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nebulus-frd · 3 years

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Jealous and protective Rowan and oblivious Aelin in a modern established relationship au

Hi!!!

Thank u so much for the request. I loved your prompt and also love Rowaelin deeply. Hope u enjoy it ♡

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The beach. The sea. Them.

Synopsis: Modern AU where Rowan and Aelin finally get a deserved vacation. But he isn't enjoying all the attention given to his wife during the first day of it.

Rated: T

Warnings: implied sexual content. If I forgot anything, let me know.

Words: 1700+ (oneshot).

1/1

It was their first time back at the beach after being married.

The life of a military couple was hectic, to say the least, but Rowan and Aelin were rather used to the chaos. This explained why Rowan found himself alone in bed on the first morning of their vacation. Although his wife had always been a late riser, he knew better than anyone how hard it was to break their routine and if he himself hadn’t take medicine to fall asleep, he wouldn’t probably have slept at all.

Not bothering to properly dress, Rowan moved to the kitchen only to find it empty. Did she go grocery shop? But to his surprise not only was the fridge completely packed, but three sandwiches also topple each other on a plate next to a note.

Good morning princess, did you sleep well? Not even a true love kiss was able to break from the evil medicine spell. I’m training on the beach. Join me… Or not, if you feel like sleeping throughout the entirety of our vacation.

Love,

Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius.

Rowan didn’t even feel the smile that broke through him. God, I love her. Of course, she was training. His wife always called him a workaholic and a military freak, only to always prove herself one. The food was warm enough for her not to have left for too long. And in half an hour Rowan found himself heading to their hotel gym.

Where was Aelin?

He had circulated the gym area twice without success in the mission of joining his wife. Could she be at the beach? It wouldn’t be a surprise. Aelin loves the sea, the sunny weather, and the heat on her skin.

Eight years ago, if someone said to Rowan that there were people who loved those things, he would have straight-out laughed in their faces. He couldn’t anymore. He had learned to appreciate each of these unlike anyone else.

Rowan loved the smile Aelin would have while watching the sea, loved the glow her eyes would reflect under the sun’s light, loved the heat from Aelin’s heart.

His wife had changed each perspective he had in his life.

And while at the beach, once again he asked himself how the hell, he was deserving of the woman he married to?

Aelin was coming out of the sea, dressed in a swimsuit that covered a lot more of what he was used to seeing, looking like the sea god herself had descended in the mortal world to bestow her beauty upon mortals. Thus, Rowan was hindered breathless and as soon as their eyes locked up, he could listen to her thoughts through them.

“Are you delight with the view?”

And the smile that broke in her lips made his knees go weak. She pointed to a small pile of clothes at his right and he could recognize the tennis beside it. As soon as they met Rowan girdled his arm around her hips and kissed her.

“Missed me much?” Aelin asked holding a smirk while still in his arms. Her turquoise eyes nailed on his green-forest ones. The only answer she received was a grunt and a heavy head dropping in her shoulder. “You know you could use words, rather than growling like a beast”, which made Aelin feel the smile coming from her husband, she could picture it too: the perfect set of teeth accompanied by two fangs that were borderline not-human, which had left so many marks on last night's activities, she had almost come to the beach in a diver suit.

“I can’t be bothered. There are a lot of more interesting things to do with my mouth… And my tong…”, Rowan’s impure statement was interrupted by the sound of Aelin’s phone ring, it took a moment for the woman to snap out of the mood her husband had put them in. Poor object, it earned a glare that, if possible, would have transformed it into ashes.

“Oh hi!... Yes, of course, I’m coming… Right, next to the bar… Yes, be there in a few”, she said on the phone friendly. With whom she could have made prior appointments?

“Where are you going?”, Rowan asked confused, involuntarily holding her tighter, Aelin didn’t hide the smile at her husband's unwillingness.

“WE are going to a functional training, apparently the hotel holds them every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday”, she said while putting on a pair of shorts and her tennis, Rowan just nodded in answer.

Once they were in the central area, the closer location between the hotel’s pools and the beach, the equipment could already be seen as well as 10 people roaming around it. Soon enough a man came up to them greeting Aelin, too friendly to Rowan’s likeness, although he could only spot the top of his head.

“Miss Galathnyius, it’s good to have you with us today”, the strange said while avoiding looking at Rowan’s side but he did not miss a beat.

“It’s Mrs.” his accented and low voice seemed to reverberate, earning him an alarmed glance from the instructor, as he had taken from his clothes and name tag.

“Yes, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Galathnyius it’s a pleasure to have both of you here”, the smaller man seemed ready to bolt as he alternated his looks from Rowan’s face tattoo and Aelin’s mirth-filled eyes, she just nodded and that was very well what he did. She knew it wasn’t jealousy from her husband, more like his inability to not correct a mistaken person.

Oh, how wrong she was.

…

Half an hour throughout the class, Rowan was calculating how much trouble would he be if he were to beat three civilians. As the training was open to anyone at the beach, around fifteen more people had come to enjoy the activities. Including a group of four men, who seem too inclined to help Aelin with her training.

Which had made Rowan seeing red since he heard the first suggestion in correcting Aelin’s posture during a core exercise. Whilst his wife seemed completed oblivious as not only agreed to a few suggestions and gave tips of her own. Rowan didn’t mind that both were right.

Nonetheless, at each suggestion made by a stranger, Rowan would casually assert his territory. Moving closer to Aelin, helping her with the weights and holding her during an exercise that required it. Of course, there was the possibility that none of the people participating held any second intentions towards his wife and were only trying to be helpful. He seriously doubted it, even though that was what Aelin seem to think.

Usually, Rowan had never been one to bluntly be jealous and if he found it necessary to discuss attitude with someone, he wouldn’t do it in front of Aelin. But he’d gone apeshit when one of the guys from before made a move to touch her while he went to grab for water. Fuck this. He had been by her side every single moment. What’s with these disrespectful motherfuckers?

The man whose hands extended to help Aelin in moving the piece on her waist only caught a movement in corner of his eyes before a mountain of a man was before him. His eyes caught a glimpse of a wicked tattoo on the man’s face, which had been hidden by the cap he was using.

Rowan’s intimidating demeanor and the fucking gold ring in his and hers left hands were more than enough for assholes to grasp the situation.

She is mine, I’m hers. Fuck off.

Either it was the rings or himself didn’t matter. Apparently, with one look everybody understood his warning.

…

However, nine hours later, he’d been left baffled as his wife complained how, after he glued himself to her side, nobody had talked or interacted with her anymore.

“Well, if you weren’t such a territorial bastard today, we could have made some friends that could introduce us to the town”, she said as they had clearly lost themselves while looking for a Japanese restaurant.

“I beg your pardon?”, Rowan answered seeing red all over again just from remembering the previous event.

“Oh, come on, you thought I did notice? You were just asserting your territory for the heck of it”, she said not bothering with more than an eye roll, still searching the street’s name on their map.

“For the heck of it?”, Rowan was bewildered. Aelin thought he was doing that out of leisure?

“You couldn’t possibly be jealous of those guys from the beach, right?”, she said finally dropping the stupid map that had put them in their current predicament and looking straight into his eyes. Whatever she saw there gave Rowan his favorite smile. “You were….”, she laughed, loud and uncaring. Beautiful. “You are unbelievable”.

Like the viper his wife was, she stealthy approached him in that dark alley. “My cranky husband was jealous of some gym dudes?”, her voice was surrounded by arrogance and seductiveness. Reminding Rowan just who he had married with. The most confident, assertive, dazzling woman he had ever met.

Their eyes were locked on each other as she stalked him like a snake ready to consume her prey. His response to her provocation was nothing more than a grunt. “You know what you should have done?... You could have kissed me right there, ravished me, really… And I would’ve said thank you”.

After many years into their relationship, one would think that Rowan had become numb to Aelin’s advances. However, it was very much the opposite of it. He would be scandalized, shocked… And excited, she burned him with bold words and even bolder actions that made his head spin. His calloused hand didn’t miss one second into holding Aelin’s by her backside and his mouth went to her neck.

“Ditch dinner, Fireheart, I will show you what I would like to have done”, Rowan could feel Aelin’s thundering heartbeat, like his own due to their proximity. It would never lie to him, he affected her just as she did him.

“Oh, why, when you say with such gentleness. I suppose we could make something at home”, she smoothed her hand at Rowan’s ringed finger each word, handing him a bright smile by the end. “I love you”, albeit the sentence was said in a soft tone, it swept bothering feelings between the two, such as sea waves that accompanied their evening.

“To whatever end”, he said holding her left hand and as they walked toward the ocean. Free, unrestricted, and vast. Much like their love.

#rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin #aelin ashryver #fanfic request #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin au #modern setting #they are powerful military couple fight me #jealous rowan #oblivious aelin #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #tog #love them so much #rowaelin oneshot #oneshot

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jadelynlace · 3 years

Text

When You’re Unmatched Art / Ink Drinker Modern Vikings AU Request [Ivar x F!Reader]

[you can find the reference for the tattoo Ivar did here. He thought he was being slick, but he most certainly was not. Ivar, your feelings are showing!]

catch up on the porno, I mean series, here.

requested by: @quantumlocked310 ♡

author’s note: thanks to this post, you’ll all be subjected to the written requests. brief mentions of smut under the cut, and love sick Ivar.

synopsis: Ivar finally figures out how to design your first tattoo.

✎

For this to be Ivar’s passion—his mortal life’s calling—he could not, for all of the seconds in the year, figure out how to design your tattoo. There had never, in his professional life, been a client that had given him complete and utter reign. No simple idea, no nudge in a specific direction, hint of any realm no where on the forefront. You told him to design you a tattoo to take up space on your thigh. And that was it. Even after he declined, saying there must be some idea you had, you shook your head and give him control. Total, and utter control. And it was almost too good to be true.

Ivar knew he was screwed, when an entire sketchbook’s worth of pages went torn, crumpled and tossed into the garbage can with failed ideas. Even Sigurd offered no help—not that he was the artistic hand Ivar needed, he was the needle pusher and piercer. Music selector and unruly greeter. Floki only offered his normal words of wisdom, a way of not answering the question but instead making Ivar look deep within himself. “Don’t think about it much, Ivar. Just let your heart and your mind run freely together.” Great. No help. Both of them were caged in a muddled pile of muck and mud and dead leaves and Ivar couldn’t pull them out.

Through every outing the band of brothers went on, you in tow more often than not, Ivar would be at the receiving end of your questions—how he was coming along with it. You had no deadline, you understood his craft took time, but you were far too excited to see. Then came the first hook up—Ivar driving you home because you were too many martinis in, you inviting him up but he declined because it “wasn’t a good idea, princess” and you told him you “weren’t his fucking princess” and he drove around the block twice before finally knocking on your door. Weight against the frame with his temple kissing it, apologizing playfully for his nickname and you invited him in. A game of truth or dare later, Ivar asked you how drunk you were when it was his turn. And you told him you were sober enough to make decisions, clear ones, and then he dared you to kiss him. You felt like a high schooler again. When it was your turn to ask him and he had picked truth, your one question was the end of the game:

“If I asked you to fuck me right now, would you?”

“In a god damn heart beat.”

He was more than screwed when you wouldn’t leave his mind, after you rocked his world and he used your name on his tongue to get himself off the next time his left hand was needed. And then he texted you, asking how your day was, that was it. And after a conversation, playful but real, he was over at your apartment with take out and beer and you two watched true crime and Ivar told you he had seen this one and tried to have you guess before the show told you. When you were right he said you were smart, when he silently figured out an equation in his head, how many liters to grams to degrees, or whatever the hell it was, you almost dropped your beer. He wrote it out for you to show you, a near different language across the page through algebra, and you told him he was smart. The tattoo idea clicked then. The minute Ivar realized he caught feelings, the tattoo idea became so visible he drew it in almost an hour.

There was never a nervousness with him when it came to the day of appointments, even with the most picky of his clientele, Ivar took it as it was gifted because he loved his craft too much to have these types of petty things take up hatred in his heart. But you walked through the shop, shortest of shorts on, a pair of flowing pants in your bag for the event that session went longer and nipped off into the chilling night time air, and both a coffee for yourself and a Red Bull for Ivar. He nearly wanted to throw the ink onto the floor because he was scared that once you saw the design, you’d laugh, you’d call him something pathetic and walk out, and it would be the last he’d see of you. Instead he handed you the artwork, and your eyes scanned the image for almost five minutes, mouth agape and holding it as if it were a map to the unknown, hiding gold and jewels and you asked him if you could keep the sketch. Even with it forever on your skin you nearly begged him for the original artwork, saying something about how you wanted to frame it. You’d never seen Ivar blush before, but you were sure he did when you said that.

The session wasn’t short—it was almost his full day’s work of hourly long needle dabs, buzzing and brotherly bickering between him and Sigurd. Intensive talks between you and him, explain to him the less than glamorous parts of your job, the funnier parts and the teenage humor of the men you worked with. Hvitserk’s track record for receiving the majority of patient vomit on every call and you watched Ivar laugh, smile more than you had known him too and you wondered if it was because of the machine in his gloved hand or if it was you.

Sigurd ducked out right before lunch, picking up with the three of you had ordered and your skin received the welcome break from the on-going buzz. You were quick to kiss Ivar once, lingering lips on his to thank him and he looked shocked for a moment, worrisome that his brother would see before he tossed the fear aside, shoving his tongue down your throat. When it was all said and done, dawned with the artwork on your flesh you couldn’t stop the smile. Neither could Ivar. He’d promised the sketch after he photocopied it for his portfolio and you went home with the sore leg but a full heart. He showed up late, just shy of midnight after cleaning up the day’s worth of work, buying a frame and bringing dinner for the two of you to eat. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of it, even in its red and swollen, tender state, you loved this tattoo, and Ivar took his time treating it for you. Even after his head spent time between your thighs, one hand plastered on the bare skin and the other holding yours. Even after you rode him, artwork in his line of sight and it made him finish quickly; watching the piece on your skin, your palms on his chest as he moved your hips for you. Your head tossed back as you moaned his name when you came, the heavenly sight and you were forever marked with his skill. The after care from the sex went beyond the closeness, holding you as the television played in the background; he spread the lotion over it, his entire hand nearly able to cup your thigh as he made sure to leave no line un-slathered.

“You know I’m going to want another one before this one even heals,” You said to him, craning your neck up to look at him.

“Yeah?” Ivar asked, his hand in your hair. “Where do you think you want your next one to go?”

“On my arm, so I can see it all the time,” You replied, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Who knows, maybe I’ll just cover myself like you do,” You giggled.

“You’re perfect already,” Ivar said through a yawn, his eyes closing, head drooping against yours. “You tell me where you want ‘em, and I’ll do it—but you’re perfect already,”

Ink Drinker Tags:

@smileysam13579 @dreamtherapy @heisentwerk @angelofthenightposts @ill-skillsgard @youaremyfamiliar @unbetaedimagines @kathryn-jane @readsalot73 @skrsgardspam @lihikainanea @queen-sarang @anastasiaskarsgard @andmyannabellee @walkxthexmoon @flowers-in-your-hayr @peachyboneless @heavenly1927 @istorkyou @victoria-styles @quantumlocked310 @xbellaxcarolinax @mighty-ragnarssons @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @queen-of-upshur @nanahachikyuu @fandomlifeandeverythingelse @ivarhoegh @a5hl3y5ibley @apenas-mais-uma-pessoa @youbloodymadgenius @love-all-things-writing @theanxietyqueen17 @trip2themoon @tgrrose @synnersaint

*please message me to let me know if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list. specifications for series/ones-shots/blurbs/etc. are also welcomed, as well as feedback.*

full masterlist can be found here.

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andypantsx3 · 4 years

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war paint | 8 | impart

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

length: 27,765 words / 10 chapters

summary: Desperate times force you to disguise yourself and join the kingsguard. When a suspicious string of crimes strike the palace, however, Captain Katsuki Bakugou starts paying extra close attention. (spin off of in cinders)

tags: mulan AU, secret identity, romance, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, some violence, eventual smut

As soon as you left your patrol the next afternoon, you hurried into the city to post your wages to your family, then rushed back up the steep climb to the castle. The captain hadn’t specified when you were due at his quarters, but you knew you were in for an earful if you kept him waiting. You couldn’t wait until your next half day of rest to send along your pay, however. The six months the creditor had given your father were rapidly dwindling and your parents needed all the money you could get them before the payment window closed.

On your way back, you raced up the steep incline, outpacing every merchant and townsperson set out on the same road, and arrived back at the top of the outcropping out of breath. Sero gave you a conspiratorial look from his post at the portcullis as you passed back into palace grounds, huffing and puffing.

For all your haste, however, Captain Bakugou still acted as though you’d delayed something like a small eternity.

“You’re late,” he grunted when you arrived, eyeing you as he let you into his spartan office. “Patrol let out a fuckin’ candlemark ago.”

You ducked under his arm where he held the door open. “I came as quickly as I could,” you panted, “I had, um, something to do in town.”

A scarlet eye roved over you. “Which was?”

You bit your lip, shifting uncomfortably. “Uh, post. To my family.”

Bakugou shut the door, turning to loom over you. “You kept me waiting so you could trade fucking love notes?”

You flushed, taking a small step back. “No sir! It was more urgent than that.”

Bakugou grunted and crossed the room, dropping into the chair behind his tidy desk.

The office was just as barren as the day before, papers meticulously sorted and everything in its place. The only clue to the fact that someone used this room at all was the red jacket of Bakugou’s captain’s uniform draped casually across the back of his chair. It left Bakugou in only the button up worn underneath and the sight of him was distressingly distracting - the pristine white of his shirt highlighting his sun tanned skin and drawing out the red of his eyes. The top button was undone and your eyes caught on the golden skin revealed there.

“Quit staring and sit,” Bakugou ordered you curtly, oblivious to your inner turmoil.

You sank apprehensively into the chair across from him, perching lightly on the edge. A silence fell over the room, and Bakugou studied you intently. You could feel his gaze almost like a touch where it brushed over you, and you fixed your eyes resolutely below his face, not wanting to look at him.

“You’ve been keeping secrets, princess, and it’s time to come clean,” he said finally. His voice was rough but resolute, and your heartbeat picked up behind your ribs.

What did he mean come clean? What was it that he thought he knew? Was he asking about your family, your reason for being here? The floating rumor that you’d lied about your age to gain access to the kingsguard? The fighting with Nishimura that was still ongoing?

“Look at me,” he commanded, and you slowly raised your face to his.

Again you were struck by how absurdly handsome he was, even as he was about to wring you out with the reprimanding of a lifetime. His serious expression called attention to the sharpness of his features - his straight nose, angular jawline, and thin mouth. His watchful crimson eyes were swept with thick blonde lashes, almost catlike in shape, and intent as always. The latent command of his presence roiled under your skin and the intensity of his focus stripped you bare - you felt seen in a way that unnerved you like nothing else.

“What secrets, Captain?” you asked carefully, picking idly at the fabric of your uniform pants.

Bakugou’s mouth curled. “What was so urgent with your family?”

You flushed under his attention. “My wages," you admitted, "I post them to my family every week. They’re in debt and they need to repay it by the end of this month.”

The truth of it tasted bitter in your mouth and your ears burned hot with shame. After these many months, you’d grown accustomed to hiding your troubles. Admitting to them was uncomfortable to say the least.

A blond eyebrow raised. “You are their only source of income? And your family has no sons?”

“I am an only child,” you replied. “They have no other help.”

A thoughtful expression crossed his features. “I see,” he murmured. His quiet tone was startling in comparison to his usual brash manner. “That explains it.”

“Explains what, Captain?”

“Why you are here,” he said. Something in his tone set you on edge, raising alarm bells in your mind.

“Captain, have I done something wrong?” you asked. Almost as soon as the words were out of your mouth, however, you realized they were the wrong ones. Something in Bakugou’s gaze sharpened and he leaned forward. The hair on the back of your neck stood up and a sense of foreboding settled heavily over you, like a blanket meant to choke a fire.

“How stupid do you think I am, L/N,” he said, placing a calloused hand on the desk before him, “to ask a question like that?”

Your nails bit into your thighs. No. He couldn’t know. Whatever he thought he knew, he wouldn’t be sitting here calmly, having this conversation if he knew what you were.

“I’ve trained a lot of soldiers,” Bakugou continued, his voice rough. “Hardly a one is as capable as you have proven yourself. But you and I both know that under normal circumstances, you would never be allowed here.”

A prickling fear crept over you. You opened your mouth to say something, make any excuse, but nothing came out.

“You know, they talk a lotta shit at court. About why someone like me would run the guard instead of marrying and repairing to Musutafu. Heard a lotta shit about how I wouldn’t know a woman if she pranced naked in front of me.”

His blood red gaze held yours and you found you couldn’t pull your own eyes away. “You think that’s true, princess?”

Your mind flashed back to that evening in the baths, how his eyes had picked over you, the curious tilt to his head before he grinned and came into the water. The press of his broad, wet chest against your back, his voice in your ear.

All his comments, the sword, his watchful behavior since suddenly snapped into place.

He had known. Fuck, he had known.

“No, Captain,” you choked out. A cold terror swept through you. What was he going to do now? Discharge you? Turn you in?

Bakugou tapped his calloused fingers over the wood of his desk, eyes never leaving you. “And what do you think I should do?”

You had shot to your feet before you even knew what you were doing, your mind was filling with only one thing.

“Please, Captain,” you begged, “I need the money. Please let me finish out six months, that’s all I ask.”

Bakugou was quiet a long moment, watching you carefully. His eyes tracked you closely.

“Only six months, huh?” he asked finally.

You started, surprised. “What?”

A smirk played about his mouth and he reached atop the neat pile of papers on his desk. Long fingers pushed a familiar half hand of parchment towards you, and you glanced down. The terms of your recruitment and your own deliberately messy signature stared up at you. “Says here you’re signed into a year and a day of service, princess.”

You could feel your eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Captain Bakugou, I don’t understand.”

His smirk widened and he stood, coming around the desk to you. “You think I would discharge one of my best soldiers before her term is up?”

The look he was giving you suggested that you consider your answer carefully. “....No?”

A predatory grin crept over his mouth. “No.”

You stared at him, bewildered. “Then why call me here, Captain? Why ask what you should do?”

Bakugou huffed a laugh and leaned into your space. You stumbled a step back, bumping clumsily into the chair behind you. Your hand shot out and to your horror you grabbed a fistful of his shirt to keep yourself upright, only succeeding in drawing him closer.

This close, you could clearly see how dark his eyes had become and you thought you might be able to count every one of his golden lashes. That mind numbing scent of smoke and sugar pressed in on you, and you felt like your brain was stuffed with cotton. Your fingers tightened on his collar and a large hand came up to press against your back, holding you steady.

“I meant what should I do,” he said slowly, “if I've wanted to kiss one of my soldiers for months.”

All thought fled from your brain like rats from the proverbial ship. You stared at him, speechless.

Bakugou’s face dipped closer and his hand slipped up your back, pressing you closer. “What then, princess?” he breathed.

He couldn’t be serious. You were many things, but an option to Bakugou was not one of them. Disguised as a boy you looked younger than your years, but when looked at through the lense of womanhood, you were too old to be a possibility to any man. More than that, you had quite literally disguised yourself as a boy, and had spent the last five months training and sweating and bleeding with this man. How could anyone, least of all a man who looked like Bakugou did, want you now?

A calloused thumb brushed over your back and an involuntary shiver went up your spine. Bakugou’s eyes roved over you, unblinking, and you watched as his pupils dilated slightly.

“Captain, you can’t be serious,” you said, holding completely still.

A crease appeared in his brow. “It’s Katsuki.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“My name,” he repeated, “is Katsuki. I am not your captain for the purposes of this conversation.”

You looked up at him in shock but his face remained even, his expression earnest. Did he mean it?

“Katsuki,” you repeated, testing it out. His fingers tightened on your back but he said nothing.

You took another breath and continued. “You can’t be serious,” you said again.

This seemed to irritate him, his grip tensing where he held you. “Why not?” he ground out, the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown.

“There are plenty of women in the castle,” you said. A pretty image of Mina floated to your mind. “Women who dress like women. Women who are younger, prettier.”

He growled. “I don’t care about the women in the castle, princess. I’m not asking just because you’re right in front of me.”

“What, then?” you asked, searching his face for some answer.

He fit his other hand against your waist to pull you impossibly closer. It burned at your side with a heat like a small sun, impossible to ignore. “You’ve got nerve, princess. It’s not any woman who would disguise herself and sneak into the guard. It’s not any woman who could best any of my men. It's not any woman who would start a fist fight with some asshole her very first day, and continue to be a pain in my ass ever since. I don’t want women in the castle,” he spat. “I want you.”

Heat licked up your spine. For a moment you thought he had lit off an explosion against your skin, before you realized with a flush that nothing of the sort had happened. This was your own desire.

Before you could think better of it, you leaned forward and pressed your mouth to his.

For a moment he stood frozen, and you wondered wildly if this was some kind of joke he’d chosen to play before discharging you, a momentary reprieve before he struck the killing blow.

But then his mouth moved and you didn’t have the capacity to wonder anything any more.

Katsuki Bakugou’s kiss was just as deadly as his swordplay. His mouth was hot and he tasted impossibly of smoke and sweetness. A rough hand came up to cradle the back of your head and press you closer to him as he pressed his tongue into the seam of your lips. You opened your mouth compliantly and he swept in like an invading army, letting out a low groan.

“Fuck, princess,” he breathed when you broke apart. You opened your mouth to reply but he was back on you before you could, pressing you backwards and bearing you down to the wood of his desk. He swept a careless arm out, shoving the papers from the surface. They fluttered to the floor in a whirlwind of dark ink.

