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kanonsarchivedblog · 3 years

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Redemption

Author's Note: What if Mayuri Kurotsuchi died during the Thousand Year Blood War? Who would take over the role of Captain of the Twelfth Division? This is an answer to that in the form a redemption for Urahara Kisuke and the Captaincy that had been wrongly stolen from him.

Word Count: 4,767

Characters: Urahara Kisuke, Hirako Shinji, Kyouraku Shunsui, Shihouin Yoruichi, Otoribashi Roujuurou, Kurotsuchi Mayuri, Akon, Kurotsuchi Nemu

Ship(s): Hirako Shinji/Urahara Kisuke

Setting: Post-Thousand Year Blood War

Warnings: Major Character Death

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You can’t have peace without a war, that’s how the saying goes. It spoke true; the Seireitei, while in shambles, was calm. Peaceful. The sound of hammering in the distance, of laughter and voices calling out to one another. Rebuilding, slowly but surely- with the aid of Shinigami and civilians alike. And the occasional Arrancar. The dead were still being retrieved from the various fields on which battles took place upon. Last time the toll had been released, they were well into the hundreds. A devastating blow to them all- on both sides.

It was difficult; so many young Shinigami had been killed, but so had many young Quincy. Too many, truthfully. Some of their own Captains had been casualties of the war: Head Captain Genryūsai Shigekuni Yamamoto had been one of the first to be slaughtered before their very eyes. Aside from him, the entire first division had been killed- all one hundred and six members, in the very beginning of the war. Following this had been Fourth Division Captain, Retsu Unohana- all for the sake of getting Zaraki Kenpachi to learn the true name of his sword and release his bankai, something that had nearly killed him. Their beloved Thirteenth Division Captain, Jushiro Ukitake had been killed somehow. Very few knew the truth of the matter-

That he had become the new Soul King. That, since birth, he’d been doomed to take over when the time came. A ticking time bomb, of sorts. But to the rest of Soul Society, he’d been another casualty of war.

Many others had nearly died; Captain of the Third Division, Ōtoribashi Rōjūrō, Captain of the Ninth Division, Muguruma Kensei, and both the Captain and Lieutenant of the Tenth Division, Tōshirō Hitsugaya and Rangiku Matsumoto, had all become members of the living dead due to the the Sternritter Giselle Gewelle’s ability. Captain of the Sixth Division, Byakuya Kuchiki, had nearly been slaughtered by the Sternritter Äs Nödt. For all intents and purposes, the Lieutenant of the Third Division was dead, and yet he still walked: Izuru Kira, who lost not just an arm, but a lung and portions of other organs after having a hole shot through his torso. Their new Captain Commander, Kyōraku Shunsui, had lost his left eye and part of his left ear, as well as having a hole shot through his sternum, nearly killing him.

Many others had been injured just as grievously. But that was what war did. It took and it took and it took until there wasn’t anything left to take. War was greedy.

One other had been taken from their ranks. Mayuri Kurotsuchi, the Captain of the Twelfth Division, had been killed during the battle. Details were still coming in, but from what was known, he’d sacrificed himself in the final moments to save his greatest creation, Nemu Kurotsuchi, his artificially created daughter. It seems that even the coldest and most detached of people could, in the end, redeem themselves and save those who they held closest to their hearts. It was certainly interesting to hear.

After all, when Urahara Kisuke had been Captain of the Twelfth, Mayuri had been a right bastard to deal with. He could still remember that day he pulled him out of the Maggot’s Nest, and the following years. How they had worked well together, even if the bickering was nearly constant, as well outright insubordination.

Many would grieve in silence for those that had been lost. The Fourth Division was busy; Isane Kotetsu was now the defacto Captain. She was young, but strong, resilient. She would survive.

Somewhere within the Division sat Rose and Kensei, sharing a room. Izuru Kira had his own room- something that was necessary, given the extent of his injuries. Kuchiki Byakuya was being treated at the Kuchiki Mansion; Kyōraku Shunsui, at the Kyōraku Mansion. Somewhere below them, Aizen sat, chained back up.

Kisuke sat in the bed, studying the way dust danced within the sun’s rays that spilled through his window. He wasn’t injured, not really; Benihime had made sure that her master would be pieced back together completely. All that was left of her work were the thin, surgical stitches that stretched down his face, across his knuckles, over his joints. They didn’t hurt. At least, he didn’t think they did. If there was pain, he was numb to it.

He supposed he owed his thanks to Grimmjow for saving him. He’d thank him later. Right now, the Pantera was hunting for a certain Shark that sat within one of the many, many cells beneath Soul Society. He was accompanied by a Ram and a Wolf.

He could thank Mayuri for saving the Wolf. Coyote Starrk had been a savior. A sharp shooter and a hidden weapon in Hueco Mundo.

There was also Kurosaki Ichigo. That kid deserved all of their thanks, and more. Without him, they’d all be dead. He couldn’t help but wonder where he was, right now. Back home in Karakura Town? Or here, lingering with those he’d fought beside?

Slate hues closed, listening to the hammering and calling. To the sound of laughter and weeping. Of birdsong and creeping silence. He was tired. More so than he’d ever been in his life.

But now was not the time to rest, not with the figure lingering outside of his door. Five minutes, Shinji had been standing there, reaching for the door and dropping his hand, only to reach again. A sigh escaped Kisuke as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Come in, already!” He called, amusement shining in his words.

The door opened, and the blonde made his appearance at last. “Didn’t wanna disturb yer beauty rest, your highness,” he teased, lips quirking up in a crooked smile.

Kisuke could remember the first time he’d seen that smile. “I think I’ve had enough beauty rest to last a lifetime,” as if to prove a point, he stretched his arms up over his head, listening as various bones popped and creaked, as if singing a song of rest. “You aren’t here to give me the latest gossip, are you, Hirako-san?”

A shake of the head. “I wish I were,” Shinji sighed, closing the door behind himself as if that would give them any privacy. It wouldn’t, but it was certainly the thought that counted. “We were called in for an emergency meeting. Y’know how… Bad everything is right now.”

“You’re down three captains, and the new Captain Commander is on mandatory bed rest.” Kisuke answered with a shake of the head. “You’re fucked.”

“And now in the fun way.” Arms crossing over his chest, Shinji grimaced. He was still in pain, too, it seemed.

Not surprising; he’d taken quite the beating as well, from what he’d heard. “I have a question to ask you.”

No, the Soul Society will not get a discount on any products they purchase at the Urahara Shoten.” A joke, though it seemed to fall flat. “... What is it?”

“You know Kurotsuchi-taichou was killed.”

“Yes.”

“They’re without a Captain now.”

Slate hues widened before narrowing, understanding quickly settling in. This was the one thing he had never been prepared for. “Nemu could act as defacto Captain.”

“She can’t. She’s a child again.”

“Of course she is.” Damn Mayrui. “Akon?”

“Doesn’t have a Bankai. Or a Shikai. At least, not one that's on record.”

“Of course he doesn’t. Of course Mayuri would keep all of his underlings under a careful watch and not allow them to progress. Of course he would. He never did think about anyone but himself.” A bitter laugh slipped free, one full of anger and mourning. A scarred hand reached up to rub at pale blonde hair. “What are you asking, Shinji?”

“You know what I’m asking, Kisuke.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

A pause. Shinji sucked on his teeth, lips pressing taunt. “The Captain Commander wants to know if you’ll step in and take over the position of Captain of the Twelfth Division once more.”

A bark of laughter escaped Kisuke as he tossed his head back, baring his throat and chest. He knew this was coming. But to hear it spoken aloud? It made everything suddenly so real. “Central Forty-Six is going to disagree.”

“It’ll be overridden. We’re down three captains and Soul King knows how many Shinigami.” Shinji’s lip curled into a scowl as he shook his head. “We’re fucked.”

“We’re fucked.” Kisuke agreed softly, gaze slipping from Shinji to study the floorboards. “Whose idea was it?”

“It was agreed on immediately that you were the only one who could take over the Twelfth and not accidentally kill everyone.” The humor in Shinji’s tone brought a smile to both of their faces.

“You’re not wrong there.” A pause. “... I have some conditions, then.”

Shinji waved his hands. “Save it for the official meeting. Shun’s calling it in three days time. We’re all to attend, no matter what it takes to get there.” He pushed away from the wall and turned. “I’d love t’stay and all, but I gotta make sure my Division isn’t all dead.”

“You make a good Captain, Shinji.” Kisuke murmured, watching as his back tensed, as his head raised. “You always have.”

“... Get some rest, you ogre.”

The door shut, and he was alone with his thoughts once more.

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Three Days Later

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The meeting did not take place within the Captain Commander’s hall. The First Division was still being cleaned of bodies and blood. Instead, it took place within the halls of the Kyōraku Mansion. The grounds were lovely, sprawling, teeming with deer and birds and streams. It was easy to see the wealth and prestige that came with the name.

But it was nothing compared to the Shihōin estate that Kisuke had grown up on.

Speaking of, Yoruichi had joined him. He’d requested she be allowed to attend, and lo and behold, his request had been approved. The past three days, he’d been talking with her and Tessai, deciding on their plan of action.

Now, it would come to fruition.

“I know this isn’t the First Division, but it will have to make do for the time being.” Shunsui spoke, breaking the idle conversation that had been occurring and drawing all attention to him. He wore the Captain Commander’s coat, but beneath was a simple violet yukata- loose fitting to accommodate the bandages that wound around his torso. His head was still bandaged, as well.

No one looked to be in good health. Across from him sat Rose and Kensei, both of who looked uncomfortable. Rose was bandaged around his middle, as well. Kensei’s color was still returning to normal. Behind them stood, or in Kira’s case, sat. Kira didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t seem to be paying attention. Hisagi looked ready to pass out at any given moment.

No one else was any better, aside from perhaps Isane Kotetsu. Akon stood behind the empty chair where Mayuri should

have been sitting. Rukia Kuchiki stood behind the empty chair that should have held Ukitake.

“This meeting, while formal, is occurring off the books. We are in a grievous state, and while peace may be here, there is always the chance that it could break at any moment. That is why we are here.” He cleared his throat, brows furrowing. “We are rebuilding, and we have a shaky alliance with both the Quincy and the Arrancar- for now. I do not believe that we are under an immediate threat. However, there are certain items that must be addressed.

“The first of which is the passing of four of our Captains. There will be funerals held for each of them within the coming weeks. They will be open to the public. They will be grand, as is deserving of each.” The finality in Shunsui’s voice left no room for argument. “Captains Yamomoto, Unohana, Kurotsuchi, and Ukitake will be remembered for the rest of time for laying down their lives to save Soul Society, as well as the… Hundreds of others who were lost in battle.”

Hundreds. The word is heavy within the room. Everyone had lost someone in some form, whether it be family, friend, or lover.

“Secondly, it is time to right the errors of our past. This is the reason this meeting is occurring off the books. I plan to contest the banning of Urahara Kisuke and Shihōin Yoruichi personally before Central Forty-Six.” Murmurs drifted through the room. It was one thing to bring up the idea, but another to say that it will be happening. “Which is why they were both invited to attend this meeting.”

Gazes turned, landing on the pair. “Ohayo,” Kisuke hummed, leaning his weight upon Benihime, who was in her sealed form. “I have questions about that.”

“Of course you do,” Sui-Feng muttered, though she remained silent otherwise.

He pointedly ignored the angry little bee. “I was made aware that you all agreed that I should take over my former position that had been ripped from me one hundred and… What was it, twelve? Thirteen, now? Years ago. A title that I had rightly earned before I was condemned for a crime that I did not commit, which we all are aware of now, yes?” A quickly, cursory glance around the room. “I know a few of you here were too young to remember what happened. But let me refresh your memory, shall I? Aizen was working on a way to create Hollows out of Shinigami and chose three of your captains and one of the lieutenants here, now, to test that on, as well as Hiyori Sarugaki, my former Lieutenant, Hachigen Ushoda, formerly of the Fourth Division, and Love Aikawa, former Captain of the Seventh Division.” The words cut like a hot knife through ice, stinging and causing a few to look down or away.

“But some of you were not too young. Some of you remember when it happened, and you did nothing to intervene. So for the last one hundred and thirteen years, I have been living in the World of the Living, aiding the Vizards. Miss Shihōin had been exiled from her own family, even if they did not want to do so. They had no choice. So!” Kisuke clapped his hands together, watching as Isane jumped. Oops. “My condition is that not only we be pardoned of this crime that we did not commit, but that Miss Yoruichi Shihōin also be allowed back within Soul Society. My shop will remain within the World of the Living in Karakura Town. Tessai Tsukabishi, the former Captain of the Kido Corps, who was also wrongly convicted, will also be pardoned. He will remain and run the shop, looking over it and the two Modified Souls whom I created and love as if they were my own children, Ururu and Jinta.

“Those are the conditions upon which I will accept the Captaincy of the Twelfth Division once more. If they are not met, you’ll just have to find someone else who is capable enough to run the Division and understand how Mayuri Kurotsuchi’s mind worked. No offense to Akon or anyone with the Twelfth currently, but I don’t think any of them could actually handle that. After all,” his voice quiets, head dipping, a shadow falling over his eyes. “I was the one who brought Mayuri out of the Maggot’s Nest. Should any of you

forget, I was also the Commander of the Detention Corps, as well as a member of the Onmitsukidō.” Chin raising, slate gaze swept across the room, taking in the silence that had fallen. “I’m not asking for a compensation fund. I’m not asking for a new Division. I’m not asking for a golden parade through the Rukongai. I want an apology. And I want for Central Forty-Six to admit their mistake.”

Silence met him. It was as if no one had expected for Urahara Kisuke to speak out, to give demands. As if he, too, hadn’t been wronged by the events of the past. As if he, too, did not deserve an apology. As if he, too, were not angry and bitter over the mistakes of the past.

“Lest you all forget that without me, you would not have had the Twelfth as it is today. There would be no S.R.D.I.. Mayuri would have died in his cell. And you all would be dead, now, because Kurosaki Ichigo wouldn’t have been born without Isshin Kurosaki, someone who I helped personally. And you would be down four Captains and one lieutenant.” Jaw set, he met Shunsui’s gaze with his own. “These are the requirements. And I will not settle for any less, Captain Commander.”

Shunsui shifted in his seat, a peculiar little smile curling at the corners of his lips. One that read ‘I anticipated this’, or perhaps ‘All is going according to plan’. “Of course, Urahara-san. It will be done.”

“Will it?” Kisuke countered, head titling, voice low. “Just what do you have on the Central Forty-Six that would turn their vote so quickly, Shunsui-san?”

A chill crept into the air as the Captains and Lieutenants sat straighter, stood straighter, cast their gazes down. No one dared speak, no one dared to break the silence that had gripped their throats and held them captive.

“That,” Shunsui began, rising to his feet slowly. “Is for me to know, and for you to never find out. That is all that needed to be said. This meeting is dismissed.” His face was pale; it was beyond time for him to retire. Another session of healing, no doubt.

Kisuke made his way out, Yoruichi at his side. “That was ballsy,” she murmured, gaze trained ahead. “But good.”

“I figured a history lesson was overdue.” Kisuke replied with a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Go, I’m sure no one will mind if you-”

She was already gone.

“-visit your family.” Sighing, he began the slow walk back towards the Gotei Thirteen, gaze downcast. He could hear murmurings from behind him- surprise, shock, anxiety. A presence settled in at his side, shoulder gently bumping against his arm.

“Think it’ll happen?” Shinji asked after a good few minutes of walking in silence.

“He managed to convince them to let Aizen out.” He hummed, head rising to study the horizon. “I don’t know what he has up his sleeves, but… I believe there is a chance I’ll be back to torment you, Hirako-taicho.”

The grin Shinji sent him was brighter than the sun. He couldn’t help but smile, as well.

━━━━━━━

One month later.

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“I stand before you today to contest a punishment that was given over a century ago,” Shunsui began, gazing up at the blank blocks before him. Behind them sat the members of the Central Forty-Six. “I am aware that I was here merely two months prior. A lot can happen in two months.”

“Like losing hundreds of Shinigami,” one voice spoke up.

“That is the casualty of war, something that you all seem to forget exists outside of your protected lives.” Silence met Shunsui. “We lost four captains. And while there are many who could step up the plate, one of those is impossible to replace.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That Urahara Kisuke be allowed back into the Soul Society and be allowed to take his mantle of Captain up once again.” Shunsui fell quiet as yells met him. Anger, alarm, it all spilled out.

“URAHARA KISUKE? DESERTER.”

“LIAR, A DANGER TO SOUL SOCIETY.”

“HE’S BEEN IN THE WORLD OF THE LIVING FOR TOO LONG.”

He raised his hands, listening as the voices died down. “I understand your anger. However, merely a few years ago, the Vizards were pardoned. Why should Kisuke not be pardoned, as well as Yoruichi Shihōin and Tessai

Tsukabishi.”

“THEY’RE TRAITORS TO THE SOUL SOCIETY-”

“THEY ABANDONED US YEARS AGO-”

“THEY SHOULD BE KILLED-”

Shunsui raised his hands once more, his brow furrowed. “Maa, maa- please, allow me to speak.” Agitated silence met him as he cleared his throat. “I’m not Yamomoto. I haven’t been here since the beginning. I was just a child when this place was really coming together. But because of that, I have been able to witness the way everything has changed and grown. How we’ve become stronger, how more and more Shinigami join our ranks each year. I was a Captain by the time Urahara Kisuke joined our ranks, stepping out from the shadow of the Onmitsukidō. I was able to watch as he built the Twelfth up from the bottom, and watched as he created the Shinigami Research and Development Institute. Without him, we wouldn’t have the Gigais that allow us to investigate further into the World of the Living, the Tenshintai. What Mayuri had to work with wouldn’t have existed without Kisuke. We wouldn’t have even had a captain to fill his place originally without Kisuke; he was the one who brought Mayuri out of the Maggot’s Nest.

“At the end of the day, you have to sit back and consider more than what those of the past did. At the time, there was no true solid proof that Urahara Kisuke, Yoruichi Shihōin and Tessai Tsukabishi were behind the hollowfication project that was, in actuality, spearheaded by Aizen. Their only crime had been being at the scene, trying to help their friends. When you consider this, along with how they have continued to aid us despite being stranded in the World of the Living for so long… Don’t we owe them this?” Murmurs began to echo through the tall chamber. Forty-six voices all talking, debating. Shunsui stood, hands folded politely before him as he waited.

He was right, and he knew it. After all, it had been his idea in the first place. Without Kisuke’s aid, they wouldn’t have ever had Kurosaki Ichigo to help them. Aizen would never have been stopped. Yhawch would still be alive, and they would all be dead or acting as prisoners. There wasn’t any real debate to be had other than stubborn old men wanting to keep history as it is.

“So, I ask once more: I wish for Urahara Kisuke to be allowed back into the Soul Society and be allowed to take his mantle of Captain of the Twelfth Division and Captain of the S.R.D.I. up once again as well as pardoning Urahara Kisuke, Yoruichi Shihōin and Tessai Tsukabishi of their wrongly accused crimes.”

Silence settled across the chamber. A pleased smile curled Shunsui’s lips as he relaxed.

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Two weeks later.

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The First Division was peaceful, calm, filled with idle chatter as the Captains and their Lieutenants gathered within the hall of the Captain Commander. There was no surprise written upon their features; they knew what this meeting was about. Even so, they stood, chatting amongst one another, until Shunsui made his way into the hall to settle in at the head of the hall. He used a heavy, cherry wood cane to aid him; it would not be a permanent fixture. Each day he grew stronger, healing from his injuries.

“Well, then,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders before raising the voice. “Would the new Captain of the Twelfth Division enter?”

The great doors opened, and standing within the entryway was none other than Urahara Kisuke, green and white striped hat nowhere to be seen. He no longer resembled the young, awkward Captain he had been one hundred and thirteen years ago. Now, he stood tall, still, gaze trained forward. He made his way in slowly, geta clad feet making soft ‘clacks’ with every step. Behind him, surprisingly, walked a black feline, trotting to keep up. He turned to the left, and stepped into the place where he’d once stood, where Mayuri had once stood.

“Very well. Now, since we are all here, our first manner of business…”

The meeting did not last long; many were still in frail condition, such as the Third Division. The walk to the Twelfth was quiet, calm. Yoruichi had slipped away, returning to her family for the first time in far too

long. She wouldn’t be taking up the mantle of Head of the Shihōin family; that title had passed to her younger brother. Instead, she’d become an aid to him, and split her time between the Soul Society and the World of the Living. Tessai didn’t want to return; he had no desire to come back. He’d handle the shop and keep an eye on Karakura, along with Jinta and Ururu.

Kisuke was pulled from his thoughts at the sound of a throat clearing. Head snapping up, slate gaze hues widening at the sight of his new lieutenant. “The last time I saw you, you were extremely little and didn’t have a nicotine addiction!” Kisuke greeted with a grin as Akon let out a bark of laughter.

“It’s good to see you again, too, Captain,” Akon replied, shaking his head as he fell into step beside Kisuke. “A lot’s changed.”

“I’d be more alarmed if nothing had changed. It has been over a century, after all!” His head tilts back, studying the sky. “It feels strange to be here again.”

“It does.” The sound of a little voice calling had both men pausing, glancing behind them, only to watch as a little black haired girl came bouncing over, nearly stumbling over her sandals. Nemu. Akon knelt down, arms open, allowing the girl to climb up into his arms. “Nemu, meet Urahara Kisuke. He’s taking over as Captain.”

“I remember him. Where’s your hat?” She asked, big dark eyes gazing up at Kisuke.

“Decided that it wouldn’t be appropriate to wear at a meeting,” he winked, and with a wave of his hand, it was as if the hat appeared out of thin air. Nemu’s eyes widened in surprise, mouth dropping open into a little ‘o’. “But I never wander too far without it.” Gaze turning, he took in the sight of the Division, how much it had changed, how large it had become. “Well…”

“Wherever you want to begin, I’ll guide you to it.”

A grimace. “Notes? Or did he burn them all again?”

“Surprisingly, he didn’t.” A shrug as Akon began to walk once more, carrying Nemu as if she were his own. Members of the Twelfth stopped where they stood and bowed low, murmurs of welcome echoing through the air. “I don’t think he had the foresight to do that.”

“Good,” Kisuke nodded, clapping his hands together. “Then let's get to work.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

━━━━━━━

That Night

━━━━━━━

The night air was cool here compared to the warm autumn air of Karakura Town. Geta clopped along the top of the wall idly with no true direction. That is, until the sound of a snicker drew the attention of the shoe’s owner. Head tilting, Kisuke glanced behind himself to find Hirako Shinji standing behind him.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Haunted by the past.” Kisuke replied, settling down on the wall. Was he in Shinji’s Division? He hadn’t realized he’d walked that far. “You?”

“Insomnia’s a bitch.” Shinji settled down on the wall, kicking his heels against the sturdy structure idly. “... It feels good to have you back.”

“Does it?” He mused, stepping closer before settling down, shoulder bumping Shinji’s before leaning against the other. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Fuck off,” Shinji teased, leaning his weight back against Kisuke’s shoulder. Together they sat, silence falling across them like a light dew in the early morning hours. Without speaking, Shinji reached over, taking hold of Kisuke’s hand. Calloused fingers drifted over stitched scars. “She did a number on you.”

“Benihime is a benevolent woman. I respect that,” Kisuke replied softly, watching Shinji’s fingers. “What about you? How’s your head?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Touche.”

A chuckle slipped free from both men. Kisuke sighed, leaning over to rest his head atop Shinji’s own. “This is what you missed?”

“This and more.”

“It doesn’t feel right without Hiyori yelling at us. Or Love laughing. Or Hachi worrying…” Brows furrowing, he sighed. “But they like it in the World of the Living.”

curled Shinji’s lips as he pulled Kisuke’s hand up to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles. “Some of it will be, Captain.”

#m's scribbles #bleach fanfiction #kisuke urahara #shinji hirako #shinji/kisuke #yoruichi shihouin #shunsui kyoraku #akon #rip mayuri but kisuke's different

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thefinalcinderella · 3 years

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Kaze ga Tsuyoku Fuiteiru Chapter 9 - To Beyond (Part 2)

Full list of translations here

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There was a huge upheaval in the Leg 2 of Flowers.

Rikudou and Bousou were in the lead. Those two schools were being furiously pursued by Manaka University, which relayed their sash in ninth place at the Tsurumi relay station. Yokohama University, which had been in second place at Tsurumi, had dropped significantly in the rankings in the opposite direction.

The lead group, which had become a three-way struggle, was in a dead heat clash of willpower and spirit. But even in the lower-ranked group, there were developments one couldn’t take their eyes off.

Jounan Bunka University, which had been in eighteenth place at the Tsurumi relay station, was running at a pace that was close to the leg record. Naturally, the schools running in front of and behind Jounan Bunka were also maintaining a high pace in order to not be overtaken or lag behind.

Musa, who had left Tsurumi at the tail end of the race, was hot on the heels of Doujidou and Jounan Bunka and on the verge of running side-by-side with them. A student staff member was standing on the roadside, holding up a placard that read “one kilometer.” Musa checked his watch; he had completed the first kilometer in two minutes and forty-eight seconds.

It would be impossible to run the entire twenty-three kilometer leg at this pace. It was obvious that the second half would be difficult, but there was no way he could improve his ranking if he faltered here. Musa overtook Teitou University and was a little behind Doujidou and Jounan Bunka. The gap between Musa and Teitou, which had been seventy meters at Tsurumi, was reduced in an instant.

