from his struggling afterwards. He still looked mad enough to kill, those blue eyes almost crackling with pent-up fury. "You planned this, didn't you?!" His paranoia on full display, Maxson made no attempt to maintain any sort of composure. "Just how many synths have infiltrated our chapter? Well Brandis?! "

"Arthur, that's enough ." The senior paladin said in reply, his tone measured. "Don't make an even bigger fool of yourself. Bow out while you still have some dignity." He sighed. "Perhaps the stress of this campaign has been too heavy of a burden to bear for you. I sympathize, but I cannot permit you to carry on in this manner, Maxson." Brandis raised his eyes, scanning the crowd. "Cade! Knight-Captain Cade, please see to Maxson. He is obviously unwell."

…

Vega flickered in and out of consciousness. The weeks of abuse culminating in this final (though inadvertent) attempt to end her seemed to have nearly been successful. She only barely remembered Haylen treating her wound, mumbling out an apology to the younger woman for leaning so much weight on her. She caught snippets of Danse and Maxson shouting at each other, bits of the trauma that Danse had endured coming tumbling out and making Vega wish that she wasn't half-dead so she could at least flip Maxson off.

" Rest , Vega ." Haylen had ordered. " You need rest ."

And really, who was Backhand to refuse?

When next she opened her eyes, she was greeted by a canvas ceiling overhead. Vega squinted a little at the brightness of it. How long have I been out for?

"Welcome back, General." That familiar voice snapped her out of her staring contest with the tent above her and she rolled her head to the side, unable to help her smile at the sight of Danse. Still a little bruised and banged-up, but alive .

Tears streaked down her cheeks and Backhand wished that she could have stopped them, sniffling loudly and covering her face.

"General Vega, there's no need for that." The paladin chided her softly. Something bumped against her knuckles and she realized after a second that Danse was attempting to give her glasses back.

Vega accepted the glasses mutely, grabbed Danse's hand and used his arm as leverage to pull herself up off the cot.

"Wait, Elizabeth you-" The paladin began to protest, rising to his feet to stop her. Her legs nearly gave out but Danse managed to steady her, one large hand splayed on the small of her back. "You shouldn't be upright yet, Vega." He scolded.

I missed you. I thought you were dead. The words tangled up in her mouth and instead Backhand mumbled, "I thought I missed you." Danse's brows furrowed in confusion and she hurried to correct herself, "I mean--I...I thought you were dead!"

"I needed some time to regroup. Straighten my head out. Heal." The paladin explained quietly. "The O'Brians nursed me back to health."

"What happened , though?"

"What happened to you , Vega?" Danse asked instead, gripping her elbows carefully to keep her upright.

Backhand shrugged weakly. "Maxson thought I knew you were a synth."

" I didn't even know I was a synth." Danse huffed, thick eyebrows raising once again. "How on earth would you have known?"

"Maybe he was going on a witch hunt, trying to get me to confess even though I wasn't guilty of anything." She closed her eyes as she mumbled, "I missed you."

"I thought of you every day." Danse replied bluntly. Her head shot up and she stared at him, watching as a flush crept up his neck. "I er, I...I am not good at these sorts of things," he admitted. "But it's true. I thought of you and...and of your son. Of the life you should have had. When Preston tracked me down, we realized that something must have gone wrong. So I...came back."

Oh . She hated the disappointed pit that yawned open in her stomach. She should have known that he wasn't thinking of her in the same way that she had thought of him.

Backhand rested her forehead on his chest, willing her tears to abate. "We need to get them out of the Institute." She said thickly. "All of them. Anyone that will come, Danse."

"I think you and I should speak to Pal-- Elder Brandis. He has expressed interest in working with the Minutemen." Danse sighed heavily, then continued, "I cannot recommend that we work exclusively with the Brotherhood. There are years of prejudice that have been beaten into these men and women. The allowance of my presence is a show of good faith, but I don't know if I trust the rank and file to storm the Institute without turning it into a massacre." He gave her a wry smile. "I cannot blame them. Even knowing what I am now, it's going to take me some time to remove my knee-jerk reaction."

"There's always something else to do." She wasn't trying to complain , but God she was tired .

His facial hair brushed against her forehead, scraping the skin lightly. "I know. What was it you said in the Glowing Sea? 'A run ashore'?" He queried while giving her forearms a gentle squeeze, as if to comfort her.

"I thought you were dead." She hadn't meant to say it again, watching his eyes go dark and kicking herself for bringing it back up.

"I suppose I was, for a time." Danse murmured, his expression troubled.

"I... please don't do that to me again." Vega begged. Her hands fisted in his fatigues, wrinkling the worn fabric. "This is going to sound really dumb and really selfish, but please . Don't."

"When you thought I was dead, did you..." Danse hesitated. "I mean, did you really miss me? I'm not even...well, I'm not a..." He cast his eyes around, narrowing them like he was physically searching for the word he wanted to use. "Human." He finally managed to say, the admission obviously paining him. "I'm a freak of nature, Vega. A perversion of science and an example of where mankind has gone wrong--"

"Danse." Backhand cupped his jaw, her palms smoothing over the bristle of his stubble as she coaxed him to look at her. "No offense, but you cannot be this stupid."

"What do you mean?" The paladin asked, his confusion endearingly evident. "I'm not...how am I being…?"