“You should have seen you in the bath,” he ground out, swooping in for another kiss. “Any idiot would have known you for a woman.”

He pressed a hand to your waist and guided you back, settling into the space between your thighs. He bent to pluck another kiss from your lips, then started mouthing a hot path down the side of your neck.

Your hand came up to grab a fistful of blonde hair, and you felt your leg hook around the back of his thigh to draw him closer.

“Captain,” you said, but the glare of a red eye had you reeling to correct yourself. “Katsuki, I’m not sure you should want this--”

A warning bite at your shoulder cut you off. “Give me your name.”

Confusion swirled into the haze of emotions clouding your mind. “What?”

“Your first name,” Katsuki said, biting down again. You gasped and arched up into him. “I want to know your name.”

“Y/N,” you managed, before he took your mouth again. Then he kept you occupied long enough for you to quite forget what you’d been starting to complain about.

When you next broke apart, the sky outside the room’s only window had darkened and every nerve in your body felt as though it were on fire. You ached to get closer to him even though you were pressed against him everywhere, his weight all but pinning you to the worn wood of his desk. Your lips felt chapped and your mind swam with the weight of him, the feel of him, that scent of smoke and sugar that swirled around him like a mist, fogging up your mind.

“Y/N,” he said, pulling back from you. He held himself over you on the strength of his arms. “I want you to be sure you want this. If you say you don’t, I won’t discharge you. You can go back to being a regular soldier and finish out your contract.”

You pulled together just enough of your wits to process what he was saying. “I understand," you said slowly, looking up at him, "And if I did want it?”

“I’ll keep your secret,” he said, face dipping back down to yours. The scarlet of his iris was darker than you’d ever seen. “But I get to finish what I should have done in that bath.”

Heat swept through you and your toes curled, your fingers flexing where you still grasped his hair. Was he saying...?

“You can take a couple days,” he said, drawing further off of you, “Think it over.”

You shook your head, tightening your grip to stop him. “I know my answer now.”

And you did. After so many months of wondering after him, staring at him, learning about him, how could you not? Katsuki Bakugou was loud, brash, and infuriating but he also was fiercely protective, watchful, and -- in his own twisted up way -- kind. He’d found you a sword, trained you himself, thought you more capable than any man. He’d kept your secret, would keep it still.

There was only one answer.

“You want to finish what you started in the bath?” you asked carefully, tipping your head to look back at him. You let a small smile creep over your mouth. “I think I’m free tonight.”

#bakugou x reader #fanfic #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki

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idreamofplaid · 3 years

Text

It Begins

Square Filled: Tongue Fucking for @spnkinkbingo & Singing Christmas Songs for @spnchristmasbingo

Characters: Sam x Olivia (OFC); Jensen and John mentioned

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Oral (female receiving)

Summary: Olivia is new to the marketing firm owned by John Winchester, and is surprised to be assigned to an important ad campaign for a high profile client. She feels like she’s in over her head with the work, but she’s in even deeper with the boss’ son, Sam.

Word Count:3781

A/N: This is Part 1 of a Series called Surrender to the Truth. It’s an AU mash up of RPF and SPN characters. I’m also playing with time. Imagine Season 8 Sam and Jensen a year or so into the future.

It was beta’d by the wonderful @fangirlxwritesx67. Thanks Viv for your patience with all my questions, your enthusiasm for this project, your thorough reading that really made me think about what I was doing, and the series title.

Why were Mondays always like this? Olivia found it hard to decide what to wear after a weekend of being relaxed in pajamas and denim. Traffic was predictably the worst, even more so because of the holidays, and if there was any day she was going to forget and leave her coffee on the kitchen counter; it was Monday.

She made it to work on time with only a couple of minutes to spare. This was only her second week on the job at the city’s most up and coming marketing firm and being late was not the way to make a good impression on her new boss. John Winchester was a man with exacting standards and high expectations.

Her first stop was the coffee pot in the breakroom. There was no way her creativity was going to start flowing without caffeine. Cup in hand, Olivia made her way to her office. It was a respectable office, larger than the little more than a closet sized space she’d had in her last office. This one even had a small window. These things might seem insignificant, but Olivia had worked hard for them, and to her they were badges of success.

Olivia had barely had two sips of her vanilla creamer laced coffee when she had a visitor in her office, the kind of visitor who doesn’t knock: Sam Winchester. She hadn’t been here long, but she had been filled in on Sam. He was practically legendary among the women of the office, and some of the men. She took another sip of her coffee to hide the fact that her mouth had fallen open. This guy lived up to the hype.

He was wearing a white dress shirt, minus the jacket, and the way his shoulders and chest filled out that shirt was nothing short of sinful. His tie formed a perfect Windsor knot at his throat, and the face above that tie was Greek god handsome. He was a Greek god with dimples.

As he walked across the room, his every move exuded power and privilege, without the arrogance. Holy fuck. Could a man be more attractive?

He put a folder down on the edge of Olivia’s desk. Work. Right. He expected her brain to focus on what his family was paying her for.

She sat down to take a look at what was so important Sam Winchester himself had delivered it. When he spoke, his voice was just as delicious as the rest of him.

“New account. Dad wants you to take it.” He sat down smoothly on the edge of her desk to watch her look through the file like he owned the place, which he basically did. She finished looking through the file then looked up at Sam, more confused than ever. She was the new kid here. Why would they give her something this high profile, as in Hollywood high profile?

It wasn’t her most impressive moment or the most professional thing she’d ever said, but she blurted out, “Why me?”

Sam rested his hand on his thigh. The way his long fingers spread out over it wasn’t helping her concentrate or wrap her head around this situation. “Because you’re from Texas. Gives you insight into the culture, the vibe, the feel of it.” He stood and adjusted his tie, drawing your attention to his hands again. “This Ackles guy is a personal friend of my dad’s, so make it good.” As he left, he looked back over his shoulder. “Besides, everyone likes beer; you’ll come up with something.”

She said to the empty room, after he closed the door behind him, “No, actually I don’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a couple of minutes after Sam left, all she could do was stare at the nicely framed but generic artwork on her wall. The Winchesters were trusting her with a huge account for some reason, and she was scared completely out of her mind that she was going to screw it up and ruin her future with this company, along with her career in advertising. Why did it have to be beer? Finally, she opened the file and spread the pictures of the brewery and the photos of its famous owner across her desk.

She picked up one of the glossy pictures of Jensen Ackles in all his male model perfection and took a good look at it. He was just as gorgeous as Sam, but his look was distinctly different. His eyes were a clear green, and they held a deep intensity. Those eyes were captivating in a photograph. What would they be like in person? She allowed herself to indulge in that fantasy for a few seconds then shook her head to break the spell. She needed some Bailey’s in her coffee. Excellent idea. She was already walking a perilous line at this new job, so why the hell not?

Olivia swiveled her chair and opened the cabinet behind her, reaching into the back to grab the bottle of liquor where she’d stashed it. She poured a generous amount into her cup, hoping it would calm her nerves. With that in mind, she turned on some music. The soothing notes of an instrumental version of “White Christmas” floated from the speakers.

She closed her eyes and let the taste of the coffee and the Irish cream sit on her tongue. This had been one of her favorite Christmas songs when she was growing up. It always took her to a fantasy wonderland, a place where life was ideal and Christmas cottages had perfectly trimmed trees with beautiful presents piled beneath them, fireplaces alive with glowing fires, stockings hung on the mantel, and snowflakes falling gently outside. Living in Texas, snow had been a magical and rarely seen event.

That long cherished holiday dream filled her mind and calmed her. She started singing along with the music. ...just like the ones I used to know. After a stanza or so, she opened her eyes to focus once again on the pictures of the brewery in front of her. A snowy Christmas was her fantasy, but she had a job to do; that was her reality.

By the end of the day when Sam came back to check on her progress, Olivia had practically nothing to show him. It would do no good to try and stall or hide just how little she had managed to accomplish. He was her supervisor on this project, and he was here to see how much progress she’d made.

He flipped through the work she’d done that day. His expression was unreadable, but his words were clear enough. “The Taste of Texas? Not exactly original is it?” He paused and cut his eyes over to her, then dropped them back to the papers he was holding. “The drawings aren’t bad though. We can probably use some of these hill country sketches. Maybe a logo design.” He closed the file and tossed it back on her desk.

“Do you know what you need?” Her silence said she didn’t. “Inspiration.”

She put her hand on the folder lying on her desk, the one that represented her failed day of work. “Where do I get that exactly?” She was unable to keep a hint of exasperation out of her voice.

He flashed her those unbelievable dimples and winked. “Follow me.” Sam took her to his office. It was easily four times the size of hers with an entire wall of windows that revealed a breathtaking view of the city, the lights from the skyline competing with the white lights on the tastefully decorated Christmas tree that adorned his office. It was opulent and sleek, a space befitting the heir to the growing empire.

She allowed herself to indulge in the breathtaking view of the skyline for a few seconds before commenting, “It’s an incredible view, but I don’t see anything about a family business in Texas out there.”

“Your inspiration isn’t out there; it’s in here.” His voice drew her eyes away from the magnificent view. Sam walked to his mini fridge and pulled out a six pack. He held it up. “A little Cosmic Cowboy from Family Business Beer Company. How can you create an impactful and memorable campaign without sampling the product?”

Sam twisted the top off a bottle and handed it to her. She took a sip of it. Unfortunately, she wasn’t one of those people who could describe the taste of beer. It was cold. It was beer. That was all she had. She was not a connoisseur. How was she ever going to do this ad campaign? She didn’t even like beer.

Sam had been watching her reaction carefully. Olivia didn’t have a poker face, though she’d tried to hide her reaction. It didn’t slip by him that she wasn’t comfortable with this beer thing.

“Not your favorite then?” He took a drink from his bottle. “Taste it again.”

He was the boss’ son, effectively her boss right now, and this was her job; but she got the feeling she would have done whatever he asked even if that hadn’t been the case. She took another sip, and Sam coached her through it. “Think about what you’re drinking; savor it. Just like wine, beer has notes; and they’re all different.”

She took one more drink. “What am I supposed to be tasting?” She’d never been good with wine either, but once someone explained there was blackberry or oak or whatever in it; she could pick up on that. She needed Sam to tell her what she should be tasting.

“Do you taste how it’s substantial but still light?” She took another sip and nodded. “It’s the grapefruit and pineapple that make it light; the pine in it gives it a little something more.” When he said it, she could taste it. She could taste it all.

Sam’s office had a fireplace, not like the one in her fantasy Christmas cottage, but when he picked up a remote and clicked it bringing the flames to life, it was cozy nevertheless. Sam took off his tie and tossed it on one of the upholstered chairs in front of the fire. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Absentmindedly, Olivia took another sip of her beer while she watched him.

Sam sat down on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, his back leaning against the leather sofa, legs stretched out in front of him. He put what was left of the six pack of beer down beside him and patted the floor on his other side, inviting her to join him. Olivia lowered herself next to him. She was thankful her pencil skirt wasn’t so tight that it didn’t allow some freedom of movement, and she tried not to stare at the way the firelight danced over his golden skin. He caught her looking at his strong forearms, exposed below the rolled white cuffs of his shirt. Sam smiled, a flirty and suggestive sort of smile. He finished the last of his beer, and popped open another.

Olivia was slower to finish hers, but she was beginning to warm up to the taste. Perhaps it was something you had to acquire, or maybe the company you were in made all the difference. Beer might be okay after all.

He asked, “What do you think of it now?”

“I can taste everything you said.” The crackle of the fire, the lights from the Christmas tree, and the skyline in the background created a perfect storm of romantic atmosphere. Olivia noticed how Sam’s eyes were a beautiful honeyed brown, dappled with green and gold. His lips looked incredibly soft in contrast to the hard line of his jaw. He caught her starting again, this time at his mouth.

He took her empty bottle and slotted it back into the cardboard square where it had originally been and put what was left of his beer in the empty square beside it. Sam turned back to her and leaned in closer. He took her face into his hand and looked into her eyes for a long second or two before he lowered his mouth to hers.

The way he kissed was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. His tongue was sure but gentle as it circled hers. He had complete control of her through what his mouth was doing. A wet spot was forming in her panties, her body responding to him. At the same time his hand was cradling her face while his fingers moved slowly back and forth through her hair, massaging her scalp and melting her under his touch. He could do anything to her. She was eager for it.

He broke the kiss, and now he was holding both sides of her head in his enormous hands. His lips were still just inches from hers. She could feel his breath when he asked, “What do you taste now?”

This man could make her breathless. He was either meant for her, or he was excellent at reading her actions and responses. His attention was completely on her, waiting for her response.

“I...can still taste the beer, but the way you taste makes it better.” It wasn’t eloquent. For someone who worked with words to pull the maximum effect from them, he could make her forget how to use them properly.

Sam kissed her again, hands roaming down her back and stopped just above her waist. “You know what else might really inspire you?”

Olivia pressed her body so tightly against his she could feel the muscles in his chest and stomach through his shirt. It made her wetter. “I have some ideas.”

He took off her jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Then let’s get those creative...juices flowing.” The blouse she was wearing was form fitting. Sam’s gaze traveled over her breasts before his eyes locked onto hers.

A spark traveled between them. Lust? Need? Want? Whatever it was, the sexual tension hung in the air for a moment before their lips crashed together.

Sam lowered her to the floor while he pulled her shirt up. He broke the kiss to tear it over her head and throw it out of the way. Now it was his turn. She took a fistful of his shirt and pulled it out of his pants, then did the same on the other side. He propped himself over her on his hands while she unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. She ran her hand across his chest and over his shoulder. What he’d been hiding beneath that expensive shirt was impressive.

Sam smiled down at her. “You like?”

“Very much,” she answered while he took off her bra and lowered his head to take one of her nipples in his mouth. He teased it with his tongue until she was arching her back and raising her hips off the floor.

Sam sucked hard on the nipple in his mouth before pulling off it. “Do you want more?” Her eyes closed and her lips parted, a small moan escaping from them.

He unzipped her skirt and dragged it down her legs, then turned his attention to her lace covered mound. Sam rubbed his fingers over her panty covered core. “Already so wet.” He pushed her panties aside and swiped his fingers through her folds. Then he lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked her juices from them. His eyes bore into hers. “Tastes so good.”

He tore her panties from her body to gain access to what he wanted; she heard the sound of silk and lace ripping. Sam’s hand felt huge on her thighs as he pushed them wide apart. He held them there, and his tongue found her clit. He sucked it the same way he’d worked at her nipple.

She was raising and lowering her hips beneath him, fucking nothing and needing to be filled until Sam swirled his tongue all the way down her slit to her opening and thrust it inside. She wasn’t empty anymore, and it felt incredible. He moved his tongue in and out of her, fucking her on it until she was writhing and grabbing fistfuls of his hair.

She wanted to scream but was still aware enough to know they were in the office building. So, with some effort, she held it in. But when he added the pad of his thumb circling over her clit while he continued to thrust into her with his tongue, she started to whimper and moan. Her thighs were shaking when she came on his face. He licked and stroked her through her orgasm until she went still beneath him.

Sam didn’t move for a few seconds, then he raised himself up so he could see her reaction to what he’d done to her, how it had affected her. Olivia smiled up at him, and Sam returned the smile while he unbuckled, unzipped, and pushed his pants and underwear down over his hips. If she’d thought what was under his shirt was stunning, what was under his pants was better. His cock was absolutely magnificent. It stood against his stomach long and thick, resting on his well defined abs. Sam caught her looking at him yet again, and his smile got bigger. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Sam lowered himself from his kneeling position until he was sitting on the floor. He pushed his pants farther down his legs to get them out of the way. He extended a hand to her, and she took it. He settled her on his lap. Olivia wrapped her legs around him. He looked at her with those beautiful eyes that combined colors in so many ways that seemed to change from moment to moment. “Do you want to go through with this? It’s not too late to say no.”

She squeezed her thighs into his sides. She was imagining the feel of his cock stretching her open. From the looks of him, it was going to be a tight fit. “I absolutely want to go through with this.”

That was all he needed to hear. He took a condom from the wallet in the pants pooling around his ankles and rolled it down over his length. Sam put his hands on each side of her waist and lifted her up, lining her up over the tip of his cock.

When he started to lower her down onto his shaft, she rolled her head forward. Her hair brushed over his shoulder as he continued to slowly ease her down onto his length, giving her time to adjust to his size. Once he was fully seated inside her, he began to roll his hips. Oliva imitated his movements, rolling her hips with the same rhythm.

She raised her head because she wanted to see into Sam’s eyes while he thrust up into her. There was something in the depths of them that she couldn’t quite define, something she wanted to figure out, something she wanted to understand and know better. He covered her mouth and kissed her with an intensity she could feel through her entire body.

His tongue was circling hers, tasting her, when she came again. Olivia clenched around him and her body spasmed in waves as her orgasm crested and blended into another. Sam kissed her all the way through it. She went limp in his arms, and he kept moving.

She could feel his hands on her and the warmth of the flame from the fire on her skin. She could feel the way his cock throbbed, still buried deep inside her, and she could taste him. He pulled away from her mouth and buried his face in her neck when he came.

“Olivia.” He said her name once, just the one word, and it struck her to the core. Olivia regretted that she couldn’t feel his hot release painting her insides. It felt like some part of him was being held back from her, and she wanted it all.

Whatever magic she’d felt hearing the sound of her name on his lips dissipated with the reality of Sam pulling himself from her body and carefully removing the condom. He pulled his pants back up before walking over to his desk to dispose of it in the wastebasket there. Olivia imagined it wouldn’t be the first time the cleaning service found one of those in his trash.

What was she doing? She just screwed the boss’ son in his office. She was a total cliche. Her mind told her she should feel like a slut, but she didn’t. She refused to be ashamed of what she’d done. The sex had been mind blowing; her body had never responded to any man that way. Sam had stirred something in her physically, but it had gone beyond that. It was something she would examine later and try to define, but now all she could think of was escaping the overwhelming thoughts and feelings consuming her. Hastily, she grabbed her clothes and was in the process of putting them back on when Sam returned.

He took her hand and charmed her with his boyish dimples and his eyes that had turned a soft gray like the color of a sky lit by a silvery moon. Still, it was his words that got to her the most. “Hey, don’t be in such a hurry to leave; you’re going to make me feel cheap.” He was flirting with her. Guys like him moved smoothly through situations like this as though they were born to it, and in a way they were. Still, part of her hoped he was being at least a little sincere.

Sam hadn’t let go of her hand. “Stay with me. We can watch the fire, enjoy the lights on the Christmas tree.” This was a fling, right? It was a one night stand with the irresistible guy at work. “Plan our trip to Texas.” What did he just say? “A six pack is just an introduction to the business. What you need is to see the brewery.”

Sam sat down on the sofa, and Olivia sank down beside him. She lowered her guard a little and let some of the bliss she was feeling wash over her. The ambience created by the light from the tree and the fire enhanced her mood; both the light and her mood seemed somehow softer now.

“We can take the company jet. Ring in the new year in Austin.” Listening to him, Olivia had a most happy thought. Maybe this wasn’t a one night thing after all.

Everything: @gambitwinchester @princessmisery666 @onethirstyunicorn @peridottea91 @logical-princey @emilyshurley @beenlovingromansincedayoneish @fangirlxwritesx67 @waywardbaby @atc74 @shaniquacynthia @mariekoukie6661 @tumbler-tidbits @67-chevy-baby @fandom-princess-forevermore @terrarium-jpeg @emoryhemsworth @crashdevlin @heycasbutt @jules-1999 @mrsdeannafuckingwinchester @cosicas-cuquis @sammyimpala-67 @queenoftheunderdark @dean-winchesters-bacon @mrs-meghan-winchester @timelordy-fangirl2 @sweetness47 @hobby27 @awesomesusiebstuff @kickingitwithkirk @becs-bunker @sandlee44 @supernaturalgrandma @lonewolf471 @sea040561 @dawnie1988 @volleyballer519 @outcastedangel @kdfrqqg @lizette50 @daisymoder72 @sorenmarie87 @winchesterxfamilybusiness @deansotherotherblog

Sam/Jared: @girl-next-door-writes @stunudo @feelmyroarrrr @sammit-janet @idabbleincrazy @evansrogerskitten @focusonspn @autumninavonlea @spnxbsessed @durinsbride @deansyahtzee @waywardnerd67 @fullmooner @julesthequirky

#spnkinkbingo #spnchristmasbingo #sam smut #sam x ofc #sam series

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cottonwoolsocks · 4 years

Text

Jump In, The Water’s Fine

AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: A beach trip on which Roman forgets the drinking water, Patton gets an injury, Virgil wants ice-cream, and Logan blames himself for everything that goes wrong.

Word Count: 8025 Genre: Human AU, hurt/comfort Characters: Logan, Virgil, Roman, Patton Relationships: platonic LAMP

Warnings: minor injury description, the ocean, sharks, sensory overload, panic attack

If I need to tag anything else, let me know!

———

Every page of Logan’s prized copy of How to Be A Stoic was now soiled with a fine layer of sand that burrowed into the spine, nestling itself there for the rest of the book’s existence—which would be a long time, if he had anything to say about it. Sand had a funny habit of managing to creep into every space except those where it was supposed to be.

At least Patton and the others seemed to be having fun.

The beach trip had been Patton's idea, but Roman had been quick to agree and Virgil appeared to be enjoying himself, Roman and Patton adding the finishing touches to a magnificent sandcastle as Virgil paused to wipe his brow. A shovel was in his hand and a large mound of sand sat to one side, courtesy of his last half-hour of labour and the foot-wide moat now encircling the design. Spotting Logan watching them, he waved, Logan half-heartedly raising a hand in response. Virgil motioned him over to them, a question hanging in the air, but Logan was quick to shake his head. Virgil nodded, giving a gesture of understanding before planting his shovel in the sand and turning to help Roman in decorating the castle the eclectic mix of seashells Patton had just returned with.

Logan sighed.

At least they were all enjoying themselves, even if he was feeling more uncomfortable than the time he’d had to sleep in the backseat of a car lodged deep in the middle of a muddy field while Roman attempted to choreograph a particularly violent sleep-dance routine—and he’d had the bruises to show for it.

His book had been a far shorter read than he had hoped, and he had not brought his second book by Patton’s request: they had already packed enough beach bags for a small orchestra, perhaps Logan could forgo his second book in lieu of Virgil’s sun top and a deflated beach ball, rather than adding another to their dowry? Logan had been skeptical, especially since Roman had still managed to sneak in his sketchbook, and neither the beach ball nor the sketchbook had been more than glanced at longways since they had arrived.

But, he supposed, they had only been there for—he checked his watch—two and a half hours. He frowned, checking again and wondered if he had forgotten to replace the batteries—but, he supposed, his perception of time did seem to travel faster when he was enjoying a particularly stimulating book. He had already drunk most of his water bottle, making sure to stay adequately hydrated in the stifling heat, but noted with concern that all but one of the other bottles in the box remained untouched.

Glancing over to the others on the sands, he weighed his options as Patton celebrated the completion of the castle by attempting to clamber on top of it and sending half the east wall tumbling into the moat, and Logan ultimately decided the others’ health was more important than his own comfort. Rolling his eyes a little at their lack of concern for their own wellbeing, he gathered the three other bottles from the lunch box, made sure the towel he was laying on was suitably held down by a multitude of left sandals, and braced himself for the heat.

It was always hotter than he expected.

The heat, which only felt skin-deep in the shade, now seemed to penetrate all the way through his body and then out of the other side, only to hit the sand and bounce back again. Figuratively, of course; there was no way for heat to actually travel in such a manner. That said, had Logan not known the science behind heat and reflection, he would have assumed his previous conclusion to be correct.

The soles of Logan’s feet burned on the sand as he bounced an odd hopping jog towards the others whilst juggling a precarious armful of sloshing water bottles, one sandal holding down a corner of his towel and the other awol, and wondered not for the first time what it was about a large, heat-reflective expanse of crushed seashells that was so very attractive to such a huge number of people.

“Lo!” called Patton as he spotted him approaching and waved excitedly, white sundress billowing with the movement. “We made a castle!” He giggled as he gestured proudly to the sandy mound, which more closely resembled a forlorn pile of sludge than a deliberate structure now it was missing most of the east side.

“I’m pleased you're enjoying yourself. However, you have all been neglecting your own health. It is vital to stay hydrated, moreso when in direct heat.” He nodded to the water bottles in his arms.

“Thanks, Specs,” called Roman from where he had tumbled into the castle’s moat on the other side in an attempt to stop Patton from tripping over earlier. He raised his hand, palm open and facing Logan. “Toss me one!”

Logan could feel the sun beating down onto the back of his neck, and the warmth warned him he'd be getting sunburn soon if he didn't retreat to the shade. His arms were sticky with suncream as he shuffled the bottles around, handing one each to Patton and Virgil—

“Thank you, Lo!”

“Thanks.”

—and tossing the other over the top of the sandcastle and into Roman’s waiting hand.

“Wanna come swim with us, Lo?” asked Patton, screwing the lid back onto his now half-emptied water bottle and giving it an experimental swish.

Logan shook his head, already taking half a step back. Even the thought of the salty water, the unknown creatures waiting within, and the inevitability of wet sand sticking to him was making his skin prickle with discomfort. “No, thank you, Patton. I would— I have my book to finish.”

He could feel Virgil’s hard stare digging into him, but dared not turn to meet it. He could tell he knew he was holding something back, but there was nothing Logan could do but hope it would remain unmentioned, left alone. Surely, the others would get bored soon. Surely, as the height of the afternoon approached, they would begin to feel the heat.