The roadside was crowded with people. So this is what “a mountain of people” is, Musa thought. People holding the small flags distributed by the co-sponsoring newspapers lined the sidewalks in every direction. Everyone had cheerful expressions on their faces as they cheered on the runners who passed by in a flash. The excitement of the qualifiers and the Ageo City Half Marathon were incomparable to this.

This was the Hakone Ekiden. Furthermore, he was running in the ace’s leg.

Musa was happy. He wasn’t born in this country, and there were people who didn’t welcome him. He knew that. But, at this moment, what a free and equal place I am in! I'm sharing the same time and space as the runners running alongside me and the leaders so far ahead I cannot even see them.

They had been practicing and practicing, transforming their bodies into bodies for running, and now they felt the same wind on their skins.

What Fujioka had said was correct—as a foreign student in the Faculty of Science and Engineering, he would never have been able to experience such excitement and unity. Only those who had faced running in earnest could feel the buzz of boiling blood.

The cheers became noticeably louder, and Musa finally realized that he had passed in front of Yokohama Station. It was the 8.3 kilometer point. When had he run this far? The elevated tracks of the Third Keihin Line curved away to his right overhead. Pale sunlight descended from the cleared sky. Musa continued to run with Jounan Bunka and Doujidou on the road surface that was beginning to dry.

As Musa got into the rhythm of the race, both the fact that the landlord had told him “slow your pace” at the five kilometer point and that the tough spot of the second leg—Gontazaka—was ahead of him completely slipped from his mind.

---

“He’s going too fast.”

Kiyose pulled the radio earphones out of his ears and called the landlord.

“Yes, this is the coach car.”

“Did you make sure to tell Musa at five kilometers?”

“Don’t sound so scary, Haiji. I told him, I told him. But he didn’t listen, so what can I do?”

“At the ten-kilometer mark, call out to him to hold himself back again.”

After hanging up the phone, Kiyose rested his head against the hard back of his seat. He furrowed his brow, closed his eyes tightly, and sighed.

“He's been completely swallowed up by the atmosphere.”

Kakeru put his hand on the back of the seat and stooped a little to take in the scenery passing by outside the window.

“It’s a good thing there’s no wind today. I still can’t see the sea.”

He saw Kiyose open his eyes and look up at him as though to say, “What are you being so carefree about?”

“I’m sure Musa-san will notice before it’s too late. Let’s believe in him,” Kakeru said, still looking out the window. Kiyose put an earphone into his ear again.

“We can only hope so,” he muttered.

---

Of the ten legs of the Hakone Ekiden, the second leg, which ran from Tsurumi to Totsuka, was the longest at twenty-three kilometers.

Moreover, after fourteen kilometers, there was a 1.5 kilometer uphill slope, Gontazaka, ahead. There were small ups and downs even after overcoming the slope, and in the last three kilometers after the twenty-kilometer mark, there was another uphill.

With a distance of twenty-three kilometers and plenty of ups and downs towards the end, the course was both difficult and flashy enough to be described as the “leg of flowers.” In addition to overall running ability, runners were required to have strong mental strength and persistence to overcome pressure and pain, and they also needed to have a clever mind to read the race development and the dexterity to change their running style according to the ups and downs of the course.

Musa ran in a steady rhythm on the relatively flat road to Yokohama Station. He charged onto Gontazaka with that momentum and four seconds into the ascent, he realized, “Oh, it’s Gontazaka.” His legs no longer moved forward, as though weights had been attached to them.

The gap between him and the Jounan Bunka and Doujidou runners, who he had been running alongside, was getting wider and wider. Musa rushed to keep up with them, but realized it was impossible.

What was I doing? Musa finally became aware of the cold wind hitting his face. The tight-fitting arm covers had absorbed his sweat and were now damp.

It seems like the blood was rushing to my head. Musa’s surroundings flowed into his eyes and ears, like the wind blowing through a room and shaking the curtains through an open window. Small stores lined up one after another along Route 1; loud cheers from the spectators forming an uninterrupted wall; it was a peaceful New Year’s scene in the suburbs.

Didn’t I watch the TV with Kakeru at the Tsurumi relay station? Eleven of the runners in the second leg have a time of about twenty-eight minutes for ten-thousand meters, and the same goes for Jounan Bunka and Doujidou. Even if I tried to keep up with those two outright, I would only destroy myself.

What’s the fun in a competition where it’s easy to guess the outcome based on the athletes’ times, the twins had said. But that’s not true, Musa thought. Even if the difference in ability can be easily clarified by the simple numerical value of time, this isn’t a track event; it’s an ekiden. I’m running now because I was handed the sash and I need to pass it off to the next person. It’s not like the ten-thousand meter where we all start running on a flat track—this undulating twenty-three kilometers is only a tenth of the distance from Tokyo to Hakone. It’s only a small part of the huge race that’s put together by ten people.

The second leg is just the prologue, something from which one can derive the unknown development of the race in the future. I should not be overwhelmed, but rather run in a way that’s appropriate for the prologue; in other words, I should run calmly and steadily to improve our ranking as much as possible. Even if I cannot match their speed, I should read the race carefully and look for an opportunity.

First of all, let’s get some water at the fifteen-kilometer point, Musa thought. He had expected it to be chilly, but he had been running at a fast pace and sweating quite a bit. And then…that’s right. Musa remembered the warning Kiyose had given him.

“On the descent of Gontazaka, be careful. On the way up, if you’ve been running well up to that point, you should be able to keep the rhythm going, but that doesn’t mean you should rush down the slope, because you’ll definitely fall down. On the descent, you need to hold back a little to conserve your stamina. The real battleground of the second leg is the uphill slope in the last three kilometers. Control yourself and keep chasing until that point.”

Understood, Haiji-san. Musa nodded to himself and silently ascended Gontazaka. The highest point of Gontazaka was fifty-six meters above sea level. In front of Yokohama Station, it was 2.5 meters, so they would have to run up more than fifty meters in one go.

Just before the highest point was the fifteen-kilometer mark. A member of the short-distance team, wearing a Kansei jersey and a water supply bib, held out a drink bottle provided by the tournament to Musa.

“You’re in eighteenth right now. There are seven people huddled together in front of you. You can make it.”

In the short time they were running together, he was able to convey the information quickly and efficiently. Musa nodded and slowly rehydrated himself, holding the water in his mouth. He drank just enough to keep his stomach from getting too heavy and then tossed the bottle to the side of the road.

He was in eighteenth, which meant that he had already passed another team besides Teitou while he had lost himself in running. The water supplier said there were seven people in a huddle, but two of them were probably Jounan Bunka and Doujidou—those two would probably go further ahead. He wondered which teams the other five were from.

Taking advantage of the gentle descent of Gontazaka, Musa looked ahead. A broadcast van was following the Doujidou runner, who was spurting ahead, in order to capture him on camera. The coach cars for each school were also hurrying ahead to give instructions at the fifteen-kilometer mark. The cars were in the way, so he couldn’t get a good look, but it seemed that several people were competing with each other.

Musa moved a little closer to the center line and took an angle. From the other side of the cars, he could see the green and white vertically-striped uniform of Eurasia University.

Eurasia? I believe they left the Tsurumi relay station in fourth place.

It was only then that Musa realized that there had been a major upheaval in the rankings.

The fact that Eurasia's runner was so far back was a sign that he wasn’t in a comfortable position. Maybe he was sick, maybe he wasn’t feeling well, or maybe he couldn’t get into a rhythm.

The broadcast van was getting further and further away; Doujidou and Jounan Bunka must have broken away from the group. Musa decided that it was possible to catch up with the remaining five. It was possible to overtake them. Let’s not rush and close the distance little by little.

From the coach’s car behind him, he could hear the hoarse voice of the landlord.

“Musa! I hope you’re not snorting and shrivelling up your balls like an excited racehorse!”

The voice over the speaker stopped for a while—it seemed that he had been given a warning by the watchman in the car. With a cough, the landlord spoke again.

“You remember what Haiji warned you about, Musa-kun! If you do, do three somersaults on the spot!”

How is such a haphazard person our coach? Musa laughed. He felt his shoulders relax as he laughed, and his brain became calmer and clearer.

Musa lightly raised his right hand and sent an OK sign to the coach car.

---

At the Totsuka relay station, Jouta and King were sitting on a plastic sheet, talking as they watched a portable TV.

“They barely show the lower ranked teams. I wonder if Musa’s doing okay.”

“It can’t be helped, there’s so much competition at the top.”

On the screen, Manaka University was finally starting to gain a wide lead on Rikudou and Bousou.

“But I’m sure Musa-san will be fine.”

Just then, the rankings at the fifteen-kilometer mark appeared on the screen; Kansei was in eighteenth place. Excluding the selection team, they were in seventeenth place. The camera switched to show the offense and defense of the lower teams. Musa was rapidly approaching the five runners ahead of him.

“There he goes!”

“Yes!”

Jouta and King happily shook hands.

“There’s no time to sit around, Jouta. Musa might be here pretty soon.”

“I think I should sit still before I run.” Jouta, who had finished his jog a long time ago, was doing stretches as he sat. “Anyways, King-senpai, how’s your job hunt going?”

“Why are you asking about that now?”

“If we don’t talk about something else, I’ll get nervous.”

“You know I get sweaty when it comes to this topic.” King got sulky, but his mission now was to keep Jouta’s mind at peace before he ran the third leg. He reluctantly answered, “I’m not doing anything. I don’t have time to look for a job with this life.”

“Huh, so what are you gonna do? You’re gonna be a jobless graduate?”

“I guess I have no choice but to stay another year.” King hugged his knees, sighed, and looked up at the sky. The blue winter sky was covered with thin white clouds. “I wonder if my parents will forgive me.”

His sighs spilled out and drifted slightly, melting into the air with the same texture as the clouds.

“Stay a year, stay a year.” Jouta sat grasping his knees as he rocked his upper body back and forth with his bottom as the fulcrum. “Then, let’s go to Hakone again next year.”

“Idiot, the year just started and you’re already talking about next year. I’m not doing it. I won’t be able to go look for a job again,” King dismissed Jouta’s suggestion at high speed and then suddenly shut his mouth. “…Are you going to participate next year too?”

“I am.” Jouta stood. “Of course I’m going to participate.”

Jouta’s eyes had a seriousness in them that had never been there before. He’s motivated. Feeling Jouta’s fighting spirit right before his turn, King was also inspired.

“Alright.” King also sat up from the plastic sheet and stretched out his knees. “Let’s do some dashes one last time.”

Jouta and King began to run back and forth through the crowded Totsuka relay station.

Musa was running the last three kilometers of the hellish ascent with nothing but his willpower.

He had overtaken Eurasia before the slope. Running alongside him was Tokyo Gakuin University, Akebono University, Kita Kantou University, and the runner from the selection team. He couldn’t catch sight of the runners ahead of him; he couldn’t tell if the distance was great or if he just couldn’t see them because of the competition vehicles and terrain.

For now, he had his hands full just watching the movements of the four running with him. They couldn’t afford to fall behind here. If possible, they wanted to put on a spurt, pull ahead of this group, and hand over the sash to the runner of the third leg; Musa could feel everyone thinking the same thing and planning their moves.

No one wanted to come this far and be the first to drop out of the group.

His physical and mental strength were at their limits, but his tenacity was enough to keep him going without dropping his speed.

The Totsuka relay station was midway up the slope. Five hundred more meters. The view to the left was blocked by a soundproof wall, but the crowd on the sidewalks told him that the relay station was close. Musa saw that the selection team runner, who was right in front of him, was sweating more than he was. All the runners were breathing hard. Of course, Musa was too.

He had to go right now. Musa passed the selection team runner and got to the front of the group. It was his final spurt, which he put on with all his might.

As long as I can get this sash to Jouta at the Totsuka relay station. I don’t care if I collapse and can't get up; my time was far from the record for this leg, but I’m running with all my strength. I’ll show this running to everyone, without crashing in the last few hundred meters.

His chin was up and his form was unbecoming of a long-distance runner, but he couldn’t care about his appearance. He could see the relay station. He could see Jouta slowly raising his arm. Musa bent forward and dashed. He wasn’t sure when he took it off, but the fist he held out to Jouta had Kansei’s sash in it.

“That was an ace’s run.”

Jouta slapped Musa’s arm twice with the hand that had received the sash. Musa could hear Jouta’s light footsteps as he ran off coming directly from the asphalt he had fainted on.

The next thing Musa knew, he was lying on top of a plastic sheet in what appeared to be the parking lot of a ramen shop and a used car dealership. The whole place was filled with the buzz of the race officials, the runners who had finished running, and their attendants. It seemed that he had only lost consciousness for a short time.

“Are you awake?” King’s tearful face filled his vision. “You’ve done well, Musa.”

Musa received his explanation and then took stock of the situation: Musa had won the final battle and arrived at the Totsuka relay station in thirteenth place. He overtook seven teams and ran twenty-three kilometers in one hour ten minutes and fourteen seconds. That was the twelfth fastest time among the twenty runners of the second leg.

Even though they had moved up to thirteenth place, they were twenty-seven seconds behind Shinsei University in twelfth place and only had a six second difference with Tokyo Gakuin University in fourteenth place. It was still a tricky position to be in, but thanks to Musa’s tenacity, there was still hope for Kansei.

“Jouta was so enthusiastic seeing you run.” King rubbed his nose, which was red from being outside all day.

I’m glad. I was able to run well.

Musa’s lips trembled and he nodded silently. If he said anything, the tears would overflow, pouring out of him along with the words.

---

After arriving at JR Odawara Station, Kakeru and Kiyose walked through the station to transfer to the Hakone Tozan Railway.

“I see, understood. Good work.” Kiyose finished his conversation with King and snapped his phone shut. “He said Musa woke up immediately. The two of them will be heading to a hotel in Fujisawa.”

“Is that so.”

Kakeru was relieved. He had been worried ever since seeing Musa collapse at the Totsuka relay station on TV. King had seemed shaken as well and hadn’t answered his phone for a while even when they called him. Finally, King had called to report that Musa was okay.

“Shouldn’t we have called Jouta before he ran?”

They bought their tickets and went through the ticket gate. Kiyose checked the electronic bulletin board for the departure time of the train; the Odakyu line, which would take them to Hakone-Yumoto, seemed to be arriving in about ten minutes.

“The twins will be fine even if we leave them alone. They’re the type who would call themselves if they’re anxious.”

He has a point, Kakeru thought. They walked down the stairs side by side. On the platform, there were a few people wearing their best clothes.

“Putting that aside, the real problem here is Shindou’s condition.”

Before the train arrived, Kiyose began dialling a number on his phone. “Is that Yuki-san?” Kakeru asked, and Kiyose nodded. Then it seemed that Yuki picked up.

“It’s me,” he said. Kakeru reached for Kiyose’s phone from the side and pressed the button to switch it to speaker phone, thinking it was probably fine since they were in the middle of a crowd. Kiyose's head was tilted and Kakeru grabbed hand, changing the way the phone was held so it was right before their eyes.

“How’s Shindou’s condition?”

“I don’t know,” Yuki’s voice answered. “I can’t see his complexion, and he absolutely refuses to let me take his temperature. I guess it’s not good.”

“What do you mean you can’t see his complexion?” Kiyose’s eyebrows raised. “I do hope you’re attending Shindou.”

Yuki was supposed to be at the Odawara relay station with Shindou, who was running the fifth leg. Kiyose felt frustrated that he couldn’t go check on him even though he was so close.

“Shindou is next to me,” Yuki said. “But he's covered everything below his nose with a towel and he’s wearing masks on top of that. He’s wearing two masks: one’s for colds and the other’s for pollen allergies. I can’t even see his face, much less his complexion. Can you breathe, Shindou?”

Shindou had apparently put himself in full quarantine in order to not infect the attending Yuki with his cold. They heard Yuki handing over the phone.

“Hello.”

It was Shindou’s voice. It was a mumbling, unintelligible voice, like a kidnapper demanding ransom.

“How high’s your fever?”

Kiyose had cut straight to the point, but Shindou only answered, “It's not at all. I’m at the normal temperature.

“Kakeru is there, right?”

“Yes,” Kakeru said and took a step towards the phone.

“If you can, I want you to buy a mask on the way. I’ll leave the ones I’m wearing to Yuki-senpai.”

“If you have a normal temperature, then there’s no need to be so cautious,” Kiyose said.

“How did Haiji-san hear me?” The shock could be heard in Shindou’s voice. It’s the speaker phone, Kakeru explained in his mind.

“Got it. I’ll buy one, so don’t worry,” he answered out loud.

“Shindou, drink as much water as you can,” Kiyose instructed. “Even if you wet yourself while running, it’s better than being dehydrated.”

“I don’t want either of those things,” Shindou laughed, and then the call went dead.

“That’s a pretty useful function,” Kiyose said, staring at his phone. Kakeru turned off the speaker phone.

“Didn’t you know about it?” he asked.

“I never even noticed.”

Then what did you think that button was for? Kakeru cocked his head in puzzlement as he ran to the store on the platform. The train to Hakone-Yumoto arrived right as he returned to Kiyose after buying the mask.

Kiyose got onto the train, looking down slightly.

“It’s hard not to say, ‘You don’t have to force yourself to run.’”

Kakeru tucked the mask into his pocket and silently followed Kiyose.

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#Kaze ga tsuyoku fuiteiru #kazetsuyo #kazetsuyo translations #run with the wind

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malfoys-demigod · 4 years

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Night Owl - Draco Malfoy x Reader

Summary: Draco realizes that he’s not alone, up late at night in the common room.

The night was cold, as the cool breezes from the outside managed to sneak in the Slytherin dorms despite having the windows tightly shut. The cool air started giving Draco chills in his spine, slowly awakening him from his sleep. He thought he could ignore it and simply go back to sleep but for some reason, Draco was having a hard time trying to fall asleep. Aside from his back feeling cold, the air suddenly went to his feet, making him crouch in his bed as he tried warming himself with his blanket.

After a good five minutes of attempting to go back to sleep, Draco finally gave up as he quietly jumped from his bed, now sitting on the edge of his bed. ‘What a night’ he thought, covering his face with the palm of his hands as he internally whined. Feet dangling from the bed, Draco felt the cold air go through his toes as he sighed. He just wanted a good night’s sleep from a heavy day but he was given a bad night.

Not knowing what to do, his feet met his shoes as he stood up from his bed, slowly walking over to the door as he planned on getting out of his dorm. As he silently closed the door, he turned around and quietly made his way to the common room. He wondered if anyone was still awake and hanging around but he doubted it. After all, it was probably around 2 am right now. Who could still be awake?

Getting his answer, he finally arrived at the common room, realizing he wasn’t the only one awake. He saw someone sitting down on the couch facing the fireplace, slowly moving its head from left to right. Extremely curious to whom it might be, Draco closely walked towards you, tilting his head as he was about to identify who the student was.

Before he could walk any further, you turned to your right, surprisingly seeing Draco out of his dorm. “Oh,” you exclaimed, “Draco! What are you doing up?”

He crossed his arms, laughing and giving you a raised eyebrow, “I could ask you the same thing, love.”

Well, staying up late most times was really a regular thing for you. This meant that this was the first time you encountered Draco up at night in the common room. Being up at night in the common room was something you actually enjoyed. You were a true night owl, using your free time at night to read books that you couldn’t do after school as you devoted your time to academics and getting your work done.

Of course, you made up for your sleep by getting a cat naps in your dorm during the afternoon after work is done. Then when dinner ends, you hang out in the common room, watching as people leave every hour as the night was getting late. There was always happiness in your eyes when you see that you were finally the only one in the common room. Time for peace and quiet to do practically anything till you went back to your dorm at an appropriate time.

“Well, Draco,” you said, closing your book, “the common room at this time is practically my turf.”

“Oh?

“Oh yes, love.” you imitated the way he called you “love” which made him blush and chuckle at the same time. Motioning for him to sit beside you, he followed, wrapping his robe tighter as he sat next to you. “So, did the cold wake our Slytherin Prince up?” you asked, observing the way he started hugging himself for warmth.

“As if it wasn’t obvious.” he joked, rubbing his arms slowly.

Feeling pity, you held out the blanket you were covering yourself, now wrapping the other end on him as your bodies collided. This made both of you turn even red but you had to do it because you didn’t want to be an ass and keep the blanket all to yourself. It would have just seemed unfair and rude of you.

“I hope you’re okay now.”

“Sweetheart,” he shyly looked at you softly, “I think I’ve been more than okay seeing that I wasn’t the only one in the common room, especially knowing that it’s you of all people.”

“I think I agree with that.” you smiled. You now turned to look at the fireplace, watching the fire burn as you feel the warmth in your cheeks. Aside from the warmth of the fire, this little interaction you’re currently having with Draco made your face redder than ever.

“So, my favorite night owl, what’s tonight’s book?”

“Usually I read whatever I can find from the library but tonight’s book is actually just my potion’s book. I know, how studious of me right? I was too overwhelmed by today’s work that I didn’t have time to stop by the library for a book so, I thought maybe the potions book would do for tonight. After all, I think I’d like to know more about one of my favorite subjects.”

“What a coincidence, I consider potions my favorite class!”

“Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Prince and also Potions Prince?”

“I think Potions Master has a better ring to it. But yes, you get the idea.”

You snickered, thinking about how your friendship with Draco, the Slytherin Prince, and Potions Master just started growing into a real friendship. Sure, you considered each other friends but you never really seen the softer side of his. You honestly had second thoughts after wrapping your blanket around him, fearing that he was going to push it away but you were really glad he accepted it.

“Do you want to hear some potions facts?” he asked. “My mind must be slow right now but I think I can name the top ten useful potions without reading off your book”

“Go for it, Potions Prince.” you yawned, smiling at him.

“Okay let’s start with the last.

The aging potion. It’s a powerful blend that will temporarily make you older. In fact, the more you consume, the bigger the maturing process.

Ninth, the draught of the living dead. It’s extremely powerful and dangerous at the same time as it sends the drinker into a death-like slumber. If it were up to me, love, I wouldn’t want to see you doing this as it might have bad side-effects.

Eighth, wolfsbane potion. It prevents werewolves from losing their mental faculties post-transformations. The tonic must be taken each day of the week preceding the full moon in order to be effective at the correct moment.

Seventh, Amortentia. You obviously know that, love. Strongest love potion and all, eh?”

Draco asks you for reassurance but only to find you fast asleep, as you started leaning on his body. He couldn’t help but smile as he looked at your sleepful figure, breathing in and out slowly as you started nuzzling into his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around you, holding you in closer and tighter as he whispered in your ear, “I suppose we can continue the rest tomorrow. For now, rest, my dear.” he planted a small kiss on your forehead as he slowly moved you to rest your head on his lap, making you more comfortable as his head pulled back, resting on the couch, closing his eyes and finally drifting off to sleep.

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easyobsession · 4 years

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Somewhere Only We Know

“You’re gonna get pissed.” He warns.

“Seriously, Justin, just tell me what’s going on.”

“Fine,” He pauses again, this time so long Kat is about to lose it, when he finally blurts, “We could get married.”

A Spinning Out fic.

A/N: A few things to get straight: what little knowledge I have about the Olympics, the Village, and ice skating in general is very limited and based solely on what I can find online. Please go easy on me; I’m new to this world. Most of my research for Beijing’s Games is speculation based on past Winter Olympics combined with me also making some of it up.

Also, as we know, we only got one season of this amazing show. While I have done my fair share of research (aka watched every Katstin scene an embarrassing amount of times), if you don’t remember some of the smaller details I mention it’s quite possibly because I made them up. Bare with me and go with it. I’m doing my best.

She’s been staring at the ceiling for nearly two hours. She knows this because in those two hours, Kat Baker has looked at the clock more times than she can count. But she’s done her best to stay still and focus on sleep, because if ever a good reason to need a solid night’s rest, this is it. Plus, she isn’t alone.

But it’s been nearly two hours. And after feeling her bedmate shift for the third time in less than ten minutes, she can’t help herself.

“Are you awake?” she speaks softly in case she’s wrong.

“Yes.” Justin’s voice comes so instantaneously it’s obvious he has been for a while. He rolls over onto his side to face her, clearly fed up with the charade. “I know we’re supposed to be too excited to sleep or whatever, but I figured jet lag and exhaustion would kick in eventually.”

Kat sighs. “I don’t think I can lay here anymore.”

“Screw it. Let’s go walk around or something. Get some food. I don’t know,” He shrugs, “Everything is open 24/7 here. Might as well take advantage of it.”

Kat bites at her lip. They have practice tomorrow at 9am sharp and Dasha will kill them if they’re stumbling around exhausted, but she’s so stir crazy right now she can’t bring herself to care.

“Alright, let’s go.”

They both dress quickly and head for the door, remembering to grab their ID badges from the nightstand and doing their best to remain silent as they slip through the common room. Their hands find each other in the elevator as they depart from the ninth floor, and they both give a courteous nod to security as they exit the dorm.

February in Beijing is beautiful, and despite being nothing more than a glorified college campus, the Olympic Village somehow still manages to blow both Kat and Justin’s minds. With a large handful of sky-high dormitories divided up by country, the Village is filled with basic amenities like a post office, bank, laundry facility, a convenience store, several gyms, and a huge cafeteria containing cuisine from around the world at every hour of the day.

Kat and Justin have been here for eight days so far. The first two days were spent getting settled with the other Team USA skaters and personnel, the third day they participated in the Opening Ceremony, and the remaining time has been spent using their allotted practice sessions, hitting the gym for light workouts, and enjoying the experience. They’ve also seen a few events, which is a highlight, and done a couple interviews (Dasha promises there are more to come- super) and some press work.