Backhand blinked. Maybe he could be that stupid. "You're probably the most human person I've ever met, Danse. The way you care about your squadron, the way you've helped me...look, I wasn't upset about you being a synth, I was upset about you being dead ."

"Oh." Danse breathed. "Really? You... really? Me being a synth wasn't…?" His words kept faltering, uncertainty shining through with every hitch.

" You , Danse. I cried about you being gone ."

"Elizabeth…"

"So don't you dare scare me like that ever again, got it?" Backhand leaned forward, boldly pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

"I--yes. Understood, Knight. Uh, General." Danse stammered, his fingers absently touching the spot she had kissed. "W-We should...go speak to Elder Brandis. If you believe you can walk a short distance? I know better than to ask you to stay put and be patient."

"Permit me the usage of your arm to keep me upright and yes, we can absolutely go."

...

Please don't do that to me again .

She had missed him, she said. She had mourned him, even. Cried over him. Danse's head was spinning.

How could that even be possible? How could she...he was a machine .

No time left to consider such weighty problems, unfortunately, as he found that far too soon the two of them were approaching what had formerly been Maxson's quarters and now served as Brandis' war room.

"Ad Victoriam, Paladin Danse and General Vega!" Elder Brandis greeted them warmly with a loose salute, gesturing around the war table afterwards. "Kells, Cade, Ingram, Quinlan, Doctor Li, I trust you all need no introductions?"

The briefing was, as they usually were, tedious. Nothing brief about it, if he was being brutally honest. Vega held her ground though, which was all he really needed.

"You boys aren't tyrants or fuckin' warlords. Not while I have any sort of say in the matter." She said sharply. "If you want Minutemen support, we are working as a team and the Minutemen have uninhibited access to all information as it is gathered. That means we'll need Quinlan's full cooperation." She held up a hand, staving off Quinlan's outburst. " Only in regards to the Institute. We don't want your super-secret Spec Ops sealed Brotherhood case files, so don't get those boxers in a bunch." Cade snorted and Proctor Quinlan looked absolutely scandalized, even as he grudgingly nodded.

"Now, General, this is all well and good but what does the Brotherhood get out of this bargain?" Kells asked pointedly. "As far as I can see, we're the integral piece in this plan."

"' As far as you can see ' is an apt phrase, Lancer-Captain Kells." Backhand's tone was cool. This was General Vega for certain, the woman who had whipped the Minutemen back into shape. "Because what you can't see are the rest of my operations. The Minutemen aren't the only force I have at my disposal, just the most obvious." She leaned in a little, her eyes cold as ice behind the lenses of her glasses. "Do you really want to test me on my home turf, Kells? After everything that's happened?"

"Not testing you, General Vega." The lancer-captain clarified, "simply identifying what seems to be an imbalance in the negotiations."

"I got you Doctor Li." Vega retorted. "Without her, your Liberty Prime would still be a pile of junk. I've gotten your scribes tons of information to sift through, I've done everything the former elder asked of me."

"Lancer-Captain Kells, if I might also interject?" Danse asked hesitantly, cringing on the inside as everyone turned to look at him like they had forgotten he was even there. Kells inclined his head after a moment. "Sir, we cannot be so quick to discredit our position. Due to our aerial location, we will be within the perfect striking distance to any sort of localized, above-ground assault."

"I am more than aware of our position, Paladin . But that does not negate the fact that we have a much larger stake in this than anyone else-"

"Larger than the locals who have been getting body-snatched for years?" Vega cut him off. "Let's not forget that myself and your new elder were starved and tortured for weeks , while the rest of you sat around and twiddled your thumbs out of fear and respect." She spat. "Don't fuckin' come to me with your scale-tipping bullshit . It took a synth to make you all sack up, and I don't intend to let you forget that." The woman straightened up, looking grim. "I'm not giving you anything else. You can either work with us, or you can keep pitching yourself against the Institute until they've all slipped away and you're left with nothing but an empty facility and unanswered questions."

"She's right." Doctor Li affirmed tersely. "They won't just wait around to be pummeled. This isn't the Enclave. The board of directors will do everything in their power to avoid you and waste your resources at the same time."

"We cannot afford to entrench ourselves in a drawn-out assault, Kells." Brandis reasoned. "When we strike, we have to do it decisively. Give it everything we've got and cut off the head."

Kells nodded, seeming satisfied. "Understood, Elder Brandis. I meant no disrespect, General Vega."

"None taken. I'm still recovering from getting the shit kicked out of me, so my manners aren't up to par quite yet." Vega rested her elbows on the table, steepled fingers tapping her chin. "I won't take anything from you that you're unable to give, Lancer-Captain Kells. If I can avoid using the BoS altogether, I will." She murmured, tilting her head. "I need to get in touch with some people before I can offer anything concrete, but once Lieutenant Garvey knows I'm alive I'm sure the rest will learn fast. We'll rally and plan accordingly."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Ingram asked eagerly. "C'mon Vega, let's head to the comm deck and get things squared away!"

"Excellent plan. You two are dismissed." Brandis agreed, making a shooing gesture at the two women. Once they had departed, he turned his attention to Cade. "Do you have faith in our medical capabilities, Knight-Captain?"