“Suit yourself!” said Roman, tossing a handful of sand towards Patton’s knees and rocketing off towards the ocean waves—but not before making sure to massage a wet clump of sand from somewhere in the depths of the moat into Virgil’s as-yet clean hair.

Patton shrieked gleefully and tore after Roman, and whatever Virgil had been going to say was evidently less important than his revenge as he offered naught more than a farewell gesture and a third pair of footprints joined those already gone.

Logan watched them run for a moment, wistful, as the wind caught in their hair and Patton clutched his sunhat to stop it blowing away. Roman reached the waves first, running in as far as he could before dropping to his chest and beginning to swim, treading water as first Virgil and then Patton caught up with him, out of breath. Virgil kicked a wide arc of water towards Roman, who spluttered as the water washed over his face, but he didn’t seem to mind the salt as he retaliated with a sweeping wake of his own. Patton stood to one side, out of the way of the salty battle, sundress bundled in his hands as he hopped over the smaller waves and cheered.

Logan had half a mind to join them after all, but then he noticed the three water bottles abandoned at his feet, water warming as the temperature continued to climb, and the cloudless sky, their unsupervised bags, the opacity of the water—and banished the thought from his mind. Someone had to be responsible, after all.

So, he gathered the bottles from amongst the discarded buckets and shovels, feet burning on the dust of seashells, and hurried back to the umbrella.

Logan felt a little consolation in the fact they had found this little alcove. The more popular beaches had been a considerably shorter drive, but the four of them much preferred somewhere with a little more peace and room to build sandcastles. Most of this beach was spotted with visitors, but they were generously interspersed, families relaxing in little spots along the sands as children played alongside, and the ocean was free enough of people that Logan was actually able to determine which of the little figures were his friends.

Deciding he may as well make use of his time now that the others seemed thoroughly occupied with their next activity, he packed the bottles neatly back into the insulated lunch box to keep them cool, and cast around for the cool box containing the refill bottles. Not spotting it on the sands, he moved to root around in the two larger duffel bags they had brought for the rest of their things, wondering if Roman had perhaps put the cool box inside one of them so as to lessen the number of items they had to carry down.

Moving aside yet another of Roman’s untouched sketchbooks—how did he manage to get all of these past Patton?—and an assortment of towels, he dug all the way to the bottom, and was unsurprised to see the layer of sand lining the material despite Logan’s certainty that this bag had never, even once before, been near a beach. He didn’t think it had even been opened since they got here, and yet the granules had worked their way into the seams, the towels, even between the pages of the sketchbook.

Logan had no doubt there would have been sand in the cool box, too, had there been a cool box to speak of.

Frowning, he moved onto the second of their bags, despite having been sure this one was only for the more delicate items, like the croissants, and the butter, and Virgil’s insulin pack—definitely not the sort of place you would put a heavy cool box with eight litres of water.

Just as expected, there was no box in sight, and he huffed in annoyance. This had been Roman’s responsibility, but clearly he had been too preoccupied with squeezing as many sketchbooks into as many bags as he possibly could, without even an intent to use them.

But— no, that wasn’t fair. Logan should have checked—it was his responsibility, too, to make sure they had everything they needed. He’d been negligent, and their health would suffer as a result. He should have been more thorough; he would make a note of that, for next time.

Perhaps it was back in the car? It wasn’t impossible. Logan had only made sure of the two large bags coming down to the beach, and hadn’t checked the car for anything forgotten—another lapse in judgement, on his part.

He cast around for his sandals and was not surprised to see neither of them as he resigned himself to two left sandals belonging to Roman and Virgil respectively, folding the towel so it wouldn’t blow away and zipping the bags closed again. The others were still down at the water, facing away from him, Roman having swum a little ways out as Virgil and Patton played chicken with the waves. Logan observed them for a moment, shading his glasses from the sun so the light wouldn’t reflect, and once satisfied they would cope in the few minutes he would be gone, grabbed the keys and set a brisk pace towards the cars.

The sand still managed to work its way between his toes and he could physically feel the heat waves bouncing onto his exposed legs, sweat making his glasses slip down his nose incessantly until he gave up trying to right them and simply held them in place. The long line of parked cars grew steadily closer, heat distorting the air around the metal, and Logan was not looking forward to having to root around inside their very own microwave oven. Somehow, the number of vehicles just kept increasing as families and groups of friends arrived to enjoy the summer heat; Logan could not understand why they had all chosen the height of the afternoon to spend their time here, when the sun was at its hottest and the beach at its busiest, but all the same, there they were, inflating beach balls and unfolding parasols.

Sidestepping a bearded man pushing a double stroller, Logan fumbled for the keys in his pocket, clammy hands almost dropping them as he tried to find the button.

The lights flashed as the vehicle unlocked and he pulled the door open, wrenching his hand away with a hiss as it clicked and the metal seared his skin. He eyed his hand disdainfully, the skin already tinged darker. Balling up his fist, he shoved it into the pocket of his shorts to worry about later as he waited for the more intense heat to circulate out of the body of the car, hoping it would be just a little less overbearing when he had to dive in in a moment.

Satisfied he had allowed as much aeration time as was plausible, he rested one knee on the inside seat, careful to avoid the hot metal of the car’s body as he cast around for anywhere one might stash a cooler box—but every foot space was as empty as the seats themselves and he could only hope that the boot would grant him more luck.

The boot, it turned out, was just as bare, save yet another of Roman’s sketchbooks half-hidden under a blanket they had chosen not to bring down to the beach itself. Logan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and biting his tongue as he tried not to let his frustrations get the better of him.

That said, this had been Roman’s responsibility, and he was very much intrigued to hear what the other man had to say about it.

Slamming the boot and double-checking the door was locked properly, he stalked back to their little encampment, nodding a greeting to the bearded man who seemed to have just realised that a stroller like the one he was pushing was less than ideal for a beach excursion as he handed the two excited children to his husband nearby and began the lengthy process of packing it away in such a way that it would not immediately break when they next tried to open it.

Logan, forgetting the necessity of holding his glasses onto his face, felt them slip, landing in the white sand as sweat and condensation mingled with the grains and created a sticky, sandy shadow over the lenses. Snatching them from the ground, granules crunched in the mechanics as he sorted them back onto his face and continued to march seaward, greatly anticipating the shade and comparative serenity of his blanket oasis beneath the umbrella.

He flopped back down in his pool of shade, eyes closing as he sighed deeply and took a moment to truly appreciate how good it felt to not be stood in direct sunlight. The sand was cool, the shade was deep, and he did not feel as if his internal organs were steadily being fried.

Bliss.

Deciding he would give it a few more minutes before reprimanding Roman, Logan was just preparing to properly unfold his towel again and return the odd sandals to their respective corners when the sound of his name reached his ears.

He looked up curiously, and his heart reared in his chest as his eyes took in the three others, Roman and Virgil supporting either side of a limping Patton, one foot held upright away from the sand and his lower lip wobbling. He offered Logan a shaking smile and an attempt at a wave with the hand looped over Virgil’s shoulder.

Logan’s frown deepened, all thoughts of water shortages forgotten as he moved to rearrange their little alcove, repositioning the towel and dusting away as much sand as he could as the other two arrived and set Patton down.

“What happened?”

“Stood on a shell,” Patton replied through gritted teeth. “It’s— I’m okay, I think. Just stings.”

Nodding, Logan leaned forwards to examine the base of Patton’s foot. There was a small cut—nothing serious, but the positioning left Logan unsurprised by how painful it seemed to be. Taking the first aid kit Virgil offered him—at least they hadn’t forgotten the first aid kit—Logan rooted around for the necessary items and, satisfied that he had what he needed, shooed the other two away. They would only pose a distraction, and Logan preferred to work in peace without them hovering over his shoulders.

Roman protested, but at Patton’s reassurance and a subtle nudge from Virgil, the pair headed back towards the waves to leave him be.

“Is it bad?” asked Patton once they had gone, eyes darting anywhere but his injured foot— Roman and Virgil by the waves, the family building sandcastles to their left, the woman walking her dog along the sands. Patton, despite how much fulfilment he received from helping others, had never been particularly good with objective injuries and blood.

“Not at all,” Logan reassured him, because it was the truth. Frankly, he was more concerned about the fact that, “I will have to clean the sand off before I can treat it properly,” reaching for his still-half-full water bottle and trying not to let his face betray his frustration.

Patton nodded, fingers brushing the cover of Logan’s book. “Can I read this?”

Glancing up, Logan nodded, Patton’s need for a distraction not foreign to him under such circumstances. Besides, he might learn a thing or two, and would perhaps get through enough of it for them to talk about the book at a later date. His heart fluttered at the thought—his reading habits rarely aligned with the others’, and it would be a change he welcomed.

Despite trying to keep the water usage to a minimum, by the end of the process his bottle was almost empty, only a few centimetres of liquid left waiting in the bottom. Logan knew he would have to make it last. He was doing the least physical exertion, Roman would complain of headaches, Patton was now injured, and of the four of them it was most important for Virgil to keep his fluids up lest his health suffer the consequences. It only made sense.

“That should be sufficient for now,” Logan said, brushing off his hands as he pulled the zipper on the first aid bag closed. “You shouldn’t go back in the water, though, and be mindful of the sand. You don’t want to contaminate the wound.”

Patton nodded, setting down the book and thanking Logan. Glancing at the pages, Logan’s heart fell as he saw Patton had only just breached the first page—but no matter. Patton was injured, and now was most definitely not the time to be feeling let down by something so trivial.

Stretching his arms, Patton stood and rummaged in one of their bags, pulling out a second towel and laying it down in the sun alongside Logan’s.

“Would you like to share the shade?” asked Logan, skin prickling at the thought of sitting in direct sunlight and wanting to offer Patton an escape, but also aware that the current location of the sun meant their shade pool would not be getting any bigger, hardly housing one person as it was.

“Oh, no, I’m going to sunbathe for a bit; give you back your shade. Thank you, though!”

“Alright. Make sure to reapply your sunscreen after being in the ocean.”

Patton nodded, reaching for the bottle as Logan smoothed the creases in his towel and settled back down. He could hope that Patton’s injury would hasten the other two to leaving, but judging from how carefree Patton seemed, and that Virgil and Roman were both happily swimming down in the ocean, it didn’t seem likely. Logan’s shoulders curled inward at the thought of the waves, but he supposed that as long as the others were having fun, it was alright.

As long as they left soon, it would be alright.

They had been relaxing—well, Patton had been relaxing, Logan had been baking in uncomfortably languid silence—for the best part of half an hour when Logan heard his name being called. He blinked, reaching for his glasses and drawing the sunhat from his face as he sat upright, trying to blink through the stickiness that had gathered in his eyes as he peered towards Patton to ask what he could help with.

The call came again as he realised it was not Patton trying to get his attention as the other man was sitting up just as groggily, and Logan’s head snapped up to see Virgil speeding towards him, one hand raised urgently and the other cupped around his mouth as he shouted again.

Logan was scrambling to his feet in an instant, eyes scanning Virgil for any signs of injury and, finding none, beginning to scan the ocean line for Roman.

Reaching him, Virgil skidded to a halt, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“What happened?” asked Logan urgently, still trying to locate the Roman on the coastline amongst the sea of bodies. “Are you injured? Where’s Roman?”

Virgil gestured falteringly back to the ocean as he tried to heave in enough oxygen to form a sentence, managing to break out stuttered words, Roman, swimming, too far.

And Logan was sprinting, leaving Virgil and Patton alone by the bags as he spotted the little splodge of colour that must be Roman, too far out, too distant, and why did he have to swim so far away from everyone else?

His feet pounded against the sand, each beat bringing with it a new thought as he heard Virgil call from behind him and a second pair of footsteps match his own, growing closer as Virgil hurried to catch up despite how much his lungs were already burning. But Logan didn’t have time to think about him. Roman was in trouble: Roman was in need of help. Logan was responsible. Logan should have been watching him.

But it was the ocean. Logan couldn’t go in the ocean. Logan didn’t like the ocean.

It was vast, unforgiving, and filled with all manner of creatures as equally terrifying as they were fascinating.

His footsteps beat against the sand, and he was almost there, but as the edge of the water grew nearer Logan was realising he didn’t even know what he was going to do when he got there. He couldn’t go in the water; he couldn’t help Roman. All manner of strange creatures lurked just below the surface, just out of sight, watching, waiting, searching for their first meal in millenia, some horrid, undiscovered species that would slink away again before they could even identify it.

But he knew he would go in. He knew he had to. He knew he didn’t have another choice.

Thoughts beat through his mind with every step, sand under his toes becoming more solid as it became heavy with water, with salt, with the ground shells and bones and teeth of a billion creatures from aeons past, sea creatures from decades of research bouncing through his mind.

The black swallower, a species of deep sea fish capable of swallowing creatures two times its length and four times its mass.

Chironex fleckeri, or sea wasp, a near-invisible jellyfish with venom capable of killing an adult with a dose of no more than a grain of salt.

The bull shark, among the most likely of sharks to attack humans—aggressive, and often found in Florida, in shallow coastal waters such as this bay.

And even with all of the uncomfortable discoveries scientists had already made, there was still 95% of the ocean left to explore.

...This was why Logan preferred space.

Virgil drew up beside him, chest heaving, face blotchy with exertion. “He’s not— In trouble, sorry—” Virgil huffed, letting his knees collapse under him as he tried to catch his breath on the sand. “The— The inner tube floated out— He went— He went after it. But I’m worried he’s gone too far. He— Can’t hear us, and that got me worried. I— I overreacted. Sorry.”

The grip on Logan’s heart loosened as he processed these words, trying to work himself down from the adrenaline rush as his mind fought to catch up with his body. It was a false alarm. Roman was not injured, or about to be swept out into open ocean, or sinking beneath the waves as he fought for breath.

“I see.” Logan flexed his fingers, trying to regain control of his breathing as the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears quietened, just a little. “My apologies, then. It seems I, too, assumed the worst.”

Fixing his gaze on Roman out in the sea, Logan sank to the ground, kneeling on the sand so as to get as few of the grains on his shorts as possible. He would greatly prefer it if he wasn’t picking sand from the lining of his pockets for the next decade. Virgil sprawled out beside him, chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath, dyed hair mixing with the sand.

A breeze washed over them, providing a welcome relief from the overbearing heat that so far had not let up even a little. Roman appeared to have almost reached the inflatable, and while Logan was still largely apprehensive of the whole ordeal, his heartbeat seemed to be settling.

Virgil spluttered as sand was blown into his mouth by the breeze, shielding his face with a hand as he jerked upright and scowled, ruffling grains from his hair. “Stupid wind.”

The breeze died down, and Logan was once again reminded of the unforgiving heat beating down on him from every side. The ocean waves rolled, a seagull called, and Virgil prodded him pointedly in the shoulder.

“Hey, so, what’s up?”

Logan frowned, thinking he probably should have reapplied his sunscreen before coming to sit stationary in direct sunlight. “I’m not following.”

“You’ve been sitting under the parasol the whole time. I saw you finish your book, like, at least an hour ago. Not like you to be so...reclusive?” He paused, scratching absently at his shoulder. “That’s not the right word.”

Logan rubbed a pinch of sand between his fingertips, feeling each grain trickle away, returning to the mass of brown and white and gold stretching away all around them.

“I do not particularly enjoy spending time at the beach.”

Virgil eyed him for a moment before sighing gently and ruffling his hair. Sand grains spewed out, pattering onto his sun top and lining the creases. “Shit, Teach, I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“It’s not,” Logan retorted as he squinted towards the small figure of Roman who appeared to have finally reached his goal. Still too far out for comfort. Still too far out to hear them. “It’s nothing. I dislike the heat. It is uncomfortable.”

Virgil squinted. “Alright. Well, I don’t think we’ll be hanging around much longer anyway. Think I’ve used up most’ve my energy for today.”

Logan nodded gratefully as he watched the family of the bearded man he had seen by the cars begin to unpack their things, the two children running circles around each other in some invented game of tag. The girl with the pigtails, the older of the two, had a clear advantage, but the younger one was young enough that she didn’t realise this and was utterly committed to catching her sister despite the power imbalance. Logan winced as she tripped, scraping both knees and palms against the sand, but in a moment she was up again, teetering around the wind guard one of her dads was setting up.

They looked happy.

“Kids, huh?” said Virgil, tilting his head back as he followed Logan’s gaze. “So much energy. Such little anxiety. The golden days.”

Logan barked a laugh. “Back when exploring the galaxy was but the first in a great list of adventures, and you were still home in time for bed.”

“Nerd.”

“Virgil, I have just finished a modern philosophy book; I believe that was rather well established.”

Virgil hummed good naturedly as Logan gave him a soft smile. “Glad to have you around, Teach.”

They sat quietly as they watched Roman edging back to the shore. Every now and again, he raised an arm to wave and shout something excitedly, but his words were lost over the rolling of the ocean and the delighted giggles of the siblings playing on the sand. Virgil commented and Logan agreed noncommittally, mind elsewhere as his skin started to prickle with discomfort and heat and moisture.

He brushed a damp mass of hair away from his forehead, but even the smallest of movements was sticky and humid and gross so he settled for sitting still, doing his best not to breathe too deeply so he didn’t feel his skin unsticking from itself, trying to focus on the way the sand glittered under his knees and not the heat drumming against his neck and the grittiness between his toes and the constant, droning noise of the waves underneath crying seagulls and screeching children. His glasses kept steaming up but he couldn’t move to clean them because that just made everything sticky and clammy and worse so he settled for the half-vision he did have and shivered at the sweat drops rolling down his back, and the way the backs of his knees felt like pools of their own.

He blinked as Virgil’s hand scuffed his shoulder and he saw Roman wading out of the waves, inner tube clasped under one arm as he gabbled on about something Logan didn’t quite have the headspace to comprehend. He shook his head to Virgil’s outstretched hand, finding his own way upright and trying not to shiver in disgust at the way everything stuck to everything else as he moved, and all his senses seemed suddenly amplified.

“I saw a shark!” was the first thing Logan heard upon tuning back in.

“Sure you did, Princey,” Virgil replied disparagingly, offering Roman a pat on the shoulder. “Now, come on, we’ve been waiting for you for ages.”

Roman shoved him back with the inner tube, sending Virgil stumbling a few steps before he righted himself. Virgil looked to be about to shove Roman back, but then his eyes passed over Logan and back to where Patton was waiting by their things, and he thought better of it. For now, at least. Roman would surely pay the price at some later date.

“Hey, Teach!” Roman exclaimed as he properly registered Logan’s presence and slung a damp arm over Logan’s shoulders. His arm was warm but only in that muted, slightly clammy way that arms were when they were wet and you were dry and everything was already far too hot and sticky and humid. “Finally making the most of our beach excursion?”

“Don’t touch me,” Logan said, because he couldn’t think about anything other than the uncomfortably moist weight over his shoulders and the clammy heat and the muddled, overlapping sounds of the water and the birds and the people. And then, “please,” tacked on the end as an afterthought, because he didn’t want Roman to think he was being rude or that he was annoyed at him for it, because he wasn’t, but he really didn’t have much space in his head right now for pleasantries. The sand burned under his toes, the waistband of his shorts chafed against his skin, he couldn’t lift his eyes because everything was white and bright and burning and he still needed to address the fact that they were practically out of drinking water.

Roman’s arm retracted immediately as he stepped a little closer to Virgil to give Logan more space. “Of course.”

Logan’s eyes were fixed onto the sand as he walked, half-listening to Roman’s description of the bull shark that he claimed had swum not ten feet from him in the water, and half trying not to focus on the heat beating against every inch of his body and the way damp hairs stuck to the back of his neck no matter how he pushed them away.

He kept trying to ground his mind, concentrating on the feeling of sand under his feet and the murmur of his friends’ conversation, but with the relentless heat on his face he couldn’t focus on anything else, and anything he tried to latch onto immediately became overwhelming. So he tuned it out, retreating into his mind as he felt the cogs inside begin to lock differently as they shifted onto a different track, making space for him to cope by pushing aside the things that had always required more effort like seemingly trivial social niceties, maintaining an expression of mild contentedness, ensuring he stuck to the ideal eye-contact to no eye-contact ratio for regular conversation.

Patton sat up as they arrived at their things, some of the items that had been strewn about now organised neatly into their bags and the sandals which had been holding down various towels now arranged in pairs.

“Think we’re heading out,” said Virgil, moving to gather up some of the towels to go and rid them of sand in an area less densely populated. “Ready to go, Pat?”

“Yeah, just about! I figured we’d be going soon, so I already started packing up some of the bags. Logan, I left your towel, sandals and book in a little pile there.”

Logan immediately made a beeline for the little pile, towel folded neatly with sandals and book propped on top. He thanked Patton tersely, brushing off as much sand as he could from the soles of his feet before fitting the sandals, then clasping his book carefully to his chest. The whole situation was not great for his book, really, because he couldn’t put it in the bags lest it bend and crease, but the sweat on his fingers was already sullying the cover. Not that it would matter much anyway, he supposed, because every crevice was already ingrained with sand.

The others were at work dismantling the umbrella and tidying items into bags, Roman attempting to let the air out of the inner tube so it would fit back into the car, and so Logan propped himself atop his little folded towel and watched, not quite sure where he could fit in to assist and hoping that if anyone needed anything they would ask him outright.

“Logan, do you know where the water bottles are?” asked Virgil a little while later, running the back of his hand across his forehead. Roman was still wrestling with the inner tube, and Patton was in the process of folding the towels Virgil had beaten out to pack them away.

Logan felt his stomach drop, but it wasn’t like he could deny Virgil water, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get all the words out to explain the whole situation properly anyway without coming across incredibly condescending.

“I packed them into the furthest away of the two duffel bags from me. They are inside a blue lunch box. Patton may have moved them since then.”

“Perfect, thanks, Logan,” Virgil replied, shooting him a smile and finger guns as he turned to find the bag Logan had instructed him towards. Logan mentally cringed at how robotic his words had sounded, everything he said at the moment entirely unfiltered against anything that could potentially be read as demeaning or patronising as he did not currently have the mental space or energy to affix things to their regular societal standards—but Virgil understood. Logan hoped he did, anyway; he had certainly seemed to. Not that Logan wouldn’t still bring it up with Virgil within the next few days, just to assure him that he had not meant to come across unfavourably.

He pushed the thought aside. It would serve him no benefit to become caught up in such things right now, when what he really needed was somewhere cool, and quiet, and familiar, where nothing unexpected could or would happen, and he could let his brain unwind, safe in the confines of structured predictability.

Behind his eyes, the familiar throb of a headache began to beat.

As a result of dehydration, stress, or feeling generally overwhelmed, he wasn’t sure, but there it was nonetheless, beating against his skull in time with the heat on his skin. He wound a hand around his arm, digging in his fingers as he tried to focus on anything but the heat and the headache and the sweat drops creeping down his neck as the waves rolled and children shrieked and seagulls screamed. The sound of his heartbeat joined the beating of the sun’s rays and the throbbing of his headache, all three dancing over one another like some sort of crazed percussion piece as the shade from the parasol vanished as it was packed away and the light drilled into his eyes, bright sounds and loud colours pulsing around him every which way.

He wasn’t sure when he closed his eyes, but hardly a moment later Virgil was calling him to leave and Logan was shuffling along the sands just behind his friends, book and towel clutched to his chest, blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on where he was going while not looking at any of the bright and loud and omnipresent everything everywhere that seemed to dance even behind his eyelids when he screwed them closed again.

And there was sand grinding between his toes, and moisture pooling on his back, and a hundred thousand seagulls flying circles around his head and squawking, screaming, shrieking as children jostled each other and tripped and water roared past itself and snapped back again and Logan’s heart beat into his mouth as people swam out too far and sharks circled inches from his knees and his ears rang with adrenaline.

Fingers scarcely brushed against his elbow, sending prickling fire unfurling as Logan snatched his arm away and his vision flared white, blinking and squinting ahead as he tried not to let his breaths shake as a thousand tiny fire ants stung time and again as they scuttled over his skin, nausea rolling in his stomach and venom pulsing in his veins.

He just about identified Virgil in front of him before he was screwing his eyes closed again, arms locked around his book no matter how much he wanted to cover his ears and block out the cacophony of squawking and rushing and chattering all around him because he didn’t want to cause a scene, didn’t want to draw attention to himself, didn’t know where he would put his book and his towel because his hands were sandy but so was the floor and so were the bags and so was the car and they didn’t have any water and his headache was pounding like a drum, trying to get his attention, trying to split his skull.

“Logan,” came Virgil’s voice, but Logan could only shake his head because the words wouldn’t come, the words wouldn’t come, the words wouldn’t come. There was a stopper in his throat, forcing the words to stay inside, and he could force it out, probably, but he was doing so would make him throw up or cry or both. “Logan, can you walk with me to the car or would you like to do something else? It’s just up the steps in front of us. Roman and Patton are turning on the air conditioning inside the car. Do you want to come with me to the car or would you prefer to do something else?”

“Car,” Logan tried to say, gaze swivelling past Virgil and towards the collection of vehicles lined up on the sands, and even though no sound came out Logan still felt the nausea swirling in his throat, threatening to erupt. Just the thought of cool air conditioning was enough to prompt him forwards, following the dizzying shape that was Virgil as he tried to focus on the book in his hands and not the way the sweat prickled at his neck and the sickly thoughts of the others worrying after him and the sound of car tyres screeching as they ground shells and corals into dust.