Mostly though, they’ve been staying close and trying to remain in a good headspace. Their competition begins in three days and their families arrive tomorrow, so for the most part they’re taking Dasha’s advice and focusing on each other.

“This is yours to lose,” she’d said. “Don’t over-think anything. Just stick together and enjoy it.”

This probably isn’t what she meant, but whatever.

After leaving the dorms behind, the duo makes the short walk into the heart of the Village, the nightlife scene far more alive than some might expect. The Village is open 24 hours a day for a reason. Some athletes prefer to train in the later hours, jetlag affecting a large amount, and some seem to need an escape to rid themselves of the jitters. One thing is clear though: everyone is tense. It’s like a university during finals- the pressure is on and everyone is feeling it.

“We should probably skip the caffeine, but how ‘bout hot chocolate?” Justin proposes, their linked hands swaying between them as they approach the commissary.

Kat nods. As much as a huge cup of coffee sounds appealing right now, he’s right. With any luck they’ll hopefully be able to manage at least a few hours of shuteye after this little excursion and a latte screams bad call.

After getting two steaming cups of cocoa (caramel in hers- she’d agreed to forgo the caffeine, not the sugar) they find an empty bench just far enough off the main pathway for a bit of privacy. So far it’s been a blast meeting and getting to know the other athletes from around the world, including several of Kat and Justin’s personal idols, but two AM just isn’t the hour preferred for socializing.

For a while they sit in silence, enjoying the peace and tranquility and the rare chance to people-watch the night owls between sips from their respective biodegradable cups.

“Feeling any sleepier?” Justin questions finally, causing the brunette under his arm to sigh.

“Will you judge me if I say that I’m even more awake than before?”

Justin lets out a curse. “I was hoping it was just me.”

“Gotta love Olympic life,” she ruses, “Well, I’m not going to the gym.”

“Fuck that,” he agrees. They’ve been practicing nonstop as it is. Neither of them is in the mood to ruin what little free time they do have, especially since Dasha never shuts up about the importance of not overdoing it.

“I don’t know. Nothing sounds appealing.” Kat continues, “But I don’t want to just sit here all night.”

For a moment silence falls again until Justin begins to fidget, shifting in his seat and catching her attention.

“What?” she demands, the look in his eye giving him away just like always.

“Nothing.” He quickly dismisses, shaking his head. “Never mind. I’m an idiot. Forget it.”

Kat rolls her eyes. “I know you’re an idiot,” she teases, “You’re my idiot though, which means I’m privy to all of your idiocy.”

“Seriously Kat, drop it. It was a dumbass thought. Let it go.”

“Hey,” the change of tone in his voice causes her to pull back, finding his eyes. Clearly he’s getting upset about something. “Talk to me.”

Justin stares at her for a minute. “You’re gonna get pissed.” He warns.

“Seriously, Justin, just tell me what’s going on.”

“Fine,” He pauses again, this time so long Kat is about to lose it, when he finally blurts, “We could get married.”

Silence.

“What?” It takes all of Kat’s strength not to screech the word. “Are you- what?”

“I said it was dumb!”

“It’s the middle of the night.” she sputters. “Our families aren’t here. We’ve only been together-”

“What feels like forever sometimes,”

Kat gives him a dirty look. “Really? You’re choosing now to fuck around?”

He raises his hands in defense.

“Look, it was just something that popped in my head.”

“Of all the possibilities, this was the random thought you had?”

Justin glances toward the ground, causing her eyes to go wide.

“This isn’t the first time?” Kat pauses, her voice finally falling back down to its regular decibel. “You’ve thought about this before?”

“Have I thought about marrying you?” Justin snorts, giving up on his hesitance as the insanity of the situation triggers brutal honesty. “I’m 25, Kat, and I’ve been in love with you longer than the two years we’ve been together. Yes, I’ve thought about it.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He says quickly. “I don’t have a binder filled with details or anything. It’s just something I’ve thought about, that’s all.”

This seems to catch her attention.

“Like what?”

“Like… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You probably don’t want something too big or flashy. Which is awesome, because while my dad will lose his shit and it’ll drive Mandy nuts, I’m actually on board with small and simple. And I know you’ll kill me if I spend too much on the ring, which is the one thing I already have covered-”

“You have it covered?” she interrupts. “Like what, you’ve already bought it?”

He pauses for a minute, staring at her before letting out a sigh.

“I don’t want to freak you out.”

“Justin, seriously, I swear to fucking god-”

“Fine!” he holds up his hands in surrender. “Just give me ten minutes. Stay here.”

“Stay here? Where are you going?” she wants to hit him when he rises from the bench. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Stay here!” He repeats.

“Fuck off!” she cries, yet for some reason her ass remains glued to her seat.

The following ten minutes pass in a slow blur, because what the actual fuck? Ironically it isn’t their relationship, but the fact that they’re skating for Olympic medals in three days that assures her he wouldn’t just leave her sitting in the middle of the Village like a moron, when Justin returns with his hands in his pockets, looking even more nervous than when he left. (Which is understandable, because there’s at least a 50% chance this could lead to his death.)

He lets out a breath as he sits back down next to her, finally revealing his hands and holding up a respectably sized (but not too gaudy) ruby in a band of gold. He places the ring in the palm of her hand, giving a small shrug.

“It was my mom’s.” he explains quietly. “I’ve had it since she died. Dad said she planned on giving it to me eventually.”

“Justin-”

“Look, it was a dumb idea. And I didn’t mean to freak you out, especially when literally the biggest event of our lives is in three days, but… I don’t know.” He shrugs again. “I just started talking and you didn’t stop me. So here we are.”

“So what, you just carry this with you everywhere you go?”

“Fuck you. It’s called being prepared, Baker.”

Kat goes quiet for a minute, her eyes falling from his understandably stressed face to the ring still perched in her palm. This is quite literally the last thing she ever would’ve expected, and yet for some reason the idea of turning him down isn’t her gut reaction. It’s crazy, yeah, but she does love him and they’ve been together for a while. Hell, practically everyone and their brother has brought it up, so it’s not like she hasn’t thought about it, and at the end of the day she could think of a lot worse ways to live her life than spending it with Justin.

“Your mom must’ve had small hands too. Although… I guess we won’t really know if it fits unless you put it on me.” She murmurs finally, causing his head to snap up.

“What?”

“I mean, I won’t be able to wear it on the ice, obviously,” she continues, “And we should probably wait until after the Games to tell anyone, because it’ll only be more pressure if we’re labeled the American Newlywed team. Plus, our families are no question going to kill us- Dasha at the front of the line. We’ll probably have to have some sort of party to make it up to them. Especially Mandy.”

“Are you saying yes?” he asks breathlessly, still unsure if he’s in a daze or acquired brain damage from the cold.

A small grin breaks out on Kat’s face. “I must be crazier than we thought.”

“You’re saying yes!” he surges forward to kiss her, hoping all of his joy can be transmitted through the pressure of his lips. “Holy shit.”

“Does it count if you never put the ring on me?” she questions through a giggle, causing him to let out a laugh of his own as he takes the ring and slides it onto her finger with shaking hands.

“Perfect fit.” He observes, part of him not even surprised because fate is just on their side tonight apparently, before leaning in to kiss her again. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She grins. “Mr. Baker,”

Justin laughs. “You joke, but I really could not care less.” He pauses for a second. “Hey, look, I’m sorry this isn’t something better. I mean, I wasn’t planning on renting out the Eiffel Tower or anything, but I wanted to at least make a speech or something. Most of all I know it’s something I planned to talk to you about beforehand.”

Kat shrugs. “Might as well have this be just as weird and dysfunctional as everything else about our lives, right?” She says with a dry laugh. “Besides, you can save the speech for your vows.”

Justin stares at her for a second. “You seriously want to get married at 3AM in a foreign country, in secret, three days before the biggest competition of our careers?”

“Are you getting cold feet already?”

He laughs. “I’m just making sure I’m not dreaming.” He says honestly.

“Oh, you’re awake. And it’s too late to back out now, Davis.” She holds up her left hand where the ring sparkles, looking, Justin can’t help but notice, like it’s always belonged there. “I’ve already got the hardware.”

Justin grins. “Guess I’m stuck then.”

“Looks like it.”

“Huh.” He stands up from the bench and offers her his hand. “Then let’s go get married.”

Part 2 Coming Soon. ;)

#spinning out #kat baker #justin davis #katstin #kat x justin #sowk fic

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inkwell1013 · 3 years

Text

Uncle Tony - MCU

Pairing: Tony Stark & Peter Parker (familial), MJ & Peter, Ned & Peter (both platonic), Tony Stark / Pepper Potts (background)

Genre: Oneshot, hurt/comfort, angst, found family, a little fluff at the end.

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: Death of a parent (referenced).

Summary: Something about Tony reminds Peter a lot of his uncle and all the memories, good and bad, that he associates with him. Even after everything their relationship has been through, it only takes one slip of the tongue to ruin everything. Tony has never been good with kids, but he is determined to help the boy he sees as his son, even if it means making himself vulnerable.

Notes: I have this head canon that Peter sees Tony more as an uncle than a father figure, because he's never had a father that he remembers and instead associates fatherly people with his uncle. Thus, this fic was born. I hope you enjoy!

- - - - -

Tony fetched a cup of coffee from the machine, getting ready to pull another all-nighter. It was a bad habit - he knew that - but one that he was having trouble kicking. If Pepper were here, she would give him a lecture about how staying up all night was bad for his health and drag him off to bed, but she was on a work trip so he was free to do whatever unhealthy things he wanted.

While he was waiting for the machine to relinquish its delicious contents, he took a quick glance out the window. It was starting to go dark. How long had he and Peter been working for? It only felt like a little while but had probably been a lot longer.

Working with Peter was a fun experience, all things considered. He was always coming up with new ideas and different ways of looking at things, making him an asset to Stark Industries.

And strangely enough, Tony didn’t mind his presence.

He had never been good with children – most of his interactions with them ended with somebody bursting into tears and a disappointed frown from Pepper – but Peter was easy to get along with. He was the exception to the rule.

The machine dispensed the coffee and Tony picked up the mug. Faded paint spelled out the letters ‘Fe’ followed by the word ‘man’, a statement halfway between a pun and an inside joke. He was a little annoyed that the paint was already wearing away; the mug wasn’t even that old.

Peter had given it to Tony for his birthday a few months prior. He had looked so proud as he handed it over, that Tony had to use it. As much as he hated to admit it, he found the joke amusing.

Tony went back into the lab, and found Peter asleep at one of the workbenches. He looked so peaceful that Tony almost didn’t want to wake him. Regardless, he gave Peter a small shake, causing him to stir.

‘Five more minutes,” grumbled Peter, making Tony smirk. He was such a kid.

“Come on Peter,” said Tony. “You’ve got to get home or May will have my neck. Have you got your things?” Peter gave a little nod, as he fetched his backpack from underneath the table.

“I’ll walk you to the lift.”

It was quiet in the hallways, which Tony expected. Most of his employees had gone home hours ago. And here he was, walking through the deserted corridors with a random fifteen-year-old, who really should have been home hours ago as well. He had no idea why May let Peter stay so late.

“Do you want a ride home?” he offered. “Happy can drive you. It’s what I pay him to do after all.”

“Nah, I’ll just walk. It’s not that late.”

Tony’s mouth twitched halfway into a frown. “Okay,” he relented. “But make sure you look both ways before you cross the road, stay on well-lit streets and hurry straight home. New York isn’t the safest place to be at night. Are you sure you don’t want a ride?”

“I can handle it Uncle Ben,” scoffed Peter. “I’m not a little kid anymore.” He pressed the button to call the lift. His movements screeched to a halt as he realized what had come tumbling out of his mouth.

He stared at Tony with wide eyes, scarcely moving a millimeter. Tony was similarly frozen in place, as he waited for his brain to catch up with him. Before he had quite figured out what had happened, Peter bolted down the corridor. Tony could do nothing but run after him.

Peter blinked back tears, as he slammed open the door to the lab. He grabbed a beaker from the cupboard and threw in some chemicals – not really caring what reactions might take place. He just needed to do something with his hands, something familiar. Something reassuring. He had no idea what he could do or what to say to fix this colossal fuck up. All he could fall back on was what he knew, which was science.

Science never lied.

Science was absolute.

Science made sense.

And it wouldn’t leave him like everyone else had.

Tony grabbed ahold of Peter’s arm. “It’s okay that you’re upset but you need to—”

Peter tightened his grip on the beaker and pulled his arm from Tony’s grasp. “I’m not upset. I’m fine,” he gritted.

“Come on kid. You’re doing biochemistry. You always do biochemistry when you’re upset.”

“I’M NOT UPSET!” roared Peter, slamming the beaker down on the workbench.

“You’re going to break that,” said Tony. “Why don’t you put it down so we can talk this out?”

Peter shook his head.

Tony sighed. “At least put on some goggles if you’re going to stress science.”

“I don’t stress science,” snapped Peter, continuing through the motions of his experiment.

“Don’t lie to me,” said Tony. “You always do this when you’re upset and I get it – I do the same thing. When Steve and I had our big fight, I stress solved physics equations for a week straight. Pepper tells me that I was found by a cleaner, unconscious and half draped across the lab table. I had been subsisting solely on coffee – not eating or sleeping either – whilst working on an unsolvable physics problem. I had to be hospitalized for three weeks to recover.”

Peter paused. “But did you solve it?” he asked.

“That’s not the point. I was hurting myself. I think, deep down, I believed I deserved the pain. I blamed myself for everything that had happened, even when it was out of my control. It was a way to punish myself.”

Tony couldn’t believe he was unloading his trauma onto a fifteen-year-old. Way to go douchebag.

“I’m sorry kid,” he said. “I know it feels like no one understands but… you’re not alone.”

Peter gave him a long glance, setting down the beaker. “It was my fault,” he muttered.

“Uncle Ben died because of me. I was mad at him for… something - I can’t remember what – and I ran away. I just wanted him to feel bad, I wasn’t planning on staying out that long. He texted me a couple times, just wanting me to come home, you know? But I ignored him. He kept telling me that it was dangerous and that I would get hurt, but I insisted that I wasn’t a little kid anymore and if he really cared he would come and find me.

“He… He was murdered. He came to find me just like I wanted him to, and this guy shot him – just pulled out his gun and killed him. If I hadn’t run away like that, it never would have happened.”

Tony was startled. He knew that Peter’s uncle had died, but he didn’t know it had happened like this. Crap. What could he do? What could he say? How could he fix this?

He found himself wishing that Pepper were there. She would know what to do. She always knew what to do. But he was the only person Peter had right now, so he would have to do his best.

“Kid, that wasn’t your fault,” he said, “You couldn’t have known it would happen. It was out of your control.”

Peter went silent, choosing his next words carefully. “I think I’m scared history is going to repeat itself,” he said. “I’m scared I’m going to lose you too.”

Tony couldn’t resist the urge to hold Peter tight. “I can’t promise nothing bad will happen to me and I know the universe can be cruel, but I plan to be around for a long time. I’m going to do my best to be here for you, from now until you no longer need me.”

Somehow, being this kid’s mentor turned him into Shakespeare. If only his ninth grade English teacher could see him now.

Peter buried his head into Tony’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to stay over?” offered Tony. “I could text May and ask her to bring over some pajamas and some clean clothes for tomorrow. It could be like a sleepover.”

God, he sounds pathetic. What kind of kid would want to have a sleepover with a grown ass man, much less him? He was being ridiculous. This was a stupid idea anyway. Peter would never-

“Can Ned and MJ come?”

Tony smiled. “As long as it’s okay with their parents.”

Ned and MJ arrived fifteen minutes later, and changed into their pajamas in the bathroom. Everyone settled down on the couch and Peter flicked through some channels until he found reruns of some shitty sci-fi show from the nineties. In a stroke of genius (those only seemed to be getting more and more frequent these days), Tony decided to order pizza.

They ended up watching the show into the early hours of the morning. Peter had fallen asleep on Tony’s shoulder and Tony didn’t have the heart to move him, much to Ned and MJ’s amusement. Because of this, they had both ended up sleeping on the couch. MJ and Ned woke up of their own accord, and got themselves ready for school. Once the sun peeked over the horizon, Tony knew he’d have to wake Peter or he would be late.

He gave him a little nudge and Peter stirred. “Uncle Ben?” he mumbled. “What time is it?”

“It’s not Ben,” replied Tony. “It’s me. And its seven thirty. You’ve got to get ready for school.”

Peter groaned and threw himself back down onto the sofa. “But it’s so early and I’m so tired.”

“You were the one who insisted we all stay up for the finale,” retorted Tony. Peter rolled his eyes, but smirked nevertheless. “Come on, rise and shine,” said Tony.

“Come on!” shouted MJ from the other room. “Get up already or we’ll be late.”

Peter grumbled every step of the way, but did eventually comply. Right before he left, Peter turned to him and said meekly, “I’ll see you after school Uncle Tony.” He left with his friends just shy of eight o’clock, with barely enough time to catch the bus to school, leaving Tony to mull over his words.

Tony never thought he’d be an uncle, biological or otherwise.

#mcu #peter parker #tony stark #irondad #angst #uncle ben's still dead #but he died differently because reasons #peter parker & tony stark #familial #inkwell writes

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adarlingwrites · 4 years

Text

Absolution

Summary:

noun: formal release from guilt, obligation, or punishment

The Capital Wasteland lauded the Lone Wanderer as a hero, a Messiah, a savior who's willing to give her life for the Good Fight. Beyond the legends, the propaganda, and the mythification that surrounded her legacy, there is only one person who knew her bare soul. She gave him his absolution, and now he will fight for hers.

VIII

September 23, 2277.

It’s been a few days since my recall. Percy told me to rest and we’ll leave for Rivet City in two days. Something about looking for a scientist called Madison Li. Percy said she might know where her father is.

On the wall opposite the couch hangs a photograph of the young mistress and her father. Percy said his name is James. Yesterday, she caught me looking at it and told me she was in a rush to leave the vault but she could never leave the photograph behind. He’s the splitting image of the mistress. Almost.

The mistress and I had supper in silence, a slab of brahmin steak the mistress seared herself, with Instamash on the side. The dog is currently curled up in my lap while I sit on the couch. I can’t remember sitting something on something relatively comfortable and relaxing for once. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I relaxed and let my guard down before this Vault girl walked into my life.

It’s… difficult acclimating to my new employer’s lifestyle. I have no complaints for the free food and board that comes with it, but having this much time to myself still feels strange. I’m afraid spending most of my waking hours standing in the corner in the Ninth Circle has something to do with it.

Percy saunters over and calls my attention, a book in hand. “Hey. I thought you might like this book, Charon,” she tells me, handing it over. The cover is faded and the paper is yellowed, but it’s intact. There’s a dog- a wolf?- on the cover, and its coat pattern looks similar to Dogmeat’s. I found it interesting, but to be truthful…

“Thank you, miss. Unfortunately, I cannot comprehend this book.”

“What do you mean? This book is in English so...”

I hesitated on whether I should tell her or not. Wastelanders never knew how to read or write, but I was born before the bombs fell. Granted, the circumstances robbed me of the opportunity to learn, but shame grows at the pit of my belly. I felt pretty damn stupid.

“I barely remember how to read, miss.”

“Oh. That’s fine, I can read to you and teach-” Percy stops mid sentence and has a look of surprise on her face. “-wait, how do you know the contents of your contract then?”

The itch in my brain returns, but I am too exhausted to entertain it. The nightmare took a toll on me. “It was taught to me. Please, don’t ask.”

My mistress nods, taking the book from my hand. “Okay. Do you want me to read to you?”

“If the miss wishes to,” I tell her, but she shakes her head.

“I’m asking if you want to, big guy,” said my mistress, a smile on her face.

It wasn’t unkind.

It’s warm, like the ones she gave me when she used to come by in the Ninth Circle. When did an employer care for what I want? I’m still learning to trust this girl, but how can I say no to a good thing?

“Yes.”

Percy’s smile turns into a grin, her too white teeth gleaming. I think I’ll never be used to how healthy the mistress looks compared to the other denizens of the wasteland. She scoots closer, the dog nestled between us, and opens the book.

“Chapter one, ‘The Trail of the Meat’,” she starts. “Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway…”

??? ??, ????

I feel the warmth of another person beneath me. A whisper tickles what’s left of my ear, voice familiar.

“Please.”

It’s Percy’s.

There’s desperation in her voice, and I get on my hands and knees to look at her. Face flushed and glasses fogging, she looks me in the eye, with an expression similar to the ones I see on the women in the skin mag she found in the scrapyard. She’s dressed in that stupid blue jumpsuit, and I grab the zipper and undo it, dragging slowly. Underneath, she wears her shirt and boyshorts, the fabric sticking to her sweat-drenched body.

Head thrown back, her pale throat is exposed. I lean in to swipe at a bead of sweat with my tongue, my ruined mouth dragging against the skin on her neck. The mistress’ skin is as soft as I imagined. My hands scrambled for purchase, squeezing her breasts, rough fingers slipping beneath her shirt, pinching her hard nipples. I latch on to one, and she sighs softly, small hands grasping what’s left of my hair.

“Please.”

I stop, on my hands and knees once more, and my hands move lower, grasping her shorts and peeling it from her hips, ruined fingers touching her in places I have no right to. She leans in and kisses my ruined cheek, before slipping her tongue in my mouth.

“Charon, please,” she begs, breaking the kiss and bucking her hips against me.

I kneel between her legs, ready to service my mistress.

“Charon…”

I want her to never stop saying my name.

September 24, 2277.

I jerk awake, an uncomfortable pressure between my legs, and I look down, cursing myself. I’m too fucking old for wet dreams. Suddenly having a nightmare seems more preferable. Of all the dreams I can have, why that, and why her?

I hear a gentle knock and Percy’s voice from outside the door.

Dammit.

“Charon?” she calls again. I scramble to find my pants, do my best to conceal the hard-on I have, and hope she doesn’t notice it.

I open the door, and Percy stands there, I can no longer stop myself from looking at her. Droplets of water are dripping from her hair, down her neck, and to her sleeveless white undershirt. She wears her vault suit with its sleeves tied around her waist. The thin, wet fabric of her undershirt reminded me of the dream I had and I felt myself twitch at the sight of her.

“Miss. What do you need?”

“Lunch is ready,” she tells me, and I nod. She turns around and descends down the stairs, and I follow her, eyes trailing down her spine, to the curve of her ass, to her legs. The guilt settles in and I look away, even if she doesn’t know where I’m looking. It felt dirty, ogling the kid who’s offering me a roof over my head.

We eat our meal in peace like before, and Dogmeat lies on my lap while I sit on the couch. After fifteen fucking years of standing in that corner, I will take every opportunity I can to sit. I pet the dog’s head until he falls asleep, the rise and fall of his breaths slowing down. The mistress sits on the other side of the couch, sipping a Nuka, legs raised to the backrest.

“Looks like the two of you had taken a liking to each other,” said Percy, that smile on her face again. I felt the corner of my mouth tug upward, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t feel the need to.

“What about me, Charon? Do you... like me?”

My head whips to my mistress’ direction, and she must’ve seen the look on my face for her to let out an awkward laugh. “Seeing how you didn’t hesitate to put down Ahzrukhal, I hope I’m earning your trust and not doing anything to earn that treatment,” the mistress explains.

When Percy clarified what she meant by the question, I felt somewhat relieved. I’m not blind nor numb; she is attractive, even when I’m more used to the sight of ghoulettes. My body’s reaction to her says it all. I thought she was on to me, and I was terrified for a moment. Not a lot of things terrify me.

I have no reason to let her know about that, and I hope the mistress never asks. This new employer is treating me so well, I’m afraid her finding out about the physical attraction I felt for her will result in the sale of my contract.

“Yes, I do like you, miss. Your treatment of other people and I is much more preferable than Ahzrukhal’s,” I tell her, and she gives me a sigh of relief.

“Great! Great, ahem- that’s good to hear. Very reassuring,” she mumbles, a nervous crack in her voice.

“Miss, is there something bothering you?” I ask her.

“Oh, me? I- I guess I’m just a little worried,” Percy stutters, averting her eyes from me. “I mean, you are the first person I’ve travelled with since I got out of the vault. I have friends here in Megaton, sure, but never someone who’d watch my back while I look for Dad. Then you came along. I’m still learning to trust you, and I hope you’ll trust in me too.”

“Your worry is not necessary, miss. The contract entitles you my absolute loyalty.”

“Loyalty is different from trust, Charon,” said Percy. “It’s the difference between you unflinchingly following Ahzrukhal’s orders to fuck someone up, and letting yourself be vulnerable to me so I can patch you up, if that makes any sense.”

I raise a brow, curious. “Please explain further.”

Percy gets off the couch and paces around. “Okay. Remember how you stood down when I asked you to, when Barrows and the others pointed their guns at us?” she asks.

I nod at her, and she sits back down. “I’ve been reading your contract. It says that you were to remove all immediate threats to my safety, and yet, you listened to me and let me talk them down.”

“I merely listened to your orders, miss.”

“But it says on your contract that you can refuse to entertain orders or requests that can cause harm to your employer or to yourself, correct?” Percy asks again, to which I nod. “Well, you must have trusted my judgment enough to entertain my request to stand down even when there’s an immediate threat to both of us.”

I am getting impatient trying to find the meaning behind my mistress’ words. “Miss, where are you going with this conversation?”

“Straight to the point, aren’t you? I wish I can talk like that,” Percy mumbles, an embarrassed look on her face while she palms at the back of her neck.