Cade nodded. "We had been planning to attack them head on anyways, Brandis. If we're truly going in a little less 'shock and awe', we may actually tip more towards over-prepared."

"I'm not certain how useful their teleporter will be to us once we get inside. I'm sure they'll lock it down with great expedience. However there is another possible egress." Quinlan spread the old blueprint out on the war table, fingers indicating a small service tunnel. "Now, if their measurements are accurate, power armored troops will not fit in this tunnel. But unarmored individuals most certainly will. This includes any…" he hesitated, like he was preparing himself to say it, "... refugees , or non-hostile denizens."

Quinlan referring to synths as anything but had Danse's head spinning. Vega was an absolute marvel .

"It will be heavily guarded." Doctor Li warned. "They like to pretend that there's only one way in or out. Their precious molecular relay ."

"Danse, I think you ought to take point when it comes to securing this tunnel." Kells remarked, making the paladin straighten up. "We won't be able to gauge our level of involvement until we have a full muster from Vega, but I'd like a senior-ranked soldier in the mix. And I know how much you enjoy being boots on the ground." The older man offered Danse a thin smile.

Danse was so moved he needed to take a moment, finally choking out a ' yes sir ' with his hand over his heart. That Kells, even after all the years of growing to despise synths, would trust him with such a task-!

Perhaps they did stand a chance, after all.

Part Seventeen

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cherryyharryy · 6 years ago

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Chapter 1: Jugular Notch

The Drink You Spilt all Over Me

Voices were blending into one constant whine; once tolerable, but the line was crossed around the time Adeline’s parents reenacted the Dirty Dancing lift. Chatter about Daniel's big home run and Susan's promotion and the approaching snowstorm had slowly slipped away into the sticky heat that had been accumulating all evening.

The house wasn't near as large as it had appeared upon her doomed-from-the-start arrival. Half-empty glasses of forgotten red wine strewed about marked the spots where every soccer mom in the neighborhood had once stood.

All the oxygen in the room had successfully been replaced by sweat and raw body heat. The stench that'd been building up has been in question, but now, hours after a risen moon, it's clear that perfumes only spritzed on special nights have combined to create a unique haze that filled every inch of the place. Deep breaths would only bring her closer to passing out.

A lovely sheen of oil mixed with makeup smothered her face, weighing down her eyelids. She doesn’t even want to guess how nauseating she must look. But as she scans the revolting sight playing before her, she realizes the state of her attraction isn't important, and doesn’t look near as pathetic as Ms. Hardy, who thought five beers would be enough of a confidence boost to catch the eye of the local butcher.

The drumming in her head leads her ears to summon a pulse that normally isn't there. She’s slowed her heart down at least five times tonight, and another round of meditation was well on its way. She’s been huddled in this corner for as long as she could tolerate...because she’s an adult now.

And being an adult means you can go to the Ramsey's party but you can't drink.

Being an adult means watching every self-respecting businessman and PTA member re-live their glory days.

Being an adult, apparently means, dividing your time up between wasteful and pitiful.

She really could use a drink.

On this splendid evening, she learned that darkness is deceiving. It provides a layer between her eyes and the repulsion that's been sweeping 145 east seventy-second street, but delays the warning of bulky watches and worn out heels that consistently invade her space. And 80's music will never be the same; forever tainted with images of shameless middle-aged drones trying to recapture their youth.

She’s decided she’s had enough, well, she had enough three hours ago, but now she’s really done. An escape is needed for sure, that is if she wants to survive. Because being an adult means just that: surviving.

Trying to find a path out of the sea of ripened bodies proves to be a challenge. The disturbing line dance that's forming has Helen taking off her hand-knit sweater while holding in the schnapps that threatens to spill past a closed lip smile and a squeal.

Adeline sucked in her stomach and slid past everyone who'd begun moving in unison to the left. With the back door in clear view, and a new surge of adrenaline in her bones, she wiggled her way through the crowd, exhaling once her hand touched the doorknob.

The cat door swings back and forth a few times before leaving her in complete silence. The moon was hidden, and if she hadn't attended countless barbecue gatherings, Marykay parties, and tee-ball banquets, she’d be nervous. But too many summers were spent shuffling around every backyard in this town for her to worry, having map-like memory of every tree, swimming pool, and swing set for her to fear a star-lit backyard.

She swears there's glitter swirling with her breath in the gelid air. Her heels scrape against the concrete slab as she shuffles in circles, attempting to jump-start her circulation. The sting of frost was soothing for only a moment.

"C lunch?"

Her head whipped around to follow the voice, the rush of air drying her lips out as goose bumps riddled her bare arms.

"C lunch, right?" The raspy voice asks again.

"What?"

"I'm in D lunch."

"What are you talking about?" She takes a step closer to the heap of blankets piled in a lawn chair, tucked into the corner where the garage joined the house, curly hair sticking out from under them.

"I see yeh leavin' lunch every day. You sit by the vending machines. And you’re always writin’ in that old journal. What do you write about anyways?"

His voice is slow, and she doesn’t know if it's due to the hypothermia he's surely gained by being out here, or if that's a natural quality. Either way it's a little too intriguing for her liking.