He could feel one thousand pairs of eyes drilling into him from all sides, judging, criticising, laughing behind hands and beach bags. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, dying his face and ears and neck in a wave of panic until he could feel the embarrassment coursing through his veins, a beacon of amusement for every passerby to watch and mock and ridicule which in turn only fueled it more. He could feel the sun bouncing against his back and his heartbeat thundering in his chest and he knew, somewhere, deep down, that this was all just an overreaction, he should have better control over himself, he shouldn’t be making such a scene, but this thought was crushed under the stampede of disjointed sounds and sights and words rampaging in every direction, looping around and around and around in a sickly pirouette that was only spinning faster.

And then the door to their car was open and he was clambering inside and pulling the towel over his head as sand grains showered into his hair and eyes and over the seats and into his book but he only grasped the material more tightly as he melted into the sharp chill of the aircon and pressed his head against the seat in front and finally, finally plugged his ears.

And his mind kept racing, kept rolling and diving and snapping back for a while after that, but he could feel the rubber bands starting to loosen, elastic unwinding and cool air snaking into the cracks and crevices, cooling the metal still hot from overuse. And that freed space to consider other things, like releasing the tension in his shoulders and taking a breath to the bottom of his lungs which didn’t falter or cut off and feeling the texture of the seat under his legs and the way the skin stuck just a little too long when he moved. Cool air washed over his face and he took off his glasses, massaging the indents on his nose and relishing in the cool touch as his senses came back to him in their more typical, controlled amounts.

He could hear murmured voices from outside the car and as he sat upright and ironed out the creases in his back and neck, he realised for the first time that the others were not in the car with him.

That was, to put it candidly, rather sweet of them. Logan couldn’t imagine having to sit outside in the parching heat for even a second longer than necessary, and yet there they were, relaxing by the car bonnet just to give him some space. Roman wasn’t even wearing a sunhat or top to lessen the blow.

With that thought in his mind, their concerning lack of drinkable water suddenly made itself known once more as Logan’s headache began to hammer against his skull. He should get out of the car and usher the others inside before they all got too dehydrated, but that meant going outside, and going outside meant facing the heat, which meant going back to feeling all clammy and muted and wrong. Moreso, he would have to open the door, and to open the door he would have to take the towel off from his head, and quite frankly it was the only thing holding him together. And taking off the towel meant moving his book from his knee, which meant he had to put it somewhere else, but everywhere was sandy and the others needed seats to sit in and he couldn’t remember where he had put his glasses and he needed to move and find his glasses before he did anything else but he couldn’t find his glasses without his glasses.

And all these thoughts snowballed, tumbling atop one another to form a writhing heap of Things from which Logan concluded that getting out of the car was too complicated, after all, requiring too many steps and too many choices, and he was far more partial to Not Doing That.

Luckily, Virgil had always been perceptive, so Logan simply watched as he excused himself from the others and became steadily blurrier as he approached the car. And with the simple and straightforward, single goal of finding his glasses without all the other things weighing on top, Logan scanned the nearby area and found them sitting on the chair beside him, folded neatly just where he had left them a few minutes prior.

The outline of the purple blur opening the driver’s side door became rather more defined as his vision returned and Virgil perched on the chair, shutting the door softly behind him so as not to let too much of the warm air inside.

“Feeling better?”

“I am much less overwhelmed now. Thank you, Virgil. I apologise for my unexpected reaction.”

“Don’t sweat it, ‘t’s not something you need to apologise for, anyway. We can talk about it more later, if you want?”

Logan nodded. “I would like that. My words at the moment are rather...robotic, for lack of a better term. Following that, I apologise if I say anything that comes across cold or condescending. It is...not intentional.”

He just didn’t have the extra head space required to edit his words right now.

“I know,” Virgil assured him, nose scrunching as the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “And actually, talking to you is pretty cool because you don’t dance around your words or make them all fancy schmancy just ‘cause you can, unlike somebody we know. Besides,” he continued, throwing a thumb over his shoulder to gesture to Roman and Patton through the windshield, “Prince in question just admitted he forgot to pack the cool box, so you’re doing way better than him.”

“Yes,” said Logan, frowning. “And I had to use the last of my water to clean Patton’s injury, so I am now dehydrated and have had a headache since we were on the beach. But you have all been doing far more physical exertion than I have, and it is important for you to drink enough water, Virgil, so I am happy to forfeit the little left in my bottle to that end.” And then, because Logan was suddenly aware of how sour he sounded, “Not that I am blaming any of you. I was just trying to say that it is not imperative I drink the rest of my water and that one of you may drink it, despite my headache. I mean— I don’t— You can have it. I am not frustrated with you. I apologise.”

Virgil’s brow creased as he shifted his grip on the headrest. “I know you aren’t frustrated with me, it’s okay. I’m honestly impressed you thought that far ahead already, I’m still sour that it means we don’t have the alcohol I snuck into the cool box.” He laughed, fingers tapping a rhythm as he continued, “Patton says there’s a convenience store next to that ice cream place we stopped at on the way in, so Roman’s gonna hop out when we get there and buy us some water. I’m hoping I can convince him to buy us more ice-cream, too.”

Logan could feel the tension bleeding out from his shoulders, instead relaxing into a deep appreciation for his friends, and for Virgil.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He spun around, drumming experimentally on the wheel. “Ready to go?”

At Logan’s nod, Virgil rapped three times on the windshield and popped open the door. Patton and Roman looked up at the sound, Patton offering Logan a little wave as they made eye contact, and Roman grinning widely.

“Get in, losers, we’re getting ice-cream!”

—x—END—x—

taglist to follow!

and here are some links to interesting info/where i found some cool facts: The Black Swallower Venomous Jellyfish Bull Shark

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libermachinae · 4 years

Text

Drops in a Bucket, Splashes on the Ground

Also available on AO3! Tags: Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gen, Whirl (Transformers), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Whirl is Primus AU, Angst, would you believe me if i said i didnt set out to write another angst fic, whirl's just like that Wordcount: 4202 Notes: I would highly recommend you read "Bullets" or at least be familiar with Whirl's abuse of Rotorstorm before reading this fic. The scene containing graphic violence begins with "Tacticians always struggle..." and the scene referencing abuse begins "He shoves his way..." Please feel free to reach out if you need any further information.

~*~

“And I guess old Primus makes five.”

“Hah! No, no, no. That’s not Primus… you’re Primus.”

~*~

Whirl has never been intimidated before. Not so intentionally, not by bots whose forged bodies have been piled on with armor and weaponry, no expenses spared by the ganglords. The Heavies rolled up on treads that left gouges in the streets, painful marks that tomorrow’s taxes will go to fixing, and their transformations took a full five seconds as excess plating moved out of the way while their protoforms tried to bend per their original configurations. They wear identical red visors and dark gray masks: faces, certainly, but only in the barest sense of the word, enough to separate them from lowlifes without affording them identity. It is impossible to tell one from the other and Whirl knows, intrinsically, that it will not matter.

~*~

Rung is the only one who doesn’t flinch. Whirl stands over Adaptus’ body, freshly relieved of what they can all agree was a spectacularly ugly head, and puts away his gun.

“Right,” he says, with a meaningful glance out the window. “Want to agree none of us heard that?”

“Whirl!” Rodimus shouts. “You can’t just kill a god!”

The body explodes into a pile of dust.

“Sure I can,” Whirl says, shaking it off his foot even as he leans down to inspect the scrapple. “Hey Ratch, can you rig me to explode next time I get shot?”

“Is it true?” Nautica asks, doing her intellect a massive disservice by stepping in front of the unhinged bot with a blaster.

“Obviously not,” Ratchet says. “He was lying.”

Whirl nods.

“Yeah. You think I would keep it a secret from any of you if I was a god? You think Cyclonus would ever hear the end of it? Nah.” He stands, kicking pile and sending a spray of metallic dust into the air. “Awesome way to go, though, can’t say I’m not jealous.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to kill him for it.”

“So, you’re not Primus?” Nautica asks. She hasn’t moved, her arms crossed in front of her. If Whirl had been her creator (and he isn’t, he already has his claws full with a nest of scraplets), he would have been pretty proud of her right now.

“Nope!” he says. “I’ve never vouched for the universe before, but that kind of joke would take on an extra level of cruel, don’t you think?”

“Got to agree with Whirl, here,” Rodimus says, a hand on Nautica’s shoulder drawing her back. “I could buy pretty much anyone else. Maybe not Rung, but, say, Velocity? She could be Primus. Or Roller. I guess not Megatron, since we saw him come online, but—”

“The point, Rodimus,” Ratchet deadpans.

“The point is, not Whirl,” Rodimus said, sweeping his hands up to gesture at him. “I get Primus is disappointed in us. We are a textbook example of why a race of sentient war machines should never be left to their own devices, combined with a case study on how to avoid learning from every mistake you’ve ever made. But I really don’t think that disappointment would translate to actively hunting us for sport. Isn’t Primus supposed to be all about forgiveness and loving your cellmate?”

“Right,” Whirl says, clacking his pincers together in his approximation of a snap. “An angry god is so cliché.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what Primus believed,” Rung says. Oh no. He’s taken off his glasses. “I don’t see any reason he couldn’t be Whirl.”

“How about we start where the part where gods don’t exist, and Whirl does?” Ratchet suggests.

“I… I am Solomus, though.”

The whole group turns to the offending voice. Whirl goes for his gun and Rodimus knocks it out of his hand, a stern finger silently telling him not to kill any more gods. As if being an ex-Matrix bearer gives him some sort of say.

Tyrest has not stopped touching his gaudy mantelpiece, poking at the holes. It wouldn’t be so disturbing, except he’s staring at Whirl while he does it.

“Primus, don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Hey, let’s watch the fragging language.”

“Adaptus wanted to send our creations to pointless war,” Tyrest goes on. “Violence for the sake of violence, conquests built on the backs of others. We fought him.” He steps forward and reaches for Whirl. “Together, we—”

Whirl jerks back with his claws extended out.

“I will cut your hand off, I swear to—I swear.”

He is saved from any more interrogation by the ground violently rumbling underneath them.

“Okay, so regardless of whatever’s Whirl’s deal is, we do still have at least one Primus to worry about,” Rodimus says, looking out the window at the approximation of what Whirl, personally, had always assumed god would look like. “Solomus, you still got your teleporting rigged up?”

~*~

No one ever considered giving The Institute a waiting room, so Whirl stands to one side of the hallway while the butchers discuss his case. He knows his proposal intrigues them: they have never had an opportunity to shadowplay a willing subject before. What is there to learn from a brain that does not fight them every step of the way? What backdoors exist that every other victim kept hidden? Whirl does not care about the potential scientific advancements his offer provides. He just wants to stop dreaming of gears, lose the phantom aches of his fingers. He wants to look in a mirror and see nothing: not himself, not a monster. Just an object, fulfilling its purpose.

The scientists who walk by him in the halls stare. Everyone stares, but the look they give him is different. They do not find him exceptional, nor do they feel for him pity or contempt. He is no marvel. He is a creation, perfectly engineered to suit its purpose, every detail minded with care to ensure it all works together as an ideal mechanism. He wishes he could see himself through their eyes.

The door beside him slides open and a bot he has never seen before steps out. His helm comes up no higher than Whirl’s waist and his large yellow optics do not look up from his datapad.

“Whirl of Polyhex, the panel has elected to reject your petition,” he says. “I am to remind—”

“What?” Whirl startles; his new head shoots upward, forcing him into an angle that is both unnatural and instinctual. “Why? Ice Pick said he could—”

“I am to remind you that you have signed a nondisclosure agreement; failure to comply will result in penalty of death.” The little bot flares his plating, the click of a motor lock setting it in place. “You will now submit to full stasis and be escorted back to your home.”

The jack comes from behind.

~*~

“This is my hab suite.”

Whirl knows the tonal difference between a bullet hitting living metal and a wall. He scowls and gives up, waving Cyclonus inside.

“My room’s a mess,” he says. “Think I’m gonna crash here for a while.”

Cyclonus comes in and sits beside Whirl on the berth. When the door slides shut, they are visible only by their biolights: Whirl closed the shutters when he came in, the stars too much like blinking numbers. Cyclonus is a surprisingly quiet machine. His presence comes with none of the usual hisses and clicks one would normally get with their kind, like each component was designed specifically to work with those around it. Compared to Whirl, whose body is a wreck of pieces that almost fit together, clinking and scraping through their standard functions, he practically doesn’t exist.

“This is slagged, huh?” Whirl asks.

Cyclonus thinks on it a moment, then there is a shift of plating as he nods. Is it an admission, a confession? Pri—frag, Whirl doesn’t want to have to start thinking about that.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to—”

“Scrap, you’re right. What am I doing?” Whirl laughs. “I’m infallible now, right? It’s all been part of my grand plan for Cybertron. I should be saying you’re welcome; you should be thanking me.”

Cyclonus sighs, a rush of air out his vents.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

Whirl pokes and pinches at his own plating, trying to make sense of it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Start praying, and keep Megatron far away from me.”

~*~

He’s spent two days in the holding cell before he realizes no one else is coming for him.

That Orion Pax… he’s good, and Whirl’s not sure whether it’s the kind that gets people hired or gets people killed. Not that it matters, not that he cares. The Senate’s going to crush all of them one by one, like little cans of oil under a rolling tank. He thought being a tread would come with some measure of relief; instead, it just landed him in a hole.

He digs a claw tip into the wall, another score among a small collection. He has been trying to reconstruct the miner’s face, what it looked like in the split second between recognizing he had been struck and realizing there was more to come. He can’t relish a memory if he can’t keep it, and he’s already struggling well enough to accomplish the former. This assignment was supposed to be a release. Look down at the big thinker and imagine in his place Senator Proteus, Sentinel Prime, the faceless Functionist Council. Tell himself that this is what it would feel like to rip their plating open until their priceless energon spilled onto a dirty floor.

The face, though, it’s escaping him. How can he fell anything about a person with no face? What relief is there to be found in beating the slag out of a nobody? He is trying so hard to adapt, but it’s like his processor is working against him, reminding him how far he got before he was reeled back in. The silhouette of his sketch is familiar.

His claws hurt where he has worn the tip blunt, and the portrait is still incomplete.

~*~

“I don’t make Matrixes,” he insists. The group was polite enough to knock once they found him, but they’re failing to pick up the hint that he wants all of them to go away, right now, and leave him alone forever.

“Well, Epistemus says you can,” Rodimus says, dentae blocked together. “Why do all the other gods have their memories back, but not you?”

“I dunno, maybe Needles can stick me and figure it out.”

It’s almost cute, the way Rewind steps protectively in front of Chromedome.

“Rodimus,” Rung says, trying to get between them, “this isn’t helping.”

“Thank you,” Whirl says. “Now can we get to the part where we storm the planet, guns a-blazin’?”

“That won’t help either.” Rung turns to look at him. “Your memories haven’t been deleted, Whirl. Somehow, there should still be some part of you that remembers creating the Matrix.”

“The Functionists probably took it out,” Whirl says.

“That’s not how mnemosurgery works.”

“Says the dropout.”

“You told me once about your earliest memory,” Rung says. Whirl should be furious that he’s doing this here, in front of people who have no business knowing what’s in his head, but he’s more interested in the way Rung has taken off his glasses and is squinting up at him. “What happened just before it?”

They did not bring Ratchet, a testament to the fact that they will not leave before he gives them answers. He could start lying again, or find another way to forgo the question, but something about Cyclonus’ presence at his back helps him settle down the compulsion. Everybody lies about their forging. Everybody wants to say it was overseen by the Prime, or that they settled into their form like resin poured into a mold, instant and perfect. Whirl has a set of seven stories he deploys on rotation, ranging from heroic to beautifully tragic, and he spends a moment picking through them, trying to remember which was the real one.

“I showed up at the Functionsts’ place to get my docs in order,” he says. “I was… I was trying to get Polyhexian citizenship.” Awful city, but he had always sworn the energon tasted better there than anywhere else.

“But you said you were forged in Polyhex,” Rung says.

“Yeah. It was easier that way.” Whirl puts a claw to his head. “I… augh, nope. No, this is stupid.”

“Whirl—”

“No, I’m done,” he says, pushing Rung away. “Fully done, Rung. That’s right. You were god’s therapist, and he fired you. I’m gonna go take out a planet.”

~*~

Tacticians always struggle with where to put Whirl on a battlefield. On the one hand, he’s an attack helicopter, equipped with long-range cannons and advanced aiming modules. Keeping him in the sky is the perfect way to set up a terrible surprise for Cons on the ground. On the other, he’s Whirl, and facing him head-on can be just as chilling and or fatal.

In the end it rarely matters which call they make because, as stated before, he’s Whirl. He will do whatever he damn well feels like. Right now, that means skimming over the top of the battlefield, sights trained on the odd dot who tries to disgorge themselves from the fighting mass. He is supposed to be providing support to the ground troops, peppering the Decepticon line so they can break through, but no one is going to complain about a few more dead soldiers.

A truck breaks free and he pitches down, giving chase, machine guns firing before he’s got a lock on. The ground explodes in shrapnel as they try to serpentine out of the way, but he keeps firing and soon enough their paths cross.

He riddles them. Their roof is already a puckered, punctured mass of warped metal before their back tires blow and they go skidding and flip onto their side. Their plating shuffles, uncoordinated, as they try to transform, and Whirl goes for the underbelly, shattering the exposed protoform in a burst of pink energon. They slump with their legs disengaged. There is a buzzing, crunching noise as the dying t-cog tries to settle into either mode, then a jet of smoke erupts from the body. The engine has seized, locking it in a permanent limbo.

Whirl spins around to track down his next prey. He loves his job. The Autobots have a need, and he fills it with a gusto that only occasionally gets him in trouble. He’s no hitmech: he lacks the finesse, the style. But he can rain irreverent murder down from the sky, send Cons fleeing just long enough to make them think they had a chance, and he can do it without questioning an order. The war needs people like him.

Two soldiers are trying to escape together, one with their arm over the other’s shoulder, a sparkling stump of a leg between them. Whirl gets low, following them until the roar of his rotors is unmistakable, until they cannot help but turn and he sees their optics. Then he fires.

The wounded one falls first, knocked onto their front and grasping uselessly until their hand is blown off and they go still. The other gets their legs knocked off and goes spinning, landing on their head with a crunch. Whirl keeps advancing, keeps firing, tearing open their plating and reducing their inner working to molten slag, spattering the ground with used energon. They flop, over and over, until Whirl gets bored of the show and hauls off, leaving them almost indistinguishable from the carnage of the land itself.

Whirl hovers over the fighting and looks down while he scans for a target. This high up, visuals are useless for determining Bots from Cons. Little Cybertronians run around, whacking and shooting at each other, falling down, down, down. The metal under their pedes is slippery pink with energon. It splashes against their plating, over their insignias, until they are all just little wandering targets.

Whirl has his job, and he loves it, and he does it well.

~*~

He should feel something, but his spark is a void as he tosses the rest of the guns into the shuttle, all the stuff he held off using because he wasn’t ready to get kicked off the ship. He is not coming back from this. He knows it, so better to take it all.

He’s just fastened the locker when he hears the footsteps on the hatch and looks up. It’s Tailgate, of course. Tailgate, who has a pack hanging from one shoulder and a gun holstered at his side. It’s a shrimpy thing, something Cyclonus taught him to shoot in case they ever got separated, more useful for making noise than taking down an aggressor. It has room for one round of ammo and Whirl doubts he brought a bullet more.

He comes aboard without saying anything and stops beside world, continuing to say nothing. The hand on his pack is clenching: he’s being brave. He’s also waiting for some grand speech, some sacred insight to the nature of their quest and their places in the universe. Well, tough. He should know Whirl better than Primus.

He lifts a claw to shove Tailgate backward and down the hatch, but it stops an inch before Tailgate’s plating. What does it matter? Cyclonus can’t kill him where he’s going and Tailgate himself is just a drop in the bucket. Standing there with his chest puffed out, optic band steely and focused, he looks like any other Cybertronian, never mind a few years left behind.

Whirl retracts his claw. Tailgate nods at him.

Another drop in the bucket.

~*~

He shoves his way to the front row, slamming himself into his chosen seat just ahead of a little spy plane who had been angling for the same spot.

“Buzz off,” he says. Never mind the spy plane outranks him. This is his big day! He got here early so he could get this seat, right in front, though he can barely hold it as the audience fills in around him, so many Bots he does not know and who do not matter. The only one he cares about it up on the stage, smiling with an air of detached cooperation, off in his own head again like he always was. Whirl thought they had made progress on that, but some habits were just too hard to break.

The opening speech is long and predictably boring, lots of talk about this base he has never been on before. Whirl’s engine clicks in agitation. When bots give him dirty looks, he sneers.

“Chronic fanbelt lockup, ever heard of it?” he hisses at them, adding in a few extra ticks for good measure. They go back to minding their own business, but Whirl still catches the optics glancing at him, and his engine goes from annoyed click to angry hum. He knows what they see.

Luckily, the speaker eventually gets over himself and moves on.

“Rotorstorm, will you please step forward?”

Whirl is on his feet before the other copter has a chance to rise, his cheering rising well above the swell of the crowd. He shouts, he stomps his feet, and he bangs his claws together until the bots on either side of him wince, and he gets even louder when he knows Rotorstorm has noticed him.

“Go on, get up there!” he shouts. “You earned this, didn’t you?” The rest of the crowd has calmed down, but he stays standing, arms dropped to his sides. He stares at Rotorstorm as he crosses the stage, shoulders pressed back, each step placed so precisely in front of the last that it must be calculated. He waits until Rotorstorm has reached the edge to sit back down, and then still his optic is pointed, refusing to let Rotorstorm look anywhere else. Rotorstorm’s own optics are wide, though the rest of his expression is slack. His biolights are steady, his ventilations manual and even. He’s perfect.

“Rotorstorm,” the presenter says, “I hope you will forgive us; this is an honor that is long overdue. During the Simanzi Massacre, you singlehandedly scouted a pass through Mount Helix that allowed for the rapid evacuation of the 9th Battalion. Your commanding officers estimate that your decisive actions saved upwards of one thousand Autobot lives.” Whirl’s engine is silent. He’s drinking in every word. “Today, we present you with the Novic Medal for Outstanding Honor. ‘Til all are one.” Rotorstorm ducks his helm as the award is magnetized to the right of his cockpit, finally breaking his optic contact with Whirl.

“’Til all are one,” he repeats, though most of the crowd does not hear him over Whirl’s cheers.

Rotorstorm turns without looking up and returns to his seat. The next recipient is called forward and Whirl walks out.

~*~

He can’t do it. He’ll blame it on the way Tailgate’s plating quietly rattles or Cyclonus’ entire personality as he starts to board, but he shuts off the shuttle’s engine and disembarks with them trailing behind. He retreats to his hab suite, and though he does not invite them he’s glad when they make it inside before the door closes.

“Nobody in the mutiny is allowed to have any of my stuff. I don’t care if Thunderclash is dying again and my innermost energon is the only compatible fuel in the galactic sector, he can’t have it.”

Tailgate nods along, his fingers in a death grip around Whirl’s pincer.

“And when you guys are talking about me later, no one call me anything but Whirl. I’m serious. I don’t know about anything I did before that, so what could it matter?” He looks up at the ceiling. “In fact, don’t tell anyone about the Primus thing. No point.”

Cyclonus is a solid, immobile presence on his other side.

“Am I forgetting anything? Oh, tell Roadbuster I’ll be waiting for him in the pit.”

“Do gods go to the Afterspark?” It’s not clear who Tailgate is asking.

“I definitely don’t plan to stick around and watch over you or whatever. Think I’ve had enough of this universe.” He chuckles, a strained sound. “Yeah. So, that’s it. Better get this show on the road, huh?”

“We’ll be with you the entire time,” Tailgate promises.

“For as long as you want us,” Cyclonus amends.

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, laughs again. “I’m not even really scared of the whole dying thing. I’d made peace with that. Whenever there was something I needed to do, I took care of it, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it if the right bullet finally found its mark.” He glances between them. “Now, though… you two better behave, I swear. I’m making it your Primus-sworn duty to take care of and listen to each other, okay?”

Cyclonus nods, and the way he takes it so seriously makes Whirl almost glad he’s on his way out. He couldn’t handle being looked at like that all the time, and especially it’s the way they reach across his lap and entwine their hands that really does him in. He hates them dearly.

“Okay,” he says, winding up his t-cog for the big spin. “Okay, twelve Matrixes. No problem.”

~*~

Whirl times the blinking numbers to the rotations of his spark. 1,600 exactly. He’s done it.

He leans back in his chair but cannot stop staring at the little device in his hands. It is perfect. After years of researching, studying, trying, and failing, the pieces have come together to allow him to create this one perfect thing. He loves it, and a dangerous feeling of pride fills his spark, the kind that has so long been missing from his work in the Aerial Corps. If there is a Primus (and he’s still not sure, whatever the Functionists insist), this is what he built Whirl to do.

He gets up from his desk and walks across his small living space to a shelf. Nearing capacity, it has just enough room for him to push a few previous attempts aside to make room for the latest version. Surrounded by its brethren, it becomes lost almost immediately amid the sea of blinking lights, indistinguishable even from those he considers lesser. Some defects are more obvious than others: one has sat at the same time since the moment he brought it online, while another counts one klik backward for every two forward. But most are just slightly imperfect, necessary steps to get to this point, and he loves them all dearly.

He stands back. It feels like the work of a lifetime, these clocks, though he knows he took up the pursuit relatively recently. It’s just hard to remember how he filled his time before he had this project to work on, and he is again grateful he discovered it at all.

It is a gift to be able to create, he thinks, to cast a broad eye over his creations. The numbers blink at him, all out of tune, and he lets himself imagine being content doing just this for the rest of his life.