“Charon, I want you to trust my decisions not just because I am your employer, but because you think it’s sound,” Percy tells me. “At the same time, if you think something I do will compromise us, I want you to speak up.”

Pondering on her words, I finally look her in the eye. “So, you want me to question you if you think that your decisions would endanger us?”

“Yes, precisely that. I told you that you’re open to make suggestions and ask questions, right? I meant that I trust your input and opinions. So, if you have tactical advice, observations, or comments, you’re free to make them,” Percy replies.

“I understand now, miss. However, I don’t see how my input is of any value.”

“Hmm, I’m just a nineteen year-old girl who got lucky that the wasteland didn’t kill me the first month I spent outside the vault,” Percy replies. Hearing that she’s older than eighteen made me breathe more freely for some damn reason, but it also reminded me of her youth and how old I am in comparison. My mind pulls me back to my darker thoughts about her, and I felt disgust for myself.

“Sure, I know how to set broken bones, sneak around, and hack computers, but you? You’ve got more combat and survival experience than me. Hell, I would’ve been blown to bits if you didn’t tackle me when that Super Mutant threw the grenade. There was probably an oversight in my tactics for you to get hurt like that,” Percy continues. She looks… guilty.

“You’ve been around for more than 200 years. Surely there’s something in your wisdom that will help us,” she adds, a sheepish smile on her face.

“Charming. Very well, miss. I shall consider it as a standing order, and endeavor to provide my insight when necessary.”

“Thank you. I’m glad we had this conversation, Charon,” my mistress replies.

The afternoon went by slowly. While I spent my afternoon servicing my shotgun, Percy tinkers with a bunch of fission batteries. Soon, it was nightfall, and my mistress took me to the Brass Lantern for dinner, too tired to cook after an afternoon of work.

On my last bite of noodles, Percy turns to me. “Hey Charon, wanna grab something to drink?”

“There is nothing in the contract that prohibits me from accepting food and drink from my employer. So, yes.”

“Well then. Off to Gob’s saloon we go.”

I follow her through the rickety metal scaffolding that leads to the establishment, and the dog follows behind me. As soon as she breezes through the door, a woman with short red hair and a ghoul behind the bar counter stop whatever they’re doing.

“Well hello, Miss Dangerous,” the woman greets, smirking. Percy walks over to give her a hug. “Nice to see you, Nova. Hey Gob,” Percy greets, turning to the ghoul.

“Hey kid. I heard you were back in town, it’s good to see you in here again. We’re having a slow night,” Gob rasps, cleaning the bar top with a rag.

“I made new friends,” Percy tells them, and gestures to me and the dog. “Gob and Nova, meet Charon and Dogmeat.”

There’s a flash of recognition in Gob’s face, and his shoulders droops, cowering. “Holy shit. Charon?”

“Oh right! You’re from Underworld too,” Percy comments, taking a seat near the radio. “You two are familiar with each other, Charon?”

“I cannot remember, miss,” I tell her, brain itching. I was thinking long and hard when the other ghoul speaks up.

“I-I uh, remember when I told you that Moriarty bought me from slavers fifteen years ago? Charon was with them.”

Fuck. I remember now. My mistress turns to me with an expression that I can only describe as horror.

“You were a slaver?”

The venom in my mistress' voice terrifies me, and I am not easily terrified.

“They held my contract, miss. Then, they sold it to Ahzrukhal.”

Percy’s face softens. The tension from her shoulders melt. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Then, the soft look on her face gets replaced with a worried one. “My God, they used you to capture slaves?”

“...yes.”

Tense silence.

“Hey, I’m sorry for bringing it up. Didn’t mean to dredge up the past,” Gob finally breaks it, fetching scotch from the liquor shelf behind him. “The regular, kid?”

“Yeah,” Percy replies, exhaling shakily. “Well, at least I’m holding his contract now. He won’t have to do that shit anymore.”

The corner of my mouth tugs upwards again and I hope she didn’t see it.

“Can I get you anything?” Gob asks me.

“Beer.”

I settle beside Percy, who’s already downing her shot of scotch. Gob hands me my beer and I take a swig.

Nova sits beside my mistress. “C’mon, let’s have some fun.”

#lone wanderer #female lone wanderer #charon #charon fallout #fallout charon #oc: percy zhou #fanfic: absolution #series: through river acheron #fallout 3 #fallout #fallout 3 fanfic #fallout fanfic #writers on tumblr #tw: past slavery #cw: sex mention

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laurelsofhighever · 5 years

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Chapters: 46/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins Chapter Rating: Mature Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU, Romance, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Demisexuality Chapter Summary: Alistair and Rosslyn greet a new dawn, but there are still obstacles waiting for them. THIS CHAPTER HAS ART, CHAPS

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Twenty-ninth day of Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon

The morning light was gentle against Alistair’s eyelids. He became aware of it at the same time as the warmth that cocooned his body from the chill mountain air, and from that hazy, floating sensation came an awareness of his limbs still heavy with sleep, a draught caught in the small of his back where the blanket had shifted in the night, and the awkward, tingling numbness of pins and needles in his left hand. The canvas above his head shivered in the faint breeze and scattered drips where the rain had collected in the night. A guard ambled past. Armour clinked and boots squelched, but the sound faded, and the brief flare of his consciousness dulled with it.

A breath fanned against his arm.

Wakefulness shocked through him at the foreign sensation, but as his eyes snapped open his memory of the previous night returned, and his half-conscious panic slid away in the face of Rosslyn’s slumbering form, real, safe, and still fast asleep with her head pillowed on his wrist. She lay facing him with her hands tucked against her chest, her hair a black tangle loose of the braid she had worn to bed, her lips parted and brows unknotted of the usual cares that burdened her during her waking hours. At some point in the night, the covers on her side of the narrow pallet had slipped down to her waist and exposed her to the shiver of the cold air. Careful not to disturb her, he leaned over and eased the blanket back up to her shoulders. She didn’t stir. After enduring so much the day before, she deserved as much rest as he could give her. His arm might fall off from lack of circulation in the meantime, and now that he was awake and aware of what he was doing he didn’t know if it would be appropriate to rest his free hand at her waist again, but those were things he could live with.

He marvelled at her, fascinated by every detail. There were so many mornings when he had roused from sleep in the guts of Bhelen’s palace, heavy with the knowledge that she had forgotten him, that there would be no new letter tucked inside his pocket to gird against the deshyrs’ daily politics. Sometimes he dozed, and wished for gentle hands on his skin, running through his hair, for murmurs of greeting and soft presses of lips danced across his face as her strong body moulded to his. Sometimes, he gave in to the fantasy and rolled out of bed afterwards hollow and brittle as a winter reed, and his loneliness would stalk after him for hours, chastising him for continuing to hope for something so far out of reach.

But she was here. She had asked him to stay, sought comfort and security from his embrace in a show of trust that might have burst his heart if it weren’t already so stricken by the relief that she was alive, that she still cared, that all of Eamon’s meddling had come to nothing after all. His gaze fell to her shoulder, where the strap of her nightshirt had snagged on her bicep and fallen down her arm and half-revealed a patch of skin that even against her pale complexion stood out white as bone. As he brushed her hair aside, intrigued, he realised it was the scar from the crossbow wound she had suffered on the night they met, a jagged burst of tissue smooth as silk under his fingers, depressed into her flesh like the echo of a star.

An incoherent mumble pulled him from the memory, and he smiled as she wrinkled her nose against the intrusion of the day.

“Good morning,” he murmured, pushing her hair back so it wouldn’t catch on her mouth.

She grunted and stretched, but kept her eyes squeezed shut. “‘S too early…”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he offered, subtly trying to work blood back into his arm now that she had lifted her head.

An eye cracked open. “Watching people sleep again?” she grumbled. “That’s a bad habit.”

He remembered the jibe. He remembered everything about that morning. “If something happens twice it’s a coincidence, not a habit,” he pointed out. “Although if…” His courage failed him. Next time, he almost said, as if he had any right to expect such a thing, as if he could be presumptive enough to think one night of reassurance could be carried forward.

“Coincidence…” She hummed, smirking as if she didn’t believe him. Her eyes had closed, drifting beneath their lids.

He took a chance, and reached for her hand. “My lady will have to forgive me.”

“Mmmm?”

“Mmmm. I was…” Wynne would have said enraptured. He brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “I’ve never seen you so peaceful.”

A smile blossomed at that, one side hidden where her face was still smushed into the pillow, but he caught it. When her eyes blinked open again, dry and scratchy and dark in the low light, she regarded him with such softness he felt it like a shield bash from a qunari, and anything clever he might have said vanished clean from his thoughts. He kept still as she shifted closer, held his breath as the hand in his turned and traced a line along his jaw.

“Thank you – for staying.”

“I…” What could he say that wouldn’t sound foolish, or opportunistic, or just downright lecherous?

But her face fell; her gaze drifted away from him and for a moment he worried his awkwardness had spilled out and ruined everything, but she was leaning closer still, tucking herself within reach of his arms, and his heart swelled with gratitude to be allowed such intimacy.

“And thank you for last night as well,” she murmured into his shoulder, so quietly he almost missed it. “You didn’t have to help with Cuno.”

He stroked her back. “I didn’t? So Brantis was lying to me then – he told me it was always a prince’s duty to help beautiful women in distress.”

“Ha.”

“He’s going to be alright, you know,” he offered, though the patterns she was sketching against his chest were making it difficult to concentrate. “The horsemaster said he was treated in time to make a full recovery.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him,” she confessed. “He’s all I have left.”

“I –” He frowned. “You have me.”

Her fingers stilled on his collarbone. A pair of soldiers tramped past the pavilion, so close their conversation tumbled through the thin canvas, their shadows a long intrusion on the wall and on Alistair’s forgetfulness that they weren’t the only two people in the world. Slowly, her head lifted to look at him, and he cursed the new line of tension in her shoulders, the petulance that put it there.

“That sounded –” He swallowed, loosened his hold so she could push him away if she wanted. “I know it isn’t the same thing, I’m sorry, I just –”

He saw the kiss coming, in the way she tilted her jaw, how she pulled him down to meet her, and to his relief his body responded before his mind had time to involve itself. He opened to the taste of her instinctively, to the scent of sweetgrass wrapping around him like a cloak. It was awkward, with the two of them lying side by side – his nose got in the way, their bodies trapped her hand between them – so he pushed up onto his elbow for a better angle, relief and joy and desire making his fingers shake as they trailed up the bare skin of her arm. She cradled his face as she eased onto her back, holding him close, and the slant of lips gave way to tongues and a too-enthusiastic clack of teeth. She arched into him. Her hair ran like silk through his fingers. And through it all his lungs forgot to give him breath, his heart beat in his ears, his blood sang with the near terror of knowing he had come so close to losing such sensation forever.

“I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. The words slipped easily from his mind, like they had so many times in his dreams, and only when she stilled and pushed against his shoulders did he realise he had spoken out loud.

He panicked.

“I didn’t mean that!”

Confusion tightened at the corners of Rosslyn’s eyes.

“I mean, I did,” he tried, and winced at how insincere he sounded. “The words – I meant the words, only…” With a sigh, he rolled over onto his back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t going to tell you.”

She sat up. “You are aware that sounds worse?”

“Yup. Ugh, Maker’s breath… Have I mentioned that when I’m around you I feel like my head’s going to explode?” He grimaced and smacked his hand against his forehead. “In a good way! In the ‘I can’t stop thinking about you’ kind of way that apparently makes it extra easy to shove my whole foot in my mouth. I definitely imagined this going differently.”

A long, weighted silence followed.

“Did you mean it?” she asked quietly, finally, facing away from him as she twisted the blanket between her fingers.

“What, that I… that I love you?” He reached for her and felt the swell of her ribcage as she hauled in a deep, steadying breath. “How could I not?” The pallet creaked beneath him as he rose next to her to brush a kiss against the tip of her shoulder. “But… You went through so much yesterday, dealing with everything, I thought it would be better to wait, and not dump that on you, too.”

He held his breath as he waited, willing the words to be right, an eternity in which it seemed even his heart stopped beating. And then she turned to him with a smile that shone like a light on a dark road, and one of her hands slid into his, the other a faint brush against his chin, and he found he could breathe again.

“Alistair…”

His name, whispered through lips swollen with his kisses… He leaned in, torn between the need to let her say whatever was clearly on the tip of her tongue, and the compulsion to touch, to seal up that last little bit of space and banish any lingering doubts. He had missed kissing her so much.

Before she could say anything, however, a familiar voice interrupted the crisp quiet, low but insistent, dousing the giddy flutter of his stomach in a flare of rage. His fingers tightened around Rosslyn’s. Every instinct screamed for him to see off the intrusion, to shield her from the man who for months had made a misery of both their lives.

“I’m afraid Her Ladyship is indisposed,” the guard said, his voice muffled by the canvas. “It is still rather early, my lord.”

Eamon’s reply came stiffly. “There are important matters I must discuss with her as soon as possible.”

Alistair nearly snorted. Rosslyn tugged on his hand, both a silent reassurance and a reminder not to grip too hard.

“She is not to be disturbed,” the guard insisted.

“And why is a royal guard stationed here and not outside the royal pavilion?”

“Uh…” The guard cleared his throat. “Those are my orders – they come from Prince Alistair himself, my lord.”

There was a pause at that. Through the thin wall Eamon’s shadow shifted its weight. “And where exactly is His Highness?”

“He… uh. I mean, that is to say, I don’t know?”

Rosslyn chuckled, and only smiled wider when Alistair turned an incredulous frown her way. “Your man is doing a wonderful impression of subtlety,” she teased.

“You do realise why he’s here, don’t you?” he asked. “He’s probably come to sell you some lie, to try and keep us apart –”

“Do you think it’ll work?”

“I –”

Her thumb brushed over his lower lip, distracting.

“That’s not the point.”

“I know.” Her gaze flickered down to his mouth, her cheeks blooming with the curve of her smile. “But here we are, after everything…”

All he could do was shake his head, disbelief and wonder crowding out the space in his chest where his lungs were supposed to be. How was it possible for her to both calm and excite him all at once? She gazed at him with such confidence, her grey eyes fierce, mouth set, and her whole body radiating warmth as she leant towards him, inviting in a way that made the perverse corner of his mind very grateful for Marjolane’s attempted assassination. He kept it to himself.

“Can we just stay here today?” he asked instead, nudging closer, with only the briefest dirty look in Eamon’s direction as he tucked her hair behind her ear.

She smirked, accepting the kiss. “And what about all your princely duties? And the army waiting on us?”

“I’m sure they won’t mind a day off.” He teased her, flicked his tongue against her lips and then retreated, smiling when she followed.

“I shouldn’t be encouraging this.” Her fingers tangled in his collar. “There’s too much to do.”

“More important than kissing me?”

“Wouldn’t you get bored if we just did that all day?”

“I’m sure we could entertain ourselves somehow.” The suggestive tone was meant as a jest, but something froze in Rosslyn’s expression.

“It’s probably not fair to keep Lloyd out there facing down the dragon by himself,” she pointed out as she pulled away. A small frown marred her features as she swung her legs over the side of the bed to reach for her dressing robe, confusion warring with resignation and something else that he didn’t understand. Cursing himself, he followed, careful not to get too close or to touch her.

“Did I… do something wrong?” he asked.

She huffed and shut her eyes. “It’s not you. But… we have our duties, and it would be a bad idea to ignore them.” She offered a weak smile. “No matter how tempting it sounds.”

There was still a mote of hesitation in her expression, in the way she lowered her gaze to unstick her hair from where it was caught beneath the collar of her robe, but she was still smiling at him as she laid it over her shoulder, proud and lovely in the morning light.

She was also in night clothes. Her toes peeked out from the bottom of the too-large trousers he had borrowed for her from the quartermaster, and though the robe now hid it, her shoulders were all but bare, with only the thin fabric of an undershirt between her skin and the draughts seeping in under the edges of the canvas.

“You’re right, of course,” he admitted, hurriedly averting his eyes. He cleared his throat. “I should, um…”

Eamon was still arguing with Lloyd outside.

“Boots! That’s what I’m after.” He cast around for them, and for the jerkin he had discarded on the back of her desk chair, acutely aware of her moving around the end of the bed – the bed they had slept in together – and the moment’s pause before she sank into the space beside him. His valet would roll his eyes at the clumsiness of his laces later, but his fingers wouldn’t work, because when he glanced at Rosslyn out of the corner of his eye, he found her watching him, wistful and soft, so that the thought of leaving hit him like a kick to the gut.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked, giving the last knot up as a bad job.

She bit her lips together to control her grin. “You may.”

This time, he took care not to push too far, only meeting her in a chaste press of lips that nevertheless lingered, and even when the kiss ended he didn’t pull away. Her hand laced with his as she leaned in and let her forehead fall against his.

“We should talk later,” she murmured. “Properly.”

“I’d like that.” He brought her hand to his lips, and sighed. “I should probably go.”

“Mmm. Alistair?”

“Is something wrong?” he asked, alarmed by the hesitation in her voice.

Smiling, she shook her head. “No, it’s…” She pulled back, searched his face. “I love you.”

“You – What?” The inflection had been different when he said it, though he couldn’t work out how, or why it worried him. And now her smile was shifting into a smirk, and one eyebrow had risen, waiting patiently for him to process his panic. “You did say that, didn’t you?”

“I may even have meant it,” she teased.

“Am I going to live that down?”

“You should go. I’m rather sure you have things to do.”

“Ohhhhh no, not until –” A horrible thought occurred to him. “You didn’t just say it because I said it, did you? Because I wasn’t expecting – I mean, you shouldn’t feel like you have to, if you’re not sure, or –”

“I love you,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. The grip on his hand tightened almost to the point of pain. “I have since – before I wanted to admit it, really. I… I needed you to know.”

Again that wistfulness crept into her voice, the echo of some heavy preoccupation that would swallow her if it weren’t chased away. He stroked his thumb across the back of her hand.

“Well now I don’t want to leave at all.”

“Go,” she nudged, with a roll of her eyes. “I have an arl to deal with.”

“And clothes to put on,” he teased.

“And letters to read.”

“Oh, right. Yes.” He had forgotten about those.

For a moment, neither of them moved, content with the connection between their hands and the way their knees touched, unwilling to let go of the peace that had been missing for so long. And yet, the sooner he left, the sooner he could see her again. And in the meantime, Eamon might rip open the door and find them. Yes, he should leave.

“Love you,” he whispered, with a final, brief kiss that left her giggling.

Squeezing her fingers for one last bit of reassurance, he rose and dragged himself away, only just avoiding a collision with one of the tent poles. She was already reaching for the collection of letters discarded on her desk as he made it to the entrance, but watched as he shook himself out of his distraction, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward to meet Eamon, as if walking out of someone else’s pavilion so early in the morning weren’t an entirely scandalous act.

When he was gone, taking the balm of his smile with him, Rosslyn sighed and shivered against the doubt that lurked in her chest like a wolf at the edge of a winter hold. She could still taste her confession on her lips, offered as a gift, and because despite the warmth of Alistair’s hands, his brightness, the flutter of her thoughts when she woke and found him so close, she had no other way to keep her fear at bay. Having given him up to duty, it was easy to live with her shortcomings – she had stepped back from the precipice, from the conflict of desire – but now, faced with him again, in the joy of his touches, she had to contend again with Oriana’s voice in her memory, telling her such intimacy was only ever a prelude to something more. That it was expected.

Life in court had taught her how to spot partiality; Alistair did want her, she wasn’t fool enough to think otherwise, but when the time came as it must, and she could promise nothing more than kisses, would he be satisfied? He had said he loved her. That he had missed her. When she had curled into his side the night before, with the low hum of his voice in her ears and his fingers brushing the length of her arm, contentment had sunk into the deepest part of her bones. She never wanted to be anywhere else. Half-asleep, she had wanted… had toyed with the idea of sliding her hand under the hem of his shirt, scraping her nails over his hip, tracing the muscles she had so admired in the practice ring at Lothering as if she had a right to the feel of his skin under her fingers. In truth, such boldness terrified her.

With a sigh, she shook off the thought and pushed forward, dressing mechanically in work clothes without calling for her maid. Her hair would do in a basic braid for now, and while she rummaged in her strongbox for a tie, she called for Lloyd to ask if Arl Eamon was still waiting for her.

“He is, Ma’am,” came the reply through the wall. “What should I tell him?”

Her fingertips brushed cold metal. Alistair’s amulet lay half hidden under a spare scrap of velvet, tucked in the corner where she had thrown it in her fit of despondency. She would have to tell him; that way there would be no illusions, no drawn-out false hopes for the future, even if it meant all she would have to hold onto afterwards were a few sheets of paper sealed with a Rose in burgundy wax.

“Tell him he can come in.”

She shut the box and turned.

“Your Ladyship,” Eamon started, even before he fully stepped inside, or bowed.

“My lord,” she replied. “You seem out of sorts.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I am well, Your Ladyship, though somewhat concerned by Prince Alistair’s emergence from this pavilion at such an early hour. I understand that you were shaken by events last night, but that does not mean you can forget your circumstances, or the position you hold, and taking it upon yourself to toy with His Highness’ reputation –”

“His reputation?” she repeated. “Forgive me, my lord, for speaking bluntly, but I fail to see how matters between His Highness and myself are any of your business.”

“Matters concerning the crown become my business, Your Ladyship,” the arl replied loftily. “Especially as I was appointed Prince Alistair’s guardian by King Maric himself.”

She gave him her most cutting smile. “Aside from the fact His Highness is now in his majority, your record during his childhood includes making him sleep in the stables and trying to cart him off to the templars at the soonest possible convenience, so I wouldn’t count it as a particularly solid defence. Did you think I didn’t know?” she asked, when he blanched. “Perhaps you were worried Alistair would find time to give me these?” The letters, incriminating for their absence, waved in her hand, and she watched with catlike satisfaction as the little colour remaining in the arl’s face drained away.

“Your Ladyship, if I may –”

“You may not,” she snapped. “What news do you have for me? There must be a reason you came here so early.”

His brows drew down over his eyes, but his tone retained the proper deference as he relayed the report from the scouts sent to investigate Marjolane’s camp.

“There was a saddled horse with some basic supplies, a map with a rendezvous marker, and this.” He handed her a letter with a blank, broken seal. She scanned the lines, the orders for her own kidnapping, promises of reward for her deliverance to the arranged meeting point, and at the end, though there was no signature, a stamped Chantry crest that she had seen many times before.

“Mother Berit.” She cursed. “Have you informed the king?”

“I sent our last raven not half an hour ago.”

“She was speaking with Baudrillard last time I saw her,” she recalled. “I wonder which one of them came up with the idea.” Easing out a breath, she set the paper down on the desk, resisting the urge to march outside and cast it into the first fire she saw. After all, it would be foolish to accuse a revered mother of conspiracy without evidence to back up the claim.

“Sweep the camp,” she ordered. “I want to know how she got past the guards and I want a plan for how the watch can be tightened to ensure it doesn’t happen again.” Having failed once, Baudrillard would be unlikely to try again, but they were still too close to the border and now she had Alistair with her, presenting an even bigger prize for anyone who might hope to harm Ferelden and steal some influence for themselves.

“What about our rendezvous with His Majesty?” Eamon checked.

She shook her head. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to set out. Now that Rillside has capitulated, he can spend a little time making peace across the Bannorn.”

“As you wish. Will there be anything else?” he asked, with another nervous glance at Alistair’s letters.

“No, my lord,” she replied, turning away to draw the first of the quartermaster’s reports towards her. “I have no need of you. But if you could inform the soldiers not involved in the camp search that they should inventory and drill in preparation for the march tomorrow, it would save me ordering my captains to do it. Have them pack up all non-essentials.”

Beneath the grey beard, the old man’s jaw clenched, but he kept his temper against the menial assignment. “As you wish, Your Ladyship.”

She returned his bow with a courteous nod and watched him leave, already feeling the tension bleed from her limbs. Taunting someone as well-connected and politically savvy as Eamon was not something to be done lightly, but her anger allowed nothing less. Let him lash out and weave his own story of her conduct for Cailan; she had the letters, and she had Alistair, and though the situation would need careful handling, she would make him pay for trying to separate them.

The thought brought her full circle, back to Alistair’s words, the feel of his hands on her skin. Even after a night’s sleep and the confirmation of her own eyes in daylight, her mind refused to take in the magnitude of the change from the world the day before. He loved her. He had been writing to her all along. He had slept beside her and woken her up with kisses. He loved her. In a few short hours, all the promises contained in such wonder might come crashing down, but for now, no matter how hard she tried to school her thoughts, they turned back to the pleasant squirm in her chest and the grin she hid behind her hands.

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Art by @ambellinaleander

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #da:o #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #alistair x cousland #cousland #the falcon and the rose #ambellinaleander #long post

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puttingfingerstokeys · 5 years

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Dragon-borne Victory

Nanowrimo 2019 day 7 and 8 (I was on a roll) Featuring Ulfric Stormcloak, and a couple of @apexworthy‘s OCs, Narada and Azriel High fantasy Skyrim, Stormcloak victory in Solitude, violence, destruction, martyrdom Finished and unedited

Solitude was in flames, so hot in places that the very stone had begun to crack and falter. The foundations were ancient, however, and had not given way to the Ghost Sea in millennia. Today would not be the day they fell.

Ulfric strode down the main street, surrounded on either side by a retinue of guards led by Galmar Stone-fist, shouting orders and tossing fleeing citizens aside. The jarl of Windhelm advised a bit more decorum which Galmar immediately shrugged off and ignored.