"Are you aware that you're successfully coming across as the biggest creep I've ever met?" She’s now only a few feet away. The blankets are tempting, and when he starts to unravel the little nest he's created, his choice of clothing makes her jealous. A thick black sweater clings to his body, but not as much as the tight jeans. She looks down at the olive green dress plastered to her skin, observing the effects of a harsh December night on her bare thighs.

"I apologize, love," he picks through the blankets before pulling one out and holding it out to her. "Will this clear my tarnished image?"

She hesitantly grabs it. "For now I suppose."

"Good. I can't have a fellow Edgewood high survivor mad at me."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Told you, m'in D lunch." He leans back in the chair and readjusts the blankets to shield his body again.

"That's not what I mean."

"Right, well, y'should really be more specific with your questions. I'm a lot of things, Adeline. M'smarter than you, tallest in my family, and just last week I was asked if I would be interested in a modeling career. However, luckily for you, I understand your vague request. My name's Harry."

Anger spikes her nerves and all thoughts of being cold are forgotten and replaced with wanting to slap the smug look off his face. Instead of wasting another second on this boy she hastily heads back for the door.

"Oh, whoa, don't have t'leave, I mean no harm.”

Her hand freezes on the door handle. After rolling her eyes she peers over her shoulder, pulling off her best glare.

“I don't bite, love," he smirks. "Well...that's a lie actually." A dry laugh follows his words. He smiles for the first time and a dimple makes its appearance. Of course; he wouldn't be complete with only a chiseled jaw and wind swept hair.

She contemplates her options: She can head back in to watch her respect for everyone in this town disappear forever, or stand out in the cold with some arrogant jerk named Harry.

"Here," he says, snapping Adeline out of her thoughts. He squirms around before pulling a bottle of vodka that's half full from under the blankets. She raises a brow and wraps the blanket tighter around herself.

"Relax. Didn't drink this all tonight. S'been a work in progress." Her brain is being jerked in two directions; one towards Harry's enthralling accent and the other put off by his cocky attitude.

She takes small steps towards him. “So there's no excuse for your ignorant behavior?"

"Ouch, was tha' really necessary?" He pulls the bottle back as soon as she reaches for it.

She huffs and rolls her eyes. "Well you haven't exactly been a gentleman."

"I only speak the truth, darling." He holds the bottle back out, but only because he knows she’ll leave without the incentive.

"You don't even know me."

"I know I was smart enough to dress for the occasion. That dress doesn't look very warm." He nods towards her outfit. "I know tha's been bothering ya, that I said I was smarter."

She avoids eye contact as she reaches for the bottle, this time he allows her to take it. "I would be offended if you weren't so full of yourself." She pressed the bottle to her lips. The sting makes its way down her throat, warming her up better than any blanket could.

"M'just pushing your buttons, love. I've gotten quite bored out here."

She passes it back to him and watches as he throws his head back to take a sip. His hand has no problem wrapping around the entire bottle. "What are y'doing out here anyway?”

"The same as you I'm guessing." She reached for the bottle but instead of complying with her gesture, he pops the cork back on and slips it back under the blankets. "This needs to last me at least through the end of the year. I'll be in this same spot come graduation night if the urge strikes you."

She takes a step back to distance herself from him. Even with a snarky attitude she can't help but feel lured in. They wallow in silence, the only sound coming from the monstrosity taking place inside.

"Ah...there they go," he grumbles. The ill-fated countdown made its way to her ears no matter how hard she tried to block it out. She glanced down at a pair of flushed, green eyes staring back at her. "Growin' up sucks."

"It does."

"Well then how about one more? For the sake of growing old. What do y'say?" He pulls the bottle back out and pops the cork off. “Happy New Year.”

Swallowing in anticipation and yearning for the burn she didn't know she needed, she lets the blanket slip down her shoulders to give her hands better access, exposing her skin to the sharp cold.

Harry stands up, towering over her as the blankets topple to his brown boots. His feet attempt to move but catch on the pile of fabric, causing him to wobble in place before teetering over.

Something crossed between a yelp and a squeal leaves her mouth. The vodka that was supposed to make it to graduation seeps through her dress, dripping its way towards her nude pumps. If her body weren't so numb she would’ve had the energy to cuss him out, but all she does is look up at Harry to see his eyes wide and jaw slack.

"I—I’m sorry."

She closes her eyes and breathes in through her nose, filling her lungs with as much air as she can, speaking through clenched teeth. "It's...ok...was an accident." He makes a noise between a grunt and a cough, and when she opens her lids, the gleam in his eye is evident. "Are you seriously laughing?"

"M'sorry but the look on your face was priceless." He doesn't even try to hold the laughter back now, his eyes squint forming lines around the corners, and every one of his white teeth are on display.

"Whatever, Harry." She tosses the blanket at him only for it to combine with the heap on the ground.

"No wait, lemme help you clean up." His laughter dies down and the red tint on his face begins to fade. His hand on her lower back gently nudged her towards the door. He slipped them inside, up the stairs and in the master bath without anyone noticing.

***

Adeline spared herself the horror of her own reflection, keeping her eyes locked on her shoes against the tiled floor of the master bath. However, curiosity won, and sure enough, the sight before her was disturbing. Black smudges had settled in the creases of her eyes and her lips were dried and shriveled prunes. She looked nothing short of pathetic.

Harry stepped out of the adjoining closet holding a long gray t-shirt and made his way to where she was leaning against the sink.