#maccadams #transformers #idw #whirl #abuse tw #death tw #my writing #oneshot #drops in a bucket #tbh im just so glad this is done #put too much time into it

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crystaljins · 5 years

Text

Take a chance. | 05

Characters: Jungkook x Reader

Word count: 6.5K

Synopsis: You should have known the second your business partner asked you to plan his best friend’s wedding as a favour that it was going to be nothing but trouble. Especially when it turns out he’s in love with said best friend. And dying of a deadly disease because of it.

Hanahaki!au

Notes: @trumpettay asked that they be tagged when this fic is released! First time receiving a request like that, but I’m happy to!

And I suppose.... I should give you guys some warning.... the fluff gets a little bit... thin from this point on...

Warnings: Angst. Graphic depictions of vomiting. Mentions of illness and death.

Masterlist

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Seri has been working here for a few months now. It isn’t a long amount of time by any means. Yet even as new as she is this event-planning firm, she knows that when Kim Seokjin walks in with bounce in his step, whistling a cheerful tune, that her day is going to be very, very long. He’s not a nasty man by any means- no, he’s well-meaning, kind, patient, amiable. So it’s not like he’s trying to make things difficult for her. He just manages to, somehow.

His expression lights up when he sees that she is huddled in the kitchenette, hugging a cup of coffee to her chest like it is her first-born child. Don’t come over to me, don’t come over to me, don’t come over to me, is what Seri chants repeatedly to herself but alas, Jin has never before heeded her silent pleas for peace and quiet. He strides over to her with the confidence and cheerfulness of a man who has been handed the entire world on a silver platter.

“Good morning, dear Seri!” He cries. He never wears a business jacket into work on warm days- he prefers to sling it artfully over his shoulders like he’s a model. Seri knows it’s only so that he can roll up the sleeves of his button up to expose his forearms because he likes catching women staring. He shoves his right hand into his pant pocket and leans against the counter Seri is standing by. Seri offers a weak smile and avoids his gaze- perhaps if she doesn’t acknowledge his presence, he’ll leave her be.

He does not.

“Isn’t today such a fine, warm morning? Did you notice the birds chirping just outside our office building? Why, even the homeless man on the train this morning didn’t smell as much like feet as he normally does.” Jin recounts cheerfully. If he were an anime character, his eyes would be sparkling and there would be a soft pink background and hearts floating behind him.

“I suppose it’s an ok morning.” She says. It’s not. Her toilet was clogged, her sister’s baby couldn’t sleep the entire night and was howling because of a cold and she has a ladder in her stockings. But she also doesn’t want to ruin his good mood- it feels kind of like kicking a puppy if she does. Jin stares at Seri expectantly, but she merely sips at her coffee. She hopes eventually the work he has to get done and the meeting with clients she knows he has in 20 minutes will draw him away. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy talking to Jin. It’s just that he’s always so full of energy and on mornings like these she just wants quiet.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m in such a good mood?” He prods.

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.” She mutters under her breath. He doesn’t seem to hear.

“Because haven’t you noticed how close our boss and resident space cadet have gotten over the past few weeks? All thanks to me.” He cries. He glances from side to side before leaning in close enough that Seri can feel his breath puffing against her cheek. “And yesterday they came into work together. And late.”

“They own this place. They can come in at any hour they please.” Seri points out placidly. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

Jin nods his agreement, folding his arms across his chest.

“Hm… You’re right.” Jin admits. “They’ve been making some great progress, but nothing solid so far.”

He goes silent, and Seri takes that as her chance to try and edge way from him. But suddenly he pushes off the counter, straightening and clapping one fist into an open palm.

“I have an idea!” He cries, with enough volume that she flinches and nearly spills her coffee all over herself. Wouldn’t that just be the cherry on top if she did? “Last night I was watching this drama- great drama, by the way, 100% would recommend. I’ll text you the name later. Anyway, in it, the female lead ends up being tricked into thinking the male lead likes her and because of that she starts to notice all his charms and whatnot, and in the end she falls for him. That’s what we need to do for Jungkook! And it wouldn’t even be lying, considering that (Y/N) really does have feelings for him! It’d just be… not telling the whole truth.”

“I really think that this isn’t-” Seri protests hastily, hoping she can stop Jin before he tries yet another one of his stupid plans that puts her boss at risk.

“Oh, Seri, Seri, Seri. What Jungkook needs to realise his feelings is just a little nudge. We’ve laid some nice groundwork with our plans so far-” Jin explains.

“I’ve had no part in these plans, Jin, they’ve all been you-”

“But now he needs something harsher. Something more definite. We need to drop a bomb, if he’s going to take that last step to returning (Y/N)’s feelings and curing her Hanahaki.” He says aloud, and Seri has a feeling he wouldn’t even notice if she stepped out of the room this instant. He really has a one-track kind of mind. “You’re brilliant, Seri. Finally, the last step to Operation “Cure-(Y/N)”!”

Seri rolls her eyes as Jin cheers and prances out of the kitchenette, oblivious to the world around him. Playing with peoples’ feelings, especially when the stakes are so high, is a terrible idea. And Jin means well, he really does, but she can’t shake the feeling that the best way to deal with this is to convince you to get the treatment you apparently need. She can only hope that both you and Jungkook manage to survive this latest plan unscathed.

Jungkook has kind of been hoping for a chance to speak alone with Jin, ever since the weird clubbing experience. He hasn’t really had the time or emotional space to process the things Jin said that night, what with stuff for the wedding starting to pile up and his days steadily becoming busier the closer the dreaded date gets. But Jin’s words have been buzzing in the back of Jungkook’s mind like storm clouds on the horizon. Why had Jin warned Jungkook that things won’t last like this forever? At the time, when Jin warned him, the thought of you not being a constant had been a bit sad but it hadn’t been something Jungkook felt he should worry about. But after that day in your apartment, after crying in your arms, Jungkook is suddenly scared by Jin’s warning- what will he do, if you aren’t there? As corny and ridiculous and selfish as it is… Jungkook needs you. And he needs you for more than just your help- he needs that feeling you give him- that warm, safe, comfortable feeling. He needs you, and your gentle smile and the sound of your humming as you work and the passion in your eyes when you plan a wedding. But, even knowing all of that, he can’t think why Jin said the things that he did. Why can’t things stay like this? Why can’t he continue to rely on you and trust you like he’s learnt he can? Why would you finding someone else come in between that? The more that he thinks about it, the more questions he has and so when Jin offers to treat him to lunch, Jungkook jumps at the chance.

“I’m feeling something soup-y.” Jin announces, as he leads Jungkook through the crowded street. In the lunch hour, the streets are often packed around their office building, but there’s enough places to go to that it’s always easy to eat out. Jungkook nods.

“I’m happy with whatever.” Jungkook informs him, adjusting his tie. In the sweltering heat, the business attire you insist on can be quite uncomfortable. Jin doesn’t look bothered- he has his suit jacked draped neatly over his forearm and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He’s probably used to formal business attire, though- being from a rich family probably meant he’d had to spend a lot of time wearing it.

Jin grins and leads Jungkook down a small alleyway between buildings. Jungkook recognises it- there’s a small, family owned restaurant at the end of the alleyway. It’s usually a quiet place, even during the lunch rush hour, which makes him feel like maybe Jin has something to say to him as well. It isn’t until after Jin has ordered, charming both the waitress and the owner of the restaurant, and the menus have been taken away, that he speaks up about what’s on his mind.

“Have you thought about what I said that night at all?” He asks Jungkook. He folds his hands neatly on the table and stares expectantly at him. Jungkook nearly chokes on his drink because in the time it had taken Jin to order far more food than was necessary, Jungkook had let his guard down.

“I have.” Jungkook coughs. “I actually wanted to talk about what you meant that night. Were you saying I’m holding her back from finding the right guy? Are you worried I’m taking her for granted? Because I promise, I really do appreciate her-”

To Jungkook’s immense surprise, Jin merely starts laughing.

“Oh, my poor, sweet, naïve Jungkook!” He exclaims fondly. “I would never think so lowly of you! Of course, you appreciate our boss, I’m sure- that’s not what I was saying.”

“Then what were you saying?” Jungkook answers, feeling a little patronised, and a little frustrated. What could have Jin meant, then? Why does he have to be afraid that things are going to change with you?

“Well, at the time, I wanted you to realise that the way things are now could change very quickly and suddenly, and I didn’t want you to realise something important after you’d lost your chance.” Jin explains. He tilts his head and peers at Jungkook like he’s having a lot of fun at Jungkook’s expense. “But now… Now I want you to work out something else. Forget what I said about not getting too comfortable. There’s something else.”

“Then say it!” Jungkook complains. “Please just come out and say it- why do I have to be worried about things changing? Why can’t things stay like they are now? Why are you being so cryptic?”

Jin ponders this.

“Well, it’s more fun if I’m cryptic. At least for me.” He admits. “But I suppose you’ve always been a bit obtuse so maybe I should come out and say it. I’ll put you out of your misery, then. You don’t have to worry about getting too comfortable but there’s a reason you might want to rethink the nature of your relationship with her.”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

“(Y/N) likes you.” He announces. He says it gleefully, like Jungkook should be excited or happy at the announcement. “Like… romantically.”

There is a sudden roaring in Jungkook’s ears following Jin’s announcement. His heart plummets into his stomach. He doesn’t understand the sudden panic that seizes his gut. Adrenaline floods his veins as if Jin were threatening his life.

“N-no she doesn’t.” He protests weakly. Because you don’t. No, because you can’t. If you like him… if you like him… then…

“She told me.” Jin admits with a shrug. He pauses to smile at the waitress as she sets his food down before him. When she leaves, he takes a large mouthful. “The other day,” He continues to explain, though the words are hard to decipher when Jin’s mouth is still full. “I asked her why she was putting in so much effort to Taehyung and Minah’s wedding and she said it was because she didn’t want to let you down.” He swallows and flashes Jungkook a thumbs up, unaware of the way Jungkook feels like his world is suddenly crashing down around him. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you this, but she said it’s because she has feelings for you, and that’s why she’s trying so hard.”

The sound of a chair screeching against the floor echoes loudly in the quiet restaurant. It takes Jungkook a few moments to understand that it’s because he’s gotten abruptly to his feet. He stares, bewildered, wondering why he’s breathing like he’s just ran a marathon. It’s hard to describe what he’s feeling, short of panic. Yes, the two of you have been close of late. Yes, he feels like he can trust you perhaps even above Taehyung and Minah right now. And yes, you’re so, so important to him. He came here in the first place because you’re important enough to him that he’s scared of losing you.

But the thought of you having romantic feelings for him… it scares him in a bone deep sort of way. Because he’s still dying of Hanahaki for Minah, which must mean that your feelings aren’t returned. And the thought of you feeling even a fraction of how he feels about the Minah-Taehyung situation makes him feel sick to his stomach. And that’s not even beginning to consider what happens if those feelings progress- what if you end up with Hanahaki? He really wouldn’t be able to handle it if something horrible like that happened. The fluttery, joyful high he’s been experiencing ever since that day in your apartment vanishes- he’s left feeling like he’s suddenly plummeting towards the earth and deathly speeds. He’d ruin you, if you liked him. Your smile, your laugh, your kindness… they would be gone, and it’d be his fault. He feels a wave of self-loathing so powerful he feels it may knock him out.

“Tell me you’re lying.” Jungkook begs. “Please. Say it’s a practical joke.”

The mirth slides off Jin’s face at Jungkook’s reaction. Instead concern knots his brows and tugs his lips downwards in a frown.

“Jungkook, are you ok? You look a little pale.” Jin says, about to get to his feet.

“Say it’s not true.” Even Jungkook is surprised by the volume of his voice. Jin’s jaw drops and the silence that follows Jungkook’s shout is jarring.

“I know, I know we’ve been spending a lot of time together. But it’s just because we’re friends. She cares about me as a co-worker. As a co-worker.” Jungkook explains, his voice hoarse and choked. “But she can’t like me, she can’t.”

“Ok, ok. Jungkook, calm down.” Jin says urgently, getting to his feet and planting his hands on both of Jungkook’s shoulders. Jungkook can’t seem to slow his rapid, panicked breathing. “Hey. Look at me.” Jin’s voice has gone gentle and soothing, as he urges Jungkook to meet his gaze. “I was joking. I’m sorry- I didn’t mean it. I thought it would be funny. She doesn’t like you. I’m sorry, Jungkook.” Jin says placatingly.

But Jungkook has been working with Jin for three whole years now. Even though Jungkook has always preferred to distance himself from his coworkers, it’s hard not to get to know someone as friendly and open as Jin, after three years. And Jin has always been easy to read and easy to understand. Which means Jungkook can see it, plain as day. Jin is lying through his teeth, right now, which can only mean one thing.

You do have feelings for him.

Jungkook stares at Jin with wide, panicked eyes for one moment longer, before fleeing from the restaurant like his life depends on it.

And as Jungkook leaves, it occurs to Jin that maybe… maybe he went too far this time.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Jungkook is avoiding you. After all, the two of you run a business together, and have been fairly close as of late, so it’s easy to notice the suddenly chilly way he treats you. Even messages about important things, like the scheduling software you use malfunctioning, or picking a location for Minah’s hen’s party are met with simple, one-word answers. What’s difficult to work out is why. What could you possibly have done wrong?

After that day in your apartment, the morning after the wedding dress fiasco, things had been great. He’d been weirdly emotional then, but he’d been normal at work that day, and the next- better than normal. He’d been sweet and friendly and eager to spend time with you. If you had to identify a specific starting point for things going weird, it had been after he’d abruptly taken the rest of the day off after lunch with Seokjin that day. It was rare for Jungkook to agree to any kind of social outing involving his co-workers so you had been surprised when Seri informed you that the two had gone to lunch together. So, your best guess at what could be wrong is that Seokjin said something strange. The two of them certainly have a strange dynamic- you still haven’t forgotten how weird that night the three of you went to the club was. But shouldn’t he be avoiding Seokjin, if that were the case, and not you? What could Seokjin have possibly said to trigger such baffling behaviour in your business partner?

Across from you, Minah carefully raises another forkful of cake to her mouth. She’s watching you like at any moment you are a bomb that could go off- perhaps she can sense your stormy mood.

“Um… (Y/N)…” She starts meekly. You start and shake yourself. You’re suddenly aware of the tension you had been holding in your expression and force yourself to relax into a smile. “Are you ok? You seem a little… off.”

You suppose you have been off. You’ve been weird and flu-y all week, and when coupled with how Jungkook has been treating you, it’s been a rough time.

“I’m just feeling a little under the weather.” You offer kindly. “How do you feel about this one?” You question, gesturing to the white chocolate and coconut cream cake before you. She watches you curiously for a moment longer before turning to the cake.

“Well, I really like it, but Tae is a bit picky with what he eats.” She offers with a laugh. “He doesn’t like the texture of coconut. So far I think that caramel mudcake and the red velvet are winning.” She says. She pats her stomach delicately. “But I don’t think I can handle much more cake! I never thought I’d see the day when this happens, but I think I’ve eaten enough cake to last me a lifetime.”

“Yeah- it’s why I normally avoid cake tasting with clients. I’d put on too much weight!” You tell her while patting your stomach with a laugh. She nods and smiles. There is a long drawn out silence where the two of you have run out of things to talk about unrelated to the wedding.

“You’re probably wondering why I invited you and not Jungkook.” She offers suddenly, setting down her fork and folding her fingers neatly together in front of her. You pause in the middle of trying the next sample of cake and stare at her curiously. Her smile is tight but concerned. “I’m worried about him. Especially after the other day. He’s been so distant lately, and I was wondering if he’d maybe spoken to you about it. The two of you seem so close lately, and he hasn’t been speaking to me or Taehyung.” She confesses. It makes sense, as his best friend, for her to seek you out. She’s probably desperate for answers. After all, they are life-long friends and Jungkook has been sick for over a year at this stage. Even the most obtuse people in the world would notice something strange is going on.

“It was just a spot of food poisoning.” You offer, though your smile is restrained and decidedly icy. Her frown deepens at your obvious lie.

“See, that’s the thing.” She says. “If it was just food poisoning, why did he call you? He could have asked me for help. I could have called the ambulance. He was barely conscious when you dragged him out. And I didn’t say anything because you asked me not to that day, but I can’t hold back anymore. What is wrong with Jungkook? What is he not telling me?”

You press your lips together nervously. Suddenly all the cake you’ve eaten leaves you feeling a little sick, and the nerves don’t help.

“I…” You say slowly. Your mind draws a blank- what’s a believable lie you could tell her to throw suspicion off? As it stands, she doesn’t seem to be suspecting Hanahaki. It’s not the most common disease in the world- it certainly wouldn’t be at the top of her list of what she suspects is wrong with Jungkook. “I don’t know.” You finally settle on. “He’s been acting weird towards me too.”

Her gaze softens at your confession, and you are surprised at the genuine sadness that comes out in your voice. Perhaps you have a future in acting.

“He’s been avoiding me all week, since that day in fact.” You confess. It’s a temporary fix, at best, but if you can contact Jungkook in time, perhaps the two of you can come up with an acceptable lie when you aren’t put on the spot like this. “So, if you want to know, you’ll have to talk to him.”

Minah seems to soften and relax when she realises that she is not alone in her bafflement over Jungkook. Of course, you are a little more informed of the situation than her, but he’s just as confusing to you. Even after all this time, after everything the two of you have been through together, he’s treating you like this. You can understand her confusion and hurt, at the very least. She leans back and sighs.

“He’s been like this since he was a kid.” She confesses. “Always suffering alone. I wish… I wish just once he could rely on someone else.” The sadness in her voice makes your heart ache for her- not for the first time you are made aware of just how much she loves her friend.

“I’m sure… I’m sure he just doesn’t want to make you worry.” You offer weakly and her smile is thin and doesn’t reach her eyes.

“See, that’s the thing.” She sighs, defeated. “Friends are supposed to worry about each other. It’s in the job description. If you can’t trust your friends, who can you trust? But I suppose he wouldn’t be Jungkook if he wasn’t frustratingly closed off and difficult to read, would he?” She says with a chuckle. She straightens and smiles at you. “Thank you, though. I’m sure you have to get back to the office.”

You glance at your watch- you do. You’ve got a mountain of paperwork to go through and some new clients have just filled out a questionnaire you have to read through. You smile at her apologetically.

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” You say, getting quickly to your feet. “Email me what cake you and Taehyung decide to go with, and I’ll be in contact about finalising the invites to send off next week as well.” You say as farewell.

Back at the office, the atmosphere is strange. Seri is out for the day, taking clients to see a nearby venue, so Seokjin and Jungkook are the only ones in. Jungkook, when in the office (since there are times when he prefers to work from home), is often flitting from place to place as he makes phone calls or is seated at his desk going through paperwork. But currently he is seated stiffly at his desk. He is unmoving, instead staring at the monitor of the computer that rests on his desk like it has personally wronged him. And Seokjin, who is normally the kind of worker who spends more time gossiping in the break room than actually working, types vigorously at his desk like you’ve threatened to fire him if he doesn’t meet an email quota for the day. Normally, the work environment you have set is relaxed and free. Jungkook normally tracks the in- and out-of-office tasks and he does monthly performance evaluations, but as a whole, event-planning requires flexibility, and demanding customers often ensure your workers are meeting deadlines better than you ever could. But the office you have just walked into looks grey and bleary.

You can’t help but feel the oddly chilly atmosphere is linked to Jungkook’s recent behaviour, and it only furthers you suspicions that Seokjin is at the root of it all. But you have no time to dwell on it, for you feel it is better to inform Jungkook of Minah’s concerns sooner, rather than later.

“I need to speak with you in my office.” Is what you tell him, and you can’t help the way your tone runs slightly chilly. You had thought his sudden distance didn’t bother you, but clearly it does. You swallow, and stride into your office before you can observe his reaction, and without checking if he follows.

He does though, and when the door clicks shut before you, you turn to face him. You don’t know how to hold yourself around him, suddenly. You settle on standing straight, with your arms dangling loosely by your side. He stares at you, his face impassive and difficult to read. If Seokjin were to peer in through the window to your office, perhaps he would think you were having a staring competition. You swallow deeply and clear your throat, willing the uncomfortable ticking feeling in the back of your throat to go away. You must be coming down with a cold.

“I just got back from cake-tasting with Minah.” You inform him, breaking the silence. Something flashes in Jungkook’s expression, but it is gone before you can identify it. “She… she wanted to know about that day. At the wedding dress boutique. At the time I told her you had food poisoning and managed to get her to back off by saying I would explain later, and she wants those answers now.”

Silence follows, and Jungkook drops his gaze to his shoes.

“I see.” He answers softly, and his tone is frustratingly lacking. You’d have an easier time reading a blank sheet of paper. “What did you tell her?”

You bite your lip.

“That I didn’t know.” Is your simple answer. “I figured it would buy us some time to come up with an answer-”

“Good.” Jungkook interrupts. He says the words so softly that at first you think you might have misheard them. “That’s all you have to do- I’ll handle the rest. This isn’t an “us” problem.”

“Sorry, what?” You ask. If you’d had any doubt that he had been oddly cold towards you before now, then the way he regards you when he finally raises his gaze confirms it. You’ve seen ice warmer than the chill in his eyes.

“There is no “us.”” He repeats, louder this time so that you know you didn’t mishear him. “This is my problem, and you don’t need to get involved. Thank you for your help all this time, but I’d prefer it if we kept our relationship strictly professional from this point on.”

He bows, and turns to leave the room, as if that is an acceptable point to end the conversation. As if it’s ok to suddenly drop a bomb like that and then leave. As if you have the kind of relationship that can be cut off so easily.

“I thought we were in this together?” You ask, and you can’t keep the hurt from colouring your tone. Jungkook pauses with his hand resting against the doorhandle.

“We were.” He says softly, and it almost sounds like he regrets the fact. “But after thinking it through, I think that that was a mistake. I shouldn’t have brought my boss at work into such a personal situation. We’ve crossed a lot of professional boundaries, recently. And I understand that that was because we were in very difficult circumstances. But I don’t think that this is what is best for us, and I don’t want you getting the wrong idea about our relationship. You’ve been really helpful so far with my… condition, but I can handle it just fine on my own. I’d prefer you avoid getting unnecessarily caught up.”

““Unecessarily caught up”?” You spit in anger, striding forward and wrenching his shoulder so that he’s forced to face you. “Is that what you think of all this? It’s not like I was trying to invade your privacy- I’ve only been trying to help you, this entire time! And it’s not like I asked for any of this. How could you even say such a thing? I don’t know why you’re suddenly acting like this, but Jungkook, I’m helping because I care about you. Is that a crime?”

“It is.” Jungkook shouts, forcefully throwing your hand off his shoulder and glaring at you with a wildness and pain you don’t understand. The mask he had been hiding behind has cracked but you don’t understand a single one of the agonised emotions on his face. “I don’t want you to care about me.” He says, and he’s panting with the exertion of his shout. “I need you to keep your distance.”

Something about the way he says it, weak and broken, cools your sudden bout of anger. But his word choice strikes you as odd as well. It almost sounds… it almost sounds like he feels like he has no choice in pushing you away. Which is a familiar enough scenario to you- didn’t he do exactly that to Taehyung and Minah? Under the guise of it being for their own good? For the first time, you think that maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, to keep this awful secret from them for so long.

“Jungkook,” You call softly. His shoulders hunch in a flinch like you’ve just threatened to punch him.

Whatever questions you could have asked him next or words of comfort you could have offered are cut off by Seokjin opening the door to your office. He doesn’t knock, instead swinging the door open with urgency. He looks supremely uncomfortable as he glances between the two of you.

“I… I heard shouting.” Seokjin says, and you have no idea why he looks as guilty as he does until he meets your gaze determinedly. “And… And I think you guys should know about my part in your fight….”

Of all the ways you could have expected Jungkook to react in the ringing silence follow Jin’s story, bursting into laughter is not one of them. But that’s exactly what he does- he laughs loudly and freely like someone has lifted a weight off of his chest.

“Oh, Jin,” Jungkook cries, almost in tears- his laughter sobers quickly but the relieved smile remains. Seokjin frowns, adjusting how his spectacles sit against his face and for the first time perhaps ever, he looks bashful. “That’s not the case at all. (Y/N) doesn’t have Hanahaki. Although thank you for trying to help her.”

Seokjin blinks a few times in bafflement, before looking to you for confirmation. You offer him a smile.

“It’s true.” You tell him. “I don’t. And if I did, as much as I appreciate your attempts to help, I would get treatment- my brother’s not a specialist for nothing.”

“But then, what about when you were randomly asking about Hanahaki?” Seokjin accuses, and you feel bad for him. Everything he’s picked up on is a half-truth. The rose petals were likely from Jungkook having an episode. And you had suspiciously asked about Hanahaki not long after. But he’s missed the whole truth, and now the two of you are going to have to lie to him to continue to keep Jungkook’s secret. You open your mouth with a lie prepared, but Jungkook beats you to the chase.

“Because I’m the one with Hanahaki.” Jungkook announces, no longer laughing. Instead he smiles kindly at Seokjin.

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows such an announcement. Seokjin’s jaw actually drops.

“Not for (Y/N) though.” He continues to explain. “For Minah. My best friend, and the woman (Y/N) is currently planning the wedding for. (Y/N) has just been trying to help me all this time.”

Seokjin’s mouth opens and closes a few times like a fish before he finds his voice.

“So, you don’t have feelings for Jungkook?” Seokjin rasps.

You bite your lip, prepared to deny it, but the words don’t come out for some reason. Like they are caught in your throat. Luckily Jungkook is quick to jump in before you can force the denial out.