“We are not conquerors,” Ulfric reminded his friend, “but liberators. The tyranny of the Empire ends today; we will crumble its foundations, but first we must appeal to Elisif’s heritage and her pride as a nord.”

“Why appeal to a wench who just picked her husband’s crown up off the floor and sat it upon her own head?” Galmar spat, pulling a face and gesturing to one of their archers to keep an eye on the overhang up ahead.

“She is still a jarl by right,” Ulfric growled, “if not a queen. We will afford her as much respect as is necessary.”

Galmar scoffed at this, too, but said nothing, titing his gaze upward. As if on cue, two massive shapes flew over, beating wicked, leathery wings upon the air, one set red and black, the other black and white, obscured almost entirely through the smoke of the burning city. Galmar marveled at the spectacle of the two dragons, but had little time to allow his jaw to hang open.

“The crown,” Ulfric added after a pensive moment, “wasn’t placed on her head, but on that of Falk Firebeard. I want him found… alive, Galmar.”

Galmar understood and nodded sharply, relaying orders. Ulfric continued onward, sword in hand. His blade was covered in blood. He had been at the front, fighting their way into Solitude, a road made much easier by the fact that he had touched down upon the back of a great dragon. He owed Varstaag much and was glad he had trusted the strange mage; his leap of faith had rewarded him tenfold, in its way.

All the same, the burning of the once beautiful city brought Ulfric Stormcloak no joy. His lips were set in a grim scar across his soot-stained, lacerated face. The guards of the town had fought hard, some of the citizens harder, to keep the Stormcloaks out. And why shouldn’t they? Would we not do the same at the Palace of Kings?

There were, he had noted, far fewer citizenry taking up arms than there would have been in Windhelm, however. That Torygg had been a passive high king was a known fact amongst the people of Skyrim. That his own citizens had not been terribly fond of this was somewhat lesser known, but to be expected. The wealthy kept him in power because his compliance with the Titus Mede and his regime filled their purses, no reason other than that.

Ulfric could not begrudge them their motivations. In a harsh land like Skyrim, wealth was hard to come by and when it was acquired, seldom was it released. Making a living so far north, in such an untenable climate was nearly impossible. Trade with other lands was one of the only ways to thrive in this place. He understood the economic implications of his rebellion as well. He assumed that their trade with any Empire-affiliated nation would be heavily taxed, or cut off entirely, but he knew they had a potential ally in Hammerfell.

Others would have to be forged and re-forged, the most difficult of these being the ancient Ebonheart pact. Ulfric had chosen to open his gates to displaced dunmer, but the argonian people were still very much outsiders. He had judged the favor of Morrowind more important than that of Black Marsh, a costly decision, but it was a choice of refugees versus free people, unhindered by the violent explosion of half their home. The decision had been costly, yes, but clear.

As much as many dunmer disliked his rule in Windhelm, he knew most of them also grudgingly respected his decision to give the so-called Gray Quarter, previously a nearly untenable slum, to refugees of Vvardenfell and would honor that favor with their own. The Summerset Isles had never done Morrowind any favors, as far as Ulfric was aware. But the first step was finishing what he had started here, in Skyrim. His sword was stained by the blood of Tullius, the Imperial liaison to Skyrim; he hoped he would not have to sully it with the blood of a largely innocent woman.

Elisif the fair was loved by her subjects insofar as she was beautiful, young, and had done little to offend them. As far as Ulfric was aware, she had done little, period. She had not even done Torygg the courtesy of bearing him any children. But that might have been his doing, rather than hers. It was well known he was quite a few years older than she was. A wry smile flashed across Ulfric’s craggy face as he imagined their wedding night. The thought was crude, crass, and gone as soon as it had come. He shook his head and sighed, weary with the whole of it, the smell of smoke and fire, the ring of steel upon steel. It needed to end. He would end it, today.

Before the doors of the Blue Palace, Falk Firebeard stood in their way, negating the need to find him. Galmar cried out in amusement and dropped back to clap Ulfric on the shoulder. “Look who we’ve found, and so easily! I thought for sure we would find him cowering amongst Elisif’s skirts!”

The laugher from their retinue was bawdy. Ulfric did not join in, but once more, the ghost of a smile he’d experience earlier returned and then fled just as quickly. “Stand aside,” he rumbled. Falk eyed him and his men up and down. The rest of the retinue had parted, leaving Ulfric, Galmar at his side, standing face-to-face with Falk. “Unless you would step forward in single combat, Falk Firebeard.”

Somehow, he doubted the man would do this. He had an imposing appearance, with hair as red as his name suggested. He was a full-blooded nord, but had almost completely embraced the comforts the Empire had provided to Solitude and it showed. He as soft. Ulfric did not like soft men. He was willing to give the man a chance to display his loyalty to Elisif, however. This alone would have impressed the jarl of Windhelm.

When Falk stepped aside, a simple jerk of Ulfric’s head indicated his fate was to be determined by Galmar, who advanced upon him as Ulfric passed the threshold of the Blue Palace. He did not look back as the doors closed behind him. He leaned his sword against a potted plant and focused upon the sound of his boots striking marble floors, rather than the shrieking without.

“Savage!” He heard this voice over the din of everything else going on outside. Elisif was further in, likely upon her unearned throne. Ulfric disregarded her accusation and began to climb the accursed stairs to meet her. “Kingslayer! Bastard!”

Ulfric denied none of these things as he climbed. “War makes savages out of men,” he said evenly. “I killed the High King in single combat… and I did not know my mother.”

He fully expected her to be armed and was not disappointed in the least when he mounted the final step. Elisif held a dagger to her own throat, rather than brandishing it at him. At the very least, she had thought ahead, knowing she could not overpower him with any weapon and opting for the next best thing.

“Coward,” she hissed.

“Not for quite some time,” he responded, dropping to one knee. “Jarl Elisif, I’ve come to treat with you, to end this senseless slaughter of the true children of Skyrim.”

Once more, and with excellent timing, the dragons made themselves known, trumpeting and bellowing overhead, shooting gouts of flame and frost into the air as they circled, searching for more prey and thus, entertainment.

“What do you know of sense?” Her voice was husky and low, on the verge of tears she would not permit to fall. Ulfric admired this strength, but found it foolish at this late stage in the game. Whence had it come and where was it when Falk Firebeard was puppeteering her court?

“I have had the sense to remove the Imperial connection to this land,” said Ulfric, remaining in his kneeling pose but meeting her eyes, rather than genuflecting as one might to a queen. “Tullius is dead and Rikke is in my custody.”

“Why not just kill her too?” The dagger was still pressed to the soft, unblemished flesh of Elisif’s neck. Ulfric admired this determination as well. Elisif had more grit in her than her late husband, that was certain.

“She is a native of this land,” he replied, “but Sovngarde is not for those who betray their loyalties. She might have died with a sword in hand, but for what? An empire whose rule is determined by elves who defile the gods by stealing Talos away from man?”

She winced at the name of the forbidden ninth Divine. There were Talos worshipers in Solitude still, despite their best efforts and execution of those who broke the White-Gold concordat. “It was the price of peace!”

“A price that is blasphemous,” barked Ulfric. “Talos is the very symbol of our people, a Septim and of the line of Martin, the founder of the very Empire that even now denies his divinity to appease elves.” Even Ulfric hated the way he spat that word, but after the war, he could hardly have been blamed for his dislike of their ilk.

Despite his personal grievances, he had not barred a single elf from joining the Stormcloaks, or entering his city lawfully. There were elves who owned businesses, those who frequented the Palace of Kings, and had even sat upon Ulfric’s war council as they planned this final attack upon Solitude.

“I just want peace,” she admitted quietly, her dagger dropping into her lap. Only then did Ulfric stands, but he did not move closer. Instead, he watched her, studying her young features. She could not have been much more than twenty, soft of flesh and beautiful. She was a woman in the prime of her life, married to a middle-aged puppet of the empire who had given her no children to love and had likely bored her to tears, to the point where her attention (and affection, if rumors could be believed) turned elsewhere.

Ulfric had long ago chosen not to give credence to these rumors. He had it on excellent authority, however, that Falk Firebeard had been tasked with the daily goings-on in the court. Any questions posited to the jarl and so-called High Queen were inevitably funneled through Falk, that much he had ascertained early on after Torygg’s demise. Falk was therefore a high priority target and, despite the howling he’d left behind, Ulfric had given his men the very strictest instructions to leave Falk alive, at least long enough to gain valuable information regarding the Empire and their supply caravan routes or troop movements, if indeed he had been privy to any of this. If not, Ulfric would decide his fate when he returned to Windhelm.

And he did intend to return. No slip of a twenty year old girl would prevent that. Ulfric doubted her dagger would even be able to pierce his armor; she didn’t have the strength for it. There were bags under her eyes and the way her shoulders sagged told him she had not gotten much sleep in the days, perhaps weeks, leading up to the final assault. That there were no guards left in the palace spoke for either their disloyalty, or her integrity as a ruler—perhaps both. She had sent them out into the city to help her people, or she had sent them home so the Stormcloak soldiers would not slaughter them like dogs, with a roof over their heads. There was a third option, of course, one he could almost hear in Jorleif’s voice. “She’s planning on martyrdom,” he would have said. “Don’t give it to her.”

Jorleif’s counsel had been invaluable throughout Ulfric’s time as jarl. The man himself was humble, claiming that Ulfric referred to his opinions because they were those of an inexperienced outsider. It was true that Jorleif was no warrior, no tactician, general, or king, but he was honest, intelligent, and incredibly cunning, given his gentle mannerisms. It was he who had first advised Jarl Ulfric not to play into the rumors of Elisif’s unfaithfulness. He had advised that the winning of this war would be at great cost, regardless, and that besmirching the name of a fair young woman would not reflect well upon Ulfric when he became High King. They would win this war the way it was meant to be won, with skill, strength, and their faith in Talos.

“Peace in Skyrim,” Ulfric intoned sonorously, “will only come when her people are not hunted down in alleys like dogs for the worship of Talos. On the orders of elves, my people—our people, Elisif—have been slaughtered.”

“And YOU have slaughtered them, Ulfric. You.”

“Torygg, by his complacency and acceptance of the puppet rule of the Mede dynasty in Cyrodiil, by offering quarter, aid, and succor to Imperial forces, by allowing the Thalmor free reign in Skyrim, has killed those people. He may not have raised a hand to the children of Skyrim, but his complicit seat on that throne,” Ulfric growled, gesturing to the place where she now sat, “has spilled blood. More blood will yet spill if this is allowed to continue.”

Elisif’s conviction faltered at his words. She shifted in her seat, the dagger still firmly in one fist, laid in her lap, but not forgotten. Ulfric did not move closer. He took on a more relaxed posture, but even with his weight balanced almost casually upon one hip, he was an impressive figure. With him, he had brought the smell of blood, of smoke, of sweat and leather, and of her city, ablaze and crying out for relief. He was a killer, she knew, but he was also a soldier, a jarl, a brilliant tactician and commander, and of Ysgramor’s blood. He, more than any other jarl, had a proper claim to the seat of High King. Why, then, had he not brought it up yet? Why bother appealing to her gentler nature. He could have slaughtered her where she sat, with his bare hands, or perhaps with a Shout. But he had not. She looked at him, puzzled.

Overhead, a dragon bellowed once more. Elisif winced and Ulfric uttered a quiet prayer. “Praise Talos,” he rumbled, “that they are on our side.”

“Our side?” The indignant rage in her voice was evident, though she kept her tone calm. Her smile was unpleasant, sweet only in that it was upon her beautiful face. It did not reach her eyes. “They burn my city, Jarl Ulfric. Solitude is being torn asunder by your so-called Talos-given ‘gifts’.” She had no idea how Ulfric had managed to tame not one, but two, fully-grown dragons. They had only been seen upon the field of battle in recent weeks, in the march leading to her home. She suspected this had been done on purpose, but had no method or reason to prove it.

“The children of Skyrim will be victorious this day,” he declared quietly, meeting her gaze, “when Solitude’s bastion of Imperial soldiers are removed, one way or another. Skyrim has earned her sovereignty. Talos bless us, Skyrim is free… Unless you would stop me, Elisif. But I think, in your heart of hearts, you hear what I am saying and, despite the loss of life and precious blood, you agree… and maybe you have for a long time.”

Her heart thudded hard in her chest. Was Ulfric giving her an out? Was he opening an avenue to her which would allow Elisif to live a free, unhindered life as the jarl of Solitude, where her people did not hate her for surrendering to the Stormcloak army? On the one hand, no one could be blamed for bending the knee to a man with two dragons, but the pride of nords ran deep and she would be forever remembered as a cowardly jarl and a usurper queen with no claim to the high throne. She sat in Potema’s castle, after all; why would any other queen who occupied her space do anything but add to the dark legacy.

“What you are saying is—”

“A guess, and only that, Jarl Elisif.”

Her mind raced, her pulse hammered, and a thousand and one thoughts and emotions flashed through her heart and mind in the few seconds it took to make a decision. She wrapped a hand tighter around the dagger and pursed her lips, closing her eyes. “You ask me to betray my late husband, to betray my lover—yes, Falk Firebeard was my lover, and why shouldn’t he be? They say you’ve long since taken a lover yourself…” She stopped herself, realizing she was rambling. Elisif had not noticed the minute shift in Ulfric’s expression which would have, to anyone but those who knew him well, signaled nothing but perhaps scornfully cordial interest, but which was actually a modicum of fear, or at least worry. “I will not do these things to save face, Ulfric Stormcloak, kingslayer.”

He admired her nord pride, but when the blade of the dagger flashed upward, Ulfric had little time to appreciate her strength and decision. He moved with speed that a man of his size should not have had, grabbing her wrist tightly and tugging the dagger away, though not before it had pierced her throat quite deeply. Red rivulets ran down her pale breast, staining the front of her dress almost instantly. He clapped a gloved hand to her throat as she wrestled with him, her already feeble strength from grief and lack of sleep easily overcome by his. She fell out of the chair, convulsing wildly as he clamped the hand down hard, pulling Elisif to him. Was there time to call for a healer?

“Murder….er,” she choked, staring up into his eyes, daring him to argue. He could not. Ulfric reflected in the few seconds before the door to the Blue Palace burst open that he should have disarmed her immediately, made certain she could not do something like this. He had been careless and it had cost him dearly. Ulfric cared little for Elisif in principle; he hardly knew her. What she stood for, however, was a soft, gentle fairness that may have benefited the people of Skyrim and particularly of Solitude in the coming conflict with the Aldmeri Dominion. She, had he been able to sway her, might have been a symbol.

“Ulfric!” Galmar’s voice rang through the halls and the sound of armor clanking, leather creaking and feet hitting stone echoed almost violently in the sepulchral space. “Ulfric, where—!”

Galmar had crested the final step to see the tableau which had befallen the jarl of Windhelm. Elisif had breathed her last, her eyes going glassy and her cheeks, once rosy with righteous fury, paling in death. She was still fair, even as Ulfric Stormcloak stood, holding her slight body in his arms, the dagger at his feet where she had dropped it when he arrested her wrist, too late by seconds.

“She…” Galmar’s voice was low. “But Jarl Ulfric, you can’t be seen with her body; are you mad? First Torygg, now—”

“Torygg met my challenge and failed. Elisif took her own life, rather than be swayed by my words and my cause. They died as nords and their souls will be borne swiftly to Sovngarde. Help me see to her, Galmar.”

“O-of course, my lord,” responded the general, his eyes flitting to the bloodstained dagger and the trail of crimson which followed Ulfric. He stooped to grasp the dagger and followed Ulfric down the stairs, hesitance lacing every bone in his body. He had never felt so apprehensive about a battle in all his days, though Whiterun had been close.

But the cause and course were clear: sovereignty for Skyrim meant spilling blood. He knew the jarl regretted this sacrifice, but also knew that Ulfric understood, perhaps better than anyone, how necessary it was to do so. As long as the Empire was under the thumb of the Aldmeri Dominion, Skyrim would be in tatters, their lands raped, their wealth pillaged, and their gods torn asunder. This was truth, plain and simple.

The jarl of Windhelm bore Elisif’s body out into the palace courtyard, and then into the city proper. In the short span of time he had spent speaking with Elisif the Fair, scores of Stormcloak soldiers had arrived, reinforcements from around Skyrim, many of them new recruits, to put out the fires and help begin the task of restoring Solitude.

Far above, both dragons circled, watching, catching their wings on the wind and gliding, pleased at the work they had done, but eager for more. Below, Ulfric instructed his men to build a pyre. “She died with blade in hand,” he insisted, gesturing with a gentle jerk of his chin that Galmar should produce the dagger. “She will have it on her way to Sovngarde.”

Ulfric tilted his cobalt gaze upward, to the smoke-filled sky and nodded his thanks to the dragons, his two greatest helpers. They would be needed again, but for now, the sky was theirs. This pyre was a rite for the people of Solitude and for the Stormcloaks, to understand what the new era would bring, the sacrifices they would have to make for it to come to pass, and the values they shared which signified a sovereign, united Skyrim.

#OC #CC #CW #nano #high fantasy #ulfric stormcloak #skyrim #suicide #violence #azriel #narada

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cynicallystiles · 6 years

Text

Full Stop

Disclaimer: Gif originally posted by me.

Author: @cynicallystiles

Request: @itrocksmysocks - Song-based fic from the song “Punto y Aparte” by Morat.

Warning: Fluff, angst, slight mention of sex, and a breakup.

Notes: Soooo sorry this took so long. I’ve been trying to write when I have motivation so it didn’t turn out like shit. But, obviously, I’m not very motivated often. There will be a part two as requested, hopefully in a few days! Please COMMENT/REBLOG if you enjoy!

Pairing: Shawn Mendes x Reader

Masterlist in Bio

Words: 7,510

"Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace!" You hear Shawn speak his lines perfectly, if not a little bit over-dramatically. His voice comes from somewhere to your right, though you couldn't be sure because you had to keep your eyes closed and your arms crossed over your chest as if you were dead.

The air around you seems to change as he pauses for dramatic effect before his next line. "And lips, O you kiss the doors of breath..." his voice was right next to you now and honestly you were a little bit nervous. To have your first kiss not only be in front of a ton of people but to not even be able to react when the boy kisses you? Oh, it was a cruel joke.

"Seal with a righteous kiss..." You could feel his lips hovering just above yours hesitantly. "Y/n?"

You peek one eye open to see his face mere inches from yours. "Yes?" You whisper urgently because he's taking way too long.

"Sorry," he whispers back. "I just wanted you to see me when I kiss you." You barely have time to react as he leans down and places a sweet peck to your lips. You scrunch your eyes closed, trying to ignore your heart furiously beating in your chest.

He continues on with his lines, drinking the poison and 'dying.' You rise to a sitting position and continue through the play. Eventually, you find Shawn on the ground with a goblet in his hands. You say your lines as anxiety-free as possible, but that was a hard task considering now you had to kiss him while his eyes were closed.

"I will kiss thy lips," you project as you sit on your knees, cradling Shawn's limp body in your lap. "Haply some poison yet doth hang on them..." you caress his cheek, and you think you see him inhale sharply. "To make for with a restorative."

You lean your head down and your lips brush against his gently before you press them together firmly. After about a second, you pull back and lick your lips. "Thy lips are warm," you deliver your line as sadly as possible.

But when you look down, you see the slight smirk on Shawn's face and you barely manage to hide the grin that pulls at your lips. You continue the scene, 'stabbing' yourself and falling 'dead' on top of Shawn dramatically. Shawn almost burst out laughing at how heavily you fell onto him, and you wanted to laugh at him laughing.

The play ends and the two of you stand in the middle of the cast holding hands as you bow. The crowd cheers rather loudly and Shawn shoves you out in front of him to bow on your own. You do so and the crowd cheers louder, so you grip Shawn by his hand and pull him in front of you to bow by himself as you clap.

He turns to look at you over his shoulder with a broad grin and reaches his hand out to you. You blush furiously as you take it and intertwine your fingers before doing one final bow. When you both come back up, you throw your arms around his neck excitedly. Shawn doesn't react at first, too surprised by your sudden action. But he quickly recovers and wraps his arms around your waist before picking you up and spinning you around.

The two of you giggle uncontrollably as he sets you down and you run backstage to get changed out of your costumes. It was the end of the year play for the studio that the two of you took acting lessons at together. You'd been best friends since you were little, and doing these plays together gave you even more reason to always be with each other. The two of you were now 14 and in ninth grade and you were pretty certain that nothing would ever change between you two.

You finish changing and meet Shawn out in the lobby of the theater with your bag. Both of your parents agreed that you could spend the night at Shawn's after the play since the two of you were inseparable. It was becoming something of a tradition. Last year, he played Prince Charming while you were Cinderella. The two of you agreed that you'd just fake the onstage kiss for that one. But for Romeo and Juliet, it was important that it look as real as possible.

The two of you hopped in the back of Shawn's parents' car and they drove to his house. All the while, the two of you were in the back being uncharacteristically quiet. Street lamps that passed by shone snippets of light on Shawn's face as he looked out the window. When he turns and sees you looking at him, his cheeks tint pink and he grins broadly at you.

You return the grin at his goofy, yet cute smile. Even before he got his braces off, his smile was one of your favorite things about him. As soon as the car was in the driveway, you hopped out and raced inside up to Shawn's room. He passes the doorway to go to the bathroom to change into his pajamas and you changed in his room.

Just as you've pulled the T-shirt over your head, there's a timid knock on the door. You run over and fling it open so Shawn can enter as you flop your back onto his bed. He laughs while he goes to his desk chair, picking up his black guitar along the way. You flip over onto your stomach and rummage through your backpack as he strums the strings.

You finally fish out your book and roll back over onto your back as you hold it in the air above you to read. "Hey, y/n?" Shawn catches your attention and you tilt your head back to look at him upside down.

"Yeah?" Your eyes glance back at the book you were still holding in the air as you waited for his response.

His legs swivel the chair while he plucks a few experimental strings. "What song should I cover for my next video?" He let his eyes finally wander from the strings over to you on the bed. "Are you reading while I'm talking to you?"

"No..." you say distractedly.

"Then what did I ask you?" He chuckles.

Your eyes skim another line of your book and your heart swells with the words on the page. "You asked if you should get a haircut," you say plainly. "You definitely should."

"Y/n!" He whines playfully.

A giggle falls from your lips as you close the book and turn over to face him properly. "I'm just kidding! Geez." You sit upright, letting your legs dangle off of the bed. "You asked what song you should cover for your next video, duh."

"And your answer?" He prompts you as he sets his guitar back in its stand.

You shrug, picking up your book and opening it in your lap. "You should cover whatever you wanna cover, Shawn. Why am I always picking out your songs?" As your eyes go back to reading, Shawn stands up and snatches the book from your lap. "Hey-"

"You're always picking them out because you're my best friend and I like what you pick." He closes the book dramatically and looks at the cover. "What is this, anyway?"

Getting to your feet, you cross the small distance to Shawn. "It's a book of poetry if you must know," you reply as you reach out to take it back. He quickly moves it out of your reach above his head.

"You're such a sap," he laughs. "Why don't you just read romance novels like everyone else?" He stretches his arm higher as you jump to try and reach the book.

You let out a huff as you cross your arms momentarily. "Not all poetry is about love, genius." You hop again and barely manage to grip the corner of the book.

"Oh, yeah? Then, what is poetry about?" He challenges.

Your hand pulls on the book, and Shawn pulls back harder causing you to stumble forward. His other hand steadies you by your waist and he looks down at you intently as he waits. "It's about life."

"Life, huh?" He breathes out. You're chest to chest and you begin to breathe shallowly.

You nod, swallowing to ease the sudden dryness in your throat. "It's about life and the things that happen to you in it..." you murmur. He tilts his head as if to ask you to go on, so you do. You roll your eyes to cover the heat flushing your cheeks. "There are some poems about love...but also about loss and how to keep going when it's hard."

He slowly lowers his hand and the two of you clutch the book in between you. "Why would you wanna read sad poetry?"

"I don't know..." You shrug. "Because when they put it out there for everyone to read...it's not sad anymore, it's just beautiful."

You look down and scrunch your lips to one side nervously before rolling them together. When you look back up, Shawn has a look that you don't recognize on his features. He opens his mouth to speak when you hear his mom's voice from downstairs. "Midnight is in five minutes!! Come downstairs to watch the fireworks!"

He jumps and you pull the book from him while tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You clear your throat as you toss it on the bed. "Don't wanna miss the fireworks." You walk around Shawn and out of the tense atmosphere of his room. He slowly follows you downstairs, a few steps behind.

"Aww," his mom coos. "You two look adorable in your matching pajamas! I'm so glad you made those last year! Here...stand together so I can get a picture."

She motions for you to scoot closer. Shawn stands next to you and wraps his arm around your shoulders. You wrap yours around his waist while putting your other hand up in a 'peace' sign. He slightly leans into you and does the same with his other hand.

"Oh, come on. Smile, you two. You look like someone died," his dad chips in.

Fighting the fluttering feeling in your chest, you pull your features into a broad smile. You glance at Shawn as he does the same, his smile always looking better than yours no matter the circumstances. You feel his hand squeeze your shoulder and all the weirdness from before fades away.

The camera clicks and the flash goes off, momentarily blinding the both of you. When you take a look at it, you're not completely appalled by it. Shawn looks as cute as he always does in his dark blue, plaid pajama pants. Your T-shirts are white with both of your names written on the front in colorful lettering.

After grabbing some soda, the two of you head out onto the porch to watch the sky for the fireworks happening soon. You both rest your arms on the railing as you clutch your cups. It's pretty cold, and neither of you wore jackets out because it was only supposed to be a few minutes.