"Here, think this is long enough. If you’d worn pants you'd have more options.”

She rolled her lips together and sucked in a breath, "I'm not in the mood. And I'm not wearing that."

"Why not?" He inspected the shirt to find what had displeased her about it, looking up in confusion when he found nothing wrong.

"First of all, I don't feel comfortable wearing Mr. Ramsey's shirt," she crossed her arms over her chest and rested her weight on one leg. "And second of all, I don't feel comfortable wearing Mr. Ramsey's shirt, in his house, where everyone in town will see."

"Are yeh serious? First of all, no one will notice," he mocked. "Second of all, who cares? Unless you want to smell like cheap vodka the rest of the night I suggest you put this on."

She ran her tongue over her teeth and steadied her eyes on him. There was no way she was going to walk down those stairs wearing nothing but her principal's shirt.

"Fine," he quipped, tossing the shirt onto the counter. He reached behind his head and began pulling the sweater off his body. Swirls of ink decorated his skin, toned muscles rippled and pulsed. She had to fight to keep herself from staring. He tossed the sweater to her, nailing her in the face. When she removed it he was already sliding his arms through the t-shirt.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"You can wear it. That's wha' most people would do."

She held it out in front of her body to check the length, secretly hoping it would be long enough to wear. "Turn around."

"What, and miss the show?" He ran a hand through his hair as his lips curled up. "Okay, okay, don't give me the glare again." He held his hands up in surrender and turned to face the closet. She waited a few seconds to make sure he could be trusted before peeling her now ruined dress off. The sweater was actually longer than her dress, reaching a little pass mid-thigh. It was warm from being wrapped around his body and she couldn't stop herself from pulling the collar up and breathing in the scent of his cologne.

"You can turn back."

He rolled his eyes and returned his hand to her back, ushering them out and towards the stairs, her soaked dress balled in her hands.

"Thanks," she squeaked, before they started to head down.

"No problem."

Once they reached the bottom, her mother came bouncing towards them with a big smile on her face. "Adeline! I was looking for you, we're leaving now. You'll have to drive though, your father's had a little too much." A giggle slipped past her lips, letting Adeline know she's had a little too much as well.

"Um, thanks again," She said, looking back at Harry as she followed her mom to the front door.

"You're welcome, love. And cute underwear by the way. Pink is your color."

#ribsfic #ribsc1 #harry styles #harry styles writing #writing #harrystyles #harry styles fic #cherryyharryy

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smutnug · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alistair/Bethany Hawke Characters: Alistair (Dragon Age), Bethany Hawke Additional Tags: One Shot, Warden Bethany Hawke, Grey Warden Alistair (Dragon Age) Summary:

Here I am in hell! This is a stand-alone work. Seriously, it’s going nowhere. Ignore any suggestion of future plot. DEAD END.

Lucien ducks as he enters the cave, fair hair plastered to his head. “Stroud’s team’s on the way up,” he says over the noise of the storm. “Got a recruit.” He sits by Gerod, clasping his arm in silent greeting.

“A recruit?” Alistair pauses in oiling his blade. “From the Deep Roads? Is it a dwarf?"

The Orlesian curtly shakes his head. "Not a dwarf. Woman.”

This is enough to make heads turn. “Dwarves can be women too, you know,” Alistair points out reasonably.

“Not this one.”

“What’s she look like?” pipes up Cooper.

Lucien shrugs. “It was dark.”

Cooper spits out the wad of spindleweed he’s been chewing, setting off a mutter of disgust from the other men. He’s a stocky Northerner, a junior warden - almost the only kind they have these days, from this side of the border at least. He’d be considered ill-favoured at the best of times, but in the past days half his face has swollen with toothache. “No point asking your thoughts on a woman anyway, I s'pose,” he says sourly, and Gerod hides a smile.

“How far off are they?” Alistair asks. It can’t be far; the man was off scouting just after they made camp, and it’s just on dusk.

“Not long now,” Lucien confirms. “They travel slowly; the woman, she is weak.”

“Weak how?” It’s not a promising-sounding trait in a recruit, weakness.

“Sick,” the scout clarifies, unslinging the quiver from his back. “Blight.” Even in his native tongue, Lucien is more free with arrows than with words.

“Fuckin’ wonderful.” Sharp is in a foul mood, having struggled for the past hour to coax a blaze from soggy driftwood. “A pity conscript. Just what we need.”

“Stroud wouldn’t bring her in without more cause than that,” says Alistair. “Do I really need to remind you that the Warden-Commander was tainted before she joined our ranks? We don’t take on recruits out of pity.”

“How’d you explain Coop then?"

The other men guffaw; Cooper protests, but at least the mood has lightened. A week on the Storm Coast subsisting on hardtack and water weeds has done little for morale, and their little squad haven’t been together long enough to develop any real camaraderie.

If Lyna were here she’d win the men over with little gifts and thoughtful questions. But Lyna is overseeing the repairs at Vigil’s Keep and trying to rebuild their fractured order; somehow, Alistair doubts he’d get the same results as a pocket-sized, bright-eyed elf.

He explores that thought: a lesser pain perhaps than Cooper’s tooth, but yes, it still aches.

The rain has abated somewhat but the cold persists. "How’s that fire coming?” he asks Sharp. “We won’t be able to see a thing soon.” Sharp throws him a glare perfected over years in the Gwaren alienage.