“Of course she doesn’t, thank goodness.” He sighs, and he looks so genuinely relieved that you should feel happy for him.

You don’t, though. You don’t feel happy at all. In fact, his words trigger something in you- your mind races as you put two and two together. Slowly the gravity of Jungkook’s behaviour occurs to you, now that you know the reasoning behind it.

“Then… Jungkook…” You wonder aloud. He turns to you curiously, patiently awaiting your question. “This past week that you’ve been acting weirdly around me…”

Jungkook grimaces and rubs nervously at the back of his neck.

“Oh… that…” He says slowly. “I’m so sorry about my behaviour, (Y/N). It’s because I was worried you had feelings for me. I was scared I would hurt you.”

His words shouldn’t hurt. They shouldn’t feel like he’s simultaneously plunged a knife into your heart and punched you in the gut. All his earlier, nastier words were because of a misunderstanding. He had been trying to push you away, maybe even for you own good, knowing Jungkook. You shouldn’t feel hurt. The feelings he was worried about don’t exist so you shouldn’t feel so heartbroken over him responding so vehemently to them.

But you do.

“Am I really that repulsive?” You ask softly. Both men in the room stiffen, perhaps picking up the undercurrent of hurt that, before this moment, hadn’t been detectable in your voice. It’s clear as day now, though. “Was the thought of me liking you so horrible that it justified you saying all those awful things to me just then? You had to go that far to push me away?”

The air changes slightly- gone is the relief and slight amusement at Seokjin’s antics. Instead your mind races as you filter through the hurt, the distress, the confusion Jungkook has put you through, all because he was terrified. Terrified of something as small and insignificant as you having a crush on him. As if your feelings are disgusting enough to justify casting you aside like a dirty rag.

“N-no.” Jungkook protests. Seokjin looks like he very much regrets being in the room in this instant. You regret being here too. “It- it wasn’t like that, (Y/N). It was for your own good.”

“‘My own good’” You repeat, and the bitter sarcasm is not lost on the two other occupants of the room. Jungkook stares despairingly at Seokjin but he has nothing helpful to offer, too subdued by his previous blunders. “You don’t have to lie, Jungkook.” You spit, as hot, angry tears begin to pool in your eyes and your throat burns. “Thank you, though, for showing me just how important I am to you. I’ll be sure to keep our relationship purely professional from now on.”

And you turn, ready to storm out of your office so that neither of your co-workers see the way your face has crumpled with hurt and the way the first of the tears begin to trickle down your cheeks.

“Wait, wait,” Jungkook cries, panicked now. He wraps his fingers around your wrist, trying to hold you in place. “No that’s not what I meant (Y/N).” He calls, and he’s almost in tears as he says it. “You’re important to me. You’re so important to me it scares me sometimes. I didn’t push you away because I don’t want you to like me or because you’re repulsive. You’re not. I’d be lucky for you to like me.” His grip on you is so tight it almost hurts, and his expression is pleading. “It’s because I couldn’t bear the thought of you feeling even a fraction of the pain that I know comes with not having your feelings returned, and because of someone like me. No way. You deserve so much better than that- than me. I... I care about you too much to be the reason for you being in pain. And what if the feelings grew? What if you ended up with Hanahaki? I thought... I thought if I pushed you away, you’d be safe. That the feelings would go away because I was such a dick and then you wouldn’t be hurt because of me.”

You stare at him in bewilderment, trying to comprehend the slew of feelings he has basically pelted at you. You’re still angry, that’s for sure, and it was stupid of him to assume that pushing you away rather than talking with you was the best way to handle the situation. And how egotistical of him, to think that it was up to him, to deal with your emotions rather than leaving you to sort things out for yourself. But you kind of understand. Jungkook’s always been the kind of person who feels the need to take responsibility for people’s hardships- and he’d done that to Taehyung and Minah, his lifelong friends. You open your mouth to respond as much, but then the strangest feeling overcomes you. Like the words are trapped in your chest. You wince, placing your hand over your sternum. You are puzzled by the sudden pain that sits behind it.

“(Y/N)?” Seokjin calls hesitantly. He registers more quickly than Jungkook that something is wrong. “Are you ok?” He takes an unsure step towards you from where he had been awkwardly watching the fight unfold. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Jungkook seems to register this fact as well, and one hand comes to rest lightly against your back and the other steadies your shoulder. The pain worsens as he does so, and you cough once.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook asks softly but urgently. You open your mouth, trying to reassure them but then you break into a coughing fit. It’s not a normal one though- you feel like something is caught in your throat. You swallow, trying to stop the coughs, but they just grow in intensity until you are doubled over from the force of them.

“Maybe we should call an ambulance-” Seokjin cries urgently, and that’s when it happens.

A single white daisy petal bursts from your lips and flutters to the ground. For a moment, the three of you can only stare in horror. Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to dawn on you, and all the implications of the harmless white petal that rests lightly on the ground hit you like a tonne of bricks.

In the next moment you flee from the room, before they can say anything. You don’t even spare a glance over your shoulder.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts scenario #jeon jungkook x reader #btsboulangerie #writing

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sunflower-swan · 4 years

Text

Wolfstar Chapter 8

A/N: Here’s what you need to know: I created this story for Writer’s Month 2020. Every day is a new prompt, and therefore a new chapter. This is an AU Wolfstar where Remus is a tattoo artist next door to Sirius who manages a flower shop. James and Lily are alive in this universe and own a coffee shop across the street. And to make parts of the story work with the prompts, Remus is about 10 years older than Sirius. It also takes place more or less in present time, minus Covid-19.

This is chapter 8 of a multi-chapter work. If you’d like to start from the beginning, here is chapter 1.

Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters. I just like to play with them.

Day 8 Prompt: Eight

Rating: Teen and Up

Word Count: 1917

Tags: angst, language, humor, friendship

Chapter 8

Remus

Dropkick Murphys, “Rose Tattoo”

A rose that shines down from above

I signed and sealed these words in blood

I heard them once, sung in a song

It played again and we sang along

Remus stood and set his cup down on the coffee table. “Wait here. I’ll get it ready for you.” He walked toward the bathroom. Before he entered, he turned to cast a wary eye upon his friend.

Sirius had returned to laying in the fetal position on the couch. He had a pillow over his head, and his shoulders were trembling.

With an internal sigh, Remus entered the bathroom. He turned the tap to fill the tub with water, and then dropped in his last Lavender Vanilla scented bath bomb. It was his favorite to use when he felt stress, anxiety, and pain. But Sirius needed it more than him right now, and he made a mental note to pick up more next time he did the shopping.

Then he grabbed a towel from the linen closet and set it on the sink. He looked in the mirror over the sink at his reflection. The wisps of grey at his temples and the beginnings of lines forming at the corners of his eyes mocked him. They hinted at a man aged, through complicated circumstances, beyond his actual years.

He remembered being on his own during his own grief, and how the darkness had consumed him. Sirius didn’t know it, but his friendship had helped Remus finally find his way out. Whatever he could do to return the favor, he would do it. Remus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The lavender vanilla scent was already percolating through the air, and it helped to calm him.

James, Lily, and Remus had decided it was probably best if Sirius didn’t stay alone at his own flat tonight. So Remus found his largest pair of athletic shorts, which had never fit him but would hopefully fit Sirius well enough, and a clean undershirt. He set these next to the towel, and went back to the living room to fetch Sirius.

He was right where Remus had left him. Sirius had shifted positions on the couch, and was now laying on his back. His eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling, one arm draped across his stomach, and his other rested on his forehead.

Damn. And I thought I was broken, he thought as he looked at Sirius. “Come on, mate.” Remus helped Sirius to his feet and led him to the bathroom.

Sirius took a long deep breath, and let it out. “Smells nice.”

“Yeah. It’s my favorite.” Remus cleared his throat. Sirius didn’t need to know how often he needed to be calmed or comforted, or that it was often enough to keep a stock of bath bombs handy. “Uh, anyway. Towel and clean clothes are here.” He patted the pile on the sink. “And you take all the time you need. I’ll be out there.” He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder.

Suddenly Sirius threw his arms around Remus. “Thank you,” he whispered into Remus’ shoulder.

“You’re welcome.” Remus melted into his embrace, and silently vowed again to help hold the broken man together.

Sirius released him, and he took the opportunity to leave, closing the door behind him. He let out a heavy sigh and went back to his favorite chair, grabbing a sketchbook and pencil on the way. Flipping open to a blank page he began to draw. Mainly for something to keep his hands and mind busy, and not thinking about the naked Sirius in his tub.

Forty minutes later, he had sketched a beautiful rose. Lots of detailed petals spiraling into the middle, and a few spiked leaves sticking out from underneath. The rose itself seemed to embody the sorrow he knew Sirius was feeling. At that moment, he heard the lever flip to drain the tub, and the sound of Sirius getting out of the bath. Setting the sketchbook on the coffee table, he went into the kitchen to make more tea.

“Did you draw this?” Came a voice from the living room.

Remus poked his head out and saw Sirius holding the sketchbook.

“Uh, yeah. Did that while you were in the bath.”

“This is it.”

“What do you mean?” Remus asked, entering the living room with two fresh cups of tea.

“This is what I want.” He fixed Remus with a pointed stare. “Will you tattoo this on me?”

“Erm...yeah.” Remus handed him a cup. “We can do it in the morning, yeah?”

“Now.”

“Now?” Remus worried Sirius was feeling a little reckless and not thinking this decision through. “Why don’t we sit and have some tea and talk about it a bit first.” Sirius was undoubtedly feeling emotional, and Remus didn’t want him to let that control his decisions.

Sirius rolled his eyes in a huff and accepted the cup offered to him. “Fine.”

The two men sat, Sirius back on the couch and Remus back in his favorite chair. Remus sipped his tea and studied Sirius over the cup.

He was still staring intently at the drawing. There was an intense fire consumed in his flitting eyes. Remus sensed a recklessness disguised as adrenaline in Sirius.

“I decided...in the bath I decided I wanted to get a tattoo in remembrance of Silas. And when I saw this,” he was still holding and looking at the rose, “I knew this was it. I want it right here.” He placed his right hand over his left chest and shoulder and looked at Remus through misty eyes.

He continued to study Sirius for a long second. If this is what he needs to begin to heal, then I can do it. Remus' heart ached for himself and for Sirius when he finally said, “Ok.”