"Hey, Shawn," you break the silence with an unsure tone.

He takes a sip of his soda before answering, "Yeah?"

"Why...why did you have me open my eyes for the kiss in the play?" The question had been picking at the back of your mind since it happened and you figured you'd just ask.

He straightens up a little bit and turns his head to look at you. "Because it was your first kiss and I know that you would've wanted to at least be able to see who was kissing you first."

"How do you know that?" You narrow your eyes at him skeptically.

Shawn shrugs and a tiny grin appears on his lips as he looks into your eyes. "Because I know you."

You blink a couple times, unsure of how to respond to that. "Well, thanks. I mean, that doesn't count as my first kiss anyway...but thanks for the thought." You decide to play it cool. You kind of did count it, only because it was Shawn. But, you didn't want to let him know that.

"O-oh, it doesn't?" Shawn clears his throat as he straightens his back a little bit more.

Your brows quirk together quickly and you straighten up to face him. "Not really," you chuckle nervously. He looks down at his slipper-clad feet before setting his cup on the rail. "I mean, I just figured you didn't count it either since it was acting. You're gonna be kissing all kinds of girls when you're in movies someday."

"Yeah...yeah, I guess you're right," he says softly as he toes a chunk of snow off the porch. "I never really thought about it that way." He grows quiet and you can see the deep pink taking over his cheeks.

"Shawn," you say, a sudden and crazy idea popping into your head. He looks up from the ground at you shyly. "Can I ask you a favor?"

A soft smile returns to his lips. "Yeah. You can ask me anything," he replies honestly.

"Will you kiss me at midnight?" You blurt out quickly for fear that you'd get too scared to ask.

His eyebrows practically shoot up to his hairline. "Will I what??" He laughs incredulously.

"You heard what I said." You frown at his reaction because it wasn't at all what you were expecting. He continues chuckling and you just cross your arms and turn back to the rail murmuring, "It wasn't that funny."

He immediately stops laughing, seeing that he's hurt your feelings. "Oh, come on y/n. I didn't mean it like that, it's just..." You fix your eyes on the cup in your hands and he gently lays his hand on your forearm. "Hey, look at me."

"Why?" You deadpan. "So you can laugh in my face again?" Inside you hear the countdown starting at a minute. 59, 58, 57...

His hand pulls more firmly and you let your body face him. "I promise, I was not laughing at what you asked." He holds his pinky up silently waiting for you to believe him. You heave a sigh as you take his pinky with yours.

"Then, what were you laughing at?"

"You just...caught me off-guard," he slightly chuckles again. You squeeze your pinky around his and he continues. "Why do you want me to kiss you at midnight?" 36, 35, 34...

You shrug, still not meeting his eyes. "I thought you sounded disappointed that I didn't count our stage one." You summon all your courage to look at him. "I thought maybe...you wanted me to count you as my first." 13, 12, 11...

He doesn't respond right away and you assume that means you were wrong about his tone earlier. 5, 4, 3... "I do." Your eyes widen and before you know what's happening, Shawn is leaning down to bring his lips to yours.

Your eyes close instinctively, this time knowing he's about to kiss you. You feel his lips ghost over yours shyly and you tilt your head upward toward him. His breath fans your lips just before you feel them press against yours. You inhale slowly as your heart pounds in your chest.

You vaguely hear the fireworks go off above you, but it's hard to say for sure with how loud the blood is rushing in your ears. His lips are soft and delicate while he keeps them pursed against yours for a few more moments. You find yourself leaning further into him just as he pulls away, a nervous smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

When your eyes flutter open, you see a kind of shyness you've never seen in him before. "Uh...um," he stutters before swallowing quickly. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year, Shawn," you giggle. "Thanks...for, uh, you know...being my first kiss." You clear your throat as if it would make your heart stop pounding in it.

One corner of his mouth pulls up. "You're welcome." After a moment, he quickly adds, "And thank you, too! Because...you know, being my first kiss and all." He shrugs awkwardly and you laugh.

"You...are welcome," you reply softly. You blink slowly before tipping your head slightly to the side. "About the song you should cover..."

He looks lost for a second before he shakes his head while remembering. "Oh. Never mind about that. I've got one in mind now." His eyes gaze into yours and your eyebrows furrow together intrigued.

"Are you gonna tell me?" You question. He shrugs with a mischievous glint in his eye as you realize that you're still holding pinkies. You release yours and let your hand go to the pocket of your matching pajama pants. "We should get inside...it's really cold."

Shawn's eyes widen when he sees you slightly shivering. "Right!" He grabs your cups and ushers you inside where he wraps a thick blanket around you. "You should come over when I record the next song. That way you can give me your opinion..."

"Sure, sounds fun," you answer automatically, thinking nothing of it as you watch his parents dance to a song that's come on the radio. Beside you, Shawn watches your face and how your eyes follow the movements of his parents wondrously. Your eyes almost close completely when you grin broadly at how goofy they were acting and Shawn gets lost in the sound of your laugh that follows.

A couple of weeks later, you head over to Shawn's house after school just like you said you would. The door is unlocked when you get there and you call out into the house, "Hello? Shawn! I'm here!!" You close it and head upstairs to his room.

The door is cracked and you hear a racket coming from inside. You carefully push the door open and stand there as you take in the scene. Shawn is frantically running around his room picking up dirty clothes and throwing them in his hamper, straightening random things along the way. You clear your throat loudly.

"Ah!" Shawn spins around, almost falling over his book bag. You stifle a laugh as you watch him regain his balance. "Y/n! When did you get here?" He finishes putting the dirty clothes away and sits in his desk chair quickly.

You enter and sit on the edge of his bed. "Just now..." your eyebrows scrunch together at his weird behavior and you scoff. "What is up with you? You never clean your room," you point out.

"That," he says as he claps his hands together, "is not important right now." He stands up from the chair and pulls you off the bed by your hands. "What is important is that I play the song with you before I record it so you just sit here..." He gently pushes you into the desk chair and swivels you by your knees to face the stool he plays on.

Shawn sits on the stool facing you as he adjusts the beanie on his head. "Shawn. Seriously, why are you acting like you took Adderall?" You chuckle as you relax back in the chair.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Sorry...I'm just really nervous about what I'm about to do. So, just," he sighs as he rubs his palms up and down his thighs anxiously, "Don't laugh at me, okay?"

"Promise," you respond immediately serious at his tone and mannerisms. You sit up and nod at him to play for you while you listen. He smiles timidly and picks up his guitar, resting it on his lap while he takes a couple of deep breaths.

Slowly, he begins playing the strings to a familiar song that you hear on the radio all the time. It's one of your favorites, actually. Wanted by Hunter Hayes. You smile softly as Shawn continues to sing. After the first couple of lines, he gains the confidence to look up from the guitar to you as he sings.

You bop your foot along and quietly hum the lyrics. By the second chorus, you're singing along fully with him. Shawn smiles as he sings to you, not expecting you to sing back to him. Truthfully, you were a pretty good singer because of being in choir since you were little. But, that wasn't really what you wanted to do with your life. The two of your voices mix together in perfect harmony as Shawn strums the last of the notes.

Grinning broadly, you clap. "That was so good, Shawn!! You should definitely record it and put it up on YouTube," you encourage him. He blushes slightly as he sets the guitar back in its stand and his hands go back to resting on his knees.

"Thanks," he chuckles as he catches his breath. "You were great, too! I didn't expect you to sing along."

He smiles at you incredulously as you shrug. "Ah, I couldn't help it! You sounded so good and I love the song..." you trail off as you look at him and see his smile has faded. "I'm sorry, did I ruin it?" You giggle.

"What? No!" He quickly disagrees.

"Then, why do you look like I just ruined it?"

He shakes his head and stands up. "You didn't ruin it. I'm just...preparing myself for what comes after the song," he admits.

"Oh, and what comes after?" You ask curiously. Shawn's mouth opens to speak but he closes it again. "You're worrying me. Did you take something?" You tease.

He narrows his eyes at you menacingly but his lips quirk into a reluctant grin. "I'm not on anything. But, I think may be in something."

"...like your room? Or this house?" You ask with a chuckle.

Shawn walks over to you without warning and pulls you up to stand by your hands. You can see by the movements of his chest that he's breathing very deeply as he looks into your eyes. He inhales one more time before closing his eyes and leaning forward to bring his lips to yours.

Your eyes close and you feel his soft lips press into yours, just like they did on New Year's Eve. He carefully brings his hands to hold you by your waist and you rest yours on his chest. You tilt your head and your lips move against his at a different angle. His fingertips sink into your waist slightly before he presses his lips into yours a little more firmly before breaking away from you.

You breathe out slowly, unsure of what just happened. Your eyebrows are raised and you keep your eyes closed while you wait for the dizzy feeling to go away. "Well, you didn't pull away..." Shawn breathes out and his words fan your lips.

"Why did you do that?" You whisper with your eyes still closed.

He clears his throat. "Because I like you. Like, I like like you. I'm in like with you," he rambles on and you chuckle. "And...I think you're in like with me too."

You just barely manage to gain control of your body and force your head to tilt up and down once. The movement is almost imperceptible to Shawn, so you speak as well. "You...would be right. Yeah."

"Awesome," he breathes out and you can hear the smile in his tone. You let your eyes flutter open and find his hazel brown eyes gazing right into yours. "Y/n...will you be my girlfriend?" He whispers, the shyness returning.

A smile takes over your lips as you nod fully this time. "Yeah. Yeah, I will." He lets out a relieved chuckle as he snakes his arms around your waist and you let yours slide around the back of his neck.

Things after that afternoon changed. You were no longer allowed to spend the night at each other's houses (understandably). The two of you were always holding hands in between classes and stealing kisses at hockey games. Shawn took you to a movie for your 15th birthday and you didn't really watch much of it. You thought that things were gonna be perfect like this forever.

But, they weren't. You saw a little bit less of Shawn when he went on tour with Magcon with other Viners after he gained a whole lot of followers very quickly and was an opening act for Austin Mahone on his tour. Then, some manager discovered him and flew him to a real-life record label. Everything was happening so fast, you don't even remember Shawn saying that he wanted to switch his dream from being an actor to a singer.

You had things going on for yourself though. By your 16th birthday, you had won a couple of poetry contests and one of your poems was even published in a literary magazine. Although, your big news was kind of overshadowed by Shawn's new that he was officially a signed singer. You saw even less of him as he worked to release his EP in the summer.

While you were really proud of him, you had to admit that you were feeling kind of lonely. Yes, he was your first real boyfriend, but no amount of American movies and TV shows could've prepared you for what to do when your boyfriend slowly becomes a pop star. You were just hoping that things with Shawn would be normal enough for the two of you to get through 11th grade together.

And they were. Slightly. He still came to school with you. But, he dropped out of all his extra-curriculars to work on his first full-length album. In August for his 16th birthday, you made him promise to take the whole day off so you could spend it together. He kept his promise and the two of you went out to eat and a movie.

Afterward, you found a nice secluded place where you could park your car and lay on the hood to look at the stars. Shawn lays with his back on the windshield, one arm resting behind his head as he curls the other around you.

"This is so nice," you say nuzzling closer into his chest.

He kisses the top of your head and pulls you into him as well. "I know. I feel like we haven't had a chance to be alone in a while," he chuckles. You don't answer, just quietly savoring this moment with him. "I know that's mostly my fault. I'm sorry I've been so busy-"

"Shhh," you cut him off as you sit up and look down at him. "I don't wanna talk about you being busy. Because right now..." You trail off as you slowly start to peel off your jean jacket. "You are completely and absolutely free."

Shawn leans up on his elbows. "Uh...y/n, what are you doing?" He chuckles nervously. You finish taking off your jacket and set it on the hood next to you before straddling him.

"Do you not want to?" You ask nervously as your hands rest on his chest. He shifts slightly beneath you.

"No. I mean yes! I mean-" he swallows as he takes your hands in his. "I want to. I just figured you'd want it to be more special than this," he admits.

You chuckle as you take his jaw in your hands and lean down to kiss him sweetly. "Anytime and anywhere is special," you whisper against his lips. "As long as it's with you."

His lips curl into a smile against yours as he grips your hips with both hands. He kisses you back eagerly before leaning back suddenly. "Wait, I don't have anything." He looks at you worriedly and you let your head fall forward a bit as you giggle.

"I didn't want to assume or anything, but..." you reach into your back pocket to retrieve the little square package. "I was kind of hoping."

He looks at you incredulously as he brings one hand to the back of your neck. "You're the most amazing girl I've ever met," he confesses as he pulls your lips back down to his.

That was your first time together. After that, he was so much more touchy and clingy. But, you loved every single second of it. You loved every single time you got to hang out with Shawn outside of school because those times were few and far between.

As he continued to work on his album, you took up piano lessons and learned fast. You even began dabbling in songwriting. You were pretty good at it. About a month before your 17th birthday, you had called Shawn to tell him about a songwriting competition where the winner would get a chance to help write a song for Selena Gomez's next album.

"Babe! You'll never guess what happened. I have the most exciting news!" You squealed into the phone.

He replied just as excitedly, almost as if he didn't even hear what you said. "I have big news too! Come over in an hour and I'll tell you all about it!" You opened your mouth to respond but the line had already gone dead.

An hour later, you found yourself at Shawn's house heading up to his room. You knock and he opens the door with the biggest grin on his face. He pulls you into a tight hug before ushering you inside. Just as he's about to close the door you hear his dad's voice from somewhere in the house, "NO CLOSED DOORS!"

You giggle as Shawn pulls the door back open wide. He perches on the edge of his bed and you take your place in his desk chair. "So..." you clasp your hands in your lap excitedly. "Do you want to share your news first or should I?"

"I guess I'll go first since it's kind of a lot," he proposes. "I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it all. Um," he continues before he clears his throat. "Okay. So I wanted you to be the first to know that my album is finished!"

You shoot up out of your chair at his news. "Oh my god, Shawn! That's wonderful!" You laugh excitedly as you pull him up to his feet for a hug. "I'm so proud of you," you murmur into his neck while his hand rubs up and down your back. You pull back so you can see his face. "So, I actually have some similar-"

"Wait, that's not the only news I had..." he admits.

Your eyebrows scrunch together as you sit down. "It's not?" He walks over and sits down on the stool where he used to record all his YouTube videos.

"I also have a gig lined up for the summer," he slowly confesses.

"Oh, that's great! What is it?"

He inhales deeply before releasing it. "It's being the opening act for Taylor Swift's 1989 Tour!" He grins happily. Your eyebrows raise as your mouth parts slightly, unsure of what to say.

"Wow," you breathe out. "So...you're gonna be gone all summer." Your eyes fall to your lap as an aching feeling seeps into your heart.

Shawn gets up and kneels in front of you while he takes your hands. "Hey...don't be sad. Please? Then I'm gonna be sad," he chuckles.

You nod as you look back to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he pleads. "I'll be back to finish school and graduate with you! It's just one summer. I know we can make it work." He squeezes your hands comfortingly.

"You're right...I'm really happy for you. I'm just gonna miss you is all." You smile sadly as you look at your intertwined fingers in your lap.

He thinks for a moment before standing up slowly. "Tell you what..." he goes back to his stool and picks up his guitar. "I'm gonna play you a song that's on the album that was inspired by you."

"You really wrote me a song?" You crack a tiny smile as you look at him.

He nods proudly. "A few actually, but this one is specifically to make you feel better when I'm gone." He grins at you broadly. "But, don't tell anyone. Technically, I'm not supposed to share it until the album comes out next week."

"Promise, I won't tell a soul," you giggle.

"Good," he states. "Now, scoot over here," he demands.

You laugh as you use your feet to scoot the chair all the way over to right in front of him. "Better?"

"Much!" He leans over his guitar and kisses you on the cheek before he begins strumming the guitar. You listen as he begins singing an achingly beautiful song he called Never Be Alone. By the time he finishes the song, your eyes have started watering.

"Babe, that was really beautiful." You smile sadly as you dab at your eyes to make sure no tears have dripped.

He sets the guitar back in its stand and cups your cheeks. "I'm gonna call you every chance I get, and before you know it...I'll be back for school." Shawn smiles reassuringly at you before leaning down and softly pressing his lips to yours.

Your heart is so full of your feelings for him that you forget to tell him that you won that competition. For a week in the summer, you were gonna get to stay in L.A. to write a song with Selena Gomez.

Summer came and Shawn left for Taylor's tour. About a month after, you were touching down in L.A. to work with Selena Gomez on her next single. In the month since he left, Shawn had managed to call you at least once a week. Though you thought it would be much more often.

You were in the studio one day, throwing ideas around with Selena and some other writers getting absolutely nowhere. "Guys, my brain is fried. Maybe we should order lunch and take a break," Selena suggests.

"I second that. All I had this morning was water," you chuckle tiredly.

Selena claps her hands. "Great! Let's get pizza and then we'll be back at it reenergized!" She orders enough for your small group and they get to talking while you wait.

You don't hear much of their conversation as you keep checking your phone for texts from Shawn. Selena swipes the phone from your hand. "Hey!"

"Ooo! Who's Shawn?? And why have you been opening and closing his contact for the past fifteen minutes?" She giggles mischievously.

You grab it back from her politely and put it back in your pocket. "He's my boyfriend," you admit and a blush creeps up your neck. "He's on tour and he said he would text me this morning but hasn't yet," you explain.

"On tour? Is he a musician?" Selena questions.

You smile softly, loving the chance to brag about him. "Yeah! He, um...he's actually opening for Taylor in her North America concerts."

"No way! Hold on, I'm looking him up..." she replies, already on her phone. "Damn, y/n! He's a cutie! I don't know how you keep your hands to yourself around him..."

You laugh loudly. "I literally can't!" You let your laugh die down a bit before adding on, "I mean I could, but why would I want to?"

Selena stops mid-giggle and stares at you like you've just invented electricity. "What did you just say?"

"What?"

She sits up excitedly in her chair. "What you just said! About keeping your hands to yourself! That'd be a great lyric!"

"Oh! I said..." you pause trying to remember your exact phrasing. "I think I said, 'I mean I could, but why would I want to'."

"We're onto something," Selena mumbles as you all get back to writing before the pizzas even arrive.

You successfully finish the song before heading back to Canada. The rest of the summer was kind of dull compared to hanging out with Selena Gomez but you made the best of it. Shawn wasn't able to call or text as often as he promised he would. But, that didn't really matter by the time he got back because you were excited to see him again.

While his parents went to pick him up from the airport, they said you could stay at the house with his little sister as a surprise. You had gotten some balloons and made a cake to celebrate the end of his first tour and also him being home.

His parents come through the front door with his suitcases while he's still getting his guitar from the trunk. "Here let me help you with that, Mrs. Mendes!" You say excitedly as you take a suitcase and set it by the stairs.

"Thanks, sweetie." She takes a deep breath as she looks around. "You really outdid yourself! Shawn's gonna love it." She smiles warmly at you as she squeezes your shoulder.

"Mom! Dad!" Shawn calls out absentmindedly as he enters the house. "I think I may have lost my charger-" his words cease as he looks up to see the decorations and you standing there.

You reach into your pocket and pull out a handful of confetti before throwing it into the air to shower down over Shawn. "SURPRISE!!" You giggle excitedly as you throw your arms around his shoulders.

"Oh, wow," he breathes out as he drops his guitar case to hug you back slightly. "You really didn't have to do all this."

You let go of him so you can properly take in his appearance. He looks slightly different than the last time you FaceTimed, but still his cute self. "Oh! It was nothing, really." You grin happily as Shawn's eyes continue to dart between the decorations and the cake and you.

"Well...let me take my stuff up to my room and then we can catch up," He clears his throat weirdly before turning to head up the stairs.

You look at his parents nervously. "Is he okay?"

"I'm sure he's just a little jet-lagged, honey," his mom assures you. You nod as you force a smile onto your face. Something in your gut didn't feel right from the way that Shawn was acting.

A little while later after everyone has had a piece of the cake, you notice Shawn lingering by the door. When you make eye contact, he nods toward the door before heading outside onto the porch. You close the door behind you and sit next to him on the top step.

"What's going on?" You chuckle as you nudge his shoulder with yours. "You love when I make a cake with my mom's recipe."

His shoulders rise and fall as he breathes deeply. "No. I love the cake," he forces a small smile as he glances at you before training his stare back onto the sidewalk. "I just, uh...I just wrote a couple songs while I was on tour and wanted to get your opinion on one."

"Oh!" You scoff playfully as your brows crease. "Why didn't you just say so? I'm sure they're great," you assure him as he pulls out his phone and headphones.

You place the buds in your ears and let him press play. A slow piano melody begins to play, and it immediately tugs at your heartstrings. You glance over at Shawn who's still looking down to his lap. The lyrics to a song called Running Low start and you sway slightly as you listen.

The further into the song you get, the more your movements slow to a stop. You find yourself staring hard at the pavement of the sidewalk as you feel tears prick your eyes. As the song ends, you take out the earbuds and hand them back to Shawn.

"Wow," you whisper as you sniffle a little bit. "That was, um," you pause before letting out a chuckle as you finish, "sad, to be honest. That was really sad, babe."

He nods slowly, still unable to meet your eyes. "Yeah," he clears his throat. "It was just something that was rattling around in my head..."

A feeling of heaviness spreads throughout your body and it feels like you swallowed concrete. "What, um," you swallow as your throat becomes increasingly dry, "is everything okay?"

"No," he says barely audible. Your breath immediately hitches in your throat and it's becoming increasingly hard to breathe. "No, it's not."

You try to remain calm as your mind jumps to every single worst case scenario. "What's wrong? You can tell me anything, babe..."

"I know," he sighs deeply. "But, we have to stop seeing each other." Just like that, the breath is pulled from your lungs and you’re struggling to stop your hands from shaking. He said it quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

You wanted to ask questions. But you knew that if you did, your voice would break and you didn't want him to hear you like that. You try and force air into your lungs as you stand up slowly. "I'll see you at school," you whisper as you go down the steps and head to your car.

Shawn stands and follows you quickly. "Y/n!" He grabs your hand and you pause, waiting to hear what he has to say without looking at him. "You understand what I said, right?"

"Yeah," you choke out as you roll your eyes slightly while the tears build in them. "You're breaking up with me. Anything else?" You kept your tone small and quiet so you wouldn't sound like how you felt inside. Like every piece of your heart was shattering.

He tugs on your hand a little bit, but you remain facing away from him. "Anything else?" He questions in confusion. "Y/n, I just broke up with you and that's all you have to say?" He asks, slightly hurt.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know! Something!" His voice rises slightly. "We dated for over two and a half years. We...shared most of our firsts together. I just expected you to be a little more affected than this.."

You turn around slowly and stare at him. The tears that were building up had overflowed and your mascara was smudging at the corners where you had scrunched your eyes. Your bottom lip trembles as you pry your hand away from his.

"Is this affected enough for you?" You ask plainly. As you wipe the slick tears from your cheeks you sigh heavily. "Guess I can add first heartbreak to that list of stuff we shared, huh?" You chuckle coldly as your sadness fizzles into anger because it's an easier emotion to deal with. "Were you just doing this to see how I'd react?" You ask disbelievingly.

Shawn's eyes widen. "What? No! I would never do that to you, y/n..." You nod along to his words sarcastically, as if you could believe anything that came out of his mouth anymore. "You just deserve more time dedicated to you than I can give you. I mean I barely talked to you all summer and I feel terrible about it-"

You interrupt him angrily. "So you just break up with me instead of trying to make it work?? This is our last year of school together and you're giving up! You're a quitter, Shawn!"

"No! That is not it," he replies sternly. You cross your arms and raise an eyebrow challengingly. "I'm gonna be going on a lot of tours as my career takes off, y/n. Most longer, and more hectic than this one. It'll just get harder to make time for you and I don't want you to feel like I don't love you!"

You throw your hands up exasperatedly. "Great. So you figured you'd just move up that timetable and make me feel like you don't love me now. That's the perfect logic," you lament.

"I do love you, y/n-"

"No." You shake your head as you turn and walk to your car. As you open the driver's side, you look at Shawn over the hood of your car. "No, you don't. At least not enough to try and make it work. Not enough to believe that we could've made it."

He opens his mouth to respond, but you get into your car and slam the door. The tears are back at the brim of your eyes as you buckle your seatbelt and start your car. You look out the passenger window and see that Shawn as walked up closer to the car. A scoff escapes your lips as you pull away from the curb, leaving Shawn in your rearview mirror.

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blueyesandleatherjacket · 6 years

Text

Our last winter, 15/31

► Our last winter - Human!Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler. ► Written for @doctorroseprompts 31 days of ficmas. Day 15: Snowed in. ► AU Verse, Teen. ► 1,666 words. ► A/N: This is a prequelle to Ghost of you.

“Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is time for home.” - Edith Sitwell.

Rose had picked a nice little restaurant where they could share their lunch and be in peace. They wanted this lunch to be intimate and Rose was playing with that privacy they were having. They had gone home for her to change into the beautiful dark blue dress he had bought her during their afternoon shopping and the shoes that went with it. She had taken one of these shoes off and was having fun rubbing her foot against his leg under the table. His reactions were priceless. He was trying to keep his seriousness but couldn’t keep a straight face when she was pressing his groin with the tip of her toes. She could feel the bulge in his pants growing hard as she was teasing him and he was having a real hard time controlling himself. It brought a smirk to her face as she was savouring her meal.