“You have a bloody go if you think you can do better, Your Grace.”

Ignoring the jibe, Alistair crouches next to the elf. “Flint? Don’t we have a few boxes of those dwarven matches left?” He checked before leaving the last cache; they can’t have gone through them so quickly.

“Oh aye, we’ve got the boxes.” Sharp indicates a pile of empty matchboxes by the cave wall, evidently thrown there with some force. “What we don’t have is matches. Some fool’s been putting them back empty."

"Cooper,” Alistair calls, tossing a broken box at his feet, “we talked about this.”

“Sorry Alistair.” He sounds as though he’s talking through a mouthful of marbles.

“How’s that tooth?"

”’S'been better.“

"Give me a look.” He fishes in his jerkin for a squarish piece of stone inscribed with a light rune. It’s very nearly spent, reserved only for emergencies, but something in the boy’s voice… “Maker’s breath, Coop!"

The light attracts everyone’s attention; around him he hears the sharp intake of breath through teeth. The swollen cheek has turned pink and shiny. The boy’s eyes are dull with pain.

"This needs a healer. A proper healer.”

“The closest would be Highever,” someone says.

“He’s not going to make it to Highever,” says Sharp. “Leastways not in any state some hedge witch or jumped-up apothecary is going to help with.”

Shit. Shit. Alistair didn’t see the boy through the Joining and a dozen skirmishes just to lose him to a Void-blasted toothache. “There must be something we can do.”

“All our draughts and poultices didn’t stop it getting this far. What do you think we can do now?"

"I’m not deaf,” mutters Cooper.

“It’s fine, Coop,” Alistair says. “You’ll be fine.”

The light stutters and fails.

“We’ll have to take it out,” says Sharp, and Cooper groans.

We should have done that days ago, thinks Alistair. “We can’t even see."

Sharp kicks at the damp wood. "And whose fault is that, eh?"

"What do we use?"

"A dirk’s better than nothing.”

In the encroaching dark he can sense their eyes on him; all except Lucien and Gerod, who have stationed themselves by the cave mouth.

What would Duncan do?

The eyes he sees are the cool green of spring foliage, and a lilting voice answers his question. Duncan’s gone, Alistair. What will you do?

He should have stayed with Lyna. He’s not cut out for leadership, he’s only in charge by virtue of living through the Blight. There’s a reason they don’t call him Hero of Ferelden.

Stop that, Alistair. They need you to lead, so lead.

“Do you have a clean knife?” he asks.

The elf grunts, offended. “Clean as I can manage. Not covered in darkspawn blood, if that’s what you mean.”

“One without any of your poisons on it would be good.”

“Are you going to do it?"

"I’ll have to try.”

“In the dark?"

Maferath’s wrinkly bollocks, this is why I shouldn’t be in charge.

"Right, well keep trying on that fire. Those matchboxes should burn, shouldn’t they? With any luck Stroud will be here soon and he’ll have more matches, or dry tinder, or…something.”

“They’re here,” comes Lucien’s call.

Thank the Maker. He makes his way to the entrance. A handful of figures can be seen emerging from the blue darkness, slowed by the rain and the wet, sucking sand.

“Stroud!” he shouts. “Over here!"

The weary Wardens pick up pace, and soon he can see shadows that hint of Stroud’s familiar face, his moustache a dark smudge in the middle of his features.

"Alistair,” he calls as they near. “Why do you wait around in the dark?”

Alistair rubs a hand over his chin. “Well, the wood’s quite damp. And we ran out of matches, so…” He curses the fate that put him at equal rank with the finest swordsman in the order, a trained Chevalier and no doubt someone who could teach his men to light a fire in a dry cave.

“Hawke,” the man says, turning back to his troop. When there’s no response, he barks again, “Hawke!"

"Sorry.” It’s a woman’s voice, soft and cultured. Young, if he judges correctly. “Can I help?"

"Light. And see to the fire.”

“Yes, ser.” A blue-white glow blossoms at the end of a staff, and Alistair is momentarily blinded. Before his eyes can adjust the girl has moved away into the cave; there’s a blaze, then a hiss, and the damp driftwood has become a merry fire.

A mage. A thought occurs to him: “Miss…Hawke? Can you heal?"

He sees blurred features turn in his direction. "A little. It’s not my specialty.”

“A little is better than what we have.” He locates Cooper, eyes half shut with misery and his face so red and tight he fancies he can feel the heat rolling off it. Crouching down, he asks his junior, “How do you feel?"

"Mmph.”

Behind him he hears the recruit gasp. “Oh my. Could someone fetch water? Salt water. We’ll need it boiled and cooled.” She kneels beside Alistair, and from the corner of his eye he spots an expanse of bared shoulder. Maker, couldn’t Stroud have found her a cloak? The girl must be freezing. All her attention, however, is on Cooper.

“Can you open your mouth?” The boy does his best, and she murmurs an apology as she shines the light of her staff close to his eyes. “This doesn’t look good. If we can extract the tooth, I should be able to draw out the infection. Do you have elfroot?"

"Only dried."

"That will have to do.”

Stroud has been rummaging in his pack; he pulls out a pair of metal pliers from a roll of tools.

“What do you keep that for?” asks Alistair.