Sirius gave him a sad smile and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Remus.”

~~~~~

Sirius stayed on Remus' couch that night. James had popped by in the evening to see how he was getting along, and brought him a change of clothes. He also managed to convince Sirius to not be alone at his flat for the night. He was worried about what Sirius might get up to if left to his own devices right now, a concern he shared with Remus. Although Remus never had company. And sort of forgot come morning, that he had a guest on the couch.

Remus’ alarm went off, and he slammed his hand on the button on top. With a tired groan, he hauled himself out of bed. Bleary eyed and wearing only his boxers, he stumbled to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap, paid the Daily Prophet owl, and wandered back through the living room. It was at this moment he noticed the human shaped lump on his couch.

What the...he wondered, squinting at the mass.

One of the eyes of the mass opened. “Remus, the dragon boxers are very flattering, but put on some trousers, mate.”

Remus jumped as the recollection of the prior evening ricocheted around his brain -- Silas death, Sirius bath, James stopped by, Sirius stayed the night -- and he remembered what and why and who was on his couch. Of course, this jump also caused him to spill most of the contents of his water glass all over himself. “Sweet Merlin and Godric damn-it anyway!” He covered the front of his boxers with the newspaper, and side-stepped into the bathroom.

A few minutes later he emerged from the bathroom, thoroughly embarrassed but fully clothed and dry. Which was more than he could say for his overnight guest. Remus stopped in his tracks. Sirius was lounging on his couch wearing only jeans, his feet propped up and ankles crossed...reading a book.

A Wrinkle in Time, Remus read on the cover. One of his favorites, despite it being considered a children’s novel. He found inspiration in it’s ideas of friendship, individuality, courage, and nonconformity.

Finding Sirius relaxing on his couch, and reading his books, however. Well, that made his insides squirm in a way that was not appropriate given the situation and circumstances.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Remus remarked. Casual. Be casual.

Sirius turned a page. “Well, I figured if you’re going to do my tattoo this morning, then there was no point in putting on a shirt.” He looked at Remus with a wide, toothless smirk.

Oh, yeah. While Remus was covered almost head to toe in tattoos to cover his scars, he noticed Sirius had a few specially placed so you’d never know they were there if you never saw him with his shirt off. The one that stood out to him most was on the inside of his left forearm.

“Canis Major,” Remus said.

Sirius moved his hand from holding up his head and held his arm out to examine it. “The star Sirius is right there.” He pointed with a smile. “The Dog Star.”

“How many tattoos do you have?” Remus asked, sitting in his favorite chair.

“Seven. Today’s will be eight.” Sirius swung his legs down to the floor. “The constellation dog was my first. Then I got this one.” He held up and pointed to the inside of his right bicep. “For my brother, Regulus.” It was the Leo constellation within a lion.

“Then, when Reg died, I got this tribal band.” It was two lines encompassing a band of triangles with every other one flipped.

“The day after James proposed to Lily, I got this one.” He showed the outside of his right bicep, with an intimidating stag surrounded by colorful orange lilies.

“Then I also got this motorcycle.” He leaned back and showed off the left side of his abs. “I think motorcycles are a brilliant Muggle contraption.”

“And this Gibson guitar head.” It was on the outside of his left bicep. “Shortly after I started learning how to play guitar, and I realized it was going to become a big part of my life.”

“What about the one on your sternum?” Remus was most interested in this one. It was very familiar to him, despite having never seen it on Sirius’ body.

Sirius looked down and touched this tattoo with a chuckle. “Oh. Got this one shortly after leaving Hogwarts.”

“The rest of your tattoos have special meaning though.” This one looked like a weird letter Y with lines through the bottom. He recognized the sign. “What does this one mean?” Does it mean to you what it means to me?

“Ok. So, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to freak out.”

“Ok…”

“It’s an amalgamation symbol. It kinda means like...a merger or a mixture.”

Remus could only stare and blink. “Ok…”

Sirius scratched his head with a grin. “Erm...James and I figured out how to become animagi while we were in school. That’s why his tattoo is a stag, because that’s his animagus form.”

What the hell? Remus had been on the edge of his seat throughout this explanation, and at this revelation he fell back. “What?”

“I’m an animagus.”

“And so is James?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

In the time it took Remus to blink, there was a big black dog sitting on his couch where Sirius had been moments before. He jumped. “What the hell?!”

The dog hopped off the couch and padded over to where Remus sat, and looked up at him with great puppy dog eyes. Then in another blink of the eye, Sirius crouched in front of him.

“Let’s go do that tattoo now.” Sirius said with a grin and a slap to Remus' leg.

Next Chapter: Chapter 9

#writersmonth2020 #wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #sirius x lupin #slow burn #alternate universe #harry potter #fanfiction #fanfic

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teannamon · 4 years

Text

The Black Cat and the Princess (ML Fic) 6

Cover art by deryuj :>

[ Family Switch AU ] Marinette’s the only child of fashion icon Gabriel Agreste, and Adrien is the adopted child of Sabine and Tom Dupain-Cheng, two of the best bakers in Paris. What happens when their paths meet?

↫ Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Adrien gets a visit from Marinette at the bakery.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Adrien groaned as he turned off his alarm. He was tired from last night’s party, not because of the party itself but because he spent most of his energy trying to calm down a drunk Alya from participating in another “Alcohol or Awful” drinking game. Ultimately, Nino decided to just take her home and he also decided to call it a night. At 3 am.

He rubbed his eyes and stretched to get ready for his weekend baking duties. Dropping down from his bed he grabbed a quick change of clothes and headed to the bathroom.

‘Not awful but not amazing either’ he thought to himself as he viewed his tired self in the mirror. After washing his face with cold water, he quickly changed into clean clothes. That’s when he noticed something missing from the hamper.

His favorite cardigan.

“Did I leave it at the party?” he asked out loud while double checking the hamper, but he remembered Marinette. Seeing her shiver from the gym clothes she changed into prompted him to lend her his cardigan so she would at least feel better from whatever happened to her.

“I’ll see her at school anyways, at least she’ll get home in better conditions” he said to no one in particular as he opened the trapdoor to head downstairs.

Sabine already prepared him a meal for him at the counter-three pieces of croissants, omelet, and a cup of coffee. She waited for him all night, so she knows how tired he must’ve been.

“Good morning dear, eat up so you can help your father downstairs” she greeted while taking a sip of her tea. Adrien gave her a kiss on the cheek as he sat down to eat, “Thanks mom”

“No problem hun, drunk Alya again?” she asked and Adrien chuckled while stuffing the bread into his mouth.

“You know it” he said after swallowing. He was enjoying his meal and almost choked when he heard his mother’s next question.

“Speaking of Alya, she mentioned you’re seeing a girl named Marinette is it?”

“N-no,” he sputtered out “Well technically I see her everyday because miraculously our schedules are almost identical, but she’s just a friend I swear Alya is just-and why are you laughing?”

His mom covered her mouth to stop her from laughing too loud but eventually calmed down, “You’re cute when you’re defensive, and Alya didn’t tell me anything. Actually, Marinette is at the bakery downstairs, said she wanted to bring back something for you”

She gave him a wink as she said, “I bet your father is already talking to her”

“What?!” the blonde boy ate his breakfast with much speed so he could head downstairs.

Meanwhile, Marinette and Tom were making small talk while he set the pastries on the display cases. She was in awe at the wonderful smell of fresh morning pastry, she made note to come here every morning that she can.

“I hear Alya mention your name a lot whenever she comes here, I’m guessing you’re that young designer she’s very fond of”

Said designer smiled sheepishly, “I guess you can say that. She has a lot of my outfits to say the least, and I’m glad we’re friends now”

Tom hummed in response before offering her a red velvet cupcake, “That’s great to hear, here’s a cupcake for making you wait long. Free of charge”

“Oh! that’s so nice of you, sir. It’s no bother though, I didn’t mind waiting”

“Even so, please take it. I’m sure one cupcake won’t hurt”

She happily took the cupcake and took a small bite, she was delighted by the taste “This is very delicious!” she exclaimed.

“I’m glad you like it; this is Adrien’s specialty” he gave her a knowing look she didn’t quite catch on as she’s too invested in the cupcake.

Another mental note-ask them to cater one of her future parties.

Just then Adrien burst in through the door that leads to the bakery.

“Good morning, Adrien” he greets with a large smile. Marinette peeks around the display case on the counter obstructing her view to see the person who he came here for.

“Hi Adrien” she waves with her cupcake in hand.

“Good morning dad, Marinette” he greeted back, sounding a bit out of breath.

He puts on an apron before taking his post behind the counter. At that moment his father conveniently ran out of cookies to put on display.

“Ah would you look at that, I’m all out” he said all too cheerfully and left for the kitchen door in quick strides “I’ll leave you two here then. Alone. Together”

Adrien internally facepalmed, ‘Not being subtle at all, dad’ and with that Tom closed the door behind him and as he said, leaving the two alone together.

He turned back to face Marinette who had no idea what just transpired as she just finished her cupcake. He noticed the custom cupcake liner he always used for his own cupcake recipe so he cheerfully told her, “That’s my special cupcake, what do you think? It’s a Crowd Favorite”

“It tastes amazing! I love the mix of dark chocolate and strawberry” she excitedly told him, “oh and the marshmallow frosting is such a cool idea. Does it have a name?”

Adrien resisted a chuckle, “I told you it’s a Crowd Favorite”

She rolled her eyes, “Well yeah, I meant special recipes have names right?”

He pointed his thumb towards the display case lined with his special cupcakes under the tag “Crowd Favorite”. This made Marinette groan but then chuckled after “Oh my gosh, you really are such a dork”

The blonde laughed with her and shrugged, “Well what can I say, I really am adorkable” repeating his statement last night, which reminded him.

“Anyway, I forgot to ask how you were since last night?”

“I got home safely thankfully, and speaking of” she reached down and placed a paper bag on the counter “you really didn’t need to lend me your cardigan you know but I do appreciate the gesture”

She smiled sweetly and Adrien couldn’t help but feel flustered as he recalled how close they were when he mindlessly carried her on the way out. He rubbed the back of his neck as he took the paper bag and placed it under the counter.

Just then the bell chimed and Adrien instinctively greeted whoever entered the bakery, “Good morning, how can I help you today?”

The blunette moved a little to the side to give way for the customer to approach the counter. She was wondering where the customer was until she looked down and saw a short old man wearing a red Hawaiian shirt.

“Hello Mr Wang, the usual?” Adrien asked with such familiarity. The old man nodded and smiled. As Adrien turned around to pack up his orders the old man, Mr Wang, turned to the female visitor who busied herself looking at the other pastries on display.

“Here you go, I added an extra cinnamon roll from the burnt pile as well” Adrien handed him a small box of pastries and took his payment.

“Thank you, Adrien. See you again tomorrow” Mr Wang took one last glance at Marinette as he left. The bell chimed as the door closed behind him.

Sensing that the day would get busier as time went on Marinette decided to say her goodbyes and leave. She approached the counter to face Adrien.

“Well, I guess I should go too since I already did what I came here to do but I’d love to come visit the bakery again”

“No problem, Marinette. See you tomorrow at school” he waved as she left the bakery.

As soon as she left he turned to the kitchen door to see both his parents peeking through the small window obviously spying on their adorable son and his equally adorable female classmate.

———————-

“Are you done with your errands?” Gabriel asked her daughter thru the phone.

Marinette rolled her eyes, “Yes father, we’re en route to the mall like you said”

Another event that she’s obligated to attend being the secondary face of the Agreste brand. That, and she needs to make up for her mishap last night.

“Good, and don’t forget to fix how you look all the time. I wouldn’t want to go through all the trouble of trying to get rid of unpleasant images of you uploaded to the net for everyone to see”

“Noted” she snapped as the call ended. She sighed and sank to her seat as they drove thru the city.

Last Night…

Chloe’s limo stopped in front of the Agreste mansion’s gate. Gabriel Agreste was already waiting for Marinette as soon as he got his daughter’s call.

“Ugh this won’t be good” she groaned and Chloe looked at her friend sympathetically.

The blonde patted her back, “Hey Mari, at least you had fun. Whatever your dad will tell you now shouldn’t take that away”

Marinette smiled at Chloe, she really was thankful for her. No matter how shallow and self-centered she might be at times she really does understand her and comes through when times get hard.

“Thanks Chloe, see you on Monday” she said as she was about to leave.

She stood next to Gabriel as the limo left.

He looked at her current get-up, “Those were not the clothes you left with tonight”

She looked down and wrapped the cardigan around her tighter, “Yes, I know. Can we get inside and I’ll explain everything”

He didn’t say a word but both of them went inside the mansion. As soon as they stepped foot inside he looked at her for an explanation.

Taking a deep breath she told him how she got soaked in juice, had a senior let her borrow gym clothes from a schoolmate, and Adrien letting her borrow his cardigan.

She chose to withhold some information like the blackmail from Lila or when Adrien walked in on her underwear. If Gabriel knew about those details she’s more worried about what her father is going to do to them than her.

‘He’s quiet again, what now?’ she wondered, her anxiety growing more and more each second he’s not saying anything.

He sighed, “Well it can’t be helped since you’re at a disorganized and rowdy event. Next time limit your attendance to those unless it's necessary”

“Y-yeah, of course”

“Goodnight, Marinette”

“Goodnight, father” she mumbled as they parted ways towards their own rooms.

She flops into the bed feeling frustrated at… well, she doesn’t know exactly.

Maybe Lila, for ruining her night and her outfit or her father for not even asking if she was okay throughout the whole night’s ordeal. Either way, she’s frustrated as hell.

‘Deep breaths Mari, deep breaths’ she reminded herself and she calmed herself down after a few seconds.

“Like Chloe said, I had fun tonight despite what happened” she told herself as she recalled the people she met that night, the live student band, the crazy games she got to witness, and her new friends.

She never would’ve guessed that Adrien would have the guts to carry her all the way outside though. Somehow that was the most memorable event of that night for her, she pondered as she fiddled with the cardigan of his.

As she took it off she noticed something written on the tag, ‘Adrien’s favorite cardigan DO NOT TOUCH’

“He really is a dork,” she giggled.

Marinette (wearing Adrien’s cardigan) being carried by Adrien in Chapter 5

art by @deryuj

↬ Chapter 7 (tba) ↬ AO3 Link

Its been almost a year since I last updated this but I hope you guys can forgive me QwQ... I’ll be updating this story more often though since college stuff is all done (and by done I meant holding it off til next year lmao)

But rest assured updates will be more frequent from now on, maybe every 3days or every week hehe

✦ Tag List : @conquering-medians

#teanammonfics #blackcatandprincess #miraculous ladybug #miraculous fanfiction #miraculous fanfic #miraculous au #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #adrien agreste #adrienette #tales of ladybug and chat noir #teannamonfics

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toras-muse-cabinet · 4 years

Text

GENERAL RP STYLE AND PREFERENCES MEME

Repost, don’t reblog. Bold what applies. Strikethrough what does not. Elaborate on any points you’d like with a *

Please be honest, we all want to find the people who work best with how we RP. ____

Types of RP / How I do threads

*I’m cool to do whatever is available in my notes when I pop over. Asks, Short things, Long threads. All good.

**I’m cool to do stuff on Discord if you’d rather

Plotting Preferences

| Wing it | Get a general idea ooc and then run with it & plot further if need be | Long expansive thought out story arcs |

Type of threads I do / Prefer

Reply Speed for Threads & Consistency & Keeping threads

*I try to get back immediately but since I rely on Tumblr to tell me when I have a notification sometimes I lose your reply. If I’ve not gotten back within day or so feel free to poke.

Romantic or sexual ships

| I don’t do these ships (specify reason if you would like)* | I’m not against them happening but it is not the main point of my blog** | All ships will have to be super slow burn & discussed a lot OOC, super chemistry based (specify reason if you’d like) | I love doing ships, HMU I probably already ship it just ask! | I ship really quickly | I autoship or ship within a few interactions | I mainly RP for the cute ship fluff or smut |

*I’m sure there are ships I don’t ship and I’ll be honest OOC if one comes up but I don’t like have a list pre-prepared?

**I’m totally okay with ships coming up and RPing them, bring on the cute fluff.

Smut

| I do NOT do smut at all (reason here if any)* | I’m very selective about it | I only do it on a separate (blog/discord/specify here) | I mainly only do asks relating to nsfw headcanons on Sundays | I write it a medium amount | I write it all the time and love to |

*I’m not comfortable writing smut, the closest I’ll get to NSFW content is a fade to black implying adult things happened between two adult muses.

Active hours [Specify Timezone, if you’d like] [EST Timezone]

*IF you see me at ungodly hours yell at me to sleep.

Activity Schedule

| SUPER slow and sporadic, like once a month or so | Slow and sporadic week long gaps between activity* | Bi-weeklyish activity | Weekly activity (specify if there’s a certain time you have school/work/etc. off that you are most active) | Daily activity | I’m online nearly all the time |

*I really try to be on daily but sometimes I get distracted for days/weeks at a time. I’m always on Discord if you wanna poke me there.

Starters

AUs

| I don’t do AUs | My blog is an AU but outside of that I don’t do them | I sometimes do them but only with a lot of plotting | I have a couple of AUs already feel free to request them! | I have AUs coming out of my ears please interact with them!* | I love making AUs HMU to plot if you think of one! | There are some AUs I won’t do** |

*My muses are basically 100% AU, and I’m always up for considering more AUs to add to the pile (except Shadow, he’s 300% AU and doesn’t need any more)

**Not sure if I need to repeat this but I’m going to for safety sake. I don’t do Smut so if your AU idea is just a porn-o-verse I’d prefer to be left out thank you.

Crossovers

| I don’t do crossovers (specify reason if you’d like) | I’m selective with crossovers (specify reason if you’d like) | I love crossovers!* |

*Even if I don’t know the series, if you are willing to explain it. Wikis are good but hearing from a fan helps me conceptualize what I need to keep in mind from that universe!

Tagged: @musingchaos

Tagging: Anyone!

#tora rambles

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timelordthirteen · 5 years

Text

Killing Time 10/?

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: Flashback: Weaver and Belle make a major discovery in the case.

Notes: So I hope this clears up some of the confusion with the plot of this story. This is majorly late and unbeta'd and barely read over. I'm so sorry for this being a total hot mess and probably riddled with typos. For the Writer's Month prompt#20: weird.

Warnings: Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags. No additional warnings for this chapter.

[AO3] Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]

9 weeks and 3 days ago...

Belle sighed heavily and sat back in her chair, tossing her pen on the table.

Four days ago she’d fucked her ex-husband on the sofa just behind her. She expected it to cause some fracture in their working relationship, for him to come in the next day or even show up at her apartment to start some huge argument, but things went on as if it never even happened. That unnerved her more than the shouting would have.

At least three different times, she’d almost brought it up, but chickened out at the last second. Things had been too good between them these last few weeks. It was - nice. They’d become some kind of friends again, a bit like it was after they first met, when it was sarcastic, flirty remarks after testimony, or over drinks at Roni’s, and she could admit to herself that she was loathing messing any of that up. Except of course it had escalated from there, just as it had when they finally started dating. One dinner and she let him push her up against the door to her apartment and kiss her senseless, and a minute later she was dragging him into her apartment.

That first time they didn’t even make it to her bed, and she was left with an amusing pattern of lines on her back from the exposed brick wall of her living room. He stayed the night, and by morning she ached like she’d done back to back yoga classes at the gym. She had never had a lover that attentive, who found every button she had and pushed them over and over, or who seemed to like everything she did; hard and rough one time, and soft and intimate the next. Sex was the one thing they never got wrong.

She shouldn’t have let things go that far with Ian, but for a moment while they were dancing it felt like old times, like none of the shit between them had happened, like there wasn’t a murder board behind them and autopsy reports on the table. It was always so damn good with him, and the case overwhelmed her so much that she needed something to push all of it away. Except when it was over everything came rushing back.

A tingling shiver crept over her, and she abruptly pushed back from the table and stood up, silently chastising herself for getting lost in such thoughts. Again. She rubbed at her tired eyes and wiggled her feet back into her shoes before moving across the room to the whiteboard.

The board was completely covered now with photos, reports, and scribbled notes in marker, all comprising a full timeline of some of the most heinous murders she’d ever seen. Her eyes scanned the top where they had taped pictures of the victims, then sectioned off the board between each of them to group the case elements together. Their names were burned into her brain, their smiling faces - faces that would never smile again - permanent fixtures when she closed her eyes.

She sighed again and the office door opened.

“Well, that was a bloody waste of time.”

Belle turned and watched as Weaver strode quickly across the room, dropping the folder he’d taken with him and his notebook on the table.

“What was?” she asked, almost grateful that they could talk about the case and pull her mind away from other things.

“Trying to find Eloise Gardner,” he said, giving her a flat smile. “As near as I can tell, she doesn’t fucking exist.”

Belle made a face. “What?”

He huffed and sat on the edge of the table. “Her last known address is an empty lot that up until a year ago was a community garden. She doesn’t have a driver’s license in this state. She hasn’t paid taxes, apparently ever. I can’t find a Social Security Number, state ID, W-2, forwarding address, employer, or any official piece of paper to prove she existed.”

Belle sank onto the sofa and dropped her head to her hands as she breathed. She looked up at Weaver feeling more tired and drained than she had in days. “So why did Branson say she could prove he was innocent?”

Weaver shrugged. “No clue. Though he did murder five people, so I’m not sure he’s making the best life choices.”

She snorted at that and shook her head. “Did you have any luck with any of the others?”

He turned and picked up the notebook, opening it and flipping passed a few pages. “I found Mr. Porter, the garbage man, at work, but Mrs. Emery was not at her apartment, and no one had seen her in days.”

Belle blinked. “You’re joking…”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Her head dropped again in defeat. “So, our eye witness to the disposal of the last victim, just up and disappeared? Fucking great.”

Weaver started to smile. “Not exactly.” She lifted her head slowly, eyebrows raised. “I tracked down the building manager, and he said she moved out. I went to the post office and they have a forwarding address of a nursing home. I went there and found out she’d had a stroke. Her daughter…” He paused and flipped another page in his notebook. “Laura, arrived from Cambridge last week and has been helping to get her settled in.”

“Cambridge...Massachusetts?”

His lips twitched. “No.”

Her eyes narrowed and then she made a face. “England?”

“Her daughter teaches at the university,” he said, crossing to the sofa and sitting down beside Belle.

“Nice…” she muttered. “So, is she still with it enough to testify?”

“Seems so from talking to her.” He flipped his notebook closed. “She repeated everything the same as in her official statement. The doctor I spoke to said she should be fine now that she’s on medication, and that he’ll provide whatever documentation of her mental faculties is needed.

Belle flopped back against the sofa and slumped. “Thank god.”

“So,” he said, smiling. “That was the last six hours of my life. How was yours?”

“Lousy.” Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling and then she pushed herself up, crossing to the table to pick up a few photos. “I got copies of the crime scene photos we were missing from Crenshaw and Hughes, the last two. Nothing all that enlightening or helpful, though.”

She flipped through them as she walked back towards the sofa. “It’s all mostly background stuff that got left out, like the cars that were in the area, some random plant material, uh, shoe prints from Branson’s boots, and this which I thought you would ”

Weaver’s eyebrows lifted both at her tone and the smirking look she had on her face. She held out one photo and he leaned forward, holding the edge of it between his fingers as he looked at it. After a long moment, he groaned.

“Shit.”

Belle let out a snorting laugh. “Exactly.”

He shook his head as she set the rest of the pictures down on the coffee table. “Some crime scene tech actually took a picture of dog shit.”

She shrugged. “I guess they were being thorough?”

“Thoroughly fucking stupid, maybe,” he said absently, and she laughed.

She turned to grab something else, and as she pivoted on her right foot, her toes pulled back inside her shoe. A curse slipped out and she stumbled, the cramping pain contorting her foot and making it impossible to walk.

“Are you okay?” Weaver asked, sitting forward on the sofa. “What’s wrong?”

She bent and took off her shoe, grabbing at her toes to try to relieve the tension. “It’s just a cramp. I think I’ve been pacing this office too much today.” She wobbled as she tried to walk wearing only one shoe and pressing the toes of her cramped foot against the floor. “Fuck.”

He rolled his eyes. “Come here.”

Her look was dubious, but she hobbled over to the sofa and dropped down with a hiss. He reached for her leg, pulling it up and tipping her back on the couch. She let out a pained noise, as she struggled to point her toes and make the cramp stop.

“Relax,” he said softly, wrapping his warm hand over her toes.

Slowly, he worked her foot until the muscles stopped contracting, and she leaned back, resting her head on the arm of the sofa as she let him pull her foot completely into his lap. Under previous circumstances, this would have been more than welcome, and a possible prelude to other activities as his hand naturally crept higher and higher on her legs. Anytime she had to be in court all day, pacing and walking around, her feet would rebel and start cramping painfully by the end of the day. She blamed it on all the damage she’d done to them in dance and ballet in her younger days, followed by too many years of shoving them into heels constructed by masochists who thought all women had dainty, narrow feet that never went over a size seven.

After a few minutes, she was biting back moans as he worked his thumb against her arch, stroking the muscle up and down before making a sweep over the ball of her foot. Part of her wanted to let him do this for the next hour to both of her feet, followed immediately by her shoulders and neck. But a greater part of her knew she needed to stop things before they went to far. While those two factions warred within her, she rolled her head to the side and stared at the miscellaneous photographs.

A shoe print stared back at her from the top of the pile, the ones found at the last scene when Branson had been arrested, and she frowned. Something was poking at the back of her brain, something that was unsettled and curious at the same time. Abruptly, she yanked her foot away from Weaver, and pushed up.

Weaver let out a light grunt as Belle shoved against him. “What is it?”

“Hold on,” she said, scrambling to sit up. "Something's...weird."

She picked up the photo of Branson’s boot print, and stared at it for a few seconds, noting the size and the markers that had been placed around it. Then she set it to the side and shuffled through the rest of the photos.

Weaver frowned at her and then picked up the photo she’d set down. “What are you looking for?”

“The other print.” She was getting frustrated and wondering if she’d imagined it, when he reached out and snatched up the picture she’d been looking for.

“This one?” he asked, holding it out.

She grabbed both photos from him, and laid them on the table. Her eyes darted back and forth between them, as her eyes widened. She wasn’t crazy, but this case sure was. “Look.”

She pointed at the pictures, and he looked back and forth between them. There was nothing jumping out at him, but it had been a long day of driving around and making calls.

“Okay?”

Belle huffed and pointed at the marker on the first photo. “See the measurement on the one from his arrest?” Weaver nodded. “And now the one from the second crime scene.”

His head tilted slightly, and then it hit him. “They’re different.”

“Yeah,” she said, starting to smile. “Branson’s boot was a size eleven. But the first one is a ten.”

He shook his head. “They can’t both be his shoe can they?”

She shrugged. “They aren’t marked as elimination prints from any of the officers or techs. What’s his shoe size from his booking?”

Weaver got up and crossed to the table, sorting through the stacks of folders until he found the report of vital statistics from Nick Branson’s booking at the station. He scanned the page, his eyes going wide as he turned around.

“He’s an eleven.”

Belle stood up, her body practically vibrating with new energy. “There’s no way someone is going to wear a different size boot like that. A half size maybe, but not a whole size.”

He nodded and took a breath. “You know what that might mean then, right?”

She swallowed hard, her excitement waning in light of the new reality of the case. “We have two killers.”

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #woven beauty #woven beauty fic #fic #my woven beauty fic #lemon fic #killing time

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lisinfleur · 5 years

Text

Love

You knew you were probably just a refuge to his troubled mind.

As Ragnar's third wife and pretty younger than him, you knew he was probably facing a mid-age crisis when he started a relationship with a woman that was almost his elder son's age. At least, it was what you were used to thinking, even hearing his bardic son Sigurd repeating almost all the time he was more present and tender to you than he ever was to his mother.

The media kept hitting that same button, reinforcing the idea in your mind that you were only a toy to an old needy man, a trophy to tell the world he could still keep the pace.

But in days like this, Ragnar was able to show you the whole world was wrong about the two of you. Even yourself.

It was a hard week.

He was on a business trip and you heard his company stock was dropping exponentially due to his process of transference of the CEO position from himself to his older son Björn. The market wasn't too confident with his retirement and part of the investors was worried Björn wouldn't be aggressive enough to the market, betting their coins on the idea that his younger son Ivar should be his successor.

You knew he would be a pile of nerves almost all the time, so you didn't even try to remember him it was your birthday tomorrow. You could understand he wouldn't be able to be there for you and you were planning to maybe celebrate it when he was able to come back. After all, what was a birthday night over all the work of his life? You could order something special for dinner, take a good breakfast tomorrow and that would be good.

Right?

Ivar was out with his father for the same trip alongside with Björn. Sigurd was on a tour with his band. Ubbe was enjoying some time with his new girlfriend and Hvitserk left a note in the fridge warning he wouldn't be home to the next four days for he would be making a trip for snowboarding and some winter fun with some friends. So, the last thing you were waiting for was a bouquet of your favorite flowers over the dinner table, beside a bottle of your favorite wine and two glasses in what seemed to be prepared as a surprise.

You came closer, looking at the card that was popping out of the bouquet, picking it up to see the beautiful calligraphy of your husband on it, getting a smile from your lips while your eyes were reading the message.

"A small gift to my lovely wife. Yours, always. Ragnar"

You touched the card against your chest, sighing with a big smile in your face, sure he had asked one of the servants of his house to prepare that surprise in his name. But a warm embrace surprised you from behind and his scent invaded your nose when you felt his body wrapping yours in his arms while his face was slowly burying itself on the crook of your neck, deeply breathing your scent.

"Hnm... I missed this perfume," he said with the hoarse voice you loved so bad.

And you turned yourself to see him still on his suit, smiling at you.

"Hello, my sweet wife," his smile became bigger and you threw your arms around his neck, kissing him tightly.

"My love! I thought you couldn't come, I... I wasn't expecting this! What a lovely surprise!" you said, smiling easily to his sweet caresses as he was nuzzling his nose on yours.

"I invested my entire life in that company. It is time for my children to do the hard job," he joked, embracing your waist and pecking your lips "It is my wife's birthday and I wanna spend this night by her side".

How could anyone say it wasn't love?

He took a flight from wherever he was just to bring you flowers and share a bottle of wine with you. To spend lovely hours dividing chocolates, talking, exchanging caresses like two adolescents in love, watching the starry sky from the balcony of your room.

To make love to you through the last hours of the night and watch the sunrise of your birthday together in your bed, you laid on his chest, caressing his skin while his fingers were running through your naked back spreading good shivers through your body.

"Happy birthday, Y/N," he said, kissing the top of your head when you sighed sleepy, nestling yourself in his body to fall asleep with his scent around you.

"It's the happiest of my life," you mumbled, smiling before the satisfaction and tiredness could take your consciousness to good dreams with your beloved husband.

Everyone could say whatever they want. You knew it was love.

You could feel loved.

There was no other place in the world you wanted to be but Ragnar's embrace.

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secretstanner · 4 years

Text

hold me in your arms, take the pain away

Chapter three

Pairing: Dan Howell/ Phil Lester

Rating: Not yet rated

Tags: AU Circus, Strangers to Lovers, Impiled Character Death, Angst With Happy Ending, Slow Burn. Character death is NOT main character. Summary: Phil Lester is stuck working for his father’s newspaper, when given an assignment. He must write an article about the first circus to return to Manchester in over 10 years.

He arrives at the circus expecting to be reminded of childhood memories. It turns out to be so much more than that when he meets Dan Howell. Word count: 2.5k

Ao3

He stopped himself a few feet behind Phil, watching as he turned to follow Dan's sudden departure. He saw Phil’s eyes protrude from their sockets as he now realised the person he was there to meet, was talking to him the whole time, standing right in front of him.

“You’re Daniel?” Phil questioned once he was facing Dan. The way he said it was like he was unsure to believe the words that had left Dan’s lips.

Dan gave a nod and placed his hands on his hips, awkwardly standing like that before he brought his arms up and crossed them over his chest, hoping Phil wouldn’t have noticed his insecure movements.

Dan decided to hold his hand out for Phil to take this time, remembering it was rude not shaking his before. Phil glanced down at the outstretched palm before him, rushing to swap a worn leather notebook into his right hand, realising that Dan was offering a welcoming gesture for Phil to take.

He had to stop the urge from rubbing his thumb back and forth across Phil's knuckles, in awe of how soft Phil’s hand felt. Immediately, Dan snapped his jaw tight before his thought came spilling out.

“And you’re Mr Lester.” Dan said. Phil nodded before finally letting go of Dan’s hand and placing his book back into the opposite palm.

He missed the feeling of Phil's hand inside of his own, and Dan could feel his cheeks growing warm just from a simple handshake.

Phil let out a small laugh before replying once again, “and you’re Daniel.”

Dan smiled brightly at him. “No,” He said and watched the grin fall from Phil’s face, dipping into a confused stare. He shook his head before continuing, “It's Dan. No one calls me Daniel. Well, not since I was a boy.”

Phil nodded agreement. “My apologies, it’s good to finally meet you, Dan.”

He didn’t realise he was staring until Phil coughed politely. “Oh yes, nice to meet you as well. Um… what was it that you wanted to talk about today?” He questioned and shook his head, trying to let go of intrusive thoughts.