Came the moment of the dessert. Of course, Maxence was as gourmand as ever and chose a three chocolates Christmas pudding with an addition of whipped cream on top of it. She picked a lighter dessert to finish this lunch on a good note: a Christmas pudding soufflé with cranberry sorbet and brandy anglaise. She couldn’t resist the temptation of dipping her finger in the whipped cream and licking it clean. The look of lust in his eyes as he watched her licking her finger was clear. Her toes slowly brushed over the bigger bulge in his pants. He was still wearing the bow on his arm. He couldn’t wait until Rose took it off, until she grabbed his tie and dragged him to his office. Or to their personal quarters where they would finally unleash the growing desire that was making him uncomfortable in his pants.

“Rose.”

His voice was barely a growl and she felt a tingle in her lower belly upon hearing this. He was giving her a warning. They couldn’t go farther while they were still in the restaurant. They had to finish this dessert and get to the lab as soon as possible without any trouble. He didn’t take his eyes off of her while he was eating. It was giving him some time to have his erection coming down, just enough to pay the check. When he came back to her, she was looking at the big snowflakes falling from the sky.

“We should get to the lab quickly if we don’t want to get stuck in the snow.”

“There’s a suitcase in the trunk.”

“What for?”

“They announced a lot of snow for this evening and we maybe won’t be able to come home so…”

“My wife is a genius.”

He kissed her lips tenderly and wrapped her in his coat for her not to get cold with this weather. She hooked her arm in his and they both headed to their car. Maxence drove carefully to the lab. They got there safely but the snow was falling more and more. They would be snowed in like Rose had heard during the weathercast this morning. Good thing she was foresighted and prepared them clothes for this night and the following day.

He pulled the suitcase out of the trunk and they went straight to their room in the personal quarters. As head of biology department, Maxence had been given a room for himself while the others were sharing dormitories. As his wife, Rose had that benefit of sleeping in that room. He had hung pictures of them and their friends on the wall facing the large bed. As soon as the door was closed, Rose got rid of the coat and grabbed Maxence by his tie.

“Let’s get straight to serious things.”

“I like it when you’re speaking like that.”

She dragged him to the bed and pushed there. He willingly let himself fall on his back while Rose was taking off her shoes. Her hands were busy unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. It was quite an ordeal because of the already full erection her husband was having. It was very sensitive and every touch of hers was causing him to moan and arch himself for more. She slid her finger along his length still covered by his boxers and smiled when his hands gripped the sheets. He was still in control of himself. This man was never really letting go as long as he could have control on himself and his surroundings.

“Rose.”

This time, his voice was pleading. She wanted to play with him but he wanted to be relieved and, considering the little time they had before going back to work, she better get to it quickly. However, she took her time to untie the bow around his arm before going back down. Her teeth grazed the skin of his lower belly as she pulled on the boxers. He inhaled sharply and her Maxence appeared in all his glory once he was free from his restraints. Her mouth circled the end of his penis and sucked on it lightly. His hands moved from the sheets to her hair and he gripped it as his body tensed in expectation of what Rose was gonna give him.

It was as good as he had expected it to be and he had given her all control over him while she was sucking and licking him until he surrendered himself to the orgasm she was giving him. Now she was watching him all panting and lost into the trance she had provoked in him. She yelped when he caught her and threw her on the bed. It was her turn. Since she was in the middle of the bad week and they weren’t in their home, he couldn’t do much but taking off her dress very slowly and using his very skilled tongue to tickle her most sensitive point were just perfect for her. His fingers were adroitly playing with her clit and she was panting and begging for him to send her to the ninth cloud when his phone rang.

“Leave it,” she groaned.

As if there was any chance for me to stop now, he thought to himself totally ignoring the phone. He was too focused on his wife to even hear his ringtone. She was so close and he bent over to catch a hard nipple between his lips and suck on it. She dug her nails into the skin of his back. She was coming, they both could feel it. Maxence sped the things up and his lips found hers just in time to muffle her scream when she reached her climax. His phone was still ringing. Hers was ringing too now but they couldn’t care less. Maxence went into their private bathroom and washed his hands, rinsed his face. He was drying his face off when he walked back into their room. Rose was listening to the vocal message that had been left on her voicemail. Maxence surely had the same.

“If this is bad news, I don’t want to know.”

“Depends on if you had anything to do outside.”

“Every game I want to play is on the inside of this lab.”

“You’ve planned on making those chemical reactions Christmas baubles?”

She arched an eyebrow. His mission to improving the formula for an Alzheimer cure was done. Thanks to Tegan, the little problem there was had been fixed and the med synthetized by Colin Appleton and Martha Jones had been sent to the testing area. So far, Maxence hadn’t gotten an answer from them and his researches were going nowhere so Rose was suspecting him to prepare these baubles here since she was refusing him to do it at home.

“What does the message say?”

“Answer my question first.”

“Not if that’s gonna send me into troubles.”

“You won’t be in trouble with me,” she shrugged. “But maybe with Harvey.”

“It’s perfectly safe.”

“Because you have a doctorate in chemistry?”

“Yes.”

“So I can’t stop you?”

“No.”

Maxence could be as stubborn as Rose when he had decided something. He wanted to try those coloured Christmas baubles with something else than food colouring. He was in a high security lab and he knew what he was doing. Nothing would go wrong if he was doing it here. Plus, it wasn’t gonna make a bomb or something. He would never do anything that would put his colleagues in danger. He wasn’t stupid.

“Harvey tried to reach everyone. He is forced to close the lab because of the bad weather. We are snowed in. No one can go home. We’re all stuck in here until the roads are passable.”

“You’re a soothsayer.”

“Just someone who watches the weathercast.”

“What now?”

His tone suggested that he was up for a round two but Rose got up and gathered her clothes. She was gonna pull on some more comfortable ones. They were snowed in but it wasn’t preventing them from working. If Maxence had planned on having fun, she was gonna work on her own researches. He was the only one with a project. She picked clothes from the suitcase and walked to the bathroom. She stopped on the doorstep and looked at him.

“Closing the lab doesn’t mean we have to stop working, love. It just means everything is gonna sleep here tonight.”

On these words, she closed the bathroom door and left him protesting in the room. He had thought they would be able to play some more with that decision but he had thought wrong. They were all gonna pretend it was a normal day and gather later in the private parts of the lab to go about their personal business.

“I would have preferred being stuck at home,” he mumbled.

She smiled as she was dressing into jeans and plain T-shirt. She pulled on socks and trainers and met him in the bedroom. She kissed his pout and hooked her arm around his once again for him to accompany her to her office…

×××

Buy me a coffee?

#doctor who #doctorroseprompts #ninth doctor #human!nine #rose tyler #doctor x rose #prompt fulfilment #31 days of ficmas #day 15: snowed in #our last winter

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obsessive-fics · 6 years

Text

you’re gonna be my wound-chapter ten

Title: Falling Slowly

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: As always thank you to @yourfriendlyblogstalker for being an excellent beta

[Read on Ao3]

[Previous Chapter]

[Masterlist]

PJ, wisely, didn’t ask about Phil’s breakdown until he was nice and distracted. They were playing Mario Kart after a completely healthy dinner of pizza and hot wings when he turned to him.

“So, you wanna tell me what happened at rehearsal?” PJ asked as they started up another round, and Phil almost forgot to hit accelerate.

“I mean, not really,” he finally said, but he knew PJ was just asking because he’d worried him.

“I’m not going to force you to talk about it if you don’t want to,” PJ replied, because he was a much better friend than Phil deserved right now.

“It was just a lot, having to do that scene in front of everyone. It made me think about Zach. And how he must’ve been feeling when… You know. When,” Phil explained after a minute.

“Oh,” PJ said, taken aback. The thing was, he told PJ everything. Of course he did, he was his best friend. But when it came to grief? Phil’s solution had been to shut down and shut everyone out, including PJ. It took him a really long time to feel okay after that, to feel like he was allowed to feel anything but sadness. And even now it wasn’t something he talked about.

“You told Dan then? About him?” PJ asked, and Phil couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.

“Yeah. Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad? I know how hard it is for you to talk about that,” PJ said, pausing the game and turning to look at him.

“I don’t know why I told him. He was just standing there, and he looked so worried..” Phil trailed off, still looking at the screen.

“You trust him, it’s okay. You also like him,” PJ said teasingly, and Phil laughed and shoved him.

“Shut up!”

“Ooh, let’s invite him over!” PJ said excitedly, already on his phone.

“What? No! Why would we do that?” Phil asked, reaching over and trying to get the phone from PJ, who just laughed and held it further out of reach.

“Because you’re always texting nonstop, but you completely freeze up every time you’re in the same room. And besides, he’s already on his way over.”

“You are the worst person in the history of the world.”

“Really? Of everyone, I’m the worst?” PJ asked, sounding, as always, entirely too amused.

“Statistically, right now. Yes,” Phil replied petulantly, and PJ laughed.

“Love you too.”

“Sorry, am I interrupting something? One of your housemates from downstairs let me in,” Dan said, standing in the doorway, and it occurred to Phil that he was literally sprawled out on top of PJ in his bed. He jumped away like he’d been burned.

“Of course not,” PJ told him, completely unphased. “Just Phil getting his ass handed to him at Mario Kart.”

“PJ is a giant cheater that’s all,” Phil added, and Dan gave him that soft smile he did sometimes, turning his insides to jelly.

“If you two are done staring at each other, we were in the middle of a very close race,” PJ broke in, reminding Phil he was still there.

“I thought you wanted to run lines?” Dan asked, leaning in the doorway.

“Nah, just wanted to hangout,” PJ said, waving him in.

“If that’s okay?” Phil asked, and Dan nodded quickly, stepping inside.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll play the winner,” he said, sitting down on Phil’s opposite side. PJ hit play, and Phil tried to focus on playing the game instead of how close Dann was sitting to him right now. They were basically pressed against each other from shoulder to thigh, and Phil was hyper aware of every place they were touching.

“Earth to Phil, there’s a race going on. Join it,” PJ said, when he somehow managed to find himself in ninth place.

“Here, you have to use this,” Dan said, placing his hand over his to hit a button on the controller, and Phil nearly dropped the controller altogether.

“Thanks,” he managed to say, and Oh, God, he really had to calm down. He was actually thirteen years old. He was acting like a thirteen year old. It was a crush, he had a crush. He’d accepted that. Now only if he could stop making an ass out of himself, that would be great. Surely he could get through this without getting distracted by Dan’s eyes or dimples or how warm he was.

“That was pathetic,” PJ said, after he’d taken first place and the race ended.

“It was pretty bad,” Dan said, laughing.

“I can’t believe you’re taking his side,” Phil replied, and maybe he was pouting a little bit, but that last round hadn’t been fair at all.

“I’m not taking sides, I’m just saying you could benefit from some Mario Kart lessons,” Dan told him, holding his hands up.

“Lessons? Seriously?” Phil asked, trying his best to look annoyed, but probably not succeeding.

“Yup. We’ll start now- watch and learn,” Dan said smugly, reaching over to take the controller from him, and what he wouldn’t give to wipe that ridiculous… incredibly endearing smirk off his face. As it was, he just shrugged and surrendered the controller.

Dan and PJ proceeded to play three rounds of Mario Kart, which as it turned out involved a lot of screaming and cursing at each other. It was fun to watch, but also kind of exhausting.

“Can we do literally anything else now?” he asked, interrupting another of Dan’s overdramatic victory gloats.

“Yeah, I think I’ve lost enough for today,” PJ agreed easily.

“You guys are such sore losers,” Dan said, but he put down the controller. “What else do we wanna do?”

“Movie?” PJ suggested, and that sounded absolutely perfect.

“I’ll get the popcorn,” Phil suggested, jumping up.

“He won’t watch anything without popcorn, we have to be fully stocked up on it at all times,” PJ explained to Dan, and he laughed.

“That’s cute.”

Instead of acknowledging that comment at all, Phil turned and headed for the kitchen. He grabbed a bag of popcorn and a bowl from the cabinet and put the popcorn in the microwave. He leaned against the counter, trying (and failing) not to replay Dan‘s words in his head. What did it mean? Cute how? Cute like a golden retriever was cute? The microwave went off, snapping him out of his thoughts, and reminding him how completely ridiculous he was being right now. He poured the popcorn into a bowl and headed back to PJ’s room.

“Phil! Can you believe this one thought we were dating?” PJ asked the minute he stepped back into the room.

“How did you get on that topic?” Phil wondered, sitting down on the bed in between them.

“Just came up, I guess,” Dan replied, almost… sheepishly?

“No, PJ remains tragically heterosexual.”

“Hey! You never know, maybe you’re just not my type,” PJ argued, and Phil laughed.

“Okay, okay. What are we watching?”

“A horror movie,” PJ told him excitedly. Horror was their absolute favorite movie genre, they’d made quite a few of their own for various projects over the years.

“Thriller or slasher?” Phil asked.

“You know, sometimes I forget you’re film students. And then you say things like that,” Dan broke in, but he sounded more amused than anything else.

“Sorry,” he said laughing.

“Anyway, Dan’s never seen Psycho, can you believe it?” PJ asked, turning to Phil.

“No way- we obviously have to watch it, then. It’s a classic,” Phil told Dan as PJ set the movie up on his laptop.

“I guess I’ll give it a try then, since you guys are so excited about it,” he replied with a shrug.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take long for PJ to fall asleep. He could almost never stay awake during movies they’d already seen. Phil, who could watch a movie he really loved every single day and not get bored of it, didn’t understand that at all.

“We’d better let him sleep. Do you want to keep watching in my room?” Phil whispered to Dan, who nodded.

“Won’t he want his laptop back though?”

“I know where he puts it. Come on.”

With that, the two made their way across the hall to Phil’s room.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, flipping on the light.

“You’re good. I like your Kill Bill poster,” Dan told him, nodding at where it was hanging on the door.

“Thanks. I would’ve had to kick you out if you’d never seen that movie,” Phil replied jokingly, and Dan laughed. They sat down on the bed with their backs to the wall, and Phil hit play. They watched the movie in relative silence, aside from Phil spouting random behind the scenes facts he’d read.

“You really know a lot about this stuff, huh?” Dan asked, after Phil explained how they did the practical effects for the blood in the shower scene.

“Yeah- kind of like you and theatre,” Phil said, turning to him.

“God, I must be so annoying when I get like that. Feel free to tell me to shut up whenever,” Dan replied with a laugh that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“No, I like it. You get all excited, it’s nice,” Phil assured him, and he actually turned bright red.

“Oh… thanks.”

“Anytime. Now pay attention, this is a really good scene,” Phil replied, turning his attention back to the screen, but he felt Dan’s eyes on him for a second longer.

Phil hadn’t even realized they’d fallen asleep until the sound of the credits woke him up. Dan was still sound asleep, his head on his shoulder. He looked so soft and peaceful like that, Phil didn't want to disturb him. Surely, it’d be okay if they slept for a few more minutes? He took another look at Dan’s serene, sleeping face, and closed his eyes.

Next Chapter

#phanfiction #Phanfic #phanfic au #phan au

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marvelleous · 7 years

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we might as well lay down and die

breaking my holiday hiatus to wish @philcoulsons a very happy birthday. here’s a philinda fic about celebrating the holidays. title from happy new year by abba. you can also read on ao3 here.

Even after all they had done for the world, in the name of protection, no one would ever truly understand the magnitude to which their actions impacted the lives of all those on earth.

It was easier before, when their duties consisted of covert operations, targeting terrorist organisations like Hydra and monitoring the occasional gifted individual. S.H.I.E.L.D. was always designed to be that way, to deal with problems before they even came up, to keep secrets about things that were deemed too strange to be conceivable for the rest of society.

They were supposed to be spies, not soldiers.

Then they were forced into the shadows, given no choice but to continue to operate with limited resources and a bounty on their heads, feared and hated by the very people they were still dedicated to protecting. Mistakes were a frequent occurrence, given the choices they had to make with very little time to truly consider the repercussions of their actions, and as a result, they do unleash horrors upon the world, leaving all of mankind in a panic. Had they been more cautious, maybe Hydra would not have had a chance to latch onto them like a virus, multiplying in the darkness, completely unseen. If they had taken just a moment to clear their minds after the events on the Iliad, they could have contained, or at least minimised the terrigen outbreak before it began.

Hive, AIDA, the Framework, all could have been prevented had they done something, had they been careful, accepting a slower method of solving their problems, rather than rush in and start a chain of events that by all means, appear to be endless. But the thing is, even after the problems they have caused, the issues that have escalated due their action or inaction, they find a way to make things right.

They save the world because they are the shield.

It doesn't matter whether or not they are recognised for their accomplishments, for that has nothing to do with their dedication and loyalty. Each and every single one of them is content with this life in the shadows, knowing that at the end of the day, they have played a part in protecting those that cannot do it for themselves. They're a band of misfit heroes, completely unrecognised, but they remain together for the same reasons, even if they didn't set out with such things in mind.

Of course, things are a little different when they're all together once more, back on earth, after what feels like a lifetime of pain and agony. After a series of catastrophic occurrences piled on top of one another, like falling dominoes, until they find the finish line.

At this point, they all just need a break. Phil, well, Phil really, really wants that break. From the day that he signed up, his loyalty towards S.H.I.E.L.D. has never changed, never wavered, but it's been a rough year, and they all deserve time off.

A lot of it.

But a little vacation time is better than nothing at all.

He's the last to leave.

They have a makeshift base in another old SSR facility, but this one is by far more run down, and the little supplies that were stored there decades ago are long past their use-by date. It doesn't matter though; what they needed most was a place to hide, somewhere they could just hit pause for a minute, because as much as time has caught up with them, they haven't had a chance to catch up with anything else. They're fugitives, but that's not a new development. It's almost insane to think that after all they have sacrificed in the name of good, that they should be prosecuted for their actions.

But that's the way the world seems to work now, given that Captain America himself has been labelled a war criminal, it's no surprise the organisation that was inspired to continue his work is suffering the same fate. There are no second chances, to give up intelligence, trade secrets for their freedom, but Phil knows that none of his agents would do so. They would give their lives to the service of S.H.I.E.L.D, like he had, like Melinda had.

Her death had only been one of the several horrible events to take place within the last twelve months. He and Fitz were trapped in an alternate dimension, and then Melinda had been kidnapped, and then they all were, by a crazy android who locked them in a virtual reality, and now none of their minds are quite right. Jeffrey Mace died a hero. They'd escaped one prison for another, fought their way out and destroyed their captor, but not without paying a price.

He had a particularly hard deal to live up to, but he was prepared for that. What he wasn't prepared for was being forced into the future, with his team, to prevent an apocalyptic event that had not yet taken place in their time. Fighting to get home was hard, but being ripped away from his team once more to pay up his end of the bargain with the Ghost Rider was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. They would survive without him there, but the need to protect them had always been strong, and it was hard leaving without a goodbye.

Phil wasn't afraid this time.

He knew exactly when he would be able to return, and it was only a matter of surviving until that moment arrived. His team were not shocked by his return as he had expected, only relieved that he was back, asking surprisingly few questions about his adventures.

They were all tired, no, exhausted, from all of their ordeals. The adrenaline from their fights against evil seeped away, leaving behind weary bodies and weary souls. He had no doubt that they could save the world again in a heartbeat, that they would do so if required of them, but it seemed that the universe was finally giving them some reprieve.

The tranquillity is almost unsettling, like the calm before a storm. Like something big is coming, something that might tear the earth apart, much like they had seen in a future that no longer existed. But they have some semblance of peace now, and Phil suggests that they split up, go their separate ways and enjoy their time off, that they would be called if anything came up. He knows they can't just go home, because they're wanted criminals, that Daisy has no one but them to turn to, but sometimes a little distance is good for the mind.

So he stays behind and watches them leave before he heads off himself, with no real destination in mind, feeling a little empty inside.

His apartment in Colorado is under a fake name, and it’s where he heads after visiting his childhood home in Manitowoc. It's his hope that no one will track him there, and for the first time in years, he learns how to live like a normal person. Well, relatively normal. He hides from his neighbours and always ducks his head, concealing his face with sunglasses when outside, but he cooks every meal for himself, does chores, watches the television.

It's nice for the first week.

After that, he's only reminded of how lonely he is, how little here is in his personal life because he's been so busy with S.H.I.E.L.D. all these years. He doesn't regret it, because he's seen the life he would have lead had he made another choice, and he much prefers this one, but he can't help wishing for something to happen so he can see his team again.

So he can see Melinda again.

She’s been on his mind, a lot more than usual, which is saying something, because there’s always at least a tiny part of him that thinks of her. They've known each other for so long, and aside from S.H.I.E.L.D, she was the one constant in his life. The only person he can truly count on.

He has no idea where she is, and despite his inclination to seek her out so they can finally sit down and have a proper conversation, he fears his presence may not be desired. She had lingered during her departure, staying to bid the rest of the team goodbye, offering him a tight-lipped smile before vanishing into the night, leaving an empty space by his side and an empty place within his heart.

Now, sitting alone in his unfamiliar apartment, it hits him harder than ever. His purpose in life is to serve, to protect others, and as much as he needs a break from it, both physically and mentally, he finds it much too difficult to cope in an environment so mundane. It's stupid really, because this is what they have always been fighting for; a little peace in the world, to create a place where people can roam free without fear.

He’s grown so used to chaos and disaster that he almost doesn't know how to live without it. The thing is, after he comes to such a realisation, pinpointing exactly what it is about this lifestyle that is so uncomfortable for him, it gets a little easier. It's not that he's hoping for a disaster to occur, only that he's having difficulty adjusting to a new routine after three decades of constant action and little rest.

Phil knows logically that it's normal to feel this way, and he copes. He buys a tiny plastic tree with built-in lights, and all the ingredients for a celebratory meal, because for the first time in so long, he's able to celebrate the holiday season. When he downs a beer on Christmas Eve, watching the snow falling outside his window, he makes a little toast to himself, because against all odds, they've survived.

Though no one knows it but them, they saved the world, and that’s worth something.

On the twenty-ninth of December, Daisy shows up at his door, a hesitant smile on her face and a backpack in one hand. He doesn’t ask any questions, stepping aside to let her in, and locking the door behind them. She looks happier, less burdened than when he saw her last, and that brings him more comfort than he can describe.

He prattles on aimlessly while whipping up grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, and it isn’t until after they’ve eaten that Daisy reveals to him the purpose of her visit.

“I’ve been moving around a lot,” she tells him, and he isn’t surprised, knowing she’s never really had a place to call home. He understands that, because he feels the same way, though if the saying is true, and home is where the heart is, then his home is out there somewhere. Two thousand miles away, if he is to make an estimate.

“You’re welcome to stay here.”

He has very little to offer, but a place to stay, somewhere safe, is still something he can provide for her. She doesn’t respond for a moment, a flash of surprise crossing her face before she can conceal it; a technique she hasn’t quite mastered from her mentor.

“There’s a spare room and I provide three meals a day,” he adds, hoping it might change her mind. Having someone to talk to might make things easier, and if Daisy is here, she isn’t out there alone somewhere, in danger. She’s a fully grown adult who is more than capable of protecting herself, but he can’t help but want to keep her safe. He said once that she was the closest thing he had to a daughter, and the same feelings are motivating him now.

“I might take you up on that offer, but there’s somewhere else you have to be.”

She hands him a folded up piece of paper, as if the contents will explain all the questions he now has for her.

It’s a child’s drawing he realises, depicting two stick figures, one very clearly a woman, if the black lines coming out of her head are supposed to be hair. Their stick hands are joined, and there are wide smiles on their faces. The top of the page is decorated with colourful scribbles, short lines forming circular patterns, but he doesn't clue into what any of it means until he notices the flask-like shape drawn between the two figures.

A bottle of Haig.

“I paid a visit to certain a little bird during Christmas, and she insisted I take this.”

He nods, a little absentmindedly perhaps, wondering just how many speed limits he’ll have to break to make it to Pennsylvania in time, factoring in the one stop he’ll have to make along the way to pick up a gift he more than owes. The crayon drawing gives him hope though, that this future is a possibility, and he's on the road within an hour, leaving behind a set of keys for Daisy and the feeling of despondency that has lingered since they all parted ways.

It's New Year's Eve, and Melinda is sitting alone in her childhood bedroom, grateful for a little peace and quiet. She knows that if she had chosen to visit her father, he would have company over, friends to ring in the new year with.

Her mother likes the solitude just as much as she does, and didn't bat an eyelash when she disappeared after dinner, wanting some time to herself.

There’s a lot on her mind, a plethora of thoughts are related to her career, and whether or not returning to such a life is worth all the pain and suffering. She could leave it all behind, settle into an ordinary life and not live with the constant and imminent threat of death. Her father was right though, that she would never stop looking over her shoulder for danger, that she had lived that way too long to lose those habits.

The conflict isn't only within her mind, but also her heart. She’s grown rather fond of her team throughout their adventures together, developed relationships with them that she isn't ready to just let go of. There’s also the matter of one man in particular, one man who she hasn't stopped thinking of since the moment she saw him last.

She misses Phil more than ever.

Even the mess their lives have been throughout the past yet, she could always rely on him to be there for her. She doesn't blame him for her kidnapping, or not realising she had been replaced for a robot replica. It wasn't his fault that she had difficulty expressing her feelings. She wishes she had stayed with him, that they were together now, as friends, or the possibility of something more.

It's confusing to her in a way things generally aren't.

Because she's okay with the way things are, doesn't mind if they remain friends for the rest of their lives. She wonders if she’s being greedy for wanting more, but she has no control over her desires. There’s a sense of longing that she’s always felt, but more intense than ever, and she’s so lost in her thoughts that she almost physically reacts when there’s a banging against her window.