“Extracting teeth.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Can we boil those in an elfroot solution?” asks the newcomer. “And then…gauze? Or linen?"

"Linen we can manage."

"Boil that too, then we’ll dry it over the fire.”

For someone who doesn’t specialise in healing, she’s astonishingly efficient. It makes Alistair wonder what her specialty is. Finally they’re able to wrench out Cooper’s rotten tooth - he makes a sound like a druffalo in labour - and staunch the bleeding with linen, while the mage puts a cooling hand to his cheek and settles the inflammation. By the end he’s fast asleep, and she’s drooping also.

“Thank the Maker you arrived when you did,” says Alistair. “We’d have been lost without you.”

Her silence makes him look up, finally, and his mouth grows dry. She’s tired, that much is obvious, and her recent ordeals show in the shadows beneath her eyes and in her hollow cheeks. But oh, she’s pretty, with her kind brown eyes, and the little flush of embarrassment when she realises the pause has become awkward.

“Sorry,” she says. “People aren’t usually that happy to see me.”

Alistair smiles. “Oh, I doubt that very much.”

Her eyes widen, and he curses himself. Fool, can’t you work within a league of a woman without…whatever it is you’re doing? “Are you hungry? We can’t offer much beyond hardtack, I’m afraid. Of course by much, I mean that’s all we have.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve been underground for a while now, I’ll eat anything.”

“Oh, of course. The Joining. Well, I wish we had more to offer. You must be starving…Hawke, is it?"

"Please call me Bethany,” she offers. “Hawke is what people call my sister…I can’t get used to it for myself.”

“Bethany,” he says, and her smile is like sunshine.

The morning breaks clear and cold. Alistair isn’t the first up; Lucien sits close by Gerod, restringing his longbow as the other man sands his breastplate. Outside the horizon is washed in the colour of straw, sunrise having passed while he slept.

He relieves himself against a rocky outcrop, realising too late that he’s not alone. Bethany Hawke sits on the shore. Her boots are tossed carelessly aside; her feet are buried in the sand. In the daylight he can see her hair is a dark brown, falling in waves over her bare shoulders.

“Sorry about that.”

“Please don’t be.” She glances up at him and he’s struck by the sadness behind her reluctant smile. She looks beyond tired; there are smudges of blue beneath her eyes and her skin retains a greyish tint. Her lips are chapped, her eyes red, and he thinks she just might be the most beautiful thing he’s seen since…well.

“We didn’t give you much chance to rest last night, did we?” He eases himself down next to her. “For someone who’s not a healer you were pretty impressive.”

Bethany ducks her head in embarrassment, tucking a dark lock behind her ear. “I have a friend who’s a healer; I suppose I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

“A thing or two? You saved a man’s life.”

“The Wardens saved mine.”

“I suppose we’re even, then.”

“No.” Bitterness doesn’t sit well on her; it seems to go against her very nature. “Because I can’t walk away now, can I?"

"I suppose not.” It was a hard thing to get used to, the taint crawling beneath your skin. “At least you’re not dying though, right?"

"Not as quickly.”

The weak sunshine held little warmth, but at least there was no threat of another deluge in the next while. Alistair pulled off his boots and damp socks, joining her in digging his toes into the sand. “You’re stuck with us, I’m afraid,” he said as lightly as he could. “At least you don’t need to worry about Templars any more.”

“I should be relieved, really.”

“But you’re not?"

"It turns out there are worse things than the Circle.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says. “You can stay up as late as you like, and these new uniforms are quite nice. And the Satinalia party at Vigil’s Keep is something to see. There’s cake!"

He manages to get a huff of laughter from her, before a rogue wave creeps up and grabs at their toes.

"Maker’s breath, that’s freezing!"

"Where are we?” she asks with a little frown. “We went into the Deep Roads near Kirkwall, but this…somewhere near Cumberland? The sea is to the north…”

“We’re on the Storm Coast.”

“Ferelden?” She turns to him, mouth agape. “But the Deep Roads under the Waking Sea are meant to be sealed.”

“They are,” he says with a wink. “Completely impassable.”

“Ferelden,” she repeats. “Well, that's…”

“Have you been here before?"

"You could say that.” Her mouth twists. “I grew up here. We fled Lothering in the Blight.”

“Oh.” He remembers Lothering: the straggling rows of tents, the reek of desperation. “I was there just before the darkspawn hit. I don’t recall seeing you.” You only had eyes for one girl at that stage, you fool.

“You wouldn’t. I didn’t get out much.”

“No? Why - oh yes, that’s right. I was nearly a templar, you know? And I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to tell you that.”

Fortunately she doesn’t seem to mind. “Was it the Blight that stopped you?"

"No. It’s a long story.”

Bethany stares out over the ocean, and he wonders who she left behind in the Free Marches. The thought comes with an unexpected pang of jealousy.

“I must report to Fontaine,” Stroud says over breakfast. His eyes dart to Bethany. “Strange things have been uncovered in the Deep Roads. Weisshaupt will wish to know. As to the details, your recruit can fill you in.”

“My -?” Alistair pauses with a strip of hardtack halfway to his mouth. “She won’t be going with you?"