“You read the letter, correct? I was wondering if it would be okay to have a quick walk around and meet some of the entertainers before talking to anyone for the article. If that’s alright with you?”

Just before Dan had time to reply, Phil let out an excited shout. “We haven’t had an attraction like this in many years.” He saw him suddenly look away, probably realising how loud he spoke.

Dan shifted his body weight and cleared his throat to speak clearer. “Yes, I remember from the letter.” He lifted his hand to brush away the waves that had fallen into his eyes, wrapping the ringlet around his finger and pulling it down, feeling as it bounced back into place. This was something he did when he was nervous.

“That’s perfectly fine, I think that’s probably for the best, anyway. Do you know how long you will be here for?”

“I want to stay as long as possible.” Shaking his head, Phil tried to fix what he said.“What I meant to say was that if it’s possible to stay to get as much information and knowledge about how this place runs, then I will gladly do so. I thought getting to know you all and watching you perform could be the best way to get said information.”

Dan was trying his best not to show any signs of hearing that Phil might be here for a while made him feel something deep in the bottom of his stomach, even if the fear was still there. “Well we will be here throughout spring preparing for the summer opening. I’m sure you will acquire enough information to get your article done in that time frame.” At this, he saw excitement in the form of a toothy grin.

God, Phil looked cute with his tongue trapped between his teeth, Dan thought. He was almost scared the raven haired man would bite it off.

“Dan that would be just perfect.”

Dan gave Phil a curt nod, quickly clapping his hands together which caused a loud noise to echo through the barren room.

“So Phil, where to first?”

“Well, I was wondering if it would be okay to have a tour around the grounds. I would love to do some interviews but I don’t want to rush everything today if we have all summer to do so.” Dan felt the bubbly feeling again when he heard Phil say that he’ll be around all summer. They often had people stay for short periods of time to help build the set, but then they would move on once they were at their desired destination.

Maybe they could even be friends? Dan, this man isn’t here to be your friend, he told himself. It would be easier that way. He knew in the past that getting too attached only hurt when it came time for them to leave.

“That’s fine.” Dan was ready to walk away when he realised that Phil was standing in the same spot. Turning to look at him, he signalled for the reporter to follow him. “Are you coming, Philip?”

Phil stumbled his way over to where Dan was standing.

“Sorry.”

“It’s no problem.” He waved him off. “So let’s start with where we are standing. This is the main tent as you might have guessed,” he said with a small laugh, “you probably won’t see it like this for much longer. Soon the equipment will be arriving here so we can start training and practicing.” Dan could see Phil looking around, inspecting everything in close detail. The tent was damaged, but they’d done so much patch work to cover up tears from over the years, he hoped that he wouldn’t be able to tell.

Dan saw his eyes light up. “It looks so different in the day, without lights and stage.” He stated, rushing out in one breath and turning to look Dan in the eyes. He was shocked to see how bright Phil’s eyes were.

Breathtaking was all he could think. He caught his own eyes flicking back and forth between the blue-green irises. Dan quickly looked away before he embarrassed himself, what would this man think of him.

Dan flicked his eyes rapidly around the tent. When did Phil get so close to him?

“How long does it take to set this tent up?” Hearing Phil’s question, he looked back at him.

“Is this part of the article? I’m just asking because if it is I’ll try to go into as much detail as possible. But if you-”

“No this isn’t part of the article, I have had a fascination with all of this since I was young. Most of these questions today are just for me. I hope that’s okay with you?” Dan watched Phil look away nervously.

Dan looked at Phil in wonder. He noted that Phil seemed like he was scared of Dan's judgement. “Phil,” Dan gave him a smile. “Whatever you want to know I don’t mind, I’ll give you all the behind-the-scenes details.” Phil’s mouth dropped open slightly, he was acting like a child and not like the grown man that first walked in here. It was refreshing.

Phil soon stood up straight and said, “That would be very nice of you.” Pushing his glasses once again up the bridge of his nose, trying to conceal the ever growing beam across his face.

“To put up the tent, it takes about a day with the people who work on building the sets. It’s a lot of heavy lifting and we try to take breaks while setting up. As for everything inside, that takes a little longer but this will be mostly clear for now. You said that you would want to be around to see us practicing?”

Phil rushed to say, “Oh yes, it’s more for me than for the newspaper if I’m being honest!” And looked down at his shoe, dragging the tip across the gravelled floor. Looking back up at Dan, he questioned. "What is your act?” Dan could see him not so discreetly looking at his body up and down, probably trying to guess.

Dan coughed. “Um...I don't have an act any—“ He stopped himself before continuing. “I just work here behind the scenes. I help around with bits here and there, mostly helping the performers on the nights we open. Getting people in costumes, things like that. If anyone has a problem, I make sure everyone can tell me. We’re a family here, so if there’s anything I can do, even if it’s helping a 76-year-old Margret put on her under garments-”

Phil stared back at Dan slightly shocked. Before whispering, “Really?”

Dan doubled over in a fit of giggles. “No, that was a joke.”

Phil let out a burst of laughter. “Oh, I knew that.”

“How many performers do you have working here?”

“We have 15 performers, some have multiple talents and perform in more than one act on any given night. That might not seem like a lot in the grand scheme of things, but I can assure you that they can entertain a whole crowd. No one will leave feeling disappointed!” Dan couldn’t help how fast the words came out.

“Oh, yes I’m sure they are very talented, I didn’t mean for that to sound like I was-“

“Phil that was my fault. We don’t have as many performers as we did, once upon a time, but we’re still here. We still love what we do when we are—they, sorry. They still love what they do when they’re in front of a crowd.” Dan's eyes were now bulging out. He really needed to shut his mouth. “I really am sorry, were under a lot of stress and I don’t want to say the wrong thing because if-“

“Dan,” Phil interrupted him, “This isn’t an interview, okay? I genuinely love the circus. You can’t believe how excited I am to be here, but right now there’s no pressure.”

Dan swallowed the lump in his throat. “Thank you. Are you ready to see more?” He was feeling overwhelmed and needed some fresh air. He didn’t listen to Phils reply before he turned walking away to leave the tent.

————————————————————————

Phil was watching where Daniel was going. He saw him walk past the pile of chairs that were still a misplaced mess on the floor.

Dan turned around.“Are you coming, Philip?” He asked.

He hurried to catch up with Dan. “Wait Daniel!” He called out, making Dan come to a stop. "What about the—“ Phil gestured to the mess on the floor. Dan just smirked and carried on walking, acting as if the pile of chairs weren’t there. Phil walked past them and ran so he was finally catching up with the boy.

“My name is Dan to tell you again, I don’t let people calling me Daniel.” Phil turned to look at Dan's face who was staring straight ahead. “Oh okay sorry, Dan. You can call me Phil too.”

Dan just turned and smirked at the reporter. "Okay, Phil two.”

Phil followed Dan as they walked from the slit in the side of the tent. “I should let you know beforehand that I don’t know how much information you will get from the people here.” He confessed with a sigh. “Who is it you will want to talk to?”

Phil understood why the people wouldn’t want to talk to him about their life, considering what Phil was here to do, really hear to do, even though they didn’t know his true intentions.

“I completely understand and I’ll try my best to make sure I won’t step over the line. If anyone has any boundaries then I would prefer to know beforehand to not cause any offence.” Phil said, even though he really meant it he knew part of what he was saying was a lie. He was here to get information, that’s if he could go through with it.

“And everyone if that’s possible. I want to know everything about this place, even from the people who don’t perform and just work behind the scenes. I do completely understand it can’t be easy, I’m a complete stranger after all. Hopefully once they get to know me from being around long enough, then they will find it easier to talk to me.”

Dan was staring back at him. Phil looked at Dan nervously, raising his hand to push down his perfectly slicked back hair. “What is it?” Dan looked away and laughed. “Nothing, you’re just not what I had expected, that’s all.”

Phil halted and looked down at the notebook in his hand. “Oh, sorry.” He looked up to see Dan walk back towards him, it seemed like he noticed Phil was no longer walking with him.

Dan was staring at him with a questioning look. “What did you say? Why are you apologising?” Phil bit his lip as he watched Dan stare back.

Phil had to say something. “I’m sorry I’m not what you thought that you were getting,” He looked down at himself. “I can assure you that I can write and I do have experience. Just give me a chance to prov—“

“Wait wait, I didn’t mean that as a bad thing, Phil. If anything, I meant it in the complete opposite way. You don’t look or act like any reporter I’ve ever come in contact with before, and that’s a good thing. Talking to you has given me reassurance that I can maybe trust you, no offence, of course I don’t know you very well. But you telling me that you respect our boundaries, well that’s more than I could hope for.” He watched as Dan moved his hands through his curls, his fingers trying to brush through the nots.

“I hope I didn’t offend you. I’m sorry if—“ Phil had to stop this. “Dan, I jumped the gun, I’m used to peo—“ He closed his eyes tight as he could, before he felt warm hands on his shoulders. He opened his eyes to see Dan staring intently in front of him.

“Are you okay?” He asked and Phil just nodded, letting out a breath before laughing.

He saw Dan turning his head to look around them. “I was going to take you to the dining tent, that’s where everyone hangs out for breakfast.” Dan removed his hands and let them fall back into place against his sides. “But if you’d prefer, would you like to come back to my trailer?”

Phil couldn’t contain his omediate thoughts as he watched Dan's eyebrows crease his forehead.

“For tea!” Dan shouted. “I meant for some tea, the tent can get quite busy and overwhelming. I was just trying to— never mind, it’s fine. Let’s just go.” He caught Dan's arm before he could walk away.

Dan looked back at Phil questioningly. “Dan, that would be a really big help if I’m being honest. I didn’t mean to freak out about what you said. I’m just tired, didn’t get much sleep you see, so some tea before we go meet everyone sounds like heaven.”

He watched as Dan's shoulders dropped in relief. “Oh thank god! Um, right so it’s this way.” Phil followed Dan through the grass. This was going to be a long day, but he really didn’t mind it so far.

#phanfic #phanfiction #hold me in your arms #my fic #C3

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dogbearinggifts · 5 years

Text

Little Tyrants, Chapter Three: No Other Superstar

Rating: Teen and up

Summary: When Vanya was four, Reginald Hargreeves visited her cell. But not to take her powers away. Just to let her know he could. Just to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that her powers were a privilege he could rescind should she ever choose not to fall in line.

Years later, the old man is dead—and the last sibling Vanya wants to see has reappeared in the Academy courtyard.

This work is also available on AO3.

Author’s Note: If you’d like to read the asks that inspired this story, you can find them here and here. Follow-up asks can be found under the tags “vanya keeps her powers au” and “five returns as a kid au.”

The title of this chapter is taken from Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi.”

Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two

**********

Leonard had never been overly fond of coffee.

He drank it when it was in front of him, drained the mug and didn’t complain. To call it a show of strength would be overstating the issue—were that the case, his fellow inmates would have hosted more coffee-drinking contests than brawls, and Leonard could have risen to the top simply by forcing more and more of the stuff down his throat. No, there was something else to the ritual, something less dire yet more crucial. Drinking coffee, drinking it hot and bitter with no sugar or milk to make the experience somewhat pleasant, wasn’t proof of one’s strength, but denial of one’s weakness.

The thought brought a smile as he watched Vanya shake cocoa powder over a pile of whipped cream.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He allowed his smile to remain. “Just the way you take your coffee, is all.”

The whipped cream, a perfectly formed swirl of white, was nearly covered in a layer of soft brown, like the last patches of snow clinging to a mound of dirt. “Sugar and coffee with more sugar on top. If you’ve got a better way to toast my dad, let’s hear it.”

Leonard covered a flash of irritation with a chuckle. He’d learned a lot about Sir Reginald Hargreeves from the man’s daughter. For their first few dates, he’d taken her into or past various coffee shops around town, hoping to jog her memory of the incident that had, by some miraculous failure of the justice system, not landed her in prison. He’d expected a monologue about her restraining order or the woes of anger management; instead, he’d been treated to long lectures on Sir Reginald Hargreeves’ views of sweets and caffeinated beverages. Coffee. Coffee with sugar, coffee with creamer, coffee with nothing. Tea with milk added. Tea with dried fruit mixed in. Tea from the furthest reaches of the globe, tea from the local supermarket. He approved of none and had once spent thirty minutes tearing into the poor courier who mistakenly left a canister of ground coffee on the back step with the rest of the groceries. Harold Jenkins would have snatched up Reginald’s hardline stance on decaf and stowed it away in his collection of Umbrella Academy trivia. Leonard Peabody had been left with no choice but to smile and nod and wait for her to whine about something he could put to use.

Vanya could have launched into another diatribe, but instead she lifted her mug and sipped, leaving a dollop of whipped cream on her nose. On another girl, Leonard might have found it cute. “You’ve got a…”

“Oh!” She fumbled for a napkin, then wiped it away. “Thanks.”

“How was the service?”

“You mean the one we postponed?”

Leonard’s spirits gave a small leap. “Aw, you’re kidding!”

“Nope.” She sighed. “Apparently, when some brother comes back, you suddenly can’t have a funeral anymore.”

“Brother…which brother? The druggie?”

“No, Klaus was there already. I mean, he was in rehab, but he wasn’t the one who came back.”

Leonard filed that bit of information away, though he didn’t spy an immediate use for it. “The Moon guy?”

She shook her head over another sip of coffee, one that left no trace of whipped cream behind. “That’s Luther. Five’s the one who came back.”

“Five.” The boy had been given a name at some point, but the papers and magazines and comics had never introduced him as anything other than Number Five. For a time, Leonard had tried to work up the courage to ask his classmates to call him Number Eight, but that desire was long since dead. “Didn’t he leave when you were—what? Thirteen?”

“Yep. Just ran out the door and never came back.” The bitterness that worked its way into her tone was slow, growing slightly with each word. “Well. Until yesterday.”

“Damn. Must’ve been weird seeing him.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“He try to shred your mask again?”

He said it with a smile, but Vanya’s expression darkened. Leonard couldn’t say what about moping could rouse her anger, but whatever it was, he’d take it. “Nah. Just moped around the house until I left.”

Leonard tried to reconcile that image with the prankster he’d once admired, the one whose smile always hinted at an amusing secret. The two meshed about as well as oil and water. “What’s he got to be sad about? Came home, didn’t he?”

“I know, right?” Vanya took a bite of her bagel. Leonard had stood by as she followed the barista around the counter, watching her slice it and place it in a toaster oven and then a bag. The barista had managed to complete the task without error, despite her frequent glances toward the phone and its promise of a speedy response from the police. “He pops back in after sixteen years and he’s all anybody can think about.”

“That’s weird.” If Vanya didn’t intend to explain Five’s drastic change in personality, it would be pointless to ask. “I mean, it seems like they’d want to get your dad’s funeral over with.”

“God, you’re not kidding. I told ‘em we should just have it then, and Allison’s all ‘Oh, well, we really should wait, Five’s upset and we’ve got to wait for him to get better.’” She rolled her eyes, letting the bagel fall to her plate. “Come on. How long does it take to go outside and dump some ashes on the ground?”

“I dunno. The Sir Reginald Hargreeves, dead?” Leonard nearly added at last and caught himself just in time. “Maybe they want to be in the right frame of mind.”

“What frame of mind? High? That’s what Klaus’ll be. Everyone else’ll just be bored.” She lifted her bagel again and talked around her next bite. “Don’t know why they keep dragging it out.”

“Nobody wants to be there, huh?”

“Nope.”

“So why’re they staying? Couldn’t you all just say nope, no funeral for you and move on?”

Vanya sighed again. “I guess there’s something in his will about how he needs a real funeral with all his kids there. Can’t leave until we get the service over with, but you know. Nobody in my family knows how to do things the easy way.”

“Or the smart way.” From the way Vanya spoke, he’d figured a family reunion would be about as welcome as a family case of scabies, and the sooner they could all leave the Academy and return to their lives, the better. That probably still held true, but if the five of them—six now—were legally obligated to carry out a memorial service which they’d chosen to postpone, then it bought Leonard some time, though he couldn’t say how much.

She sniffed. “You think my family’s ever done anything the smart way?”

*******

Number Five. An odd name, but not the oddest Hazel had found waiting for him in a Commission file.

Much of it followed standard Commission format: a photograph, a location, a handful of scattered facts. Sometimes the latter came in handy, sometimes they didn’t. Learning that Zoya Popova had a bit of a sweet tooth hadn’t aided in her death, though the tidbit stuck with Hazel long after her body had cooled.

It was the photograph, in this case, that held his attention. Dark hair, dirty and dulled. Pale skin clinging to cheekbones more prominent than they ought to be. Whoever had snapped the photo had cropped out his surroundings, leaving only his face, dominated by wide dark eyes averted from a camera they hadn’t seen. Most targets didn’t smile in their file photos, and Number Five was no exception.

“What’re you looking at?”

Fifty or sixty jobs ago, Hazel might have told her he was studying the target, seeking out any additional information that might help them carry out the job as quickly and cleanly as possible. Staring down yet another night on a mattress that should’ve been thrown out five years back with the smell of cat piss in his nostrils, Hazel couldn’t muster up a single reason to lie.

“Target. Number Five. How old d’you think he is?”

“I dunno. Twelve. Fifteen, maybe.” Cha-Cha opened the closet door, peered into the shallow space, and moved on to the restroom. “Should be easier than the last guy.”

That was Hazel’s cue to offer a few words of agreement, maybe crack a joke before letting the matter drop; but Cha-Cha had nudged aside the curtain now. She might as well have grabbed a handful of his hair and given one good yank, for all the good that rustle did his aching head. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m making sure we have enough space to do what we’ve gotta.”

Hazel let himself fall onto the nearest bed, the creak masking his sigh. “Run in, shoot the kid, run out. You really think we need another plan?”

“If this one goes the way that job in Guadalajara did, yeah.” She closed the bathroom door behind her and moved past him to check the front window. “Should’ve had a backup plan for that one.”

“Still did it on time.”

“Doesn’t mean we did it well.” She pressed herself against the wall, leaning back to inspect the window without opening the curtains. “You heard what the Handler said.”

He’d heard. And heard, and heard. The Commission was lucky they had all the time in the world at their command, considering their managers spent so much of it lecturing agents for perceived failures and slights. “Long as we get it done.”

“You know that’s not how it works, asshole.”

Hazel sighed. Working for the Commission wasn’t like delivering the mail or washing dishes in the backroom. Completing the task on schedule was never enough—no, they wanted flair. Nothing too noticeable, nothing that might be traced back to them, but speed alone wasn’t enough. Professionalism. Style. A body that left few clues for the authorities and enough questions to keep the case in their minds long after it had gone cold. One of those things on its own might earn a nod of approval; it took all three of them together to gain the Handler’s praise.

Her inspection concluded, Cha-Cha turned from the window, but her foot snagged on the briefcase, sending her stumbling across the floor, nearly falling onto Hazel’s bed.

“Shit!” Cha-Cha caught herself, arms braced against the bed, and pushed her way to her feet. “Why the hell’d you leave that thing on the floor? You know we’re supposed to carry it!”

“I was sitting down! You expect me to carry it while I’m sitting here?”

“I expect you to not leave it in the middle of the goddamn floor!”

“Well, maybe you wouldn’t have tripped over it if you’d watched where you were—”

“It’s not about me tripping, it’s about you leaving the goddamn briefcase out where anybody can grab it!”

“Oh, like we’ll have the whole city walkin’ on through while we’re here.”

“Just put it somewhere safe, will you?”

Hazel could have tugged it closer to his bed, shoved it as far under as the boards would allow. That was the response she expected, the one she wanted. It would have been easier, ended the whole exchange on a somewhat peaceful note and made it less eligible to become the topic of a later argument.

In one swift motion, he was on his feet. A few steps took him to a large grate set into the wall, and a few twists of the screwdriver attachment in his pocketknife had the screws in his hand and then on the table.

“Oh, no. You are not putting it in there.”

“You told me to put it somewhere safe.” He hefted the briefcase into the mouth of the shaft with a clanking thud. “And there it is. Somewhere safe.”

“The Handbook says we’ve gotta carry it at all times.”

“Well, then you carry it.”

He watched her, grate in his hands. After a moment, she scoffed, rolled her eyes, and turned away.

“Well, all right, then.”

Hazel put the grate back in place, reached for the screws, and realized it would be more prudent to leave the grate unattached to the wall. Of all the things to land him in hot water with the Commission, not being able to reach the briefcase in time because he’d sealed it inside the wall seemed like one of the dumbest.

When he got to his feet, she was now the one with the file open. Number Five’s photograph sat off to one side, the left edge of his face obscured by her thumb as she read what scant details the Commission had provided. “Any idea where to start with this kid?”

“Should probably find him first.”

“Thanks, dumbass. Couldn’t have guessed that.”

“You asked.”

Cha-Cha tapped a forefinger against the page. “Says his name’s Number Five. Can’t be that many kids in one city named after numbers.”

“Probably not the only kid here with a shitty name.”

She dropped her arm and the file with it. “Now why the hell would you think that?”

“Oh, come on. With our luck, they probably sent us to the one city where every kid’s got some bullshit name. If there’s a kid named Number Five, there’s gotta be one named Gas Station Bathroom or That Year I Washed Dishes With a Man Named Hank.”

“Well, if that’s what we’re dealing with, then we should still be able to ask around and find a kid named Number Five.”

That tone, so purposefully even and intentionally calm, set Hazel on edge. He’d agreed to travel with a partner, not a parent. He’d agreed to work alongside her, not submit to extended lectures and constant condescension. “You know it’s not gonna be that easy.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s easy or not.” She hefted their package onto the bed. “As long as it gets done.”

*******

Vanya didn’t discuss her family when she played the violin.

After their months together, in whatever one might call their semblance of a relationship, Leonard still hadn’t decided how he felt about that. No talking meant no endless litany of woes caused by a family she hadn’t seen in years or a court system that had decided a slap on the wrist was too harsh for what she’d done. It also meant a halt to tidbits about that family, snippets of information Leonard could commit to memory and scribble down later. There was a silver lining to every cloud, as he’d heard, but in this case he couldn't be sure which was which.

The comics had gotten her power wrong. Those writers, those artists—they’d understood her capabilities. They’d known how easily she could bend sound to her will, how she could magnify footsteps and rustling newspapers into a force ready to smash an entire wall to bits or toss robbers and kidnappers about like dishrags. All of those things had made it onto the page, though absent the blood and screams Vanya mentioned as matter-of-factly as she mentioned the time of day.

Her violin changed things.

It didn’t rob her powers of their destructive potential. He knew as much long before the first strains of Tchaikovsky sent the curtains dancing as though in a gale and set her lampshade swaying back and forth, before the force of it hit him like a drumbeat blared through speakers placed too close. And it would be a mistake to say she had less control without her music. He’d seen and heard enough to know otherwise.

But there was a distinction. Without her violin, her power was a hurricane barreling down the coast, ripping trees up by their roots and tearing homes to pieces before tossing them aside. When she played, it was like an army marching in columns, guns at the ready and every step synchronized. Both were under her command, yet the difference between them was the difference between a man with a pistol demanding money in a back alley, and a man in a tuxedo demanding compliance from behind a revolver. After six months, Leonard still couldn’t say which he preferred her family surrender to.

The final notes faded; the ripples through her apartment quieted. Vanya gave a small bow as Leonard clapped.

“Was that okay? I felt like the middle was a little shaky.”

“No, it was great.” The sheer level of power she packed into a simple string of notes was enough to give him chills. Were that power intentional—had she infused the music with the full brunt of her fury—she could have easily brought the complex crashing down around their ears.

She set her violin and bow in their case before returning to the sheet music, frowning over pages filled with notes she herself had arranged. “Something’s just not working there. Not sure what it is.”

Both her playing and composing held flaws, but Leonard knew so only from her habit of calling attention to them. Had he spent his teen years learning violin under the watch of Sir Reginald Hargreeves rather than waiting to be shuffled from juvenile hall to prison, he might have been able to spot them more readily than she did, point them out before she realized what she’d done, show her precisely which holes they created in the overall quality of her piece and tug at those holes until the whole production lay in shreds at her feet.

Instead, he kissed her cheek. She’d tensed at his first attempt months prior, but an apology, a frank discussion, and a pointed avoidance of similar acts for weeks afterward, had kept her from slamming the door in his face. Now, she relaxed at the touch. “It sounds fine to me.”

Her smile was genuine, soft and grateful. Almost charming. “Glad you like it. I’m still kinda new to this whole composing thing.”

It wasn’t enough that she could play music—oh no, she had to compose it too. Even with his limited knowledge, he could tell her efforts were nowhere near as complex as those of the composers she admired, but they sounded good. Pleasant. Had he not known the composer to be one of the Hargreeves, he could have enjoyed it. Here she was, writing her own music and playing the greats onstage, while he refurbished antiques for doddering old women and young people who thought themselves the first human beings in history to discover treasures in the past.

“Ever, uh….” The words were clear in his mind, the question more of a demand than anything; but he’d learned that the more uncertain his tone, the longer he hesitated before questions, the more it put her at ease. “Ever think of playing that for your family?”

“You’re kidding, right?” She stacked the pages together and slid them back into a folder, then stepped out of his grip as she snapped her violin case closed. “You know how many concerts of mine they’ve been to? None. Not a single one.”

It was amazing, he thought, how quickly bitterness could replace the uncertainty in her tone, take her smile and turn it into a scowl. Not every mention of her family did that, but those that did needed to be remembered, placed together and compared until commonalities emerged. “Aw, come on. I’m sure they’d listen to that.”

“Maybe if you tied ‘em up first.”

Leonard had considered the notion back when his plan was still an idea, when his dates with Vanya were still awkward and suffused with the sort of tension one might expect from international negotiations; but it had never progressed beyond that. A plan that took out Klaus and perhaps Diego before running afoul of Allison and Luther was no better than a plan that had him walk into the Academy unarmed and announce his intent to see none of them leave alive. “I’m sure it’d go better than you think.”

Her expression, never to be mistaken for one of joy and harmony, darkened even further. “Not with Five there.”

“He doesn’t like violin?”

“He doesn’t like me playing violin. I tell you he replaced all the strings once?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Changed ‘em out for yarn right before Dad wanted to hear me play.” Her jaw clenched. “Took me forever to find the strings.”

“Couldn’t your dad just buy you some new ones?”

“That’d make the most sense, wouldn’t it?”

She didn’t elaborate further, and Leonard knew better than to wait for more of the story. It could be difficult to predict when she’d launch into a longer tale and when the line or two she gave him was the story itself, but he preferred the option that didn’t compel him to listen and offer sympathy for minutes at a stretch.

Vanya took her own composition back to where she kept sheet music for the orchestra separate from sheet music for her lessons. While her back was turned, Leonard cast a few quick glances about her apartment in search of some tool to turn the conversation back toward her family. As far as he could tell, she’d brought nothing back from the Academy, and kept nothing at hand to remind her of the eventual service in her father’s honor.

She glanced at the clock. “I’ve still got a while before I need to head to my next lesson. Want to walk around downtown for a while?”

Leonard would have sooner returned to prison, but she wanted to spend time with him. That was what mattered. He’d learned what she wanted, paid a little above asking price, and begun his investment. The more loyalty he gave her, the more kisses and hand-holding and rants about the unfairness of a world that bowed to her power he endured, the more trust she would reward him with.

He smiled. “Sounds great.”

********

Noon came and went. Hazel’s first year as a field agent had taught him not to expect meals at regular hours or intervals, that the job came first and his needs came second, if they placed at all. Combined with the jet lag he only managed to shake on jobs that lasted longer than they should have and the confusion that came with jumping from to day to night and back again, and Hazel had learned that mealtime was whenever he could set aside a few minutes to wolf down a bite.

Even so, he was hungry by noon, so that seemed as good a time as any to start the usual argument.

“Now? We’re this close to finding that kid.”

“No we’re not.”

“We’ve just gotta look a little longer.”

“Look for what? It’s the middle of a school day. Even if we find out where he’s going, we’re not gonna get him. Should just wait until school lets out.”

“If the Handler’d wanted us to do that, she’d have dropped us off right in the afternoon.”

Hazel watched a red sports car pull slowly into the parking lot of a burger joint, then join a line of cars at the drive-thru. Sitting the way he did, elbow propped up near the window with his chin in his hand as though they were on a sightseeing venture and not a business trip, never failed to annoy his partner, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. “Just more shitty planning on her part.”

“Shitty—” Only the motion of the car, it seemed, kept Cha-Cha from whirling in her seat. “They monitor time, Hazel. They know what they’re doing when they send somebody out first thing in the morning.”

“Yeah. Right when they can’t even nab the kid they’re going after.” He shifted a little, trying in vain to relieve some of the pressure on his back. “God. Hate chasing down kids.”

“How would you know? Number Five’s the first main target who’s not old enough for a driver’s license.”

“Yeah, well, I hate it already.”

Rather than launch into another lecture, Cha-Cha sighed, her shoulders sagging a little. “Yeah, me too. Been a bitch to find him.”

That wasn't the reason Hazel would have chosen, but he didn’t offer one of his own. “You’d think they’d give us a little more information.”

“They’re doing the best they can.”

She had no proof they were, and Hazel had no proof they weren’t. As management styles went, the Handler’s was about as transparent as a soot-covered brick wall. She gave orders, and those orders were followed. Explanations were for those higher up the food chain. Questions were for those in charge. If Hazel broke into headquarters and found extensive profiles of past targets complete with facts that could have ended a job in minutes rather than hours, he wouldn’t even blink.

He said nothing as Cha-Cha eased the car into a drive-thru. His stomach turned at the thought of another greasy burger, but searches for a target often placed her in a strange state of mind. If hours passed with no sign of the target, she’d push comforts aside. No glances toward scenery, no comments on the sights they prowled. No sitting down to rest. No water until her voice cracked or coughing set in. Most often it was Hazel who urged her to take a break for lunch, and then she’d complain about the smallest wait, try to sneak ahead in line when no one was looking. If she’d chosen to stop for lunch all on her own, hunger must have made it impossible for her to think of anything but. He tried to enjoy the anomaly for what it was, but his mind drifted toward a real, sit-down meal in an actual restaurant with table linens and napkins, a plate of manicotti that wasn’t warmed in a microwave beside a basket of garlic bread and a salad with housemade dressing and fresh croutons….

“Hey. Asshole.”

Cha-Cha’s hand against his shoulder shook his thoughts away. Cool spring air floated through her open window; behind her sat a speaker and a menu. Faded letters on a backlit piece of yellowing plastic spelled out the names of simple meals. This place must have had the shortest wait, and it didn’t take a genius to guess why.

“Just…uh…” The restaurant didn’t offer burgers, as he’d expected, but sandwiches. A nice tuna sub from a place like this would probably leave him flat on his back in the motel room, but the threat of hospitalization was enough to set him on a different course. The Commission didn’t take kindly to agents who brought their identities to the brink of discovery. “Roast beef is fine. Provolone cheese.”

She repeated his order to the speaker, then pulled forward. Hazel half-expected her to snap at him, to remind him to get his head in the game because this job needed the both of them, but she kept her gaze forward. One forefinger tapped the steering wheel.

“Number Five.” He couldn’t tell if she said to him or only herself. “Who the hell names their kid Number Five?”

“Maybe they only wanted one kid and didn’t bother naming the rest.”

“Why not just give ‘em all names that start with the same letter or something?” She passed a few bills to the cashier, took the change, and drummed her finger again. “There’s gotta be something else. Commission always gives us a couple clues, right?”

He scoffed. “You call those clues?”

“Well, they help.”

“Since when?”

“Beijing, 1411?” She didn’t give Hazel a chance to call that the fluke it had been. “That name. Number Five. Name that weird’s gotta be a clue.”

“You didn’t say that when we went after Polly Esther Slack.”

“We found her in—what? Two hours? Don’t need a real big clue for a girl who spends every Wednesday night and Sunday morning in the same damn place.”

“Well, far as we know, Number Five’s not spending his time anywhere.”

“He’s somewhere, and somebody’s seen him.”

She was right, but Hazel wasn’t about to admit as much. Not aloud. “So what’re we missing here?”

She accepted the bag from the window and handed it off. Hazel took his sandwich and handed Cha-Cha hers.

“I dunno,” she said. “But we’re missing something.”

Hazel unwrapped his sandwich. Pale bread, suspiciously cold toward the center. Bits of dry beef stuck out from all sides, and a flash of yellow fought to tear his attention from the wilted lettuce. Part of him wanted to swear. Part of him wanted to demand they return to that godawful place and demand a redo.

The rest of him lacked the energy for a fight with no chance of victory.

He took a bite. The bread, at least, had been thawed enough for that, but not enough to conceal its origins. That was what held most of his attention—but it distracted him from the dry beef and processed cheese, so he followed that bite with another, and another. Cha-Cha didn’t touch her food. She drove in silence, pausing at stop signs but otherwise not deviating from whatever course the road set.

In an instant, his sandwich was nearly pitched out of his hands as Cha-Cha slammed on the brakes.

“Cha!” His hand snagged the grab handle and he clung to it. “What the hell—”

She executed the fastest three-point turn he’d ever seen, one that left him glancing all around in search of police lights. None appeared.

“We’re going downtown,” she said, as if that explained everything. “I know how to find this kid.”

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