She wonders if she has lost it when she sees the one person that has overtaken all her thoughts. Either she’s gone insane, or Phil Coulson has scaled her mother’s house to knock on the window of her second-floor bedroom in the middle of the night.

“We have a front door,” is the first thing she says as she helps him climb in, quickly shutting the window afterwards to keep the cold air out.

“I didn't want to disturb anyone.”

He looks so awkward, standing in the middle of her room, and she snorts, realising that even after all these years, he's still afraid of her mother. She doesn't say anything in response, simply beckoning him to sit down with her on the edge of her bed, wondering what on earth possessed him to pay her a visit like this. He takes off his heavy winter coat, carefully lowering it to the ground beside their feet. She looks at him; he's strangely silent too, and she feels all the things she wants to tell him on the tip of her tongue, secrets threatening to spill.

She can't do it though, she needs to hear what he has to say first.

“Why are you here?”

He laughs, and it's that soft, self-deprecating laughter that she hates, because he's worth so much more than he’ll ever understand.

“I missed you. I knew I would, but I didn't realise how that could make me feel. I've finally had some time to think things through, and… I still can't quite figure out where it went wrong with us. You're my best friend Melinda, and I've loved you for longer than I can even remember. It shouldn't be like this between us, we should be happier.”

He looks so tormented, and it's exactly the same feeling she has about their situation.

“I guess I know why I've held onto these words for all this time, because I was always so afraid of losing you, losing what we already had. You mean everything to me, and we've had so many close calls in the last twelve months, so many moments where I could have lost you forever. It made me realise that whether or not anything happens between us, you deserved to know the truth, about how I feel. I… I wanted, no, I needed you to know.”

He falls silent after that, and she allows herself a moment to process her thoughts, to truly consider what she wants. It's stupid really, because she’s known all along what it is that she desires, who she wants by her side in any situation.

“I missed you too,” she says instead, because she can't find the words to express how she truly feels. When she turns to face him, she sees an emptiness in his eyes that cuts through to the deepest part of her, and wonders if he’s mistaken her response as a gentle brush off.

He can't possibly be so foolish to think she doesn't love him, after everything she has done for him. All the choices that were made so she could be beside him, protecting him.

She watches carefully as he reaches into his discarded coat and pulls out and all too familiar bottle, a twin to the one they had been saving all that time.

“I know it's not the same, but I still owe you this,” he murmurs as he hands it over. She turns it in her hands, running her fingers over the label, when she feels him shift and stand, as if ready to leave.

For a moment, she considers telling him he's an idiot, but she thinks it's all too possible that he’ll take her seriously. She walks over to her desk, setting the bottle down, before moving to stand beside him. He's lingering, clearly not ready to say goodbye, and she never wants to see that heartbroken expression on his face again.

“I think that at this point, we’re way past a bottle of whiskey,” she whispers, allowing the confusing to cloud his eyes for only a moment before she pulls him down towards her, pressing a firm but chaste kiss against his lips. He looks a little shocked when she pulls away, but quickly regains his senses, a wide smile forming on his face.

“I love you.”

She thinks he says it just because he can now, and it surprises her just how much she likes hearing it, the words so genuine, bringing her more joy than she has ever felt before. He kisses her, a little more hesitant than she had been, gentle pecks against her lips until she fists her hands in his jacket and draws them closer together.

They tumble into her bed together as the clock strikes midnight, and she feels the fireworks between them as she hears the loud cracks sound in the sky, casting a multitude of colourful lights upon their bodies as they finally find what they have been searching for their entire lives.

Each other.

When Melinda goes downstairs for breakfast the next morning, leaving Phil asleep in her bed, she finds that the table has been set for three, her mother already sipping on a cup of coffee with her usual disapproving stare.

“You are lucky that I had earplugs.”

She feels an unfamiliar heat rising on her cheeks as she walks quickly back to her room, locking the door before climbing back into bed with the intention of never leaving. It might not be such a bad thing, she muses, as Phil wraps an arm around her in his sleep.

Daisy actually cheers when they return to Phil’s apartment in the New Year. She takes one look at them, sees that they're holding hands, fingers interlocked and everything, and squeals in excitement, reminiscent of the girl they had first met all those years back.

They convince her to stay, and it goes unsaid that they're a little misfit family that is better together. There's no telling how long the peace will last, and all they can do is enjoy it while they can.

She tears up when they give her a gift they had picked up on their way back, even if she is a little perplexed by it.

Why on earth would she need a pair of noise-cancelling headphones anyway?

#philinda #philinda fanfiction #aos fic #phil coulson #melinda may #otp: she means everything to me #type: fanfiction #originelle fic

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brywrites · 7 years

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Flight Risk II

Author’s Note: I’ve always wondered about the pilots who fly the BAU jet, and what their relationship with the team would be like. And out of that question, came this. Part 2 of a short series. Part II: In which a profiler says something he shouldn’t have and a pilot seeks the refuge of the sky.

( Series Masterlist ) ( Previous | Next )

He sees her a handful of times after that. Almost always brief meetings, a few minutes to talk before she’s running off to prep the plane or he’s being called away to a meeting. They pass each other in hangars, and she always gives him that same bright smile. He arrives, she leaves, they never can seem to catch each other for very long. Still, Reid always enjoys getting to see her, and she’s happy to listen to him ramble on about whatever he’s reading that day. He discovers small things about her each time. She has a cat named Amelia. Her favorite color is whatever shade the sky is that day. She loves Antonie de Saint-Exupery best. No matter the hour, she always seems to have a smile for him, and that’s something he appreciates.

“War and Peace?” she asks, nodding at the antique tome of a book in his hands. “In Russian? That’s impressive.”

“Have you read it?”

To his disappointment, she shakes her head. “I considered it once, after being stranded in an airport in Moscow for a three-hour layover. But they only sold copies in Russian, and I never learned to speak it. I recognize the cover though.”

She’s far more well-traveled than him. It occurs to him that for all his knowledge of the world, he has seen very little of it. Only once has he traveled out of the country, and only for a case, and only to Canada. He has a passport, but has no use for it. Books about places he’ll never visit, language skills he places he’s never been. On the other hand, Y/N has been all over the world. She knows a few handy phrases in various languages, but speaks only French well enough to get by on. Cities and continents have passed beneath her, and in strange places she has made herself many homes. To travel like that takes a courage he finds himself admiring.

They’re beginning to be friends. Reid begins to wonder about her, and about Arthur, while they’re away on cases. Where do the pilots stay when they’re traveling? How do they pass the time? Do they like their jobs?

Since it’s her he mostly thinks of, it’s her he asks.

“Sometimes we stay in same hotel, when it’s a small town,” she tells him. “But Arthur usually finds it’s best for us to stay out of the way. We’re never far though. We find local places to eat, see movies, play card games. Arthur keeps in touch with his mother and his boyfriend. I usually wander around a bit, check out the bookstores. We stay busy.”

Busy as his own schedule is, Reid continues to go to the plane early when they have a flight, in the hopes that he’ll get to see her. There’s something in her smile that makes him forget whatever horrors they’re headed off to face, and she makes him feel hopeful. He’s not sure why, but when he’s talking to her, he feels like a plane at takeoff, something lifted, something lighter.

More and more often, he finds himself thinking of these two pilots as the eighth and ninth members of their team, something he never did before.

He starts to notice them in small ways. In a restocked bar when they’re leaving a particularly tough case. In new bags of coffee sitting out on the little counter, or extra blankets set out when it’s late at night. He realizes that no matter how early or late it is when they decide to return back to Quantico, the pilots are there and ask no questions. How many 3 AM flights have they flown? There’s a new appreciation for the two of them, for the care they take of the team, and of the jet – of Geff, as she calls it.

And for a while, it’s good. Until a new case comes, and everything is as far from good as it could possibly be. Four days are packed with stress, frustration, questions that have no answers and efforts that always come up short. The unsub is one step ahead of them the entire way, and when they finally catch him, it’s too late. The child he’s been keeping is already dead, and judging by the pairs of children’s shoes in the closet, the number of victims is far higher than they originally estimated. It’s devastating for all of them.

By the time they’re heading home, Reid is exhausted and hurting. All he wants is to go home and lie down and sleep until this week is just a hazy memory in the back of his mind. He’s the first person to climb into the plane, grateful to see the stairs down and the door open when he arrives. As he’s scanning the jet for a place to nap, a head suddenly pops out from behind the cockpit door.

“Hey, Doctor! It’s good to see you.” Y/N is smiling. “I had a question about that Bradbury book you recommended to me.”

“Not now,” he mutters. What would normally be a welcome conversation is now a nuisance.

“Sorry, what?”

“Just leave me alone right now,” he snaps. The small amount of sleep he’s gotten, combined with the guilt at having failed a family has severely decreased his ability to make proper conversation. There’s just no energy left for it, and he feels guilty, but he’s too tired to properly decline.

Her smile falls. “Is something wrong? Is there anything I can do?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” He turns around and decides on the couch, throwing his bag down and adding, “You’re just a pilot.”

The cockpit door closes behind him.

Arthur looks at her, eyebrows raised. “That was fast.” She sighs and climbs into her seat beside him in the cockpit. “You usually take every chance you get to talk to him.”

“Well apparently he doesn’t want to talk to me,” she says. Y/N shrugs out of her blazer and drapes it over the back of her seat. Out the window, she can see the other agents climbing into the plane. She’s seen them all before, but never really talked to them. They’re familiar faces she’s responsible for flying around the country, people whose lives intersect with hers but don’t come together. With Reid though, it’s different. Or at least she thought it was. All those little conversations, his kindness, his jokes. She’s begun to think of him as a good friend, but maybe that feeling is one-sided.

“Y/L/N, these agents – you can’t get close to them. I told you that.” Arthur is reprimanding her, but his voice carries just a hint of sympathy. “They don’t let people in. And with this work…” He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. She knows it’s dangerous to care about them. Their job puts them directly in harm’s way. As pilots, it’s their duty to bring the team to that harm. Emotional connections will eventually end in disaster. Us and them. Pilots and profilers. Ships passing in the night in the same sky.

She throws her headset on and focuses on the controls, the sound of the ATIS weather broadcast in her ears. “Winds 215 at 10. Visibility 8 miles. Some clouds at 10,000 feet.”

There’s a knock at the door, and it slides open ever so slightly. “Captain Dobson? We’re all here,” says a deep voice. It must be Hotchner.

“Thank you,” Arthur replies. The door slides shut, and the captain radios to ground control. “Denver ground, niner-two-two Foxtrot Bravo ready to taxi IFR, with tango.

Through the static comes, “Foxtrot Bravo, follow United one-three-three onto taxiway uniform, then golf to six.”

She inhales, and with an exhale pushes aside all concerns about a particular profiler. It’s true that she’s been thinking of him more often, that she gets excited whenever she sees him walk into the hangar. There’s just something about Reid that makes sense to her. It’s familiar and comfortable. At the same time, she must acknowledge she finds herself worrying about the team the closer she gets to him. Sitting in a hotel with a book in hand and unable to read a word when an amber alert update flashes on her phone and she wonders if that’s the case they’re working on. Hoping nothing happens to him, to any of them.

They guide the plane down the taxiway and hold at the runway G6. “Ladies and gentleman, this your captain,” says Dobson. The echo of his voice can be heard just barely through the door. “Welcome back aboard. We’re currently third in line for take-off and should be in the air soon. As always, we ask you to fasten your seatbelts and secure all loose items. Please turn of all electronic devices, including laptops and cellphones. Once we reach cruising altitude, you’re free to turn them on again.”

One by one, the planes ahead of them take off. “Denver tower, niner-two-two Foxtrot Bravo ready for takeoff IFR, runway six,” she tells the distant voice through her headset.

“Foxtrot Bravo, winds two three zero at ten. Cleared for takeoff runway six.” As they’ve done so many times, Y/N reaches down to advance the throttle, and they begin to pick up speed down the runway, watching as the knots increase until they’ve hit refusal speed – the point at which they’re going too fast to abort the takeoff. They’re going and going, right down the center line, asphalt beneath them, then Arthur pulls back and the yolk and her heart lifts –

and then they’re in the air. It’s a magical feeling, no matter how many times she does it, the second the wheels lift off the ground and suddenly there’s nothing but sky before them. And in that minute, it doesn’t matter that Spencer Reid is somewhere behind them in the cabin, angry about something she can’t understand. It doesn’t matter that she’s “just a pilot.” Because she loves this. This brief feeling of soaring, of rising into the unknown.

When the plane touches down hours later, her spirits will sink once more, as she wonders why he seems to believe whatever he’s feeling is beyond her comprehension.

#brywrites #reid x reader #spencer reid x reader #flight risk #fanfiction #imagine

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hiphopandtheirishquestion · 5 years

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The Birth of Def Road

It all started sometime around 1985. As a music journalist and chancer, my brother Johnny rarely paid for anything. I grew accustomed over the years to standing by the entrance while he negotiated free passage into whatever gig we were at.

- ‘I’m on the guest list

- You’re name’s not down

- I rang ahead. I spoke to the manager. I’m doing a write up for Hot Press.

- No one told me’

... and so the drama would unfold, me standing there like a lemon (the +1) thinking ‘can we not just pay the fiver in?’ But inevitably they crumbled and in we went, journalist +1.

The experience would stand him in good stead as he set about liberating the music companies of New York of their choicest cuts. Zip, Buck, Artie and the boys were no match and he returned with a veritable treasure chest of records, none of which he'd paid for. The vast majority belonged to a genre called hip hop, or sometimes rap. Wasn’t that just talking?

By 1985, the Irish Republic had been in existence for nearly 50 years. The Brits, may God’s curses, shit, piss and jizz rain down on them, had long since been kicked out. Ireland was now, finally, in the hands of the Gaels - who immediately palmed it off to the church.

And New York was in my hands. The city, it seemed, consisted mainly of black lads in tracksuits and gold chains. Their ‘music’ involved a DJ stealing the best parts from other people’s records while a rapper bragged in rhyming couplets about, amongst other things, how great he was. The other things could be anything from the size of his cock to how much weed he smoked and on to race, crime, politics, cars, shopping malls, guns, hookers, snot, STDs, cars, watches...the list is long.

Introspective it wasn’t. Feelings and inadequacies rarely entered the lexicon of that first wave of MCs. They spoke with absolute certainty and iron resolve. Self-doubt was an ailment the rapper didn’t appear to suffer from. It was all fierce confusing.

‘No one understands me’, went the lament of angsty teenagers like me. ‘I’m gonna lock myself in my room and listen to The Smiths. Girls are so pretty – if only I could talk to them. Who am I? What’s it all about?’

‘Yo! Everyone look at me, screamed his black NY counterpart. ‘I got the best clothes, I even got jewellery. Girls? Fuck, man. Dime a dozen. Life is so damn straightforward. I’m the coolest, smartest best looking bastard going’.

At first glance, Tramore, Co Waterford seems quite different to the ghettos of New York. People from our neighbouring estates did not spend their time ‘dissing’ each other. Sweetbriar residents did not wish to ‘take out’ motherfuckers from Moon Laun. And gunshots were almost never heard at the Friday night GAA Discos. This could not stand. The ‘boroughs’ of Waterford would have to be re-classified, starting with my hometown.

What is Tramore? Upwardly mobile Gardaí and Secondary School teachers were by now colonizing it's burgeoning estates. A beautiful beach, amusements for the kiddies, pubs, pissed up jackeens in the summer, and now lots and lots of new homes, from where people set off for the bright lights of Waterford City every day if they were fortunate enough to have jobs in 80s Ireland.

We were a bit wussy – just didn’t have that hard edge that came so naturally to people from the barrios of places like Lisduggan and Ballybeg. We weren’t the Bronx. Long Island was seen as being a bit ‘soft and country ’ by New Yorkers. Culchieville, or at least suburban. But it was also where Public Enemy came from, along with De La Soul, EPMD, and Eric B & Rakim to name a handful. They didn't like the name, so they changed it. Long Island became Strong Island.

Tramore, or Tra Mhor as Gaeilge, meaning 'big beach', would now be Strong Beach. Kinda shit, but still better than Tramore. My home address of Cliff Road was renamed Def Road – considerably better. The newly-drawn boroughs of Waterford began to take shape.

It was an era that came to be known as hip hop’s Golden Age. Ireland had once had a golden age of it's own. The Island of Saints and Scholars we had been called, as the Christian Brothers were quick to remind us. Alas that time had long since passed. When darkness prevailed in Medieval Europe, Ireland had been a beacon of light, home to the dopest lyricists and flyest artwork. And as recessionary 80s Ireland trundled on hopelessly, we could at least pat ourselves on the back in the knowledge of our glorious past.

Through the lyrics of the likes of Chuck D and Krs-One I discovered black America was prone to leaning on a similar crutch. The extremist Nation of Islam claimed that the great kingdoms of Africa had thrived when we Europeans, or cave dwellers as they called us, were still running around on all fours. Take that whitey!

Ireland’s time as the foremost creator and preserver of the written word ran from about the sixth to ninth centuries. Missionaries from Christian monastic schools went forth from the motherland into the wild lands of Western Europe; writing, learning and being generally noble as they went. The Roman Empire was falling and the barbarians were ransacking the once civilized and ordered cities of Europe. It was left to a previously unheralded wee island to preserve the written word. Which, miraculously, it did. But no one outside Ireland seemed to care.

It’s a state of affairs that many pan-African movements would empathise with. They often claim history is written by the white man, cynically removing their own people’s contributions from the record books. We break it down a step further. White Anglo-Saxons and Protestants decree what is history – the achievements of the paddy man and the black man just don’t make the cut. And so we glory in our past deeds, with a healthy balance of chips on either shoulder.

The pinnacle of Ireland’s Golden Age would come to be seen as The Book Of Kells, a kind of Three Feet High And Rising of its time. There for all to see in Trinity College - proof of our glorious past. Suck it up, ye bastards!

Hip hop travelled a fair old road to reach its Golden Age, if not quite as far back as the Vikings. But just like the Irish scholars of medieval Ireland, in that second Dark Age of the mid-eighties, hip hop was a beacon of light. As mediocrity thrived all around them, the ghettoes of New York became the ultimate seat of motherfucking learning.

The New York we saw on our 80s TV screens pre-Giuliani and zero tolerance seems barely believable now. Apolcalytic, Mad Max style urban wastelands. Anything went, or so the schoolyards of Tramore CBS would have it. There was never any graffiti on the Tramore-Waterford bus route, aside from the odd ‘Paul is gay’ or ‘Sharon Loves Browner’, but New York?

-‘Sure the whole feckin’ subway is full of it! Can’t even see out de windows. Me uncle works there and he says there do be gay lads stalling the heads off each other on the street. Full of black lads too but they love the Irish so you’re alright there’.

Mental, like. And it was into this environment that one Clive Campbell, soon to be better known as Kool Herc, rocked up on the streets of the Bronx in the early 70s with his quare Jamaican ways.

Quare Jamaican ways that included sound systems – very, very big sound systems – which he used to rock parties all over the neighbourhood. He occasionally employed a rapper, but more importantly began cutting up records. He played the funky, instrumental bit of the tune and then played it again, and again and again if the vibe was right. The break. The two turntables were now an instrument. This was the cue for the b (for break) - boys to do their thing on the dance floor. Or breakdance. The big eejit from the Caribbean had only gone and invented hip hop.

A boyo called Patricius had a gameplan of his own when he rocked up in Ireland with his big Welsh head on him around 432 AD. This was his second trip. First time round he had come as a slave, and spent his days working his hole off high in the mountains, tending sheep and the like. Fuck this for a lark, he thought. And like so many convicts down the years, he turned to God for help.

And he was rewarded with a vision, enabling his escape. Six years swotting up in a French monastery, a brief trip home to check in with the folks, and back to Ireland. ‘ Right. I’m gonna Christianize these chumps’, he vowed to the man above as he returned and set to work.

Patricius was a good egg, albeit one with a bit of ‘previous’. As a former slave, he empathised with their plight, a borderline pinko stance unheard of in those brutal days. The Black Panthers had MLK and Malcolm X, we had Saint Patrick. And he was a hard bastard. Slavery, the monastery and then 30-odd years trundling across the wild lands of Eireann spreading the word. No choirboy either. Some unexplained sin, committed at the age of 15 and later confessed to, racked him with guilt. At least one historian hints at murder. Ireland, denied the ‘civilizing’ influence of the Roman Empire, was no place for the faint-hearted.

The original Paddy may not have driven any snakes out, but if he’d wanted to those slimy fucks wouldn’t have stood a chance. And neither did the pagans. With the bold Patricius at its helm Christianity stomped all over them. Like Ray Houghton a couple of centuries later he had earned his spurs. He was now one of us – an Irishman, and a proud one

Kool Herc was good, but he was no Saint Patrick. He needed help. And two others would rise from the East (Coast) to create a glorious triumvirate. Hip hop now set about crushing the faggoty, silk-shirt and gold-medallioned world of disco.

Afrika Bambaata (or Kevin Donovan as he was then) hadn’t required enslavement to have his eyes opened. He won a motherfucking essay writing contest, motherfucker, first prize being a trip to Africa. Bam’s eyes were opened and he returned with a new vision. No more gang banging – it was peace, love, unity and having fun from here on in.

St. Patrick may have passed on the ‘having fun’ aspect of Bambaata’s message. There was already far too much of that in early 5th century pagan Ireland. But otherwise he surely would have concurred with the mission statement. Patrick had come to enlighten and Christianize, Bam enlighten and Africanize. Peas in a pod. Kind of. Patrick wanted less of that kind of thing, Bambaata probably a bit more. He formed The Universal Zulu Nation, a broad church of hip hop, spirituality and all things Africa.

Joseph Sadler was a wiry little bollocks. Like Herc, he was originally from Jamaica, and was good with his hands. Not only could he spin records, he was a qualified electrician. So it should come as no surprise that it was he who first succeeded in wiring two turntables to a mixer.

-‘Janey Mac’, he said to the waitress at his local cafe , ‘I’ve only gone and opened the door to sampling, changing the face of contemporary popular music, perhaps forever. Not bad for a wiry little bollox from de Bronx, wha’?’

-‘Fuck you on about? she replied.

And he was no mere DJ, either. Herc played his records, Bambaata enlightened, but Grandmaster Flash was a showman. He span the records with his feet, pirouetted, spliced, diced and generally acted like a prize chimp in the DJ’s booth.

- ‘Tell ye what, dat’s savage’, noted Walter ‘the bomb’ MacKenzie to his fellow Bronxian Rashid Washington Jr at one of Flash’s jams.

- ‘Ye not wrong there, so you’re not’, replied his pal. ‘Dem Jamaican lads are at it again. Must be something in the air out there – or maybe the grass, if ye know what I mean. Ay? Ay?

- ‘Ha ha. Ah will ye stop. Tell ye what, though. I predict this will change the face of music as we know it. It won’t be long before it’s threatening the higher echelons of the charts. DJs will now be limited only by their imaginations and the size of their record collections’.

- ‘It will and its bollocks’, replied the less-effusive Washington Jr.

But history shows Mr McKenzie's statement wasn’t a ‘will and its bollocks’ at all. Far from it. Flash, Bam and Herc – the holy trinity, as hip hop lore would have it. The disaffected youth of New York now had a voice, and its name was hip hop.

There would be others. Run DMC duetted with Aerosmith and got heavy rotation on MTV. They even played Live Aid, not that you were likely to see it.

- ‘Run DMC? You fuckin’ kiddin’ me’? We’re trying to raise money for staving Ethiopians. Last thing we need is people ringing in kicking up shit about two black lads in Adidas tops grabbing their balls’. They were the only Live Aid act not shown live on TV, the risk of bollock-grabbing too high.

But it couldn’t stop the juggernaut. And it would culminate in a spotty teenager in the arse end of Ireland being beholden to the sound of black men in sportswear and gold chains rhyming over pre-programmed beats.Watching The Sunday Game one summer’s evening in the late 80s, he realized why.

-Michael, I’ll tell ye now why hurling is the greatest sport in the world. Are ye listening now? I’ve watched some desperate games over the years. Brutal, only brutal. But I’ll tell ye this. No matter how bad it got, there’d always be something. Some lad would crack over a point from 65 metres, or cut one over the bar. Something to have you saying, ‘Holy God, that was savage good.

‘Compare that now to foreign rubbish like soccer. No goals at all in some games. Sure they all have long hair and they wear shinpads. Bunch of Nancy boys. I’ll tell ye know, if I got my hands on....

-‘Thanks Ger/Ogie/Denis/Micheal/Mossie (can't remember who), the point is well made though. Hurling is clearly the world’s greatest game because even the most boring game can be enlivened by a bit of trickery or magic. Ireland and the Irish are great!’

- ‘That’s exactly it Michael’.

This got me thinking. Krs One had a track called ‘Part-time Suckers’. It consisted mainly of a serious of dictionary definitions, intended presumably to illustrate the superiority of his vocabulary over that of his less educated contemporaries. It sounded a bit like the speak-and-spell gizmo that Elliot gave ET to help him phone home. It was pretty shit, in all fairness.

But the last minute or so made it all worthwhile – a DJ workout, scratching the bejaysus out of a line from an old Smokey Robinson song. The half-way line cut over the bar, the point from the impossibly tight angle – the otherwise ‘brutal, only brutal’ track enlivened by a bit of DJ tomfoolery. It all made sense!

Hip hop was the hurling of the ghetto – the black man and the paddy man once more inextricably linked. Def Road would bear witness.

#hip hop ireland slick rick tramore

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