"Ferelden is in need of Fereldan Wardens, is it not? And you have only one mage left, since Anders…” He glowers at the thought, for some reason looking again at Bethany. “Either way, we leave from here this morning. A group of Orlesians this side of the border could attract the wrong sort of attention. I take it you will make for Vigil’s Keep?"

"Soldiers Peak,” Alistair says, surprising himself. “It’s closer, and we need new kit. Wade might just cry if he has to make an ordinary recruit’s uniform; it’s a better job for the Drydens. Besides, we haven’t checked in there in a while.”

Stroud shrugs. “It’s your Warden-Commander who needs your justifications, not I.” He stands, nodding at Bethany. “Anders was right about you, Hawke. You will do well.”

Anders…? Alistair has never met the man, but he knows of Lyna’s displeasure after he vanished. This story gets more and more strange.

He takes a moment to introduce Bethany to the crew, such as they are. Cooper, whose grin is pained but grateful. Sharp, Ned from the Bannorn and Bones, hailing from amongst the surface dwellers outside Orzammar. Lucien and Gerod.

“They’re Orlesian,” he explains, “but we try to keep that quiet for Fereldan reasons.” The two men, always a single unit in Alistair’s mind, have been Grey Wardens longer than Alistair himself. It’s rumoured that Gerod turned down a sizeable promotion to join his companion in Ferelden; by all rights he should be in charge, but he seems content to swing his broadsword under Alistair’s command.

Gerod kisses Bethany’s hand in greeting. “Don’t worry,” Alistair tells the bemused recruit, “he did that to me when we met.”

“It’s lovely to meet you all,” she says, and blushes. “I mean…hello.”

“Manners never go astray, Mademoiselle Hawke,” Gerod reassures her.

“Oh. Bethany, please. Just call me Bethany.” And Alistair sees some of the tension leave her shoulders.

They make good progress; she keeps up without complaint, already looking less ashen than this morning. Maker, she must have been close to death; Lyna never looked so ill, even before her Joining.

Bethany doesn’t give much of herself away, which is hardly surprising for an apostate. But his men are not so churlish they can’t be won over by sweetness, and that she proves to have in spades. The bitterness of earlier has been stowed away somewhere deep, and he makes a note not to let it fester.

There’s something so soft about her, he can scarcely believe that she might be capable of defending herself. Until a stray band of darkspawn wander across their path and she obliterates them, a hard line to her mouth that speaks of a private vendetta.

“Well,” he says as she steps delicately over the corpses. “That was impressive.”

“I get by,” she says with a shrug. “You know, that was almost fun.”

When it comes time to make camp she seems lost, fidgeting with the scarf at her neck as she watches the men set out their bedrolls.

“You can sleep here,” he offers, indicating a space between him and the cliff face. “If you want. Or somewhere else.”

“Those would seem to be my options.” But she gives him a hesitant smile as she sets down her pack, and he feels the ground shift a little further from his feet.

“Are you the Alistair?” she asks. It sounds as if she’s been working up the courage, and he can’t summon up the annoyance he usually feels at the question.

“I don’t know about the Alistair, but I haven’t met another. Apparently there was a pot boy at the Gnawed Noble once called Alistair, but he died of the frost-cough.”

“Alistair…”

Privately he vows to annoy her more, if it means she’ll say his name like that. “Warden Alistair, veteran of the Blight, at your service.”

“Veteran,” she says, “but not Hero?"

"Oh no.” He threads his fingers together over his chest, looking up at the stars. “That title went to someone much more heroic.”

“But didn’t you fight the archdemon together?"

"She struck the killing blow. No point in having extra heroes around the place, it just complicates things.” Plus where people see a hero, they can too readily see a king. “It doesn’t bother me. You’ll meet her one day, it really does suit her.”

“Were you and she ever -” She claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, that’s none of my business. Cooper said…Maker, Bethany, what’s wrong with you?"

"Cooper, huh? Remind me to pull out his tongue next time.” It hurts somehow less than before. Is that all it takes, after all this time? Distract myself with something shiny?

“I wasn’t really her type,” he says breezily. “Not red-headed enough. Too male.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment. “Someone once told me that men are only good for one thing; women are good for six.”

��Six?” His voice rises to a surprised squeak. “Which six?"

"I have no idea,” she says, and they break into muffled laughter.

“You’re full of surprises, Bethany Hawke.” He rolls to face her. “What took you into the Deep Roads?"

"Money,” she says bitterly. “And we found it. Well done, sister.”

“You know Anders?"

"He’s more Marian’s friend than mine. But that’s how it goes with Marian.” She seems to shake herself out of some unhappy place. “Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation.”

“Well,” she says, “it’s probably true.” She yawns, covering her mouth with the backs of her fingers. “Excuse me.”

“No, excuse me. I should let you rest.”

“Good night, Alistair.”

“Good night, Bethany.”

Bethany, he mouths in the darkness. Bethany. It’s foolish, but he likes the way it feels in his mouth. Lips pressed together, the little huff of air on the first syllable, the tip of his tongue between teeth, and ending with his mouth parted just slightly. It feels like a kiss: the good part, not the oh-dear-sorry-Alistair-this-was-a-mistake part. The part full of soft promise and yearning, and an end to loneliness.

Bethany.

Bethany, Bethany, Bethany.

@hermiowngranger

#are you happy now #I am crawling back under my bridge #see you in hell

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